Cold Blood (15 page)

FIFTEEN

Lviv
,
Western Ukraine

The old man poured the liquid into the shot glasses and handed one to Arnaud with a grin. Arnaud returned the smile and together he and the two other men downed their shots. The rest of the family looked on with expectant faces. Arnaud suddenly gasped.

“
Samogon
,” said the old man.

“Moonshine,” translated Larissa, “homemade vodka.”

“How strong is it?” His throat was burning.

“Maybe 60 percent.” She shrugged with pretend indifference as the rest of the family laughed.

The old man, Larissa’s grandfather, shook his head and said in heavily accented English, “Ninety degrees.” Although he spoke no English he had remembered some phrases from his time as an engineer in the Soviet Army. Larissa’s grandmother passed Arnaud a bowl of red soup.

“
Borsch
?” he asked.

The old lady nodded and spoke in Ukrainian, Larissa once again translated. “My grandmother said that she made it herself. Just for you.”

Larissa ladled
Smetana
(soured cream) into the bowl and Arnaud tried it. “
Doozja Smatchno
,” he said with his two words of Ukrainian, ‘very tasty’. Again smiles all round. Their foreign guest had now tasted both grandparents’ cherished recipes.

Arnaud and Larissa had been welcomed at Lviv railway station by Larissa’s grandparents and driven to the flat they owned on the outskirts of the city. Unlike other apartment blocks this one was not Soviet but newly built. It had been designed by the Germans, managed by Poles and built by Ukrainians. Larissa had bought the flat with money she had made in Kyiv. Arnaud was impressed. Larissa’s mother and father sat opposite him, her aunt sat next to her on one side with Arnaud on the other. The table was piled with homemade food. Many things he could not recognise, including a type of fish pate and several layered salads. A three litre glass jug of homemade vodka sat dead centre. Arnaud’s glass was refilled and Ivan, Larissa’s father, raised his glass to say a toast. Arnaud held his glass and sat mute. Larissa whispered a translation into his ear.

“He says that he is glad to see us both in Lviv, that he hopes you like our city and wishes you health and love.” She blushed and under the table placed her hand on his crotch.

The glasses were emptied and Arnaud’s eyes again watered, much to the amusement of the others. “Thank you.”

They ate the
Borsch
and soon the family started to chat. Arnaud heard his name mentioned occasionally but could not understand a word. The quick-fire Ukrainian was even less intelligible than the quick-fire Russian of Kyiv. The second course arrived and this time it was his turn to say a toast. Lost slightly for words he thanked the family for their hospitality, said he was happy to meet them and wished them health. Prompted by Larissa he repeated the toast in French. Larissa’s mother cooed at the French and her father raised his glass proudly. This time the
Samogon
seemed almost palatable.

*

Pushkinskaya Street
,
central Kyiv

Alone in his flat, Snow woke up with a start. He was wet from sweat and shivering. He checked his watch; it was just past three in the morning. The nightmares had returned; the face with the evil eyes stared at him as he lay unable to move. Now the dream seemed more real than ever, the detail of the face and the gun aimed at him. Even the shot that never came was all too real. It was as though the last ten years had not happened.

In his hospital bed Snow had looked at the images the Polish police had shown him. None of the faces had been the one, the man with the green snake-like eyes and chiselled face. He had worked with a police artist who had produced a sketch. He had also helped to provide a photo-fit. Meanwhile the police forensics department had found traces of the plastic explosive used in the vans. The chemical footprint was familiar to the expert, who had formally been enlisted in the Polish army. The origin of the explosive was Russian military. In the hope of finding their man the Polish authorities sent the images of the suspect to both the Russian FSB, post-break-up successor to the KGB, and their military intelligence counterparts, the GRU. In the spirit of
Glasnost
the GRU cooperated and found the man to match the face. A heavily censored copy of his military record was handed over to the Polish police. The man was identified as a former Spetsnaz captain, Tauras Pashinski, also known as ‘Bull’. The GRU did not add, however, that Pashinski was wanted for questioning in Russia.

