Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  “Don’t move!” Snow’s Russian was slurred. “You, Blat, shut the door before I kill you too!”

  Larissa shakily pushed the door shut from her place on the floor. Fear had now also gripped her and she sat in the corner unaware of the blood trickling down her forearm. Snow gradually moved his knees so that all his weight was concentrated on Lucky’s legs just above the knees. He looked into the face of the German who had started to look more angry than afraid. Snow pulled the pistol out of his waistband and forced it into the cheek of his victim.

  “I’m going to get up and you are not going to move. Understand?”

  The German nodded. Slowly Snow moved his left leg until his foot hit the carpeted floor that transferred his weight off of the bed. “I am going to do the talking. When I ask you a question you will nod or shake your head. Understand?”

  Again the German nodded. Blood had started to run into his mouth from his nose. He held eye contact with Snow. Snow noted the look in his eye; that of outrage, not a trace of fear. In that instant both men realised the other was no stranger to violence.

  “Is your passport in your coat?” Lucky nodded. “And your money?” He nodded again. Snow stood and walked to the desk just past the bed, all the time keeping the barrel of the Makarov pistol pointed at his victim’s head. He picked up the jacket and threw it to Larissa. “Take it all out.” Standing, Larissa retrieved the items. “Where is he from?”

  “Cologne,” replied Larissa shakily.

  “And his name?”

  “Dietrich Schaeffer.”

  Dietrich’s nostrils flared. This was not how he had hoped to be spending his Monday afternoon. The Russian knew what he was doing, of this he was in no doubt… But the girl, was she working with him? He looked at Larissa, who he could see visibly shaking. No, the girl was petrified, surely she would not be this scared if they were a team? Nervous perhaps, but not like this. He’d tell him to take the lot, money and laptop. Three thousand euros was not that much and besides, it was not his money to worry about.

  “Lie face down and put your hands behind your back,” he commanded. Dietrich cautiously did as requested, wincing in pain as he moved his right wrist. Snow picked up the German’s trousers and removed the belt. He thrust it towards Larissa. “Tie his hands tight. Remember both of you; I have the gun.”

  As she did this Snow darted into the bathroom and took the towelling belt from the bathrobe. This he quickly bound around the ankles. Schaeffer began to squirm but all such notions of escape were quickly dismissed by a cuff to the back of the neck. Schaeffer slumped into unconsciousness. Finishing, Larissa cupped her hand over her mouth and ran into the bathroom. Snow knew that he did not have much time left so moved quickly. Opening the pilot case on the table he left the computer but removed the trade literature on water filters. Crossing to the upturned Samsonite he pulled out a pair of slacks and a shirt. They were two sizes too big but the length looked about right. These he put into the case along with Dietrich’s grooming kit from the bathroom and the chocolate and water from the mini bar. He put a couple of miniatures in his coat pocket for good measure before finally stuffing the recumbent German’s leather waistcoat on top and forced the bag to close. He cautiously leaned over Dietrich and checked his breathing, propping him up as best he could on his side. He did not want to suffocate the bastard. In all his naked splendour Dietrich resembled a giant baby. Snow noted the tattoo of a cherub on his stomach and, looking at Larissa, stifled a nervous laugh.

  “Now remember to act normal. You go down first. As you leave wave at his friend in the bar; smile, you’ve just earned $200. Then walk down the street. I’ll follow in the car and pick you up.”

  Larissa nodded, started to say something, then thought better of it. She opened the door and shakily left the room. Snow shut the door and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He looked around the room before grabbing the pilot case, Schaeffer’s long leather overcoat, and glasses.

