Cold Blood (27 page)

“Anatoly get there and give me a live update.” Blazhevich could not believe his bad luck, he had barely returned from that very city when this had happened. He felt powerless, now he was at arm’s length fighting by remote control without even a live image. He called Varchenko’s dacha and told the remaining guards to stay vigilant, they may yet be attacked.

*

Ivana Franka Street
,
Kyiv

Snow felt his phone vibrate. “Snow.”

“Aidan,” Vickers answered. “They’ve hit Odessa.”

“What? Say again?”

“They have hit the head office in Odessa.”

Snow kept his eyes on the bank below as he tried to take in what the man from the embassy had said. “When?”

“Half an hour ago. Our Odessa British Council staff saw it on local TV.” Vickers’s next call would be to Blazhevich.

Snow thought quickly. “What are the details?”

“Gunmen entered the bank and shots were fired. Too much of a coincidence to be anyone else.”

On the roof Snow shook his head. “I don’t care what’s happening in Odessa. It’s going to happen here, I’m telling you. The same MO as Poznan. They have vans at each end to block the road.”

Vickers sighed. “I think you should be happy that we were almost right. They did attack, as you said.” Vickers was somewhat relieved that Kyiv had not been targeted but also annoyed that they had been wrong in their target assessment.

“Alistair, I’m on the bloody roof overlooking the bank and I can tell you that they are going to attack.” He couldn’t be imagining things, could he?

Vickers finally lost his temper. “Listen. I’ll speak to Vitaly and relay your fears. In the meantime stop buggering about and acting like a sodding pigeon and come down from your perch.”

*

Odessa Bank
,
Kyiv

The portly bank clerk was nervous, so nervous in fact that he had spent most of his morning darting to the toilet which he shared with the other tellers. His manager had suggested that he go home, that he had probably eaten something bad, but he had refused. His instructions, from the man who paid him in cash, had been insistent. Stay at your station; it must look normal. The clerk swallowed hard as he popped the second lot of indigestion pills. He wet his face and tried to tidy himself up in the cracked washroom mirror. He subconsciously caressed the new platinum Rolex that hung snugly on his left wrist hidden by his shirt cuff. Today was the day. The day that a new client was to ‘withdraw’ his funds. It was eleven a.m. ‘Remain calm and they will never know that you were involved’, the man had said, ‘then you can resign, blame it on stress, and live a life of luxury’. But he had no way to contact his new master, no way to warn him about the two new security guards that had started work this morning. There were also two more ALFA officers who had entered before working hours with the bank manager, but neither he nor the other staff had seen this. This had been the same for all three of the Kyiv branches. One more hour and that was it. He returned to his position and nodded once more at the security guards who sat in the banking hall, machine pistols at their sides. He must not draw any more attention to himself.

*

Deribasovskiy Boulevard
,
Odessa

The boulevard was not as wide as those in central Kyiv but looked much more European. The majority of the shops and restaurants had a chic boutique feel. The street had now been sealed off at each end and marksmen were placed on roofs and in windows. Major Bodaretski stood behind a militia wagon and assessed the scene. The militia were keeping curious residents and shoppers from entering the area or leaving their apartments. Gribakin, the most senior militia official present, was worried. He had been accustomed to an easy life of petty crime and traffic violations, not gunmen on the streets. In between mopping the cold sweat from his brow with a greying handkerchief he nodded profusely and gave Bodaretski his full attention and cooperation. One of his juniors, Kiril Kononchuk, had been on duty nearby and actually saw the men entering the bank. Bodaretski had asked questions.

“How many did you see?”

“Four.”

“How were they dressed?”

“Jeans, jackets and ski masks.”

“What weapons were they carrying?”

“I saw two pistols and two AK 47s.”

“Did you see where they came from?”

“Through the park.”

“So you saw no means of escape? No vehicle?”

“No.”

Bodaretski had then dismissed the young man. Something did not add up. He spoke to Gribakin. “How were they planning to escape?”

“I don’t know. Is it important?” The militia commander asked, showing his naivety.

Bodaretski gave him a concerned look; it was basic logic and common sense. “If these men are robbing a bank they expect to leave with the money.”

