Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Shit!’

  The man hovered over him, raising his arm to slash again, but the siren wail alarmed him. He shot a glance back up the road as a police car darted past at the junction. Sam scuttled back. Cursing, the assailant began to run off.

  ‘Hamdan!’ Sam yelled after him, his heart racing.

  The driver slammed the boot shut. ‘What’s up, sir?’ The lid had obscured his view of what had happened.

  ‘Bastard’s got a knife,’ Sam hissed, picking himself up. He sprinted off in pursuit.

  Hamdan turned at the corner of a short alley leading to the high street. He saw Sam closing the gap and hurled his heavy briefcase at him. It spun through the air like a discus. Unable to swerve in time, the bag caught Sam on the shins.

  ‘Fuck!’ he howled, buckling with the pain shooting through his barely healing legs. He tripped over the case and fell heavily to the ground. ‘Fucking bastard!’

  ‘You all right sir?’ The SIS driver had caught up with him.

  ‘Get down the alley. After him!’

  As the driver jogged off, Sam staggered to his feet. The pain in his damaged shins was excruciating. He hobbled to the corner of the footpath and saw the driver at the far end looking both ways along the high street, scratching his head.

  ‘Fuck!’

  It was Hamdan. No moustache now, but the same dog-like face that had watched his torture in Baghdad. The same nervous tic. Hamdan was here. In London. He grabbed the briefcase and opened it. Empty.

  He needed to alert his people. As he hurried back to the car with its secure phone, he looked down at his sleeve. There was a small nick in the shirt stained with blood where the knife had caught him. He undid the cuff to look. It was just a scratch.

  Waddell wasn’t around when he rang Vauxhall Cross. He spoke to a duty officer, giving as good a description of the Iraqi as he could muster.

  ‘Get the police in on it. This man’s dangerous. Very dangerous,’ Sam insisted, his heart still thumping.

  As he hung up, the driver slipped back behind the wheel.

  ‘Lost him, sir. Sorry. There’s a mass of people on the high street. Want we go look in the car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The high street was narrow and blocked by slow-moving traffic. They moved along it scanning the pavements, but it was pointless. Hamdan could have hopped into a taxi, darted down a side road or buried himself in a shop.

  ‘Fuck this. Get me back to the flat,’ Sam ordered, angry with himself for letting Hamdan outwit him. ‘I need to clean up and get another shirt.’

  Gingerly he fingered his shins, hoping they weren’t bleeding again. He could only spare a few minutes to get straight or he’d be late for the flight.

  But why was Hamdan in London? Why risk so much to try to kill him?

  Because he was getting close, that was why – far too close to the heart of the matter for Hamdan to be confident his plot could still be carried out.

  30

  Evening

  Kiev

  THE NIGHT-TIME CITY stretched out beneath him as the Airbus made its final approach to Kiev’s Boryspil airport. Its web of orange street lamps was dissected by the broad, black snake of the river Dnipro. He caught a glint of gold from the onion domes of the floodlit Lavra monastery perched high above the water, and the occasional sparking flash from ill-connecting tram poles. The old town of Kiev was a fine-looking city, he remembered from a year ago. But the organisation that had tried to kill him in London – would they be one jump ahead of him? Waiting for him here?

  The wheels touched and the aircraft taxied in past a row of engineless Aeroflot jets cannibalised for spares. The airport building was dimly lit, several of its neon tubes malfunctioning. The two booths where border guards checked passports glowed brightly, however, their glare luring the arriving passengers as if they were fish. Beyond, in the small baggage hall with its single working belt, nervous Ukrainians from a previous flight queued at customs, struggling with cardboard boxes of electrical goods they’d bought abroad, pale-faced with anxiety about the duties or bribes they would have to pay to get them into the country.

  When the baggage from the London flight appeared Sam’s small suitcase was one of the first off. He made for the green lane, his grey raincoat over his arm. Gerald Figgis, the SIS resident in Kiev whom he’d met briefly a year ago, was sending a driver for him. He scanned the names scrawled on scraps of cardboard held up outside the customs hall and was relieved when he saw his own.

  ‘Dobriden,’ said a short man with a moustache like a Tartar. ‘Meester Packer?’

  ‘Tak.’

  He’d picked up only a handful of Ukrainian during his last visit, and his Russian, never very strong, was creaky through lack of practice.

  The driver took his bag and led him through the crowd of Slav faces out into the sparsely lit car park, turning briefly to check that Sam was following. He stopped beside an elderly brown Audi and lifted the boot lid. The driver indicated Sam should get into the car.

  ‘Bood’ Laska.’

  The interior of the car was dark. In the far corner sat a shadowy figure. Sam started back, fearing it was Rybkin.

  ‘Welcome.’ The voice was Figgis’s.

