Cold Blood (7 page)

The Lada pulled back into the road and headed back down to Khreshatik. Arnaud looked around. Pushkinskaya ran parallel to Kyiv’s main boulevard – Khreshatik. It was lined with six storied apartment blocks at this end and a couple of government buildings at the other. On the ground floor of most of the blocks were restaurants, bars, a travel agent and a shoe shop. The road itself was just wide enough for two way traffic. The pavement on both sides was almost as wide as the road.

“Not a bad street eh? The architecture is a lot better here in the centre than in the outskirts.”

Arnaud agreed. From what he had seen so far, Kyiv’s city centre reminded him of a much cleaner version of Paris, although his part-Gallic blood would not allow him to vocalise this. “So where’s the school?”

“Twenty minutes away by car on the other side of the river I’m afraid, even though it’s named after an area ten minutes’ walk away. Come on, let’s get inside. The quicker we dump your bags the quicker I can show you the bars. Unless you’re tired?”

“What, and miss out on a beer? Nah.” Arnaud looked at his watch. The flight had landed at ten thirty, it had taken forty minutes to get his bags and clear customs and about the same time to get here. It was almost midday. They walked through the door in the three meter high iron gates and round the back of the building. There was a small courtyard bordered by other apartment blocks from the neighbouring Prorizna Street. Snow led the way to a door and typed in a code.

“The actual foyer and front door face the street but for some bizarre reason the other residents have decided to use the back door, and who am I to change this.” He shrugged. They walked through the door up three steps and into the dark foyer. The walls were painted a two tone of cream and dark green. Snow pushed three on the key pad and the small lift slowly descended.

“Here’s something to remember. The floors are numbered in the American way. The flat is on the second floor but we need the third.”

“Right.” Arnaud frowned.

“This is not the ground floor but actually the first floor. Are you with me?”

He wasn’t, but didn’t let on. On either side of the foyer sat rows of dark green mail boxes, one for each flat.

“How many flats are there here?”

The lift arrived and they manoeuvred themselves and the bags in. “Four per floor and six floors. But only one on the ground floor – the others are offices.”

The lift stopped abruptly and they stepped out. Snow walked the five steps to the furthest corner and opened the padded metal door. Inside there was a second wooden door that he then opened. He beckoned Arnaud forward. “Welcome to
Chez Nous
.”

“
Merci
.” Arnaud stepped through the threshold. “Why two doors?”

Snow shrugged and followed. “All the flats seem to have them. Security I suppose.”

“Looks like blast-proof doors. You know, like in the films.”

Snow laughed, “Well if you lose your key, please don’t try to open them with a block of semtex.”

Laughing, they walked along the hall and Snow nodded at two doors. “Your room is on the right.” Arnaud followed Snow into the room and they dropped the bags. “Hope you don’t mind sharing a flat too much?”

“Not at all, it reminds me of uni.”

“It was Joan’s idea. She thought you could stay here until you found your feet. I had a spare room, so as far as I’m concerned it’s yours. Stay as long as you need.”

“That’s great, very kind. Thanks.”

“
Nichevo
– it’s nothing, just happy to help. Grand tour?”

“Ok.”

The flat had real wooden flooring throughout and light silver wallpaper. Snow led him in turn to the bathroom and kitchen before retracing his steps and heading into the lounge. Snow adopted an upper class accent. “If you will follow me sir, you will find yourself entering the lounge with a south facing balcony providing panoramic views of the city centre.” He dropped the act. “My room is here through the lounge.”

Snow opened the doors and they stepped onto the street-facing balcony. Arnaud looked up and down Pushkinskaya. To the left he could make out the top of a building with a large electronic clock. “What’s that?”

“That’s the clock on Maidan, Independence Square. You can hear it chime each hour. It also has a thermometer. I have a picture of myself standing in front of it with a reading of minus twenty-five.”

“Cool.”