“Oh yes, of course.” The militia man reddened with embarrassment.

“Do you know if they were challenged inside?”

Gribakin shook his head. “Not unless the security guards drew their pistols.”

“Then why draw attention to the raid by letting off rounds?” Bodaretski glanced again at the bank. The gunmen had run from the small park on the opposite side of the boulevard (with masks on and weapons visible), past a busy restaurant complete with customers on the terrace enjoying the mild local climate. Why? To draw attention to themselves! It was a diversion. He picked up a loudhailer and handed it to Gribakin. “Talk to them. See what they want.”

Gribakin swallowed hard. “Me?”

“Yes you. Here.” He handed the officer a Kevlar vest. “Put this over your shirt and under your jacket. Just in case.”

“Just in case?” The man shook as he took the vest with his free hand.

“I want to know what they want. They didn’t come to rob the bank,” continued Bodaretski.

Gribakin was too nervous to see the point that his ALFA colleague was making. “What shall I say?”

“Try to get them to talk. Empathise with them. Say they won’t be harmed if they give themselves up. Surely you’ve seen enough cop films to know what to say.”

Gribakin smiled weakly, imagining himself as Samuel L Jackson in
The Negotiator
or his hero, De Niro. “But isn’t it better to use the bank’s phone?”

“Get their attention first.” Bodaretski had a plan.

*

SBU Headquarters
,
Volodymyrska Street
,
Kyiv

“That is not good.” Dudka looked at his young agent. “Any fatalities?”

“None that we can confirm.” Blazhevich had received a sit rep from Odessa. The raiders had entered the bank and fired indiscriminately before demanding the contents of the vaults. They were still inside and had ten known hostages. Major Bodaretski had stated his suspicions about the gunmen’s motives and was awaiting the green light from Dudka to storm the building. Both men had been looking at the hastily faxed blueprints and plans. Bodaretski was an experienced special forces ALFA officer. He explained his plans via speaker phone. “We can go in through the roof and first floor. At that exact time we will send smoke grenades into the ground floor windows.” It was a classic assault model but nevertheless effective.

“Is it not too soon?” Blazhevich did not want to endanger any of the hostages. “What if they intend to blow themselves and the hostages up?”

Bodaretski’s tinny voice filled the room. “We do not believe they possess any explosives. They seem either very amateur or very brazen. As I say we have not found a means of exfiltration.”

“Which is why they may be about to blow themselves up,” Blazhevich persisted.

Dudka rubbed his chin. He could see the dangers but had to assess the situation quickly. Decision made; he had no alternative. Ukraine could not be seen to be weak; they could not wait as the Russians had with the Moscow Theatre siege. These were criminals and not terrorists. “Execute your assault plan, major.” He had potentially just ordered the death of innocent members of the public, the very people he was sworn to protect.

Bodaretski closed the phone and returned to Gribakin.

“What have they got to say?”

“So far, nothing.”

“Keep it up.”

“I will.” Gribakin was now almost smiling; he felt that he was doing a good job. Bodaretski gave him a nod and walked away. He had not told the militia officer of his plans. The pleading voice on the loudhailer would be a diversion in the initial moments of the assault. He entered the neighbouring building and got to the roof. Nine ALFA assaulters were waiting for him, suited up in flame retardant dark blue nomex coveralls. He nodded. As the team adjusted webbing straps and balaclavas, Bodaretski gave the signal to the team on the ground. After a final check of their rubber soled boots his team crossed from their roof to the next. The buildings were terraced and had no gaps between them. The group split into two, four men un-looped abseil ropes and secured them on the parapet whilst Bodaretski’s group, in tactical formation, made for the skylight and tried the lock. It opened and the scout dropped slowly head first through the gap on a rope. He gave a ‘thumbs up’ and the rest of the team entered the building. At that exact moment flash-bangs cascaded through the ground floor windows immediately followed by the four assailers in teams of two. The loudhailer went quiet as Gribakin dropped it and looked on open mouthed.

