Cold Blood
ALEX SHAW

HQ

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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 © September 2018 ISBN: 978000830632

Version: 2018-06-20

Hetman – the title of the highest military commander, after the monarch, in fifteenth- to eighteenth-century Poland, Ukraine and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Keep Reading…

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

20th September 1996. SchreinerBank, Poznan, Poland

He set his watch, pulled down the black balaclava and stepped out of the van. As one, the men stormed the bank. ‘Na Podloge Natychmiast!’ On the floor now – the Polish was precise, clipped and accented. With a swift bark from a Kalashnikov, the sole SchreinerBank guard was neutralised.

Shocked customers screamed and threw themselves down as two men in black coveralls pointed their automatic weapons; the dead guard was evidence they weren’t afraid to use them. Two other assaulters wearing empty backpacks vaulted over the counter and headed towards the safe. A fifth and sixth sat across the street in two high-powered BMW saloons. Parked facing down cobbled side streets, the cars were poised for a speedy exfiltration. At either end of the main street identical Opel vans stood, packed with Russian-made plastic explosives. No further words were exchanged as each member of the assault team took up their prearranged positions.

Bull had watched and waited for months for this shipment to arrive, had persuaded an ‘eager’ government employee to give him the building’s schematics, and was now ready to collect his four million Deutsche Marks. A stunned silence took hold of the banking hall, broken only by the whimpering of a youth. Bull looked down at him in disgust. Seven years ago, such a boy would have been his to command in Afghanistan.

Police Training Area, Poznan, Poland

Aidan Snow sat on the wooden bench and stirred his tea. If it hadn’t been for the sound of gunfire and smell of cordite, the training camp would have been idyllic. As part of a four-man training team, Snow had been in Poland for over two months advising the Polish Police Pododdziay Antyterrorystyczne (counterterrorist unit). Now the Cold War was well and truly over, his unit, the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), was in demand as the governments of newly independent states attempted to stem the tide of international organised crime and terrorism. He closed his eyes; the last rays of the summer sun seemed reluctant to leave Poznan.

At twenty-four, Aidan Snow had been deployed to numerous hostile locations – some overt, such as Northern Ireland, and others strictly covert; some domestic, some international. His time with ‘the regiment’ had been eventful all right – not the life his parents would have wished for the son of a teacher and a diplomat.

He looked on as the rest of his team showed the Polish trainees the correct way to track and hit a moving target. A target had been attached to a pulley, which was strung between several trees. Some bright spark had pasted a photograph of Andreas Möller to it in a direct reference to the English soccer team’s defeat at Euro ‘96. That summer, famously, Möller had scored the sixth-round penalty that had stopped England getting to the final. The trainees thought this was very funny. The SAS did not.

The team had made some real progress; for a police SWAT unit they were good – ready, in fact, should a real incident arise. Training was still needed, however, to turn this SWAT unit into a truly elite CT team. Their next exercise, which Snow would lead, would utilise ‘The Killing House’ and hone Close Quarter Battle (CQB) techniques.

The regiment’s killing house in the UK was a two-storey building. It was designed and furnished to look like an average two-up two-down, but had special rubber-coated walls to absorb bullets, extractor fans to clear out cordite, and video cameras in corners to record and play back the action in the rooms. Each room had at least one metal target and live rounds were used. The SAS team had built a less elaborate, mini version at the camp to train the Polish operatives in how to enter a room, assess the situation and neutralise any threats. Inspector Zatwarnitski, head of the Polish CT unit, had said a permanent killing house would be built to UK standards. It hadn’t happened yet.

Snow sipped his tea. It wasn’t a bad gig. The Poles were quick learners, as most of them, unlike their British Police counterparts, had already served time in the Polish army before joining up. This gave them an understanding, if somewhat rudimentary, of military procedure and firearms handling. Several of the men spoke passable English, which was good, as none of the SAS team spoke Polish! In cases of misunderstanding, Snow resorted to his Russian, which most of the Poles spoke as their first ‘foreign’ language.

‘My men impress you, Snow?’

‘They are very promising, Inspector.’

‘Good.’ Zatwarnitski sat. ‘History is a funny thing. A few years ago, your being here would have been unthinkable; the West was the enemy. Our hope, our future, our security lay with our Soviet protectors. And then? Like dominos, it all fell. To be candid, we never really wanted to be on the Soviet side. That is why we need you here, Snow; we are tired of the old methods and, of course, want to learn from the best.’

Snow smiled politely. He had been present when Zatwarnitski made the same speech on his visit to Hereford, courtesy of HM Government. The Pole meant every word and fancied himself as a bit of a public speaker.

‘Our biggest fear now is our old protector – Mother Russia. She is wounded and a wounded bear is the most dangerous kind. We really do appreciate your team, Snow.’ The older man reached out to shake the SAS trooper by the hand.

‘Thank you, Inspector, but we’re just doing our jobs. It’s your men that need to be thanked for working so hard.’

‘Modesty is something I hope you also teach.’ Zatwarnitski raised his mug in mock salute.

A shout came from the communications room; both men stood. Moments before, the radio had fallen from the operator’s hand. The call was from central despatch. Armed men had entered SchreinerBank on Wroclawska Street. They were the nearest specialist unit, could they assist?

Zatwarnitski looked Snow in the eye. ‘Are my men ready?’

‘Yes.’

Minutes later, on Zatwarnitski’s orders, the Poles and their SAS training team were in a convoy being led by a very nervous recruit. After eight weeks on the job, this recruit’s first real ‘action’ was as the lead driver on what the SAS referred to as an ‘immediate’. The young officer concentrated on threading his way through the traffic in his new police Omega. Never mind that his siren was blazing; the drivers of Poznan were none too happy to yield. In the passenger seat sat Zatwarnitski, with Snow, who trusted only his own driving, sitting behind.

Wroclawska Street, Poznan

Bull checked his watch. The local militia would be there in five more minutes. A dull thud came from the back room – his men had blown open the safe. Another sound registered in the distance. Sirens? They were early! The men from the safe detail lumbered into view, weighted down, their Bergen packs now full. Giving the signal, he and his 2IC, Oleg, tossed smoke grenades into the centre of the room and out onto the street. It was now time to leave. He felt for the remote detonator, then the two men took up sentry positions on either side of the road to cover the bagmen as they sprinted across, partly concealed by the billowing white smoke. The heavily laden Bergen packs were hauled into the waiting cars.

The recruit slued around the tight bend and into Wroclawska Street, where he saw smoke pouring from the bank, and men… men in black with guns. Forgetting his training, the young Pole panicked and gunned the accelerator, sirens still blazing.

Bull looked up. ‘Blat!’ This wasn’t meant to happen; they weren’t meant to be here so soon. He realised these weren’t normal police vehicles. The lead car hadn’t yet reached the van, but it would at any second. Dropping to one knee, he pressed the button on the remote detonator as his men opened fire.

The second car came into view. The explosion tore through the Opel van, hurling debris across both lanes of the road. The full force of the blast caught the second Omega, tossing it up and sideways like a child’s plaything. It smashed into the façade of the post office. The lead car punched through the smoke, the recruit screaming as he lost control of his car. The force of the blast sent his charge headlong into the entrance of the bank. He and Zatwarnitski were killed instantly. At the end of the block the other van erupted, levelling a newspaper kiosk and gutting a bakery. The first BMW roared off and away.

As the remainder of his men delivered suppressing fire, Bull noticed movement in the first Omega. He moved to the devastated vehicle. The front of the car had been turned into a mass of twisted steel and broken glass but… a passenger in the back was alive!

The man was dressed in his own black coveralls. Bull looked down at the young, ashen face with dark-brown eyes. Who are you? he thought.

The mouth moved and, through the pain, a raspy voice whispered, ‘Piss off!’

Had he spoken in English? Who were these police who had arrived so quickly? The man tried to move but was pinned to the seat; blood seeped from his mouth and ears. This hero would die soon regardless. Bull pulled up his balaclava and smiled, letting the boy look at the last face he would see on this earth. Shots zipped past his head. More black-clad figures were running through the smouldering debris, returning fire.

‘Blat!’ He cursed again and ran back to his car. Tyres screeching, they disappeared into the suburbs. Tauras ‘Bull’ Pashinski fell back against the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was now a rich man.

Chapter 1

July 2006. Pushkinskaya Street, Kyiv, Ukraine.

He was woken by the early morning sun warming his face and the excited barks of his neighbour’s dog scampering around on the communal landing, waiting for his master to lock the door and join him. Outside, three floors below, the swish of the street sweepers tidying up the pavements with their birch-twig brooms echoed gently. Aidan Snow opened his eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling. Gradually the image sharpened as his eyes became accustomed to the bright sunlight. He rolled onto his side and his nose found the empty glass bottle of Desna Cognac nestling between his pillow and the arm of the bed settee. Snow was wide awake now and knew that, whatever he tried, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He was a morning person, which wasn’t exactly a blessing after nights out. Swinging his legs out, he sat up. Never again, he told himself, and not for the first time. The parquet floor was sticky from spilt beer. Snow walked to the balcony doors and opened them, breathing in the fresh morning air. The street-cleaner van approached from the far end of Pushkinskaya Street with hoses spraying water over the dusty road and pavement. Kyiv glowed with pride in the morning sun, the workers below intent on making her even prouder. A well-oiled Soviet machine that still worked fifteen years after the Union had ceased to.

