by Alex Shaw
“Yes?”
“General Varchenko, I do hope that I find you well?”
Varchenko almost choked on his tongue. It was Pashinski. He pressed the speaker phone button. “I am as well as can be expected. Where are you?”
Blazhevich looked on. This was totally unexpected. Could the technical people get a trace?
“I have been delayed due to unforeseen circumstances, general. I am genuinely sorry that I cannot be with you. I take it that my shipment has arrived at the airport?”
“How would I know?”
Bull paused. “Of course. Forgive me, you are at your dacha. General, I am trusting you with the safe passage of my goods. It would be embarrassing if they were to be stopped by customs for any reasons.”
“They will not be.” Varchenko was taken by the audacity of the man, even now making veiled threats.
“I am glad. So, general, I will see you soon to celebrate our business, but for the moment I must say good bye.”
The line went dead. The assembled men exchanged looks. What had the conversation meant?
“Vitaly Romanovich, you’d better look at this.” Major Bodaretski pointed at the screen which showed the stationary truck at the airport, rear doors facing the camera. A large Mercedes saloon had parked next to it. As they watched three men in suits stepped out. Blazhevich could not quite make out their faces. The customs officers tried to get the car to move but seemed to be placated by a document which one of the passengers handed to them.
In Kyiv Snow sat motionless and watched the live feed. Next to him sat Vickers and several agents who were in contact with Bodaretski. Unseen by all, Dudka had entered the back of the tense room and taken a seat.
Vickers spoke. “Is that him?”
“The height looks to be about the same but I can’t make out the face.” Snow peered closer, willing the camera for more definition.
In Fontanka the same thoughts were running through the minds of Blazhevich and Varchenko. “All the action is there and I am here.” Varchenko was not happy to be dealing with this at arm’s length. “We must go to the airport.”
“No.” Blazhevich was being firm. That was a crazy suggestion.
“You dare to order me around?” Varchenko’s voice echoed in the high ceilinged room.
“We stay here at the command post. Those are my orders.” He didn’t have time for this.
Varchenko stood, Blazhevich and Bodaretski kept their gaze on the screens. Suddenly realising that he was being ignored, he sat again and folded his arms. From his seat he could see the battered blue Lada. “Get that thing out of my sight.” He bellowed over his shoulder. He was not used to being ignored and did not quite know what to do.
On the screen the loading doors of the truck were opened by the driver, the ramp lowered and the two customs inspectors climbed aboard. Bodaretski spoke directly to the team leader at the airport.
“Any suspicious movement?”
“Nothing.”
“OK. Get the men in their ready positions. Once the inspection is over move in.”
“Understood.”
There was complete silence in both the control room in Fontanka and the monitoring room in Kyiv. Time slowed as many pairs of eyes scrutinised the feed. At the airport the assaulters retightened Kevlar vests and pulled down balaclavas, webbing was checked and weapons were readied. The three cameras at the airport panned, zoomed in and out in an attempt to spot anything. The only movement apart from traffic at the gate came from customs officials popping in and out of the truck. Finally, after forty long and tense minutes, the two officials left the truck and handed the paperwork back to the driver.
“Stand by.” Bodaretski gave the ready signal; he checked in with the team leader then gave the order. “Go. Go. Go.”
All the action happened at once. Two mini buses raced across the tarmac from the military side of the airport, the first stopped, disgorging armed men who fanned out around the customs inspection area. The second bus continued on towards the main gate where, as it was about to block the entrance, a car entered. The airport security on the gate drew their weapons but lowered them as the van flashed its sirens. Two assaulters jumped out and asked the guards about the car. The ALFA driver now blocked the entrance. More ALFA men tactically moved to the customs area from the adjacent hanger, weapons up. Three suited figures emerged from the customs office. They saw the armed assaulters and froze. Two raised their arms, the third kept his by his side.
Ivan Lesukov acted outraged. “What in god’s name is the meaning of this?”
