Cold Blood

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Arnaud blushed. Had he offended his fellow teacher? ‘Oh?’

Snow paused to maximise Arnaud’s potential embarrassment. ‘The Salvation Army. I had to give it up, though; I got repetitive strain injury from banging my tambourine.’ Snow held Arnaud’s gaze for a second before both men started to laugh.

They reached the right bank of the river and took a road which suddenly became cobbled and wound its way between the trees and up towards the city centre. As they did, Snow pointed out the city barracks, ‘Arsenalna’, before they arrived at Khreshatik. Snow described it as a mixture of Bond and Oxford Streets, but four times as wide. Two minutes later, after fighting the traffic, the Lada mounted the pavement and parked in front of the arched gates of the apartment block. Victor opened the boot and handed Snow and Arnaud the bags. He then extended his hand and shook Arnaud’s. ‘Good day.’

‘Good day,’ replied Arnaud with a smile.

The Lada pulled back into the road and headed back down to Khreshatik. Arnaud looked around. Pushkinskaya ran parallel to Kyiv’s main boulevard – Khreshatik. It was lined with six-storey apartment blocks at this end and a couple of government buildings at the other. On the ground floor of most of the blocks were restaurants, bars, a travel agent and a shoe shop. The road itself was just wide enough for two-way traffic. The pavement on both sides was almost as wide as the road.

‘Not a bad street, eh? The architecture is a lot better here in the centre than on the outskirts.’

Arnaud agreed. From what he had seen so far, Kyiv’s city centre reminded him of a much cleaner version of Paris, although his part-Gallic blood wouldn’t allow him to vocalise this. ‘So, where’s the school?’

‘Twenty minutes away by car on the other side of the river, I’m afraid, even though it’s named after an area ten minutes’ walk away. Come on, let’s get inside. The quicker we dump your bags, the quicker I can show you the bars. Unless you’re tired?’

‘What, and miss out on a beer? Nah.’ Arnaud looked at his watch. The flight had landed at ten-thirty, it had taken forty minutes to get his bags and clear customs, and about the same time to get here. It was almost midday. They walked through the door in the three-metre-high iron gates and round the back of the building. There was a small courtyard bordered by other apartment blocks from the neighbouring Prorizna Street. Snow led the way to a door and tapped in a code.

‘The actual foyer and front door face the street but, for some bizarre reason, the other residents have decided to use the back door, and who am I to change this?’ He shrugged. They walked through the door up three steps and into the dark foyer. The walls were painted a two-tone of cream and dark-green. Snow pushed ‘3’ on the keypad and the small lift slowly descended.

‘Here’s something to remember. The floors are numbered in the American way. The flat is on the second floor but we need the third.’

‘Right.’ Arnaud frowned.

‘This is not the ground floor but actually the first floor. Are you with me?’

He wasn’t but didn’t let on. On either side of the foyer sat rows of dark-green mailboxes, one for each flat.

‘How many flats are there here?’

The lift arrived and they manoeuvred themselves and the bags in. ‘Four per floor and six floors. But only one on the ground floor – the others are offices.’

The lift stopped abruptly and they stepped out. Snow walked the five steps to the furthest corner and opened the padded metal door. Inside there was a second wooden door. Opening it, he beckoned Arnaud forward. ‘Welcome to Chez Nous.’

‘Merci.’ Arnaud stepped over the threshold. ‘Why two doors?’

Snow shrugged and followed. ‘All the flats seem to have them. Security, I suppose.’

‘They look like blast-proof doors. You know, like in the films.’

Snow laughed, ‘Well, if you lose your key, please don’t try to open them with a block of semtex.’

Laughing, they walked along the hall and Snow nodded at two doors. ‘Your room is on the right.’ Arnaud followed Snow into the room and they dropped the bags. ‘Hope you don’t mind sharing a flat too much?’

‘Not at all, it reminds me of uni.’

‘It was Joan’s idea. She thought you could stay here until you found your feet. I had a spare room, so as far as I’m concerned it’s yours. Stay as long as you need.’

‘That’s great, very kind. Thanks.’

‘Nichevo – it’s nothing, just happy to help. Grand tour?’

‘OK.’

The flat had real wooden flooring throughout and light silver wallpaper. Snow led him in turn to the bathroom and kitchen before retracing his steps and heading into the lounge. Snow adopted an upper-class accent. ‘If you will follow me, sir, you will find yourself entering the lounge with a south-facing balcony providing panoramic views of the city centre.’ He dropped the act. ‘My room is here, through the lounge.’

Snow opened the doors and they stepped on to the street-facing balcony. Arnaud looked up and down Pushkinskaya. To the left he could make out the top of a building with a large electronic clock. ‘What’s that?’

‘That’s the clock on Maidan, Independence Square. You can hear it chime each hour. It also has a thermometer. I have a picture of myself standing in front of it with a reading of minus twenty-five.’

‘Cool.’

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.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_eab49817-f4e8-5f15-a590-0dda62021f2a)

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.