Читать книгу Cold Blood - Alex Shaw - Страница 11

Odessa, Kyiv Highway, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine

The silver 7 Series BMW pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the Maybach 57S, causing Varchenko to spill his cognac. ‘What is this?’ he shouted at his driver as his mobile phone rang.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Valeriy Ivanovich, I mean you no harm.’

‘Who the hell is this!?’ Varchenko threw the remainder of his cognac down his throat.

‘I am in the car in front of you and would like to talk.’

Two men stepped out of the BMW and approached. They had their hands raised to show they held no weapons. In the Maybach’s front seat, Varchenko’s guard unholstered his Glock 9mm as the driver put the luxury saloon into reverse gear, ready to perform a J-turn.

A third man emerged from the BMW; this one had a phone to his right ear. ‘I am getting out of the car and will now walk towards you. Your driver will open the door and let me in. He and your guard will then get out.’

‘Like hell they will,’ Varchenko roared into the Vertu handset.

‘Come now, Valeriy Ivanovich; I am sure you would like to know who killed Mr Malik?’

Varchenko went cold. Were the killers of his business partner about to make contact or were they about to kill him? Impossible, his mind retorted. Did they not know who he was and what he stood for? Varchenko’s curiosity got the better of him and he ordered the passenger door to be opened. By now his guard had called ahead and a backup car was on its way. While the two other occupants of the BMW looked on and exchanged professional glares with his own men, Varchenko was joined by his caller. The man pocketed his phone, calmly climbed into the car and shut the door.

Tauras ‘The Bull’ Pashinski extended his hand, but it was ignored. He shrugged and introduced himself. ‘I am Olexandr Knysh, and I killed the British businessman.’

Varchenko shook in his seat with rage, his face turning crimson. ‘You hold me up on the Odessa highway in the middle of the day and have the audacity to tell me this!’

‘I am sorry. Should we have met in the restaurant you just left and caused a scene?’

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Varchenko was still incredulous.

‘I am just a businessman like you, Valeriy Ivanovich. A simple businessman and I am looking to invest in Odessa. I understand that you now seek a new partner and I am offering to be that very person.’ Bull picked up a glass and poured himself a cognac.

‘How dare you insult me in such a manner? Don’t you know who the hell I am?’ Varchenko grabbed the cognac bottle.

‘Why, of course I do.’ Bull drank the dark liquor. ‘Very good. French? You are Valeriy Varchenko, former general of the KGB and Hero of the Soviet Union. You own several large companies, part-own a bank and four hotels in the Odessa Oblast, and you are also responsible for most of the organised crime.’

‘You are well informed, if somewhat too concise.’ His ego slightly massaged, he started to breathe more normally. ‘What, however, gives you the slightest idea that you can strong-arm me?’ The man had balls, he had to concede.

Bull placed the glass delicately back in the holder. ‘It would be a pity if foreign investors were to avoid Odessa. Given the tax-zone incentive, they should be pouring money into the area and into your pockets.’

‘So you are threatening me, Knysh?’ Varchenko now knew how to play this.

‘That is a very crude way to put my proposal, Valeriy Ivanovich. I believe that you have need of a partner who brings in not only capital but a wealth of experience in other business-related matters such as, for example, security and life insurance. Not to mention new export opportunities…’

Varchenko had now heard enough. He looked into the snake-like eyes of the man who called himself Knysh. ‘I have no need for another partner, however experienced he may be. You have made a monumental error of judgement in approaching me. I do not want to see or hear from you again. Now leave my car before I personally strangle you!’

Bull held the old man’s gaze impassively. ‘My offer is still open. I will give you time to reconsider.’ He exited the car.

The driver and guard got back in.

‘Drive,’ commanded Varchenko, ‘but not fast.’

The Maybach manoeuvred past the BMW and moved up the road. Its 612bhp V12 Mercedes engine could propel it to 100kmph in five seconds, but he wasn’t running away. This was his Oblast! Varchenko dialled a number and a phone rang in a fast-approaching Mercedes G Wagon. ‘Ruslan, when you see them, run them off of the road. They must not get away. Do you understand?’

He leant back and poured a large cognac. This one he savoured. If you are a dog, do not attack the bear.

