An Aidan Snow SAS Thriller

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?’