Bodaretski now took the scout position and, with his suppressed HPK5 on semi-automatic, made for the central staircase. The first floor was empty, secure, now the ground floor with its banking hall, offices and vaults remained. He heard shots, barks from an AK followed by almost inaudible whispers from an HPK5. The assaulters’ weapons had suppressors fitted; this meant that any sounds of gunfire would be coming from the X-rays – the bad guys. He stepped over a dead gunman on the landing and hit the ground floor. Tactically but speedily he led the snake of men along the hall, each member had a specific arc of fire to cover and concentrated on this only. Every office door hid potential gunmen and death, each was opened in turn.

Suddenly bullets impacted all around him, two hit his Kevlar vest, spinning him left and into the wall. He dropped, dazed, as bullets ripped back over his head at the gunman. He was scooped up as the team passed him and entered the banking hall, leaving the third gunman dead. As the smoke cleared the sole remaining gunman lay face down on the floor pleading for mercy. His weapon was kicked away as the assault team checked the assumed hostages for any more weapons. Each was plasti-cuffed and led out through the front doors of the bank before being thrown face down onto the grass of the nearby park… Several were wounded, two badly needing stretchers. He hoped these had not been ALFA bullets. Bodaretski unclipped his vest and held his side. The Kevlar vest had let him cheat death but not before allowing the rounds to crack a rib and cause severe bruising. The whole assault had lasted a mere two minutes.

He pulled the striped ski mask off of the now cuffed and cowered gunman. “Your friends are dead. Unless you want to join them I suggest you talk.”

Eyes reddened by smoke, the man nodded. He was very young and looked beaten. Where his check shirt had been torn Bodaretski noticed a tattoo bearing a military insignia.

“Who sent you here and what for?”

“He promised to pay me $20,000 if I could rob this bank.” The smoke had made his voice raspy.

So little? Bodaretski was surprised. “Who promised?” The suspect coughed. “Who was this man?”

“I don’t know his name. He said that he would arrange everything. He said that there would be a van waiting by the park and then a boat to take us to Turkey.”

Bodaretski walked away; he had heard enough. He had recognised the tattoo. This boy was a rent-a-thug. One of the number of ever growing ex-army conscripts who had no work once their time had been served. He retrieved his phone and once again dialled Blazhevich. He had been right.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Ivana Franka Street
,
Kyiv

Snow had ignored Vickers’s request and stayed put overlooking the bank. He watched the man exit the bank. He noticed that his suit jacket was a size too large, big enough to conceal a Kevlar vest. He had to be one of the SBU men. He lit a cigarette and stood in the sunshine, which was now breaking through the winter sky.
Get back inside you idiot
, Snow muttered to himself. A second man exited a minute later and bummed a cigarette from the first. They exchanged a joke and smiles, the tension clearly gone. There was a sudden creak from behind him.

The door was opening. Snow ducked and pivoted to face the noise before moving as fast as he could to the blind side of the opening door. With the wood separating them he saw the point of a Kalashnikov. Snow slammed the door on the unseen figure, causing him to lose his balance and fall. Snow pushed past the flapping door and fell on the newcomer. The intruder tried to roll away but Snow forced his left forearm into his nose with as much force as he could muster. The gunman grunted and dropped the weapon, bringing his arms up to protect himself.
Mistake
, thought Snow, as he slammed his right fist into the man’s temple, then again into his nose. Blood and bone burst over his victim’s face and his legs kicked wildly. The eyes of the attacker met with prey and Snow realised that this was Dmitro, the sentry he had tussled with at the restaurant, the man who had saved Pashinski. Desperately, Dmitro’s arms punched and legs kicked. Snow pressed down again with his forearm but now on the neck. This time he would choke the bastard.

Suddenly, a glint from the corner of his eye. Instinctively Snow rolled left and clear and up to his feet. His opponent was quickly standing, grunting like an animal as blood flew from what used to be his nose, a commando knife in his right hand, and he lunged forward. Snow took a step back and saw the wild look in Dmitro’s eyes. He lunged again, this time Snow moved to one side and took a step forward, foreshortening the strike. The knife ripped through his jacket under his left arm but passed clean through. Snow grabbed the arm with his left and the wrist with his right. In a well-practiced judo move he twisted the arm backwards and down. Dmitro tried to move away, tried to punch with his free arm but his own momentum worked against him. Snow’s left elbow was on his neck, forcing him down. His face hit the gravel. Snow kept hold of the arm and twisted, hearing the shoulder joint pop. Dmitro let out an animal scream and finally dropped the knife. Changing elbow for left shin, Snow grabbed the knife and plunged it into the side of the man’s shoulder.

