Kitabı oku: «An Aidan Snow SAS Thriller», sayfa 5

Chapter 6

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 Snow poured himself a coffee, Arnaud noticed a faint, long scar on Snow’s right leg, stretching from just below his boxer shorts to just above the knee. ‘How did you do that?’

Snow sipped his coffee. ‘I was in a bad car crash a few years back. Lucky to survive actually.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘How would you?’ It was too soon for Snow to share his past with his new friend. Snow surveyed the table. Arnaud had made a large pile of hand-cut toast and set out two plates. Snow sat and took a couple of slices. ‘You’d make someone a good wife.’

Arnaud looked up, his lips caked in crumbs. ‘I’m open to offers.’

For the previous day and a half, since Arnaud’s arrival, he and Snow had mostly got drunk and ogled women. Snow found himself liking Arnaud and seeing in him himself ten years ago. They’d started with a tour of the city centre, beer bottles in hand, purchased from a street kiosk. Snow had led Arnaud up Prorizna Street and along Volodymyrska, pausing at the Golden Gate (the medieval entrance to Kyiv), the old KGB (now SBU) building and two cathedrals, which Arnaud had already forgotten the names of, before pointing out the British Embassy. ‘If you ever get stopped by the police, just say “British Embassy”,’ Snow had advised. ‘The local militia are a bit scared of stopping a foreigner and will think you’re a diplomat.’

They then met Michael Jones and his wife in a small, open-air bar on Andrivskyi Uzviz, the steep, cobbled tourist area which led down to the oldest part of Kyiv, Podil. There Arnaud had been excited to see the vast range of ex-Soviet militaria on offer, in addition to paintings, amber jewellery and numerous matrioshka (Russian dolls) of all shapes and sizes. Snow managed to persuade him not to buy a fur hat; instead he bought two Vostok automatic KGB watches, a hipflask, and a set of matrioshka painted with the faces of Soviet leaders. The vendor said that if Arnaud supplied pictures of his family he could have a set of matrioshka hand-painted for him. Arnaud agreed and had already started mulling who should be the biggest and who the smallest. He finally decided on his dog, then his sister, but only just.

‘How are you enjoying Kyiv, Arnaud?’ Michael had asked, his wife, Ina, sitting at his side.

Arnaud looked down the street at a pair of local girls. ‘The beer and the scenery are great.’

Michael, who had already finished three pints, or half-litres as they were served in Ukraine, let his face crease into a dirty-toothed smile. ‘You’d have to be either bent or stupid to have an unemployed knob here!’

Michael sniggered while Ina nudged him in the side. ‘What? It’s true for sure.’

‘So, which are you then?’ Arnaud had looked at his flatmate.

Snow finished his mouthful of beer. ‘The exception to the rule.’

Ina smiled and touched his hand and Arnaud felt slightly embarrassed. Was there something he didn’t know about? ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked Michael.

‘Me? Phew, too long!’ He sniggered again. ‘I came in 1996 for four months and stayed ten years. I could apply for a Ukrainian passport!’

‘Has it changed a lot?’

‘Some things. When I came here there were no supermarkets and people bought their meat on the street.’

‘Michael, that’s not true.’ Ina felt the need to defend her country. ‘We always could buy meat in the Gastronom or the market.’

‘Which was on the street!’ Michael quickly swigged more beer.

‘Michael!’ Ina was annoyed. When the men got together they became just as silly as the schoolboys they both taught. ‘We have more shops now since independence and there are more places to go.’

‘Expensive places,’ Michael, who was known for his conservative spending on all things except beer and cigarettes, added.

‘So, Arnodt, where are you from?’ Ina ignored her drunken husband.

‘Arnaud.’

‘Sorry, what did I say? Arnod… Arnode. Your name is a bit difficult for me to say. I haven’t heard it before.’ She blushed.

‘It’s French. My mother is French, from Nice, and my dad is English, from Surrey – it’s not “nice”.’

‘So you speak French and English fluently, Arnoode?’ Ina was impressed.

‘Yes, I’ve always been bilingual. For me, it’s natural. What about you? Your English is good.’

Michael finished his fourth half-litre and, shouting at a passing waitress, ordered another round. ‘Wasn’t when we met. She couldn’t say a word.’

‘That’s not quite true, Michael. I learnt English at school but never used it. In the Soviet Union we did not have the possibility to travel to England, so I never got to practise. Even my English teacher had never been to England, can you imagine that?’

