Cold Blood (9 page)

The barman nodded and duly pulled him a half litre of Obolon.

“Oi, Froggy!” a familiar voice called from the shadows.

Arnaud turned to see Snow at a corner table with another ex-pat. He collected his drink and ambled over.

“Nice night?” The ex-pat spoke first.

Arnaud sat. “Ha!”

“This is Mitch, Mitch this is Arnaud.”

“Nice to meet ya buddy,” Turney extended his hand, “Aidan here, been telling me all about you. So where’d she take you?”

Arnaud sat. “Le Grande Sodding Café.”

Snow whistled and Turney took in a deep breath, “No offence, but on what you guys earn?”

“I hope you made her pay Arnaud?” Snow asked, grinning too much for Arnaud’s liking.

“What! I even had to pay for the sodding taxi. I bet she thinks going Dutch is a sexual position, not that I’m ever going to find out!” He took a long gulp of beer.

“Ah the price of love.” Snow squeezed his thigh.

“Get off!”

“You, my friend,” stated Turney as he lit another Havana, “need a little trip to Mars.”

“Do what?”

*

Mars Strip Bar
,
Kyiv

Mitch pointed to an empty table to the left of the pole and handed the waiter a note. They were duly seated and the reserved sign was removed. By the time Arnaud had taken off his jacket Mitch had a bottle of Tequila and was filling the first of three glasses. “Welcome to Mars.”

Arnaud looked around, his eyes now becoming more accustomed to the lights. “Looks more like the bar from Star Wars.”

“Strange taste in décor,” Mitch tapped the plastic rock effect wall behind him, “but the women are out of this world.”

From concealed speakers an indiscernible 80s Madonna hit faded in and through a red curtain stepped a peroxide blonde dressed in a lime green bikini. She threw her arms above her head and started to lip sync and then bent over.

“Bottoms up!” Snow raised his glass.

“I’ll drink to that!” Mitch beamed.

Arnaud pulled a face as the liquor hit his throat. “Are Mexicans forced to drink this?”

EIGHT

Petropavlivska Borschagivka
,
Kyiv Oblast

Bull refilled his young guest’s glass. “Your first time in Ukraine, Sergey?” Gorodetski nodded. “You will find it an easier place to tolerate than Moscow. Your brother and I shared many a good time here. That is now sadly only a memory.” Bull raised his glass. “Your brother!”

The two men touched glasses and downed the Nemirof, the ice cold vodka not burning the throat but warming the stomach.

“You told me you had found him?” Gorodetski leaned forward eagerly.

Bull removed an envelope from his pocket. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twitched before he spoke. “Here is the man who was responsible. It was his group of Islamic fighters who tortured and killed my friend, your brother.”

Gorodetski opened the envelope and removed the photograph. A balding middle aged Asian grinned and shook hands with a large man, chest heavy with medals. “Who is he?”

“His name is Jasraj Malik. He is a British ethnic Pakistani.”

“Who’s the other one?”

Bull snorted. “That my friend is KGB General Valeriy Varchenko…”

Bull leaned against the balcony railing, eyes transfixed enjoying the sunrise. Oh how simple it had been and how effective an instrument Sergey had proven to be. Now for the son, the one in England. This would prove more difficult – not because of Sergey; he would accept if he was fed the right information – but for the logistics of the operation. Favours had to be asked, he would have to speak to Lesukov and have him arrange something with his men in London.

“Captain Pashinski?” Gorodetski was on the dot as requested. Oleg had let him in and led him upstairs. Bull turned and opened his eyes.

“Sergey!” He beckoned him join him. Gorodetski surveyed the rooftops of the neighbouring houses and the forest beyond, the first rays of warmth now glinting on the windows of the distant Kyiv apartment blocks in the early morning sun. “I have some good news for you, Sergey.”

Gorodetski gripped the railing and turned to face his brother’s friend.

“I have found another. This is the son who was present at the execution. It was he who carried out the father’s order.”

“The man who murdered my brother.” It was more statement than question, his throat suddenly dry. Sergey shivered despite the unseasonable warmth of the autumn morning.

“Yes. He is in England and his name is Bhavesh Malik. It is he who has taken over from the father and now he who must in turn pay for what he did to your brother.”

Gorodetski’s knuckles turned white as he gripped harder in an attempt to control the rage he felt inside. “When can I go?”

“We will have to arrange for a suitable weapon. London is not Odessa, Sergey, firearms there are not commonplace.”

