Читать книгу Cold Black - Alex Shaw - Страница 11

Maidan Nezalejsnosti, Kyiv, Ukraine

Dudka stood with his dog on the edge of Maidan Nezalejsnosti and watched as Kyivites went about their daily routines of shopping, drinking, and falling in love. A hot August lunchtime on Kyiv’s Independence Square, and all those who could manage it were away on holiday or at their dachas. Those who stayed behind, however, enjoyed the sunshine.

Maidan Nezalejsnosti was the heart of the city and had been home to innumerable national celebrations. Every New Year’s Eve it was crammed with over a hundred thousand people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Dudka had been at the festivities in London once, and been most unimpressed. Independence Day was another great celebration, as was Victory Day, the only hangover from the Soviet Union he enjoyed. In recent years, however, the square had been home to many political gatherings.

As the home of the Orange Revolution in 2004, well over two hundred thousand Ukrainians had camped and protested until they caused a rerun of the presidential election. One year later it became the home of those wishing to cause a rerun of the parliamentary elections. The ironic aspect to Dudka was that in the first event the then Prime Minister had illegally won the election while in the second he claimed he had illegally lost. And now? Well, now he was the President of Ukraine.

Such were the politics of Ukraine. In the past Dudka had tried to keep out of it all and had ‘supported’ the right person, regardless of his personal preferences. He had initially been appointed by Ukraine’s first President in 1992, and again kept his views to himself when promoted by his successor to the position of Deputy Head of the SBU, head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime (Director). However his boss – he hated to think of him as that – Yuri Zlotnik, was a highly political beast.

Zlotnik’s position as head of the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) was a parliamentary appointment, upon recommendation by the President. Directly under Zlotnik were deputies who were appointed, in turn, on his recommendation, again by the President of Ukraine. In normal circumstances this process would have resulted in a fair, impartial, and dedicated security service; however, in a government where the President and Prime Minister had been at war, problems arose.

Zlotnik was a compromise candidate, the President’s initial recommendation having been boycotted by the parliament, led by the then Prime Minister. It had been a bitter time as the two sides played a game of chess. Finally, as a ‘compromise’, Dudka took delight in remembering, Zlotnik had been confirmed as head of the SBU. Zlotnik then attempted to clean house by putting pressure on the President to appoint men close to him who were, no surprise to anyone, supporters of his sponsor, the Kremlin-favoured Prime Minister. Now, two years later, the former Prime Minister, originally a mechanic from the eastern city of Donetsk, had finally become the President of Ukraine. Zlotnik and his pro-Russian cronies were now cemented in power, the President’s men.

Zlotnik had decided to keep Dudka in place. Dudka was the oldest and most respected Director in the SBU, with years of distinguished service prior to that with the Soviet KGB. With age, however, Dudka had become less subtle and it was no secret that he wasn’t a fan of the new President and his men from Donetsk. If asked, Dudka no longer held back with his honest and sometimes blunt views.

Dudka reached down to stroke his dog, a grin on his face. He remembered how Zlotnik had turned red when, at an office party, Dudka had shared these views with him. Zlotnik had slammed his vodka glass down on the table and stormed off. As such, Dudka was, in essence, the enemy within. He was constantly butting heads with his boss but he had got results, more so than Zlotnik’s cronies. He was, as Zlotnik had told him to his face, ‘an oxymoron – a convenient inconvenience’.

Dudka turned and headed home, back up Karl Marx Street, or Horodetskoho Street as it had now been renamed, to his flat two minutes away on Zankovetskaya Street. Both streets, the first named after a political activist, the second after an apolitical actress, were busy with locals and tourists alike, shopping at the overpriced boutiques. No doubt his colleague and head of the SBU’s Anti-terrorist Centre, Pavel Utkin, would be looking at the summer crowds and worrying. He saw danger in everything.

Dudka and Utkin also did not see eye to eye. They were constantly colliding with each other over who had jurisdiction, his own Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime or Utkin’s Anti-terrorist Centre. Nowadays the distinction wasn’t clear; organised crime seemed to be increasingly carried out to fund terrorism. For his part, Dudka wanted things to be smooth. It was Utkin, the younger man by twenty years, with an eye on the top job, who wanted to take over. The problem was that Utkin, too, was one of the President’s men.

Dudka found himself working with the ‘Bandits from Donetsk’ – as the press, not he, had labelled them. The consensus had been that January’s presidential elections would oust the bandits. Consensus had been wrong. The election had given them the most powerful position of all, that of President of Ukraine.

Dudka reached his building, entered the lift, and rose to the third floor. His official lunch hour over, he settled his dog back down and left for his office. He would walk, not bothering to use his car, an advantage of living in the very heart of the city. He’d be there within sixteen minutes, taking a circuitous route to bypass the crowds on the central square. He put his tie and jacket back on, both bought from the state-owned central store, Tzum, and shut the front door.