Snow leaned against the balcony railings and gazed at the Ukrainian capital city he now called home; he had yet to tire of the view. To the left, his street, Pushkinskaya, crossed Prorizna Street and carried on downhill through a high, ornate, double arch into Independence Square. To the right it also sloped downhill, crossing both Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street and Boulevard Taras Shevchenko, before ending at Shevchenko Park and University. These were named after the great Ukrainian writer, their equivalent of Shakespeare, and not the Chelsea footballer, as his pal Michael had insisted. Carefree locals drinking beer and enjoying life were to be found at these meeting places at either end of Pushkinskaya, not to mention the bars that dotted its entire length. For the first time since Poland, Snow was at peace, or as near to it as possible. He took another deep breath – at peace, that was, except for the hangover he was battling.

It had been another night of cheap beer and ex-pat posturing at his favourite bar, Eric’s Bierstube. There had been the usual faces: the TEFL teachers sitting in one corner, trying it on with their most promising or largest-breasted students, and the so-called ‘serious businessmen’ in the other, downing shots as toasts to clinch deals. The rest of the clientele had been made up of either ‘new Ukrainians’, trying to look casual in their Boss suits, or local university students sipping slowly.

Snow had sat in his usual corner, his back against the exposed brickwork, and looked on with Mitch Turney and Michael Jones, who played their game of ‘guess the bra size’. As always, the Obolon beer had flowed freely. Michael had guessed at least one correct size before being called home by his wife, Ina. Mitch and Snow had then adjourned to the flat, where one last drink had taken three hours and resulted in five empty beer bottles and the end of the Desna. Mitch had fallen into a taxi and Snow had fallen on the floor.

He took one more deep breath and walked to the kitchen, collecting the empty bottles en route. His head swam. Never again. It was at times like this that being single was both a blessing and a curse. He had no one to tell him not to drink like a fool until all hours, but no one to come back to. So he drank and partied like, as Mitch put it, ‘a college student on midterm break in Tijuana’.

Snow padded around his functional kitchen and removed a carton of yogurt from the fridge, which contained the bachelor’s bare minimum: a block of cheese, milk, yogurt and a hunk of ham. The space usually taken up by beer had been liberated. He sipped the thick local strawberry yogurt straight from the milk-style carton and opened the kitchen window. July, and Kyiv showed no signs of cooling down.

He scratched the mosquito bite on his left buttock. The heat he liked, the heat he enjoyed, but the damn mozzies could be a pain in the arse! They seemed to hide during the day, only to break in and assault him at night if he forgot to plug in the repellent gizmo.

‘You’ve grown soft,’ he told himself. ‘How did you ever pass selection; a man who complains about a few bites?’ The former SAS soldier smiled to himself. ‘Perhaps I have, but it bloody itches.’ Snow pulled open a draw and took out a packet of pills. He popped two and chased them with yogurt. Never on an empty stomach, his mum said.

Saturday morning and in a couple of hours the streets of the capital would be teeming with people. The Kyivites shopping or promenading along the city’s main boulevard – Khreshatik Street – and the visitors from other regions come to sightsee. Kyiv – he loved her. She was graceful, cultured and beautiful, yet overlooked by the West. He hadn’t abandoned her for the holidays like his fellow teachers, but stayed to savour the hot Ukrainian summer.

This would be the start of his third year teaching at Podilsky School International and he felt at home. Kyiv had been the third-largest city of the mighty Soviet Union, but here in the centre, for all its grand buildings, it still retained a village-like atmosphere, with its inhabitants living just off the main shopping streets. Snow hated towns but Kyiv was different, with its vast number of trees – more than any other city in Europe (a local had told him) – several large parks and a river (again, according to the same source, the widest in Europe) running through the middle. It was both town and country in one. Snow was the only foreigner in his building and Kyiv wasn’t yet spoilt by tourism. It was rare to hear a foreign voice on the street, and those he did hear he usually recognised, by sight at least, as belonging to ex-pats or diplomats.

Just over one more month and school would start again. These drinking binges would have to stop, or at least be confined to the weekends. But not yet. He finished his yogurt and dressed in his running gear. Saturday or not, he wouldn’t allow himself to miss a run. It was a rule he had learnt in the SAS and one he wouldn’t forsake now he was a civilian.

Snow took the steps down to the ground floor to warm up his leg muscles before starting his ritual of stretches in the street outside. It was just after 8 a.m. – later than he normally ran, but, as it was a Saturday, there were fewer people up. Running was something that had become second nature to him; it helped clear his mind. He ran most mornings, although this was tough in the Ukrainian winter, with an average temperature of -10°C. It wasn’t the cold that made it difficult, but the ice. Walking up and down the city’s hills was treacherous and running became suicidal. Thus far, Snow had found the solution by running around one of the city’s central stadiums, either ‘Dynamo’, home to the famed football team, or ‘Respublikanski’, built and used for the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The fact that both of these were open to the general public was another Soviet legacy he embraced.

Satisfied he’d stretched enough, he moved off at a steady pace. He ran down Pushkinskaya until he hit Maidan. Dodging the stallholders setting up their kiosks, he pumped his legs up the steep Kostyolna Street. Cresting the hill he entered Volodymyrska Hirka Park. The morning air hadn’t yet become dusty and a breeze blew in from the Dnipro River below. He was taking his weekend route, as he had nowhere to be in a hurry. Reaching the railings overlooking the river, he turned left, following the footpath. The park followed the river until it abruptly ended at the mammoth Ministry of Internal Affairs headquarters. As Snow ran past the building and towards the British Embassy in the adjoining street, he was once again taken by the sheer size of the place. Looking much like the Arc de Triomphe, but larger, he estimated, the Ukrainian government building wasn’t on any international tourist ‘must see’ lists, but he made a point of staring none the less. It was one of the many things that made him want to stay in Kyiv.

Snow had grown up with a love for the unusual. His father had been cultural attaché for the British Embassy, Moscow, in the mid to late Eighties. As such, Snow had been at the embassy school there for much of his formative adolescent years. The upshot of this was that Snow’s Moscow-accented Russian was all but flawless. Ignoring his parents’ protestations that he go to university, he had joined the army immediately after his A-levels. Turning down a chance at officer training, he’d completed the minimum three-year service requirement before successfully passing ‘Selection’ for the SAS. He’d wanted to be a ‘badged member’ ever since seeing the very public ‘Princes Gate’ hostage rescue (Operation Nimrod) at the Iranian Embassy as a nine-year-old in 1980. His parents had laughed it off and bought him a black balaclava and toy gun, but, as the years passed, Snow’s desire to join only increased. Then he was in. His boyhood dream fulfilled and, although begrudgingly, he knew his parents had been a bit proud. Then it all went wrong.

Snow slowed to a walk as he entered Andrivskyi Uzviz. The steep cobbled street, lined with souvenir stalls, art galleries and bars, was quite capable of inflicting a broken ankle on the unwary. He descended the hill. His right thigh had started to throb. The sensation always brought back memories of the accident in Poland, the unbearable pain he had felt, pinned to the backseat of the car, unable to move, unable to reach for a weapon to defend himself. The sound of flames and the vicious scent of petrol filling his lungs. Then that face, the serpentine eyes that had looked into his and pronounced sentence upon him.

Snow shivered in spite of the warm morning air. After the accident the doctors had said he would always walk with a limp; that the bone would be weakened and that the muscles might not knit back together. They advised that he be taken off active duty, given a desk or other duties. He ignored them and attempted to defy all medical opinion by pushing himself harder than he’d ever thought possible. He spent hours in rehabilitation, first with PT instructors and then, later, on his own. He was twenty-four years old and a member of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment; no one was going to tell him what he could or couldn’t do.

His effort paid off and the regiment doctor had signed him off as fit for active duty. No limp, just a scar. However, the one thing Snow hadn’t admitted to anyone, least of all himself, was the toll taken by the mental scar. The nightmares, for want of a more macho term, that prevented him from sleeping and turned him from jovial troop member into withdrawn loner. Snow had sought professional help and then accepted the truth. He left the regiment within the year with an honourable discharge, his military career cut short.

He felt his leg ease as he reached the bottom of the hill and swore at himself for yet again allowing the past, something he couldn’t change, to ruin a perfectly good day. The sun was now higher in the sky as he jogged through central Podil and headed towards Hydropark, the largest island and park in the Kyiv stretch of the Dnipro River. Perhaps he’d risk a swim?

Tiraspol, capital city of Transdniester, disputed autonomous region of Moldova

The two men embraced like the old comrades they indeed were. Bull regarded the face of his friend and former Spetsnaz brother Ivan Lesukov. ‘You have grown fat, old man.’

‘And you ugly.’ Lesukov laughed heartily. ‘I see that Sergeant Zukauskas has not changed – you still look like a pig!’

‘That is why the Muslims hated me so much!’ Oleg, the barrel-chested Lithuanian winked.

Lesukov raised his glass and the others followed. ‘To fallen comrades.’ The vodka was cold, having been stored in the fridge Lesukov kept in his office.

‘You have an empire here, Ivan,’ Bull said, congratulating his friend.

‘I am the King of Chairs,’ Lesukov replied, spreading his palms at the window, which looked out over the factory floor below. ‘The main industries of our country are furniture and electronics, but we can’t sell abroad because of those bastards in Chisinau.’ He shrugged. ‘Our products do not carry the Moldovan government stamp and, as our country of Transdniester is not recognised outside of its own borders, we cannot sell.’ Lesukov refilled the glasses. ‘But I don’t care a shit about the electronics or even my chairs. What I have brought you here for today is to discuss how you can help an old comrade with his export business.’ He raised his glass. ‘To success.’ Again, the glasses were drained.

