by Alex Shaw
Snow liked this time of day, it was his time when he could clear his mind and concentrate on pushing his body harder as he ran through the near empty city streets. Only today his mind was not blank. He had a very serious objective; he had to find Pashinski. He passed Teatralna metro station and the early commuters who now hurried along the streets, getting the first metro or trolley bus of the day. Hitting Khreshatik he turned left past Tzum, the giant Soviet-era department store and towards Maidan, he did not risk taking Pushkinskaya, which ran parallel.
The second branch was ahead. This was larger and on the far corner of the square. It too was empty and with the exception of two uniformed men in their little guard box outside, looked asleep. He stood on the other side of the road and took in the location. Roads passed the bank on either side at the corner, a hill, the music academy and cinema overlooked the bank from above and the Hotel Khreshatik was opposite. Snow stood on the Maidan Square in front of the glass fronted Globus shopping centre. The bank was very exposed. It seemed a likely target except for the fact that here, in the very heart of Kyiv, there would be thousands of people milling around who would either get in the way or report what they saw.
Then he saw it. A silver VW Passat arrived at the bank and three men stepped out. Two of them moved with confidence whilst the third, who was smaller, retrieved a bunch of keys from his pocket. Snow froze, his eyes locked on the bank as the heavy front door opened and the night security guard warmly shook hands. As the three men entered Snow saw the other two being introduced to the watchman. As if to confirm his suspicion Snow noted the government issue number plate of the Passat as it pulled out into traffic and drove off uphill. He cursed. SBU undercover agents. If he had seen them then he was sure that Bull had too. He continued to observe for a few more minutes before crossing the road and walking past the bank and making for the third branch, which was in Podil.
Vickers felt a throbbing at his temples as soon as he sat up. He had never been a big drinker and now after hitting forty could handle the effects even less. Perhaps he should eat more and run less? He suddenly remembered why his head hurt and stood. He pulled on a t-shirt, pair of tracksuit bottoms and left his bedroom. He knocked on the door of the spare room, it moved, unlocked. He looked in – the bed was empty. He rushed to the bathroom then kitchen. Snow had gone. He admonished himself and picked up his mobile. At the other end the phone rang but was not answered. What the hell was Snow thinking? He had spoken to the SBU and warned them of their fears. The SBU would take care of it not him; not Aidan Snow.
*
Podil, Kyiv
Snow looked at the display. Alistair Vickers. He ignored the call; he’d call later once he had looked at each branch. He was now walking through central Podil, the oldest part of central Kyiv, just passing a café. The branch here looked over Kontraktova Plosha, the square at the bottom of the steep Andrivskyi Uzviz and Podil’s central street, Sahaydachnoho. Snow walked towards the small green at the north end of the square and leaning against a bench pretended to tie up his bootlace. This was again a very open location with several roads intersecting, creating eight immediate escape routes at various places around the square, up the hill behind him, right back the way he had come, left towards Obolon and down towards the river. Too many routes, he immediately thought.
He checked his watch; it was now almost seven fifteen and the streets were busy with traffic and more workers. He could not stay long as he looked like the only person not in a hurry to get somewhere. Snow surveyed the area, looking for anyone like himself, who looked out of place. Two men stood with plastic coffee cups on the corner of Sahaydachnoho smoking, a group waited at the bus stop but apart from that everyone was moving. Snow turned and walked up Frolivska where it led onto the bottom of Andrivskyi Uzviz. He suddenly remembered something that Mitch had once told him. Something that suddenly ruled this branch out of the equation. The residence of the American Ambassador to Ukraine was less than two hundred yards away in Borychiv Street. It was always manned by US marines in addition to having at least two Berkut guards on alert at all times, especially so after the recent threats on US embassies. If anything happened in the square the Berkut were less than two minutes away. So there it was, the only logical target, the first branch he had been to, on the side street by the botanical gardens. He pulled out his phone and called up Vickers.
“Where are you?” Vickers was irritated.
“Podil. Listen, I know which branch they are going to hit.”
“What? How?”
Snow explained his reasoning. “The Podil branch is too close to the American residence and the Khreshatik branch is too open. It has to be Ivana Franka.” Snow fought for breath as he half jogged up the steep hill. By foot he could be there in less than twenty minutes. The start of the rush hour traffic would make a taxi slower.
“Aidan, the SBU have each branch covered. I’m sure they can stop a bank robbery.”
Snow lost his temper. “This will be a full on military assault. Agents with handguns will not stop them.”
Vickers was taken aback but took note. “I’ll tell Blazhevich. Now go directly to the embassy.”
“Yeah, OK.” Snow ended the call. He was minutes from the embassy but had no intention of visiting. It was seven thirty-five, still too early to hit the bank but not too early to take up an OP. He zipped the phone safely away in his pocket and pumped his legs up the rest of the steep hill. At the top he rested momentarily, sweat dripping from his forehead and his jeans clammy against his thighs, before heading on a direct route for the target. The streets had grown more congested as Kyiv was now fully awake on this overcast winter’s day. Snow stopped at a kiosk and bought a bottle of water and several chocolate bars. He ate one and stuffed the rest into his jacket pockets. This was the first food of the day and he had no idea when he would be able to eat next.