  Larissa sat in silence holding a handkerchief to her forearm. She had not said a word since getting back into the car with Snow. It had been a long and terrifying day for them both. Arnaud’s body would now have been taken to the morgue and the embassy informed. The real owner of the restaurant would be questioned and it wouldn’t be long before Larissa joined Snow on the wanted list. Wanted for questioning, at least. He had to move fast and distance himself from the events of the last two days until he could regroup.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “So what do we do now?” she replied, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Now,” answered Snow, “we go to the central ticket office and you book Dietrich Schaeffer onto the Grand Tour to Lviv. Book both bunks, I don’t want any company.” Snow held up the Reisenpass and studied the picture as he drove. It was a few years old, which was good for him as it was nearer his own age. The beard was still there as were the glasses, but the hair had less grey. This might just work.

  *

  Kyiv Central Mortuary

  Vickers stared. The body was pale from blood loss, almost marble in colour. The mortuary assistant pulled up the sheet. Vickers closed his eyes and remained still for a minute before he left the room and re-joined Blazhevich in the corridor. Neither man spoke as they exited the dimly lit government building.

  *

  Troieschyna, Kyiv

  The water was wonderfully warm and Snow’s mind started to drift as it massaged his scalp. As his mind relaxed the events of the past few days flashed before his eyes. The explosion on Pushkinskaya, Bull… But most of all the image of Arnaud as the life bled out of him. Pashinski was going to pay.

  Entering without knocking, Larissa looked him up and down, taking in his tightly muscled physique and the scars on his left leg. Snow met her gaze. She handed him a towel. “He was fatter and… not as you are.”

  Snow wrapped the towel around his waist. “I’m sorry for what I made you do at the hotel.”

  Tears again welled in her eyes. “It was horrible.”

  “I’m sorry, if there had been another way to get a passport then I…”

  “I know.”

  Snow nodded. “We have to hurry.”

  The grime washed away, he stepped out of the shower, patted his face dry and looked in the mirror. “Time to become German.”

  He picked up the pink canister of lady shave gel and applied it to his face. Taking his time, he carefully cut away the five day growth with the disposable razor. Larissa looked on with a critical eye and made sure the beard was even.

  In the bedroom he put on Schaeffer’s clothes. Larissa passed him the shoes.

  “Jeez, he had small feet. You know what they say about small feet?” Snow didn’t continue. Unable to squeeze into the shoes, he slipped his own boots back on.

  “I need to make your hair white.” She leant forward with a talcum powder coated hand.

  “You mean grey?”

  “Da. Grey. Sit still. Your hair is still wet a little so this should stick. We used to do this in school for school plays.” She applied the powder to Snow’s temples. “Good, let me brush. Finished. You look like Daniel Craig.”

  “James Bond?”

  “Da, but older,” she replied and kissed him on the cheek.

  He looked into her eyes. Tears started to fall. He reached forward and held her. Larissa collapsed into his arms and sobbed like a child.

  *

  Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast

  Bull scanned with the night vision binoculars. The two militia Ladas and the ambulance were still outside his house. An American style body bag was now being carried out by figures dressed in white. An old man stood in the courtyard and lit a cigarette as a younger man read from a notebook with a penlight. Every light in the house seemed to be switched on and there was movement in all windows. Bull seethed as he imagined SBU agents swarming like ants through his belongings. It was only his strict adherence to the Spetsnaz SOP that had saved his life. A perimeter of lookouts had been placed two hundred meters away fr
om the restaurant alerting all inside to the arrival of the ALFA unit. Expecting to negotiate with hostage takers, the ALFA had been taken by surprise by his attack. Yes, he had sustained casualties, but he had escaped along with seventy percent of his men, an acceptable ratio on the Soviet battlefield. What, however, he had not accounted for was the betrayal by Budanov, the fat SBU toad. That betrayal would cost him and his family their lives. Sergey would silence them, Bull told himself, once he had briefed his pet assassin. That would be his last job; Oleg could then kill him as promised.

  Lying face down in the forest, Bull was finding it hard to control his rage. He pushed his hand against the stab wound in his leg inflicted by Snow and found some comfort and focus in the pain. He had lost everything; the house, the cars, and most of all his identity. It seemed that the SBU now knew that Knysh was Pashinski. What to do? Leave the country, see a surgeon and have the face altered like so many others? From somewhere deep inside, for the first time in his life a voice was counselling a complete withdrawal. You have the money in the Swiss account; take it, admit defeat and disappear.