The Polish investigation continued but without result. Eventually the case was shelved after a year, the only lead gone. Snow had returned to Hereford and physically recuperated; however, unable to rid his mind of the nightmares he had left the regiment in mid-1997. He felt a failure but had tried to put his military past behind him and become a mature student.

In late December 1999 during the build-up to the millennium festivities, the FSB informed the Poles that they had found Pashinski. He had reappeared with a group of former Red Army veterans in Kaliningrad, the small Russian enclave sandwiched between Poland and his native Lithuania. Here he had been observed meeting with known criminal groups and had only been recognised by chance when a Russian who was under surveillance was introduced to him. The FSB Special Operations Centre ordered Pashinski to be followed and launched a snatch operation with their counter-terrorism commando unit Alpha. Their extreme force was met with his, and Pashinski managed to break out and through the Lithuanian border. His luck ran out entering the outskirts of Vilnius where on an ice laden road his BMW spun, colliding with a large Kamaz truck. As a civilian, Snow had not been informed by HM Government of his tormentor’s documented demise. For him the green eyed nemesis was still alive.

Snow sat up and wrapped the duvet around his naked body. Every noise had him tensing, with each movement of the lift he imagined a black clad Spetsnaz team getting nearer. He stood in the darkness and again checked both inner and outer doors to the flat. Both were secure, both were locked. Arnaud had been right; it would take semtex to open them.

He smiled despite himself. Arnaud, the lucky bastard, was not only giving Larissa one but getting in with the family. Snow suddenly craved the normality that he had always run from. Why had he spited his parents by joining the armed forces? Why had he not gone to university at eighteen like his peers and then done something with his language skills? He could have been an international banker or even in the Foreign Office like his father. He shook his head and saw Alistair Vickers face. No. He had made the right decision by joining up and yes, he had eventually got his degree, albeit as a mentally scarred mature student, and now was doing something rewarding with his skills. But was it all for nothing? His past had now reappeared and was trying to reclaim him, to take him back to the world of death and nightmares. He shuffled into the kitchen and took a Cognac bottle from the cupboard. Tomorrow at the Hash he would speak to Vickers, see what he had discovered. If not he had no choice but to try himself; but now he had to sleep, if not sober then so be it. Snow opened the bottle and took a large slug.

*

Pechersk Lavra Park Gardens
,
Kyiv

Randy wore the Grand Hash Master’s hat. He explained that Mitch was away on business. The Hashers had met outside the Hotel Salute near the Pechersk Lavra Monastery. The route had taken them through the parks and ended up at a monument overlooking the river. This time there were no Hash Virgins so they went straight to beer. A tired and hung over Snow leaned against the railing and watched a barge pass by as he sipped his ‘hair of the dog’.

“Alone today?” It was Vickers.

He continued to watch the river. “Yep. Frogs is in Lviv. He’s being presented to his girlfriend’s parents. They live there.”

“Very historic.”

“The first time always is,” Snow turned, replying deadpan.

“I meant Lviv.”

“Good friend of yours?” Snow gestured towards Blazhevich, who was speaking to a pair of Canadians.

“Just a hasher like you, works in the EBRD I think.” Vickers had made contact with Blazhevich during the run, the European Bank of Reconstruction and Development was a cover the SBU officer used on such occasions.

“Important banker then?” Snow continued to sip. “How long you worked for Six?”

Vickers was taken aback at the mention of his real employer.

“I can’t talk about that Aidan.”

“I know. Neither could my dad. Funny eh?”

“You went to school in Moscow if I remember?” Vickers changed the subject.

“Yep. According to my file, which I presume you have a copy of? Together with my psych report etc.?” Vickers sipped his beer as a ‘no comment’. Snow continued, “So. Any news?” Snow stared.

Vickers finished his mouthful. “It’s Sunday Aidan; things are shut for the weekend.”

Snow felt his own anger rise but outwardly stayed calm. “I’m sorry but this is more important than a lost airline ticket or passport, don’t you think?”

Vickers looked around to make sure that no one could overhear them before nodding, “I’ve spoken to London and you are who you say you are. They’ve sent me some information and as far as we can make out this man of yours is dead. He died in 1999.” Vickers paused to gauge Snow’s reaction.

