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‘Call me Joan. Bye bye.’ She put down the phone and looked at Snow. ‘There we are, someone to help you out with your running club.’
‘Good.’
Greenhill continued, ‘As long as you promise to collect him for me and look after him.’
Snow smiled. It would be nice to get another British teacher into the school; he and Joan were outnumbered three to one by the Canadians.
Chapter 5 (#uf61dba57-93ea-51d3-8bd8-16cbb11da695)
Odessa, Kyiv Highway, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine
The silver 7 Series BMW pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the Maybach 57S, causing Varchenko to spill his cognac. ‘What is this?’ he shouted at his driver as his mobile phone rang.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Valeriy Ivanovich, I mean you no harm.’
‘Who the hell is this!?’ Varchenko threw the remainder of his cognac down his throat.
‘I am in the car in front of you and would like to talk.’
Two men stepped out of the BMW and approached. They had their hands raised to show they held no weapons. In the Maybach’s front seat, Varchenko’s guard unholstered his Glock 9mm as the driver put the luxury saloon into reverse gear, ready to perform a J-turn.
A third man emerged from the BMW; this one had a phone to his right ear. ‘I am getting out of the car and will now walk towards you. Your driver will open the door and let me in. He and your guard will then get out.’
‘Like hell they will,’ Varchenko roared into the Vertu handset.
‘Come now, Valeriy Ivanovich; I am sure you would like to know who killed Mr Malik?’
Varchenko went cold. Were the killers of his business partner about to make contact or were they about to kill him? Impossible, his mind retorted. Did they not know who he was and what he stood for? Varchenko’s curiosity got the better of him and he ordered the passenger door to be opened. By now his guard had called ahead and a backup car was on its way. While the two other occupants of the BMW looked on and exchanged professional glares with his own men, Varchenko was joined by his caller. The man pocketed his phone, calmly climbed into the car and shut the door.
Tauras ‘The Bull’ Pashinski extended his hand, but it was ignored. He shrugged and introduced himself. ‘I am Olexandr Knysh, and I killed the British businessman.’
Varchenko shook in his seat with rage, his face turning crimson. ‘You hold me up on the Odessa highway in the middle of the day and have the audacity to tell me this!’
‘I am sorry. Should we have met in the restaurant you just left and caused a scene?’
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Varchenko was still incredulous.
‘I am just a businessman like you, Valeriy Ivanovich. A simple businessman and I am looking to invest in Odessa. I understand that you now seek a new partner and I am offering to be that very person.’ Bull picked up a glass and poured himself a cognac.
‘How dare you insult me in such a manner? Don’t you know who the hell I am?’ Varchenko grabbed the cognac bottle.
‘Why, of course I do.’ Bull drank the dark liquor. ‘Very good. French? You are Valeriy Varchenko, former general of the KGB and Hero of the Soviet Union. You own several large companies, part-own a bank and four hotels in the Odessa Oblast, and you are also responsible for most of the organised crime.’
‘You are well informed, if somewhat too concise.’ His ego slightly massaged, he started to breathe more normally. ‘What, however, gives you the slightest idea that you can strong-arm me?’ The man had balls, he had to concede.
Bull placed the glass delicately back in the holder. ‘It would be a pity if foreign investors were to avoid Odessa. Given the tax-zone incentive, they should be pouring money into the area and into your pockets.’
‘So you are threatening me, Knysh?’ Varchenko now knew how to play this.
‘That is a very crude way to put my proposal, Valeriy Ivanovich. I believe that you have need of a partner who brings in not only capital but a wealth of experience in other business-related matters such as, for example, security and life insurance. Not to mention new export opportunities…’
Varchenko had now heard enough. He looked into the snake-like eyes of the man who called himself Knysh. ‘I have no need for another partner, however experienced he may be. You have made a monumental error of judgement in approaching me. I do not want to see or hear from you again. Now leave my car before I personally strangle you!’
Bull held the old man’s gaze impassively. ‘My offer is still open. I will give you time to reconsider.’ He exited the car.
The driver and guard got back in.
‘Drive,’ commanded Varchenko, ‘but not fast.’
The Maybach manoeuvred past the BMW and moved up the road. Its 612bhp V12 Mercedes engine could propel it to 100kmph in five seconds, but he wasn’t running away. This was his Oblast! Varchenko dialled a number and a phone rang in a fast-approaching Mercedes G Wagon. ‘Ruslan, when you see them, run them off of the road. They must not get away. Do you understand?’
He leant back and poured a large cognac. This one he savoured. If you are a dog, do not attack the bear.
Boryspil Airport, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
The arrivals doors at Kyiv’s Boryspil Airport opened and, through eager crowds pushing to catch a glimpse of their loved ones, Snow spotted a tall, fair-haired figure. The man looked somewhat bewildered. He had a large case in each hand and a rucksack on his back.
‘You must be Arnaud?’ Snow called out above the heads of an elderly couple.
Arnaud looked up and smiled. ‘Aidan?’
‘Correct. Welcome to Kyiv.’
Arnaud pushed his way forward as best he could and Snow took one of the cases with one hand and shook Arnaud’s with the other. ‘Travelling light?’
‘I didn’t know what to bring, so I brought two of everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’ve brought two pairs of socks you’ll be fine. Follow me.’
Snow led them through the crowds of hopeful locals masquerading as taxi drivers and out to a waiting Lada. The driver, Victor, leant against the bonnet smoking. On seeing the pair he stubbed out the cigarette and opened the boot.
‘Hello to Kyiv.’
