Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  It was just after midday and across the Kingdom everything had slowed as the day’s first ‘shift’ was over. The Saudi working day was dissected into two parts to account for the heat, much like a Spanish siesta. Most workers returned to their jobs in the mid-afternoon, working until late at night. Fox hated the idea of this disruption, the daily ‘stop start’.

  “Mad Dogs and Englishmen, Mr Fox?”

  Fox turned and was surprised to see Prince Fouad himself standing next to him. “I’m sorry your highness?”

  “Mad Dogs and Englishmen; go out in the midday sun!” The Prince had a mischievous expression on his face.

  “I’m not English.”

  “And you are not a dog.” For a Muslim to be called a dog was an insult indeed.

  “I agree your Highness, so that leaves me just mad.”

  Fouad waved his finger. “We are all born mad, Mr Fox, some remain so. I fear that I am one of the some. Come, Mr Fox. I have something truly wondrous to show you!”

  Prince Fouad abruptly headed towards the large climate controlled building that housed his ‘collection’. Fox followed. Once inside Fox was again stunned by the number of cars and the sheer cost of what sat before him.

  “Here. Please remove the dustsheet.” Fouad stood by his latest acquisition.

  Fox reached down and pulled back the cover. What he saw shocked him. “What is she?”

  Prince Fouad could hardly contain his glee. “She is a 918 Spyder. Please, please, take a closer look.”

  Fox crouched, something that he would never have done in front of the Prince without his direction, and peered closer. “But the 918 is not in production, it’s a concept car.”

  “That is correct, at present. When you are willing to pay, let us say a princely sum, anything is possible.”

  Fox looked at the shape. The car clearly displayed classic Porsche lines, resembling from certain angles both the 550 Spyder and the Carrera GT. It was, in his opinion, the best looking car he had ever seen. He shook his head. “Your Highness, I am stunned.”

  “And this is why I say I am mad, Mr Fox, you realise that this car is an electric hybrid?”

  Fox straightened up, a broad smile on his face as he registered the irony.

  Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine

  Blazhevich kept his eyes on the road and tried not to think too hard about who his passengers were. He was proud to be called on so often by his boss, Gennady Stepanovich, for special assignments. Although looking and sounding like an old communist at times, he admired the Deputy Director. Blazhevich was now Dudka’s most trusted officer, but this had not always been so. Boris Budanov had initially been Dudka’s choice, the star of the SBU that Dudka had nurtured and trusted. However Budanov was also the same officer who had been passing intelligence to a Kyiv based arms smuggler that resulted in the abduction and murder of a British citizen. Blazhevich had uncovered the mole. Dudka felt humiliated, and then angered, however, Budanov’s folly had been Blazhevich’s fortune.

  Dudka finished skim-reading Blazhevich’s report. “The vehicle was found on the left bank?” Dudka referred to the newer part of the city with Soviet tower blocks had been erected in the sixties and seventies.

  “Yes Gennady Stepanovich. The person driving the car claimed that it wasn’t his, that he found the key in the ignition.”

  “As a model citizen, he was taking it to the nearest militia post?”

  “Yes Gennady Stepanovich, but he was heading in the opposite direction.” Dudka was being sarcastic but Blazhevich played along. “He is not a suspect; he was seen taking the vehicle by several witnesses who knew him. There were full prints of three different people in the car and partial prints of eight others.”

  Blazhevich had seen the car. It was a silver 1993 Audi 80. Originally sold in Germany but imported into Ukraine in 1998 and re-registered. It did not look as if it had been washed since. A forensic investigator’s nightmare.

  “No trace of our ‘would be’ assassins. Any leads at the airport?” That was the quickest way out of the country after all, Dudka reasoned.

  “None as of yet. We have finished checking the flight manifests and CCTV footage but have seen no one suspicious.” It was a ‘needle in a haystack’ – to use an expression he had learnt in his English lessons.

  “And you won’t.” Sukhoi spoke for the first time since entering the car. “Their escape route will have been well planned.”