As he neared the bank he slowed and started to focus on his surroundings. Finally reaching the corner of the target address, he looked for somewhere to hide or at least wait as unobtrusively as possible. The buildings on this narrow street were six stories high and cast shadows, sun permitting, onto the pavement below. In front of each building was a small grassy area which in the case of the restaurant formed a summer seating area and for the Siemens office had been removed to provide extra parking. Snow leaned against the corner of the nearest building, cursing silently. There was nowhere on the street itself he could wait, he had to get access to one of the roofs. The buildings directly opposite the bank were residential. Snow tried the first door. Locked with a keypad. Then the next. It opened and in he went as though he were a resident. He climbed the stairs to the very top and was met by a padlocked mesh style metal door. Shit. This time he swore loudly. He looked around for anything that might be able to prise apart the door. On the floors below, the stairwell had been freshly white washed, as befitted an upmarket building, but here at the top, where residents never ventured, the old flaking paint and rotting window had been left. Snow grabbed at the nearest windowsill and pried the wood free. It was damp with rot and crumbled in his hand. He kicked the door with frustration and to his surprise it gave at the hinge. He kicked again with more force and was now able to lever himself between it and the wall. The hinge was rotten too; lazy maintenance staff had simply painted over the rust and not treated it. Snow was up the final steps within two minutes and had the flimsy wooden roof door open in another three. He paused in the doorway. There had been no sounds from below and he did not want to risk meeting anyone up top.
Two minutes went by before he edged onto the roof. To his relief it was as solid as the day Lenin’s mother had built it. He crouched, keeping himself below the level of the parapet, and scouted the rooftop. Even though they had the same number of floors he now noticed that all the buildings on this side of the street were slightly higher than opposite. It had obviously been a drinking day for the architects. To the right he could see the botanical gardens and directly in front of him was the bank. Snow eased h
imself forward and peered over the edge. People milled about below and the noise of traffic wafted upwards. He looked at the roof tops, those opposite him were empty. He sat back against the parapet. It was impossible to keep a visual on the bank without being exposed to anyone on the other side of the street. He had a decision to make. He would wait for the business day to start and then risk it. He had to risk it.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv
“We have men at each branch.” Blazhevich had already told his British ‘colleague’ this twice. “If they attack we will detain them.”
Vickers had his mobile in his free hand and was again trying to reach Snow. He spoke back into his office handset. “Snow thinks he knows which one they will hit, the Ivana Franka branch.”
“Yes, that is the most obvious if an attack were to take place, but this is all still only guesswork. Not that I don’t think it will happen.” The deployment had been hastily arranged the night before on Snow’s ‘hunch’. The SBU were doing all in their power to stop any robbery and bring this chain of events to a close. “Alistair we have it covered.”
*
Ivana Franka Street, Kyiv
Snow rolled over and raised his head slowly. It was now almost ten. The Ukrainian banks opened an hour later than those in the UK. Cars were now parked on one side of the road as were two vans. Something stirred in his memory. The vans were parked at either end of the street… in Poznan the street had been sealed by two car bombs, two vans leaving an escape route for Bull’s men. But if this was them, where was the getaway vehicle? Snow looked further past the street to Boulevard Taras Shevchenko. Cars could park on the near side of the road as the pavement was wider. He envisaged several high powered saloons quietly awaiting the carnage. This was it; it was going to happen here!
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
Blazhevich choked on his coffee. “Mother f–” He rarely swore and never in the presence of women, and had caught himself just in time. The young female agent was red faced. He took the phone she held out and spoke to the lead agent in Odessa. Major Bodaretski repeated his news. Armed men were attacking Odessa Bank’s head office branch on Deribasovskiy, Odessa’s premium boulevard. Varchenko’s personal assistant was in the branch and had phoned his master in a state of trouser-wetting panic. Both militia and ALFA had been dispatched.
“Anatoly get there and give me a live update.” Blazhevich could not believe his bad luck, he had barely returned from that very city when this had happened. He felt powerless, now he was at arm’s length fighting by remote control without even a live image. He called Varchenko’s dacha and told the remaining guards to stay vigilant, they may yet be attacked.
*
Ivana Franka Street, Kyiv
Snow felt his phone vibrate. “Snow.”
“Aidan,” Vickers answered. “They’ve hit Odessa.”
“What? Say again?”
“They have hit the head office in Odessa.”
Snow kept his eyes on the bank below as he tried to take in what the man from the embassy had said. “When?”
“Half an hour ago. Our Odessa British Council staff saw it on local TV.” Vickers’s next call would be to Blazhevich.
Snow thought quickly. “What are the details?”
“Gunmen entered the bank and shots were fired. Too much of a coincidence to be anyone else.”
On the roof Snow shook his head. “I don’t care what’s happening in Odessa. It’s going to happen here, I’m telling you. The same MO as Poznan. They have vans at each end to block the road.”