Bull spoke first. ‘I understand that, of late, you have been having some logistical problems?’

‘Our “friends”, the Russians, are understanding, if not supportive, of our “specific” situation. They let my goods pass freely through the security zone. In fact, some of my goods even originate from the weapons they are “peacekeeping over”.’ He tapped his nose with the end of his index finger. ‘So, with the Russians, here in Transdniester, I have no problem. They are good boys. It is the Moldavians to the west and the Ukrainians to the east that I am having problems with.’ He balled his fist.

Tensions between Transdniester and her neighbours, Moldova and Ukraine, had been high since Transdniester separatists, with Russian support, broke away from Moldova in 1992, declaring independence. The short civil war that ensued had left more than 1,500 dead. An uneasy truce, brought about by Russian ‘peacekeepers’, had stabilised the region since then. In a strange turn of events, Europe’s biggest Soviet Army weapons cache was now to be found not in ‘Mother Russia’, but near the Transdniestern town of Kolbasna, guarded by the two thousand Russian soldiers acting as ‘peacekeepers’.

A ‘confidential’ 1998 agreement between Russia’s then prime minister, Viktor Chernomyrdin, and Igor Smirnov, the self-appointed president of Transdniester, to share profits from the sale of 40,000 tons of ‘unnecessary’ arms and ammunition had made Lesukov and men like him very wealthy. However, once a copy of this agreement had come into the hands of the Associated Press, there had been protests in Washington and a scandal in the European media. Russia had denied the story as preposterous and Ukraine had condemned any potential arms dealing, stepping up the size of their border guards units.

Lesukov was beginning to feel the pinch as he found it harder and harder to get his goods out of the country.

Lesukov paused and refilled the glasses. ‘How many of the Orly still serve with you?’ It was a question to Bull. Orly, the Russian for ‘eagles’, wasn’t a regimental title but a traditional name used to signify fearless fighting men.

‘Of my Brigada, six; however, since becoming freelance we have many more good men.’

After leaving the Red Army Spetsnaz, Bull had recruited other former ‘Special Forces’ soldiers from numerous Soviet Republics. These were some of the most highly trained soldiers in the world, yet had been discarded when the Union crumbled. He had bought their loyalty for little more than a few hundred dollars each; as a hero of Afghanistan he already had their respect. For the past fifteen years he had built a reputation in several war zones as a ruthless leader, mercenary and surprisingly good business facilitator. He had brokered arms deals with the Mujahedeen, rebels in Georgia’s breakaway Abkhazia region, and insurgents in Africa, to name but a few. Now it was only natural that one of the main suppliers of weapons should want his direct assistance.

‘What had you in mind, my old friend?’ Bull asked.

Lesukov smiled, raised his glass again. ‘To women.’ The other two followed. It wasn’t that they especially wanted to honour women, just a Soviet tradition for every third toast. He placed his hands flat on the metal desk.

‘The Ukrainians have their own group of Orly, called the “SOCOL”. They are a highly effective anti-smuggling and anti-organised-crime unit. This I could normally admire; however, they have now turned their focus on my shipments. In the last two months alone they have intercepted three of them…’ His voice trailed off as he totted up on his large fingers how much he had lost, then doubled it. ‘They have cost me almost three million American dollars in profit!’ His face had grown red and any hint of levity had passed.

He sighed and remembered the dusty mountains of Afghanistan some eighteen years before, and the young Spetsnaz captain who had fought next to him. ‘You were the best in Kabul, saved us all. Now I ask you to save me again. I want you to stop this SOCOL team once and for all.’

Oleg, who had listened quietly, let his tongue run along the outside of his top lip. He loved action and had grown weary of ‘business’. To take on a real target was what he lived for. He looked at his CO.

Bull folded his arms and nodded. ‘It can be done, but of course there is a price.’

Lesukov’s eyes glinted; he had anticipated this. ‘I will give you ten per cent of each shipment that passes successfully into Ukraine.’

‘Thank you. While that is a good offer, my friend, can I ask if you find it easy to export your “goods” from Ukraine?’

Lesukov paused and in that millisecond confirmed what Bull had expected. ‘They are squeezing me from both ends. At one end I have the SOCOL and at the other border guards, customs officials who will not accept payments and…’

‘Thirty per cent, Ivan.’

‘What?’

‘Thirty per cent and I take care of imports into Ukraine and exports out of the territory.’ Bull folded his arms.

Lesukov scratched his nose. ‘My margins are not that high, Tauras. I can give you twenty.’

‘Twenty-five per cent and we can start today.’ Bull held out his right hand. Lesukov momentarily paused then grasped it with his own.

‘Deal. But you will not start today. Today we have a little fun, eh? I know an interesting club!’ He refilled the glasses and then placed a call on his office phone.

This time Bull made the toast. ‘To business.’

They drank. There was a knock at the door; Lesukov beckoned a young man into the room. ‘Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Arkadi. He will take you to the hotel.’

‘Zdravstvyite.’ Arkadi Cheban greeted both men in Russian as he shook their hands. ‘This way, please.’

Lesukov regarded his two comrades as they were led down the steps and out of the factory. He had once been a Spetsnaz warrior himself, but now – he held his considerable gut – he was the director of a chair factory. Officially.

Regus Business Centre, London, UK

The City Chamber of Commerce and Industry pre-mission briefing for the forthcoming Trade Mission to Ukraine was held at a Regus business centre in Central London. The fourteen participating companies had, in the main, sent their representatives on this wet July day. Alistair Vickers was one of the first to arrive and had taken a seat, as befitted a man from the embassy and official guest speaker, at the head of the long oval table. To his right sat Nicola Coen, the mission leader who would be accompanying the group to Kyiv. On her right sat the official mission travel agent, Wendy Jenkins from Watergate Travel. Vickers had made a joke about the company name but, in Wendy’s case, it had been heard by ears that hadn’t understood. Nicola had smiled and looked down at her papers, not wanting to make fun of her ‘travel management provider’.

The seat to Vickers’s left was empty and reserved for the other guest speaker, Bhavesh Malik. Vickers had met him once before and on that occasion he had also been late. He picked up his copy of the handouts that accompanied the briefing and read the information about Bhavesh’s father, Jasraj, which had been lifted from the company’s own unapologetic website:

‘NewSound – a success story! At the age of fifteen, Jasraj moved to the UK – East Sussex, Portslade, in fact – to work for his uncle’s hearing aid dispensing business. But by twenty-one, ‘Jas’, as he became known to all his friends and customers, was qualified as an audiologist and set to work designing his own aids. These were some of the first BTE (Behind the Ear) models to go on sale in the UK! Now, after forty-seven years of hard work, Jas’s front-room workshop has turned into three manufacturing plants in the UK, Pakistan and Ukraine, producing high-quality hearing aids and covert listening devices.’

Vickers skipped the more self-congratulatory bits and focused on the part the missioners had come to learn about:

‘…Opened in 1999, the Odessa manufacturing site is based in what was formally a top-secret Soviet telecommunications plant. Initially aided by European Union money and taking advantage of Investment Zone status granted to the area by the Ukrainian government, it soon started mass production…’

Vickers replaced the handout on the table and picked up the mission brochure detailing the various British companies ever-hopeful of selling their particular brand of goods into Ukraine. These companies included, among others, a manufacturer of industrial chemical metering equipment, a management training consultancy, a nickel alloy welding supplier, a pharmaceutical manufacturer and distributor, a language school, a giftware company and, much to his amusement, a Savile Row tailor.

Looking around the room he saw that most of the missioners had now arrived and were just waiting for the final two to finish pouring their coffee and deciding which biscuits to put on their saucers. The tall double doors opened and in stepped Bhavesh Malik. He smiled at Nicola and Vickers and, after placing his umbrella in the stand and brushing the rain from his lapels, took his place.

Nicola started the briefing. ‘Thank you all for coming today. I know that, for some of you, London isn’t the easiest of places to get to. As you’ll see, each of you has a briefing pack which includes our itinerary for today, the proofs of the mission brochure, and copies of the information Wendy and I will be giving you. But first I want to start by introducing our two guest speakers for today. Alistair Vickers is the commercial attaché at the British Embassy in Kyiv. He’ll be giving a business overview of Kyiv and the rest of Ukraine.’

Vickers smiled and looked around the room, finding a sea of expectant faces.

‘Bav Malik is managing director of NewSound UK and his company is somewhat of an export success story. He’ll be letting you in on the secrets of how to make your business work in Ukraine. But first to practical matters, Wendy here, who I believe most of you will have spoken to on the telephone, has some good news. Wendy?’

Wendy unfolded her arms and opened an envelope; her accent, much to Vickers’s chagrin, was estuary English. ‘I’m happy to say that Air Ukraine International has now confirmed your seats and sent me the tickets. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve managed to get you all complimentary access to the business lounge at Gatwick and on your departure from Boryspil Airport.’

