Cold Blood (19 page)

The Nokia suddenly vibrated on the wooden floor next to his hip. Snow carefully felt for it without taking an eye off of the target house. He held it up to his face then almost dropped it in surprise. The display showed the stupid drunken snapshot of Arnaud and said that he was calling. Snow held it to his ear. “Arn? Are you OK?”

Snow could hear laboured breathing on the other end before finally a foreign voice spoke. “Aidan Snow. We have your friend and his
deavooshka
. If you want them to live you must come to see us.”

Snow held the phone harder to his ear as if not believing what he had heard. “Who is this?” he asked, his head suddenly pounding.

Again a pause. “An old friend. We met in Poland.” Snow felt a chill run through his body and his stomach heave. The caller continued. “You come alone, tell no one or they die.”

The phone went dead. Snow took it away from his ear and stared at it as if it would provide him with more information. He fell back in the chair as the sudden enormity of the situation hit him. But he had no proof, no proof that they had Arnaud or even that he was alive. Could it even be someone who had found his phone? Seconds later, as he was still running through options in his mind, a multimedia message arrived. It was from ‘Arnaud’. It showed a picture of Arnaud and Larissa – both bound and gagged – and gave a time and an address. His stomach heaved.

He had a decision to make. Either way someone would certainly die. The question was: would it be him or Arnaud? A voice inside, that of a coward, said
run
,
leave him
,
he
’
s
not family
,
save yourself
,
call their bluff
. He sat forward, put his head in his hands and rocked. Why was this happening? Why were they doing it to him! He took a deep breath, a decision made. Snow quickly stood; he didn’t have much time.

*

British Embassy
,
Kyiv

The phone barely had time to ring before Vickers answered it, “Vickers.”

“It’s Snow. Listen. They have kidnapped Arnaud.”

“What?” Vickers was stunned, but stretched for his pen. “Who has kidnapped Hurst?”

“Whoever attacked me – it has to be Pashinski. They also have his girlfriend.”

“Where are you now?” He needed an address.

“I’m on my way to the trade. It’s me they want, not him.”

Vickers felt his pulse quicken. “Don’t be a fool Aidan. They’ll kill you. Give me the address – I’ll tell the SBU.”

“No. That way everyone dies. I have to go alone but I’ll need your help afterwards.”

“Aidan listen to me. Give me the address… Aidan? Aidan!” Snow had ended the call. Vickers stood, kicking his chair in anger, then made a decision. He tapped in the memorised number on his desk phone. “Vitaly. It’s Vickers. Hurst has been kidnapped. They want to exchange for Snow.”

Blazhevich stepped outside the Gastronom and onto the pavement. He had his usual morning cup of café coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. “Hurst has been released?” The surprise was evident in his voice.

“You didn’t know?” Vickers’s mind whirred.

“No.” Blazhevich leaned against the railings. “OK, do you have the address?”

“No. Snow is on his way to the trade.”

“Snow contacted you?” Blazhevich was trying to understand what had happened.

“Yes.”

Both men were thinking as fast as they could. “How long ago?”

“Two minutes.” Vickers had not wasted any time.

Blazhevich had had suspicions and now was the time to confirm them. He would confront the man he believed was responsible for Hurst’s release.

*

Borispil-Kyiv Highway, Kyiv

Budanov answered the call via his Bluetooth headset. “
Da
.”

“It’s Vitaly. You released Hurst. Why?”

Budanov swerved slightly in his lane. He had known the call would come; but not so fast. “We had no evidence, he is just a kid.”

“It is my case!” For the first time he shouted at the older officer.

Budanov tried to placate him, “He told us all he knew Vitaly. We can always question him again if you wish.” Budanov slowed and pulled the Passat to a halt. He had begun to sweat again.

“He has been kidnapped. I have information that he has been taken by the same people who attacked Snow.” Blazhevich was angry but now managed to keep his voice controlled. Emotion would not help the young Briton. “Where are you? Gennady Stepanovich wants to see you.” He had taken a chance and relayed his suspicions to Dudka, who, he was surprised to find, accepted them without question.