  He looked around at his men lying with him. Not many of the originals left, but a loyal unit still. These were the real heroes of Mother Russia, men who had fought in Afghanistan and Chechnya to be rewarded with a pittance. The state had turned its back on them but he could not. They would retreat, but after a victory, a rewarding victory. They had a cache of weapons and equipment stored at the Chaika Sports Complex one kilometre away, with any luck the authorities would not think to watch the small airfield with its light private pleasure planes.

  Dmitro appeared at his shoulder with another Ukrainian, Taras. They had dropped Oleg off at the house then set out to find their medic only to return to find they had been beaten by the SBU.

  “They have the roads in and out manned and are circulating your photograph.”

  Bull let his head drop so that his forehead rested on the moist forest floor. “What about Chaika?”

  “If we head across the fields we can bypass them.” Taras knew this part of the city especially well.

  “Dobre.” Bull unintentionally used Ukrainian. “Tell the rest of the men that we are on the move.”

  “Where are we going?” Dmitro was a Kyivite and did not want to live in exile.

  Bull raised himself to his haunches and regarded the former Red Army soldier. “We are going to make sure our shipment arrives on time.”

  *

  Kyiv Central Railway Station, Kyiv

  Walking with a stoop and carrying two large heavy looking cheap plastic holdalls, Snow approached the central railway station. They had parked around the back of an apartment building whilst Larissa quickly shopped for some throw-away clothes for him at the market. Now, wearing a leather cap and cheap padded suede coat over a fake Adidias tracksuit, Snow looked like any other down-at-heal Ukrainian traveller. His bags were the same used by the majority of the street sellers who journeyed into the capital in the hope of selling their goods before returning home in the evening to outlying small towns and villages. Snow made a conscious effort to not make eye contact with anyone. It was a safe bet that Pashinski, the SBU, or both were watching the station. It was just after seven thirty and crowds of people still gathered on the street outside. Some waiting for loved ones, others waiting for connecting minibuses to their villages not served by the rail network. Snow spotted more than a dozen ‘possibles’ who could either be Pashinski’s men or SBU. The problem was that the ‘rent a muscle look’ was popular so large men with very short haircuts and leather jackets were everywhere. Below his baggy tracksuit Snow wore the oversized trousers of the German, the rest of the outfit was in the bag he held in his left hand. Nearing the entrance now he noted two men talking to a group of five or so militia officers, SBU agents. He continued past, keeping them in his peripheral vision, something that he had learnt on surveillance in the regiment.

  Four more militia officers were in the central concourse and he had no doubt that there would be more posted on the platforms. It has been several hours since he had taken the German’s passport and time was running out before he was discovered. Snow had left the ‘do not disturb sign’ on his hotel room door but his colleague would soon start to wonder where he was. There was even a chance that the militia were waiting to pick Snow up as he boarded the train. He had no other choice; he would have to ‘brave it out’ and control the situation.

  Snow took a left inside the newly refurbish station building and entered the toilets. He moved past a man shaving in the mirror and entered the end cubicle. He placed the lighter of his two bags on the floor – this one was empty except for some flattened old boxes he had picked up. He now carefully took off his new market clothes and placed them in the bag. Opening the second bag he retrieved the leather pilot case and dressed in his ‘German’ outfit. Now he steadied himself, took a deep breath and opened the door. The shaving man was splashing his face with water and paid him no attention. Out on the concourse once more, Snow walked towards two militia men standing by the stairs leading down to the platform.

  “Do you speak German?” he asked in German-accented Russian.

  The two militiamen looked at each other before the shorter spoke. “Very small English?”

  Snow shook his head and carried on in German-accented pigeon Russian. “Can you help? I am lost. I need to find train ‘Grand Tour’. Can you show me? I not want miss.”

