Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  “That explains a lot.” For Vickers the pieces of the puzzle were fitting together nicely.

  “It was Cheban who said that the shooter was American but then one of Malik’s employees, a David Ossowski, said that he thought he heard the shooter use Polish.”

  Vickers thought. “Did the Viennese authorities get anywhere?”

  “No, the suspect, a Mark Peters, disappeared. Both hotel staff and a waiter in a local restaurant were questioned but don’t know where he went. All were adamant that he was American.”

  “What do the Americans think?” Vickers would have liked to have seen the look on the London CIA station chief’s face when Patchem spoke to him.

  “They are helping us with our enquiries.” Patchem scrolled through the digitised dossier. “I’m sending this to you now. You should pass it on to the SBU. It could be that we have stumbled onto something quite important.”

  “Will do Jack. How fresh is the intel?”

  Patchem sighed. “The police had this the day of the shooting and Five have been holding onto it since then.” Vickers shook his head. The inter-service rivalry between MI5 and MI6 was again getting in the way. “Speak more later.” Patchem ended the call.

  Snow looked up. “Care to tell me what is happening?” He had heard Vickers’s side of the conversation.

  *

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  Dudka folded his arms as Blazhevich entered the room. “Vitaly Romanovich. Please explain again why you are in Kyiv not Odessa?”

  Blazhevich cleared his throat, he had tried to explain on the plane but obviously not well enough for his boss. “Gennady Stepanovich. I have gained vital intelligence from the British Secret Service.”

  Dudka remained silent for a second. Vickers entered the office. Dudka stood, walked towards him and shook his hand. He spoke in English. “It is good to see you Mr Vickers.”

  Vickers replied in Russian, “I am pleased to see you Gennady Stepanovich and thank you for letting me call this meeting.”

  Dudka raised his eyebrows at hearing the embassy man speak Russian. His English, too, was also better than he let on. He decided to continue the meeting in Russian and let the Englishman show off. “Please take a seat Mr Vickers.” Vickers sat. “Vitaly. Can you confirm that the ALFA team are in Odessa?”

  “Yes Gennady Stepanovich. They arrived two hours ago. Major Bodaretski has given them orders.”

  Dudka was now slightly less concerned. “So what have we that is so urgent?”

  “Mr Vickers has passed on to me information from British Intelligence that points to Pashinski’s direct involvement in cross border arms smuggling and the assassination of two British citizens. Mr Malik in Odessa and his son in the UK.”

  “This is corroborated?” Dudka asked Vickers.

  “Yes. We have a Moldovan in custody who is the nephew of Ivan Lesukov.” Vickers repeated what he had been told by Patchem and handed Dudka a hard copy of the file which he had printed at the embassy. It was in English but he doubted that would cause any problems.

  It was Blazhevich’s turn to speak; he did not want Vickers to take all the credit. “Gennady Stepanovich, if you remember we found an airline booking confirmation at Knysh’s house in the name of Mark Peters.” Dudka’s brow was furrowed as he attempted to scan the file but he nevertheless nodded.

  “That is the same name the British have for the person suspected of shooting Bav Malik in England.”

  “Good.” Dudka looked up. “So we have an actual link between Pashinski and the murders as well as the arms shipments?”

  “Not quite. We have a link with Knysh, but not Pashinski.”

  Dudka frowned. “But Knysh is Pashinski.”

  “We do not have that proof yet.” Blazhevich looked at Vickers.

  “That is where I can help. I have a British citizen who can physically identify Pashinski.”

  “Where is this person now?” Dudka liked this Englishman already.

  Blazhevich wanted to impress. “He is in our holding cell, Gennady Stepanovich. The witness is Aidan Snow.”

  “Then bring him up, Vitaly Romanovich.”

  Blazhevich left the room; Dudka smiled at Vickers but said nothing. The sound of traffic from the street below was all that broke the silence. A minute later the two men entered. Dudka spoke first.

  “You are Aidan Snow?” It was a rhetorical question.

  “Yes.” Snow sat with his back straight.

  Dudka wanted to cut to the chase. He handed Snow the old photo from the Polish file. “Can you identify this man?”

