Cold Blood (18 page)

“I can’t do that! It’s impossible!” he blurted into the handset, but before he could protest any more the call ended. Budanov sat frozen for several seconds before shaking his head in an attempt to control his fear. He turned up the radio; some American rapper was proclaiming the enormity of his dick. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Budanov pulled out of the car park, just missing a trolley bus. He couldn’t do this anymore, could he?

“I am sorry I kept you waiting Mr Hurst. I hope my two officers were polite?” The two militia men rose and left the room, closing the door behind them.

Arnaud looked at the plain clothed officer and felt a wave of relief. He recognised him from the Hash. Blazhevich saw the recognition in his eyes, his cover, at least with the ex-pats, would now be no more. “Hello Arnaud. My name is Blazhevich, Vitaly Romanovich, and I work for the Ukrainian Intelligence Service, the SBU.”

“I’ve seen you at the Hash. Were you spying on me?” Arnaud became paranoid.

Blazhevich smirked. “Should I have been?”

“No.”

Blazhevich walked towards the table and handed Arnaud an A4 manila envelope. Sitting, he indicated that Arnaud should remove the contents. “Holiday ‘snaps’ taken in Odessa. Not mine you understand.”

Arnaud took out the photographs and gasped. A body of a male lay on a tarmac road. The body, immaculately dressed in a dark green suit, had no face. “Why are you showing me these?”

Blazhevich held up his right index finger like a teacher correcting a slow pupil. “We already know ‘the how’ – the rifle in your apartment – we would like you to tell us ‘the why’.”

Arnaud’s head had begun to spin and his cheeks burn. He put the photograph face down on the table. “You think I had something to do with this? You think that I shot a man dead?”

Blazhevich held Arnaud’s gaze for several seconds before shrugging his shoulders. “Tell me about yourself. You have a French mother and an English father?”

“Yes.”

“What does your father do for a living?” Blazhevich removed his glasses, they were a prop, and took his time to clean the lenses.

“He’s a banker.”

“And your mother?” He folded the lens cloth.

“She arranges flowers.”

“Ah how very interesting.” Blazhevich replaced his spectacles, then suddenly slammed his fist on the table. “Tell me why their son became an assassin?”

Arnaud flinched. “I’m not. I don’t know what you are talking about. This happened a week after I came to Kyiv.”

“A train to Odessa takes twelve hours and a coach eight.” He looked him in the eye. Was he telling the truth?

There was a silence. Arnaud looked down. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his throat getting very dry. “What happened to my flat?”

“You don’t know? Very well, I shall tell you.” Blazhevich picked up the incident report. “At approximately four a.m. this morning there were several explosions and reports of gunfire emanating from Pushkinskaya 2/4 –7, your flat. Two guards from the neighbouring Embassy of Uzbekistan, who came to investigate, were attacked. One had his collarbone broken and the other was shot. A man was seen running away from the scene carrying a weapon of some sort. Was it you?”

Arnaud tried to speak but only managed a raspy “What?”

Blazhevich smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Calm down Mr Hurst, Arnaud. I do not think you were at home at the time, so if you give me the address of your lady-friend we will ask her to confirm this. What does concern me, however, is the sniper’s rifle found in your bedroom.” He retrieved the image. Blazhevich held up his hands. “We will test for your fingerprints and then the ballistics will be checked against those we have for Mr Malik’s murder. We will know the truth soon enough.”

The truth? What truth? Arnaud could not believe this was happening. His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “It’s not mine, I’ve never seen it before.” He started to shake. “I’m… I’m… not the only person who lives there.” What had he done? He had given up Snow without even thinking.

The reassuring smile again. “I know. Can you tell me more about your flatmate Aidan Snow?” Inwardly Blazhevich became excited; his technique had been successful.

“He’s also a teacher.” The words tumbled out of the Englishman’s mouth.

“I see, and what else can you tell me about him?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He could see Arnaud fight the temptation to speak. “Arnaud. I am trying to help you. I know you didn’t shoot anyone, but not everyone here shares my belief. If you can tell me as much as you know then I can help you and your friend.” There was something the English teacher knew, he could sense it.

Arnaud closed his eyes, as if mentally not to see the moment he would betray his friend. “He used to be in the army.”

“Army? British Army?” At last, a real suspect. Blazhevich’s eyes widened behind his glasses.

Arnaud looked up, he’d gone this far, he couldn’t stop, they wouldn’t let him. “He used to be in the SAS.”

“The SAS?” Blazhevich’s heart almost stopped; he wanted to be sure he understood.

“Special Forces, 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.”

