Cold Blood (25 page)

“Vitaly.” It was Dudka. “Explain to Mr Snow about the digital devices.”

“Very well Gennady Stepanovich. We have high definition digital monitoring equipment that will stream the images in real time. You can watch the operation from the control room and will be able then to identify Pashinski.”

Snow was unconvinced. Such equipment had been used primarily by America’s Navy SEALs and Delta force in the war against terror with varied results. In his opinion ‘space age’ had yet to work in the ‘real’ world.

“I want to be on the ground.”

“No. This is final. You are responsible for shooting a member of the Berkut assigned to the Diplomatic Protection Squad. Mr Snow I think that in these circumstances I am being more than accommodating.” Dudka looked him in the eyes. “Please do not hinder us any further.”

Snow had lost and knew it. Dudka stood and gestured towards the door. “Let us waste no more time.”

The meeting was over. Vickers shook the hands of both SBU men and followed Snow and Blazhevich out of the office and down the steps to the investigation rooms. Snow was to give a full statement to the SBU of everything that had happened since he had escaped from his flat. This included shooting the diplomatic protection member, injuring Oleg Zukauskas and rescuing Larissa. Snow knew he was in the shit but did not care. They could throw the book at him, they could pelt him with an entire library – he was beyond caring about himself. His sole purpose now was to get his hands on the face that haunted him, Pashinski. Blazhevich passed Snow over to another agent who led him into a room. The door was shut behind them.

Back at reception, Blazhevich held out his hand. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Vickers was surprised.

“For bringing in Snow, for sharing your intel with us.”

“Vitaly, I told you that I wanted to forge closer bonds with the SBU – take this as proof.” They shook hands. “So you now have a plane to catch?” Vickers was fishing.

“That’s correct. I am to fly to Odessa to join Major Bodaretski and the assault team. They will be protecting General Varchenko and awaiting Pashinski and his shipment.” Blazhevich had nothing to hide.

Vickers was happier; things really were starting to move. “Let us hope that this can put a serious dent in their trade.” The respective governments of both officers would also be happy. Both men left the building. Vickers walked the five minutes to the British Embassy and Blazhevich raced, sirens flashing, back to the government jet at Zhulyany Airport.

TWENTY-FOUR

Fontanka
,
Odessa Oblast
,
Southern Ukraine

Varchenko stood on the terrace overlooking the sea. He felt invaded with the ALFA men swarming over the house but this could not be helped. At least they were not in uniform; each had a Kevlar chest plate and thin black balaclava that they would put on when the action started. Balaclava, Varchenko grunted to himself, an invention of the British when they fought his countrymen in the Crimea and outrageously named the mask after the town. What else was his nation famous for? Chicken Kiev – invented by an American restaurateur who wanted a cheap dish to entice the Russian immigrants, Chernobyl – the world’s worst nuclear accident, the Antonov 255 – the world’s biggest plane that now no longer flew? Still, things were improving; last year they won the Eurovision Song Contest and now Andrei Shevchenko was one of the world’s best footballers.

He bent forward and tore a dead head off of a rosebush. Ukraine deserved more; it was after all a noble country that had been battered by eighty years of communist nonsense. He imagined the views from his hotel again and the influx of elite tourists demanding to stay there. Out in the bay motor launches and yachts would vie for space. He felt noticeably more relaxed. A cold breeze blew in from the sea and he buttoned up his cashmere coat. The English tailor was a true craftsman. Once this business was all over with he would devote himself to the hotel and put something real back into society. He had another meeting arranged with his country’s President and would again stress the urgent need for more investment in tourism. Tourism, after all, was the new heavy industry of the twenty-first century.

“General Varchenko.” Blazhevich approached the legendary figure.

The old man turned and regarded the newcomer. “You are Director Dudka’s new best man?” He did not mean to be sarcastic but it was his nature.

“Yes, general.” Blazhevich had no time for false flattery. “We have three different possible target vehicles approaching, each on different routes.” The two hundred and fifty mile Ukrainian border with Transdniester was made up of mostly unguarded fields broken by stretches of fir trees and riddled with twisting dirt tracks along which a small vehicle could pass if it had to, and when it came to smugglers, frequently did. “Each is heading in the general direction of the airport.”

“
Dobre
.” Varchenko waited for more information.

“Is your cargo plane ready?”

“It sits on the tarmac awaiting its cargo as it does every Wednesday.” He had already told the SBU this.

“I’m sorry.” Blazhevich held up his left hand and retrieved his mobile from his trouser pocket with the other. He listened for a few seconds before smiling. “And you are certain of this?” He listened to the reply. “OK. We will get into position.” Blazhevich closed his phone. Dudka raised his eyebrows expectantly. “One of the vehicles is being accompanied by two cars. One of the cars has changed course and is heading for this location. I think that we should now get ready, general.”

