Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  Snow reached for the card, winced, but then broke into a smile as he read it.

  Vickers broke his concentration. “But something doesn’t make sense.”

  Snow frowned “What?”

  “Pashinski was shot by a sniper but there wasn’t an ALFA sniper present. None of the ballistics match the weapons used either by Pashinski’s men or the SBU.”

  Snow’s mind was still foggy. “Then who?”

  Vickers shrugged, “No idea but it was a professional. ‘One shot one kill’, I believe the saying goes.”

  Snow closed his eyes and smiled widely. He didn’t care. After ten years and the death of a friend, it was finally over: Tauras ‘The Bull’ Pashinski was no more. The green eyes would never trouble him again, except, he thought coldly, in nightmares. “What now?” Snow asked, easing himself higher and wincing in doing so.

  Vickers took a passport from his jacket pocket. “Have you ever met a Herr Dietrich Schaefer?” Snow’s mouth smiled but he shook his head. “Well he wants the Kyiv militia to press charges against the Russian who mugged him and stole his passport. This passport.” Vickers now genuinely smiled for the first time in weeks, and nodded as he spoke. “I believe you told me that you found this on the train? Didn’t you.”

  *

  Palace Gardens, Vienna, Austria

  “I’m not who you think I am.”

  They had walked hand in hand through the palace gardens and had now reached the terrace. Bernadette paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I am not American.” He turned and faced her.

  She looked him in the eyes, a strand of hair falling across her face. “Are you being silly, Mark?”

  Gorodetski paused before speaking to her for the first time in her native language. “Bernadette, I am not American.”

  She let go of his hand. “You speak German?”

  “Not as well as English.”

  “And your accent is different.”

  “I am from Tula; it’s a town near Moscow.”

  She was bemused. “You are Russian?”

  “Da.”

  “I don’t understand anything. What is your real name? Who are you?” Her cheeks flashed as red as the uniform she wore to work.

  “My name is Sergey.”

  She was suddenly angry. “Why did you trick me, to sleep with me? Is that what you wanted? Do you have other girlfriends?”

  She continued to speak but he could not hear her words, rather he imagined he could hear the heart beneath her ample breast breaking. He had thought long and hard about telling her the truth and eventually decided to ignore his training and listen to his own heart. It was the scariest thing he had ever had to do. He looked deeply into her eyes. “I love you.”

  “What?” She stopped mid-sentence. It was the first time in her life that a man had said that to her and meant it.

  The statement surprised him. “I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Then why did you lie to me?” Her arms were now folded.

  “My work means that sometimes I have to change who I am, my identity.”

  Again she was puzzled. “Your work? What are you?”

  “I used to be in the Russian Army – Special Operations Unit.” He felt relieved; he now had nothing to hide.

  Bernadette looked into the eyes of the man she had started to fall in love with. She sensed that he was telling the truth but there was something, perhaps a pain behind the eyes. “Like a spy?”

  “Da. I had to pretend to be Mark Peters because it wasn’t safe for you or anyone else to know who I really was.”

  “And now?” What was going to happen to them?

  “And now it is safe for you, but not me. I can’t be Mark anymore. I am Sergey and I am the man who loves you.”

  “What about us?” There was a tear in her eye.

  “I want to be with you.” He reached out to take her hand…

  *

  “Mr Johnson? Mr Johnson…” a voice called in the darkness.

  Gorodetski opened his eyes. The fresh face of the American Airlines stewardess smiled. “Sorry to wake you but you need to fasten your seatbelt. We are about to land at JFK.”

  “Oh thanks.” The passenger now travelling under the name of Mark Johnson sat up, rubbed his eyes and fastened his seat belt. Why hadn’t he gone back to Vienna and really told her who he was? Why hadn’t he said that he loved her? He knew the reason. He had a dark stain on his soul that he could never rid himself of; the cold-blooded murder of a father and his son. He shivered as he remembered the shots hitting both targets, the images that he would always see when his eyes were closed. He could never be forgiven and he could never forget. Turning to his right he raised the blind and from his business class window seat watched the sun rise over New York. It was a new day.

