Cold Blood (23 page)

Four more militia officers were in the central concourse and he had no doubt that there would be more posted on the platforms. It has been several hours since he had taken the German’s passport and time was running out before he was discovered. Snow had left the ‘do not disturb sign’ on his hotel room door but his colleague would soon start to wonder where he was. There was even a chance that the militia were waiting to pick Snow up as he boarded the train. He had no other choice; he would have to ‘brave it out’ and control the situation.

Snow took a left inside the newly refurbish station building and entered the toilets. He moved past a man shaving in the mirror and entered the end cubicle. He placed the lighter of his two bags on the floor – this one was empty except for some flattened old boxes he had picked up. He now carefully took off his new market clothes and placed them in the bag. Opening the second bag he retrieved the leather pilot case and dressed in his ‘German’ outfit. Now he steadied himself, took a deep breath and opened the door. The shaving man was splashing his face with water and paid him no attention. Out on the concourse once more, Snow walked towards two militia men standing by the stairs leading down to the platform.

“Do you speak German?” he asked in German-accented Russian.

The two militiamen looked at each other before the shorter spoke. “Very small English?”

Snow shook his head and carried on in German-accented pigeon Russian. “Can you help? I am lost. I need to find train ‘Grand Tour’. Can you show me? I not want miss.”

“Take the steps down, then you have to go up and over the platform until you see the sign saying ‘Grand Tour’,” the taller replied in Russian.

“I, err, no understand. Can you show please?”

“Just take the steps…”

The second officer stopped his colleague. “Follow me.”

Snow smiled and nodded. “Thank you, thank you.”

He followed the officer whilst the other remained at his post. Snow kept searching for anyone who may have recognised him from the corners of his eyes, all the while his left hand held the Makarov pistol concealed in his pocket. They reached the start of the platform. The militia officer stopped and pointed.

“There, Grand Tour.”

“I want say thank you for help.”

Snow placed his case on the floor then put his right hand into his pocket and removed a ten dollar bill. The officer looked first left then right before taking the note, nodding and walking away. It was no secret that the salary of the militia was usually late and woefully behind inflation. Internally Snow relaxed slightly. The militia were not yet looking for either Dietrich Schaeffer or someone attempting to travel on his stolen passport. Snow walked along the platform, found his carriage and boarded the train.

At the central ticket office, Centralnaya Kassa, Larissa had helped the ‘German’ to buy two SV tickets on the Grand Tour train to Lviv. The SV was the Soviet equivalent of First Class and, with the pretence of being proletariat, it had two beds. Those wanting to travel alone bought both. Once in Lviv Snow would make his way into the mountains and attempt to exfiltrate over the border into Poland. Snow looked at the ticket number and found his compartment. He pulled back the sliding door and put the pilot case his on the right hand bunk. He shut the door and fell onto the bed. The train moved off. A wave of tiredness washed over him as the adrenaline left his body. It was twelve hours to Lviv and he planned to lay low. A lone German businessman may cause some interest on any normal train but the Grand Tour, owned by the Lviv hotel of the same name, was frequented by foreign business people and tourists alike.

Without realising it Snow had fallen asleep. Shit! He woke with a jolt, hand finding the concealed Makarov. There was a knocking at the door and the waiter, dressed in a red velvet waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers, cautiously opened it. He asked him first in Ukrainian then English if he ‘wanted anything from the trolley?’ Snow spoke in German-accented English and ordered a bottle of Desna, two packets of peanuts and several chocolate bars. The transaction over he shut the door, took off his belt and threaded it through the handles. There had been cases of guards on normal trains opening the doors for a cut of whatever the thief could steal. This had not, to his knowledge, happened on the Grand Tour but Snow was in no mood for any unexpected guests. There was still a chance that the SBU or Pashinski had men on the train.