‘Wow. That’s crazy. The basis of learning any foreign language is exposure to native speakers.’

‘So…’ Michael’s eyes lit up. ‘Ten years ago I exposed myself to her and she’s never been the same!’

Michael roared with laughter and Snow almost gagged on his beer. There was a delayed reaction from Ina, who punched her husband in the ribs.

‘Right,’ Snow said, finishing his coffee and snapping back to the present. ‘The school bus will be outside at eight. It’ll just pull up on the pavement so we have to be ready for it. I’ll finish getting dressed. Are you ready?’

Arnaud nodded. ‘Yeah, just got to do my hair.’

Snow looked at his flatmate’s blond mop. ‘Sorry, mate, I thought you were wearing a woolly hat.’

SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

Dudka had received the call late on Sunday. His mobile was switched off; the call to his landline, a number only a very select few knew, had interrupted his meal. Sitting in his flat on Zankovetskaya Street, he had been looking forward to a little stroll with his dog before retiring for the evening. Now, however, his weekend had been shortened and he had to look at this. The deaths of Varchenko’s employees had been kept very quiet indeed. A few thousand dollars here and there had reinforced Varchenko’s position with the Odessa police and Dudka guessed that the relatives had also been paid off. Such was the way with bandits like Valeriy. He had sounded almost humble on the telephone, although not quite, when asking for Dudka’s help. He had relayed the story of the meeting with Knysh that led to the shootings.

‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’ demanded Dudka, now standing, arms folded, in the kitchen. ‘This is a very serious matter. You have withheld information in a highly public SBU investigation – in fact, possibly the most public investigation in SBU history!’

Varchenko, although humbled, was nevertheless angered by Genna’s tone. ‘This man threatened me and I took action. He is a danger to us both and needs to be stopped.’

Again, Dudka had to concede that Varchenko was correct. He had too much to lose himself. As he looked around his large, but still Soviet, flat, this, however, was not obvious. He had been very clever, investing his money in first his daughter’s and now his granddaughter’s education in Switzerland. It was they and his late wife who had benefited from his agreement with Valeriy Ivanovich, not Dudka himself.

‘Very well, Valeriy. I will send you my best man and you will tell him all about this meeting in the car. You will give him a full description of this Knysh. He will carry a computer with photo-fit technology. He will be under my orders to speak to no one but you and me.’

Varchenko snorted at the other end of the phone but was nevertheless relieved. ‘Genna, I hope for both our sakes that this is a man we can trust.’

Dudka rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well and morning had caught him unawares. His second cup of coffee finished, he called his secretary to bring another. She entered followed by Boris Budanov, who had been summoned by his boss. Dudka pointed to a seat and Budanov sat. Once the secretary had shut the door Dudka spoke.

‘Boris Ruslanovich, I have a highly delicate and secretive task for you to perform. You will tell no one about this and speak to no one other than myself and the person you will be interviewing. Do I make myself understood?’

‘Yes, Gennady Stepanovich.’

‘Good.’ He pushed an envelope across the desk. ‘Inside you will find the name and address of the person you are to see and also $300. You are to use this money to purchase an airline ticket to Odessa and cover any other expenses. You will take a laptop computer with our photo-fit software installed and will compile an accurate image of our suspect. Any questions?’

Budanov swallowed hard. ‘Does this relate to the Malik case, Gennady Stepanovich?’

‘Yes. And before you ask, yes, that case is being handled by Blazhevich, but this is a new and confidential lead. Get to Odessa, get the photo-fit and bring it back to me as soon as possible. I cannot emphasise enough how critical this matter is.’

Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine

The journey to school had been interesting. Arnaud recognised a few of the places he had already been to but within five minutes was lost. The bus stopped in total four times to collect children. Unlike his secondary school teaching experience, at Podilsky Arnaud would be teaching Year Three primary right up to A-level, or Years Twelve and Thirteen, as they were now called. Smiley faces looked at Arnaud and asked who he was. Snow did the introductions. Forty minutes later they were at the school complex and the pupils were running to meet up with friends already in their classrooms or arriving by car. The teenagers were too cool to run and, wearing a mixture of predominantly black and purple baggy jeans and ‘hoodies’, ambled in at their own speed.

Arnaud took in the size of the building. ‘Surely this isn’t all the school, is it?’

‘No. The building is a technical college and it rents out some of its rooms. We have the wing on the right. On the left is an auditorium we use for concerts, etc. There’s also a small café and some other offices that are let to a couple of businesses.’