“Where is Pashinski? Where is Pashinski?” he yelled into the ear no more than six inches from his mouth. Dmitro tried to struggle. Snow applied more pressure and repeated his demand. “It doesn’t have to end like this. Where is Pashinski! Where is Pashinski?”

Cheek pressed against gravel and blood in his mouth, Dmitro replied, “In bed with your mother!”

Snow now knew that he would get nothing out of the soldier and plunged the serrated knife into the man’s neck. The entire body bucked and twisted but it was too late. Within seconds Dmitro was dead, blood bubbled out through the wound. Snow looked at his victim. Strangely he felt no remorse for Pashinski’s hired killer. He rolled away and caught his breath, wiping his bloodied hands on his jeans. This was the final proof. Still trying to calm his breathing he checked the corpse, undid the knife from its lanyard and picked up both it and the rifle, which lay ten feet away on the roof. The chamber was full and two magazines were taped together Chechen-style to quicken a reload. Snow moved cautiously back into the building and saw a small satchel on the steps. Inside he found several flash-bangs and two more spare magazines. He quickly retook his position at the parapet and looked over. The wind had carried away the sounds of the scuffle so that six floors below it had been unheard over the roar of the nearby traffic. The two SBU men still stood outside winding down, the news of the Odessa raid had obviously been passed on. Snow looked along the small road in an attempt to find the rest of Pashinski’s men. He noticed two men in boiler suits exiting the van at the intersection with Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street. It was happening now.

He raised the Kalashnikov and aimed the sights at the van. At this distance he could hit the target, but not with real accuracy. The weapon was for short range assault and suppression, not precision targeting. He held the target as the figures put packs on their backs. He squinted to get a better view of the target a hundred meters away, now he noticed the black woollen hats. There was movement. A third man exited the bank and excitedly shouted at the other two. They instantly threw away their cigarettes and, eyes scanning the street tactically, retreated into the bank. Snow switched back to the van. The men were approaching. He could not yet see a weapon but now one was reaching into the pack for something and the other started to pull down the hat… no balaclava. He had seen enough. Switching the AK to semi-automatic he put first pressure on the trigger, waited until his sights were filled, took second pressure and… 7.62 calibre rounds impacted the pavement around the lead figure. The man grabbed at his legs and fell. The second immediately swung his assault rifle round from under the pack and shot wildly back up the street. Firing one-handed he dragged his comrade into the shadow of the restaurant. Snow shot again and the first figure went limp as rounds impacted into his chest. Now noise from below. Nearer, at the other end of the road, three armed assaulters exited the second van. Rounds zipped past Snow. Chunks of concrete were kicked up by those that fell short. He threw himself back flat on the roof and changed mags. Five guns against one. He could not win if he stayed put. He threw two flash-bangs over the edge, counted, heard them explode then popped back up and fired the second mag at the street below. He had to move. He ran back into the apartment block and down the stairs as fast as his feet would carry him.

“
Blat
,” Bull swore. This was not the plan. One man down, one compromised and a team of four left. “GO, GO.” He was not going to stop now. The remaining team members reached the bank to find the heavy security doors shut. Suddenly from above there were more shots, this time from the bank. The SBU men inside had regained the advantage. There was no easy way in. Sirens filled the air and he saw flashing lights in front of him. Without hesitation he detonated both vans. Shockwaves spread up the entire street, windows shattered and car alarms went off. Time seemed to slow as debris fell. They moved, Bull out in front racing for the farthest apartment block. Shooting the door open, Bull raced inside. Back on the street gunfire again came from the bank. A Ukrainian, Taras, went down: clean headshot. Another stumbled – hit in the side. The third assaulter changed course and dived into the restaurant patio.

Snow exited the neighbouring building at the same time. ALFA troops wearing full BDU – battle dress uniform – entered the street past the burning van. Rounds blew bits of door frame away. He had no time to think. Snow ran at the next open door and threw himself inside, as he looked up the lift doors closed on a face he recognised.