Since secession from the Soviet Union, Ukraine had changed greatly and yet not at all, he mused as he journeyed back down Zankovetskaya. The shops lining the capital’s streets were full of expensive imported goods and the city bustled with a tenfold increase in traffic, but beneath the surface many of the same people were running the country. They might have renounced communism but they were still Soviet in mentality. The faces hadn’t changed either. It was the new generation that would really change the place and he feared that, at seventy-two, he wouldn’t live long enough to see his dear country become fully grown. His day had gone and all he could do now was ensure his homeland didn’t implode before he could hand it over. His own protégé, Blazhevich, was one of the people who would shape the future of the SBU. He was young, not yet thirty-five, and untarnished by the Soviet past. He had first proved himself to be a worthy officer two years before, when, working together, they had halted an international arms trading network. If Dudka had to name one good man in the nest of vipers that the SBU had become, it would be Vitaly Blazhevich.

Dudka crossed Kyiv’s main boulevard, Khreshatik, by means of the underpass and puffed as he walked up Prorizna Street. The hills kept him trim. He thought of himself as solid. Certainly not fat. Yet his late wife, the ballerina, had always been putting him on a diet! Two American businessmen passed him walking downhill. One was gesticulating to the other, who was nodding and looking serious. Dudka took this in his stride. Fifteen years ago all foreigners would have been stared at, but today, although still undiscovered by international tourism, more and more foreign businessmen were in Ukraine.

The criminal element, too, seemed to understand the value of ‘foreign business diversity’. In the early days his caseload had been heavy with instances of attempted or actual extortion on and against foreign business interests. Now these were few and far between as the criminals themselves tried to expand abroad. This, however, caused new headaches as he laboured to improve ties with foreign agencies and Interpol. But Dudka’s current caseload was surprisingly light. Not much had happened in the last two months; perhaps the bandits were watching and waiting for the political situation to settle before deciding on the most profitable type of ‘business’? Or perhaps, he mused once more, they, too, were just on holiday?

SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

Snow climbed the stairs to stretch his thigh muscles. Sitting for too long in traffic, his left leg had become stiff. He reached Patchem’s floor, his thighs gently warmed, crossed the open-plan section, and pushed the door that led to the reception area for the ‘Soviet Desk’, as it was still affectionately called by the longer-serving officers. Patchem’s overly serious secretary nodded that he should enter. Patchem gestured for Snow to sit. Through the large thick glass window, the Thames below reflected the mid-morning sun.

‘Paddy Fox.’ Patchem didn’t waste his words.

Snow nodded. The dramatic rescue footage, which some overexcited journalists were saying was the most sensational since the Iranian Embassy siege, had made Fox something of a media sensation. The royal endorsement of Umar Al Kabir had only added to this. It had been leaked that Fox was an SAS veteran of both Iraq wars. The media, who liked nothing more than a real-life ‘action hero’, clamoured for more information and pictures like a pack of feral dogs. Even Britain’s most well-known former SAS member turned author had commented on Fox’s actions in his newspaper column.

‘I know you were in different squadrons, generations, but you must have met over the years?’

‘We have met.’

Snow didn’t mention the freezing nights spent in a hedgerow in South Armagh’s ‘Bandit Country’ while on attachment to ‘The Det’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s intelligence unit. The pair of them had been deployed to relay information on a suspected new IRA cell.

‘What do you think of him?’ Patchem’s bright-blue eyes burned into Snow’s. ‘Liked by most, respected by all, I assume?’ Patchem continued, with mild sarcasm.

‘Yes.’ What was he getting at?

‘But in possession of a short temper. He wouldn’t get past the psych test in today’s Regiment selection. Six weren’t interested in him either, even though he spoke Arabic. Here, have a look.’ Patchem removed a buff-coloured file from his briefcase on the table in front of him.

Snow took the file and opened it. It was a censored version of the military record of one James Celtic Fox. A boy soldier in the Gordon Highlanders, he had passed selection at the age of twenty-one and into B Squadron 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Mobility Troop. Specialist: demolition. The file listed some of the campaigns he had undertaken, many not known outside the confines of Whitehall and Stirling Lines. Large areas had been blacked out when the file had been photocopied.

‘Fox made corporal in the Highlanders but was demoted back to private.’

Snow looked up from the page. ‘Oh?’

Patchem spoke, matter-of-fact. ‘He threw his sergeant major out of a window.’

Snow wasn’t surprised; he’d believe anything of Paddy.