There was a pause as Budanov stepped out of the car. He was suddenly queasy. “I’m near Borispil. I’m on my way.” Budanov leant against the car and was sick in the gutter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up. He looked along the Borispil highway. One way led back to the restaurant and on to the airport. The other lead into the city. One way leading to Knysh and damnation by the SBU, the other possible death for him and his family if Knysh was not stopped. Budanov opened his wallet and looked at the picture of his wife and son, now a toddler who had just learnt to say
tatus
– ‘daddy’. All he had ever wanted was the best for both of them; the clothes, foreign bank account, holidays in Dubai, Egypt and the house in Cyprus. The man he used to call ‘Knysh’ had paid for this and more for an insider in the SBU. Now, caught between two worlds, he knew who Knysh was and what he had to do. The traitor Budanov got back into the car and accelerated towards Kyiv.

TWENTY

Kyiv-Borispil Highway
,
Kyiv

Bull looked at his watch. 09:40. The SAS man would be here in twenty minutes. Inside, a voice said that he already was. Why? Because Bull knew that he would do the same himself. During his full service career in the Soviet Union’s Red Army’s Spetsnaz he had never directly faced them, the British Spetsnaz, the 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. There had been rumours of them training the Afghans with weapons donated by America’s CIA and carrying out covert operations in and around Kabul, but he had never seen them. For this he was deeply disappointed. It would have been a fine thing, he mused, to have the world’s two best Special Forces units collide in real combat. The Americans were too soft; too sensitive; even their Delta and SEAL commandos relied heavily on electronics and equipment. No. In his mind the British were the best and, much like the Soviet Spetsnaz, relied upon training, human intelligence and physical strength. They were not that different, he told himself; he and Aidan Snow. But unlike Snow, who seemed happy to forget his skills and squander his training, Pashinski had utilised them for maximum profit. He had not just bitten the hand that fed him, but had eaten the master too. Now he was to take over the running of his house. He allowed himself a smile. Business. The boardroom was not all that different from the battlefield.

Opening his eyes, Arnaud could see Larissa’s face. For a glorious moment he thought that it had all been a nightmare and that he was still in bed safe with her in Obolon; but then he realised that they were on a concrete floor and that Larissa had tape across her mouth. Her eyes widened as she met his gaze. They were both gagged and unable to speak but she nodded in reply to his unspoken question:
yes
,
I am OK
.

Arnaud tried to move and found that he was ‘hobbled’ at the ankles with his hands fastened behind his back. A table leg was passed through the gap at both hands and feet. He pulled and the table moved ever so slightly. They were in a store room packed with unused restaurant furniture. Larissa seemed to be tethered to the same chair as before, like a 1930s Damsel in distress. It would have been comical if he wasn’t so scared. Arnaud looked up. The table was piled with wooden restaurant chairs haphazardly stacked one on top of another. It would not be that heavy to move but would cause one hell of a noise if the chairs came toppling down onto him and the concrete floor. He tried to pull his hands and feet apart but the rough rope dug into his skin. Next he tried his tongue, pushing it through his lips at the tape. Whoever had gagged him had been too concerned that he may not be able to breathe through his broken nose, so had cut a small air hole in the middle. The tape cut his tongue but he did not give up and pushed harder. Pain, as he tasted his own blood for the second time that day, but the hole increased. He then tried to open and close his mouth and eventually the tape gave way.

“Are you hurt? Did they do anything?”

Larissa shook her head as tears started to swell in her eyes. He ignored the pain which seemed to come from all over his body, but especially his face and ribs. “Aidan will come to get us. He must know we are here.”

Bending his hands he grasped at the table leg with his fingers. He tried to push it up and away. He felt the leg rise ever so slightly but the pressure on his wrists was too much and it slipped away, jarring his arms. “Shit. I can’t get enough of a lever.”

Pushing against the floor with all her might, Larissa rocked her chair. It tottered on its legs but did not fall. She tried again, this time leaning forward as much as she could then pushing her spine against the backrest. The chair tottered some more. She then pushed and rocked again and again as hard as she could. They was a cracking sound as a leg started to give way then a sudden crash as she fell backwards to the floor. The rear leg had splintered along the join with the seat base. Larissa let out a muffled whimper, the gag stopping her cry of pain. Her left forearm had taken the brunt of the impact, her arms tied as they were around the seat and back of the chair.

