Cold Blood (12 page)

“I know. I’m OK; just got a hangover. I was hammered last night.” The sugar had perked him up. Reed looked at his brief notes. “Ossowski, that’s an usual name.”

“It’s Polish. My grandma and granddad were from Gdansk.”

Reed remembered the TV news from the 1980s “Ah. Solidarity, shipyards and Leh Valensa.”

Dave nodded but was too young to understand.

“Do you speak Polish, Dave?”

“Nah. My grandparents used to speak it to me but that was years ago.”

Reed leaned forward and smiled. “Dave. Tell me what happened?”

Dave sipped his tea. “Bav asked me if I wanted to work some overtime – I’m in charge of the website – so I said yes and just got off the bus. Then Bav saw me and gave me a lift the rest of the way onto the estate.”

Reed nodded and held his hand up. “OK Dave, that’s good.” The shock was making the boy speak too fast and Reed had to slow him down in case he forgot any details. “So you were in the car together?”

“Yeah. I got out of the car to open the door.”

“What time was this?”

“About half eight? No, eight fifty. Yeah I saw the clock in reception.”

Another nod. “Where was Bav?”

“He was still in the car…”

Reed knew it was difficult but had to press. “Dave, what happened?”

“I opened the door and heard the gun…”

“OK Dave, you’re doing very well. Tell me exactly what you saw and what you heard.”

“I turned and Bav… Bav was laying on the bonnet of his Merc and… and me… a man with a machine gun… was shooting him.”

Reed’s voice remained calm. “What was he wearing?”

“Dark overalls, like a mechanic. No, they were waterproof.”

“Oil skins?”

“Yeah, like a fisherman but not yellow.”

“Did you see his face?” The most important bit now.

“No. But he said something.”

Reed edged further forward on his plastic chair. “Can you remember what he said?”

“It wasn’t English. I think it was Polish. Yeah, it sounded Polish.”

Polish? Reed showed no outward surprise. “OK Dave, exactly what did he say?”

“Sounded like,
Za mayevo Brata
.”

“Are you sure?” Reed wanted to be certain.

“Yes. That’s what he said before he…” Dave put his hand over his mouth and abruptly stood. Reed watched as he raced once more to the bathroom. The police officer shook his head. Something like this could really mess up a young kid. He’d make a note to reassure him, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing that he could have done. He opened his phone and called ‘the office’.

*

Paddington Green Secure Police Station
,
London

“Interview with Arkadi Cheban resumed at 10:40 a.m. Officers present; DCI Furr and PC Reynolds.”

“You bring me cigarettes?” Cheban held out his good hand.

“Here.” Furr handed him a fresh packet.

“Lights? You think that I am concerned for my health from cigarettes?” He lit one.

“Maybe not, but I am,” replied Furr.

“So why you keep me waiting? I am a busy guy.”

Furr dived straight in. “Have you sold a semi or fully automatic weapon in the past two months?”

Cheban exhaled, smoke poured out of a mouth whose edges had curled into a grin. “You give me deal, I tell you.”

Furr pursed his lips. “Look I promise I’ll get you a deal; but I need something from you, a token of good faith.”

Cheban shrugged. “For sure. I supply an American yesterday with an Uzi 9mm – like Terminator.”

Furr blinked. “American?”

“This one I give for free – nice faith? Yes. Bring picture and I pick. I have very good memory for faces.”

Furr almost knocked over PC Reynolds guarding the door as he left the room.

*

Gatwick Airport
,
West Sussex

At Gatwick Airport an Orange ‘pay as you go’ mobile phone had the battery and SIM card removed. Each of the components were then dropped into a separate rubbish bin. In Kyiv another untraceable phone, a UMC pay as you go ‘Sim Sim’ Motorola, bleeped to alert the owner of a text message. Bull read the message and punched Oleg’s heavy shoulder. “He has done it.” He then tossed the phone out of the speeding BMW and into the river. The driver, Dmitro, looked back in the mirror but made no comment. He knew better than to ask his new commander what had made him smile. A former Ukrainian special forces member, Dmitro was an asset and knew the roads of Ukraine like no other. Bull and Oleg had recruited others too, loyal and proud to once again be amongst the ‘Spetsnaz’.