Boryspil Airport, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine

The arrivals doors at Kyiv’s Boryspil Airport opened and, through eager crowds pushing to catch a glimpse of their loved ones, Snow spotted a tall, fair-haired figure. The man looked somewhat bewildered. He had a large case in each hand and a rucksack on his back.

‘You must be Arnaud?’ Snow called out above the heads of an elderly couple.

Arnaud looked up and smiled. ‘Aidan?’

‘Correct. Welcome to Kyiv.’

Arnaud pushed his way forward as best he could and Snow took one of the cases with one hand and shook Arnaud’s with the other. ‘Travelling light?’

‘I didn’t know what to bring, so I brought two of everything.’

‘Well, as long as you’ve brought two pairs of socks you’ll be fine. Follow me.’

Snow led them through the crowds of hopeful locals masquerading as taxi drivers and out to a waiting Lada. The driver, Victor, leant against the bonnet smoking. On seeing the pair he stubbed out the cigarette and opened the boot.

‘Hello to Kyiv.’

‘I think he means welcome.’

Arnaud held out his hand, ‘Nice to meet you, old boy.’

Victor nodded and took the luggage. Once the boot was loaded, he gestured for them to be seated.

Arnaud sat in the back behind Snow. ‘Is this a Lada?’

‘Yep, the Subaru of the former Soviet Union. It’s about forty minutes to the city centre and our place; sit back and enjoy the view.’

Arnaud nodded and looked out of the window at the passing forests bordering the Boryspil-Kyiv highway. Victor pressed a button on the radio and Queen’s greatest hits filled the car. Arnaud let Freddie Mercury sing for a few bars then leant forward. ‘How long have you been here then?’

Snow swivelled in his seat. ‘This is the start of my third year at Podilsky.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yeah, I do. The staff are friendly and we tend to socialise outside of school too. Beats teaching in the UK.’

Arnaud clicked his teeth. ‘I hope so.’

‘That bad, eh?’

‘I just finished my NQT year at Horley Comprehensive, or to give it the new “super” name, Horley Community College. Ever been to Horley?’

Snow shook his head. ‘I’ve passed through.’

‘Best thing to do. It’s a toilet. The kids are half-crazed from breathing in the aviation fuel from Gatwick Airport. Where did you train then?’

‘Leeds, and I did my NQT year in Barnsley.’

‘Like it?’

‘Probably better than Horley.’

Victor said something in Russian to Snow, who smiled and replied in the same language.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said it was his dream at school to visit London, so now, when he hears English, it makes him happy.’

‘I’d better not speak French then; it may overexcite him.’

‘That’s right; you’re bilingual. Dad or Mum?’

‘Mum. And you speak Ukrainian?’

‘I speak some Russian. I learnt it at school.’

‘Private school?’

‘I was an embassy brat. My dad was at the British Embassy in Moscow in the Eighties, then Poland, then East Germany.’

‘Was he the ambassador?’

‘Nothing so glamorous. He was the cultural attaché. He arranged exchanges with the Bolshoi Ballet, etc.’

‘Oh. See many women in leotards?’

Snow laughed. ‘Yeah, but I was too young to appreciate them!’

There was a pause as Arnaud stared at a Mercedes with blacked-out windows shooting past. Victor waved his fist and mumbled ‘Jigeet!’

Arnaud looked at Snow blankly. ‘It means something like “road hog and menace” in Russian.’

‘I thought they spoke Ukrainian here?’

‘They speak a mixture. They were forced to learn Russian when it was still the Soviet Union. “Rusification”, it was called. Since independence the official national language has been Ukrainian but everyone can speak and uses Russian. More so in Kyiv and in the east of the country. The further west you go, the more Ukrainian you hear spoken.’

‘Sounds a bit like Wales.’

‘Similar.’

Victor piped up again and Snow nodded. ‘If you look to your right you’ll see Misha the bear on the grass verge. Look there, see it?’

Arnaud looked and saw an eight-feet-high cartoon-style bear made of painted concrete. ‘What is it?’

‘He was the emblem for the 1980 Moscow Olympics.’

‘Oh, I see. That was a bit before my time.’

‘When were you born?’

‘1981.’

