Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  Trying to regain some control of the meeting, Ambassador Nykyshyn stood. “As the direct representative of President of Belarus, I expect to be informed immediately of any developments. Gentlemen.” He took a step towards the door then turned having a second thought. “Investigator Kostyan, you should accompany Director Zlotnik.”

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  “Where is Dudka?” Zlotnik’s tone of voice was, as ever, accusative.

  “I…I am sorry Director but I do not know.”

  Zlotnik looked down at Dudka’s long serving secretary. She, like her boss, was dressed in the Soviet Union’s finest. “When did you last speak to him?”

  “This morning Director, when he had finished with the press conference. He said that he was not feeling at all well and that he was going to have his head looked at.”

  “Well it sounds to me like he should have his head looked at.”

  “I’m sorry director?” Dudka’s secretary was puzzled.

  “Nothing. Did he mention if he was to going to return to the office or if he was going home?”

  “He didn’t say. Would you like me to call him for you?”

  “No. No thank you. I shall do that myself.”

  Zlotnik walked towards his own office. Investigator Kostyan, who had been hovering behind him listening, fell into step.

  “And if he is not at home. Is there somewhere else he may be, perhaps with a relative or a friend?”

  “Dudka has no friends and his family, what there is of it, live in Cyprus. Do come in.”

  They entered his corner office which was at the opposite side of the building to Dudka’s. Zlotnik pressed a button on his desk phone and Dudka’s mobile rang briefly before going to answer phone.

  “Dudka it is Zlotnik here. I need you to come to the office. Call me when you get this message.” He pressed end then looked up at the Belarusian. “You have me worried, Investigator, and I am not too proud to say it. If Deputy Director Dudka is involved in this, then you have my word he will be prosecuted.”

  “That is good to hear.”

  “However, my hope is that, he is not. I need not say what a disgrace it would be to my country and my service.”

  “As Sukhoi is to mine?”

  Zlotnik spoke quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply that Director Sukhoi was a disgrace to your...”

  ”It is ok, Director. I am not offended. It is my job to investigate, to root out the rot in order for the new wood to grow.” Kostyan’s own organic metaphor gave him an idea. “Does the Deputy Director have a dacha?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Do you know where?”

  SIX

  British Embassy, Kyiv

  Vitaly Blazhevich stood in the foyer and again stared at the painting of a cricket match. Even after several explanations it still made no sense. Perhaps when he was next in England he would go and see a game to finally try to understand.

  Soft footsteps sounded behind him.

  “Vitaly. What can I do for you?” Alistair Vickers, SIS station chief in Ukraine extended his hand.

  “Alistair. I have a request.”

  “Walk this way.”

  Vickers headed back up the corridor to his office. Since working closely together two years before, both intelligence officers had continued to liaise. Vickers shut the door as Blazhevich sat.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I have a defector for you.” Blazhevich wasted no time

  Vickers blinked. “Defector?”

  “Director Sukhoi, of the Belarusian KGB.”

  Vickers leant forward in his chair. “I know who he is, but he’s dead”

  “Yes.”

  Whilst Vickers listened, Blazhevich related the events, as Sukhoi had described them, which had led to the murder of Sukhoi’s daughter and the attempted assassination. Blazhevich did not say however where the KGB director was hidden or what exactly was on the smuggled recording. There was a silence as Blazhevich finished and Vickers digested the information.

  “He’s seeking to claim asylum in the UK?” Vickers wanted to be certain that he had understood his fellow intelligence officer correctly.

  Blazhevich nodded. “Yes.”

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, United Kingdom

  “Hello ‘C’.”

  “Take a seat Jack.”

  Patchem sat in front of his boss, the Director General of the Secret Intelligence Service, Abigail Knight. Knight was the first female head of the SIS. She had risen through the service fighting for each promotion and in doing so offending many but earning the reputation of being ‘tenacious’. Knight had held the post for barely two years and was part of a reshuffle after the SIS had been criticised in a classified inquiry. The criticism was not warranted, but had given Knight an opportunity that she had not been too noble to accept.