Bull was suddenly alone. He hit the button for the sixth floor. Weapon trained on the door, he quickly ascended. He pulled out the tactical radio and summoned the helicopter. One to pick up.

Blazhevich was on the line to the bank. Just as Major Bodaretski had warned, Odessa had been a diversion, a feint. He could hear gunfire outside as he sped crazily through the Kyiv lunchtime traffic, sirens blaring and lights blazing. “Have they been stopped?” he demanded.

“Yes,” came the reply from the agent in the bank.

“Have you got Pashinski?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” replied the agent.

Before he had time to analyse the reply he was snarled in a jam caused by the car bomb. Blazhevich left his car in the middle of the road and ran towards the noise. A militia officer shouted at him, Blazhevich waved his shield and pushed him aside. Dark smoke rose from the remains of the van and broken glass crunched under foot. He squeezed past the wreckage and onto the streets. Shots were being fired in his direction by the ALFA squad, not at him but towards the restaurant. Two gunmen lay in the doorway. One unmoving on his back, the other crouching behind him trying to line up the sights on an… RPG!

Blazhevich pulled out his government issue Glock and fired on the move. The first two shots were wide but his third grazed the gunman’s shoulder.
Whoompf
! The rocket-propelled grenade left the launcher and flew almost in slow motion down the street until it impacted against the farthest apartment block some three meters above the ALFA men. Blazhevich continued to run and fire until his clip was empty. The firing stopped as the approaching Special Forces team realized that their target was no more. Panting, Blazhevich reached the gunman only to find him dead not from his bullet but from a headshot. The street was now secure. He scanned the area. Four bodies lay were they had fallen, each wore a black three-hole balaclava. He walked towards the bank and as he did searched for Pashinski.

Snow leant against the wall to catch his breath and changed magazines on the Kalashnikov. Above him he heard the roof door bang shut. Pashinski. Snow took several deep breaths and moved up the remaining stairs. This was it. He kicked open the door and sprinted across the roof.

A clean shot. Bull stood and emptied the clip on his pursuer. The Kalashnikov spat a deadly shower of lead. Each bullet registered a supersonic crack. On impacting the bullets traced a neat line up the wall until the last found its target. The round hit Snow mid-stride in the left leg, punching a neat hole through his thigh. Snow let out an inhuman scream and smashed into the gravel covered roof, gun flying from his hand and over the edge to the street below. As he skidded to a halt, gravel cut deeply into his hands and cheek, ripping the skin. Snow lay crumpled against the parapet. His left leg a bloody mess. He felt no pain, only a cold sensation all over his body. So this is what it was like to be shot? His vision blurred; he made out a shape approaching.

Bull walked swiftly. In one drilled fluid movement he swung the empty assault rifle behind his back and unholstered his Glock 9mm. Holding it out in front of him he stopped six feet away, instantly recognising Snow. Snow made a grab for the commando knife and tried to stand. His leg buckling, he fell on to his knees. His lungs still fought for oxygen as he raised the knife at the blurry figure. Bull pulled the trigger and a single bullet impacted into the mass of Snow’s right shoulder, throwing him flat on his back. The knife now dangled from its lanyard at his side. His vision blurred further and his body started to shake. Even as he sweated he felt cold, so very cold. A boot hit him in the groin and he instinctively tried to ball his body. The knife was ripped away and discarded.

Bull took a step forward, the Glock trained on Snow’s skull.

“So here we are again. We could have worked together, in another life. You are a good soldier, but a very bad hero.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Snow looked up to meet his executioner’s gaze and once more saw the green snake-like eyes boring into him. Spitting blood he replied, “And you’re a shit villain.”

Bull laughed as his finger exerted more pressure on the trigger. “
Dasvidanya
,
Mr…”

A high velocity shot rang out before Snow had time to react. Bull’s head was replaced by a crimson cloud. The body remained erect for a split second before collapsing across Snow’s legs. Pinned to the floor, Snow felt a darkness encircle him as he lost consciousness. Fifty meters away the door on another rooftop was delicately closed.