  Blazhevich knew who the passenger, sitting next to Dudka, was even though he hadn’t been introduced. “Who are we actually looking for Director?”

  Dudka was about to speak but Sukhoi held his hand up to stop him. “Belarusian KGB agents. My country sent them to assassinate me.”

  Blazhevich looked in the rear view mirror at the old man. The vehicle swerved slightly. Not knowing what an appropriate response would be he replied, “Oh.”

  “They may be long gone or they may even be hiding in their own embassy.” Dudka folded his arms. “But, if they learn that Leonid Grigoryevich is still alive, they may try again.”

  Blazhevich trusted Dudka above anyone else but could not quite believe what he had just heard.

  Sukhoi as if reading Blazhevich’s mind spoke. “Yes young man that is correct. They view me as an enemy of the state.”

  “Vitaly Romanovich, this is a very delicate situation. Only you and I are to know that Leonid Grigoryevich is alive, only we are to know of his whereabouts. Our beloved director Zlotnik must know nothing of this.” Dudka wanted the situation to be clear to his subordinate. “I would not put you in this position if I did not believe I could trust you.”

  Blazhevich’s mouth had gone dry. Again not knowing quite what to say he nodded. “Of course, Gennady Stepanovich.”

  Worthing, West Sussex, United Kingdom

  Snow jogged along Worthing beach and breathed in the sea air of his home town. Since leaving Ukraine and joining ‘MI6’ he had tried to come down as often as he could. He hadn’t checked the tides, but was glad that the sea had been gracious in retreating enough to enable him to pound the sand that lay just beyond the familiar pebbles. He was pushing himself, wanting to blast away the cobwebs of London and the stress of working for ‘MI6’.

  To Snow, running was not a chore but a necessity, not only for fitness sakes but also his mental welfare. He reasoned out problems whilst he ran and had in fact made all his best decisions after a long run. He was sure that the SIS psychologist would have something damning to say about that, even though he was running out his problems and not running away from them.

  He ducked under a strut supporting Worthing pier and turned for home. The seafront had started to get busy with day trippers, coach parties from the north and families. Snow moved from sand to pebble beach and pumped his legs harder before eventually transferring to the promenade where he increased his pace on the smooth surface.

  Having been an embassy brat, his father a high flyer in the Foreign Office, Snow had spent much of his childhood and adolescence in various Eastern European cities, including a long posting in Moscow. The upside of this was that he was fluent in Russian and could pass for a Moscovite; the downside was that he had no real roots. For a brief two years, which coincided with his ‘A levels’, they had been back in Worthing at the ‘family seat’. Then once more, Mr Snow senior was posted abroad. An eighteen year old Aidan Snow at this point ignored his parents’ protestations to go to University and enlisted in the British army. Turning down a chance at officer training, he went into the ranks, completed the minimum three year service requirement before successfully passing ‘Selection’ for the SAS.

  Snow had wanted to be a ‘badged member’ of the Regiment ever since seeing the footage live on television of the ‘Prince’s Gate - Operation Nimrod’ hostage rescue at the Iranian Embassy as a nine-year-old. His parents had laughed it off and bought him a black balaclava and toy gun, but, as he grew older, Snow’s desire to join only increased. When he was forced to quit the Regiment and go back to the classroom, this
time as a teacher, his parents were happier.

  Snow thought back to his time in Kyiv and the carefree ex-pat teacher life he had enjoyed. He missed it, and he missed his friends, those that were still there and those who were dead. His life now was very different to that of a P.E. teacher, but deep down he knew that, although he had loved teaching, his body had craved the adrenalin rush of being a member of the SAS. Now as an operative for SIS, or ‘MI6’ as he and the papers preferred to call it, the rush was back. The thing he missed now was the camaraderie of the Regiment.

  Snow tried to push it from his mind as his feet hit the asphalt. It was Saturday morning and he was going to enjoy some real sea air. The fact that his parents were out of the country helped.

