Cold Blood. Alex Shaw
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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, looking for any telltale blue smoke coming from the exhaust pipe and checking 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 didn’t want the world to know. He was happy to be back in London and decided it was now time to finally spend some of the money he’d 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’d believed the operation had been compromised when he saw a group of men watching from a van. He had kept his own watch on them and been very relieved to find they were 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 Bluewater 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 both by 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 still couldn’t get used to the choices available to him here, especially now 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 adding a jacket to the pile. The assistant had a happy look in his eyes as he rang 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 anyway and, in his estuary accent, which seemed out of place in an upmarket 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 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 she liked the new ‘England football captain’. First, however, 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 were sticking out of his nose and greasy hair protruded from his bandaged scalp. He was now sitting upright and could finally speak.
‘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 firsthand.
‘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 handguns. 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, which meant losing face and calling his old subordinate, Genna.
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 halfway 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 him how close he could actually come to the entrance without being 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, then 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. Today, however, he felt hampered by a mild hangover. It was Monday morning and 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 hadn’t 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