Vickers sipped his tea and listened as Wendy handed out tickets and, together with Nicola, went through the travel itinerary. These were the usual points that needed to be clarified, but Vickers didn’t know why he had to sit through it. Nonetheless he pretended to look interested and not stare at the clock, its hands moving ever so slowly, at the opposite end of the room. The technicalities over with, the floor was his. Vickers delivered the prepared FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) statement on Ukraine, told the story of the country since independence in 1991, and gave an overview of the investment climate, current government and, of course, the inherent risks of doing business in an emerging market. ‘I am now happy to answer any questions you might have.’

‘I saw a lot at the time about the Orange Revolution, in the press and on television.’ It was the language-school rep – or Director of International Studies, to quote his mission entry. ‘What do you think will be the long-term outcome of this and what will be the impact?’

Vickers nodded. He, of course, had two opinions on this: the official HM Government line and his own personal one. He decided to live dangerously. ‘As I’m sure you must be aware, the former president had been in power for two terms so couldn’t sit for a third. More reforms were needed and the new government promised to introduce these. The new president, Victor Yushenko, was a former prime minister and head of the National Bank of Ukraine. His party came to power representing reform and I believe that’s what got the people’s vote. The main rival candidate for his presidency, you’ll remember, was the then prime minister, Victor Yanukovich. He was being backed by the then president.’

‘Leonid Kuchma?’

‘Yes, Kuchma. When Yushenko got elected, he wanted to form closer ties with the West; however, that was over a year ago. In the recent parliamentary elections, Yanukovich gained the most votes and now he’s prime minister once again. He, it’s fair to say, would rather strengthen ties with Moscow.’

The Director of International Studies raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think the parliamentary election was rigged like the first presidential election was?’

Vickers realised he was on thin ice. ‘I can’t comment on that. I think the electorate might have expected change to come too fast. Perhaps that’s why we now have both Yushenko and Yanukovich, as it were, “in power”. This, however, is only my opinion. The reforms are still going through and so far the business environment has seemed to improve. Yushenko, at least, is working hard to attract foreign trade and investment.’

The next question came from the pharmaceutical rep. ‘In other markets I’ve visited there have been counterfeit versions of my company’s products. Is this likely to be the case in Ukraine?’

‘Ukraine is not yet a member of the World Trade Organisation but is hoping to join. It’s quite common to see pirated DVDs, CDs and some fashion items in the open-air markets. There are imported medical products from the subcontinent which have been investigated. There are, however, many international brands trading in Ukraine and they’ve not reported any serious problems, either to myself or the Ukrainian Chamber of Commerce. But that’s not to say some counterfeiting doesn’t exist.’

The pharmaceutical rep made a note on his pad. The last question came from the gift company’s export sales manager: ‘Do you like living and working in Ukraine then?’

Vickers looked at the round-faced missioners and felt awkward. He really did like Ukraine but found it hard to put into words. ‘I do. Kyiv’s apparently got the highest number of chestnut trees of any European capital city, hence the city’s leaf emblem. In May especially, when the trees bloom, the city is full of life. There are lots of parks and the old architecture makes it quite picturesque. I really feel it will be an important European city within the next ten to fifteen years. But no “Easy Jet” yet!’ He was proud of this joke and it drew a couple of smiles.

It was then the turn of Bav Malik to talk about his company and how, as per the handout, it had taken advantage of a tax-free investment zone and set up a factory near Odessa. He spoke at length about what they had done and how they had done it. This elicited quite a few questions from the assembled party. Finally, the formal part was over and light refreshments and wine were brought into the room. Some of the missioners rushed back to their offices to complete their day’s work while others lingered to chat, quiz Nicola and enjoy the complimentary Chardonnay.

Bav cornered Vickers with a glass. ‘That went well. I see you didn’t mention the cheap beer as the reason you like Ukraine then?’ He sipped his free wine.

‘I prefer the cheap vodka,’ countered Vickers. ‘I thought your father was going to be here?’

‘He couldn’t make it. He had some meetings in Odessa to attend so he deputised me.’ It was Jas Malik, father to Bav, founder and chairman of NewSound, who was actually responsible for the success in Ukraine and many of their export markets. Bav, at thirty-seven, had followed his father and would eventually become ‘chairman’; his cousin in Pakistan would then be the MD.

‘Do you get over to Odessa much?’ Vickers knew the answer but had to say something.

‘I didn’t used to but now they’ve scrapped the whole “visa” thing it’s a lot easier. I can just hop on a plane.’

‘That,’ said Vickers, ‘is the most positive thing the Ukrainians have ever done for tourism. It was originally for the Eurovision Song Contest. Did you see it?’

Bav smirked. ‘Not quite my cup of tea.’

‘Really?’ It was Vickers’s.

He let his mind wander back to May the previous year. There had been a real carnival feel to Kyiv, even more so than usual. Vickers had walked along Khreshatik with a broad smile on his face. Closed to traffic every weekend, the boulevard had become a huge pedestrian zone. This was one of the only edicts of the former President Kuchma that had been welcomed. Street entertainers juggled balls and bottles, comedians told anecdotes, tented bars had appeared like mushrooms overnight, and couples strolled from end to end. Many people still wore the orange of the revolution and the new president.

He, however, could not take full credit for the high spirits. That honour was shared with a raven-haired local singer called Ruslana, who, thanks to a very athletic dance routine, had won the 2004 Eurovision Song Contest for Ukraine, bringing the following year’s contest to Kyiv. The United Kingdom was in the finals, as of course was host nation Ukraine, with the Orange Revolution’s protest song Razom nas bagato – ‘together we are many’. The song had been sung nightly in Independence Square by thousands in subzero temperatures the previous December to vent national outrage at the ‘rigged’ election results that had temporarily put Moscow-backed Victor Yanukovich into office.

By May 2005, with Victor Yushenko having been fairly elected, the Eurovision in town, and the world’s media focused on them for positive reasons, the population felt huge pride in being Ukrainian. For several days the contestants had rehearsed by day and partied at night, giving impromptu concerts in local bars and clubs to the ever-grateful Kyivites. Vickers loved the Eurovision and had done so for as long as he could remember. His mum had been a fan of Cliff Richard but he preferred Bucks Fizz. This was a secret he didn’t care to share.

Brought back to the present, he looked at his watch. ‘I’d better thank Nicola.’ Vickers held out his hand. ‘It was nice to see you again, Bav.’

Bhavesh shook his hand. ‘You too, Alistair.’

Vickers left the businessman and crossed the room to where the diminutive girl from Yorkshire was making small talk with several middle-aged men. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must say goodbye to Nicola.’

Nicola looked up at the tall, thin figure and shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. ‘Thank you ever so much.’

Vickers bowed slightly. ‘Delighted. No trouble at all.’ He left the business centre and took a cab to Vauxhall Cross. He had another, more important, meeting to attend, this one with HM Secret Intelligence Service.

Chapter 2

Offices of the Directorate for Personnel, Moscow Military District, Russia

The two high-ranking officers from the GRU listened to the sound of boots approaching at a steady pace along the wooden-floored corridor. The colonel took the file the major had given him and looked once more at the release form. He shook his head in dismay. In Soviet times he could have refused point-blank to let such an outstanding young officer go, but this was the new Russia and times had changed. Now a skilled man such as this could earn hundreds of times his current salary in the business world. Russian Military Intelligence couldn’t keep him if he didn’t want to be kept, and that was the harsh reality of the ‘new Russia’.

The doors to the cavernous room were opened by a low-ranking aide and the guest was let in. He drew nearer to the desk before coming to attention and saluting his two superiors.

The colonel returned his salute. ‘At ease, Gorodetski. Please sit.’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The young officer sat in the indicated chair.

There was a long pause while the colonel looked at the form again, then at the man sitting in front of him. ‘You are at the end of your second tour of duty, Captain. You have achieved much.’

‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

The older man furrowed his brow. ‘You are still young; you have an extremely bright military career in front of you. One day you could be sitting here, and have these…’ The colonel indicated his rank bars. ‘So, that makes me ask why. Why do you not want to extend your duty?’

Sergey Gorodetski looked first at the colonel and then at his major, the man he had originally given his release form to. ‘I am grateful for what the Russian Army has done for me but I now wish to pursue other interests. I have been offered an opportunity—’

The colonel snorted and cut him off. ‘This is your opportunity, Captain.’

Gorodetski continued. ‘With respect, Comrade Colonel, I have something I must do.’

The colonel was not moved. Before him sat a rare breed of soldier, the ‘intelligentsia’ of Spetsnaz. With his supreme language skills he could pass for a foreign national and was also deadly with a Dragunov sniper rifle. ‘I knew your brother. You are better than he was.’

Gorodetski nodded. He didn’t know how to take this comment. His brother, too, had been a Spetsnaz officer but he had been killed in Afghanistan. The colonel continued, ‘You have made your family very proud and upheld your brother’s name. But you can do so much more. Will you not reconsider your decision?’ He didn’t like to plead but damn it; this man was one of the best he’d ever seen.

Gorodetski shook his head slowly. ‘I have made my decision, Comrade Colonel. I am sorry.’

‘A Spetsnaz officer should never be sorry.’ The colonel held out his hand and the major passed him a pen. He cast one more look at the young officer before signing the form and marking it with the official stamp. All three men stood. The colonel handed Gorodetski the papers. Gorodetski saluted and left the room.

‘Fool,’ muttered the major.

‘Exactly the opposite,’ replied the colonel.

Horley Community College, Horley, UK

‘My dad says all the French are poofs,’ Danny Butterworth stated to the class of fifteen-year-olds.

‘Sam knows French, don’t ya, Sam!’ added his comedy partner, Dale Small.