  The SIS somewhat lagged behind their sister organisation, HM Intelligence Service, who had appointed their first female Director General Stella Rimington in 1992. Knight’s appointment had not been PC but it had been political in the fact that a new ‘direction’ was needed. Jack Patchem, a long-time friend and fellow case officer whilst she was ‘in the ranks’ was an important staff member now that she was ‘the boss’. Behind closed doors they had kept their informality, and behind their informality there was a close friendship.

  “So tell me what you have?”

  Patchem folded his arms. “I have a possible defector for you.”

  Knight tried not to show her surprise. “From where?”

  “Belarus.”

  Knight frowned. She had of course seen the reports from GCHQ, that a senior Belarusian intelligence member had been assassinated in Ukraine. “Who?”

  Patchem smiled like a school boy with a secret. “Leonid Grigoryevich Sukhoi”

  Knight shook her head slowly, getting information out of Jack was sometimes like pulling teeth, she imagined. “So he is not dead. The assassination attempt, was that real or staged?”

  “It was real alright. He was lucky enough to be wearing a bullet proof vest concealed beneath his suit jacket.”

  “So he was expecting to be assassinated?”

  “Sukhoi had arranged a meeting with an old colleague, Director Dudka of the Ukrainian SBU. The attempted assassination happened as they left a restaurant.”

  “Who else knows that Sukhoi is alive?”

  “You, me, our station chief in Kyiv and Director Dudka’s man. Certainly not the Belarusians.”

  Knight drummed her fingers. Defections had not been common since the demise of communism especially in the intelligence community. Most tended to be disaffected businessmen with dirty secrets, seeking sanctuary from Russian prosecution. Sukhoi could potentially be a prized asset.

  “Why the defection?”

  “Sukhoi has some very high level intelligence that something major is planned, an international act of aggression.”

  Knight leant forward, shocked. “Sovereign aggression?”

  “He will not tell us, until he is in our protection.”

  “What do you think it could be?” Knight hated not knowing answers.

  “My best guess, and that is all it is at the moment, is that it may well be something to do with Russia’s reaction to the new European missile defence plan. Or perhaps, another push at Georgia via South Ossetia? But our officer at the Tbilisi embassy has heard nothing.”

  Knight nodded. Belarus was the last European stronghold of old style communism and anything they could learn about it was welcomed. She pondered for a moment. Diplomatic and trade relations with the Minsk government were all but non-existent so granting political asylum to Sukhoi would not upset either her boss, the Foreign Secretary or perhaps more importantly the Americans. “Where is Sukhoi now?”

  “I believe he is in a safe house somewhere near the capital. I’ll send you all I have via email.”

  “OK. I’ll read it, speak to the Foreign Secretary and then give you the yeah or nay.”

&n
bsp; Patchem stood. “I’ll be in my office.”

  ”I know.”

  Patchem left the room and shut the door. Returning to his own office on a lower floor, he called Kyiv.

  “Vickers.”

  “Alistair. I’ve just spoken to the Guvnor. We should have an answer by the end of play. Is our friend still safe?” The line was encrypted but Patchem still did not want to risk using any names.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I’ll call later.” He replaced the receiver.

  In Kyiv, Vickers sipped his Earl Grey. The exciting stuff was about to happen again. He held up the plate of custard creams. Blazhevich shook his head, he didn’t like biscuits.

  “We should have an answer for you later today. I’ll send you a text as soon as I have anything more. Be prepared to move quickly.”

  “That is good.” Blazhevich finished his own tea. “I shall return to Director Dudka.”

  Orane, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine

  Dudka answered the call. “Tak?”

  Blazhevich spoke into his headset. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Uncle.”

  “Was all well with your mother?” Dudka replied using the safe question they had practiced.

  “Yes. She is happy to help.”

