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Cold Black
Alex Shaw
Aidan Snow is back with a mission that is bigger than ever. Now an MI6 operative, Snow must locate and rescue an old SAS colleague before an Al-Qaeda splinter cell can carry out acts of unprecedented horror. But who is covertly funding these new attacks and why?Aidan Snow finds himself caught in a maelstrom involving East, West and Middle East which could have catastrophic results.Praise for Alex Shaw:‘Meet Aidan Snow, an ice-cold operative in a red-hot adventure’ Stephen Leather‘Sizzles across the page like a flame on a short fuse!’ Matt Hilton‘A perfect blend of spy fiction and political thriller’ Matt LynnReaders love the Aidan Snow books:‘A superb, pulse-racing read’ Online reviewer‘Exciting and fast-paced’ Online reviewer‘Immensely enjoyable and tightly written’ Online reviewer
About Alex Shaw (#ub089ec2e-8e05-511e-a063-0cd20b9ebafc)
ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.
Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.
Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman (https://twitter.com/alexshawhetman?lang=en) or find him on Facebook.
Also by Alex Shaw (#ub089ec2e-8e05-511e-a063-0cd20b9ebafc)
Cold Blood
Cold East
Cold Black
ALEX SHAW
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
This edition first published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © Alex Shaw 2018 ISBN: 9780008306335
Version: 2018-07-17
Table of Contents
Cover (#u6bae84ad-3c6c-5074-a03c-1cce87ae5d60)
About Alex Shaw (#u6498f241-6f6b-58e9-86b6-4b5046347bbf)
Also by Alex Shaw (#u3607f988-276d-5a94-abbd-25cd1b7e7b20)
Title Page (#u32481b18-c56a-53aa-b25a-926f20bf8b4d)
Copyright (#u12cda182-e9a2-5d07-a124-52396c6b45b6)
Dedication (#u75b20fec-20a6-55d5-b737-c6541b3765e1)
Prologue (#u75a17a59-c387-5d1c-9e92-dc0fb5378410)
Chapter 1 (#u070e362d-10c1-5f94-a721-469a22ce6f07)
Chapter 2 (#u3e97bc65-6518-5389-8b66-47d8e60d44f3)
Chapter 3 (#u92041d32-97ff-5b4e-b543-d68eaff33177)
Chapter 4 (#u1b8233ca-efc7-5b79-a29b-4d786d5ebaf9)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader, (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader, (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To my wife, Galia, and my sons, Alexander & Jonathan.
To family in England and Ukraine.
Prologue (#ub089ec2e-8e05-511e-a063-0cd20b9ebafc)
Harley Street, London, England
Aidan Snow sat on the examination table wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. Dr Durrani poked Snow’s left leg with a gloved index finger, his large, bright eyes focusing intently.
‘Hmm. The incision seems to have healed nicely; the reduction in scar tissue is what we would have hoped for.’ Turning his attention to the right leg, Durrani continued. ‘I’m not as happy with this one, but then you did leave it rather a long time before coming to see me.’
Snow nodded. It hadn’t been his idea to visit the doctor, but a direct command from Jack Patchem, his handler at SIS. Patchem’s view was that no undercover operative could ‘blend in’ if he was riddled with scars. Snow saw no reason to complain.
‘Now the shoulder. Hmm. If you would just raise your arm for me… that will do fine. Any pain at all? Any discomfort?’
‘No.’
‘None?’
‘None,’ Snow lied. He got the occasional twinge from all his old injuries, especially those caused by bullets, but letting the SIS-contracted doctor know that wouldn’t help with his operational status.
Snow was fit – above average, even by army standards – but by the ripe old age of thirty-six, he’d had one leg crushed in a car crash and the other punctured with a round from an AK74. This was in addition to a recent bullet to the right shoulder. Ten years separated the first and second set of injuries, but they had been caused by the same ruthless former Spetsnaz member.
The first injury had led to Snow prematurely leaving the SAS and the second set had caused him to be recruited by Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), or as it was more widely but inaccurately known, ‘MI6’. After rehabilitation of his injuries and a refresher course in the Welsh mountains, competing against the newest SAS Selection hopefuls, he had been passed fit for service.
‘Medical over. You can get dressed now.’ Durrani walked to the sink, removed his gloves, and unnecessarily washed his hands. He straightened his blood-red bow tie. ‘How’s Jack these days?’
The question took Snow by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Jack who?’
‘Good, good, just checking – “loose lips sink ships” as they used to say.’
‘They also make for very bad saxophonists,’ Snow replied as he quickly dressed.
‘What? Oh, very good. Mind if I use that one?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Thank you.’ Durrani smiled and opened the door. ‘Well, all being “well”, I’ll see you this time next year. Goodbye.’
Snow knew better than to shake the doctor’s hand. For a plastic surgeon, Durrani had a strange phobia of ‘personal contact’.
Snow exited Durrani’s examination room and couldn’t help but glance at the pretty receptionist, dressed in her pure white uniform; he could make out the line of a black bra beneath. She smiled at him as he self-consciously looked away and left the building.
Harley Street was busy with lunchtime traffic, businesspeople and a few lost tourists being given directions by a pair of Metropolitan Police officers. Snow headed north towards Regent’s Park and the nearest tube station; he had a meeting with Patchem at their Vauxhall Cross headquarters. Snow cared little for London, although living there was a necessity. It was too noisy and too scruffy, especially compared to some other capital cities. But not Paris. Snow remembered his friend, Arnaud, half-French and always defending the homeland of his mother.