  “Take the steps down, then you have to go up and over the platform until you see the sign saying ‘Grand Tour’,” the taller replied in Russian.

  “I, err, no understand. Can you show please?”

  “Just take the steps…”

  The second officer stopped his colleague. “Follow me.”

  Snow smiled and nodded. “Thank you, thank you.”

  He followed the officer whilst the other remained at his post. Snow kept searching for anyone who may have recognised him from the corners of his eyes, all the while his left hand held the Makarov pistol concealed in his pocket. They reached the start of the platform. The militia officer stopped and pointed.

  “There, Grand Tour.”

  “I want say thank you for help.”

  Snow placed his case on the floor then put his right hand into his pocket and removed a ten dollar bill. The officer looked first left then right before taking the note, nodding and walking away. It was no secret that the salary of the militia was usually late and woefully behind inflation. Internally Snow relaxed slightly. The militia were not yet looking for either Dietrich Schaeffer or someone attempting to travel on his stolen passport. Snow walked along the platform, found his carriage and boarded the train.

  At the central ticket office, Centralnaya Kassa, Larissa had helped the ‘German’ to buy two SV tickets on the Grand Tour train to Lviv. The SV was the Soviet equivalent of First Class and, with the pretence of being proletariat, it had two beds. Those wanting to travel alone bought both. Once in Lviv Snow would make his way into the mountains and attempt to exfiltrate over the border into Poland. Snow looked at the ticket number and found his compartment. He pulled back the sliding door and put the pilot case his on the right hand bunk. He shut the door and fell onto the bed. The train moved off. A wave of tiredness washed over him as the adrenaline left his body. It was twelve hours to Lviv and he planned to lay low. A lone German businessman may cause some interest on any normal train but the Grand Tour, owned by the Lviv hotel of the same name, was frequented by foreign business people and tourists alike.

  Without realising it Snow had fallen asleep. Shit! He woke with a jolt, hand finding the concealed Makarov. There was a knocking at the door and the waiter, dressed in a red velvet waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers, cautiously opened it. He asked him first in Ukrainian then English if he ‘wanted anything from the trolley?’ Snow spoke in German-accented English and ordered a bottle of Desna, two packets of peanuts and several chocolate bars. The transaction over he shut the door, took off his belt and threaded it thro
ugh the handles. There had been cases of guards on normal trains opening the doors for a cut of whatever the thief could steal. This had not, to his knowledge, happened on the Grand Tour but Snow was in no mood for any unexpected guests. There was still a chance that the SBU or Pashinski had men on the train.

  Alone in his carriage, his thoughts returned to Arnaud. He had been an innocent, a kid like any other who just wanted to have a laugh and shag for England. Snow found it hard to get close to people but Arnaud had been different. They had bonded almost immediately; his brash but kind nature and his outbursts had reminded Snow of himself ten years ago. He would miss him bitterly all the more because Arnaud was not meant to die, not like a soldier for Queen and country. It would somehow have been different if he had been killed on operations; they had all dealt with that back at Sterling Lines by sinking pints and telling tall stories about the antics of their mate who had failed to ‘beat the clock’. He had mourned mates from the regiment but Arnaud had never agreed to take the Queen’s shilling, never agreed to give his life. At the end Arnaud had been brave, if foolish, to tackle the monstrous soldier. This one act had set Snow free but signalled his own death. If only Snow had been faster, just a second quicker to snatch the gun and take the head shot, then the bullet would have never struck his young friend’s heart. But he had been too slow. For the first time in twenty years, Snow started to cry. The ex-SAS man had messed up.

  Snow splashed his face with water from his basin. He stood and raised the bottle. “To you my friend, wherever you are…” he let his words trail off then swigged a third of the contents in one gulp. Within minutes the bottle was empty and Snow had fallen into a deep sleep as the train sped westward through the Ukrainian night.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Premier Palace Hotel, Kyiv