Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  “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 that 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 machine guns 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 quite until they had reached the pub and were sitting with a pint. As usual ‘The Crown & 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 that you got offered a BG 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 been 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 whiskeys 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 whiskey. 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 a different generation they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they had been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and by reputation hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’ from, 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, whilst 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 alibi. Snow was thrown bruised, head covered in a Hessian sack into the barn, whilst 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 adrenalin of the situation had meant that he had 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 was not tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, whilst McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who had not 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 had not 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 one let’s get some grub.”

  “What about here?” Snow fancied the home made Steak & 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, the missis 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 Bangladeshi’s 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 of 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. Reaching 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 Tracy for her back.”

  Snow took two pain killers and gulped them down with hot tea. “How are you feeling?”<
br />
  Fox cracked an egg. “Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunny side 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 before 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 collaborated as much 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 now 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 had sought to first create a ‘Belarusian & 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 had not 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 had not 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 did not 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’. The head of the Ukrainian SBU’s anti-corruption and organized crime unit made a resolution to keep in touch with those that mattered to him more, in future.

  The restaurant had started to fill up with the 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 a balmy early September's day outside, 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, he 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 whilst 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 that it turned out to be an expat favourite – not many old soviets.

  “There are certain elements in my government whom would seek to destroy my country.” Sukhoi’s tone was serious, his words hung in the air as their soup arrived, Borsch 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 friends tie. It was no secret between the two men that both were not enamoured with 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 by 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 could not 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 command than a glorified doorman, and unlocked the car parked just outside. Traffic rumbled past them along the Naberezhno- Khreshatik, the river side 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 hail stones 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 into 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 by his head.

  FOUR

  King Khalid Airport. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  For the past ten minutes the passengers around Fox had formed long queues for the toilets on the Riyadh bound Boeing 747. Once in the tiny cubicles they removed their western clothes and replaced them with Arab robes. The cabin changed from a sea of coloured shirts to an almost monochrome of men in white Thobs and women in jet black abayas. The only flashes of colour now came from the red chequered head
dress of the Saudi men and the few remaining westerners.

  Just before they entered Saudi airspace, the chief flight attendant announced that to comply with the law of the land the ‘bar’ would now be closed. The cabin crew would collect all miniatures and empty glasses. Unlike other flights no one here dare hide a bottle in their pocket for later. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was a good job that the content of the passengers’ stomachs was not scanned, Fox thought to himself. He had never seen so much booze being put away on a commercial flight; it had been like a ‘knees up’ at Sterling Lines!

  Thirty five minutes later, his seat upright and tray stowed, Fox braced himself for landing. He did not fear flying, he feared crashing. As the plane touched down there was applause from the locals returning to the kingdom, the expats however did not look pleased. No sooner had the aircraft come to a halt than the Saudis were standing and removing their bags from overhead lockers. The flight crew asked for all passengers to remain seated once, then a second time, then gave up.

  Fox collected his rucksack from the overhead locker and exited the plane. He looked wistfully at the grinning cabin crew, realising that this would probably be the last time he saw female flesh for a while. Stepping out of the fuselage, the heat hit him like a wall. The temperature was in the 40s and he immediately felt drowsy. Alcohol, heat and tiredness did not a good mix make. The short drive to the terminal was cramped and hot. The terminal was also crowded, but cooler as innumerable air-conditioning vents spat at travellers.

  At passport control there were several long queues, each for a different counter, one for KSA residents, another for Diplomats, yet another for VIPs and finally the one for the rest of the world. There had been yet another desk for ‘Tourists’ meaning the ‘Hajj’ pilgrims until all ‘Hajj’ flights had been directed to Jeddah and a purpose built terminal. Millions of the faithful, dressed in loin cloths, would descend upon the Kingdom annually for the ritual of circling the pillars and throwing stones or something – Fox did not care for the facts, to him it was daft, pure and simple. The world’s largest and most dangerous pyjama party, where each year hundreds were crushed to death. These thoughts however were highly offensive to the Muslim faith and would get him arrested, if not worse, if he were to voice them. Fox joined the nearest and longest line. To his right was the sign for the toilets. It had two signs, one showed the head of a bearded man, wearing robe and headdress and the other a veiled face of a woman. It looked like a prop from Monty Python’s ‘The Life of Brian’.