Alone in his carriage, his thoughts returned to Arnaud. He had been an innocent, a kid like any other who just wanted to have a laugh and shag for England. Snow found it hard to get close to people but Arnaud had been different. They had bonded almost immediately; his brash but kind nature and his outbursts had reminded Snow of himself ten years ago. He would miss him bitterly all the more because Arnaud was not meant to die, not like a soldier for Queen and country. It would somehow have been different if he had been killed on operations; they had all dealt with that back at Sterling Lines by sinking pints and telling tall stories about the antics of their mate who had failed to ‘beat the clock’. He had mourned mates from the regiment but Arnaud had never agreed to take the Queen’s shilling, never agreed to give his life. At the end Arnaud had been brave, if foolish, to tackle the monstrous soldier. This one act had set Snow free but signalled his own death. If only Snow had been faster, just a second quicker to snatch the gun and take the head shot, then the bullet would have never struck his young friend’s heart. But he had been too slow. For the first time in twenty years, Snow started to cry. The ex-SAS man had messed up.

Snow splashed his face with water from his basin. He stood and raised the bottle. “To you my friend, wherever you are…” he let his words trail off then swigged a third of the contents in one gulp. Within minutes the bottle was empty and Snow had fallen into a deep sleep as the train sped westward through the Ukrainian night.

TWENTY-TWO

Premier Palace Hotel
,
Kyiv

Varchenko sat in the penthouse of the Premier Palace Hotel. He still had his flat in central Kyiv but much preferred to be pampered and away from his wife. He also liked mixing with the international business elite in the overpriced bar. Today however, he was not here for pleasure. Two members of the ALFA stood outside the room in addition to his own personal security guards. Dudka bit into a peach and added another stain to his tie.

“Former Spetsnaz captain now with his own private army. What did you do to anger this man Valeriy?” The question was rhetorical.

Varchenko opened his bloodshot eyes and reached for the very expensive Scottish single malt whiskey. “Business is a dangerous game Genna. The trick is to know when you have lost.”

“And have you?”

Varchenko slurped. “Look at me Genna, look at me. I have businesses all over the Odessa Oblast, more money that I can ever spend, a beautiful daughter, a wonderful granddaughter and a wife that I hardly ever see. I should be happy. I should be respected, but no. NO. People try to threaten me, try to kill me. I am worried Genna. I think that it is time to stop playing the game, old friend.”

Dudka dropped his peach stone in the waste paper basket. “It is not a game when people are killed, Valeriy. The son in England assassinated two days ago. Now today an English teacher. Who will be next?”

“Me, of course. If we don’t stop Knysh, Pashinski – whatever name he uses – then I will be next. Why? Pride. His pride will not let him lose. I know him Genna, we are the same.”

“So you want to hide? You want to run.” Dudka had never heard ‘General’ Varchenko talk like this.

Varchenko shook his head. “I have never run in my life and you most of all should know that Genna. I am tired of playing. It now stops. Tomorrow I will go back to Odessa and wait for him. We have a business meeting after all, a shipment to safely transport.”

“You still think that he will come?” Dudka was puzzled.

Varchenko had not told his old friend of his handling fee. The fact was that Pashinski’s money would have been very useful now that Varchenko was almost legitimate. He would have let several shipments go and then turned the younger man in when he was not expecting it. “A man like Pashinski does not simply walk away Genna. I believe that he cannot afford to let this shipment slip.”

“A shipment of weapons to be sold to the crazies.” Dudka was angry that he had not been able to stop this particular trader before, but now that he knew the full picture he would.

“What I cannot understand Genna, is why would a patriotic Ukrainian want to supply weapons to our mutual enemies?”

“He is not Ukrainian Valeriy, he is not even Russian. He is Lithuanian.” Dudka left this piece of information hanging in the air.

“A-ha.” Varchenko nodded, sipped the Scotch,then filled in the gaps. “So he wants to hurt Russia for…” He let his voice trail off. There was hatred of Russia in many quarters for what she had done under the banner of the Soviet Union, especially so among the Baltic States who had been the last to join and the first to leave the Union. “Then I was correct. He is crazy.”

“Tell me more about the shipment.” Dudka eyed up another piece of fruit.

“He called me. It will arrive in two days.”

“From where?” Dudka reached forward, grabbed a banana.

“He did not say but I can tell you that he wants it on my cargo plane to Pakistan.”

“You need to give me details of this plane Genna.”

“Of course. The flight plan is the same each week.”

“And you are expecting him when?”

“We have an agreement. He is to oversee the loading of the first shipment on Wednesday. We are to meet at the dacha then drive to the airport.”