  Snow looked at the photograph and answered in Russian. “He was older when I met him; but yes I can identify this man. He is the man who tried to kill me ten years ago. Tauras Pashinski.”

  Dudka nodded, concealing his surprise at Snow’s Russian, and passed him a second image, this one a photo-fit from the informer Cheban in the UK. “And this man?”

  “It is the same man.” The image was a good, if not perfect likeness.

  “You are certain?” Dudka wanted to be sure.

  “Yes. If I were to hold a gun in your face I think you would remember mine.”

  Snow did not want to waste time persuading yet another official.

  Dudka ignored the Englishman’s sarcasm. “When was the last time you saw this man?”

  “Yesterday, here in Kyiv.”

  “You are positive?” Again he wanted to be certain.

  Snow could no longer hold himself in check. Inside he raged. If he had been believed at the time Arnaud would not be dead. He looked at Vickers, who sat away from Dudka’s desk at an angle. Vickers was looking at his notes, not wanting to make eye contact. “Yes, one hundred percent.”

  Dudka looked at the three other men in the room. “If you were to see him again you could positively identify the man?”

  Snow knew it was important so made a supreme effort. “Yes Director Dudka, I could.”

  “Good.” He paused. “When we have him in custody I will ask you to identify him.”

  Snow rose from his seat. “Just a minute, what do you mean?”

  Dudka remained seated although Blazhevich stood. Dudka spoke. “When we have arrested him you will be a valuable witness for the prosecution.”

  “You listen to me.” Snow spoke for the first time to the SBU with force. “I want to identify this man as you capture him, not after. I want to be on the ground.” Snow steadied his breathing.

  “Not possible Mr Snow. You are a foreign civilian and we cannot have you put any further in harm’s way.” Dudka used his fatherly tone.

  “I’m sorry Aidan. This way is the safest,” Vickers broke his silence.

  Snow slammed his fist on the desk. “This man has tried to kill me; he was responsible for the deaths of my friend and of two members of my regiment. I cannot stand by and have others…” Snow ran out of words as the images of the last few days replayed in his mind.

  Dudka, although slightly surprised by the outburst, was not angry. “I think you underestimate us Mr Snow.” He opened a folder and handed Snow a picture that Vickers had not seen. “This is, I believe, one of Pashinski’s men?”

  Snow studied the bloodied corpse with the head all but severed. “This is the man who shot Arnaud Hurst.” Glances were exchanged around the room. Vickers looked up, his jaw slack. Snow continued. “I did not kill him but I am responsible for the gunshot wound he has in the stomach. Who finished him?” Snow had some satisfaction that Arnaud’s murderer was now dead.

  Dudka shrugged. An anonymous caller had told the SBU to check the address. “Thought you could tell us? OK, so now no one knows. We must speculate.”

  Blazhevich addressed Snow directly. “Aidan you must let us take this from here. We have information that Pashinski will surface in Odessa and we will be ready for him.”

  “Really?” It was sarcasm that only Vickers picked up on.

  “Yes really, Aidan, we have two ALFA teams in place.”

  “Vita
ly.” It was Dudka. “Explain to Mr Snow about the digital devices.”

  “Very well Gennady Stepanovich. We have high definition digital monitoring equipment that will stream the images in real time. You can watch the operation from the control room and will be able then to identify Pashinski.”

  Snow was unconvinced. Such equipment had been used primarily by America’s Navy SEALs and Delta force in the war against terror with varied results. In his opinion ‘space age’ had yet to work in the ‘real’ world.

  “I want to be on the ground.”

  “No. This is final. You are responsible for shooting a member of the Berkut assigned to the Diplomatic Protection Squad. Mr Snow I think that in these circumstances I am being more than accommodating.” Dudka looked him in the eyes. “Please do not hinder us any further.”

  Snow had lost and knew it. Dudka stood and gestured towards the door. “Let us waste no more time.”