  If you enjoyed Cold Blood, you might also be interested in Cold Black by Alex Shaw, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Cold Black by Alex Shaw

  PROLOGUE

  Harley Street, London, England

  Aidan Snow sat on the examination table wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. Dr Durrani poked Snow’s left leg with a gloved index finger, his large bright eyes focusing intently.

  “Hm. The incision seems to have healed nicely; the reduction in scar tissue is what we would have hoped for.” Turning his attention to the right leg, Durrani continued. “I’m not as happy with this one though, but then you did leave it rather a long time before coming to see me.”

  Snow nodded. It had not been his idea to visit the doctor, but a direct command from Jack Patchem, his handler at SIS. Patchem’s view was that no undercover operative could ‘blend in’ if he was riddled with scars. Snow saw no reason to complain.

  “Now the shoulder. Hm. If you would just raise your arm for me, a-ha that will do fine. Any pain at all? Any discomfort?”

  “No.”

  “None?”

  “None.” Snow lied, he got the occasional twinge from all his old injuries, especially those caused by bullets, but letting the SIS contracted doctor know that would not help with his operational status.

  Snow was fit, above averagely so even by army standards, but by the ripe old age of thirty six had had one leg crushed in a car crash and the other punctured with a round from an AK74. This was in addition to a recent bullet to the right shoulder. Ten years separated the first and second set of injuries, but they had been caused by the same ruthless former Spetsnaz member.

  The first injury had led to Snow prematurely leaving the SAS and the second set had caused him to be recruited by Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) or as it was more widely but inaccurately known ‘MI6’. After rehabilitation of his injuries and a refresher course in the Welsh Mountains, competing against the newest SAS Selection hopefuls, he had been passed fit for service.

  “Medical over. You can get dressed now.” Durrani walked to the sink, removed his gloves and unnecessarily washed his hands. He straightened his blood red bow tie. “How’s Jack these days?”

  The question took Snow by surprise. “I’m sorry, Jack who?”

  “Good, good just checking - ‘Loose lips sink ships’ - as they used to say.”

  “They also make for very bad saxophonists.” Snow replied as he quickly dressed.

  “What? Oh, very good. Mind if I use that one?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you.” Durrani smiled and opened the door. “Well, all being ‘well’, I’ll see you this time next year. Good bye.”

  Snow knew better than to shake the doctor’s hand. For a plastic surgeon, Durrani had a strange phobia of ‘personal contact’.

  Snow exited Durrani’s examination room and couldn’t help but glance at the pretty receptionist, dressed in her pure white uniform; he could make out the line of a black bra beneath. She smiled at him, as he self-consciously looked away and left the building.

  Harley Street was busy with lunchtime
traffic, business people and a few lost tourists being given directions by a pair of Metropolitan Police Officers. Snow headed north towards Regent’s Park and the nearest tube station, he had a meeting with Patchem at their Vauxhall Cross headquarters. Snow cared little for London, but living there was a necessity. London was too noisy and too scruffy, especially compared to some other capital cities. But not Paris. Snow remembered his friend Arnaud, half French and always defending the homeland of his mother.

  Arnaud had argued that Paris was the ‘capital of Europe’ with its grand architecture. Snow had retorted that the ‘grand architecture’ did not make up for the pavements littered with dog shit and the stench of cheap cigarettes. He still blamed himself for what had happened. The events of eighteen months before, in Ukraine, had hit him harder than he had thought possible. Snow’s mental scars too had been ‘cosmetically repaired’. Involuntarily he touched his shoulder and felt for the bullet wound, now almost invisible but still aching. Snow had tried to save the life of a friend and failed.

  A noise from behind broke his train of thought. A scream. Snow turned. A figure was standing outside Durrani’s building, Middle Eastern or Asian. A voice inside his head tried to tell him something. Snow retraced his steps back towards the doctor’s surgery, his eyes on the entrance. Another scream. Snow broke into a jog. Two men left the building in a hurry; one had his face obscured by bandages. They joined the first, who had now moved from the building, and was holding open the door to a waiting Ford Mondeo. There was an object in the hand of the last man to exit the surgery, a handgun.