“The British Spetsnaz?” It was now the interviewer’s turn to feel the blood pumping to his cheeks. This was their man, had to be their man! He was trained in assassination techniques. “I see.”

Arnaud crossed his arms. “I want to talk to somebody from the British Embassy. I am not going to answer any more questions until I speak to someone from the British Embassy.” Arnaud felt sick. Blazhevich would now grant the young teacher access to the embassy, in fact he wanted to speak to them himself.

*

Petropavlivska Borschagivka
,
Kyiv Oblast

On the top floor Snow lay on the mattress under the window. He was unarmed except for the Russian Army commando dagger that he had liberated from Mitch’s collection. The telescope Mitch used to ‘perv’ on his neighbours’ women was fixed on a tripod just in front of his eye. All around the house was still. He had arrived straight after leaving Vickers at the stadium and laid up. Having returned from Belarus Mitch was now back in the States for a week seeing his kids and the ‘maid’ would not come to clean for another three days, so until then he would be undisturbed.

It was early afternoon and sun cast sharp shadows across the garden and into the room. Snow had kept an eyeball on the house for the past five hours, fighting the cramp in his legs and having to piss into an empty Pepsi bottle; Mitch would have approved. Snow did not have a plan as such and hoped that any information he was able to glean may suggest something.

There were two sentries on duty; neither had weapons on display but judging by the bulges in their leather jackets were clearly carrying. He could only see the back of the house and part of the left side but decided that the guards were not overly concerned as they would routinely disappear for minutes at a time and cigarette trails could be seen wafting in the air. The house was an exact copy of Mitch’s and Snow had sketched a plan, which was on the mattress next to him. Unless Pashinski had changed the internal layout Snow had a good idea of who was where.

The veranda doors opened and two figures stepped out onto the terrace. The terrace had security railings running from floor to ceiling to deter any opportunist from attempting to break in, this however did nothing to prevent a sniper’s bullet. Snow focused on the men. Neither was the man he recognised. One was tall, at least the same height as Snow, but barrel chested, like a wrestler. His head displayed a thick grey mane. His maroon shirt was tight around the chest but loose at the waist where it met his trousers, a sign to Snow that he was in good physical shape. The second man was overweight, suited and much smaller. He was nervous looking and used his arms for expression. The bear-like man pushed him in the chest to emphasise a point. The smaller man stumbled but nevertheless nodded. They both retreated inside. Moments later Snow observed a silver Volkswagen Passat on the road moving away from the house.

NINETEEN

SBU Headquarters
,
Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

Arnaud opened his eyes and realised he was shivering. He had had the worst night’s sleep of his life. No matter what he did with the blanket they had given him he had not been able to get warm. He’d dozed, even falling into a shallow sleep at times only to be woken by footsteps outside, the slamming of steel doors or shouts from other prisoners. He’d lost track of time but from the amount of traffic noise now outside he estimated that it was rush hour. He stood and stamped his feet, holding the blanket over his shoulders he moved the door and shouted:

“Hello! Helloo! Will someone let me out of here?” His night in the cell had empowered him somehow, not breaking his spirit but making his resolve stronger. He would be buggered now if he was going to feel scared again. He felt a sense of shame for telling the SBU officer about Snow but then he was sure his friend, flatmate and fellow teacher was innocent. He could hear a muffled conversation and feet approaching along the corridor. The observation slit opened and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered at him and bid him sit on the bed. Arnaud sat and the door opened. The militia officer stepped to one side to let a plain clothed officer pass.

Budanov looked Arnaud up and down. “Mr Hurst you can go home now.” He paused to gauge the reaction on his prisoner’s face. “My colleagues and I believe what you say is true, you are no killer.” He smiled at his use of words, he had been practising.

Arnaud shivered. “About bloody time too.”

“I’m sorry?” Budanov did not speak English as well as his rival.

“Thank you.”

A second militia man entered the cell with a plastic tray, this he placed on the bed. Arnaud took the boot laces and rethreaded them into his Gortex boots. The jailer handed him his jacket and took the blanket.

“We will keep your passports for the moment. We may want speak to you again.”

Arnaud looked up darkly, as he struggled into his coat; he was way past the point of argument.