Snow had not expected this. He looked back at the river for several seconds trying to organise his thought before replying. “How did he die?”

“Car crash. Vilnius. It’s all documented; they even have his dental records.”

Snow continued to stare, not sure what to feel. “Alistair I saw him, I swear I saw him.”

“You think you saw him. They say we all have a double, a doppelganger. I personally am waiting to meet Twiggy’s.” He chanced a half smile.

Snow conceded and faced Vickers. “Perhaps you’re right, but I was so sure.”

“Look Aidan, if you do see, or think you see this person again I’ll dig around a bit for you. Deal?”

Snow felt as though he was being patronised but appreciated Vickers’s offer nevertheless. “Thanks Alistair.” He crunched his empty beer can in his hand and went to get another. He started to feel a sense of relief.

SIXTEEN

Podilsky School International
,
Kyiv

Arnaud and Snow counted the heads as they re-entered the school. All the members of the running club were accounted for. Arnaud looked up the corridor wistfully.

“Stop pining; you’ll see her in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arnaud had a faraway look in his eyes.

“I’m surprised you can walk with all the ‘exercise’ you’ve been getting!”

Arnaud laughed. “Those bunks on the train are for midgets; still, better than Lviv – her parents made us sleep in separate rooms!”

“How was it? Meeting her parents, I mean.”

“Cool. I got very pissed; they gave me this homemade vodka. It’s evil.” Arnaud had a bottle in his bag for Snow and would give it to him later. He had come to school straight from Larissa’s flat, where he had tried to make up for the loss of intimacy.

“Did you go to the opera?” The Lviv Opera House was allegedly the fifth best in the world.

“We got a box. Shared it with some bloke but we had to leave early to get the train back.”

“What a pity.”

Arnaud smiled “Yeah real shame. Now I’ll never know if the rich count gets to deflower the peasant girl or not. Suppose you got shit-faced as usual?”

The receptionist looked up, nonplussed. Both teachers smiled, she glared back and answered the phone, clearly not liking their language.

“Sorry!” He rolled his eyes at Snow. “Does she ever smile?”

“Only when she farts,” whispered Snow.

They reached the staffroom. At mid-morning break it was popular.

“Good morning Mikhail Romanovich.”

Mikhail Klimov took his bag off the spare seat. “Hi.”

Arnaud sat and frowned, “So what’s all this
Ovich
,
Evich
business then?”

“It means ‘son of’. Like the Scandinavian,” explained Snow.

“Magnus Magnusson?”

“Yeah, and Eriksson.”

“But not Sony Eriksson,” added Mikhail Klimov

Arnaud groaned, “So I would be Arnaud Paulovich?”

“That’s right and I’m Aidan Phillipovich. Mikhail’s son is Olexandr Mikhailovich.”

“Hang on, why Olexandr? Does the first name change too?” Arnaud leaned forward across the table and frowned even more.

“Mikhail, you explain,” Snow delegated.

“We are in Ukraine. Olexandr is the Ukrainian version of Alexander. If you want to sound Ukrainian, even if you are speaking Russian, you can use the Ukrainian version of the word. Galina,” he raised his mug to the Russian language teacher at the photocopier, “could be called Halina.”

“So what is the Ukrainian version of Arnaud?”

“There isn’t one it, is not a Slavic name,” replied Klimov.

“Well explained Misha.” Snow poured Klimov some coffee from the pot.

“Misha?”

“That,” added Snow, “is the shortened version of Mikhail.”

There was a pause whilst they all sipped their coffee. Klimov winked.

Galina finished her photocopying. “I was once translator for American businessman. He had same name as his father, but he was George Layton the Second. When I introduce him he sounds like he is a king! He was not.”

*

British Embassy
,
Kyiv

Vickers scanned the file again and looked at the face. His desk phone rang. Vickers answered telling Bondarenko, on reception, to let the visitor in. He rose from the desk and walked along the corridor. Blazhevich was standing staring at a watercolour of a cricket match. Vickers spoke in Russian, “
Dobre Den Vitaly Romanovich
.”

