Cold Blood (26 page)

“Who the hell are you? I’ll have you arrested! I am a Moldovan businessman! Let me up!”

Snow spoke. “He’s not there. Pashinski is not there.”

There was silence in both rooms once more. Dudka eventually spoke, causing heads to turn. “Let us look at the shipment.”

The order was relayed to Budt who had the ‘prisoners’ moved into the customs building and guarded. Budt entered the truck and with a crowbar opened the first case. The wooden case splintered open and so did its contents. Without showing any care for the contents he dug around until he was sure that all that case did indeed contain was a pair of ornate wooden chairs.

*

Unknown location
,
Ukraine

Bull looked at the assembled men. There were only six of them, two of the Orly, the originals and four others. They were his best men; he had ordered the others to leave. “Any questions?” There were none. Bull continued. “This will be our last operation in Ukraine. I know that for some of you this is your home. The risks are great but so is the reward. I will be leaving after this; if you choose to come with me you must understand that life may be very short and very dangerous.” The Orly would come, that went without question, they had been with Captain Pashinski since Afghanistan. The remainder who had worked for Knysh for the past few years he believed would choose to stay. Bull nodded. “We will attack tomorrow at midday.”

*

SBU Headquarters
,
Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

“A shipment of wooden chairs!” Dudka had never been so angry. He stomped around his office and waved his arms.

At the other end of the telephone Blazhevich was not happy either. “A consignment of chairs, the paperwork is one hundred percent legal and stamped by the Moldovan customs authorities in Chisinau. Knysh Export is a fully legal Moldovan registered company.”

Dudka fell into his seat and placed the phone on his desk, pressing the speaker button. “Exporting wooden chairs!” They had been hoodwinked. “And what of Lesukov?”

“We have had to release him. We have no firm evidence on the man. He is the supplier of chairs to Knysh Export.”

“What!” Blazhevich repeated the information as Dudka poured himself two fingers of the pepper vodka that he kept in his desk for special occasions. “Sometimes, Vitaly, I feel as though the universe is against us.”

Blazhevich did not know what to say so changed the subject. “We still do not know where Pashinski is. We were unable to trace his call. I believe that General Varchenko may still be in danger.”

“I agree. Leave some bodyguards with him and bring the rest back to Kyiv.” He put the phone down and threw the vodka down his throat. The SBU had messed up again and this time very publicly. Questions would be asked in the Verhovna Rada. The Prime Minister’s party would attack, demand resignations. The bandits from Donetsk would try to take over but his President would defend. What a farce. He poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass and drank again. Perhaps things were easier under communism, when he could have shot a scapegoat or at the very least sent him to Siberia.

TWENTY-FIVE

Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

Snow had been released and sat in Vickers’s apartment in central Kyiv. Having given a full statement the SBU were content that he did not work for Pashinski and that he had not intentionally tried to kill the Berkut guard. The guard, who had now regained consciousness and was healing in a military hospital, had been approached by Dudka and had agreed that the case should go no further. Vickers was in the kitchen making them something to eat. Snow was absolutely shattered. The mental and physical toll on his body had been immense. He chased a couple of strong painkillers with the contents of his bottle of Obolon and watched the Ukrainian TV news. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, so turned the sound up. “Alistair, you’ll never believe this!”

Vickers appeared from around the corner. “What?” He noticed the screen. “What!”

Ivan Lesukov’s indignant fat face filled half of the screen and the rest was taken up by the airport behind him.

“I want to press charges against these thugs who have attacked my employees and me!”

The reporter went on to ask him more questions as footage played of the ALFA team throwing him to the floor then attempting to snatch the camera. Lesukov’s face was grave as he continued, “I am a manufacturer of chairs. I have wanted to export for a long time and now have finally found a partner who can help me with this. Your prime minister and mine met to ensure that such exporting would be painless. I have followed all the rules and am here to say that it is not! Moldova continues to be oppressed by Ukraine!”

The interview continued for another minute with Lesukov hamming it up.

Snow started to laugh hysterically before choking on his beer. Vickers gave him a strange look, “What’s so funny?”

He knew it was the adrenaline release but couldn’t help himself. “It would be hard to arm the Taliban with Moldovan chair legs.”

Vickers looked on. He was not amused. The SBU had moved partly on his say so, on intel that he had got from Lesukov’s own nephew. “They’ll try again. When things are quieter they will try again.”

Snow recovered. “I know.” He became deadly serious. “Pashinski is still out there somewhere.”

Vickers fetched the food; he enjoyed cooking. Penne pasta with feta cheese and rocket, the dish should have been, if he had managed to find a single place in Kyiv that sold rocket. They ate. Snow stuck with his beer whilst Vickers chanced white wine.

“Is this the end?” Snow asked the intelligence officer. Had Pashinski left?

Vickers held up his fork and furrowed his brow. “Assessment. We now know that he is alive, we also know that Knysh was a ‘legend’ he had used to start a life here in Ukraine.” Vickers used the intelligence officer term for a false identity. “He has lost that life and any assets that may have gone with it. His house, his cars. So what does he do, we need to think; what does he need?” Vickers took a mouthful of pasta.

Snow swigged his beer. “Money?” He drank some more. “If he was hired by Lesukov it must have been a big fee, large enough to make him take the risk. But now he won’t get that.” Vickers concurred; Snow’s reasoning was straightforward but logical. “He’s lost face too. He’s ex-special forces like me, hates to lose.”

Vickers cut in. “So maybe he won’t let himself? Maybe he still thinks he can win.”

Snow wanted to follow. “Explain?”