*

Southall Car Auction
,
London
,
UK

The hammer fell and the car was his. Arkadi Cheban was happy. The 2.5 V6 Vectra was a step up from his Escort and certainly a million times better than the beaten up Lada he had left in Tiraspol. He had paid only £1,800 for the car, which was at least £1,400 less than the dealer price. He had waited outside the auction as the car was started and looked for any tell-tale blue smoke coming from the exhaust pipe and checked for oil leaks on the floor. Neither was present. The dark green Vectra had a set of after-market 17” alloy wheels fitted and a transfer on the rear screen proclaiming it to be a Holden. Both of these he would remove. The car would perform better on a pair of its standard 16” rims, and it was a ‘Vauxhall’.

Cheban knew about cars; he knew how to tune them and he knew how to drive them. These skills he had learnt in his native Transdniester working on Soviet-made cars where only the ingenious managed to stay on the road. By the time he had finished working on his new car it would be anonymous and fast, just what he needed to operate without being noticed. He had almost bid on the BMW he had seen but decided not to. A BMW was a bandit’s car and even though he was a bandit he did not want the world to know. He was happy to be back in London and decided that it was now time to finally spend some of the money that he had earned from his ‘uncle’. Shipments were coming in via Tilbury docks from the continent and he was always nearby observing, just in case anything went wrong.

On one occasion he believed that the operation had been compromised when he saw a group of men watching from a van. He had kept his own watch on them but was very relieved to find that they had been from HM Immigration and were concentrating on a shipping company using illegal immigrants as labour. The fact that he himself was an illegal immigrant had not been lost on him. That had been close, as his shipment was due in the same day. But, unperturbed, he continued to lurk in the shadows with his pair of Leica high-powered binoculars. He kept a ‘birds of Britain’ book in his glove compartment just in case anyone wanted to confront him. This, along with a false Ornithological Society of Latvia photo identification card and an RSPB sticker on the windscreen, would hopefully explain his strange behaviour to all but the very persistent. These he would need to add to his new vehicle.

He paid in cash for the car and drove it away. Sticking to the speed limit he cruised out of south London and headed east for the Blue Water shopping centre in Kent. The traffic was mostly light at this time of day on a Wednesday but built up as he approached the complex. He parked his new car by the House of Fraser entrance and entered the store. He was taken aback by both the range of goods and the prices. The shops on the streets of Tiraspol still displayed shoddy Soviet-era clothes and cheap Chinese electrical goods. He could still not get used to the choices available to him here especially now that he was ‘cash rich’, compared to many, that was.

He picked up a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and almost laughed out loud at the price: £55. Nevertheless he chose four, two blues, a black and a dark red. Next he picked up a couple of pairs of chinos and three pullovers before finally he added a jacket to the pile. The assistant had a happy look in his eyes as he rung up the total – in excess of £700. Arkadi smiled and paid in cash. The assistant was slightly perturbed by this but put the sale through and in his estuary accent, which seemed out of place in an up-market shop, wished him a ‘nice day’.

Cheban next picked up a mall map and studied the layout. He spotted the shop he wanted and entered. It was a small unit but full of authenticated celebrity items such as autographed pictures. He pointed to a photograph of David Beckham and said that he wanted that one. The assistant informed him of the price; this time Cheban did laugh out loud but still laid down a pile of notes on the counter. Feeling happy with himself he grabbed a large coffee before returning to his car and driving back to London. Later that day he would dress to impress and give the Polish waitress her present; he had overheard her say that she liked the new ‘England football captain’. However first he would work a bit on the car. He made a mental note to go to the nearest Vauxhall dealer and get a set of proper wheels. He was allowed to look flash but the car was not.

*

Odessa
,
Southern Ukraine

Varchenko put the large Crimean grape into his mouth and looked at Ruslan. He was a mess. Tubes stuck out of his nose and greasy hair protruded from his bandaged scalp. He was now sitting upright and could finally speak for the first time.

“Tell me exactly what happened?” Varchenko held a cup to Ruslan’s lips and he drank thankfully.

“We followed the BMW as you ordered but as soon as we got near enough to ram them they opened fire.”

Varchenko had been given some information by the ‘tame’ local militia who had found the wreckage of the G Wagon and Ruslan but he wanted to hear it first-hand.