  The gunman looked directly at Snow, who was still running towards him, and pulled the trigger. There was a ‘thud’ as a suppressed 9mm round left the weapon and raced towards the SIS operative. Snow instinctively dived left, down the basement steps of the nearest building, crashing into several bins.

  A car door slammed. Winded, Snow raised his head. The Mondeo was now ‘four up’ and pulling away south into traffic. Snow sprinted to the surgery, straining his eyes to see the registration number of the Ford. He had a decision to make, follow the X-Rays or check the building.

  Snow took the steps up, two at a time. The door to the communal hall was open, as was that to the surgery. He hoped beyond hope that he would not find what he did. The receptionist lay sprawled back on her chair, her dress had been ripped open to expose her breasts. There was a neat bullet hole in her forehead and an explosion of blood on the cream wall behind. Snow swore, fury rising within. He kicked open the doctor’s door and found that Durrani had also been executed. Lying at an acute angle across his desk, he had been double tapped in the chest then shot once through the skull for good measure.

  In a flash, Snow was back out on the street, mobile phone to his ear as he waited for the emergency service to connect him. There was a loud honking from further up the street. The Mondeo was still there, caught up at the traffic lights at New Cavendish Street. Snow had to reach it. He ran faster than before, switching his phone to video capture mode. Snow heard raised voices from behind, he turned. The two Metropolitan Police Officers. One saw the open door and went up to investigate, the other followed Snow.

  “Excuse me sir….Sir Excuse me.” The officer shouted.

  Snow continued to intercept the car, the Policeman quickened his pace, one hand on helmet in what looked like a scene from the ‘keystone cops’. Snow drew level with the Mondeo and looked in. Four men, Middle Eastern. The one with the bandages was now removing them, another held a handgun. As Snow aimed his camera phone at them, a hand grabbed Snow’s shoulder. Snow pivoted and flung his unknown attacker to the ground, his phone dangling by its carry cord. The Police officer hit the pavement with force, his helmet spinning off into the traffic.

  “Security Services.” Was all Snow managed to get out, before a round zipped past his face. He fell to the pavement, the lights changed and the Mondeo moved off. Snow tried to get to his feet but was forcefully pushed flat by the second officer, who had now caught up.

  “Secret Intelligent Service. You’re stopping the wrong person.”

  The second officer attempted to place his knee on Snow’s chest. “Stay still!”

  “For the love of god…” Snow twisted and using his right leg swept the officer’s legs out from under him. Snow sprang to his feet. The first officer, now standing, had extended his folding truncheon and was holding it in his right hand.

  “Get down…down!”

  “Get out of the bloody way!” Snow lurched forward and ducked inside the officer’s advancing arm, he kicked the man in the back of the knee before ripping the truncheon from his hand and hurling it into the street.

  Snow sprinted to the end of the road and at the junction reacquired the Mondeo, fifty meters ahead on Wigmore Street, stopped this time by a taxi. He heard sirens now, from Harley Street behind him, an armed response unit arriving on the scene given the sensitive central London location. As Snow watched, the target vehicle raced off, mounting the pavement and breaking the speed limit. Snow turned and was met with a cloud of CS gas…

  “You…Sodding…idiots!”

  Hands again tried to clamp him, eyes streaming Snow fought back, kicking out at the blurred shapes. One officer went down swearing, the other landed a punch. Snow lost control completely and shoulder barged the second officer, before delivering an upper cut to his unprotected jaw. Both officers were down, hurt.

  “Listen to me!” Snow yelled. “There’s a kill team out there getting away. We need to call it in!”

  “Armed Police! Drop your weapon and lie on the floor, face down.”

  Snow shut his, still streaming, eyes in disbelief. He slowly placed his phone on the pavement and lay down beside it. A black tactical boot kicked the phone into the gutter.