His driver and the other passenger were pushed to the floor and plasti-cuffed, but he refused to move. The team leader, Ruslan Budt, arrived just in time to see Lesukov pushed face first into the floor. Suddenly a light went on. Budt turned to see a TV camera being pointed at the men, a woman holding a microphone was one step behind. “Turn that off!”
Two team members pushed the news crew back and hustled them into the customs building. Each of the three men on the ground were turned face up and Budt held his own camera close to their faces. Lesukov was not going to accept this without a fight.
“Who the hell are you? I’ll have you arrested! I am a Moldovan businessman! Let me up!”
Snow spoke. “He’s not there. Pashinski is not there.”
There was silence in both rooms once more. Dudka eventually spoke, causing heads to turn. “Let us look at the shipment.”
The order was relayed to Budt who had the ‘prisoners’ moved into the customs building and guarded. Budt entered the truck and with a crowbar opened the first case. The wooden case splintered open and so did its contents. Without showing any care for the contents he dug around until he was sure that all that case did indeed contain was a pair of ornate wooden chairs.
*
Unknown location, Ukraine
Bull looked at the assembled men. There were only six of them, two of the Orly, the originals and four others. They were his best men; he had ordered the others to leave. “Any questions?” There were none. Bull continued. “This will be our last operation in Ukraine. I know that for some of you this is your home. The risks are great but so is the reward. I will be leaving after this; if you choose to come with me you must understand that life may be very short and very dangerous.” The Orly would come, that went without question, they had been with Captain Pashinski since Afghanistan. The remainder who had worked for Knysh for the past few years he believed would choose to stay. Bull nodded. “We will attack tomorrow at midday.”
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
“A shipment of wooden chairs!” Dudka had never been so angry. He stomped around his office and waved his arms.
At the other end of the telephone Blazhevich was not happy either. “A consignment of chairs, the paperwork is one hundred percent legal and stamped by the Moldovan customs authorities in Chisinau. Knysh Export is a fully legal Moldovan registered company.”
Dudka fell into his seat and placed the phone on his desk, pressing the speaker button. “Exporting wooden chairs!” They had been hoodwinked. “And what of Lesukov?”
“We have had to release him. We have no firm evidence on the man. He is the supplier of chairs to Knysh Export.”
“What!” Blazhevich repeated the information as Dudka poured himself two fingers of the pepper vodka that he kept in his desk for special occasions. “Sometimes, Vitaly, I feel as though the universe is against us.”
Blazhevich did not know what to say so changed the subject. “We still do not know where Pashinski is. We were unable to trace his call. I believe that General Varchenko may still be in danger.”
“I agree. Leave some bodyguards with him and bring the rest back to Kyiv.” He put the phone down and threw the vodka down his throat. The SBU had messed up again and this time very publicly. Questions would be asked in the Verhovna Rada. The Prime Minister’s party would attack, demand resignations. The bandits from Donetsk would try to take over but his Presiden
t would defend. What a farce. He poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass and drank again. Perhaps things were easier under communism, when he could have shot a scapegoat or at the very least sent him to Siberia.
TWENTY-FIVE
Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
Snow had been released and sat in Vickers’s apartment in central Kyiv. Having given a full statement the SBU were content that he did not work for Pashinski and that he had not intentionally tried to kill the Berkut guard. The guard, who had now regained consciousness and was healing in a military hospital, had been approached by Dudka and had agreed that the case should go no further. Vickers was in the kitchen making them something to eat. Snow was absolutely shattered. The mental and physical toll on his body had been immense. He chased a couple of strong painkillers with the contents of his bottle of Obolon and watched the Ukrainian TV news. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, so turned the sound up. “Alistair, you’ll never believe this!”
Vickers appeared from around the corner. “What?” He noticed the screen. “What!”
Ivan Lesukov’s indignant fat face filled half of the screen and the rest was taken up by the airport behind him.