‘Evidently he found the bugger in bed with his wife. Luckily for both men the room was on the first floor! So, to business.’ Patchem held his hand out for Snow to return the file. ‘As the media has been so keen to broadcast to the world, an unknown terrorist organisation attempted to abduct the daughter of a member of the Saudi royal family. Fox stopped them, shot three of the kidnappers, and rescued the girl. Unfortunately he also seriously wounded a bystander – you’ll have seen all this on TV’

Snow nodded.

‘Well, this person, the “innocent passer-by”, happened to be having an affair with Fox’s second wife.’

‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘That’s exactly what the CPS thought. However, it has been decided, though not made public yet, that he’s not to be charged with attempted murder. It turns out the Saudis have some friends in very high places. These people “persuaded” the Home Secretary to drop all charges against Fox.’

It would be put down to the ‘special relationship’ between Saudi and the UK, which in reality had far more to do with arms contracts. Patchem had heard that Saudi Arabia had threatened to nullify the latest contract if Fox were prosecuted. Al Kabir was the Saudi signatory.

‘What’s more, Fouad Al Kabir is to offer Fox a position in Riyadh, as head of security, to show his gratitude. What I want you to do is persuade Fox to take it.’ Patchem pressed a button on his keyboard and an image was projected on the blank, light-blue wall behind Snow’s head. ‘Recognise him?’

Snow swivelled in his chair and saw an image of a dead body. The picture zoomed in and Snow recognised the man. A second image, this one a still from Snow’s mobile video footage taken in Harley Street, appeared next to the face.

‘The same person.’

‘I agree. He has yet to be identified, but this is one of the abductors Fox neutralised. The attack on Durrani and the abduction are linked.’

Snow frowned. ‘Are you saying that Dr Durrani had links or dealings with terrorists?’

‘Absolutely not. He had a higher security clearance than you. He’d worked for us for years and was fully vetted. He trained in the UK but was a Pashtun, originally from Quetta. His family came to the UK when the Soviets invaded neighbouring Afghanistan. Due to his contact with us, we monitored all his patients. We know they included members of the Saudi royal family. With regard to whoever perpetrated these two acts, to be candid, we have no leads whatsoever. Furthermore, the media and the PM are asking “why”. The last thing we need is someone putting the desert wind up the Saudis.’ Patchem half-smiled at his play on words; it hid his sadness at the loss of a colleague. ‘If Fox takes this job it would also get him well and truly away from the media. Whitehall are very keen to kill the story. Everything you need to know is in here. Any questions?’

Snow shook his head as Patchem handed him a second file.

‘Good. Call me with your progress. You have three days.’

Snow stood and left the office. He would have to be careful. Fox would be drawing much attention from the media and Snow didn’t want his face in print beside his old comrade’s.

Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex

A disgruntled DC Flynn had the police driver drop Fox off at Cabot Square in London’s banking hub, Docklands. Fox easily found the only branch in London of his new Swiss banker and, after passing their security process, was allowed to withdraw cash against his generous payment from the Saudis. After buying wrapping paper, with which he covered his sword, Fox entered Canary Wharf tube station, taking the Jubilee Line to Westminster, where he changed to the Circle Line for Victoria.

Now safely ensconced in his Southern Central train to Shoreham, he sat back and watched as the scenery outside the carriage changed from the bustle of London to Surrey suburbia, then the green of the Sussex countryside. Finally reunited with his mobile, he had made several calls home – none of which had been answered. There was no response from Tracey’s mobile either. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk to her, but that he wanted to let her know he was on his way home. Having relished his walk from Shoreham station, he stopped short on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in his front garden. He felt the anger bristle inside him but had to admire his wife’s spirit. She was wasting no time. The house was in her name, she had bought it, so she was going to sell it. He walked up Jim’s path and knocked on his front door.

‘Paddy.’ His neighbour’s face registered shock but also relief. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes, thanks, Jim.’ Fox nodded at the sign. ‘What’s all this about then?’

‘She’s left, gone to her sister’s place, but I didn’t tell you that. Sorry.’ He looked at his feet.

‘Don’t be.’

Jim swallowed. ‘You know I spoke to the papers? Someone had to say what kind of bloke you were.’

This newspaper interview had angered Fox at first but no longer. As pensioners, any extra cash would make their lives easier. ‘Jim, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about, mate, and if it earned you a few quid or paid for that cruise Maureen wanted… well, just buy me a pint sometime. Is Maureen in?’

‘She’s out doing a bit of shopping. Didn’t want me to get under her feet at Tesco; you know what women are like.’

Jim hadn’t meant to be ironic. ‘I do indeed. How is she?’

‘Fine. She was a bit shaken at first but then she started telling all her friends about it. I think she’ll be telling that story for years!’ Jim smiled. ‘She got her best china out for that girl. And then when we found out who she was! Well, talk about all her dreams coming true – meeting royalty and that.’

