Cold Blood (3 page)

It was then the turn of Bav Malik to talk about his company and how, as per the hand-out, they had taken advantage of a tax free investment zone and set up a factory near Odessa. He spoke at length about what they had done and how they had done it. This elicited quite a few questions from the assembled party. Finally the formal part was over and light refreshments and wine were brought into the room. Some of the missioners rushed back to offices to complete their day’s work whilst others lingered to chat, quiz Nicola and enjoy the complementary Chardonnay.

Bav cornered Vickers with a glass. “That went well. I see you didn’t mention the cheap beer as the reason you like Ukraine then?” He sipped his free wine.

“I prefer the cheap vodka,” countered Vickers. “I thought that your father was going to be here?”

“He couldn’t make it. He had some meetings in Odessa to attend so he deputised me.” It was Jas Malik, father to Bav, founder and chairman of NewSound, who was actually responsible for the success in Ukraine and many of their export markets. Bav at thirty-seven had followed his father and would eventually become ‘chairman’; his cousin in Pakistan would then be the MD.

“Do you get over to Odessa much?” Vickers knew the answer but had to say something.

“I didn’t used to but now that they’ve scrapped the whole ‘visa thing’ it’s a lot easier. I can just hop on a plane.”

“That,” said Vickers, “is the most positive thing that the Ukrainians have ever done for tourism. It was originally for the Eurovision Song Contest. Did you see it?”

Bav smirked, “Not quite my cup of tea.”

“Really?” It was Vickers’s.

He let his mind wonder back to May the previous year. There had been a real carnival feel to Kyiv, even more so than usual. Vickers had walked along Khreshatik with a broad smile on his face. Closed to traffic every weekend, the boulevard became a huge pedestrian zone. This was one of the only edicts of the former President Kuchma that had been welcomed. Street entertainers juggled balls and bottles, comedians told anecdotes, tented bars had appeared like mushrooms overnight and couples strolled from end to end. Many people still wore the orange of the revolution and the new president.

He, however, could not take full credit for the high spirits. That honour partly went to a raven-haired local singer called Ruslana who, thanks to a very athletic dance routine, had won the 2004 Eurovision Song Contest for Ukraine. The United Kingdom was in the finals as of course was host nation Ukraine with the Orange Revolution’s protest song
Razom nas bagato
– ‘together we are many’. The song had been sung nightly on Independence Square by thousands in sub-zero temperatures the previous December to vent national outrage at the ‘rigged’ election results that had temporarily put the Moscow-backed Victor Yanukovich into office.

Now Victor Yushenko had been fairly elected, the Eurovision was in town and the world’s media was focused upon them for positive reasons, the population felt huge pride in being Ukrainian. For several days the contestants had rehearsed in the day and partied at night, giving impromptu concerts in local bars and clubs to the ever grateful Kyivites. Vickers loved the Eurovision and had done so for as long as he could remember. His mum had been a fan of Cliff Richard but he preferred Bucks Fizz. This was a secret that he cared not to share.

Brought back to the present, he looked at his watch. “I’d better thank Nicola.” Vickers held out his hand. “It was nice to see you again, Bav.”

Bhavesh shook the hand. “You too, Alistair.”

Vickers left the businessman and crossed the room to where the diminutive girl from Yorkshire was making small talk with several middle aged men. “Excuse me gentlemen but I must say goodbye to Nicola.”

Nicola looked up at the tall thin figure and shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Thank you ever so much.”

Vickers bowed slightly. “Delighted. No trouble at all.” He left the business centre and took a cab to Vauxhall Cross. He had another more important meeting to attend, this one with HM Secret Intelligence Service.

TWO

Offices of the Directorate for Personnel
,
Moscow Military District
,
Russia

The two high ranking officers from the GRU listened to the sound of boots approaching at a steady pace along the wooden floored corridor. The colonel took the file the major had given him and looked once more at the release form. He shook his head in dismay. In Soviet times he could have refused point blank to let such an outstanding young officer go but this was the new Russia and times had changed. Now a skilled man such as this could earn hundreds of times his current salary in the business world. The Russian Military Intelligence could not keep him if he didn’t want to be kept, and that was the harsh new reality of ‘new Russia’.

The doors to the cavernous room were opened by a low ranking aide and the guest was let in. He drew nearer to the desk before coming to attention and saluting his two superiors.

The colonel returned his salute. “At ease Gorodetski. Please sit.”

“Yes, comrade colonel.” The young officer sat in the indicated chair.

There was a long pause whilst the colonel looked at the form again, then at the man sitting in front of him. “You are at the end of your second tour of duty captain, you have achieved much.”

“Thank you, comrade colonel.”

The older man furrowed his brow. “You are still young; you have an extremely bright military career in front of you. One day you could be sitting here, and have these.” The colonel indicated his rank bars. “So that makes me ask why? Why do you not want to extend your duty again?”

Sergey Gorodetski looked first at the colonel and then at his major, the man he had originally given his release form. “I am grateful for what the Russian army has done for me but I now wish to pursue other interests. I have been offered an opportunity…”

The colonel snorted and cut him off. “This is your opportunity captain.”