Both lay still waiting for their abductor to open the door and investigate. A minute passed but it did not happen. Arnaud beckoned her and she shuffled towards him on her side before pushing herself up against the table until, using her back, she pushed, as did Arnaud. Between them they managed to raise the table legs by two inches. Arnaud tugged, wriggled, and was free. He tried to sit upright. A stabbing pain hit him in his chest. He winced and tried again. “Turn around and I’ll untie your hands.”

Larissa shuffled around until her back was against his. Arnaud felt for the rope and tugged at the knot with his fingers. Patience had never been one of his virtues and he swore under his breath, ever mindful of the fact that their cell door could be flung open at any moment. Larissa kept her eyes glued to the door, still mute. “Try now, pull your hands apart.”

With a grunt her hands became free. She tensed her lips and ripped at the tape on her mouth. Gasping as it came off, she looked at the man she now realised she loved. She reached forward and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth. His nose was misshapen and covered in blood, his eyes were bloodshot, but he still had his silly French smile. She kissed him gently.

The Volga pulled up a hundred yards short of the address. Snow thanked the driver and gave him a twenty Hryvnia note. The driver shut the door and with a happy wave headed towards the roundabout. Snow crossed the road and took advantage of what little cover there was. He wanted to get a visual of the address before entering. He drew almost opposite and stood just behind the bus shelter as if casually awaiting a bus. The building was four storeys high. The ground floor looked to be some sort of restaurant, probably Georgian. The far end of the building faced the large roundabout and the main highway towards Borispil. The woods started within feet of the roundabout and continued at the back of the building. It was this exposed corner facing the roundabout that the restaurant occupied.

Snow squinted to read the number on the building. The restaurant was indeed the target address. There was a main double door entrance, the heavy looking red doors in a slight shadow caused by a porch. The windows either side were shuttered. Snow waited for several minutes to determine any sign of movement or anything at all that could help him in his rescue attempt. He could not see any other visible entrance or exit to the restaurant but had to figure that there would be at least one at the back as a fire escape. He needed to do a complete close target recce but was thwarted both by lack of cover – he could not move forward without being seen – and lack of time.

Snow was just about to retrace his steps and cross the road in the dead-ground further back down the street when his eyes caught movement. A shape momentarily rose above the parapet. Back across the road now, Snow made his way to the other end of the building. This end was occupied by an office supplies showroom. Snow slowly rounded the back of the block. The fire exit was just around the corner. He flattened himself against the wall by the side of it. At the far corner there was a second such exit with steps and railings leading down. He counted at least four ground floor windows. There was no visible hostile presence. He had to think fast. His options were limited. He was unarmed with the exception of Mitch’s commando knife, and without backup, facing an opponent of unknown size, commitment and alertness. He could enter the forest and covertly work his way along the perimeter so that he faced the back of the building; but how to gain entry? No. He would follow the line of the wall and keep flat against it, making it impossible for anyone on the roof to see him and then try the door. He checked his watch. Shit. He had ten minutes. Get to the RV by 10:00 or both Arnaud and Larissa would die. Of that he had no doubt. He moved as fast as he could without making a noise, along the wall. Through the open windows of the supply company he could hear the radio and the catty chat of at least three women.

Arnaud and Larissa heard footsteps approaching and quickly moved back into their original positions as best they could. Larissa sat on another chair and Arnaud leant against the table legs.

Oleg opened the door. “Your friend is coming for you now.” He leered at Larissa and then grunted at Arnaud on the floor. “Maybe you see him before he die, maybe I let you say goodbye.” A wide smile creased his piggy face as he shut the door. Oleg walked towards the back of the building and nodded at the man on sentry duty – one of the better men they had recruited. “See anything, Dmitro?”

“No, he can’t get past me.”

Oleg nodded and slapped him on the back. “I’m happy to see standards in the Ukrainian Army have not dropped.”

Oleg walked past him and turned the corner to start his check of the perimeter. The sentry’s smile beneath his baseball cap froze as his head snapped to react to a movement in his peripheral vision.