Fox shook his head. ‘As long as you’re both all right?’

Jim nodded. ‘Paddy, there were a lot of paparazzi hanging around. One asked me to give him a call if you came back.’

Fox reached into his pocket. ‘How much did he offer you? I’ll match it.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. There’s been a couple of them hanging about. I just wanted to warn you.’

‘Thanks.’ The last thing Fox wanted was his face in the papers.

‘That bloke, the one you…’

‘Shot?’

‘I’m sorry. I saw him before but I didn’t feel I could tell you. Not my place.’

Fox tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘Not my place either, by the look of it.’

Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt

‘Sharm el-Sheikh is known as the City of Peace, referring to the large number of international peace conferences that have been held here.’ The fat man’s voice carried on the breeze from the next boat. He continued reading from his guidebook. ‘Sharm el-Sheikh remained under Israeli control until the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt in 1982 after the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty of 1979. A prosperous Israeli settlement had been created there in the Seventies under the name “Ophira”, derived from biblical Ophir. Some of the buildings erected at the time are still in evidence.’

‘Is that where we’re going this afternoon, Dad?’

The boy, the Chechen guessed, was seven and still at the age where he hung on his father’s every word, even if he didn’t understand.

‘No, we’re going out on this boat to see the fishes.’

‘Can we eat them?’

‘Some of them, but some could eat us!’

The boy laughed. ‘Dad, that’s silly.’

The Chechen drank his iced tea and looked back at the shore. The cornice was crowded with cafés. Tourists took up tables, chatting loudly, eating ice creams, and getting sunburnt. On the sea, power cruisers and yachts mixed with day launches, glass-bottomed tourist barges, and fishing charters. It was the perfect place to have a meeting without being noticed. The neighbouring boat moved off, taking the British holidaymakers out of earshot.

‘I am listening,’ Khalid said quietly.

The Chechen smiled, although what he was about to say was not a joke. ‘We are in a position to be able to help each other. There are many true believers in your country who fear that the Kingdom is too lenient on the infidels; that the Kingdom is governed by those who seek to line their own pockets.’

‘This is the view of a growing number. It is not a secret.’

‘But what is a secret is that, among these true believers, there are those who are ready to take direct action.’

There was a pause as the Saudi sipped from his glass, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. ‘There are such people.’

‘I would like to help them.’

The bluntness of the Chechen’s reply caused the normally composed Arab to frown. He had never met this man before; the meeting had been set up using a Soviet-era KGB sleeper channel. A channel that Khalid thought he would never have to answer again. ‘You are a believer, a true believer?’

The reply was in Arabic. ‘I am Chechen.’ It was a lie, but he had learnt his Arabic in Chechnya. ‘I know firsthand what it feels like to have one’s own beliefs subjugated by an occupying infidel force. I represent a powerful group who will no longer stand by and watch our Muslim brothers in the Kingdom mocked by their own rulers.’

‘And what could you offer, my brother?’ The Saudi did not switch his Oxford English for Arabic.

‘If certain targets were to be presented, I would be able to assist in both the funding and equipping of any attack.’

‘Training?’

‘Special Forces training, my brother.’

There was a pause as the wash of a jet ski caused the launch to rock. Khalid looked the man in the eye. ‘This is an interesting proposal.’

‘One that you should accept.’

‘How is it that you came to know of my beliefs?’ Khalid was still not completely trusting of this Chechen. He could have accessed his handler’s file to entrap him, part of the Christian crusaders’ war against the true believers.

‘Alexander Williamovich wanted me to say “my love for my country is as pure as the vodka that has replaced the love of my wife”.’

Khalid grunted, reassured. The odd sentence was confirmation that this man had indeed come from, or had the blessing of, his former Soviet handler. An amateurish and clichéd device which was effective for that very reason.

‘How is the vodka-soaked fool?’

‘Dead. He was murdered by the very Russians he served. Did you know that his grandfather was also Chechen?’

Khalid was saddened. It had been this man who had recruited him out of Oxford, masquerading as a fellow undergraduate. ‘My brother, I should like to accept your kind offer of assistance.’

The Chechen nodded and smiled briefly. ‘We can make immediate preparations, my brother. I have a list of targets that I assume you would want to attack.’

‘I have my own target list.’ Khalid frowned. He didn’t like taking orders and wanted to make it quite clear that he, even if funded by this man and his people, would be in charge.

The Chechen had expected this. The Arabs were a proud race, much like the Russians, he mused, but both were easy to lead, if hard to control. ‘I assure you, my brother, that I only suggest my targets because I have intelligence on them and it could be that some of our targets are the same.’

‘Perhaps then we should compare lists?’

‘I see you have already targeted the Al Kabir family.’