Samantha was busy reapplying eyeliner and didn’t look up from her mirror. ‘Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?’

‘Everyone has, you slapper!’ Dale shouted.

At the front of the class, Arnaud took a deep breath. ‘That is enough!’ He slammed the French textbook on the desk and glared at the offending class members. ‘I have asked for silence and I will not ask again!’ A hand went up at the back of the class. ‘Yes, Danny?’

‘Which page we on, mister?’ Danny replied with a cherubic expression.

Arnaud paused and inwardly sighed before answering. ‘Page sixty-nine. Le Weekend.’

There were sniggers around the room. ‘That’s when Sam does her French, sir – at the weekend,’ shouted Danny across the classroom.

‘Twat!’ Sam put down her compact and raised her middle finger.

‘Stand up.’

There was a pause and Sam, a heavily made up girl, her hair streaked bleach-blonde, stood up. Arnaud looked her in the eye she held his gaze. ‘Wot?’

‘What do you mean, “wot”?! I will not tolerate that kind of language in my French class!’

‘But it is French, mister,’ shouted Dale

‘And she is a slapper, sir!’ added Danny.

Sam threw her textbook at the two boys. ‘Wankers!’

‘Get out. Just get out.’ Arnaud was turning red. Unbelievable, unbelievable.

Making as much noise as possible, Sam pushed her table away, scooped up her bag and left the room. Slamming the door, she added, ‘I am twatting going!’

Danny and Dale looked at each other, Danny raising his right fist and Dale hitting it with his own. They were enjoying this, their weekly game of wind up the ‘gay teacher’, made all the better if they could also piss off Sam Reynolds. Danny leant back in his chair and put his feet up on the table and Dale opened a can of Coke. Arnaud, facing the whiteboard, was oblivious of this and continued to calm his breathing, writing the page number, date and title in his neatest handwriting. He would report this behaviour once the lesson was over; Sam was already on report and would be internally excluded for her outburst. Behind him the noise level in the class started to grow. He was about to turn around again and give them another telling off when suddenly it stopped.

‘Put your feet on the floor, and you… put that can in the bin.’ The man at the door looked at Arnaud, a stern expression on his face. ‘Let me know the names of the ones who’ll be picking up litter at lunchtime.’

Arnaud returned with an equally stern face of his own, ‘Will do, Mr Middleton.’

Middleton nodded, glowered again at Danny and Dale, and shut the door. Outside he could be heard shouting. Arnaud let out a sigh, sat at his desk and opened his book.

‘Le weekend. Can anyone tell me what that means in English?’

The remainder of the lesson was only slightly less chaotic. Sam returned after having been spoken to by Middleton and sat solemnly at the front, refusing to work and doodling, while Danny and Dale were quiet because they were listening to their iPods. In fact, the only pupils working were the six on the front two rows. At ten-fifty the bell sounded and there was a sudden mass exodus. Chairs were left upturned and books lying on tables. Arnaud sighed heavily and made a note on Sam’s report. She looked at it and then at him with a face full of hate, before she, too, left. This wasn’t what teaching was meant to be like. He bent down to pick up a sweet wrapper and got a handful of sticky chocolate for his trouble. He wiped his hand on a piece of A4 paper and collected up the French textbooks.

Twenty minutes for break, then another two hours until lunch, and finally a free period for lesson five. Unless they gave him another cover! Two more Year Nine classes and then a bottom-set Year Ten. Now he knew why the government had paid him to train as a teacher! Still, he was nearly at the end of his NQT year and would be a fully qualified, respected teacher in September.

He shut the door and locked it behind him. Instantly, he was banged into as pupils pushed past in an attempt to get to the canteen and gorge on junk food as soon as was humanly possible.

He had grown immune to the knocks now. Arnaud had been at Horley Community College for almost two years, first as a student, when he was given easier classes, and then as an NQT – newly qualified teacher. The school had offered him a job and he, like a fool, had accepted it. ‘Best to work in a difficult school – baptism of fire, as it were,’ his mentor had told him. Yeah, right. At least it was a nice day outside, which was probably why the kids were so fidgety. He couldn’t blame them. Who would want to be inside concentrating on French grammar or asking how much for a kilo of pommes when, just through the window, the summer had truly arrived?

One more week, he kept telling himself, and then the summer holidays and unemployment. Well, not quite. Having given a term’s notice, his contract would finish at the end of August and the school had said there would be supply work for him if he still hadn’t found anything. Supply work, in Horley? He laughed to himself as he entered the staffroom; Beirut sounded safer.

Arnaud sat wearily in the worn easy chair that occupied the corner of the room. Around him, teachers scurried to get as much coffee as their break would allow. He spotted the sexy blonde student teacher he’d seen on the train and wished her into the vacant seat next to him. It didn’t happen. She sat between two fit-looking men in shorts. P.E. teachers! Puh! He sipped his hot coffee and burnt his tongue. Bugger.

‘Heard any more about that job you applied for?’ the Head of Foreign Languages, Richard Middleton, asked as he sat down heavily.

‘Not yet.’

‘Kyiv, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ He moved his tongue inside his mouth, feeling the burn.

‘Ah, did you know that Kyiv is the birthplace of modern Russia?’

‘No.’ Arnaud turned in his seat.

‘Kyiv-Rus was the original capital of Russia almost a thousand years ago, long, long before the Tsars, the Bolsheviks and the Communists popped up. Back then it was populated by nomadic tribes.’

Arnaud was impressed. ‘Did you study Russian history at uni?’

Middleton smiled. ‘No. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.’

Odessa Oblast, Ukraine, near the Transdniester border

Bull looked through the kite sight. Nothing yet. He and his Brigada were watching and waiting. If all went to plan, this would be the first step. He shivered in the cold of the pre-dawn. It brought back memories of a lifetime ago…

The chill of the Afghan night had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the weak warmth of dawn. In the half-light, the poppy field stretched ahead of them and west on the valley floor. A beautiful flower to some, but to others as deadly as any bomb. To the east, the unnamed village with its ramshackle huts. Bull lowered his binos and rubbed his eyes.

His Spetsnaz assault group had been given specific orders: attack the village, eliminate all Mujahedeen, burn the poppy crop. His men, the true elite of the Red Army, were ready. They lay prone on the ridge, waiting. To Bull’s left and hidden in a dip, Captain Lesukov’s fire-support team had their mortars ready; to his right were Lieutenant Gorodetski, Sergeant Zukauskas and the rest of the Brigada. The plan was simple, brutal and effective. Lesukov’s men would commence shelling of the village, and then Bull’s team would move from house to house, picking off anyone and everyone who survived. Intelligence supplied by a local informant had said the village was a sham, nothing more than a base for Mujahedeen fighters and Arab Islamic mercenaries to grow and distribute the death that came from the poppy in the field. The Red Army could not let this continue in a ‘partner state’. Hence the unequivocal orders. Bull looked at Lesukov. ‘Start firing your mortars in two minutes.’

Lesukov nodded. ‘Good luck.’

Bull smiled. ‘Ivan, we are Spetsnaz. We make our own luck.’

Bull’s men moved silently over the ridge and into the valley. Thumph. Thumph. Mortar shells whistled through the sky. There was sudden movement from the village. A robed figure appeared and looked directly at the ridge. He yelled, raised his rifle and fired into the sky. As he did so, an explosion tore the very earth from under his feet. More shells landed, flattening the Afghan houses and destroying the beauty of the new day. Then, as abruptly as they had started, they stopped.

Bull’s men now swept through the carnage before them. The dead and dying littered the village; many had been asleep, others in the process of grabbing weapons. Several had fled to the fields and were chased down by rounds not even the fastest could outrun. Bull reached the building he knew housed the village elder. The roof was intact even though part of one wall was now missing. The old man was sitting on a crimson rug in the corner, his henna-red beard specked with dust. His eyes angry, he showed no fear. He waited until Lieutenant Gorodetski had entered the room behind Bull before speaking words of venom.

‘He says it is a trap; that we have all been tricked,’ Gorodetski translated. The old man jabbed at them with a bony finger. Gorodetski continued. ‘He says we are infidels, not men of our word, not men of honour.’

‘Enough.’ Bull stepped forward and crouched. ‘We are men of honour. We did not break our agreement.’ Drawing his revolver, Bull shot the elder in the face.

Shocked, Gorodetski looked down at his captain. ‘Why?’

Pashinski stared at the young officer. ‘He was Mujahedeen; that is all you need know.’

An explosion behind, then another. Bull turned as Gorodetski backed out of the house. On the ridge above, the fire-support team were under attack. Gathering up his Brigada, Bull charged back towards Lesukov’s team. Reaching the ridge, wild rounds whistled past them. Lesukov’s men had been taken by surprise; a group of fighters numbering more than twenty had flanked them from the west. Lesukov fired controlled bursts from his Kalashnikov at the Afghan hordes. Of the team of eight, only he and two others were left.

Zukauskas grabbed a mortar and turned it around to face the oncoming threat; one-handed, he dropped a mortar into the tube and fired. Unsighted, the bomb flew over the Mujahedeen and landed harmlessly, save for an explosion. Securing the tube on the ground, he sighted it while Gorodetski dropped in a new shell. This time the explosion landed just to the left of the advancing fighters. Some stopped, others carried on.

Bull joined Lesukov. There was a grin on Lesukov’s face. ‘We make our own luck!’

‘No. We make it unlucky for them!’