  The meeting was over. Vickers shook the hands of both SBU men and followed Snow and Blazhevich out of the office and down the steps to the investigation rooms. Snow was to give a full statement to the SBU of everything that had happened since he had escaped from his flat. This included shooting the diplomatic protection member, injuring Oleg Zukauskas and rescuing Larissa. Snow knew he was in the shit but did not care. They could throw the book at him, they could pelt him with an entire library – he was beyond caring about himself. His sole purpose now was to get his hands on the face that haunted him, Pashinski. Blazhevich passed Snow over to another agent who led him into a room. The door was shut behind them.

  Back at reception, Blazhevich held out his hand. “Thank you.”

  “What for?” Vickers was surprised.

  “For bringing in Snow, for sharing your intel with us.”

  “Vitaly, I told you that I wanted to forge closer bonds with the SBU – take this as proof.” They shook hands. “So you now have a plane to catch?” Vickers was fishing.

  “That’s correct. I am to fly to Odessa to join Major Bodaretski and the assault team. They will be protecting General Varchenko and awaiting Pashinski and his shipment.” Blazhevich had nothing to hide.

  Vickers was happier; things really were starting to move. “Let us hope that this can put a serious dent in their trade.” The respective governments of both officers would also be happy. Both men left the building. Vickers walked the five minutes to the British Embassy and Blazhevich raced, sirens flashing, back to the government jet at Zhulyany Airport.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Southern Ukraine

  Varchenko stood on the terrace overlooking the sea. He felt invaded with the ALFA men swarming over the house but this could not be helped. At least they were not in uniform; each had a Kevlar chest plate and thin black balaclava that they would put on when the action started. Balaclava, Varchenko grunted to himself, an invention of the British when they fought his countrymen in the Crimea and outrageously named the mask after the town. What else was his nation famous for? Chicken Kiev – invented by an American restaurateur who wanted a cheap dish to entice the Russian immigrants, Chernobyl – the world’s worst nuclear accident, the Antonov 255 – the world’s biggest plane that now no longer flew? Still, things were improving; last year they won the Eurovision Song Contest and now Andrei Shevchenko was one of the world’s best footballers.

  He bent forward and tore a dead head off of a rosebush. Ukraine deserved more; it was after all a noble country that had been battered by eighty years of communist nonsense. He imagined the views from his hotel again and the influx of elite tourists demanding to stay there. Out in the bay motor launches and yachts would vie for space. He felt noticeably more relaxed. A cold breeze blew in from the sea and he buttoned up his cashmere coat. The English tailor was a true craftsman. Once this business was all over with he would devote himself to the hotel and put something real back into society. He had another meeting arranged with his country’s President and would again stress the urgent need for more investment in tourism. Tourism, after all, was the new heavy industry of the twenty-first century.

  “General Varchenko.” Blazhevich approached the legendary figure.

  The old man turned and regarded the newcomer. “You are Director Dudka’s new best man?” He did not mean to be sarcastic but it was his nature.

  “Yes, general.” Blazhevich had no time for false flattery. “We have three different possible target vehicles approaching, each on different routes.” The two hundred and fifty mile Ukrainian border with Transdniester was made up of mostly unguarded fields broken by stretches of fir trees and riddled with twisting dirt tracks along which a small vehicle could pass if it had to, and when it came to smugglers, frequently did. “Each is heading in the general direction of the airport.”

  “Dobre.” Varchenko waited for more information.

  “Is your cargo plane ready?”

  “It sits on the tarmac awaiting its cargo as it does every Wednesday.” He had already told the SBU this.

  “I’m sorry.” Blazhevich held up his left hand and retrieved his mobile from his trouser pocket with the other. He listened for a few seconds before smiling. “And you are certain of this?” He listened to the reply. “OK. We will get into position.” Blazhevich closed his phone. Dudka raised his eyebrows expectantly. “One of the vehicles is being accompanied by two cars. One of the cars has changed course and is heading for this location. I think that we should now get ready, general.”

  Varchenko straightened and seemed to grow taller. “Get the men into their positions. We cannot afford any errors.”

  Blazhevich remembered Dudka’s words but could see from the steely gaze of the former KGB general which of the two of them was now in charge. “Very well comrade general.” He managed to resist the urge to salute.