  The Passat was now visible from the inside of the Dacha. Dudka stepped behind the window frame and peered at the approaching car. He noted that there was indeed only one occupant, Blazhevich.

  “The boy is back.”

  “Good. Good boy.” Sukhoi replied.

  Dudka moved to the door and drew his weapon as Blazhevich walked from the car. Their eyes met and the younger man noted the weapon with some alarm.

  “I am alone and I was not followed.”

  Dudka beckoned him inside and placed the pistol back on the table. “I had to be certain.”

  Sukhoi was sitting by the fire wrapped in a blanket. He looked up at Blazhevich expectantly and gestured to the second chair. Blazhevich looked at Dudka who nodded.

  “I have spoken to the British and explained the situation...”

  “Get to the point.” Dudka cut in.

  Sukhoi frowned. “Continue.”

  “They are to speak with London and advise me, but we must be prepared to move quickly.”

  “Were they interested? Will they grant asylum?” Dudka’s impatience again was more that his friend’s.

  “Vickers was very eager. Yes.”

  “Dobrey. We are packed.” Dudka pulled up a wooden chair and without being prompted Blazhevich gave up the more comfortable armchair.

  “I never thought that I’d become a traitor.” Sukhoi grunted. “But if I had stayed in Minsk a traitor I would have become.”

  “The only traitors are those in Minsk Leonya, traitors to the people of Belarus.” Dudka folded his arms in an attempt to keep himself still. “How is Vickers to contact you?”

  “Text message. A simple yes or no and a time.”

  “Time?” Dudka pushed.

  “He will send us a time to meet him at the Embassy.” Vickers and Blazhevich had used such methods before but never for anything so important.

  The dacha was silent as all three men thought about what may happen next. There were several options for getting a defector out of the country. Commercial carrier – in this case British Airways, private jet or border crossing by diplomatic car. The content of the car would not be searched as it had the peculiar status of sovereign territory. In the past ships had also been used. Dudka stood and paced the room.

  “Shall I make tea Gennady Stepanovich?”

  “Yes.”

  Arizona Bar & Grill, Naberezhno Khreschatyska, Kyiv

  The traffic was heavy along the riverside as Investigator Kostyan surveyed the scene of the attempted assassination on Sukhoi. He had already quizzed the staff at the restaurant. The waitress, young and large breasted, had remembered the two old men. They had been happy to see each other and had not eaten much before leaving. When asked if she had heard what they were discussing, she said that she had not. Music had been playing and she had been talking to the chef. ‘Did she see either man pass a package to the other?’ Again the answer was no she had not. Kostyan himself ordered an American style burger which he had finished before leaving.

  He crouched and surveyed the ground. There were some strike marks from the rounds on the kerb but otherwise nothing else to indicate that anything untoward had happened there. The guard who had been on duty was ‘off’ so he could not be quizzed. The sound of the Belarusian national anthem started to waft from his pocket. It was a silly thing but amused him. Kostyan retrieved his Nokia. Only two men had the number and the second was calling him.

  “Kostyan.”

  “Investigator Kostyan? This is Director Zlotnik.”

  “Director. What news do you have for me? Have you found Dudka?”

  “Not quite, but he does have a Dacha.”

  “Where?” Kostyan listened intently.

  “It is north of Kyiv somewhere near Orane. We are to send a Berkuct team there to apprehend him.” Zlotnik omitted to add that they did not know exactly where it was.

  “That is good news Director. Can you please advise me as soon as he is in custody? With your consent I should very much like to question him.”

  Zlotnik, egg on face, of course, could not withhold consent of any type. “I will let you know the minute he is here.”

  Orane, Kyiv Oblast

  A shrill electronic tone sounded in the darkened Dacha. Dudka rose from his bed and made for the landing. Blazhevich was standing at the balcony keeping an eye on the path leading to the summer house.

  “What does it say?”