Gorodetski continued. “With respect, comrade colonel, I have something which I must do.”

The colonel was not moved. Before him sat a rare breed of soldier, the ‘intelligentsia’ of Spetsnaz. With his supreme language skills he could pass for as a foreign national and was also deadly with a Dragunov sniper rifle. “I knew your brother. You are better than he was.”

Gorodetski nodded. He did not know how to take this comment. His brother too had been a Spetsnaz officer but he had been killed in Afghanistan. The colonel continued, “You have made your family very proud and upheld your brother’s name. But you can do so much more. Will you not reconsider your decision?” He did not like to plead but damn it; this man was one of the best he had ever seen.

Gorodetski shook his head slowly. “I have made my decision, comrade colonel. I am sorry.”

“A Spetsnaz officer should never be sorry.” The colonel held out his hand and the major passed him a pen. He cast one more stare at the young officer before signing the form and then marking it with the official stamp. All three men stood. The colonel handed Gorodetski the papers. Gorodetski saluted and left the room.

“Fool,” muttered the major.

“Exactly the opposite,” replied the colonel.

*

Horley Community College
,
Horley
,
UK

“My dad says all French are poofs,” Danny Butterworth stated to the class of fifteen year olds.

“Sam knows French, don’t ya Sam!” added his comedy partner Dale Small.

Samantha was busy reapplying eyeliner and did not look up from her mirror. “
Voulez-vous couchez avec moi
?”

“Everyone has, you slapper!” Dale shouted.

At the front of the class Arnaud took a deep breath. “That is enough!” He slammed the French textbook on the desk and glared at the offending class members. “I have asked for silence and I will not ask again!” A hand went up at the back of the class. “Yes. Danny?”

“Which page we on, mister?” Danny replied with a cherubic expression.

Arnaud paused and inwardly sighed before answering: “Page sixty-nine.
Le Week End
.”

There were sniggers around the room. “That’s when Sam does her French sir, at the weekend,” shouted Danny across the classroom.

“Twat!” Sam put down her compact and raised her middle finger.

“Stand up.”

There was a pause and Sam, a heavily made up girl with bleach blonde streaked hair, stood up. Arnaud looked her in the eye she held his gaze. “Whot?”

“What do you mean ‘whot’! I will not tolerate that kind of language in my French class!”

“But it is French, mister,” shouted Dale

“And she is a slapper sir!” added Danny.

Sam threw her textbook at the two boys. “Wankers!”

“Get out. Just get out.” Arnaud was turning red. Unbelievable, unbelievable.

Making as a much noise as possible Sam pushed her table away, scooped up her bag and left the room. Slamming the door she added, “I am twatting going!”

Danny and Dale looked at each other, Danny raising his right fist and Dale hitting it with his own. They were enjoying this, their weekly game of wind up the ‘gay teacher’ made all the better if they could also piss off Sam Reynolds. Danny leant back in his chair and put his feet up on the table, Dale opened a can of coke. Arnaud, facing the white board, was oblivious to this and continued to calm his breathing, writing the page number, date and title in his neatest handwriting. He would report this behaviour once the lesson was over; Sam was already on report and would get internally excluded for her outburst. Behind him the noise level in the class started to grow, he was about to turn around again and give them another telling off when suddenly it stopped.

“Put your feet on the floor and you, put that can in the bin.” The man at the door looked at Arnaud, a stern expression on his face. “Let me know the names of the ones who will be picking up litter at lunch time.”

Arnaud returned with an equally stern face of his own. “Will do, Mr Middleton.”

Middleton nodded, glowered again at Danny and Dale and shut the door. Outside he could be heard shouting. Arnaud let out a sigh, sat at his desk and opened his book.

“
Le weekend
. Can anyone tell me what that means in English?”

The remainder of the lesson was only slightly less chaotic. Sam returned after having been spoken to by Middleton and sat solemnly at the front refusing to work and doodled, Danny and Dale were quiet because they were listening to their iPods. In fact the only pupils working were the six on the front two rows. At ten fifty the bell sounded and there was a sudden mass exodus. Chairs were left upturned and books lying on tables. Arnaud sighed heavily and made a note on Sam’s report. She looked at it and then him with a face full of hate before she too left. This was not what teaching was meant to be like. He bent down to pick up a sweet wrapper and got a hand full of sticky chocolate for his trouble. He wiped his hand on a piece of A4 paper and collected up the French textbooks.

Twenty minutes for break then another two hours until lunch and finally a free period for lesson five. Unless they gave him another cover! Two more year nine classes and then a bottom set year ten. Now he knew why the government had paid him to train as a teacher! Still he was nearly at the end of his NQT year and would be a fully qualified respected teacher in September.

He shut the door and locked it behind him. Instantly he was banged into as pupils pushed past in an attempt to get to the canteen and gorge themselves on junk food as soon as humanly possible.