“I want to do this at close range.” Gorodetski’s jaw hardened as he imagined finally laying the ghost of his brother to rest.

“I want him to know who I am and why.”

Bull did not let his delight show. So the young soldier had real metal in his veins. He would use him again, perhaps if Varchenko stood in the way? “Let me make a call and we shall have an answer.” Bull left his guest on the balcony lost in his own thoughts.

Gorodetski was not the average assassin. Born in 1979 he grew up a child of Perestroika and Glasnost. His earliest memories were of his brother being fussed over by his mother on his first day in the Red Army. She was proud of him but didn’t want to let him go. He also remembered when his brother, his senior by almost thirteen years, joined the Spetsnaz and how proud his father, an English language teacher, had been of him. “You will be the first of us to have a chance to speak to the Queen when we invade!” Father had joked.

Then things went wrong and he could remember his parents crying, inconsolable when his brother was sent to Afghanistan. Even among some Russians the war was not popular. Reports leaked out of Soviet soldiers captured and mutilated, yet all the while
Pravda
and the state-controlled media sang the Red Army’s praises and said that the Mujahedeen were tribesmen, ‘savages with sticks’. One day there was the knock on the door. A month before the Red Army left Afghanistan for good. Sergey was off school with a bad cold and was there to see his mother fall to her knees at the front door and beg the soldier to check his facts, that he must have made some type of mistake. But he hadn’t. Sergey was ten years old and the one person he loved most in the world was never coming home.

The next two years passed with very little joviality. As the Soviet empire started to crumble so did his parents. His mother threatened to leave his father and then she did. It was near his twelfth birthday. His father had taken him to Moscow’s first McDonald’s and bought him a Big Mac. It was still a novelty and the Russian customers treated it like a proper restaurant, everyone dressed as though they were at the opera. Pasha Gorodetski let his son eat the burger then told him that his mother was going away for a while, she wasn’t well. He had cried into his fries and Pasha had struggled to keep his own eyes dry. Mrs Gorodetski could not get over the death of her first born and was put into an institution; the calendar in her brain had stopped. For her there had never been that knock on the door, her son was still coming home tomorrow.

However, things got better for father and son. Pasha Gorodetski got a job at the new American Moscow International School; this attracted free schooling for Sergey. His already good grasp of English taught to him by his father was improved as he learnt from American teachers and sat next to the sons of diplomats and foreign industrialists. By the age of fourteen he was fluent. With his blond hair and square jaw he could pass for a Yank. He readily embraced all that capitalism could bring; watching the Americans and Canadians arrive with their money, passing huge amounts of this onto the many new Russian business enterprises, which had sprouted like mushrooms in the spring. But he never forgot his brother or the vow that he as a ten year old had made inside his head, that when he was a man he would hunt down those who killed him.

When the time came for military service he gladly went and was immediately transferred into the military academy. He was watched and his potential noted. When this was over he took his brother’s lead. He applied to join the Russian Spetsnaz, as it was now called. There had been no argument, his English was better than any other applicant that year and he was shown to be a keen shot. Soon his marksmanship was as good as his English. Two tours over and achieving officer status, he was considering leaving the forces to pursue a business career, when he got a knock on the door of his own. Captain Pashinski, his brother’s commanding officer, had found his brother’s murderer. Now at the relatively young age of twenty-seven he had outlived his older brother and would finally have his revenge.

“It is done.” Bull reappeared.

“When?” Gorodetski now asked with more determination.

“Be in London in four days.” He handed Gorodetski a Post It note, “Meet this man at this address.”

“
Spasiba
.”

“No. Thank you, Sergey.” Bull placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I know that you are a man I can trust.”

*

Podilsky School International

Snow had been right to call it a night. They did return to the flat at the right time. Unlike Mitch, they were not the boss and could not turn up to the office when they pleased, which would have been useful after a midweek night on the tiles. Despite the curfew Arnaud still had a sore head and had struggled through the first two lessons of the morning. Drinking when pissed off was never a good thing. Now with his break time coffee he was starting to come alive. How Snow had managed to get up and run was beyond him; but then he was a P.E. teacher.

Snow entered wearing a tracksuit. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Arnaud massaged his temples.

“Good, because you’ve got a visitor at reception.”

“What?”

“She said that she’s a private student of yours.”

“But I don’t have any?” Confused, Arnaud stood and together with the Mickey Mouse mug he was holding made for reception. The sour faced school receptionist was in conversation with a woman he recognised. The two women saw him approach and exchanged words.