Khalid’s eyebrow twitched with surprise. ‘An unfortunate mistake caused the girl to be rescued.’

‘I am here to prevent unfortunate mistakes. Next time we may meet in Dubai, in a more fitting environment.’

‘Insha’Allah’

Shoreham Beach, UK

A shiny green Mini Cooper, plastered with company decals, pulled up outside Fox’s house and the driver got out.

‘Mr McDonald?’ The estate agent was young, suited, and eager.

‘Aye, that’s me.’ Fox, now wearing a baseball cap, shook with his right hand, a small carrier bag of shopping swaying gently in his left.

‘John, John Edgar.’

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, John.’ Fox had made his accent thicker than normal.

‘That’s no problem at all, Mr McDonald.’ Edgar twiddled the keys on his finger nervously. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s a nice, quiet street. What brings you to the area?’

‘I’m looking for somewhere nearer to my work.’

Edgar nodded, to show his understanding. ‘Good. Well, it’s a new development, just over three years old, I believe. Shall we go inside?’

‘Let’s.’

The man from Andrews & Son opened the front door and stepped back to let Fox inside. As Fox passed, he swiped the keys from the door.

‘Thanks. I’ll take it.’

Edgar was confused but smiled nevertheless until the door closed and he was locked out. Fox winked at himself in the hall mirror as he made for the kitchen, ignoring the doorbell, which the bemused estate agent now rang. Reaching under the sink he turned the water back on then opened the understairs cupboard and did the same with the electricity supply. The doorbell had stopped ringing. Fox filled the kettle with water. Edgar’s face appeared at the back window; Fox held up the kettle and gave a ‘thumbs up’ before lowering the roller blind.

Tracey had really done a number on him. The house was bare except for the odd items that had been left strategically to ‘sell it’. The kettle in the kitchen, expensive cooking utensils hanging on their pegs, and magazines, of the type they never read, on the coffee table in the lounge. Luckily, both the TV and three-piece suite had also been used for staging.

A thought suddenly occurred to Fox. He moved quickly to the internal garage door and opened it. There she was, his beloved Porsche, stubbornly standing stock-still and refusing to move until she had been fully restored. She was where he had left her but was now surrounded by boxes. Fox opened the nearest one to find it full of clothes – his. He was relieved; at least she hadn’t thrown them away. Picking up the box he made his way upstairs and took a shower, again ignoring the front door, and now his mobile.

Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Khalid stared at the desert. Was there no greater example of Allah’s greatness? He was doing His work on earth, carrying out His divine will. It was time to start the new jihad against the infidels, who, in league with the corrupt royals, would defile the house of Islam.

Khalid had received a target list from ‘the Chechen’ and some suggestions. He had found them most acceptable. His men had been instructed and soon, Insha’Allah, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia would be cleansed of the infidel plague and become the true house of Islam.

Wellness Fitness Club, Brighton Marina, UK

The three ‘meats’ were in again, pumping themselves up to ridiculous proportions. Fox shook his head. What a trio of tits! Each in their early twenties, one was well over six foot, the second just under, while the third – who Fox had nicknamed ‘mini-meat’ – was scraping five. As they passed, Fox kept his eyes on the monitor in front of his treadmill and the main report on Sky News, some sort of demonstration in Ukraine. Looking down again he saw that the two larger meats were now loading up the leg press machine for ‘mini-meat’, who as usual was making grunting noises as he pushed the plates away from his body under the ever-increasing pressure.

The guy really was comical, thought Fox. He was square. His shoulders were broader than Fox’s and his chest fuller; the sad thing was that this actually made him look shorter. Meat One and Meat Two egged him on and threw him a bottle of water when he had finished his set.

Fox had seen all sorts in his time, from the wiry types who were happy to run all day to the meatheads who thought they were invincible. These were usually Paras, huge, hulking men who ran into bullets like they were rain but died none the less. Strength was a great thing to have but flexibility and speed were just as important. Fox reached the five-mile mark and slowed down the machine before stepping off.

At forty-five he was in as fine a shape as he had been at twenty-five, or so he claimed. Not for him the beer belly and saggy skin. True, his joints ached more now, but he took a perverse pleasure in confronting the pain and battling through it. He drank greedily at the water fountain before heading for the pull-up bar directly in front of the leg press station and ‘the meats’. Resting between sets, they gave the older man sideways glances. Fox knew they were watching so decided to show off. He jumped up for the bar and, pausing only for a second to get his grip, snapped off ten very fast pull-ups. Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.

‘Bit tired today,’ he said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.

Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.

‘Is that a warm-up set?’ Snow looked down at Fox.

It took a second for the old soldier to register the face, then his own creased into a broad smile. ‘Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!’ Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet, extending his hand. It had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.

‘It’s good to see you, Paddy.’ Snow shook the large hand.