Paddington Green Secure Police Station
,
London

Wheels moved fast. Within four hours HM Immigration had complied a list of all American and Polish citizens who had entered the UK over the past two weeks and were working back a further month. Reed’s information had been crosschecked with Furr’s. The cases had without doubt been linked. An automatic weapon of any type was unusual in the UK. Cheban’s description had been circulated and a short list of twenty-five red haired men was drawn up. Cheban was presented with the CCTV images taken at all London airports in addition to the Channel Tunnel and major seaports. This time Furr had an offer for Cheban which was quickly accepted. Cheban looked through the various images, dismissing five Americans for being too fat and four Poles for being too thin. Of the remaining sixteen he picked one face. “This man.”

Furr looked at the name. “Mark Peters.”

TWELVE

The Forbidden City Restaurant
,
Odessa
,
Southern Ukraine

“General Varchenko. Perhaps you will shake my hand this time?” The restaurant was gourmet, Chinese, trendy and owned by Varchenko. Bull applauded his taste.

Varchenko looked up. “You!”

Bull sat and took a prawn cracker. “May I?” Varchenko tried to reply but could not finish chewing in time. “I have some news for you, straight from London. Malik’s son is now dead.”

“What?” Pieces of bean sprout shot from his mouth.

“He was assassinated this morning.” The green eyes bored into the general. Varchenko was speechless. Pashinski continued, “This is purely a business situation but you made it personal by sending your men to kill me. You can understand why the second Malik had to die. Now we are even again.”

Varchenko stood, tipping the table, his rage rising like never before. “You are a mad man!”

“No, general. A mad man kills for no reason.”

Varchenko’s eyes darted around the restaurant, he could not see his men on the door, and in fact even the waiter had vanished.

“Now about my offer,” Bull stated in an even tone.

“Your offer!” Varchenko made for the door but stopped dead. Two huge men stepped over the threshold. How could this be? He was General Varchenko of the KGB, had commanded the power of life and death. He took a deep breath and turned to face his tormentor. “What is your proposal?”

Bull righted the table and sat. Varchenko warily joined him. Oleg and Dmitro led Varchenko’s smaller bodyguards into the restaurant. Bull’s men had 9mm handguns in their hands, Varchenko’s men’s hands were on their heads. The party sat in the far corner, Oleg and Dmitro kept a safe distance. Bull nodded. “I admire you, general. You have been a model for me; you have made the transition from Party man to bandit and now capitalist with ease. You have a company which exports to Pakistan and Europe, several restaurants, part ownership of a bank and now plans for a major hotel development. Bravo.” He clapped his hands.

Varchenko’s face showed no outward sign of emotion as his grey eyes gazed at the younger man. “I am glad you approve.”

Bull clasped his hands together then formed a steeple with his fingers. “What I propose, general, is that you assist me to do the same. Firstly I have certain goods, which could be readily exported with the use of your existing distribution network, and secondly I would like to invest my profits from this ‘venture’. As one patriot to another I feel that your hotel project would be perfect. This would bring investment to Ukraine.” The green eyes widened slightly and Bull smiled.

Varchenko noticed the stoppered bottle of Chinese wine on the floor. “May I?” Without waiting for a reply he reached down and retrieved the Huadong Chardonnay Shangdong. He poured himself a glass, did not offer his guest one, and then drank. “You have a direct way of doing business Mr Knysh. You kill my partner – creating a vacuum – this I understand; but you then want this to be put aside? A mere business strategy? Now you come here… what is this in business terms, a ‘hostile takeover’?”

Bull was enjoying this. He really did admire the general for his past achievements, which were legendary, and respected his metamorphosis. “Not hostile, just an earnest interest. I have buyers who want their goods, and better still money, which they want to give to me. However such sums may cause suspicion if they were to be, how shall we say, deposited directly into a standard bank account. But if these funds were to be invested then they could be increased tenfold.”

Varchenko snorted. “I am not a laundry service and my company is not a freight forwarder.”