‘Jesus.’ Snow frowned playfully. ‘I’ve got shirts older than you!’

They passed a large sign welcoming them to Kyiv. The city was expanding fast as more and more high-rise tower blocks were built in the suburbs. The new builds looked like luxury hotels compared to the old Lego-box Soviet architecture. Arnaud stared at the roadside billboards and squinted until he realised he couldn’t read the words because they were in Cyrillic and not because he needed glasses. They passed a two-storey shopping centre and then a McDonald’s.

‘That lot’s only been here for the past five years,’ commented Snow. ‘They had to make do with proper food before that.’

‘How do you say “Big Mac” in Russian?’ Arnaud’s mind drifted to his favourite film, Pulp Fiction.

‘Big Mac,’ replied Snow. ‘They don’t bother translating the words. I think Ronald McDonald is rather keen on brand awareness.’

Suddenly the tower blocks dropped away and they were at the river Dnipro. They crossed the bridge. The side they had just come from, the left bank, was littered with high-rise blocks; the right was covered with thick green trees. Several gold, onion-shaped domes poked out between them, reflecting the summer sun like mirrors. Arnaud recognised the Pechersk Lavra Monastery from his Lonely Planet guidebook and remembered it contained more mummies than all the pyramids and temples of Egypt. Next to the monastery was a tall metal statue of a woman. In one hand she held a dagger and in the other a shield. He couldn’t remember what it was. Snow anticipated Arnaud’s question. ‘That’s Brezhnev’s mother.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what they call it. Brezhnev ordered it built as a symbol of Mother Russia.’

‘That’s right.’ He started to remember.

‘You see the dagger? That was originally a sword but, after it was completed, the planners realised it was actually taller than the grand church tower at the Lavra Monastery. So it was made shorter. Brezhnev wasn’t happy but in this case the Church beat the mighty Soviet State. It’s still allegedly taller than the Statue of Liberty, but don’t let the Yanks know! The statue is on top of the military museum. I’ll take you there if you like; they’ve got loads of Soviet-era tanks, planes and helicopters.’

Arnaud stared. ‘Cool. I’m into all that. You know, military stuff.’

Snow tried not to smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I was in the TA for a while at uni, even thought about becoming an officer.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘I’m not a fan of green. No; I met this girl, and anyway, I didn’t in the end. I’m not a meathead. I’d rather not get shot by an Arab.’

‘I used to be in the army.’

Arnaud blushed. Had he offended his fellow teacher? ‘Oh?’

Snow paused to maximise Arnaud’s potential embarrassment. ‘The Salvation Army. I had to give it up, though; I got repetitive strain injury from banging my tambourine.’ Snow held Arnaud’s gaze for a second before both men started to laugh.

They reached the right bank of the river and took a road which suddenly became cobbled and wound its way between the trees and up towards the city centre. As they did, Snow pointed out the city barracks, ‘Arsenalna’, before they arrived at Khreshatik. Snow described it as a mixture of Bond and Oxford Streets, but four times as wide. Two minutes later, after fighting the traffic, the Lada mounted the pavement and parked in front of the arched gates of the apartment block. Victor opened the boot and handed Snow and Arnaud the bags. He then extended his hand and shook Arnaud’s. ‘Good day.’

‘Good day,’ replied Arnaud with a smile.

The Lada pulled back into the road and headed back down to Khreshatik. Arnaud looked around. Pushkinskaya ran parallel to Kyiv’s main boulevard – Khreshatik. It was lined with six-storey apartment blocks at this end and a couple of government buildings at the other. On the ground floor of most of the blocks were restaurants, bars, a travel agent and a shoe shop. The road itself was just wide enough for two-way traffic. The pavement on both sides was almost as wide as the road.

‘Not a bad street, eh? The architecture is a lot better here in the centre than on the outskirts.’

Arnaud agreed. From what he had seen so far, Kyiv’s city centre reminded him of a much cleaner version of Paris, although his part-Gallic blood wouldn’t allow him to vocalise this. ‘So, where’s the school?’

‘Twenty minutes away by car on the other side of the river, I’m afraid, even though it’s named after an area ten minutes’ walk away. Come on, let’s get inside. The quicker we dump your bags, the quicker I can show you the bars. Unless you’re tired?’