“I want to press charges against these thugs who have attacked my employees and me!”
The reporter went on to ask him more questions as footage played of the ALFA team throwing him to the floor then attempting to snatch the camera. Lesukov’s face was grave as he continued, “I am a manufacturer of chairs. I have wanted to export for a long time and now have finally found a partner who can help me with this. Your prime minister and mine met to ensure that such exporting would be painless. I have followed all the rules and am here to say that it is not! Moldova continues to be oppressed by Ukraine!”
The interview continued for another minute with Lesukov hamming it up.
Snow started to laugh hysterically before choking on his beer. Vickers gave him a strange look, “What’s so funny?”
He knew it was the adrenaline release but couldn’t help himself. “It would be hard to arm the Taliban with Moldovan chair legs.”
Vickers looked on. He was not amused. The SBU had moved partly on his say so, on intel that he had got from Lesukov’s own nephew. “They’ll try again. When things are quieter they will try again.”
Snow recovered. “I know.” He became deadly serious. “Pashinski is still out there somewhere.”
Vickers fetched the food; he enjoyed cooking. Penne pasta with feta cheese and rocket, the dish should have been, if he had managed to find a single place in Kyiv that sold rocket. They ate. Snow stuck with his beer whilst Vickers chanced white wine.
“Is this the end?” Snow asked the intelligence officer. Had Pashinski left?
Vickers held up his fork and furrowed his brow. “Assessment. We now know that he is alive, we also know that Knysh was a ‘legend’ he had used to start a life here in Ukraine.” Vickers used the intelligence officer term for a false identity. “He has lost that life and any assets that may have gone with it. His house, his cars. So what does he do, we need to think; what does he need?” Vickers took a mouthful of pasta.
Snow swigged his beer. “Money?” He drank some more. “If he was hired by Lesukov it must have been a big fee, large enough to make him take the risk. But now he won’t get that.” Vickers concurred; Snow’s reasoning was straightforward but logical. “He’s lost face too. He’s ex-special forces like me, hates to lose.”
Vickers cut in. “So maybe he won’t let himself? Maybe he still thinks he can win.”
Snow wanted to follow. “Explain?”
“Who is the person who made him lose face, the person he threatened?” Vickers’s eyes were bright; he had something.
“Me?” Snow was still worried.
“You knew who he was – that was why you were dangerous but now his cover is all but blown.”
Snow sipped more beer. “OK I get it, so now I am no longer important to him so he’ll try to get…” Snow thought for a moment, his mind dulled by fatigue and alcohol, “General Varchenko?”
Vickers gripped his fork like a lance. “Correct. He tried to force Varchenko to export his weapons so he could get paid. He shot Varchenko’s business partner to show that he was not afraid of anyone. What did Varchenko do? He went to the SBU and they would have stopped the shipment.”
“If it had been weapons.”
“True,” Vickers conceded.
“So Varchenko owes him on both counts. Loss of face and loss of money?”
“Exactly.” Vickers was pleased. “So he will not disappear, he will collect his debt.”
Both men ate the pasta in silence as they tried through tired brains to think of anything.
“Have you got a file on Varchenko?” Snow had finished his plate.
“Yes, but I don’t have it here. Why?”
“What does he have? What assets has he got that Pashinski can go after?”
Vickers closed his eyes in order to visualise the page from the dossier. “Several small Soviet-style hotels, a couple of restaurants and part ownership of Odessa bank.”
“That’s it!” Snow stood, unable to control his actions.
Vickers was taken aback. “The bank?”
“What was Pashinski’s MO?” He paced around the lounge; Vickers signalled that he should continue. “He targets banks. Poznan, remember? He robbed the bank, that what’s he going to do. He wants the money back that he’s lost, and then some.”
Vickers was now on his feet and reaching for a pile of magazines. He retrieved the pocket sized Kyiv business directory and found the banks section. He read the entry. “Odessa Bank. Head office in Odessa, ten branches throughout Ukraine. Three in Kyiv.”