“But if you were to be then we would all benefit.” Bull had not thought that this would be easy but the old man was in business however and surely would not ignore such an opportunity. “For every successful shipment you would of course receive a handling fee.”

Varchenko emptied his glass. “I do not make deals with criminals.” The photo-fit image he had given the SBU was a very good likeness. This man would soon be in custody.

Bull let another smile crease his chiselled face. The man could not be trusted unless the deal was too good to refuse. “You are throwing away immediately one million American dollars. I have a shipment ready to leave which would earn you at least that if we are to agree upon a partnership.”

Varchenko’s nose twitched at the sum. It was not large for a man of his resources but was more than Malik had delivered in his first two years. “This is a sum which you can guarantee me, Knysh?”

Bull spread his hands, “As soon as the shipment has left Ukrainian territory the money is yours.”

“Half now or no deal.” It would not hurt him to accept, he could always inform customs on the goods’ arrival.

“That is acceptable.” Bull raised his right hand and one of his men on the door handed him a leather case. “As agreed.”

Varchenko gawked at the case then cautiously opened it. Inside sat neat wads of hundred dollar bills. He could have asked for more. “Hm. I will have this tested and counted.”

“Still no trust?” Bull nodded. “It is understandable. I will send you details of the first shipment. I hope that this can be the start of a very profitable business for us both.”

Varchenko closed the case and stood, as did his new business partner. Bull extended his hand and this time it was accepted. The handshake was held for longer than needed as the two studied each other. Bull nodded and left the room. Varchenko scowled at his men who returned to their guard positions. He then counted his money.

*

British Embassy
,
Kyiv

His inbox brimmed with new messages and automated circulars, sent over the weekend or from different time zones that were already well into Monday. He checked his email religiously at the office; of course, he did not have a home connection. Broadband, this has not yet been introduced in Ukraine so as Vickers saw it there was no point. If anyone really wanted to get in touch he had his Nokia. Scrolling through the electronic messages he saw one from Patchem. It was sent on Sunday night and asked him to call on the secure line once he was in the office. Vickers looked at his watch. It was 08:30 a.m. in Ukraine, which meant that it was 06:30 in the UK. Patchem lived for the SIS but Vickers doubted that he would be in yet. Instead Vickers clicked reply and asked his boss to let him know when to call. It was to be a busy day. The arrival of the trade mission the evening before meant he had an embassy briefing to deliver at 10 a.m. This also necessitated a reception at the embassy in the evening at which invited guests were to attend to meet hopeful British companies. He also had been asked to a meeting with the Kyiv city council who wanted to discuss investment and a partnership of some sort. In addition to his emails and any other business which may pop up, he could not see himself sneaking out for a bite at lunchtime. His secure desk phone rang, he picked it up and there was a second’s pause as the scramblers at each end electronically shook hands.

“Alistair.” It was his boss, SIS field controller, Jack Patchem.

“Jack, good morning.” He was in early.

“I doubt that you would have missed this over the weekend but there has been a shooting in Worthing.” Patchem came straight to the point.

“Yes, I saw it reported on BBC World. They were a bit light on details, as one would expect.” Vickers was curious.

“We have it confirmed that the dead man is the Bav Malik, the son of Jas Malik.”

Vickers was stunned. “The son dead, too?”

“I’m afraid so Alistair. Did you know him?”

“We had met on a couple of occasions.” Vickers thought back to the mission briefing.

“I’m sorry.” Patchem coughed. “Whatever we have on our hands here is not limited to Ukraine. I’ll send the details over to you. The method is different – point blank range, automatic weapon. Up close and personal, one could say. ‘Five’ already has someone in custody who may have supplied the gun. Be prepared to speak to them if they contact you and also our friends at Interpol. I don’t think there is much more you can do there than put pressure on the SBU.”

“Of course.” Vickers’s mind was racing as it tried to think of anything that may help. “What have Five got at the moment?” Like Patchem, he used the nickname for HM Secret Service.

