Cold Blood (5 page)

FOUR

Podilsky School International
,
Berezniki
,
Kyiv
,
Ukraine

Snow rubbed his right thigh, it 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 that 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 were 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 had been used by some of the gold medallists of the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The new owner sought to commemorate this event and had the Olympic rings included in the design of his new 9ft wrought iron security gates which guarded the entrance. The gates were not 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 bathrooms, of which there were now six, and the indoor pool. The back of the house led onto a large terrace, with 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 flower beds. 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 that your British business partner was assassinated in Odessa; I know that it was a trained sniper; I know that this is not good for general business; but I also know that you now control the entire venture.”

“And you think that 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 that 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 that I am not immune to this? Remember it is I 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 anyone 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 whilst 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 had 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. By this time he could hardly refuse his appointment as MD.

His old man was – he corrected himself –
had been
a crafty one. All the while he had known deep down that Bav and Bav alone would replace him. That he and not 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 Pops, 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, stabbed 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, Mr 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 bid 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 whilst Macintosh knotted his hands in his lap and nodded. The biscuits remained untouched. Dudka continued, as did 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 that the shot came from above. Scuff marks on the roof of a neighbouring warehouse substantiate this.”

Macintosh, his face having become 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 that 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 may 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 whilst his words were translated. “We of course know that Mr Malik was in partnership with a Ukrainian joint stock company and believe that 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 Mr 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 that they will do all they can.”

“I am sure.” But Vickers was not.