“We had no chance; their weapons were automatic. I think I managed to return fire then my front tyres blew and the next thing I can remember, the jeep is rolling off the road.”

“But it was armour plated!” Varchenko gave him another mouthful of water.

“Then the bullets were armour piercing. Valeriy Ivanovich, I did my best… What of the others?”

There had been three others in the Mercedes, each armed with Glock hand guns. As employees of Varchenko’s security firm Getman Bespeka, he had personally met their families and dependants and provided financial recompense. “They are all dead Ruslan. You are the only survivor and that, I presume, is because they wanted you to live.”

Ruslan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “I will kill them!”

“No Ruslan, you will not. They want me not you.” Varchenko placed his hand on that of his injured employee. “You will be well looked after here.”

Varchenko left the hospital and climbed into his waiting car. What he was dealing with here was more serious than he had imagined. He had to find out who these people really were and to do this he has to lose face and call his old subordinate, Genna.

SIX

City Centre
,
Kyiv
,
Ukraine

Breathing deeply but steadily Snow pumped his legs up the hill and past the Ukrainian parliament, the Verhovna Rada. It was 7:15 a.m. and he was half way through his morning run. The guards outside were used to seeing joggers in the park opposite but Snow was the only one to run on their side of the road and directly past them. It astonished Snow how close he actually was to the entrance yet was never challenged. Cresting the hill he increased his pace and ran past the Presidential administration building. His route, which he had now perfected, took him down Pushkinskaya, across Maidan and along Khreshatik, up the hill past the Hotel Dnipro to the Verhovna Rada, the Presidential administration building and back down the hill this time via the Ivana Franka Theatre, through Passage before finally running uphill again and into Pushkinskaya.

On days that he felt he needed to push himself he would stop halfway at the Dynamo Stadium and complete a few laps of the track before continuing on his way. However today he felt hampered by a mild hangover. It was Monday morning and was to be Arnaud’s first day at Podilsky, yet they had both decided the night before to have ‘a few’ pints at Eric’s. Snow was glad that Mitch was in Belarus on business and that Michael Jones had not made it; otherwise it would have become a heavy session. Fifteen minutes later he was stretching outside the front of his building as the street sweepers made their way towards him.

“Fancy a coffee?” Arnaud was on the balcony above, cup in one hand waving. Snow needed no second invite and within minutes was walking from the shower to kitchen. Arnaud had made toast and was busy buttering a thick slice as he read an old issue of the
Kyiv Post
.

“You should have told me you were going to jog, I’d have come too.”

Snow finished drying his hair and dropped the towel on the empty seat. “After what you drank last night?”

“Hmm, maybe not.” Arnaud bit into his toast. As Snow poured himself a coffee Arnaud noticed a faint long scar on Snow’s right leg stretching from just below his boxer shorts to just above the knee. “How did you do that?”

Snow sipped his coffee. “I was in a bad car crash a few years back. Lucky to survive actually.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“How would you?” It was too soon for Snow to share his past with his new friend. Snow surveyed the table. Arnaud had made a large pile of hand cut toast and set out two plates. Snow sat and took some toast. “You’d make someone a good wife.”

Arnaud looked up, his lips caked in crumbs. “I’m open to offers.”

The previous day and a half since his arrival Arnaud and Snow had mostly drank and ogled women. Snow found himself liking Arnaud and seeing in him himself ten years ago. They’d started with a tour of the city centre, beer bottles in hand purchased from a street kiosk. Snow had led Arnaud up Prorizna Street and along Volodymyrska pausing at the Golden Gate (the medieval entrance to Kyiv), the old KGB (now SBU) building, two cathedrals which Arnaud had already forgotten the names of, before pointing out the British Embassy. “If you ever get stopped by the police just say ‘British Embassy’,” Snow had advised. “The local militia are a bit scared of stopping a foreigner and will think that you are a diplomat.”