As Snow and Arnaud entered through the large aluminium doors, Arnaud’s attention was taken by a figure approaching from the main road. He stood motionless for a second. ‘Bugger me… look at that… she’s bloody gorgeous…’

Snow turned and saw a woman approaching. ‘Yep, that she is.’

Arnaud was still staring. ‘Who is she? Please don’t let her be one of the mums.’

‘Close your mouth, you’re dribbling.’

‘What? Oh.’ Arnaud raised his hand to his mouth but felt nothing.

The woman approached and removed her sunglasses. She looked directly at Snow, then Arnaud, who was blocking the entrance.

‘Dobroye utro.’ Snow bid her a good morning.

The woman nodded at him, gave Arnaud a weird glance, then made her way into the building and towards the left wing.

‘You know her? Please tell me you know her?’ Arnaud was almost begging.

‘Her name is Larissa. She works for a Swiss watch importer and, yes, she is bloody gorgeous.’ Snow put his hand on his friend’s back. ‘Come on, we better get inside.’

As they walked towards the sign saying ‘Podilsky School International’, Arnaud couldn’t help but turn once more and stare. He was rewarded with a glance of Larissa’s pert bottom as she disappeared through a door.

Chaika Sports Complex, Kyiv

The phone was handed to him by Oleg. Bull removed his ear protectors. ‘Da?’ The voice at the other end told him there had been an interesting development. Bull raised his hand and the others stopped firing. The target range fell silent as he listened intently to his source. ‘You know what must be done.’ The voice replied that he had understood and could be relied upon. The call ended, Oleg gave his commanding officer a questioning look. Bull waved him away and readied his weapon. The range erupted once more as controlled fire ripped apart targets.

Podilsky School International

The classroom was full of teachers with cups of tea and coffee. Arnaud had already learnt that Ukrainians drank just as much, if not more, tea as the British. Arnaud sat at the back with Michael and Snow. Joan Greenhill was at the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, reading notes. She looked up over her glasses and smiled. ‘Are we all here?’

‘Yes, Mrs Greenhill,’ came the choral reply from well-practised members of staff mimicking children in assembly.

‘Good, good. Now the first thing you have all probably noticed is this gentleman sitting at the back. Arnaud, wave!’

He did as requested. ‘Hello.’

‘Most of you will have met Arnaud already, but for those of you that haven’t I’ll just give a brief introduction. Arnaud has joined us from the UK and will be teaching French, ESL and some P.E.’

Arnaud was always a bit embarrassed meeting new people, especially women, and had turned a shade of pink. Greenhill then carried on with the rest of the agenda. Arnaud listened intently as he tried to soak up as much information about the school and its running as possible. Snow nudged him in the side. Arnaud looked past him and out of the window to see Larissa walking past. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

As the meeting finished, Michael tapped Arnaud on the shoulder. ‘Drink?’

‘You need to ask?’

‘I know just the place.’ It was Snow. ‘We’ll stop a car.’

The three teachers collected their bags and left the school. They walked to the main road where Snow held out his hand. A car stopped, this time a large Volga, and the driver wound down the window. Snow leaned forward, told the driver where they wanted to go and haggled over the price. He agreed and they got in, Snow in front with the others behind. Arnaud noticed the ubiquitous miniature icon on the dashboard of mother and baby. Even with all four windows open the car stank of smoke. The driver steered one-handed while his left hand moved from lips to window to flick ash. The car took them from the newer Soviet utilitarian left bank to the picturesque right and over the Paton Bridge before depositing them outside a street café.

Leaning back on his plastic, garden-type chair, Arnaud sipped what had now, after three days, become his usual: Obolon Temne – Obolon dark beer. ‘That girl. Jesus, she is… oh, I can’t describe…’

‘Which one?’ Snow knew exactly who but wanted Arnaud to squirm.

‘Larissa, the one from the school.’ Arnaud stared into the distance.

Michael smiled and spoke in Welsh-accented Russian ‘Sto procent.’ He continued in English, ‘One hundred per cent. Now if I had an unemployed knob…’

‘How do you know her?’ Arnaud turned to face Snow.

Snow sipped his Svetly – light beer. ‘Just about everyone has tried it on with her and got nowhere. She doesn’t even give me the time of day – as you saw.’

‘Perhaps she likes the rugged, handsome type?’ Arnaud adjusted the collar on his shirt.

‘No, she turned me down,’ Snow countered.

‘That’s because she’s looking for a lover not a father.’

‘Cheeky sod.’