“Hello Arnaud.” Larissa smiled warmly.

“Larissa. Hi. I didn’t expect to… How are you?” He placed his inherited mug on the counter.

“Can we go outside? Have you got time?” Her smile was even warmer.

Arnaud looked at the school clock above the reception desk. “Sure, I’ve got about ten minutes.”

They walked out of the building and down the steps to the street. Larissa turned. “Sorry. I wanted to say sorry for the restaurant when I left. It was an accident but I lost my temper. I have a bad temper, I know, people tell me. I have been thinking and I was very silly and rude.”

Arnaud looked down at her face and into her eyes. “No, I’m sorry for staining your dress. Please let me pay for it to be dry cleaned…”

She put her index finger on his lips and shook her head. “Now you are silly. It is only a dress.”

They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Arnaud wanted to kiss her so badly but did not want to mess this up. What if she was just being friendly? Then it happened. Larissa kissed him quickly on the lips.

“I am not busy tonight. Do you want to meet?”

His answer was a definite yes.

*

Inta Hotel
,
Vienna
,
Austria

Bernadette Nierman straitened her red waistcoat and pushed a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear. She smiled at herself in the mirror. The uniform was tight in all the right places. It accentuated her full breasts and narrowed her waist. Turning side on she was pleased to see that although longer than she liked, knee length, the red skirt was tight across her bottom. Respectable but only just.

She was excited. The email, addressed specifically to her, was from Mr Peters, Mr Mark Peters, the ‘
sexig
’ American businessman who had stayed with them twice before. She had always served him and had noticed the way he had looked down her top as she had bent forward to draw directions on his map of Vienna. He was not much older than her, according to his passport, and did not wear a wedding ring. Now he would be staying again for one night, in three days’ time. She had already arranged a shift change so that it would be her who checked him in and her again who checked him out by noon the next day. She herself would be free in the evening after seven. She adjusted her black framed glasses. Three days, she couldn’t wait.

NINE

Druzhby Narodiv Park
,
Kyiv

“Welcome to ‘the Hash’, or to use the proper name, The Kyiv Hash House Harriers – the only drinking club with a running problem. For those of you new to the Hash, I am the Grand Hash Master. Thanks to Randy and Mr Clark from our beloved embassy for laying today’s trail.”

It was just after twelve on Sunday when the group of ex-pats gathered in the wood. They were all members of the running club known as the Hash, who met twice a month to run, drink beer and socialise. The Grand Hash Master, Mitch Turney, continued with his usual spiel, made the usual bad jokes, which were greeted with the usual mixture of groans from the usual Hash members.

Arnaud surveyed the assembled group. “What are the rules again?”

Snow jutted his chin, “Those two...”

“Randy and Mr Clark?”

“Yeah,” Snow chuckled, “they have set a trail of arrows leading to a ribbon tied to a tree. This eventually leads to the Hare, who we have to find and catch. Whenever we find the trail we shout ‘On, On’.”

“Right. Why?”

“It’s an excuse to drink more beer and feel less guilty.” Snow patted his young friend on the back, “Everyone ends up following each other around for an hour or so then regroups again at the starting point for beer and ‘The Ceremony’.”

“Ceremony?”

“You’ll see later. Don’t worry it’s not a religious cult.”

Across the circle Mitch blew the Hash Bugle and the race was on. The forty or so runners headed off into the forest. The more serious athletes were soon lost in the trees. Amongst these was Alistair Vickers. The stragglers, which this week made up two thirds of the field, trotted or walked in pairs. For them the wearing of a tracksuit was exercise enough. Arnaud, dressed in his French rugby shirt ran with Snow. Mitch fell into step next to them. “Howdy Snow-Queen.”

“Up yours, Grand Hash Master,” replied Snow.

“So Arnaud, what Hash name are we gonna give you?”

“Hash name?”

“Snow-Queen didn’t tell you?”

“Snow-Queen did not.” Arnaud smirked.

“The Hash Master here gets to give all new members a suitable name, unlike mine I hasten to add.” Snow pretended to be none too happy with his.

Mitch continued between laboured breaths. “We gotta think of a good one for you, you phallic symbol.”

“Gallic symbol?” Snow shot back.

“Hey, I resent that comment!”

At the front a shout of ‘On, On’ had the Hash trail all but double back on itself. Vickers slowed and was joined by Vitaly Blazhevich. “The weather is terribly unpleasant today, old chap. I think it may rain.”