They then met Michael Jones and his wife in a small open air bar on Andrivskyi Uzviz, the steep cobbled tourist area which led down to the oldest part of Kyiv, Podil. There Arnaud had been excited to see the vast range of ex-Soviet militaria on offer in addition to paintings, amber jewellery and numerous
matrioshka
(Russian dolls) of all shapes and sizes. Snow managed to persuade him not to buy a fur hat; instead he bought two Vostok automatic KGB watches, a hipflask and a set of
matrioshka
painted with the faces of Soviet leaders. The vendor said that if Arnaud supplied pictures of his family then he could have a set of
matrioshka
hand painted for him. Arnaud agreed and had already started to decide who should be the biggest and who was to be the smallest. He finally decided on his dog, then his sister, but only just.

“How are you enjoying Kyiv, Arnaud?” Michael had asked, his wife Ina sitting at his side.

Arnaud looked down the street at a pair of local girls. “The beer and the scenery are great.”

Michael, who had already finished three pints, or half litres as they were served in Ukraine, let his face crease into a dirty toothed smile. “You’d have to be either bent or stupid to have an unemployed knob here!”

Michael sniggered whilst Ina nudged him in the side. “What? It’s true for sure.”

“So which are you then?” Arnaud looked at his flatmate.

Snow finished his mouthful of beer. “The exception to the rule.”

Ina smiled and touched his hand, Arnaud felt slightly embarrassed. Was there something he did not know of? “How long have you been here?” he asked Michael.

“Me? Phew, too long!” He sniggered again. “I came in 1996 for four months and have so far stayed for ten years. I could apply for a Ukrainian passport!”

“Has it changed a lot?”

“Some things. When I came here there were no supermarkets and people bought their meat on the street.”

“Michael, that’s not true.” Ina felt the need to defend her country. “We always could buy meat in the Gastronom or the market.”

“Which was on the street!” Michael quickly swigged more beer.

“Michael!” Ina was annoyed. When the men got together they became just as silly as the schoolboys they both taught. “We have more shops now since independence and there are more places to go.”

“Expensive places,” Michael, who was known for his conservative spending on all things except beer and cigarettes, added.

“So Arnodt, where are you from?” Ina ignored her drunken husband.

“Arnaud.”

“Sorry what did I say, Arnod… Arnode. Your name is a bit difficult for me to say, I haven’t heard it before.” She blushed.

“It’s French. My mother is French, from Nice, and my dad is English and from Surrey – it’s not ‘nice’.”

“So you speak French and English fluently Arnoode?” Ina was impressed.

“Yes I’ve always been bilingual, for me it’s natural. What about you? Your English is good.”

Michael finished his fourth half litre and, shouting at a passing waitress, ordered another round. “Wasn’t when we met. She couldn’t say a word.”

“That’s not quite true Michael. I learnt English at school but never used it. In the Soviet Union we did not have the possibility to travel to England so I never got to practice. Even my English teacher had never been to England, can you imagine that?”

“Wow. That’s crazy. The basis of learning any foreign language is exposure to native speakers.”

“So…” Michael’s eyes lit up, “ten years ago I exposed myself to her and she’s never been the same!”

Michael roared with laughter and Snow almost gagged on his beer. There was a delayed reaction from Ina, who punched her husband in the ribs.

“Right.” Snow finished his coffee. “The school bus will be outside at eight. It will just pull up on the pavement so we have to be ready for it. I’ll finish getting dressed. Are you ready?”

Arnaud nodded, “Yeah just got to do my hair.”

Snow looked at his flatmate’s blonde mop of hair, “Sorry mate, I thought you were wearing a woolly hat.”

*

SBU Headquarters
,
Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

Dudka had received the call late on Sunday. His mobile switched off; the call to his landline, a number which only a very select few knew, had interrupted his meal. Sitting in his flat on Zankovetskaya Street he had been looking forward to a little stroll with his dog before retiring for the evening. Now however his weekend had been shortened and he had to look at this. The deaths of Varchenko’s employees had been kept very hushed indeed. A few thousand dollars here and there had reinforced Varchenko’s position with the Odessa police and Dudka guessed that the relatives had also been paid off. Such was the way with bandits like Valeriy. He had sounded almost humble on the telephone, although not quite, when asking for Dudka’s help. He had relayed the story of the meeting with Knysh which led to the shootings.