‘What, and miss out on a beer? Nah.’ Arnaud looked at his watch. The flight had landed at ten-thirty, it had taken forty minutes to get his bags and clear customs, and about the same time to get here. It was almost midday. They walked through the door in the three-metre-high iron gates and round the back of the building. There was a small courtyard bordered by other apartment blocks from the neighbouring Prorizna Street. Snow led the way to a door and tapped in a code.

‘The actual foyer and front door face the street but, for some bizarre reason, the other residents have decided to use the back door, and who am I to change this?’ He shrugged. They walked through the door up three steps and into the dark foyer. The walls were painted a two-tone of cream and dark-green. Snow pushed ‘3’ on the keypad and the small lift slowly descended.

‘Here’s something to remember. The floors are numbered in the American way. The flat is on the second floor but we need the third.’

‘Right.’ Arnaud frowned.

‘This is not the ground floor but actually the first floor. Are you with me?’

He wasn’t but didn’t let on. On either side of the foyer sat rows of dark-green mailboxes, one for each flat.

‘How many flats are there here?’

The lift arrived and they manoeuvred themselves and the bags in. ‘Four per floor and six floors. But only one on the ground floor – the others are offices.’

The lift stopped abruptly and they stepped out. Snow walked the five steps to the furthest corner and opened the padded metal door. Inside there was a second wooden door. Opening it, he beckoned Arnaud forward. ‘Welcome to Chez Nous.’

‘Merci.’ Arnaud stepped over the threshold. ‘Why two doors?’

Snow shrugged and followed. ‘All the flats seem to have them. Security, I suppose.’

‘They look like blast-proof doors. You know, like in the films.’

Snow laughed, ‘Well, if you lose your key, please don’t try to open them with a block of semtex.’

Laughing, they walked along the hall and Snow nodded at two doors. ‘Your room is on the right.’ Arnaud followed Snow into the room and they dropped the bags. ‘Hope you don’t mind sharing a flat too much?’

‘Not at all, it reminds me of uni.’

‘It was Joan’s idea. She thought you could stay here until you found your feet. I had a spare room, so as far as I’m concerned it’s yours. Stay as long as you need.’

‘That’s great, very kind. Thanks.’

‘Nichevo – it’s nothing, just happy to help. Grand tour?’

‘OK.’

The flat had real wooden flooring throughout and light silver wallpaper. Snow led him in turn to the bathroom and kitchen before retracing his steps and heading into the lounge. Snow adopted an upper-class accent. ‘If you will follow me, sir, you will find yourself entering the lounge with a south-facing balcony providing panoramic views of the city centre.’ He dropped the act. ‘My room is here, through the lounge.’

Snow opened the doors and they stepped on to the street-facing balcony. Arnaud looked up and down Pushkinskaya. To the left he could make out the top of a building with a large electronic clock. ‘What’s that?’

‘That’s the clock on Maidan, Independence Square. You can hear it chime each hour. It also has a thermometer. I have a picture of myself standing in front of it with a reading of minus twenty-five.’

‘Cool.’

Southall Car Auction, London, UK

The hammer fell and the car was his. Arkadi Cheban was happy. The 2.5 V6 Vectra was a step up from his Escort and certainly a million times better than the beaten-up Lada he had left in Tiraspol. He had paid only £1,800 for the car, which was at least £1,400 less than the dealer price. He had waited outside the auction as the car was started, looking for any telltale blue smoke coming from the exhaust pipe and checking for oil leaks on the floor. Neither was present. The dark-green Vectra had a set of after-market 17’ alloy wheels fitted and a transfer on the rear screen proclaiming it to be a Holden. Both of these he would remove. The car would perform better on a pair of its standard 16’ rims, and it was a ‘Vauxhall’.

Cheban knew about cars; he knew how to tune them and he knew how to drive them. These skills he had learnt in his native Transdniester, working on Soviet-made cars where only the ingenious managed to stay on the road. By the time he had finished working on his new car, it would be anonymous and fast, just what he needed to operate without being noticed. He had almost bid on the BMW he had seen but decided not to. A BMW was a bandit’s car and, even though he was a bandit, he didn’t want the world to know. He was happy to be back in London and decided it was now time to finally spend some of the money he’d earned from his ‘uncle’. Shipments were coming in via Tilbury docks from the continent and he was always nearby observing, just in case anything went wrong.