Vickers forced a smile, “Is the SBU still teaching Noel Coward for beginners, Vitaly?”

Blazhevich and Vickers officially did not know each other. They had met to exchange information and ideas for just over a year and would often use the Hash as a meet. The route was always different, new faces although welcomed were very obvious. It was also notoriously difficult to monitor a non-static outdoor conversation, especially amongst trees. Although no longer the enemy of the SIS, the SBU was not yet its drinking partner. A fact not surprising seeing as it was made up primarily of the former KGB, who had simply donned new uniforms on Ukrainian independence. Vitaly Blazhevich was not one of those; he had still been at school in 1991 and was proud to enter the ‘new SBU’ to serve his ‘new independent Ukraine’. Vickers begrudgingly respected him for that. It would be men like him who would lead the fledgling country after it had sobered up from its ‘Soviet Hangover’, a phrase he had used at many embassy receptions. When disgraced former Prime Minister Pavlo Lazarenko had evaded the authorities and jumped on a plane bound for Washington the CIA had known from their sources in advance but the SIS had been caught napping. In light of this Vickers and his predecessor had been keen to nurture their own assets.

“Anything to tell me about the Malik case?” Vickers asked between breaths.

Blazhevich shook his head. “Nothing more. We are still interviewing those linked to the company.”

“That includes General Varchenko?”

“He has made a statement directly to Dudka. It is very annoying.”

Vickers slowed to navigate a fallen tree trunk. “We need to get this one solved Vitaly, the trade implications are serious.”

“Alistair, do not think that we do not understand this.” He was not going to be pushed around by the English intelligence officer.

“Anything else?” The Malik case was not the only worry he had.

“There is some activity at the moment concerning the Moldavians.”

“Aha.” Vickers had been monitoring the group from Tiraspol, Transdniester who had links with arms dealers. Ukraine was fast becoming the main supply route for east-west and west-east for weapons, narcotics and human traffic. A fact that the respective governments of both intelligence officers was eager to stop. “And?”

“Our intelligence reports say that they are arranging new shipments in Lymans’ke, near the Ukrainian border. A border guard team has been put on standby and will be there to intercept if this takes place.”

“Vitaly. Our sources report more planned shipments within the next three months to a new buyer in Ukraine. We cannot close the factories but we can cut off their distribution network. It is of the utmost importance that these Moldovan separatists cease trading.”

Blazhevich nodded. He and his colleagues within the department had stated the same. At least six factories were thought to be churning out grenades, rocket launchers, Makarov pistols, Kalashnikov assault rifles, mortar tubes and other relatively low-tech weapons under contract to the Russian military and possibly skimming off surplus production to sell to arms dealers. The gangs were somehow evading capture and weapons were still working their way to, among other destinations, Afghanistan and Chechnya. If they could only make a dent in this trade everyone would be happy. The SOCOL team had been very effective until they had been ambushed. This had been played down by the Ukrainian government, for various reasons about which Blazhevich could only speculate. If this was happening in Latin American the ‘North Americans’, thought Blazhevich, would have Delta force teams and laser guided bombs taking out the plants. So much for the real war on terror.

“On, On.” This time it was Arnaud who had spotted the arrow and sprinted like a maniac into the undergrowth leaving Snow in his wake, with Mitch and his hangover trailing.

Twenty minutes later and it was all over, Mitch had his ridiculous foam jester’s hat on and the Hashers were once again circled.

“Assembled Hashers, we have just two virgins to indoctrinate today. Step forward virgins!”

Snow pushed Arnaud, “
Bon chance
.”

“Who gives up these virgins to the Hash?” Mitch’s voice resounded in the forest clearing like an evangelical preacher. Snow stepped forward as did Peter Poland. Peter, who as his Hash name suggested, was from Poland, went first. He stood next to his virgin, Svetlana, and introduced her. Snow then made his introductions. Arnaud and Svetlana were placed back to back in the centre of the ring and each was given a large soup bowl of beer. Mitch started the song,

“
Swing low
,
sweet chariot
,

Coming forth
…”

The rest of the Hashers joined in, “
CUMMING
!”

“…
to carry us home
,
swing low sweet chariot
,

Coming forth to carry us home
…

Why was he born so beautiful
,
why was he born at all
?

He
’
s no bloody use to anyone
;
he
’
s no bloody use at all
…”

Mitch nodded to the virgins, who raised their bowls,

“
Drink it down
,
dowwnn
,
down
,
dowwnn
,
ON YER HEAD
!”