“You are expecting me.” Snow’s arms were quickly around the sentry’s neck, applying pressure into the nerve inviting unconsciousness. Dmitro’s hands flailed, a suppressed semi-automatic burst of 7.62mm lead impacted the trees. Snow sprung forward, throwing himself and the guard through the doorway and into the wall. The Kalashnikov dropped. Snow increased the pressure on the guard’s neck before his body became limp. Snow let go and the Ukrainian fell to the floor, banging his head. Snow grabbed the suppressed short stock of the Kalashnikov and pointed it first down the corridor, then back through the door. Nothing, no shouts nor footsteps. Moving slowly but tactically forward, Snow edged further into the building. There were two doors on the left, one with a window one without. Snow peered through it. A small toilet, empty. He got to the next door and noted the heavy padlock on the outside. That was where they would be holding them, he reasoned. There was a faint noise, from where he could not tell, but there were shadows ahead. Without thinking Snow moved towards them.

Outside Oleg noted that Dmitro had gone. The giant Lithuanian advanced inside and saw the guard’s unconscious form on the ground. He bent down to search him for weapons. None. A huge smile on his face, Oleg moved forward, his sidearm drawn.

A heavy curtain let only a chink of light spill through. Snow cautiously placed his eye to the gap. The dining hall was directly in front of him and so too was a figure he recognised.

A scrape from behind. Snow spun to be met by a fist. His head snapped back and before he had time to react a second blow hit him in the stomach. Snow doubled up, winded, his head suddenly dizzy. The AK fell away. He had a split second to act whilst his attacker thought they had the initiative. The Lithuanian’s left hand extended to balance him as the right moved to perform an uppercut. Too slow, thought Snow. He twisted and grabbed the right fist with his left, making Oleg pivot, and then pushed him against the wall and through the curtain. Oleg held on and threw Snow to the floor. They skidded on the plastic sheeting. Oleg scrabbled up to his knees and pushed his pistol hard into the Englishman’s neck, breaking the skin. “Stop. Up now. Get up.”

Snow released his grip and held his arms up. Oleg, now regaining his composure, stood and swung his boot into Snow’s groin. Stars erupted in Snow’s head and he desperately tried not to pass out.

“You are lucky that I do not shoot you now; but that honour belongs to another.” Oleg pushed him further into the room.

Snow stayed stooped in an attempt to soak up the pain.

“Hello, Snow.” It was Pashinski. “Please take a seat.”

Still winded, Snow fought for breath, and was manhandled into the opposite chair. “Where are my friends?” he demanded. Pashinski spoke in Lithuanian, Oleg left the room. Snow locked eyes with his would-be murderer. “I am here, and now what?”

“Now we can talk.” Pashinski smiled, “I have never met an SAS man, not at a time that I could have a conversation with him.”

Snow continued to stare at the eyes, the same eyes that had haunted him in his sleep, the eyes he could never forget. He noticed the powerful but wiry physique under the suit jacket and the pancake holster holding a Glock 9mm. He was determined not to let his fear of this man show.

“You look well for a dead man Pashinski.”

“Pashinski died in Vilnius. My name is Knysh.”

“Your name is Tauras ‘The Bull’ Pashinski. Former captain in the Red Army Spetsnaz.”

“And you are Aidan Snow, former SAS trooper.” The mouth smiled but the eyes remained cold. “Are we now formally introduced or should I show you a picture of my mother?”

“What you are doing in Ukraine? Planning to rob banks?”

“You joke? Knysh is establishing himself as a valuable business leader, as I am sure you are aware, there is much opportunity for men such as us.”

“Such as us?” Snow felt like spitting. “I’m not the same as you. I’m no murderer.”

“You have killed for your queen and I for the Politburo. We are not that different.”

“Killing Jas Malik, who was that for?”

“I did not pull the trigger but I have killed for business purposes. I accept that. It has not been personal. As for Malik, I had nothing against the man but it is better for business that he is dead.”

Snow felt a chill run through him. He had never been in the presence of one so ruthless, a man so soulless that murder was just a business strategy. “So you are in business; and then what?”

“Politics. Our governments do not care for men like you and me. They discard us when we become too expensive, too old or know too much. We are left to work in degrading positions for a salary that could not feed a wife and child. We are heroes, we are men who have given everything for our motherland, but we are not respected. For men of honour that is an insult worse than death. I see the value in our kind, and what we can do. I have a vision to unite these men of honour. The Orange Revolution is over, dead. Who will lead the next? It is time for Ukraine to have a new Hetman.”