‘I think he means welcome.’
Arnaud held out his hand, ‘Nice to meet you, old boy.’
Victor nodded and took the luggage. Once the boot was loaded, he gestured for them to be seated.
Arnaud sat in the back behind Snow. ‘Is this a Lada?’
‘Yep, the Subaru of the former Soviet Union. It’s about forty minutes to the city centre and our place; sit back and enjoy the view.’
Arnaud nodded and looked out of the window at the passing forests bordering the Boryspil-Kyiv highway. Victor pressed a button on the radio and Queen’s greatest hits filled the car. Arnaud let Freddie Mercury sing for a few bars then leant forward. ‘How long have you been here then?’
Snow swivelled in his seat. ‘This is the start of my third year at Podilsky.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yeah, I do. The staff are friendly and we tend to socialise outside of school too. Beats teaching in the UK.’
Arnaud clicked his teeth. ‘I hope so.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘I just finished my NQT year at Horley Comprehensive, or to give it the new “super” name, Horley Community College. Ever been to Horley?’
Snow shook his head. ‘I’ve passed through.’
‘Best thing to do. It’s a toilet. The kids are half-crazed from breathing in the aviation fuel from Gatwick Airport. Where did you train then?’
‘Leeds, and I did my NQT year in Barnsley.’
‘Like it?’
‘Probably better than Horley.’
Victor said something in Russian to Snow, who smiled and replied in the same language.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said it was his dream at school to visit London, so now, when he hears English, it makes him happy.’
‘I’d better not speak French then; it may overexcite him.’
‘That’s right; you’re bilingual. Dad or Mum?’
‘Mum. And you speak Ukrainian?’
‘I speak some Russian. I learnt it at school.’
‘Private school?’
‘I was an embassy brat. My dad was at the British Embassy in Moscow in the Eighties, then Poland, then East Germany.’
‘Was he the ambassador?’
‘Nothing so glamorous. He was the cultural attaché. He arranged exchanges with the Bolshoi Ballet, etc.’
‘Oh. See many women in leotards?’
Snow laughed. ‘Yeah, but I was too young to appreciate them!’
There was a pause as Arnaud stared at a Mercedes with blacked-out windows shooting past. Victor waved his fist and mumbled ‘Jigeet!’
Arnaud looked at Snow blankly. ‘It means something like “road hog and menace” in Russian.’
‘I thought they spoke Ukrainian here?’
‘They speak a mixture. They were forced to learn Russian when it was still the Soviet Union. “Rusification”, it was called. Since independence the official national language has been Ukrainian but everyone can speak and uses Russian. More so in Kyiv and in the east of the country. The further west you go, the more Ukrainian you hear spoken.’
‘Sounds a bit like Wales.’
‘Similar.’
Victor piped up again and Snow nodded. ‘If you look to your right you’ll see Misha the bear on the grass verge. Look there, see it?’
Arnaud looked and saw an eight-feet-high cartoon-style bear made of painted concrete. ‘What is it?’
‘He was the emblem for the 1980 Moscow Olympics.’
‘Oh, I see. That was a bit before my time.’
‘When were you born?’
‘1981.’
‘Jesus.’ Snow frowned playfully. ‘I’ve got shirts older than you!’
They passed a large sign welcoming them to Kyiv. The city was expanding fast as more and more high-rise tower blocks were built in the suburbs. The new builds looked like luxury hotels compared to the old Lego-box Soviet architecture. Arnaud stared at the roadside billboards and squinted until he realised he couldn’t read the words because they were in Cyrillic and not because he needed glasses. They passed a two-storey shopping centre and then a McDonald’s.
‘That lot’s only been here for the past five years,’ commented Snow. ‘They had to make do with proper food before that.’
‘How do you say “Big Mac” in Russian?’ Arnaud’s mind drifted to his favourite film, Pulp Fiction.
‘Big Mac,’ replied Snow. ‘They don’t bother translating the words. I think Ronald McDonald is rather keen on brand awareness.’
Suddenly the tower blocks dropped away and they were at the river Dnipro. They crossed the bridge. The side they had just come from, the left bank, was littered with high-rise blocks; the right was covered with thick green trees. Several gold, onion-shaped domes poked out between them, reflecting the summer sun like mirrors. Arnaud recognised the Pechersk Lavra Monastery from his Lonely Planet guidebook and remembered it contained more mummies than all the pyramids and temples of Egypt. Next to the monastery was a tall metal statue of a woman. In one hand she held a dagger and in the other a shield. He couldn’t remember what it was. Snow anticipated Arnaud’s question. ‘That’s Brezhnev’s mother.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what they call it. Brezhnev ordered it built as a symbol of Mother Russia.’
‘That’s right.’ He started to remember.
‘You see the dagger? That was originally a sword but, after it was completed, the planners realised it was actually taller than the grand church tower at the Lavra Monastery. So it was made shorter. Brezhnev wasn’t happy but in this case the Church beat the mighty Soviet State. It’s still allegedly taller than the Statue of Liberty, but don’t let the Yanks know! The statue is on top of the military museum. I’ll take you there if you like; they’ve got loads of Soviet-era tanks, planes and helicopters.’
Arnaud stared. ‘Cool. I’m into all that. You know, military stuff.’
Snow tried not to smile. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I was in the TA for a while at uni, even thought about becoming an officer.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘I’m not a fan of green. No; I met this girl, and anyway, I didn’t in the end. I’m not a meathead. I’d rather not get shot by an Arab.’
‘I used to be in the army.’