“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” demanded Dudka, now standing, arms folded, in the kitchen. “This is a very serious matter. You have withheld information in a highly public SBU investigation, in fact possibly the most public investigation in SBU history!”

Varchenko, although humbled, nevertheless was angered by Genna’s tone. “This man threatened me and I took action. He is a danger to us both and needs to be stopped.”

Again Dudka had to concede that Varchenko was correct. He had too much to lose himself. As he looked around his large but still Soviet flat this, however, was not obvious. He had been very clever. Investing his money in first his daughter’s and now his granddaughter’s education in Switzerland. It was they and his late wife who had benefited, not he, from his agreement with Valeriy Ivanovich.

“Very well Valeriy. I will send you my best man and you will tell him all about this meeting in the car. You will give him a full description of this Knysh. He will carry a computer with photo-fit technology. He will be under my orders to speak to no one but you and me.”

Varchenko snorted at the other end of the phone but was however relieved. “Genna I hope for both our sakes that this is a man we can trust.”

Dudka rubbed his eyes. He had not slept well and morning had caught him unawares. His second cup of coffee finished, he called his secretary to bring another. She entered followed by Boris Budanov, who had been summoned by his boss. Dudka pointed to a seat and Budanov sat. Once the secretary had shut the door Dudka spoke.

“Boris Ruslanovich I have a highly delicate and secretive task for you to perform. You will tell no one about this and speak to no one other than myself and the person you will be interviewing. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, Gennady Stepanovich.”

“Good.” He pushed an envelope across the desk. “Inside you will find the name and address of the person you are to see and also $300. You are to use this money to purchase an airline ticket to Odessa and cover any other expenses. You will take a laptop computer with our photo-fit software installed and will compile an accurate image of our suspect. Any questions?”

Budanov swallowed hard. “Does this relate to the Malik case, Gennady Stepanovich?”

“Yes. And before you ask, yes, that case is being handled by Blazhevich but this is a new and confidential lead. Get to Odessa, get the photo-fit and get back to deliver this to me as soon as possible. I cannot emphasise enough how critical this matter is.”

*

Podilsky School International
,
Berezniki
,
Kyiv
,
Ukraine

The journey to school had been interesting. Arnaud recognised a few of the places he had already been to but within five minutes was lost. The bus stopped in total four times to collect children. Unlike his secondary school teaching experience, at Podilsky Arnaud would be teaching year three primary right up to A level, or year twelve and thirteen, as they were now called. Smiley faces looked at Arnaud and asked who he was. Snow did the introductions. Forty minutes later they were at the school complex and the pupils were running to meet up with friends already in their classrooms or arriving by car. The teenagers were too cool to run and wearing a mixture of predominately black and purple baggy jeans and ‘hoodies’ they ambled in at their own speed.

Arnaud took in the size of the building. “Surely this is not all the school, is it?”

“No. The building is a technical college and it rents out some of its rooms. We have the wing on the right. On the left is an auditorium that we use for concerts, etc. There’s also a small café and some other offices that are let to a couple of businesses.”

As Snow and Arnaud entered through the large aluminium doors, Arnaud’s attention was taken by a figure approaching from the main road. He stood motionless for a second. “Bugger me… look at that… she’s bloody gorgeous…”

Snow turned and saw a woman approaching. “Yep, that she is.”

Arnaud was still staring. “Who is she? Please don’t let her be one of the mums.”

“Close your mouth, you’re dribbling.”

“What? Oh.” Arnaud raised his hand to his mouth but felt nothing.

The woman approached and removed her sunglasses. She looked directly at Snow then Arnaud, who was blocking the entrance.

“
Dobroye utro
.” Snow bid her a good morning.

The woman nodded at him, gave Arnaud a weird glance then made her way into the building and towards the left wing.

“You know her? Please tell me you know her?” Arnaud was almost begging.

“Her name is Larissa. She works for a Swiss watch importer and yes she is bloody gorgeous.” He put his hand on his friend’s back. “Come on, we better get inside.”