On one occasion he’d believed the operation had been compromised when he saw a group of men watching from a van. He had kept his own watch on them and been very relieved to find they were from HM Immigration and were concentrating on a shipping company using illegal immigrants as labour. The fact that he himself was an illegal immigrant had not been lost on him. That had been close, as his shipment was due in the same day. But, unperturbed, he continued to lurk in the shadows with his pair of Leica, high-powered binoculars. He kept a ‘birds of Britain’ book in his glove compartment just in case anyone wanted to confront him. This, along with a false Ornithological Society of Latvia photo identification card and an RSPB sticker on the windscreen, would hopefully explain his strange behaviour to all but the very persistent. These he would need to add to his new vehicle.

He paid in cash for the car and drove it away. Sticking to the speed limit, he cruised out of South London and headed east for the Bluewater shopping centre in Kent. The traffic was mostly light at this time of day on a Wednesday, but built up as he approached the complex. He parked his new car by the House of Fraser entrance and entered the store. He was taken aback both by the range of goods and the prices. The shops on the streets of Tiraspol still displayed shoddy, Soviet-era clothes and cheap Chinese electrical goods. He still couldn’t get used to the choices available to him here, especially now he was ‘cash rich’ – compared to many, that was.

He picked up a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and almost laughed out loud at the price: £55. Nevertheless, he chose four: two blues, a black and a dark-red. Next he picked up a couple of pairs of chinos and three pullovers before finally adding a jacket to the pile. The assistant had a happy look in his eyes as he rang up the total – in excess of £700. Arkadi smiled and paid in cash. The assistant was slightly perturbed by this but put the sale through anyway and, in his estuary accent, which seemed out of place in an upmarket shop, wished him a ‘nice day’.

Cheban next picked up a mall map and studied the layout. He spotted the shop he wanted and entered. It was a small unit but full of authenticated celebrity items such as autographed pictures. He pointed to a photograph of David Beckham and said he wanted that one. The assistant informed him of the price; this time Cheban did laugh out loud but still laid down a pile of notes on the counter. Feeling happy with himself, he grabbed a large coffee before returning to his car and driving back to London. Later that day he would dress to impress and give the Polish waitress her present; he had overheard her say she liked the new ‘England football captain’. First, however, he would work a bit on the car. He made a mental note to go to the nearest Vauxhall dealer and get a set of proper wheels. He was allowed to look flash but the car was not.

Odessa, Southern Ukraine

Varchenko put the large Crimean grape into his mouth and looked at Ruslan. He was a mess. Tubes were sticking out of his nose and greasy hair protruded from his bandaged scalp. He was now sitting upright and could finally speak.

‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ Varchenko held a cup to Ruslan’s lips and he drank thankfully.

‘We followed the BMW as you ordered, but, as soon as we got near enough to ram them, they opened fire.’

Varchenko had been given some information by the ‘tame’ local militia who had found the wreckage of the G Wagon and Ruslan, but he wanted to hear it firsthand.

‘We had no chance; their weapons were automatic. I think I managed to return fire then my front tyres blew, and the next thing I can remember, the jeep is rolling off the road.’

‘But it was armour-plated!’ Varchenko gave him another mouthful of water.

‘Then the bullets were armour-piercing. Valeriy Ivanovich, I did my best… What of the others?’

There had been three others in the Mercedes, each armed with Glock handguns. As employees of Varchenko’s security firm, Getman Bespeka, he had personally met their families and dependants and provided financial recompense. ‘They are all dead, Ruslan. You are the only survivor and that, I presume, is because they wanted you to live.’

Ruslan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. ‘I will kill them!’

‘No, Ruslan, you will not. They want me, not you.’ Varchenko placed his hand on that of his injured employee. ‘You will be well looked after here.’

Varchenko left the hospital and climbed into his waiting car. What he was dealing with here was more serious than he had imagined. He had to find out who these people really were, which meant losing face and calling his old subordinate, Genna.