Arnaud stepped out of the SBU headquarters on Volodymyrska Street and turned right. He needed a drink, he didn’t care what time it was and would take the next turning, cutting through the side streets to O’Brian’s, and sit in the ex-pat joint. They did a proper breakfast. On impulse – he couldn’t wait, he was starving – he stopped at the Mister Snak sandwich bar. Unseen from across the street, Oleg cursed and made his way through the traffic leaving the others in the car. By the time he entered the bar Arnaud had a toasted sandwich and a large plastic glass of Slavutech. Oleg sat in the corner and kept his eyes on Arnaud’s back. Ten minutes later he was following him on the street doing the same. Arnaud turned off of Volodymyrska. He was sated but still livid; he had only just noticed that they had kept his mobile. Why? All his numbers were on there. Now he’d have to buy a phone card and chance his arm at a pay phone. Bloody militia would probably sell it and split the cash…

There was a sudden jolt of pain as firm hands gripped his right arm and shoulder. At the same moment a silver saloon swept around the corner in front of him, its back door opening. Before he could register what was happening he was pushed roughly into the car. The door slammed shut behind him and a cold piece of metal was pushed against his right temple. Arnaud almost lost his beer as his stomach heaved. He was hauled upright into a sitting position. In the driver’s seat Budanov pulled away nervously looking in his mirrors, collar up and his face partly obscured by a baseball cap. He cursed Pashinski for making him do this so close to his own office. His hands were damp on the wheel and beneath his jacket his Egyptian cotton shirt was already wet on his back.

They headed for the river, running parallel before taking the bridge and the route towards Borispil. No one spoke. Arnaud craned his neck as much as he dared to look at the gorillas sitting on either side of him. His anger of earlier had turned to dread on realising that these were not the same state employed thugs who had already questioned him. His heart pounded and his temples throbbed. Every muscle in his body was tense for fear of moving and giving his abductors an excuse to use their guns, the nearest of which was now pressed firmly into his gut.

*

Borispil-Kyiv Highway
,
Kyiv

Bull stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed. The restaurant had been empty ever since the last owner had stopped paying his monthly ‘insurance premiums’. To the outside world however, the only change was a sign proclaiming a grand reopening in one month, until then the deep red velour curtains remained drawn. The restaurant occupied part of the ground floor of a four storey building bordering the forests on the outskirts of Borispil village. The rest of the building was empty with the exception of an office supply company next door. Traffic passed here but seldom stopped as it sped on across the roundabout to the airport. Bull wondered how the place had actually made any ‘real money’. He looked down at Larissa, who sat bound and gagged at the table in front of him. At the far end of the room the door opened. Bull remained where he was. Arnaud was first in, followed by Oleg.

“Larissa!” He tried to reach her but was pushed to the floor. He skidded on the thick plastic sheeting covering the new carpet.

Bull spoke slowly in accented English. “This was a nice place before. Good food, heavy food.”

Arnaud rose to his knees. “If you’ve done anything to her I’ll kill you!”

Bull tutted and dismissed the threat with a wave of his hand.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“The SAS man, Aidan Snow.”

Arnaud got to his feet. “Why?”

“We are old friends. I want to say hello to him. You tell me where he is now?” He smiled and barked an order to Oleg in a language that Arnaud did not recognise. Oleg pushed Arnaud down again and walked towards Larissa. As Arnaud watched, he undid the top three buttons of her blouse and put his hand inside. Larissa and Arnaud’s eyes met, her eyes widened. Arnaud jumped to his feet, his anger uncontrollable.

“Stop that!” He ran at Oleg, who swiftly stopped him with a punch to the stomach. Arnaud dropped to the floor in pain and vomited over Oleg’s shoes.

“You shit!” Oleg kicked him in the face. Arnaud felt his nose crack before everything went black.

“Enough!” Bull pulled Oleg away. “If he cannot talk he cannot tell us where the English soldier is. Now clean him up.”

Oleg’s eyes showed contempt for his victim but he followed Bull’s orders and lifted Arnaud to his feet. Arnaud’s arms fell limply at his side and his head lolled to the left. Panicking, Oleg quickly placed him on his side on the nearest clean bit of carpet, opened his mouth and pulled the tongue forward. He then arranged him in the recovery position. “He is unconscious.”

“You are a fool.” Bull pushed him away. “Water. Bring him some water.”

Oleg turned and headed for the kitchen. Bull returned to Larissa and noted the tears in her eyes. He buttoned up her blouse and delicately wiped the tears on the back of his finger.

“Ssh, my little rabbit. We will soon have both of you away from here. I am a soldier, not a killer, and you are a civilian.” He looked into her eyes and noticed through the redness and the tears a strength which he had rarely seen. Such a pity he had not met her somewhere else. There was a sudden electronic ‘beep beep’. Budanov, who had been standing just outside the room watching the road, now entered.

“Here.” Budanov, hand shaking, held out the phone. “I took it from evidence.”