Dudka shook his head. “You must realise that he knows you have given us a description of him? He will want to silence you. This game, as you put it, is very dangerous old friend. The man has no fear, but we will stop him Valeriy.”

Varchenko leaned forward. “What I want from you is an ALFA team to strengthen my own men. I agree that we will stop him, Genna, and then I will retire from the game.”

*

Zankovetskaya Street
,
Central Kyiv

It was 22:00 and he had called Blazhevich away from home. Both men had already been working late due to the day’s developments. The dead man at the house in the exclusive area of Petropavlivska Borschagivka had been identified as Oleg Zukauskas, a former Spetsnaz soldier who had served with Pashinski. A search of the house had been ordered and while it had been confirmed that ‘Knysh’ had lived there they still did not have any physical evidence that Knysh was Pashinski. They had however found an airline booking confirmation for a return ticket from Dubai to Islamabad in the name of Brad Peters. This was with an envelope containing $8,000. Blazhevich had sent a telex to Interpol regarding this mysterious passenger. It had not yet been answered. Blazhevich was still hopeful that as the search continued something else might turn up. Dudka opened the front door of his flat.

“Come in Vitaly Romanovich. This way.”

They walked along the hall past closed doors to the kitchen. Blazhevich was impressed by the size of the flat and the height of the ceilings, at least five meters. The dark wood panelling added to the stately demeanour, a world away from his flat in the Obolon district, with its thin walls and noisy neighbours.

“Sit, Vitaly.” Dudka gestured towards the kitchen table. “ I have called you here on serious business. I have something to tell you.” Dudka briefed him on his conversation with Varchenko and developments regarding Pashinski. He explained how Pashinski had sought to use Varchenko’s network to transport illegal arms to the east and heroin to the west (he wasn’t sure about the narcotics but took an educated guess) and that the first shipment was due in two days. Dudka confirmed Blazhevich’s theory that Pashinski had been responsible for the murder of both Maliks and surmised that this was a show of force meant to impress General Varchenko and warn him what would happen if he did not cooperate.

Blazhevich took in the information but there was still something that troubled him. “What about Aidan Snow?”

“What do you think?” Dudka replied with a benevolent curl of his lips.

“I do not think that he is the assassin.” Blazhevich had felt this for a while but not expressed it due to lack of evidence.

“He was the perfect suspect, especially as the rifle was found in his room, but I agree with you, Vitaly Romanovich. Why would Pashinski hire an outsider when he has his own Spetsnaz Brigada? Why also seek to eliminate this man in such a way?”

“I do not know, Gennady Stepanovich. Perhaps to confuse, to throw a false trail? There must be some connection that we do not know about.”

Dudka nodded. “Perhaps. I am sure that if we ask the traitor Budanov nicely he will gladly tell us.” He clasped his hands together before relaxing. “Pressing matters. We have three objectives in our operation, which you will coordinate, Vitaly Romanovich.” Blazhevich sat up straighter. Dudka continued, “One: prevent the shipment from leaving the airport, two: protect General Varchenko, three: apprehend Pashinski.” He paused for effect as his subordinate retrieved a pen and notepad from his coat pocket. “Put down your pen, I do not want this recorded.”

Blazhevich raised his eyebrows. “Sir?”

“Listen, Vitaly. This will be a ‘grey’ operation because you have my full authority but we will not be informing the border guards or the local militia. They simply cannot be trusted.”

Blazhevich was shocked but sat a little straighter.

“You will be taking an ALFA team to Odessa to observe and if need be secure both the airport and the General’s
dacha
. You will speak to the commander today.” Dudka folded his arms. “The troops go tomorrow.”

Blazhevich was surprised by the time frame but nevertheless excited. “Yes, Gennady Stepanovich. Are we sure that Pashinski will take the bait? Will he show?”

“In this life we can be sure of nothing; but let me ask you Vitaly, could you write off several million dollars? In my opinion neither can Pashinski, and we must catch him.” Dudka uncrossed his arms. “You will meet Varchenko and his head of security at the Premier Palace Hotel tonight. We have no way of knowing when Pashinski will show but the transport plane leaves Odessa Airport on Wednesday evening. Vitaly, you will plan whatever you see fit. Remember Varchenko was a general once, but now you are in charge.”