A sound from below brought Bull very much back to the present. He raised the kite sight and saw three trucks moving slowly along the rural road. Shifting his weight slightly he looked to his left and could make out the hunched figures of the militia’s SOCOL Eagle unit further down the incline in front of him. His lips formed a serpent-like smile as he depressed the switch on his covert transmitter twice. Seconds later, his ready signal was acknowledged by three bursts of static in his earpiece.

On the valley floor the lead truck slowed and stopped. The driver stepped out and made a show of kicking the tyre in disgust. The two remaining trucks concertinaed and also stopped. Soon all three drivers were inspecting the ‘guilty tyre’. In the green haze of the night scope there was movement again as a larger but solitary truck appeared on the horizon, heading directly towards the convoy from the opposite direction. It joined them and the driver greeted his fellow truckers warmly and offered his help and advice.

As Bull had hoped, the stationary convoy made too good a target to pass up. The armed members of the SOCOL appeared on the road below and advanced towards the drivers, weapons up. The second SOCOL group on the hill now stood and started down the incline on a ninety-degree approach to the target. Bull pressed his switch again. SOCOL’s ‘plan’ was going to plan. Here, twenty kilometres inside the Ukrainian border, they would intercept the latest arms shipment and punch a hole in this smuggling route. That was, until…

Bull’s sign was met this time by two short, static bursts. From above and to the right, his men opened fire. A tracer flew towards the descending SOCOL ‘cut off’ group. Four fell without even knowing where their executioners were. The remaining two flung themselves down on the barren hillside and scrambled for the smallest piece of cover. On the road, the intercept team had just enough time to train their weapons. The lieutenant, whose reactions had been surprisingly rapid, managed to get off a single, low-velocity round from his pistol, which struck Driver Two square in his concealed Kevlar breastplate. Staggering back, he had fallen as Drivers One and Three let rip with armour-piercing rounds from short-barrelled AKs, all but cutting the officer in half. Further shots sought out the two attackers on the hill and the engagement was over within a minute. Like the Poznan anti-terrorist police a decade before, the Ukrainian SOCOL had met the Soviet Red Army Spetsnaz and lost. Bull stood, walked down the hill and joined his Brigada. The first part of his business deal had just gone through. He exchanged congratulatory glances with his men and retrieved a satellite phone from a padded pocket.

Tiraspol, Transdniester

Ivan Lesukov sat in the sauna and sweated. ‘You have done well, my friend. And the other half of the bargain? You are a real man of your word, Bull.’ He shut his flip phone and placed it on the wooden plank next to him.

‘They have done it?’ Arkadi Cheban was anxious to know.

Lesukov beamed. ‘Yes, they have. The shipments will no longer be hampered by those Ukrainian “heroes”.’

‘That is great news, Uncle.’ Cheban used the term as a sign of respect. Lesukov was actually the uncle of his wife. He had married into the business, leaving his days of being an interpreter behind.

Lesukov wiped his brow and looked at the younger man. He was ready. ‘We are expanding on all fronts, Arkadi, and I have a job for you.’ He noticed Arkadi’s narrow chest swell with pride. ‘I want you to organise our deliveries in London. Who knows, you may even be able to import chairs.’ He tapped his nose.

Arkadi was ecstatic; he had been dreaming of permanently leaving this joke of a country for as long as he could remember. When he’d been ordered back from England by his uncle, he’d thought perhaps he’d done something wrong and even debated whether to return or not. He had, after all, only been there for three months. On the contrary, however, ‘Uncle’ had been impressed. ‘Thank you, Uncle.’

‘I know how much you will miss Yulia but trust me… she will be able to join you soon.’

In fact, during his time in London, Arkadi hadn’t missed his wife at all. He was quite taken with the Polish girl who worked in the local coffee shop. ‘I do hope so, Uncle; it is lonely without her.’

Lesukov liked this. Having no children of his own, his sister’s daughter was very dear to him and he would have killed anyone who didn’t treat her with respect.

Arkadi changed the subject. ‘Why is Pashinski called “The Bull”?’

Lesukov held up his finger. ‘When we were young conscripts together, about your age, we had a very stupid sergeant who asked Tauras his name. When he replied, the man asked him if he was a bull – like the star chart. I do not know why this offended him but Tauras hit him. You see, the sergeant did not like Lithuanians. Tauras was beaten and left outside in the snow, tied to a post, for three days. A month later the sergeant disappeared on a training exercise. For my part, I think he is more like a venomous snake.’

Chapter 3

Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine

The best rooms were, of course, on the thirtieth floor. Here the penthouses had floor-to-ceiling glass walls that gave fantastic views of the landscaped gardens and private beach. The top five floors were VIP class with private clubrooms. Every room in the hotel had both a sea and inland view as the structure curved like a giant wave. The hotel was indeed fantastic, or would be, Varchenko reminded himself, once it was built. Yes. The architect had done a great job of transferring his vision from idea to plans to scale model. Now, it was the foreigners he needed to turn the model into reality, for his wealth alone could not bankroll this venture. A man of the world, he liked to think, since 1991 he had travelled to the best resort and gaming hotels in the world. This hotel would not be Nice’s Hotel Negresco; it would not be Las Vegas’s Caesar’s Palace, New York’s Four Seasons, the Sandy Lane of Barbados, London’s Ritz or Dubai’s Burgh Al Arab. This would be the Hotel Noblesse, and it would be his.

Meetings had been arranged with venture capitalists in London, New York, Zurich and Vienna. He had brought, at his own cost, potential partners to Ukraine. The diving would rival Egypt (they would make a fake reef), the service would be seven-star. This would be the new principality of the twenty-first century and he would be the new prince!

Although he had a tear in his eye and the vodka bottle was empty, he was not a dreamer. Valeriy Varchenko stood, patted the roof of his hotel, and retired for the evening.

Odessa, Southern Ukraine

Sergey Gorodetski threw the grappling hook over the ledge of the warehouse, making sure it was fast before carefully hauling himself up the wall and onto the roof. He paused, counted to a hundred and, when he heard no sounds of alarm or noises from below, worked his way forward on the gravelled roof, all the while making sure to keep his body below the skyline. On reaching the edge of the roof, he leaned against the parapet and removed his rifle from its canvas carry case. He inspected it for dirt before looking down the sight to check for misalignment. Making the necessary adjustment, he carefully chambered the first round. It was two-forty-five and he had exactly five hours to wait for his prey, who was, by his very nature, a creature of habit.

Jas Malik pulled his trench coat around his body and stepped into the back of the Lexus. Ruslan had kept him waiting. Today’s excuse: the local militia refused to let him turn right… or something. Jas didn’t care why he was late, just that he was. Jas did not like this. His father had taught him the value of punctuality at an early age in Islamabad when he’d whipped him for having the audacity to be late for the family stall. Casting Ruslan a stern look, he urged him to ‘bloody hurry up and get him to the factory’.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the bemused Ukrainian.

‘I have to open the factory at seven-forty-five, no later,’ he ordered, shooting Ruslan a glare before transferring his attention to the heavy lifting cranes of the Odessa docks.

Ruslan slumped over the wheel and made faces in the mirror only he could see. A veteran of Afghanistan, he didn’t suffer fools, such as Jas, gladly, but the fool paid his boss well. Besides, he got to drive this big Lexus and the women loved it.

Seven-twenty. Sergey took up his trigger position on the factory car park. He was invisible to those below unless they made the fatal mistake of staring directly up. Experience and training had taught him patience. What was that English saying his training instructor had told him? Ah, yes: ‘Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.’ Never before had the saying made so much sense. His eyes started to water and blur his vision. He squeezed them shut and opened them again, blinking, fighting the urge to rub. He would not take his eyes off the trigger position, not now, not after what felt like years of waiting. He would do this now, and he would do it perfectly.

Jas liked the journey to the factory. Speeding past the mainly Soviet-era traffic, made up of Ladas, Volgas, Kamaz trucks and the odd Jigoli, he felt he had really arrived. He allowed himself to smile as he recalled the look he had seen on the faces of the so-called ‘old men’ of the business when he announced his successful bids for hitherto secretive state tenders in Ukraine, Belarus and Russia. Let the corporate Germans in Erlangen call him a tin-pot Paki now!

A car engine approached and Sergey made his final adjustments. The dark-blue Lexus rounded the corner of the warehouse and drew to a halt in front of the main entrance. Sweat formed on his brow despite the unseasonably chilly morning as he concentrated on the crosshairs of the Dragunov’s sight. The door opened and the target started to rise. Let him get out, don’t rush… apply second pressure to the trigger. The single shot flew along the barrel and covered the short distance to the target. There was a crack and suddenly a cloud of blood. The target was propelled backwards, striking the rear panel of the limousine before hitting the ground. The driver momentarily froze before throwing himself to the floor and scrabbling behind the car for cover.

British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine

Vickers frowned as Macintosh passed him the report, ashen-faced. ‘It happened this morning Alistair. The driver was unharmed. Mr Malik died instantly. The militia think it was a professional hit.’

Scanning the two A4 sides of Cyrillic print, Vickers’s brow furrowed even deeper than normal. ‘Anyone would think this was sodding Moscow. I don’t suppose the local militia have anything to go on?’