‘You too, mate.’ Fox jerked his head and implied they should move.

Snow followed him to the personal trainer area in the corner, away from the other gym users. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.

‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to see you.’

‘Well, you see me.’ Fox took a gulp of water.

Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within earshot. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You still Regiment?’

‘Not quite.’

Fox raised his eyebrows; he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. ‘Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?’

Snow nodded.

Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later, he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.

‘You’re a celebrity.’ Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the seafront traffic.

‘Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jazeera.’

‘So what happened?’ Snow wanted to hear it firsthand.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Just me, Paddy.’

Fox folded his arms and leant back in the seat. It was a relief to recount the story to someone without fear of either prosecution or publication. He trusted Snow. As they headed towards Shoreham, Fox gave a full account of his actions on that eventful afternoon.

‘Did you see it was Sawyer before you pulled the trigger?’

Fox kept his eyes on the road. ‘He was in my line of sight.’

‘But did you see it was him?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’ Fox gripped the leather armrest. ‘He was shagging my wife.’

Snow slowed as they reached the outskirts of Shoreham. ‘You didn’t get the job then?’

‘What?’ Fox chuckled. ‘No, I did not.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Take the next on the right; you should be able to park at the Co-op.’

Snow turned and within a minute eased the car into a space.

‘So, who are you working for?’ Fox was blunt.

‘Six.’ Snow had no need to hide the fact.

Fox nodded knowingly. ‘I could tell.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘Has this got machineguns and rotating number plates?’

‘No, but it’s got an ejector seat especially for passengers of the Scottish persuasion.’

Fox held up his middle finger in reply as they exited the car.

Snow followed Fox out of the car park and onto the narrow high street. Both men stayed quiet until they’d reached the pub and were sitting with a pint. As usual, the Crown and Anchor was empty except for Burt and Dave. Burt pointed to the newspaper in his hand and gave a thumbs up.

‘So what can I do for you?’ Fox had an idea what his old comrade in arms had been sent to ask.

‘I heard you got offered a big job?’

Fox nodded. ‘Aye, I did that.’

‘I think you should take it.’ Snow sipped his lager.

‘You mean “Six” thinks I should take it?’

‘Yep.’ Patchem had known all along about Snow’s operational relationship with Fox, which was why he had chosen him to make the approach.

Fox downed his pint. ‘Training makes me thirsty. You’ll have to persuade me.’

Snow took the hint and got Fox another pint of bitter and a Diet Coke for himself.

‘What, you become bent or something? Where’s yours?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘You are not. I said you’ll have to persuade me. Now get yourself another. You’re staying the night at mine.’

Snow returned to the bar; he hadn’t needed much encouragement. This time, in addition to his pint, he plonked two double whiskys on the table. ‘If we’re drinking, we’re drinking.’

Fox lifted the spirit glass. ‘Up the arse, no bebies!’

‘You’d know.’

Fox narrowed his eyes. Not many could get away with saying that to him. They both downed the whisky. Dave looked up from his newspaper but said nothing. Fox sipped his pint. ‘So what’ve you been doing for the last decade and a bit?’

Snow recounted his own story, from his return to the Regiment after his assignment with The Det, to assisting the Ukrainian SBU, getting shot, and then ‘joining’ Six.

Fox whistled. ‘Me? After the Regiment I worked for a bunch of tossers for six years, got made redundant, and then, I nearly forgot, killed three bad guys and saved a princess.’

Neither story was the usual ‘reacquainting yourself with your mate’ chat, but then neither man was a normal ‘mate’. Although of different generations, they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they’d been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and, by reputation, hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father from whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’, had played the local trump and claimed to be from another cell. He had knocked Snow about with blow after blow to give his story credibility, while using his best Ulster accent.

After McKracken’s men finished planting the roadside bomb, Fox and Snow were taken back to a farmhouse, where, in a world before mass mobile phones, the IRA cell leader wanted to corroborate Fox’s story. Snow was thrown – bruised, head covered in a Hessian sack – into the barn, while Fox was marched to the kitchen. Neither man knew where the other was but both acted as one.

Snow pretended to be more injured than he was and, just as his IRA guard was removing his sack, he lunged out with his leg, sweeping the man to the floor. The young Irishman was winded and dropped his handgun. Snow rolled on top of him and using his head as a weapon, broke the Irishman’s nose before clamping his still-bound hands around the youth’s neck. He had only meant to render him unconscious but the adrenaline of the situation meant he’d pressed too hard.

This was Snow’s first kill, a hard kill, but he had had no time for remorse. Using the volunteer’s knife, he cut through his bonds, collected the gun, and made, as stealthily as possible, for the farmhouse.