“Who is the person who made him lose face, the person he threatened?” Vickers’s eyes were bright; he had something.

“Me?” Snow was still worried.

“You knew who he was – that was why you were dangerous but now his cover is all but blown.”

Snow sipped more beer. “OK I get it, so now I am no longer important to him so he’ll try to get…” Snow thought for a moment, his mind dulled by fatigue and alcohol, “General Varchenko?”

Vickers gripped his fork like a lance. “Correct. He tried to force Varchenko to export his weapons so he could get paid. He shot Varchenko’s business partner to show that he was not afraid of anyone. What did Varchenko do? He went to the SBU and they would have stopped the shipment.”

“If it had been weapons.”

“True,” Vickers conceded.

“So Varchenko owes him on both counts. Loss of face and loss of money?”

“Exactly.” Vickers was pleased. “So he will not disappear, he will collect his debt.”

Both men ate the pasta in silence as they tried through tired brains to think of anything.

“Have you got a file on Varchenko?” Snow had finished his plate.

“Yes, but I don’t have it here. Why?”

“What does he have? What assets has he got that Pashinski can go after?”

Vickers closed his eyes in order to visualise the page from the dossier. “Several small Soviet-style hotels, a couple of restaurants and part ownership of Odessa bank.”

“That’s it!” Snow stood, unable to control his actions.

Vickers was taken aback. “The bank?”

“What was Pashinski’s MO?” He paced around the lounge; Vickers signalled that he should continue. “He targets banks. Poznan, remember? He robbed the bank, that what’s he going to do. He wants the money back that he’s lost, and then some.”

Vickers was now on his feet and reaching for a pile of magazines. He retrieved the pocket sized Kyiv business directory and found the banks section. He read the entry. “Odessa Bank. Head office in Odessa, ten branches throughout Ukraine. Three in Kyiv.”

*

Fontanka
,
Odessa Oblast
,
Southern Ukraine

“We believe that Pashinski may attempt to rob your bank,” Blazhevich addressed the general in his study.

Varchenko’s eyebrows arched. “Then stop him.”

“If you help me I am sure we can.” Blazhevich had grown tired of the old man’s superior manner. “The bank has ten branches, which would be the best target?”

Varchenko leaned back in his study chair. “The main bank is in Odessa, as you know. That is where the bigger safety deposit boxes are stored. But security is very tight and the bank is on the main street. The three in Kyiv deal with more money than the regional towns.”

“So you would suggest that he attacks one of the Kyiv branches?”

The man could be a fool, Varchenko thought. “Yes, he will attack the branches in the capital.”

Blazhevich nodded, he had thought as much. “Any idea which one?”

“They are equally large.”

Blazhevich turned to leave the room. Varchenko raised his voice. “You are not taking back your men I hope? He may still attack me here.”

Blazhevich leant on the door frame. “Some of ‘my men’ will stay.”

“Perhaps I should employ this Snow?” Dudka mused. “After all, Vitaly, he has provided us with this new lead.”

Blazhevich noted the dour tone in his boss’s voice even through his earpiece. “We must move fast Gennady Stepanovich; I believe the attack will be imminent.”

“Vitaly Romanovich I have already ordered non-uniformed men to go to each branch and stay hidden. Others will pose as customers.” Kyiv had been the obvious choice but all three branches must be covered. “Come back to Kyiv.”

“Very well Gennady Stepanovich, I am on my way.”

TWENTY-SIX

Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

Snow had slept fitfully. Images of Arnaud and Pashinski battled for space in his head. Whilst his body had tried to shut down, he felt as though his brain had not. The theory was that dreams, and nightmares, were an attempt of the brain to figure out problems or file them away. Opening his eyes in the gloom of the near dawn, Snow felt that nothing had been solved and that if his brain was a room then the filing was scattered across the floor. He was covered in sweat and shaking. He slowly untangled himself from the damp sheets and stood. His eyes adjusted to the inky blue light streaming through the window. It was just after five a.m. He walked to the bathroom, being careful not to bang against anything in the alien environment of Vickers’s flat. Quickly and quietly he showered and dressed.

All had agreed that he had better not return to his own flat. Bondarenko had been shopping and got him several fresh sets of clothes. The jeans were slightly baggy but his belt soon corrected this. Slipping on his own boots and fleece jacket, Snow left the flat and walked down the stairs. The early morning air was crisp and frost clung to the pavement. No traffic yet on the roads and only the occasional window light. Vickers would have tried to stop him from going but Snow would have gone anyway.

From his pocket Snow removed the torn page from the Kyiv business directory and looked again at the addresses he had already memorised. The first branch of Odessa Bank was not far from Vickers’s flat. It was on Ivana Franka Street, a small avenue opposite the university botanical gardens that ran at a ninety degree angle with Boulevard Taras Shevchenko at one end and Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street at the other. The bank nestled in between the Siemens Ukraine office and an upmarket restaurant.

Snow quickened his pace up the street. He had no idea what he expected to find but felt compelled to CTR each bank. After five minutes he arrived at the first address. He stayed across the street and leant against a building. As expected, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A couple of parked cars sat on the pavement with the blue Siemens logo emblazed on the side, the bank was silent. Its orange neon sign glowed eerily in the morning light. Snow crossed the road and walked past the building, he glanced casually at the bank as he headed towards the junction with Khmelnitsky and the city centre. It was almost six a.m. as he passed the Opera House and headed for Khreshatik; the city had woken up. He saw one team of street cleaners with their water van filling it at the side of the road and several old women with traditional broom sticks sweeping the leaves and dust from the pavements. Soon the winter snows would come and then the equipment would be changed.

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 himself 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.