by Alex Shaw
‘Give ‘em Kishiev,’ Casey called over his shoulder.
Parnell shoved Kishiev in the back and he strode forward, head held high, to greet the Russian infidels.
Time seemed to slow as Kishiev drew level with Harris. Kishiev glared at him but the American was still too drugged up to understand where he was. Parnell took Harris and hauled him back to the Cadillac. Boroda scowled as he grabbed Kishiev and marched him towards the Mercedes.
‘Men like us, Casey,’ Strelkov said, ‘are the guardians of the people; duty-bound to protect our homes from the pernicious growth of Islamic extremism.’
‘Is there much Islamic extremism among the Ukrainians in Donetsk, Lugansk, or Mariupol?’
Strelkov shook his head slowly. ‘I am sure we will meet again.’
‘Unlikely.’
Strelkov turned on his heels and stalked towards the Mercedes.
Casey watched the G Wagon swing lazily across the road and go back the way it had come. He waited until the Mercedes was well clear of the Russian checkpoint before he withdrew a small, matchbox-sized black box from his jacket pocket. Casey flicked the switch on its top and, just over a second later, the G Wagon was engulfed in a ball of flames, lifted into the air, and then came crashing down on its side.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ Casey said.
Epilogue
Queen Mary Gardens, Regent’s Park, London, UK
Regent’s Park was home to both the London Central Mosque and Winfield House, the residence of the US Ambassador, but that was lost on the tourists enjoying the garden. Mikhail Gorodetski let his eyes drink in the flora and fauna. A simple stroll in the park was one of the things he had missed the most while living in Afghanistan. He thought back to family walks in Gorky Park and other greener places outside Moscow. That was all a lifetime ago when the Soviet Union had worked, a time when his mother and father had been happy, and he had held his little brother’s hand. Mikhail didn’t understand why his life had turned out the way it had; it wasn’t fair he had twice lost a family. Around him Mother Nature attempted to reawaken sleeping flowers and trees dormant for the winter months, now flowing with fresh, new life. So was this to be his fresh, new life? Or was he a Soviet anachronism, a man out of time? Standing a discreet distance away, he could see his SIS ‘minder’ in conversation with two men he recognised: Jack Patchem and his colleague, Aidan Snow.
‘Mikhail, how are you?’
‘I am well, thank you, Jack.’
‘We have something for you, Mikhail; it’s a present from HM Government.’
‘Here.’ Snow handed the Russian a thick brown envelope.
‘Thank you.’ Mikhail opened it and his eyebrows rose as he noted the contents: a burgundy-coloured passport. He flicked through the pages and saw his photograph and, on the facing page, his details. ‘So I am now British?’
‘That’s correct, Mikhail.’ Patchem reached into his pocket and spoke into his iPhone. ‘Yes, you can join us now.’
‘Are you expecting someone else?’
‘Yes, a couple of friends. You may recognise one of them.’
‘Misha.’
Mikhail’s face registered confusion as he heard the voice.
‘Misha.’
Mikhail turned to see two men approaching. One was middle-aged with sandy hair, and the other was younger, with blond hair and blue eyes.
‘Misha, it’s me! It’s Seryozha!’ Gorodetski called.
Mikhail squinted. It couldn’t be. His hands started to tremble and his chest felt tight, but it was true. His little brother Seryozha was standing in front of him. ‘Seryozha!’
Gorodetski extended his right hand and took Mikhail’s, and then he fell into what was, at first, an awkward embrace with his brother.
Casey bypassed the brothers to join Patchem and Snow. ‘I hate to see a grown man cry.’
‘And have you been doing much crying, Vince?’
Casey wagged his finger at Patchem. ‘That, my friend, is a cheap shot.’
‘So when does the investigation into Harris and his impact on the Agency commence?’ Patchem asked with clinical detachment.
‘There ain’t gonna be an official one; Harris was blown up in Crimea. Remember? No one can confirm otherwise. He died a hero murdered by Russian-backed terrorists. But I’m still not in the clear. The Director will conduct his own “internal” investigation, and it’ll hurt more than a colonoscopy with a baseball bat. So if I was a crying man I’d be balling my eyes out already.’
‘We all make mistakes, Vince,’ Patchem said.
‘Ha, is that what Harris was? A mistake?’
‘No, he was a monumental error of judgement.’
‘Jack, don’t you go sugarcoating it any.’ He shook his head. ‘Some good news, though. The girl – Eliso – is going to pull through.’
‘Has Harris told you who she really is?’ Snow asked.
‘Yep, she’s a Black Widow; her husband was killed by the Russians in Chechnya. She moved to Georgia with her mother. That’s where Harris recruited her. We think she’s one of many. She’ll be questioned when she wakes up.’ Casey extended his hand. ‘Been good working with you again, Aidan. I’m sorry for Beck, Needham, Harris, and everything.’
‘And so am I, Vince,’ Snow said.
‘Touché! Langley awaits. See you around, gentlemen.’ Casey walked away in the direction of York Gate.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for buying Cold East. I hope you have enjoyed reading it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. It is said that writing is a lonely business and without your support it certainly would be.
I have been asked how much of myself is in the character of Aidan Snow. Well, we have lived and worked in the same places and speak the same languages, but I was not in the SAS. Aidan Snow and I both have a passion for Ukraine and our adopted home, Kyiv. I write the type of books I love to read, about places and people that have struck a chord with me, so if you’re reading this note, I hope they have for you too.
Please let me know your thoughts and any comments you have. You can follow me on twitter: @alexshawhetman or Facebook: alex.shaw.982292
I do reply to all my messages and would love to hear from you.
Warm regards,
Alex Shaw
Dear Reader,
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