  “That’s HM Government property, you’ll get a bill!”

  “Be quiet now, please sir.’

  Gloved hands grabbed Snow’s and pulled them behind his back.

  His hands secured, Snow was searched before being hoisted to his feet. The tight plasticuffs bit into his wrists. The two ‘beat bobbies’ were looking none too happy.

  “My name is Aidan Snow, I’m an SIS operative. Call Vauxhall Cross they will confirm who I am.”

  “I’m sure we’ll do that at the station.” The CO19 member mocked.

  “Come along, please sir.” A second added.

  “An SIS officer is down and the shooter is getting away. Call it in!”

  “Move!” The friendly tone evaporated.

  Arriving at the secure police station, Snow was led to the front desk for processing. The duty desk officer looked up unimpressed. The CO19 officer placed a clear plastic bag on the desk. It contained the contents of Snow’s pockets, wallet and phone.

  “Name?”

  “I’m an operative for SIS. Call them; they’ll confirm who I am.”

  “Your name?”

  Snow took a deep breath, they were only doing their jobs all of them, if badly. “Aidan Snow.”

  “Right then, Mr Snow, if you’ll just press your fingers there for me. We’ll scan your prints.’

  There was little point in resisting. Snow put his fingers on the scanner. He was not a fan of anyone having his personal information, let alone his fingerprints.

  The desk officer looked at the screen and frowned. “Ok we are going to put you in a holding cell until we can confirm your identity.”

  Snow shrugged, he had no idea what had been on the scanner screen or even which database had flagged up, but he knew either way he’d be in for a wait.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?”

  “Sure. How do you take it, shaken not stirred?”

  ONE

  Shoreham by Sea, United Kingdom

  A victim of the credit crunch they would call him, an unavoidable casualty against an unseen enemy, the recession. Paddy Fox swallowed his pint bitterly. He was no one’s victim. He looked at the jobs page for the third time before screwing it up in a ball. The anger he felt towards them ha
d not lessened in the six weeks since it had happened, the rage he had for his former boss. He had nothing to prove, he was James ‘Paddy’ Fox, a twenty year veteran of the SAS and was worth something. If no one saw that then sod em.

  Fox’s mobile rang, he grabbed for it. “Yes?” His guttural Scottish hue had not been lessened by years of living in Hereford and then Sussex. There was a pause, which instantly told him it was a company trying to sell him something, before a voice reading from a script spoke.

  “Can I speak to Mr James Fox?”

  “You could.” He cut the connection.

  Take, take, take! The world seemed to want something from him but not him. He flattened out the paper and circled another job, the ‘Dymex’ logo blurred in front of his eyes. Tracey still worked for them, but why he had kept a corporate ball point pen he didn’t know. Was it his sack cloth?

  Fox downed his pint of bitter and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Just the two for now, more later when he already knew he’d storm out of the house after arguing with Tracy. It had become an almost daily occurrence since he’d become, as he saw it ‘redundant’. He looked across the Crown & Anchor’s dingy deserted bar. Burt, the jowl heavy landlord was the only other person in the room, with the exception of ‘old Dave’ who sat in the corner like a fixture with his paper and pint of Guinness. Fox shook his head, what a miserable piss hole of a pub. It was the only bar in Shoreham that had yet to be ‘neoned’, as he called it, to have a bit of paint slapped on, fancy lights added and the price of the drinks doubled. As such it was the only place where the average age of the punters was over twelve, in his mind anyway. He stood, placed his empty on the bar and nodded at Burt as he left the pub. Outside it was rush hour, cars cut through the narrow streets of the old town in an attempt to miss the traffic. In a way the SAS veteran was glad that he was not part of the corporate world anymore – the ‘rat run rat race’ nevertheless he was still angry at how he had left it.

  Summoned to a glass walled meeting room Fox had looked across with disgust at the younger man in his designer suit and signature dark blue shirt. The man spoke as Fox’s stare remained locked onto his eyes.