*
Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Southern Ukraine
“We believe that Pashinski may attempt to rob your bank,” Blazhevich addressed the general in his study.
Varchenko’s eyebrows arched. “Then stop him.”
“If you help me I am sure we can.” Blazhevich had grown tired of the old man’s superior manner. “The bank has ten branches, which would be the best target?”
Varchenko leaned back in his study chair. “The main bank is in Odessa, as you know. That is where the bigger safety deposit boxes are stored. But security is very tight and the bank is on the main street. The three in Kyiv deal with more money than the regional towns.”
“So you would suggest that he attacks one of the Kyiv branches?”
The man could be a fool, Varchenko thought. “Yes, he will attack the branches in the capital.”
Blazhevich nodded, he had thought as much. “Any idea which one?”
“They are equally large.”
Blazhevich turned to leave the room. Varchenko raised his voice. “You are not taking back your men I hope? He may still attack me here.”
Blazhevich leant on the door frame. “Some of ‘my men’ will stay.”
“Perhaps I should employ this Snow?” Dudka mused. “After all, Vitaly, he has provided us with this new lead.”
Blazhevich noted the dour tone in his boss’s voice even through his earpiece. “We must move fast Gennady Stepanovich; I believe the attack will be imminent.”
“Vitaly Romanovich I have already ordered non-uniformed men to go to each branch and stay hidden. Others will pose as customers.” Kyiv had been the obvious choice but all three branches must be covered. “Come back to Kyiv.”
“Very well Gennady Stepanovich, I am on my way.”
TWENTY-SIX
Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
Snow had slept fitfully. Images of Arnaud and Pashinski battled for space in his head. Whilst his body had tried to shut down, he felt as though his brain had not. The theory was that dreams, and nightmares, were an attempt of the brain to figure out problems or file them away. Opening his eyes in the gloom of the near dawn, Snow felt that nothing had been solved and that if his brain was a room then the filing was scattered across the floor. He was covered in sweat and shakin
g. He slowly untangled himself from the damp sheets and stood. His eyes adjusted to the inky blue light streaming through the window. It was just after five a.m. He walked to the bathroom, being careful not to bang against anything in the alien environment of Vickers’s flat. Quickly and quietly he showered and dressed.
All had agreed that he had better not return to his own flat. Bondarenko had been shopping and got him several fresh sets of clothes. The jeans were slightly baggy but his belt soon corrected this. Slipping on his own boots and fleece jacket, Snow left the flat and walked down the stairs. The early morning air was crisp and frost clung to the pavement. No traffic yet on the roads and only the occasional window light. Vickers would have tried to stop him from going but Snow would have gone anyway.
From his pocket Snow removed the torn page from the Kyiv business directory and looked again at the addresses he had already memorised. The first branch of Odessa Bank was not far from Vickers’s flat. It was on Ivana Franka Street, a small avenue opposite the university botanical gardens that ran at a ninety degree angle with Boulevard Taras Shevchenko at one end and Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street at the other. The bank nestled in between the Siemens Ukraine office and an upmarket restaurant.
Snow quickened his pace up the street. He had no idea what he expected to find but felt compelled to CTR each bank. After five minutes he arrived at the first address. He stayed across the street and leant against a building. As expected, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A couple of parked cars sat on the pavement with the blue Siemens logo emblazed on the side, the bank was silent. Its orange neon sign glowed eerily in the morning light. Snow crossed the road and walked past the building, he glanced casually at the bank as he headed towards the junction with Khmelnitsky and the city centre. It was almost six a.m. as he passed the Opera House and headed for Khreshatik; the city had woken up. He saw one team of street cleaners with their water van filling it at the side of the road and several old women with traditional broom sticks sweeping the leaves and dust from the pavements. Soon the winter snows would come and then the equipment would be changed.