Cold Blood. Alex Shaw
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remembered the email in his in tray from the CCCI mission manager in London. Bugger, that was his other hat calling. Alistair Vickers’s official post was that of commercial attaché at the British Embassy, Kyiv. He wore another, albeit invisible hat, however – that of SIS man in Ukraine. Kyiv had been Vickers’s second-choice posting after Moscow.
Sitting back at his own desk, he picked up a custard cream and crunched it between his teeth before sipping his now-cold tea, white Earl Grey with two sugars. A purist would never add milk but he liked it that way. He replaced the cup and saucer on his desk and leant back to concentrate on the report. He had, of course, met Jas on many occasions. The man wasn’t afraid of self-advertising and had managed to get into most of the national newspapers as well as joining expatriate business groups such as the American Chamber of Commerce. In fact, he was probably one of the most well-known ‘Brits’ in Ukraine, which made his murder all the more curious.
Vickers liked to think he knew the feel of the place and he spoke regularly with his contacts in the SBU, the Ukrainian security service. He had been of the opinion that Jas had had a good ‘Krisha’, a ‘roof’ in other words; his local partner had protected him from any unsavoury interest from other businessmen, Mafia. Big business was, to some extent, still governed by the Mafia in Ukraine, and the more noise you made, the more likely it was you would encounter them. Jas’s partner was ideally placed to protect him. The man was a former KGB general and Hero of the Soviet Union who had now amassed a fortune as a businessman. If anyone called the shots, it was this man, General Valeriy Varchenko. As close to an oligarch as you could get in Ukraine, Varchenko had his base in Odessa, Ukraine’s pretty port city. Vickers crunched on another biscuit. Why would anyone pick a fight with Varchenko, for killing his business partner was surely an act of war?
Central Kyiv
‘Da. I’m listening.’
Dudka cleared his throat. ‘Please put me through to Valeriy Ivanovich.’
There was a slight pause. ‘Who would you be?’
‘Tell him it is Genna.’ Dudka drummed his fingers on the plastic café table.
Another pause, noises in the background. ‘OK.’
Dudka heard a rustling at the other end and then a muffled voice started to speak, ‘Gennady Stepanovich, my dear friend, how are you?’
‘Fine, my friend. Is this an inconvenient moment?’
‘No, no,’ Varchenko replied. ‘I am in the middle of a rather good lobster. The next time you are in Odessa you really must try one.’
Dudka eyed his pathetic café sandwich. ‘I have something I need to discuss with you.’
‘Oh, and what might that be?’ Varchenko’s voice was now clear.
Dudka cast his eyes around the terrace; there seemed to be no one eavesdropping. ‘Can we meet at the dacha?’
If any other man had received a call from a Deputy Head of the SBU, the Head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime, they would have been justified in showing concern; however, with Valeriy Varchenko, retired KGB general, what registered sounded more like annoyance. ‘It is not very convenient.’
‘I insist, old friend.’ Dudka held firm; after all, he was still the enlisted man, even though he turned a ‘general’ blind eye to the general in Odessa.
Varchenko sighed, more for effect than anything else. ‘Very well. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll even have the chef here prepare you a lobster.’
‘Agreed.’ Dudka put the phone down. He knew where the chef could stick his precious lobster. He bit into his open sausage sandwich. The money and power had clearly gone to his old friend’s head.
Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow rubbed his right thigh, which was playing up again. Was he getting too old for this? He pondered a moment before dismissing the idea. ‘You’re thirty-four, not fifty.’ He surveyed the class as they continued to jog around the small area of grass circling the playground. Some of these kids, especially Yusuf, the Turkish lad, could give him a run for his money. ‘That’s it, two more laps and you’ve finished.’
Would these same kids be so eager to join a running club if they were back home in a normal comprehensive? He thought not. International schools seemed to bring out the best in children. Most would be bilingual by the end of their parents’ three-year stint. Snow blew his whistle and gestured that it was time to go in. Counting heads, he headed back to the school entrance along the small, paved path they shared with the residents of Kyiv’s Berezniki suburb. Yusuf caught up with him and trotted alongside. ‘Did you see how I run, Mr Snow?’ he asked expectantly. ‘I beat Ryoski and Grant.’
Snow nodded and smiled. Yusuf was twelve, quite tall for his age, and wiry. He had the perfect runner’s physique and a real talent.
‘Well done, Yusuf. I’m impressed.’
Yusuf smiled back, picked up his pace and jogged the remaining distance around the corner and into the main entrance. There was a banging; Snow raised his hand to screen the glare of the sun as Michael Jones opened the staffroom window.
‘Hey, Aidan, have you seen this?’ Michael’s west Wales tones lilted to accentuate the question. ‘Murder in Odessa. And to think I was there last weekend!’
Snow took the Kyiv Post and looked at the main page.
‘British investor slain in Odessa factory shooting.’ He scanned the story as Jones kept an eye on the rest of the runners ambling past.
‘What d’ya think?’ Jones’s eyebrows arched in his usual show of curiosity.
Snow studied his friend’s ruddy face. ‘I’m glad I’m just a teacher and no one important.’
Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine
The dacha was in the small coastal town of Fontanka, twenty kilometres from Odessa. During Soviet times it had belonged to ‘the Party’ and was for the use of high-ranking members of the YCCP. On Ukrainian independence, this and many other such properties had been sold off by ‘the state’ for hard currency to the highest bidder. The fact that many had been sold to the same person, who was acting as ‘the seller’ on behalf of ‘the state’, had been conveniently overlooked.
This particular dacha had been built in 1979 and used by some of the gold medallists from the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The new owner sought to commemorate this event and had the Olympic rings included in the design of his new nine-feet, wrought-iron security gates which guarded the entrance. The gates weren’t the only part of the dacha to be modernised, ‘remonted’. The original three-storey building remained but an additional wing had been added at a right angle, forming an L shape. Italian marble adorned the surfaces of all the bathrooms, of which there were now six, and the indoor pool. The back of the house led on to a large terrace, with an ornate garden and views of the Black Sea.
Varchenko leant forward to smell a particularly nice rose. He was dressed in an expensive, dark-grey pair of slacks, a black polo shirt and a pair of Italian loafers. A matching dark-grey cashmere sweater was draped casually over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Dudka exhaled and flicked his cigarette stub into the flowerbeds. Varchenko straightened up and frowned at his friend’s disregard for nature’s beauty.
‘What do you know, Genna?’
Dudka met his gaze. ‘I know your British business partner was assassinated in Odessa; I know it was a trained sniper; I know this is not good for general business; but I also know you now control the entire venture.’
‘And you think I