  Half a kilometre away from the house ALFA men dressed in DPM – disruptive pattern material – took positions in amongst the hedges and ditches that lined either side of the approach road. It was their job to monitor the road, confirm that the target vehicle had indeed passed and prevent any unexpected surprises. The team leader radioed ahead as an ancient boxy Lada saloon bounced up the road. At the house the remainder of the men had taken up defensive positions covering the gates and driveway. Three snipers lay on the roof covering all angles. Two of Blazhevich’s men had replaced Varchenko’s own on the gate – they had their breast plates concealed under oversized jackets. From the road all looked normal, the extra men could not be seen. Varchenko stood in a first floor window behind bullet proof glass, Blazhevich at his side; both men had their eyes fixed on the road.

  The blue Lada came round the bend in the road and approached the house. It had Moldovan licence plates and two men sat in the front. Varchenko sneered and Blazhevich scratched his head. It arrived at the gate and the security men let it into to the compound. Once in the compound the occupants were in the crosshairs of numerous weapons. The driver got out. He was wearing a leather cap and matching jacket with fur collar, his trousers were baggy and looked as though they once belonged to a suit. He looked up at the house with wide eyes. The second man tried to exit the vehicle but was ‘asked’ to remain seated by the one of the guards – the other had started to frisk the driver. He had no weapon. The guard radioed up to Major Bodaretski, “He is clean.” Bodaretski, who was also on the first floor but monitoring the digital surveillance equipment, told them to keep searching the car.

  Varchenko and Blazhevich were down the steps and approaching the visitors within seconds. The general ignored all security precautions and addressed the driver. “Who are you?”

  The driver took his hat off to reveal greasy thinning hair and bowed slightly to the taller imposing figure. “I am Konstantin Doga. I am the driver for Knysh Export.” He inclined his head. “It is my son in the car.”

  “Doga?” Varchenko was angered and perplexed.

  “It is a Moldovan name sir. I have a message that I must give to Valeriy Ivanovich.”

  “I am he.
” Varchenko glared at the man. “Well, what is it?”

  Doga reached into his jacket. One guard raised his weapon, the other pulled Doga’s hand back out. It held a piece of paper. Varchenko sighed and held his palm out. Doga gave him the note and the two guards took a step back. Varchenko unfolded the piece of paper. It was on a letterhead from Knysh Export. He read aloud so Blazhevich and the monitoring equipment could hear:

  “Dear Valeriy Ivanovich, let me thank you for accepting my business. We are a small export company and have found it hard to enter new markets, however with your support I am sure we will succeed. I must apologise that I cannot be with you in person but other business matters preclude this. Kindest regards, Knysh Olexandr, General Director Knysh Export.”

  Varchenko handed the note to Blazhevich. “Where is he?”

  Doga shrugged. “He is a busy man Valeriy Ivanovich.”

  Varchenko had turned red. “Your director was meant to meet me here.” Doga was speechless. Varchenko held up his hand and several ALFA men wearing balaclavas appeared and cuffed the two men. They made no attempt to struggle and seemed more shocked than scared as they were led away towards the garages.

  Major Bodaretski spoke to Blazhevich on the radio. “The target vehicle has reached the airport.”

  “Let’s watch.”

  Varchenko agreed with Blazhevich. “Inside.”

  The two men took seats around the makeshift command centre. Three large flat screen monitors showed clear images of the airport and the truck as it passed through the gates. A cursory inspection of the driver’s documents was made by the guard before he was waved on. The truck stopped in the designated area. Here it would await a customs inspection. On the military side of the facility the observation team had a high powered camera set up. They were hidden inside a Ukrainian air force building and had two minibuses parked out of sight.

  “Where is he?” It was Varchenko again. He was frustrated that Pashinski had not showed.

  “The second car?” Blazhevich thought of many explanations, including one that had Pashinski dead due to injuries sustained, but put this aside. Most probably Pashinski had decided enough was enough and had vanished again. If this was the case then all this was in vain. The landline for the house rang. Varchenko’s bodyguard-cum-servant answered it; he had been instructed to carry on as normal. He entered the room and handed the wireless handset to his employer. Varchenko snorted. Now was not the time for calls.