Vickers sighed. “I think you should be happy that we were almost right. They did attack, as you said.” Vickers was somewhat relieved that Kyiv had not been targeted but also annoyed that they had been wrong in their target assessment.
“Alistair, I’m on the bloody roof overlooking the bank and I can tell you that they are going to attack.” He couldn’t be imagining things, could he?
Vickers finally lost his temper. “Listen. I’ll speak to Vitaly and relay your fears. In the meantime stop buggering about and acting like a sodding pigeon and come down from your perch.”
*
Odessa Bank, Kyiv
The portly bank clerk was nervous, so nervous in fact that he had spent most of his morning darting to the toilet which he shared with the other tellers. His manager had suggested that he go home, that he had probably eaten something bad, but he had refused. His instructions, from the man who paid him in cash, had been insistent. Stay at your station; it must look normal. The clerk swallowed hard as he popped the second lot of indigestion pills. He wet his face and tried to tidy himself up in the cracked washroom mirror. He subconsciously caressed the new platinum Rolex that hung snugly on his left wrist hidden by his shirt cuff. Today was the day. The day that a new client was to ‘withdraw’ his funds. It was eleven a.m. ‘Remain calm and they will never know that you were involved’, the man had said, ‘then you can resign, blame it on stress, and live a life of luxury’. But he had no way to contact his new master, no way to warn him about the two new security guards that had started work this morning. There were also two more ALFA officers who had entered before working hours with the bank manager, but neither he nor the other staff had seen this. This had been the same for all three of the Kyiv branches. One more hour and that was it. He returned to his position and nodded once more at the security guards who sat in the banking hall, machine pistols at their sides. He must not draw any more attention to himself.
*
Deribasovskiy Boulevard, Odessa
The boulevard was not as wide as those in central Kyiv but looked much more European. The majority of the shops and restaurants had a chic boutique feel. The street had now been sealed off at each end and marksmen were placed on roofs and in windows. Major Bodaretski stood behind a militia wagon and assessed the scene. The militia were keeping curious residents and shoppers from entering the area or leaving their apartments. Gribakin, the most senior militia official present, was worried. He had been accustomed to an easy life of petty crime and traffic violations, not gunmen on the streets. In between mopping the cold sweat from his brow with a greying handkerchief he nodded profusely and gave Bodaretski his full attention and cooperation. One of his juniors, Kiril Kononchuk, had been on duty nearby and actually saw the men entering the bank. Bodaretski had asked questions.
“How many did you see?”
“Four.”
“How were they dressed?”
“Jeans, jackets and ski masks.”
“What weapons were they carrying?”
“I saw two pistols and two AK 47s.”
“Did you see where they came from?”
“Through the park.”
“So you saw no means of escape? No vehicle?”
“No.”
Bodaretski had then dismissed the young man. Something did not add up. He spoke to Gribakin. “How were they planning to escape?”
“I don’t know. Is it important?” The militia commander asked, showing his naivety.
Bodaretski gave him a concerned look; it was basic logic and common sense. “If these men are robbing a bank they expect to leave with the money.”
“Oh yes, of course.” The militia man reddened with embarrassment.
“Do you know if they were challenged inside?”
Gribakin shook his head. “Not unless the security guards drew their pistols.”
“Then why draw attention to the raid by letting off rounds?” Bodaretski glanced again at the bank. The gunmen had run from the small park on the opposite side of the boulevard (with masks on and weapons visible), past a busy restaurant complete with customers on the terrace enjoying the mild local climate. Why? To draw attention to themselves! It was a diversion. He picked up a loudhailer and handed it to Gribakin. “Talk to them. See what they want.”
Gribakin swallowed hard. “Me?”
“Yes you. Here.” He handed the officer a Kevlar vest. “Put
this over your shirt and under your jacket. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” The man shook as he took the vest with his free hand.
“I want to know what they want. They didn’t come to rob the bank,” continued Bodaretski.
Gribakin was too nervous to see the point that his ALFA colleague was making. “What shall I say?”
“Try to get them to talk. Empathise with them. Say they won’t be harmed if they give themselves up. Surely you’ve seen enough cop films to know what to say.”
Gribakin smiled weakly, imagining himself as Samuel L Jackson in The Negotiator or his hero, De Niro. “But isn’t it better to use the bank’s phone?”
“Get their attention first.” Bodaretski had a plan.
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
“That is not good.” Dudka looked at his young agent. “Any fatalities?”
“None that we can confirm.” Blazhevich had received a sit rep from Odessa. The raiders had entered the bank and fired indiscriminately before demanding the contents of the vaults. They were still inside and had ten known hostages. Major Bodaretski had stated his suspicions about the gunmen’s motives and was awaiting the green light from Dudka to storm the building. Both men had been looking at the hastily faxed blueprints and plans. Bodaretski was an experienced special forces ALFA officer. He explained his plans via speaker phone. “We can go in through the roof and first floor. At that exact time we will send smoke grenades into the ground floor windows.” It was a classic assault model but nevertheless effective.