“Thank you Gennady Stepanovich.” Blazhevich felt honoured as well as apprehensive to have this much responsibility thrust on to him.

“That’s it, you can go.” Dudka stood and removed a paper package from the fridge. He noticed that Blazhevich had not moved. “You want to watch me eat?”

Blazhevich tried not to blush. “No, sir.” He rose and left the flat. Dudka watched him leave. A good boy, but too polite, too sensitive.

Blazhevich shut the car door and placed his phone in the holder. He’d switched it on again after his meeting with the boss. As he made his way towards the ALFA barracks he noticed three missed calls, all from the same person. He called the number, it rang once.

“Vickers.”

“Alistair Phillipovich, good evening.”

“Vitaly. Have you got an update?”

They had not spoken since Blazhevich had had the unenviable task of informing Vickers earlier in the day of the death of Arnaud Hurst and accompanying him to the mortuary. This had saddened and shocked both intelligence officers, especially Vickers, who had been on speaking terms with the young Brit. Vickers had just finished informing the next of kin. Blazhevich mulled over how much to tell his British contact and then made a decision. “Snow is no longer a suspect in the Malik murder.”

Vickers, who had his own phone jammed to his ear, nearly fell off his chair. “Repeat that Vitaly.”

“I said Snow is no longer a suspect. We have reason to believe that it was a business rival. Pashinski.”

“Pashinski?”

Blazhevich negotiated a junction. “Yes.”

“He is alive?” Vickers was incredulous.

“We believe so. I can now confirm that he is the main suspect in the Hurst murder.” He could have told Vickers this earlier but chose not to as then he didn’t have the whole picture. Both men paused; the death was still too real.

“Any news on the woman or Snow?” Vickers asked with urgency.

“None since we spoke last. Remember he is still wanted for shooting the diplomatic protection member on Pushkinskaya.”

“What’s the victim’s status?” Vickers had momentarily forgotten about that shooting.

“He’ll live. I have to end now, we have a major manhunt on our hands Alistair, but I’ll keep you informed.”

“Many thanks Vitaly.” Vickers stood and paced his office. Snow had saved one life but not the other. Had it been Snow’s fault or his own for not believing him? You have to make a decision on the evidence you have, on what you can see and not on what you cannot, not on speculation. Regardless of the blame, Snow and the girl had to be found. Vickers left his office and walked towards the kitchen. At this hour he shared the embassy with only the security guards and they would not make him any tea!

Where would Snow go? He tried to think as he walked. Snow would now be into escape and evasion mode and attempting to put as much distance between himself and Kyiv as possible. He didn’t have his passport; Blazhevich had this and besides the airports had been watched. What did that leave? A car; he didn’t own one but could easily pay a ‘cab’, or a bus. Snow could pass for a local so could hide among the crowds, but both of these solutions seemed too precarious somehow. Ukrainian roads were not made for high speed travel and besides, he might get stopped. Then it hit him. Where was the girl from? He poured the water into his cup. Hadn’t Snow once said? Vickers closed his eyes and asked his usually photographic memory for help. At the Hash. He had said that he was alone because Hurst was in Lviv with his girlfriend. That was it, it made sense. Her parents were from Lviv. Snow and perhaps the girl would be heading for Lviv and then would try to leave the country.

Vickers left his half made cup of Earl Grey and ran back to his office. He tapped in a few keystrokes on his desktop and was on the official Ukrainian railways website, www.uz.gov.ua. He searched the timetables and found several slow trains to Lviv before he saw what he wanted, the Grand Tour. Snow must have taken the Grand Tour. He checked the times; the train ran at 20:00 and took approximately twelve hours. Snow would be arriving at 08:00. Vickers switched to www.Ukrainefare.com and checked flights to Lviv. The next would leave in the morning. Shit, he could not get there in time on a commercial plane. Options? Ask the SBU to stop Snow at the station? No, he could be armed and so could they. Contact the Warsaw embassy and ask his counterpart Horner to get to Lviv? Again, he could not get there in time. The Secret Intelligence officer paused, then picked up the secure desk phone and called Blazhevich to ask him a large favour. Before Blazhevich had the chance to ask why he was calling, Vickers said, “I need a plane.”