In the kitchen, Fox wasn’t tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, while McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who hadn’t lived far away, Fox was regaling his watchers with stories when one of them sensed movement outside. Fox sprang to his feet and kicked the nearest man in the groin. The first terrorist crumpled and Fox grabbed his assault rifle. As he did, Snow sent two 9mm rounds through the window and into the skull of the second. Fox ventured further into the house, as Snow moved through the door, pistol trained on number one, lying on the floor clutching his groin.

Fox heard shots but McKracken hadn’t stayed to fight. He had taken his Cavalier and was making good his escape. The night had been a success. The bomb was defused and the remaining IRA cell member turned ‘grass’, delivering valuable intelligence. Fox and Snow had made an effective team.

Fox stood. ‘Come on, let’s get some grub.’

‘What about here?’ Snow fancied the homemade steak and kidney pudding.

Fox looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Do you enjoy living?’

Dave, who was collecting the glasses, stared at Fox. ‘Think about me. You get to walk away, but the missus insists on cooking for me every bloody day!’

They exited the pub and moved down the high street. ‘You wanna move the car?’

Snow shook his head. ‘No, it’s a pool car. If it gets towed I’ll get another.’

‘“MI6 takes on clampers” – that’d look good in the Evening Argus.’ Fox enjoyed his own quip. ‘Right, I fancy an Indian.’

Fox marched the pair of them around the corner to the Indian Cottage restaurant, a sixteenth-century cottage converted to become Shoreham’s best Indian. The fact that, like most Indian restaurants, it was owned and staffed by Bangladeshis was lost on the two former soldiers.

*

The noise of a seagull outside the bedroom window woke Snow with a start. Head throbbing, he unzipped the ‘maggot’ Fox had lent him and rolled off the mattress. Wearing only his boxers and T-shirt, he walked to the window and looked out. The house had a view of the street opposite and, if he craned his neck to the left, Shoreham beach and the English Channel. The early morning sunlight danced on the surface of the sea. Snow pulled on his jeans and made his way downstairs in search of ibuprofen, aspirin, or paracetamol – anything to avert the hangover which would soon fully manifest itself.

The sound of a kettle boiling and the smell of bacon met him halfway. As he reached the bottom Fox greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Have a nice lie-in? You must be getting soft in your old age.’

Snow checked the time on the microwave: it read 7:15. Fox grabbed the kettle and poured the scalding water into a pair of mugs. ‘Here, regulation brew. Milk’s in the fridge.’

‘Cheers.’ Snow poured a measure then handed it to Fox. ‘You got any…’

Fox cut him off. ‘Second cupboard. Still got some horse tablets they gave Tracey for her back.’

Snow took two painkillers and gulped them down with hot tea. ‘How are you feeling?’

Fox cracked an egg. ‘Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunnyside up?’

‘Yeah,’ Snow nodded, although truth be told he was still full from the previous night’s curry.

‘What time are they expecting you back at spy central?’

‘It’s flexible.’ Snow took another swig of tea. ‘So?’

Fox spread his arms. ‘You want me to give up all this for a fistful of sand?’ Snow remained silent as a smile spread across Fox’s creased face. ‘Did you think I’d actually say no?’

‘No.’

‘Eat.’ Fox slapped two eggs, three rashers of bacon, and a pair of sausages onto a plate. ‘For tomorrow we may die.’

Arizona Bar and Grill, Kyiv, Ukraine

Gennady Dudka was looking forward to seeing his oldest friend, Leonid Sukhoi. He crossed his arms and smiled, reminiscing about times long ago. They had been conscripts together in the Red Army before being selected for the KGB Border Guards, where they had both stayed and risen through the ranks until Sukhoi transferred back to his native Belarus and Dudka returned to his homeland of Ukraine. They had met up as frequently as work would allow over the years and had enabled as much collaboration as possible between their two KGB divisions.

Then, however, 1991 happened and the mighty Soviet Union imploded. The two friends found themselves working for different countries, Sukhoi now employed by the Belarusian KGB and Dudka by the Ukrainian SBU, Ukraine having dropped the Soviet name but not much else. As the Nineties and the new millennium passed, Ukraine had gradually stepped out of the shadows of the former Soviet Union and was walking, if slowly, towards the West and the EU. Belarus, on the other hand, had tried to rebuild the Union and sought to create, first, a ‘Belarusian and Russian Union’ and then a ‘Greater Slavic State’ with Russia, Yugoslavia – as was – and Ukraine. Yugoslavia had crumbled into civil war before they had a chance to sign up, and Ukraine hadn’t answered the door to their neighbour; they were busy entertaining their new visitor – the West. Now isolated by all but the infamous ‘Axis of Evil’ and Russia, Belarus was alone and mainly ignored, a remnant of the Soviet Union that neither fitted into the past nor the new democratic future of Europe.