The ambassador shook his head. In his time at the British Embassy he had heard of two other assassinations; both had been foreign investors and both had been unsolved. ‘The first Brit to open a manufacturing plant in Ukraine becomes the first Brit to be murdered in Ukraine. The EU isn’t going to like it one little bit.’ Vickers massaged his temples. ‘I’ll liaise with the SBU. We’ll have to put out a press statement eventually. We don’t want to undo what little commercial progress we’ve made thus far.’

‘And his family?’ the ambassador asked with a concerned voice.

Vickers, still scanning the report, looked up. ‘Oh, yes, we should inform them.’ He read on, suddenly arching his eyebrows. ‘Surprisingly, the body will be on its way back to Kyiv tomorrow. Apparently the SBU don’t trust the local coroner to carry out the postmortem. Once that’s been completed I’ll have consulate arrange passage to the UK.’

Macintosh nodded, looking decidedly pale. Vickers left the ambassador’s office and asked his secretary to send him in a tea. Macintosh was a career diplomat and skilled at cocktail parties, but when the real world encroached on his delicate sensibilities, he really struggled. That’s why I’m here, mused Vickers.

Nearing his own office, he remembered the email in his in tray from the CCCI mission manager in London. Bugger, that was his other hat calling. Alistair Vickers’s official post was that of commercial attaché at the British Embassy, Kyiv. He wore another, albeit invisible hat, however – that of SIS man in Ukraine. Kyiv had been Vickers’s second-choice posting after Moscow.

Sitting back at his own desk, he picked up a custard cream and crunched it between his teeth before sipping his now-cold tea, white Earl Grey with two sugars. A purist would never add milk but he liked it that way. He replaced the cup and saucer on his desk and leant back to concentrate on the report. He had, of course, met Jas on many occasions. The man wasn’t afraid of self-advertising and had managed to get into most of the national newspapers as well as joining expatriate business groups such as the American Chamber of Commerce. In fact, he was probably one of the most well-known ‘Brits’ in Ukraine, which made his murder all the more curious.

Vickers liked to think he knew the feel of the place and he spoke regularly with his contacts in the SBU, the Ukrainian security service. He had been of the opinion that Jas had had a good ‘Krisha’, a ‘roof’ in other words; his local partner had protected him from any unsavoury interest from other businessmen, Mafia. Big business was, to some extent, still governed by the Mafia in Ukraine, and the more noise you made, the more likely it was you would encounter them. Jas’s partner was ideally placed to protect him. The man was a former KGB general and Hero of the Soviet Union who had now amassed a fortune as a businessman. If anyone called the shots, it was this man, General Valeriy Varchenko. As close to an oligarch as you could get in Ukraine, Varchenko had his base in Odessa, Ukraine’s pretty port city. Vickers crunched on another biscuit. Why would anyone pick a fight with Varchenko, for killing his business partner was surely an act of war?

Central Kyiv

‘Da. I’m listening.’

Dudka cleared his throat. ‘Please put me through to Valeriy Ivanovich.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Who would you be?’

‘Tell him it is Genna.’ Dudka drummed his fingers on the plastic café table.

Another pause, noises in the background. ‘OK.’

Dudka heard a rustling at the other end and then a muffled voice started to speak, ‘Gennady Stepanovich, my dear friend, how are you?’

‘Fine, my friend. Is this an inconvenient moment?’

‘No, no,’ Varchenko replied. ‘I am in the middle of a rather good lobster. The next time you are in Odessa you really must try one.’

Dudka eyed his pathetic café sandwich. ‘I have something I need to discuss with you.’

‘Oh, and what might that be?’ Varchenko’s voice was now clear.

Dudka cast his eyes around the terrace; there seemed to be no one eavesdropping. ‘Can we meet at the dacha?’

If any other man had received a call from a Deputy Head of the SBU, the Head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime, they would have been justified in showing concern; however, with Valeriy Varchenko, retired KGB general, what registered sounded more like annoyance. ‘It is not very convenient.’

‘I insist, old friend.’ Dudka held firm; after all, he was still the enlisted man, even though he turned a ‘general’ blind eye to the general in Odessa.

Varchenko sighed, more for effect than anything else. ‘Very well. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll even have the chef here prepare you a lobster.’

‘Agreed.’ Dudka put the phone down. He knew where the chef could stick his precious lobster. He bit into his open sausage sandwich. The money and power had clearly gone to his old friend’s head.

Chapter 4

Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine

Snow rubbed his right thigh, which was playing up again. Was he getting too old for this? He pondered a moment before dismissing the idea. ‘You’re thirty-four, not fifty.’ He surveyed the class as they continued to jog around the small area of grass circling the playground. Some of these kids, especially Yusuf, the Turkish lad, could give him a run for his money. ‘That’s it, two more laps and you’ve finished.’

Would these same kids be so eager to join a running club if they were back home in a normal comprehensive? He thought not. International schools seemed to bring out the best in children. Most would be bilingual by the end of their parents’ three-year stint. Snow blew his whistle and gestured that it was time to go in. Counting heads, he headed back to the school entrance along the small, paved path they shared with the residents of Kyiv’s Berezniki suburb. Yusuf caught up with him and trotted alongside. ‘Did you see how I run, Mr Snow?’ he asked expectantly. ‘I beat Ryoski and Grant.’

Snow nodded and smiled. Yusuf was twelve, quite tall for his age, and wiry. He had the perfect runner’s physique and a real talent.

‘Well done, Yusuf. I’m impressed.’

Yusuf smiled back, picked up his pace and jogged the remaining distance around the corner and into the main entrance. There was a banging; Snow raised his hand to screen the glare of the sun as Michael Jones opened the staffroom window.

‘Hey, Aidan, have you seen this?’ Michael’s west Wales tones lilted to accentuate the question. ‘Murder in Odessa. And to think I was there last weekend!’

Snow took the Kyiv Post and looked at the main page.

‘British investor slain in Odessa factory shooting.’ He scanned the story as Jones kept an eye on the rest of the runners ambling past.

‘What d’ya think?’ Jones’s eyebrows arched in his usual show of curiosity.

Snow studied his friend’s ruddy face. ‘I’m glad I’m just a teacher and no one important.’

Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine

The dacha was in the small coastal town of Fontanka, twenty kilometres from Odessa. During Soviet times it had belonged to ‘the Party’ and was for the use of high-ranking members of the YCCP. On Ukrainian independence, this and many other such properties had been sold off by ‘the state’ for hard currency to the highest bidder. The fact that many had been sold to the same person, who was acting as ‘the seller’ on behalf of ‘the state’, had been conveniently overlooked.

This particular dacha had been built in 1979 and used by some of the gold medallists from the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The new owner sought to commemorate this event and had the Olympic rings included in the design of his new nine-feet, wrought-iron security gates which guarded the entrance. The gates weren’t the only part of the dacha to be modernised, ‘remonted’. The original three-storey building remained but an additional wing had been added at a right angle, forming an L shape. Italian marble adorned the surfaces of all the bathrooms, of which there were now six, and the indoor pool. The back of the house led on to a large terrace, with an ornate garden and views of the Black Sea.

Varchenko leant forward to smell a particularly nice rose. He was dressed in an expensive, dark-grey pair of slacks, a black polo shirt and a pair of Italian loafers. A matching dark-grey cashmere sweater was draped casually over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Dudka exhaled and flicked his cigarette stub into the flowerbeds. Varchenko straightened up and frowned at his friend’s disregard for nature’s beauty.

‘What do you know, Genna?’

Dudka met his gaze. ‘I know your British business partner was assassinated in Odessa; I know it was a trained sniper; I know this is not good for general business; but I also know you now control the entire venture.’

‘And you think I am so transparent?’ Varchenko held his gaze.

‘I have to look at all possibilities, Valeriy. You provided a Krisha for the Englishman, yet he is dead.’

‘Yet he is dead…’ Varchenko paused as Dudka fumbled in his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. ‘Go on.’

Dudka blew his nose. ‘Pollen.’ How one could enjoy sniffing flowers, he did not know. He wiped his nose and returned the handkerchief to his crumpled suit pocket. ‘That is all I can say on the matter. This partner of yours was a very high-profile businessman, liaised with his embassy, spoke at business lunches and drew much attention.’

Varchenko snorted. ‘This is a difficult situation for me, Genna, old friend, as I am sure you are aware. I gave this man my word it would be safe to invest here, to work here, to live here. He had my word, you understand, my word on this. My best men guarded him; he was in no danger from normal “business threats”. This murder places much stress on the status quo, on the relationship and understanding we share, Genna.’ Varchenko looked him in the eye.

Dudka grunted, ‘And you think I am not immune to this? Remember, I’m the one who has turned a “blind eye” to your business dealings here.’

‘And for this you are handsomely rewarded.’ Varchenko paused. ‘Ah, my old colleague, so we are both in the same situation. What is bad for me is bad for you. But the agreement works. What crime we have here is now under control – ask any one of your SBU underlings to give you a report. I have worked hard to ensure this, but then, when I am on the verge of a successful endeavour, it is potentially snatched away. By whom? That is what I must know. Who is it who dares upset us?’

Dudka shrugged. ‘You have no idea? I have seen some intelligence about the Turks and I have also read reports on the Moldavians.’

Varchenko closed his eyes to hide his rage. ‘Turks! I am aware of the Turks and they would not dare attempt this! And the Moldavians could not spell the word assassinate! No, this must be someone new.’

So his old superior was worried. ‘That, I am afraid, is all we have at the moment. We will, of course, be exploring all possibilities, Valeriy.’