  Three miles later Snow walked the remaining few steps to the family house and fell through the door. He’d forgotten how much harder ‘real running’ was than the treadmill he used in London. Snow headed upstairs, showered and changed into some clean clothes before taking his ‘company’ Audi and heading back into central Worthing. He was too lazy to cook and would find somewhere to have brunch. Being a bachelor meant he could do what he wanted, until Monday morning at least.

  Orane, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine

  Dudka had been given the dacha whilst the mighty Soviet Union still believed it ruled the world. It had been allocated to him by the government. In those pre-capitalist times all property was assigned by the state, as a decorated officer in the then Soviet KGB, Dudka had received his flat on Zankovetskaya and the dacha near Orane north of Kyiv on the Teteriv river.

  He had spent many weekends there in summer, when his daughter was a child and when his wife was alive. Like most Ukrainians, they had grown fruit in their small orchard and made preserves and pickles. Dudka had seen himself as a bit of a farmer and had even become fond of making his own wine.

  Nowadays he rarely visited the dacha. It held too many memories that caused him too much pain. He had lost his wife to cancer four years before but the grief was, on occasion, still raw. The thought had not dared cross his mind that the incident at Chernobyl may have been responsible.

  The dacha had been their sanctuary from the outside world, his responsibility to the state and hers to the ballet students. For she had continued to teach into her sixties. Irina had loved to dance, that was how they had met, the young KGB officer who fell for the ballerina. It sounded like a Pushkin or Chekhov fairy tale, but it was true. Katya their daughter too had danced at the Dacha, they all had, in the summer. But summer for Dudka was now over and the snows of winter were fast approaching. His wife was dead and his daughter and grand-daughter lived in Cyprus.

  “Stop the car over there on the left.” Dudka ordered Blazhevich.

  As the car stopped, Sukhoi’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, taking a few seconds to realise where he was. “I haven’t been here for years.”

  “Since 1990.” When they all belonged to the same Union, Dudka didn’t need to add.

  “Has it been so long?”

  Dudka smiled, “You’ve been busy.”

  Dudka got out of the Passat and helped Sukhoi emerge from the other side; he was still unsteady on his feet. Blazhevich tried to help, but Dudka pushed him towards the boot. Blazhevich opened the boot and hoisted the bags out. He then followed the two old soldiers into the summer house.

  Inside the air smelt of polished wood and the unlit open fire. The floors were wood, as were part of the walls, the rest was brick covered with white render. The room was open plan with lounge and kitchen forming one large room. The bathroom was through the kitchen. It had not been designed to be modern, just functional. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a balcony. Dudka indicated that Blazhevich should take the bags containing clothes upstairs, leaving the equipment. He did this as the old men sat in the worn armchairs by the fireplace. There was a moment of silence as both men were lost in contemplation.

  Blazhevich returned and stood awkwardly by the dining table.

  “Shall I bring in the food Gennady Stepanovich?”

  “Unless it can walk in here by itself that would make sense.”

  Sukhoi smiled thinly as Blazhevich left. “You are too hard on that boy Genna.”

  Dudka waved his hand. “I am sweetness and light.”

  Sukhoi retrieved his phone and placed it on the low table in front of him. “Are you sure this place is not being watched?”

  Dudka laughed. “Only by those who choose to steal my plums.”

  Sukhoi nodded. “You know what I mean Genna.”

  “It is secure.”

  Blazhevich returned and placed a bottle of vodka on the table in front of the two directors. Dudka looked up at him quizzically. “I did not pack that.”

  “I know, Gennady Stepanovich. I did. I thought that it was an essential item.”

  “Medicinal.” Sukhoi interjected.

  “Yes Director”

  “I am glad to see that you are finally using your initiative. Well done. The glasses are in the cupboard over there.” Dudka pointed. Blazhevich moved into the kitchen area. “He’d make a good butler.”

  Sukhoi shook his head slowly. “Don’t put that on his permanent record.”

  Blazhevich returned with three glasses. Dudka raised his eyebrows at the third but poured a measure into each. “To us.” He led the other two in the toast.