Dudka hadn’t seen his friend for… he counted on his fingers… close to three years. He frowned. Had it really been so long since Leonid’s granddaughter married her own ambitious KGB officer from Minsk? Time had passed in an instant; now both in their early seventies, Dudka had started to realise that Leonid and he didn’t have all that much time left. Dudka was in as rude health as ever, but he feared for his friend, who, although taller, had always been ‘delicate’. He made a resolution to keep in touch more, in future, with those who mattered to him most.

The restaurant had started to fill up with early Sunday customers; it was just after twelve and Leonid was due any moment. The waitress again asked Dudka if he was ready to order, and for the second time he told her he was waiting for someone and could she just bring him a glass of water and turn the air conditioning down? He shivered; outside it was a balmy, early September day, but here it felt like the midst of winter. His water arrived, complete with ice cubes – an American idea. He gave the waitress a withering look. Not taking the hint, she left as he noticed his old friend enter the room.

Dudka smiled broadly and held out his arms, shook Leonid’s hand, and then embraced him. ‘My dear friend. How good it is to see you!’ He meant it; he loved Leonid like a brother.

Sukhoi also smiled but not quite as warmly. ‘You too, old rogue.’

Dudka took a step back and regarded his friend; he had put on some weight, his shirt and jacket seemed a bit tight, and he did not seem at ease. They sat.

‘I trust it was a good flight from Minsk International?’ It was a joke; neither the airport nor the airline were truly international.

Sukhoi smiled half-heartedly.

Dudka frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

They paused while the waitress brought more water and ordered quickly before she had a chance to leave.

Sukhoi drank his water then mopped his brow; he was sweating. ‘Genna, you are the only one I can speak to. You are the only one I trust.’

Dudka’s expression turned serious. ‘Whatever I can do to help, I will – you know that, Leonya.’

The head of the Belarusian KGB’s third directorate nodded. He was in a dangerous position; so dangerous, in fact, that he had had to leave the country he commanded and enter Ukraine to seek help. He glanced around the restaurant. He had initially chosen it at random but was later happy to find it was an ex-pat favourite – not many old Soviets.

‘There are certain elements in my government that would seek to destroy my country.’ Sukhoi’s tone was serious. His words hung in the air as their soup arrived, Borsch being one of the only Ukrainian dishes on the menu.

‘Lukachev has done a good job so far; I say let him finish.’ Dudka dipped his roll then took a soggy bite; his comment was laced with sarcasm.

Sukhoi noticed a crumb fall onto his friend’s tie. It was no secret between them that neither was enamoured of the Belarusian leader. The problem was that like-minded men in Belarus were hard to find. All those of their age had too much to lose and the younger generations had been indoctrinated during the overlong years of Lukachev’s rule.

‘Something terrible is being planned, something that would almost certainly bring about the destruction of the Belarusian nation.’

Dudka’s spoon stopped and its contents fell back into the bowl, splattering his tie. His friend was being even more alarmist than usual. ‘What is this about?’

The KGB man swallowed hard. The restaurant was fine for making contact but he couldn’t take any more chances. ‘Is there somewhere we can go that is secure?’

Dudka narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes. You are serious?’

Sukhoi nodded. ‘I need help, Genna.’

Dudka knew not to push the matter any further. Both men sat in silence and finished their soup, neither having an appetite for a main course.

Dudka paid and they left. He had parked his government-issue Volga outside. The SBU’s younger men had been given new Volkswagen Passats but he preferred his Volga. He nodded at the restaurant’s security guard, who, dressed in full urban grey and blue camouflaged fatigues, looked more like a commando than a glorified doorman, and unlocked the car parked just outside. Traffic rumbled past them along the Naberezhno-Khreshatik, the riverside highway that neatly dissected Kyiv.

Sukhoi looked around nervously as he opened the passenger door. Suddenly he groaned and fell forward onto the bonnet before sliding off and onto the asphalt.

‘Leonya!’ Dudka moved swiftly, for a man of his age, around the far side of the car. He heard a sound like heavy hailstones and saw Sukhoi’s body convulse. Dudka threw himself to the floor. Someone with a silenced weapon was shooting at them! Lying flat on his face, he reached out to grab Sukhoi’s hand. Something hit him and there was a sharp, stinging sensation on his face. Dudka winced but reached out again. He couldn’t feel a pulse. Raising his head, he saw an Audi 80 parked on the other side of the road pull off in the direction of the new bridge and the city’s left bank.

Moving with more speed than he had done in twenty years, Dudka was up and firing his service-issue Glock 9mm at the disappearing target. The shots were wild except for one, which smashed the rear windscreen. Dudka turned back to his best friend, who lay motionless at his feet; there were specks of blood behind his head.