Arnaud had argued that Paris was the ‘capital of Europe’ with its grand architecture. Snow had retorted that the ‘grand architecture’ didn’t make up for the pavements littered with dog shit and the stench of cheap cigarettes. He still blamed himself for what had happened. The events of eighteen months before, in Ukraine, had hit him harder than he had thought possible. Snow’s mental scars, too, had been ‘cosmetically repaired’. Involuntarily he touched his shoulder and felt for the bullet wound, now almost invisible but still aching. Snow had tried to save the life of a friend and failed.
A noise from behind broke his train of thought. A scream. Snow turned. A figure was standing outside Durrani’s building, Middle Eastern or Asian. A voice inside his head tried to tell him something. Snow retraced his steps back towards the doctor’s surgery, his eyes on the entrance. Another scream. Snow broke into a jog. Two men left the building in a hurry; one had his face obscured by bandages. They joined the first, who had now moved from the building and was holding open the door to a waiting Ford Mondeo. There was an object in the hand of the last man to exit the surgery: a handgun.
The gunman looked directly at Snow, who was still running towards him, and pulled the trigger. There was a ‘thud’ as a suppressed 9mm round left the weapon and raced towards the SIS operative. Snow instinctively dived left, down the basement steps of the nearest building, crashing into several bins.
A car door slammed. Winded, Snow raised his head. The Mondeo was now ‘four up’ and pulling away south into traffic. Snow sprinted to the surgery, straining his eyes to see the registration number of the Ford. He had a decision to make: follow the X-rays or check the building.
Snow took the steps up, two at a time. The door to the communal hall was open, as was that to the surgery. He’d hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t find what he did. The receptionist lay sprawled back on her chair, her dress ripped open to expose her breasts. There was a neat bullet hole in her forehead and an explosion of blood on the cream wall behind. Snow swore, fury rising within. He kicked open the doctor’s door and found that Durrani had also been executed. Lying at an acute angle across his desk, he had been double-tapped in the chest then shot once through the skull for good measure.
In a flash, Snow was back out on the street, mobile phone to his ear as he waited for the emergency services to connect him. There was a loud honking from further up the street. The Mondeo was still there, caught up at the traffic lights at New Cavendish Street. Snow had to reach it. He ran faster than before, switching his phone to video-capture mode. Snow heard raised voices from behind and turned. The two Metropolitan Police officers. One saw the open door and went up to investigate, the other followed Snow.
‘Excuse me, sir… sir, excuse me,’ the officer shouted.
Snow continued to intercept the car, while the policeman quickened his pace, one hand on his helmet in what looked like a scene from the ‘Keystone Cops’. Snow drew level with the Mondeo and looked in. Four men, Middle Eastern. The one with the bandages was now removing them; another held a handgun. As Snow aimed his cameraphone at them, a hand grabbed Snow’s shoulder. Snow pivoted and flung his unknown attacker to the ground, his phone dangling by its carry cord. The police officer hit the pavement with force, his helmet spinning off into the traffic.
‘Security Services,’ was all Snow managed to get out, before a round zipped past his face. He fell to the pavement, the lights changed, and the Mondeo moved off. Snow tried to get to his feet but was forcefully pushed flat by the second officer, who had now caught up.
‘Secret Intelligent Service. You’re stopping the wrong person.’
The second officer attempted to place his knee on Snow’s chest. ‘Stay still!’
‘For the love of God…’ Snow twisted and, using his right leg, swept the officer’s legs out from under him. He sprang to his feet. The first officer, now standing, had extended his folding truncheon and was holding it in his right hand.
‘Get down… down!’
‘Get out of the bloody way!’ Snow lurched forward and ducked inside the officer’s advancing arm. He kicked the man in the back of the knee before ripping the truncheon from his hand and hurling it into the street.
Snow sprinted to the end of the road and at the junction reacquired the Mondeo, fifty metres ahead on Wigmore Street, stopped this time by a taxi. He heard sirens now, from Harley Street behind him, an armed response unit arriving on the scene given the sensitive Central London location. As Snow watched, the target vehicle raced off, mounting the pavement and breaking the speed limit. Snow turned and was met with a cloud of CS gas…
‘You… sodding… idiots!’
Hands again tried to clamp him. Eyes streaming, Snow fought back, kicking out at the blurred shapes. One officer went down swearing, the other landed a punch. Snow lost control completely and shoulder-barged the second officer before delivering an uppercut to his unprotected jaw. Both officers were down, hurt.
‘Listen to me!’ Snow yelled. ‘There’s a kill team out there getting away. We need to call it in!’
‘Armed police! Drop your weapon and lie on the floor, facedown.’
Snow shut his still-streaming eyes in disbelief. He slowly placed his phone on the pavement and lay down beside it. A black tactical boot kicked the phone into the gutter.
‘That’s HM Government property. You’ll get a bill!’
‘Be quiet now, please, sir.’
Gloved hands grabbed Snow’s and pulled them behind his back.
His hands secured, Snow was searched before being hoisted to his feet. The tight plasticuffs bit into his wrists. The two ‘beat bobbies’ were looking none too happy.