  Blazhevich unpacked an SBU laptop from its case and set it on the table. He then removed the memory card from Sukhoi’s mobile phone and placed it into an adaptor. Dudka looked on in awe; there were some things that were beyond him. When Blazhevich was certain that a copy had been made he returned the card to the phone, opened the reader programme and then pressed play on the laptop.

  The three intelligence officers listened in silence. Dudka had his eyes closed to further enable his concentration, Blazhevich sat forward on a dining room chair whilst Sukhoi tried to read both for a reaction. The recording lasted for almost forty five minutes and outlined a plan to attack the oil refining and delivery capacity of Saudi Arabia. Exact targets and timelines however were missing.

  There was a stunned silence, Dudka spoke first. “This is a very dangerous piece of information to hold.”

  There was no verbal reply. Sukhoi nodded whilst Blazhevich stared, transfixed at the two directors.

  “Who is the other man on the recording?” Dudka knew Ivan Sverov, Director of the Belarusian KGB but not the other voice, the one with a Moscow accent.

  Sukhoi shrugged. “He is from the Kremlin but no one knows his name.”

  “What?” Dudka was puzzled.

  “There is no record of him either entering or leaving Belarus, but he was on a commercial flight.”

  “I don’t understand Leonya.” Dudka leaned forward and refilled the glasses.

  Sukhoi answered. “There were eighty nine named passengers on the inbound Belavia flight from Moscow but ninety passengers in total. Our man was not named.”

  “Hm.” Dudka raised his glass, nodding but giving no actual toast. This time Blazhevich drank only half. “So this man is a ghost? He controls the PM behind the scenes, an unseen adviser?”

  “That is my guess.”

  Blazhevich found his voice. “Was this the only visit?”

  “As of four days ago, yes.”

  “But this is not the entire plan, they must hold further meetings to provide targets and mission updates.” Blazhevich continued.

  “Have you an idea Vitaly Romanovich?” Dudka questioned.

  “We have this recording as proof but unless we can name the other speaker, it may not stand up under an enquiry. We need to put a face and a name to the voice.”

  “If we intend to play by the rules, then yes.” Dudka was slightly scornful. “So how do we get that, a face and a name?”

  “We put Sverov under surveillance and we listen to his calls?”

  “That would potentially also be an act of war Vitaly, if it were to come to light. “

  Blazhevich mimicked his director, “If we intend to
play by the rules.”

  “Regardless, we must find him.” Sukhoi stated.

  “But first” Dudka finished his Vodka, “We need to announce your death.”

  FIVE

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Vulitsa, Kyiv

  The doors to Dudka’s office opened and without knocking or offering a greeting Yuri Zlotnik addressed the older but less senior man. “Where have you been?”

  Dudka looked up from his papers then at his watch, it was half past nine on this Tuesday morning in September. “Here. Before that I was at home recovering from my injury and I may well be again later. Head wounds are complicated.”

  Zlotnik placed his hands on his hips and continued to stare. This time, taking in the large plaster on Dudka’s forehead. His tone however was still accusative. “What happened on Sunday?”

  Dudka paused on purpose, as he always did, to annoy his boss then shook his head slowly. “It was terrible. My dear friend was murdered.”

  Zlotnik remained standing but nodded his head. “Tell me about it.”

  Dudka gave him a questioning stare; he was going to enjoy playing the victim. “Leonid Grigoryevich and I had been friends since before you were born. On Sunday he and I had just finished having lunch when we were shot at. He was gunned down in front of me on the pavement.”

  Zlotnik remained impassive. “You will need to give a full report.”

  Dudka stood, an act that shocked his boss, and took a step forward around the desk. “I have just told you that my friend was shot dead in front of me. Stop wasting my time.”

  Zlotnik blinked, “Don’t you forget who you are speaking to Gennady Stepanovich.”

  Dudka decided now was the time to lose his temper; he took another step forward and pointed at his boss. “And you do not forget whom you are addressing.” Several drops of spittle flew from his mouth.

  Zlotnik became flustered. “I understand that you are upset, but certain procedures have to be followed.”