Varchenko raised his finger. ‘All possibilities? We are both decent men, Genna. We did not work all these years together to protect the people’s interest to now be threatened in our golden years! We have kept it simple. Old-fashioned crime. None of the slavery, narcotica or weaponry…’

Varchenko’s voice trailed off and Dudka nodded. It was true. Varchenko was a bandit, but an honest one. There was crime in Odessa but, because of him, it was petty; the large-scale arms smuggling, people and drug trafficking of the early Nineties had been severely restricted. Dudka felt his stomach rumble. ‘Where is that lobster you promised me?’

Shoreham by Sea, United Kingdom

The morning sky was a brilliant blue, unusually so for this time of year, but Bav didn’t notice as he headed towards Lancing. Under the supervision of his father he had been, on paper, managing director of UK operations while his cousin held the same title in Islamabad. Jas had held the position of chairman with overall responsibility for NewSound worldwide. Now, with his death, Bav, at the age of thirty-seven, had been left the lot. His own dispensing business would have to cease as he took the reins of the three plants. He had never wanted to go into the family business. His only concession, albeit a large one, was to train as an audiologist. He had then, of course, been ‘persuaded’ to recommend his family’s products. And now he could hardly refuse his appointment as MD.

His old man was – had been, he corrected himself – a crafty one. All the while he had known deep down that Bav, and Bav alone, would replace him. That he, and not his cousin, Said Shabaz, would be the future head of NewSound.

He bit his bottom lip to stop the tears forming again. He could not stay at home and grieve; he had to carry on, open the factory – it was what his father would have wanted. Why did you have to die, Dad, why did you have to leave me? An old man who had only ever brought happiness had been snatched away by a bullet. It wasn’t working. He’d have to stop. The factory would have to open later. He pulled onto the hard shoulder, stabbing the hazard-warning button with his left index finger as tears fell from his eyes.

British Embassy, Kyiv

Simon Macintosh extended his hand. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Director Dudka.’

Dudka took the proffered hand and shook it with a firm grip. ‘It is least we can do, Mr Ambassador.’

Macintosh nodded and introduced the man standing at his side. ‘This is Alistair Vickers. He will be liaising with London.’

Vickers and Dudka shook hands.

‘And this is Vitaly Blazhevich. He is running investigation.’

Blazhevich shook hands with both British diplomats. The ambassador bade them sit.

‘My English not as good as could be. I am sorry. I speak Deutsch.’

Dudka put his hand on Blazhevich’s shoulder. ‘But Vitaly is secret weapon.’

There was a knock at the door and Macintosh’s secretary brought in a tray containing four cups of tea, a bowl of sugar, milk and custard cream biscuits. Dudka took a cup, nodded, blew on the surface of the tea, then took a sip. Momentarily his eyes flickered before he placed the cup on the table. ‘Dobre Smak.’ It was a lie. The tea tasted peculiar.

‘Earl Grey. Traditionally English.’ Vickers poured milk into his own cup.

Blazhevich opened a file and placed it on the table. Dudka spoke in Ukrainian and Blazhevich translated into English. ‘We are obviously very sorry for the loss of Mr Malik. We want to confirm that we will give our full support and resources to finding the person or persons responsible for this unlawful act.’

Blazhevich looked at Dudka. Dudka added two spoons of sugar to his tea and sipped. Vickers made notes on a PDA with a plastic pointer while Macintosh knotted his hands in his lap and nodded. The biscuits remained untouched. Dudka continued, with Blazhevich a phrase behind.

‘Here are photographs taken at the scene. They are not appealing. The angle of the impacted bullet leads us to believe the shot came from above. Scuff marks on the roof of a neighbouring warehouse substantiate this.’

Macintosh, his face pale, passed the photographs to Vickers, who spoke next. ‘What type of ammunition?’ Vickers studied the image. ‘7.62?’

‘Tak.’ Dudka smiled and continued in English. ‘Very common in former USSR.’

Vickers studied the image again. ‘May we presume it was a trained sniper?’

‘Tak. Our Red Army had many, many.’

Blazhevich added more information: ‘As you have hinted, the profile of the suspect we have is a trained sniper. This further adds to our suspicion that the attack was professional and pre-planned.’

Macintosh placed his palms on the table. ‘So we have a British citizen assassinated by a paid assassin, a sniper. Do you have any idea who the paymaster might have been?’

Vickers tried not to smile. For all Macintosh’s professional abilities, investigating a murder was not one of them. He tried his best but sounded to Vickers like a le Carré novel.

‘This is something we intend to investigate further,’ Blazhevich translated. ‘Can we ask you for any ideas you may have? For example, a list of Mr Malik’s business and social contacts?’

‘Alistair?’ Macintosh looked at Vickers.

‘We have searched all our files and of course asked the expatriate community; however, at this stage, we have nothing of any consequence.’

Vickers waited while his words were translated. ‘We, of course, know that Mr Malik was in partnership with a Ukrainian joint stock company and believe they would be the only party to gain from this.’

Dudka’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he spoke. Blazhevich looked at Macintosh then Vickers in turn. ‘We can assure you that we have started to interview all directors of Odessa-Invest in addition to a number of others. We will find those responsible.’

There was a pause as the four men pondered their positions. ‘Well, gentlemen. I feel reassured that the SBU are actively working on this disturbing and unfortunate case, and that Director Dudka himself has taken a personal interest. I like Ukraine and like working here. Your country has made much progress towards becoming an investment and business power in the last few years, and the British Government will do all it can to assist in the continuation of this.’ He stood and shook Dudka’s hand again.

Vickers showed the two men from the SBU out into the hall. A minute later, after bidding them goodbye and thanking them again, he re-entered the room to find Macintosh with the plate of biscuits in his hand.

‘Nice chaps; not like the old KGB. I feel they will do all they can.’

‘I’m sure.’ But Vickers was not.

Lingfield, Surrey, UK

A low burble crept into Arnaud’s head. At first it mixed with the last-orders bell in the pub, until he realised it was a shrill electronic note and not the brass ding he’d expected. The busty barmaid who had been ‘chatting him up’ abruptly vanished.

‘Oh, no!’ Arnaud leapt from his bed and ran downstairs to the hall.

Now well into September; and still no permanent job. Arnaud had signed with a supply-teaching agency covering the Surrey and Sussex area. Sometimes he would get a call in the evening asking him if he wanted a day’s work the next day, but mostly they would call in the morning, getting him out of bed and in general giving him a matter of minutes to get to the station and on his way. He had started a routine. Regardless of a call or not, each night he would iron a shirt, make a packed lunch and ready his ‘schoolbag’. His mother was always offering to help, but since he had returned from university and was now living at home again, he felt somehow embarrassed he didn’t contribute enough around the house. The fact that the agency would insist on calling the house phone downstairs rather than his mobile was also irksome. His father had complained on more than one occasion.

‘Hello… hello… hello,’ he said to himself as he reached for the phone in an attempt to get rid of his ‘morning voice’.

‘Hello?’ There was a strange tone on the line. After a pause a voice finally answered.

‘Hello. Is that Arnaud Hurst?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Hello, Arnaud. This is Joan Greenhill from Podilsky School. How are you?’

Arnaud tried to think who this woman calling him at ten past six in the morning might be; then he suddenly realised. Podilsky School, the international teaching job he had applied for. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he replied, slightly lost for words but no more awake.

‘Good, good. Arnaud, I wanted to make sure I got you before you left for work… Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve just remembered the time difference. We’re two hours ahead of you. Oh, dear…’

Arnaud decided to be British and reduce her embarrassment. ‘Not to worry. I usually get up at six-ish to go for a run so I was already awake.’

The voice on the phone replied, ‘Oh, that’s good.’ It then took on a more professional tone. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get back to you sooner. I expect you thought we’d forgotten about you?’

‘Well, I did think the job must have gone to someone else.’ It had been May when he’d originally seen the advert in the TES overseas appointments section, and June when he’d met with the American interviewer in London.

‘Well, as a private school, we did have some staffing issues here, which meant we were unable to appoint over the summer, but I won’t bother you with the details. Arnaud, the reason I’m calling is that I have some good news for you. Your application for the position of teacher of French and English has been successful.’

Arnaud smiled and sat on the radiator in the hall, ignoring the cold metal on his bare buttocks. ‘That’s great news. Thank you very much.’

‘So you accept then?’ Greenhill asked expectantly.

‘Yes, I do.’ Arnaud caught himself grinning in the hall mirror.

In Kyiv, Greenhill smiled and beckoned Snow into her office. ‘I’m happy to hear that. Now, since you applied for the job, our teaching requirements have changed slightly.’

‘Oh?’ Arnaud held his breath. Was there a catch?

‘Well, we originally wanted you for French and English as a Second Language, but now we would also need you to teach some P.E. Would that be a problem at all for you?’

‘No, not at all, I’d be very happy to do that.’ P.E.? Oh, well, at least it was better than maths.

Greenhill beamed at Snow and raised her thumb. ‘Great. I didn’t think it would be a problem for someone as fit as you must be, running every morning. I know it’s quite short notice but can you start on Monday the 2nd of October, in two weeks’ time?’

‘Yes, I can; that’s no problem at all. The sooner the better.’

‘Wonderful. I’m going to put your offer letter in the diplomatic pouch leaving today, so, once it’s posted in the UK, you should get it by Wednesday.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Greenhill.’ Arnaud could say goodbye to Supply once and for all.

‘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

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.’

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

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.

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