Varchenko straightened and seemed to grow taller. “Get the men into their positions. We cannot afford any errors.”

Blazhevich remembered Dudka’s words but could see from the steely gaze of the former KGB general which of the two of them was now in charge. “Very well comrade general.” He managed to resist the urge to salute.

Half a kilometre away from the house ALFA men dressed in DPM – disruptive pattern material – took positions in amongst the hedges and ditches that lined either side of the approach road. It was their job to monitor the road, confirm that the target vehicle had indeed passed and prevent any unexpected surprises. The team leader radioed ahead as an ancient boxy Lada saloon bounced up the road. At the house the remainder of the men had taken up defensive positions covering the gates and driveway. Three snipers lay on the roof covering all angles. Two of Blazhevich’s men had replaced Varchenko’s own on the gate – they had their breast plates concealed under oversized jackets. From the road all looked normal, the extra men could not be seen. Varchenko stood in a first floor window behind bullet proof glass, Blazhevich at his side; both men had their eyes fixed on the road.

The blue Lada came round the bend in the road and approached the house. It had Moldovan licence plates and two men sat in the front. Varchenko sneered and Blazhevich scratched his head. It arrived at the gate and the security men let it into to the compound. Once in the compound the occupants were in the crosshairs of numerous weapons. The driver got out. He was wearing a leather cap and matching jacket with fur collar, his trousers were baggy and looked as though they once belonged to a suit. He looked up at the house with wide eyes. The second man tried to exit the vehicle but was ‘asked’ to remain seated by the one of the guards – the other had started to frisk the driver. He had no weapon. The guard radioed up to Major Bodaretski, “He is clean.” Bodaretski, who was also on the first floor but monitoring the digital surveillance equipment, told them to keep searching the car.

Varchenko and Blazhevich were down the steps and approaching the visitors within seconds. The general ignored all security precautions and addressed the driver. “Who are
you
?”

The driver took his hat off to reveal greasy thinning hair and bowed slightly to the taller imposing figure. “I am Konstantin Doga. I am the driver for Knysh Export.” He inclined his head. “It is my son in the car.”

“Doga?” Varchenko was angered and perplexed.

“It is a Moldovan name sir. I have a message that I must give to Valeriy Ivanovich.”

“I am he.” Varchenko glared at the man. “Well, what is it?”

Doga reached into his jacket. One guard raised his weapon, the other pulled Doga’s hand back out. It held a piece of paper. Varchenko sighed and held his palm out. Doga gave him the note and the two guards took a step back. Varchenko unfolded the piece of paper. It was on a letterhead from Knysh Export. He read aloud so Blazhevich and the monitoring equipment could hear:

“Dear Valeriy Ivanovich, let me thank you for accepting my business. We are a small export company and have found it hard to enter new markets, however with your support I am sure we will succeed. I must apologise that I cannot be with you in person but other business matters preclude this. Kindest regards, Knysh Olexandr, General Director Knysh Export.”

Varchenko handed the note to Blazhevich. “Where is he?”

Doga shrugged. “He is a busy man Valeriy Ivanovich.”

Varchenko had turned red. “Your director was meant to meet me here.” Doga was speechless. Varchenko held up his hand and several ALFA men wearing balaclavas appeared and cuffed the two men. They made no attempt to struggle and seemed more shocked than scared as they were led away towards the garages.

Major Bodaretski spoke to Blazhevich on the radio. “The target vehicle has reached the airport.”

“Let’s watch.”

Varchenko agreed with Blazhevich. “Inside.”

The two men took seats around the makeshift command centre. Three large flat screen monitors showed clear images of the airport and the truck as it passed through the gates. A cursory inspection of the driver’s documents was made by the guard before he was waved on. The truck stopped in the designated area. Here it would await a customs inspection. On the military side of the facility the observation team had a high powered camera set up. They were hidden inside a Ukrainian air force building and had two minibuses parked out of sight.

“Where is he?” It was Varchenko again. He was frustrated that Pashinski had not showed.

“The second car?” Blazhevich thought of many explanations, including one that had Pashinski dead due to injuries sustained, but put this aside. Most probably Pashinski had decided enough was enough and had vanished again. If this was the case then all this was in vain. The landline for the house rang. Varchenko’s bodyguard-cum-servant answered it; he had been instructed to carry on as normal. He entered the room and handed the wireless handset to his employer. Varchenko snorted. Now was not the time for calls.

“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.