“Hm.” Patchem showed he was not happy. “Nothing concrete, meaning nothing that they are prepared to pass over yet.” There was no official turf war but on occasion the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service did not cooperate to the best of their abilities. Vickers shook his head. Was this a vendetta against the Maliks that just happened to spill into Ukraine? Was Malik Senior’s business in Ukraine a factor? Vickers had an answer to neither of these questions and that bothered him. He hated not knowing what was happening. “Alistair?” Patchem interrupted his train of thought.

“Yes Jack?

“Enjoy the rest of your day.” The phone went dead. Patchem, as always, did not waste words.

Vickers leant back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Two hats; always two hats and just one head. It was nine, he had just an hour before he was to brief the missioners.

*

British Consulate
,
Kyiv

Classical music played softly in the background and waiting staff offered canapés to the assembled guests. For a modern building this room had ‘come up’ better than expected although Vickers much preferred the smaller but more interesting rooms in the embassy to these large and emotionless ones at the new consulate building. The fourteen members of the trade mission mingled with their invited guests. Some mission members, such as the Director of International Studies from the Language School, had more guests arrive than others. In fact the Saville Row tailor seemed lonely. He looked longingly at the four attractive women buzzing around the school rep. Vickers scanned the faces, some names he had known on the list but most he did not. These were small businessmen, and women, he corrected himself, who had come on the trade mission. Multinational companies seemed to jump in with both feet then complain to him that they were out of their depth. He heard giggles from another invitee when the giftware export sales manager gave her an ‘orgasm key ring’ to try. She pressed the button and it made groaning sounds. Vickers shook his head, what were these people trying to sell? And furthermore why would Ukrainians want to buy?

“Tom Watkins, Thomas Watkins Associates.” The businessman held out his hand.

“Alistair Vickers, commercial attaché.”

“Yes I saw you at the briefing this morning – sorry I couldn’t stay afterwards and say hello; I’ve had so many meetings.”

Vickers took the business card. It was in English on one side and Ukrainian on the other. “You’ve done your homework.” He had lost count of the number of foreign businessmen who had come to Ukraine with only English language versions of their corporate brochure and product literature.

“I pride myself on that, knowing the market.” He looked around the room. “The last two of these things I’ve been on were to Saudi.”

Vickers made an appropriate face. “Really?”

“Yep. Two receptions, two years running and both times the same ex-pats turned up to drink ‘legally’ at the embassy.” He held his neck and pretended to choke. “I couldn’t live there.”

“Well I can assure you that you won’t run dry here. Jesus may have walked on water but Ukrainians run on vodka.”

Watkins gave Vickers a double take. “That’s good. I’ll have to remember that one.” He closed his eyes for a second to file the quip.

“Have your invitees turned up?”

“No. I only invited one person – I already had meetings arranged with other potential clients.”

Vickers ran through the invitees in his head. He had a near-photographic memory – a prerequisite for an intelligence officer – but could not recall any that Thomas Watkins Associates had invited. The businessman continued, “Oh I didn’t fill out any of those cards – I didn’t think I needed to.”

Vickers concealed his annoyance. “Hm, the thing is that, we cannot just let anyone into the consulate, security reasons, etc.”

“Oh.” Watkins took a red caviar sandwich from a passing waiter. “Sorry.”

Bondarenko, one of the local embassy employees, appeared at the door and beckoned Vickers over. “Well, no harm done. If you’ll excuse me I believe that I am wanted.”

“Of course.”

Vickers crossed the room. “Yes?”

“We have an invitee at the door that is not on the list.”

“I see.” Vickers looked back at Watkins, who was busily helping himself to a second glass of wine. “Have they been invited by Thomas Watkins Associates?”

“Yes. Here is the name of the person.” He handed Vickers a card.

Vickers looked at the card. It read,
Valeriy Ivanovich Varchenko
,
General Director Odessa-Invest
. Vickers swallowed. General Varchenko had been invited by Watkins? Vickers did not let his surprise show for long and acted matter-of-fact.

“That’s fine, show him up.” Vickers straightened his tie and waited for the former KGB general. Watkins was still busy, now choosing another nibble so did not notice when Vickers greeted the latest arrival. Varchenko entered the room, his head held high like an old school actor appearing on stage, and surveyed the other guests. He was used to attention and had had an almost celebrity-like reverence in the old days when he had been awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union medal.