‘Could be a lesbo. If so, I’d like to watch…’ Michael pulled on his cigarette.

‘Well, she hasn’t said no to me yet,’ Arnaud retorted.

‘Good luck.’

Arnaud took a large swig of beer. ‘Who Dares Wins.’

‘What?’ Snow paused, mid-slurp.

‘You know, the old SAS motto.’

‘SAS.’ Michael raised his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses and looked at Snow.

‘Shoreham Angling Society,’ Snow said, deadpan.

SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

Budanov arrived back at the SBU building on Volodymyrska just after eight in the evening. He had taken the first flight to Odessa, arriving at 11.40 a.m., where he had been driven to the address in Fontanka by a waiting car. He had been shocked by whom he was to meet and the implications this had for the investigation. Varchenko had been a legendary KGB officer long before Budanov was born, and to meet him was a privilege but chilling at the same time. Budanov had tried to control his nerves and acted as professionally as he could.

This special mission had placed far more pressure on him than anyone could imagine. During the return flight, which lasted one hour and ten minutes, he had sat alone, constantly checking and rechecking his notes and the computerised image. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. He entered through the main doors and flashed his pass at the bored guard behind the protective glass who waved him past and continued to read the Fakty newspaper concealed beneath his desk. As he approached his chief’s office he could see light seeping under the door. He knocked and was immediately told to enter. Dudka looked tired, the bags under his eyes even larger than usual, and for the first time Budanov could see a five o’clock shadow around his jowls. There was also a faint smell of pepper vodka in the air.

‘You have the report?’ Dudka glanced up from his papers.

‘Yes, Gennady Stepanovich.’ Budanov passed him the notes. Dudka looked at the handwritten sheets, which were surprisingly neat. ‘I will have this typed up for you by nine tomorrow morning.’

‘Very well.’ He handed them back. ‘Show me the photo-fit.’

Budanov opened his bag and powered up the laptop. ‘Shall I print the image or would you like to look at it on the screen?’

‘Show me on the screen. Later I’ll connect it to my printer in this room.’ He motioned to the large printer standing next to the filing cabinet.

The Fujitsu Siemens came to life and was placed in front of Dudka. The image appeared on the screen. The face was thin with round, dark-brown eyes and a wide mouth. There was a prominent chin. The hair was dark and swept back, the ears quite small.

‘You are sure the man looked like this?’ Dudka questioned.

‘Yes, Gennady Stepanovich. General Varchenko was quite adamant.’

‘He is no longer a general, Boris Ruslanovich.’

‘He said that the eyes were most striking and the chin was prominent.’

‘OK, Boris. You have done well. Was there any money left over from that which I gave you?’

‘Yes, Gennady Stepanovich – $80.’ Budanov pulled out his wallet and placed the notes and also his receipts on the table.

Dudka took the receipts and put them in his drawer. He then pushed the money towards Budanov. ‘Thank you, Boris, you have done well. Blazhevich will now continue with the case. Take this and get that pretty wife of yours something nice.’ He nodded at the SBU’s rising star.

Budanov took the money and nodded in return. ‘Thank you.’

‘Goodnight, Boris Ruslanovich.’

Budanov rose and left the room. ‘Goodnight, Gennady Stepanovich.’

Shutting the door behind him, Budanov pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow and hands; both were clammy.

Back in the office, Dudka continued to look at the image for a few minutes, consigning it to memory before shutting down the laptop and popping it into its bag. He opened his drawer and removed the half-bottle of vodka, poured two fingers, stood and walked over to the window. The street lights illuminated the cobbles. A faded, orange-and-yellow, electric trolley bus glided along towards the opera. He remembered, years before, going with his wife and half-smiled at the memory. Irina had loved the opera and loved him. They had made quite a pair, the then-dashing young KGB officer and the ballerina. Their careers had been good for each other. She had toured and he had sometimes accompanied her, gathering intelligence as he went.

The doors to the Opera House opened and patrons started to flood out, the street lights catching their brightly coloured evening gowns, further illuminating the night. He hadn’t gone to the opera since her death; he couldn’t bring himself to. Together they had been strong and in love, but cancer had killed her. It had torn him apart inside and he had never recovered – but this he had also never admitted to anyone. He watched for a few minutes more as humanity passed by. He downed the vodka, a silent toast to the past. It was a two-minute drive in his official car or a ten-minute walk, mostly downhill, to his empty flat, empty apart from his little dog. It looked nice out so he decided to walk. He picked up the laptop bag and locked his office.