“Good afternoon, Alistair Vickers,” Blazhevich replied in English.

“The County Ground, Sussex County Cricket Club. My grandfather used to take me as a boy.”

“I never could understand cricket.”

“Neither can most of the spectators, Vitaly.”

“I do like your rugby.”

“Yes. Our last ambassador was very keen on that, I believe he even coached your national team.”

“One day perhaps we could be welcoming the Lions to Kyiv?”

“Perhaps. If you’ll follow me I have something to show you.” Vickers led the way. A pot of tea and a plate of custard creams greeted them. Once seated Vickers handed his SBU contact the photograph.

“Who’s this?” Blazhevich studied the image.

“In 1996 there was a rather messy bank robbery in Poznan. Several members of the Polish and British armed forces were killed. This man was responsible.”

“I am sorry but I was sixteen, why show me this?”

“A reliable source says that he saw this man in Kyiv five days ago.” Vickers exaggerated Snow’s credibility.

Blazhevich raised his eyebrows, “Is this not a job for the Militia and Interpol?”

Vickers shook his head. “No, because this man died six years ago.”

Back at his own desk Blazhevich checked his files. He had come to a dead end with the Malik investigation and his other minor cases were under control. He pulled out the Polish file that Vickers had given him. It contained details of the Poznan robbery, the testimony of an unidentified eyewitness (for security reasons all mention of Snow by name had been deleted) and the heavily edited military record. These records he would attempt to get in full, later he would also check the state security files including the old Soviet ones.

“How goes the Malik case?” Budanov leant against the door frame.

“It doesn’t,” replied Blazhevich as he fished in his desk drawer for a paperclip.

Budanov’s hand shook and tea spilt from his mug onto his light suit trousers. A sudden tightness gripped his chest. “It couldn’t be.” He steadied his hand and drank a mouthful of tea, his throat dry. “Who’s that?”

Blazhevich clipped a hand-written note to the bottom of the photograph. “Someone who should be dead.”

*

Pushkinskaya Street
,
Kyiv

Snow stood on the balcony of his flat. Arnaud handed him another beer. “Thanks.”

The two teachers stood and drank in silence as each gazed at the city streets in front of them. Getting back home at four each day had its advantages. They beat the rush hour traffic when the roads became gridlocked and the commuters packed the underground like ‘herring’, as the Russian idiom went. But if anyone said to Arnaud that teaching was a soft option, not a full time job, they would get a slap. He was shattered; having today decided to start his health kick, running with Snow before work then again with the lunch time running club. He looked at his flatmate, who was ten years his senior yet seemed twice as fit.

“I don’t know how you do it Aidan.”

“Do what?” Snow was lost in thought.

“Get up each morning and run, then run again at school. I’m so knackered I can barely hold my beer!” Arnaud’s health kick involved drinking less, when he remembered.

“I’m used to it, been doing it a long time I suppose, and now it feels weird if I don’t run or train.” Snow liked to get in at least three sessions a week at the little local gym he had found. He had booked Arnaud in there with him tomorrow.

“You need discipline, I suppose. Like being in the army.” Arnaud took a swig.

Snow turned and looked at his young friend. There was something he had wanted to tell him, something now that in light of recent events he couldn’t keep a secret any longer. Now that they had known each other for a while Snow had decided to trust him. “Exactly like being in the army. When I joined up I soon learned discipline.”

Arnaud gave Snow a strange look; he had not thought to ask what Snow had done before when he’d mentioned that he’d been a mature student. “What do you mean?”

“I used to be in the British Army, I left eight or so years ago.”

“Really? Why?” Arnaud was impressed; he’d never taken Snow for a ‘squaddie’, especially as he had a retired diplomat for a father.

“Why did I join or why did I leave?”

“Err, both?”

“I joined to spite my parents who were trying to make me into them, my dad especially wanted me to get a good degree and get into the Foreign Office. He said it was a disgrace if I wasted my language skills.” Snow drank some more beer.

Arnaud nodded, his father had seen him as an international investment banker. “Why did you leave?”