Bull sat on the nearest chair. Sure enough a message had arrived. He read it:

‘
Snogging a fat bird
’; and the sender it was assigned to,
Steve B
. He closed it and went on to the next. He smiled and banged his fist on the table. “Here it is.” Sender:
Aidan S mob
. ‘
Very Important
.
Arn do not go to flat
.
Dangerous
.
Will explain later
.
Contact Vickers@embassy
.
Trust me
.’ There was a time, date and yes, sender’s number.

*

Zankovetskaya Street
,
Central Kyiv

“We have a suspect.” They sat at the kitchen table. Dudka blew his nose.

“Someone who works for Knysh?” Varchenko did not conceal his glee.

“That I do not know, Valeriy. The man is English, ex-Spetsnaz.”

“Hm. This Knysh has a long reach but we have bigger hands.” He raised his glass and drank. Dudka did the same.

“A Dragunov sniper’s rifle was found in his
Kvartira
. The ballistics are a match. The weapon fired the shot that killed your British partner.” Dudka handed Varchenko a copy of Snow’s work visa application form, the passport sized photo enlarged. Varchenko held it at arm’s length to focus, whilst he searched his pockets for reading glasses.

“Aidan Snow… teacher of Physical Education and English … Podilsky School International… And you really think that he is responsible?”

Dudka shrugged. “Looks highly likely. Trained sniper, in Ukraine, may have even known Malik, teacher – perfect cover?”

Varchenko nodded and filled both shot glasses. “Has he confessed? What has he said?”

“
Nichevo
.”

“Nothing?”

“We do not have him. He has disappeared.”

Varchenko narrowed his eyes in disappointment. “Then he must be the man.”

“Something is not right Valeriy. There was an attack on his
Kvartira
.”

Varchenko studied his friend. “I am confused. Who attacked his apartment?”

“How do I know?” Dudka sipped. “The door was ‘opened’ with plastic explosive; we picked up the other resident – another British teacher – and found the rifle.”

Varchenko thought for a moment. “Set up or tidy up? Was he a loose end?”

Dudka lowered his glass. “I am under immense pressure from those above and the British Embassy. The evidence could seem circumstantial but what better for us than to prove that it was one of their own? Our reputation is restored and it is apologies all around. And of course the SBU looks effective. The new president will like that.”

“I am not concerned with catching the killer but stopping the paymaster, Knysh.” The man was a thorn in his side.

“He is elusive. The photo-fit you provided has provided no leads.”

“Do you have a copy of it here? Perhaps I can add more detail?”

“As you wish.” Dudka stood and shuffled out of the kitchen and into his study. He returned with his briefcase. Sitting, he sifted through the contents and removed a buff coloured folder. “Here. The report from Budanov.”

“Very bright boy.” Both men emptied their glasses again and Dudka duly raised the bottle to refill them. Varchenko focused. “This is not Knysh.”

“What?” Dudka’s hand shuddered, he poured onto the table.

“This is not the man who calls himself ‘Knysh’. This is not the face I described to your Budanov.”

“
Blin
,” Dudka swore, sank the vodka and quickly poured himself another. “But that is the image that Budanov gave me.”

“Then he is either a fool or a felon. The eyes are the right shape but should be green, the face is too narrow – too weak, and the chin is bulbous and not square. I admit that there is a passing resemblance but this is not the image we created on his computer.”

Dudka starred forlornly at his ex-boss. “He is my best man.” He paused, something falling into place. “Which is why he was chosen by Knysh?” Varchenko nodded. Dudka suddenly remembered another image he had hurriedly popped in his case. “Valeriy, I have another photograph.” He removed the file that Blazhevich had been eager to give him.

Varchenko snatched the image. “This is him. This is Knysh.”

*

Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast

Snow was sore and extremely stiff. He had intended to stay awake, prone on the mattress all night, but fatigue had beaten him and he had ended up sleeping fitfully, waking with a start every few minutes. Cursing himself and slapping his face he had eventually taken to pacing around the dark bedroom and doing press ups to ward off sleep and muscle stiffness. It was awful operating procedure but this was his second night without sleep, his body was fighting his training and for the first time winning. All night at least two lights had been on in the house opposite and there were constant shadows in both garden and interior.

Snow had left his OP briefly to grab a free tray of Perry & Roe’s finest ‘Energy Blast Cola’ from Mitch’s large stash and to piss. This time not into a bottle. Sitting upright against the back of an armchair, he’d manoeuvred to the head of the mattress. Snow was awake but jumpy, the taurine and caffeine filled cola had seen to that. His head still throbbed but now the hangover from the day before had been replaced by natural exhaustion. It was almost eight a.m., night had long since vanished and brilliant sunlight filled the room; he would have to keep still again now.