Arnaud caught on quicker that his fellow virgin. As the chant finished he triumphantly tipped his all but empty bowl over his head, whilst the unfortunate Svetlana who’d only sipped hers received an unexpected shower. Mitch and Randy exchanged a knowing smile. Another local girl who wanted to impress the ex-pats.

“Sveta,” Mitch held up his arms in an exaggerated manner, “Peter Poland has told me all about you. For ever more you will be known as ‘Hot Legs’. Arnaud you are half French so you will be known as ‘Frogs Legs’.”

A groan resounded around the party. Arnaud meanwhile grinned and cracked open the can Mitch had tossed him.

“Snow-Queen, music if you please!”

Snow pressed play on the CD multi-changer in Mitch’s SUV and the woods filled with the sound of Bryan Adams. Arnaud crossed to Mitch. “Your music?”

“Sure is, Frogs. You like it?”

“My dad used to listen to him.”

“Your dad! Jeez Frogs, don’t go and make me feel old I’ve got women to impress.”

With the social part in full swing Blazhevich slipped away to his own car and returned home whilst Vickers was cornered by an American wanting to know the best place to stay in London.

*

Inta Hotel
,
Vienna
,
Austria

The taxi passed St. Stephen’s Cathedral and turned down a side street, depositing the passenger and his luggage outside the Inta Hotel Vienna. The passenger paid the driver in US dollars and apologised for not having any local currency. The driver, used to such things, especially from Americans, courteously accepted the green notes without pointing out that the visitor had in fact paid double. Holding a cabin luggage sized Samsonite case in his left hand the American walked through the double doors and entered the hotel. He breathed in the scent of several voluminous vases of fresh flowers which almost covered the smell of fresh paint and barely trod carpet. The bell boy hurried over from the bar area and apologised profusely for not seeing him arrive and said how nice it was to see Mr Peters again in Vienna. At the desk he rang a bell and whilst they waited for the receptionist to appear he asked him if the flight from Bern had been a good one? The guest was about to speak when a tall blushing blonde appeared from the back room. She touched her lips with a serviette to remove a crumb.

“Welcome back Mr Peters. It is very nice to see you again.” She smiled.

“It’s great to be back, and to see you too,” replied Sergey Gorodetski.

Bernadette touched her glasses self-consciously. “Your room is ready for you Mr Peters. Just sign here.”

The express registration process completed, Sergey was led into the lift and up to the fourth floor. Bernadette looked on from her post. Yes, he was definitely handsome, but Americans certainly were funny, why was he wearing that silly beanie hat? Making idle chat the bell boy showed Sergey into his corner room. Don’t worry, he explained, as a regular guest he had been given a complimentary upgrade. Sergey thanked the boy, who was in fact a year older than he, and gave him a ten dollar bill.

Shutting the door, Sergey took off his coat and threw it onto the king size bed. He walked to the very corner of the room and noted that if he opened the window and stood on tip toe he could just catch a glimpse of the grand cathedral around the corner. He shut the window and kicking off his shoes padded over to the bathroom – a long white affair with a huge mirror opposite the bath. He stared at himself. Mark Peters stared back, only Mark Peters was not yet Mark Peters. Sergey removed his black framed glasses and then his hat. His blond locks tumbled out; he’d need to dye those before he stepped foot out of the room. He yawned, wanting to sleep but knowing that it would be bad trade craft to risk it now before he was ready. He left the bathroom, opened his case and removed his toiletries bag. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of his door then retrieved a ‘wash in wash out’ sachet of hair colour. Mark Peters had natural ginger hair.

*

Petropavlivska Borschagivka
,
Kyiv Oblast
,
Ukraine

The drive from the Hash has been just over half an hour. Arnaud sat wide eyed like a child at Christmas as Mitch navigated his company Porsche Cayenne along the new streets of Petropavlivska Borschagivka. Five years before the place had been just a small village on the outskirts of Kyiv, three kilometres from the nearest metro station. The houses were ramshackle and belonged to farmers and locals who bussed into the city to work. Horse drawn carts were a common sight jostling for space with ancient Ladas. Now however, these houses fought for space amongst the new mega
dachas
of the rich and famous. Prices for land had rocketed from $5,000 for a house sized plot up to well over $100,000. A myriad of styles and colours met the eyes. In the UK houses of this size would have been at the end of secluded drives surrounded by hedges, but here the area looked like a giant size Barrat development.