Snow patted his leg. “Remember that car crash I told you about?” Arnaud nodded. “I was actually on a training mission in Poland when it happened. A bomb detonated as we passed and I got trapped in the wreckage. I was pretty busted up physically.”

“A bomb?” Arnaud was shocked but suddenly very interested. “Terrorists? Was it the Bader Meinhof?”

“Cheeky sod, that was the seventies, I’m not that old. It was a bank robbery, pure and simple. A group of Russian ex-Spetsnaz had decided to do a little freelance financial work. I was trying to stop them making a withdrawal. They planted a couple of car bombs outside the bank and boom!” Snow leant against the railings. In his mind he was starting to relive the attack again.

“Jesus.” Arnaud was very impressed and didn’t know what to say. He then frowned. “Why was the British Army trying to stop a bank robbery, why not the police?”

“We were training their SWAT team; I was in charge of weapons.”

“You sound like James Bond!” Arnaud smiled broadly.

“Nothing so glamorous, I was in the SAS.”

Arnaud’s jaw dropped, he now felt slightly embarrassed especially as he had read the entire works of Chris Ryan and Andy McNab and would on occasion quote from them.

Snow continued, “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting a bit strange but last week I thought I saw the gang leader from the robbery in Mars – Mitch’s neighbour. Remember?”

Arnaud vaguely remembered a man in a suit; his eyes had been on the strippers. “Right.”

He finished his beer. “But I now know I was wrong.”

*

Petropavlivska Borschagivka
,
Kyiv Oblast
,
Ukraine

The security gates opened and the Volkswagen Passat pulled into the drive. Oleg showed Budanov into the house. Bull sat on a cream leather settee in the cavernous lounge. CNN was on the huge plasma television screen. It amused him how the Americans believed that the entire world was interested in what they had to say. “Sit down.”

Budanov sat in an armchair; despite the cool air conditioning his shirt was already clammy.

“What is it that is so important that it cannot wait?” Bull looked wholly unimpressed by his presence and Budanov noticed that for the first time he was not in a suit, rather a black t-shirt and matching tactical trousers.

“This photograph of you was on the desk of my colleague.”

Bull snatched the proffered 10 x 8” print. It was not an image he had seen for almost thirty years; of himself in full parade dress. There was a long silence before Bull stood quickly and walked around the back of the settee, his face turning a dark red. Budanov had not seen the deathly composed businessman like this. Bull grabbed the nearest object, a bottle, and threw it against the wall. Budanov flinched.

“Explain how this came to be on the desk of an SBU officer?” Bull now leaned on the back of the settee, his face close to his informer’s. A vein in his forehead twitched.

“It was given to him by a contact. He says a reliable source has seen this man, you, in Kyiv.” Budanov’s voice was shaky.

“Who is the contact and who is the source?” demanded Bull.

“I do not know. Blazhevich has his own people.”

“Guess.”

Budanov struggled for an answer. “He is close to the British.”

Bull kicked the settee and shouted for Oleg. The massive sergeant appeared at the door. Bull shouted at him in their native Lithuanian. “He knows who I am.” He returned his attention to the man from the SBU, and used Russian. “Who else has seen this image?” Bull had another bottle in his hand but this time was pouring a shot.

“Perhaps just Blazhevich, but he will show it to Dudka.”

“And what will Dudka do?” Bull knew the names of the high ranking officials.

“I don’t know. I do not think that Blazhevich has linked this to Varchenko or Malik.”

Bull emptied his glass. “That is not good enough.”

“For a positive ID they need the source, an eye witness.”

“Then we eliminate the source.” It was Oleg.

“Whom he does not know.” Bull spoke again in Lithuanian.

Oleg replied in the same tongue. “The Englishman?”

“Who else can it be?” Bull sat and pointed at Budanov, speaking in Russian. “Go back to your office. You are no good here. Get a list of all British citizens, with pictures, currently in Ukraine. Then come back here. Understand?”

Budanov nodded, rose and tried to leave but Oleg blocked his path. “Remember Budanov that I know where your wife and child are. If you cross us they will die.”