He had now grown immune to the knocks. Arnaud had been at Horley Community College now for almost two years. Firstly as a student, when he was given easier classes and then as an NQT – newly qualified teacher. The school had offered him a job and he, as a fool, accepted it. “Best to work in a difficult school, a baptism of fire as it were,” his mentor had told him. Yeah, right. At least it was a nice day outside, probably why the kids were so fidgety? He couldn’t blame them, who would want to be inside concentrating on French grammar or asking how much for a kilo of ‘
pommes
’ when just through the window the summer had truly arrived?

One more week, he kept telling himself, and then the summer holidays and unemployment. Well, not quite. Having given a term’s notice his contract would finish at the end of August and the school had said that there would be supply work for him if he still hadn’t found anything. Supply work, in Horley? He laughed to himself as he entered the staffroom; Beirut sounded safer.

Arnaud sat wearily in the worn easy chair that occupied the corner of the room. Around him teachers scurried to get as much coffee as their break would allow. He spotted the sexy blonde student teacher he’d seen on the train and wished her into the vacant seat next to him. It didn’t happen. She sat in between two fit looking men in shorts. P.E. teachers! Puh! He sipped his hot coffee and burnt his tongue. Bugger.

“Heard any more about that job you applied for?” the Head of Foreign Languages, Richard Middleton, asked as he sat down heavily.

“Not yet.”

“Kyiv wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” He moved his tongue inside his mouth feeling the burn.

“Ah, did you know that Kyiv is the birthplace of modern Russia?”

“No.” Arnaud turned in his seat.

“Kyiv-Rus was the original capital of Russia almost a thousand years ago, long, long before Tzars, the Bolsheviks and the Communists popped up. Back then it was populated by Nomadic tribes.”

Arnaud was impressed. “Did you study Russian History at uni?”

Middleton smiled. “No. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”

*

Odessa Oblast
,
Ukraine
,
near the Transdniester border

Bull looked through the kite sight. Nothing yet. He and his Brigada were watching and waiting. If all went to plan this would be the first step. He shivered in the cold of the pre-dawn. It brought back memories of a lifetime ago. But this time it would be much easier to conduct business.

The chill of the Afghan night had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the weak warmth of dawn. In the half-light the poppy field stretched ahead of them and west on the valley floor. A beautiful flower to some, but to others as deadly as any bomb. To the east the unnamed village with its ramshackle huts. Bull lowered his bino’s and rubbed his eyes.

His Spetsnaz assault group had been given specific orders: Attack the village, Eliminate all Mujahedeen, Burn the poppy crop. His men, the true elite of the Red Army, were ready. They lay prone on the ridge, waiting. To his left and hidden in a dip, Captain Lesukov’s fire support team had their mortars ready, to Bull’s right Lieutenant Gorodetski, Sergeant Zukauskas and the rest of the Brigada. The plan was simple, brutal and effective. Lesukov’s men would commence shelling of the village, and then Bull’s team would move from house to house picking off anyone and everyone that survived. Intelligence supplied by a local informer had said that the village was a sham, nothing more than a base for Mujahedeen fighters and Arab Islamic mercenaries to grow and distribute the death that came from the poppy in the field. The Red Army could not let this continue in a ‘partner state’. Hence the unequivocal orders. Bull looked at Lesukov. “Start firing your mortars in two minutes.”

Lesukov nodded. “Good luck.”

Bull smiled. “Ivan we are Spetsnaz, we make our own luck.”

Bull’s men moved silently over the ridge and into the valley. Thumph. Thumph. Mortar shells whistled through the sky. There was sudden movement from the village. A robed figure appeared and looked directly at the ridge. He yelled, raised his rifle and fired into the sky. As he did so an explosion tore the very earth from under his feet. More shells landed flattening the Afghan houses and destroying the beauty of the new day. Then, as abruptly as they started, they stopped.

Bull’s men now swept through the carnage before them. The dead and dying littered the village, many had been asleep, others in the process of grabbing weapons. Several fled to the fields and were chased down by rounds, which not even the fastest could outrun. Bull reached the building which, he knew, housed the village elder. The roof was intact even though part of one wall was now missing. The old man was sitting on a crimson rug in the corner, his henna red beard specked with dust. His eyes angry, he showed no fear. He waited until Lieutenant Gorodetski had entered the room behind Bull before speaking with words of venom.

“He says it is a trap; that we have all been tricked,” Gorodetski translated. The old man jabbed at them with a bony finger. Gorodetski continued. “We are infidels, not men of our word, not men of honour.”

“Enough.” Bull stepped forward and crouched. “We are men of honour. We did not break our agreement.” Drawing his revolver, Bull shot the elder in the face.

Shocked, Gorodetski looked down at his captain. “Why?”

Pachinko stared at the young officer. “He was Mujahedeen; that is all you need know.”

An explosion behind, then another. Bull turned as Gorodetski backed out of the house. On the ridge above the fire support team were under attack. Gathering up his Brigada, Bull charged back towards Lesukov’s team. Reaching the ridge, wild rounds whistled past them. Lesukov’s men had been taken by surprise; a group of fighters numbering more than twenty had flanked them from the west. Lesukov fired controlled bursts from his Kalashnikov at the Afghan hoards. Of the team of eight only he and two others were left.