  Blazhevich’s face was illuminated by the green glow of the screen. “Yes. 05.00”

  Dudka grabbed the phone and peered at the screen to double check. “We have about six hours then. Get some sleep I’ll wake us all at 04.00.”

  “But, Gennady Stepanovich, surely you need sleep more than I?”

  Dudka handed back the phone. “Vitaly, all the beauty sleep in the world will not help me at my age with this old face. You however can improve and further more must be sharp as you will be driving. Now go and lie down, that’s an order.”

  “Yes, Gennady Stepanovich. Good night.”

  “I hope it will be, Vitaly Romanovich.”

  Dudka waited until Blazhevich had entered the second bedroom before he leant against the wooden railings and let out a large breath. His heart had started to pound in his chest. Before the text message, none of this had been real but now it was going to happen. He was going to help a defector. Tomorrow would be long and dangerous. First, hand Sukhoi over to the British and then, once he was safely away, deliver his news to the President. He had turned his own phone off. There had been three missed calls and three messages left on his answer phone. The first, from his secretary. She had left a message that Zlotnik had been asking her strange questions about him. The second had been from Zlotnik himself asking him to return to the office and the third had been his beloved Grand-daughter Katya, asking him when he was coming to Cyprus to see them.

  Dudka understood the concept that the signal from a mobile telephone could be used as a tracking device, even when turned off. This was why he had removed the battery after Blazhevich had returned. Questions would be asked of him of course, he had after all ordered dentistry on an unclaimed corpse, he smiled despite himself. Given time he was certain that the President, he would ignore Zlotnik, would thank him. The cool night air hit his face and carried with it the scent of the orchard. Yes, he hoped all would be peachy in the garden.

  *

  The sky was a dark blue in places where the sun had tried to banish night but not yet succeeded. Blazhevich wiped the dew from the wing mirrors and the windows of the Passat, he would be driving for the first two kilometres without lights using NVG goggles and wanted to maximise his vision. Once they were on the highway lights had to be used, lest they were to risk a collision with a trucker. The bags were packe
d and he now waited for the two elderly men to hobble out of the dacha. Dudka moved well enough but Sukhoi was still troubled by both his head and ribs.

  There was a sudden noise in the woods. Dudka pushed Sukhoi the remaining distance into the car and drew his pistol. Blazhevich had already drawn his and adopted a firing position partly shielded by the front tyre. More noise now, the sound of birds being scared from their roosts. A sudden, crashing. Blazhevich sighted his SBU issue Glock on the point where the noise came from when a wild dear leapt out of the forest and onto the road. It paused momentarily to take in the three men before bouncing off and into the darkness. Blazhevich let out an audible sigh of relief. Dudka stood.

  “Why did you not shoot? He would have made a substantial lunch!”

  Dry, as ever Dudka’s humour was, Blazhevich replied feigning ignorance. “Sorry, Gennady Stepanovich, I was not ready.”

  Unseen in the darkness Dudka smiled the smallest of smiles; he appreciated Blazhevich for appreciating his jokes. “Vitaly. Once you have driven us to the British Embassy, you must leave. I do not want to expose you to a potentially career damaging situation. You are to say that you were acting upon orders and nothing more.”

  “Gennady Stepanovich, I will not leave until I know that the two of you are safe. My career and any potential damage to it is not the most important aspect here.”

  “Vitally, do as you are told.” Dudka’s voice was overtly firm.

  “I hope the meter has not started?” Sukhoi’s voice came from inside the car, “I’m not paying a kopek more than ten roubles.”

  Blazhevich shook his head and got into the driver’s seat. When both he and Dudka were seated he started the engine, placed the heavy night vision goggles over his head and turned them on. The two litre Passat was alarmingly loud in the pre-dawn but they had no other option. Blazhevich carefully edged the car off of the Dacha’s concrete parking space, past the fence and into the narrow lane. He kept the speed low and lifted his foot from the accelerator to coast on the downhill parts all the while his eyes strained to make sense of the green black world outside.