  ‘God! Wasn’t expecting you.’ They shook hands. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Good enough.’

  ‘Fine. Now look, I’m ninety-nine per cent certain this driver doesn’t speak English, but be careful. Fortunately the car’s got a blown silencer, so once we get going he won’t hear a word, whatever the language.’

  The driver started up.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Sam commented.

  ‘Hotel Ukraina,’ Figgis shouted above the racket.

  The driver raised a hand in acknowledgement. He propelled the car towards the exit barrier, paid the parking fee then showed his papers to the police.

  ‘Has to prove he’s the vehicle’s owner,’ Figgis explained. ‘Most western cars in Kiev have been stolen in Germany and illegally imported.’

  Out on the broad but empty six-lane highway that led to the city centre, the machine roared like a torpedo boat. Figgis leaned across until his mouth was just inches from Sam’s ear.

  ‘I’ve fixed you a rendezvous with the renegade Major’s sister at ten tonight. You would have seen her when you were last here. Receptionist at the embassy. Remember what she looks like? She certainly remembers you.’

  ‘Blue eyes, that’s all. I only spoke to her a couple of times as far as I recall.’

  ‘I’ve got a photo of her for you.’ He passed Sam a small Polaroid taken for a security pass.

  ‘Thanks.’ It was too dark to see, so he put it in his jacket pocket.

  Through the window he could make out the black shapes of trees and remembered that Kiev was surrounded by woods which filled up with picnickers on weekends in the summer.

  ‘What d’you know about the brother?’ he shouted, turning back to face Figgis.

  ‘Very little. I’m having to keep a low profile on this one. Can’t even be sure he’s legit. Our defence attaché’s gone down to Odessa this week – there’s a port visit there by NATO warships, including a British frigate. While in the area he’ll see if he gets wind of anything to do with what the brother’s talking about, but I don’t expect him to. In a situation as diplomatically delicate as this we can’t risk making open enquiries.’

  The broad highway ended and they entered the eastern half of Kiev. Bleak high rises lined the road, interspersed by concrete monuments to heroes of organised labour. On the far side of the river Dnipro the wooded hills and onion domes of old Kiev were dominated by a massive stainless steel statue of a woman with sword and shield. Its construction had been ordered by Moscow when Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, Sam remembered.

  ‘The locals call her She Who Must Be Obeyed,’ Figgis reminded him.

  The traffic halted. Up ahead they saw a trolleybus with one of its power poles swinging wildly.
The driver struggled to reattach it to the overhead cable. He eventually succeeded and they began to move again.

  ‘Any leads on Grimov and Rybkin?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Not yet. The SBU’s “K” Directorate which deals with economic crime have very little info on Voronin’s gang. They know that his business interests in Odessa include import-export and transport as well as the usuals like protection and the sex trade. But unless we can give them something specific to investigate, there’s little they can do. Just saying we suspect Dima Grimov of supplying some sort of logistical support to Iraqi terrorists is too damn vague for them. That’s why Major Pushkin could be crucial.’

  ‘Or useless,’ Sam warned.

  ‘Well, precisely. This whole jaunt of yours may be a waste of time.’ Figgis leaned closer again. ‘The sister’s extremely nervous,’ he warned. ‘Really believes her brother’s in danger and that she is too. She’s got him out of her flat now. Hidden him somewhere, but won’t say where. And she won’t meet you at your hotel either. Too many spies around, she says. She’s afraid of everybody. Military. Police. Mafiya, you name it.’

  ‘So where am I to meet her?’

  ‘There’s a bookshop about fifty metres up Khreshchatyk from the Bessarabsky Market end. Left-hand side of the road. It’ll be closed but she’ll meet you in the doorway at ten. She insists you be on your own.’

  The taxi burbled along through light traffic, aiming for one of the bridges across the Dnipro.

  ‘I’m going to bail out in a moment. Ring me from a phone box after the meeting. I’ll be at home. Be circumspect about what you say. My phone’s bound to be bugged. If it’s important, just say let’s meet and I’ll drive down to your hotel. Here.’ He gave Sam a handful of brown plastic tokens and a card. ‘There aren’t many public phones that work – you can usually recognise the ones that do by the queues. Sometimes they work for free, but have these things just in case.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Figgis leaned forward.

  ‘Mozhna?’ he said, touching the driver’s shoulder. ‘Dozvol’te.’ He pointed to a metro station coming up on their right.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, pushing open the door when the car had stopped. ‘You don’t need to worry about the driver. He’s paid for.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The Hotel Ukraina was different from the Intouristtype chicken box he’d stayed in a year earlier, still retaining some of its pre-revolutionary charm. By the time he’d checked into his room and hung up his clothes it was after nine-thirty. The high-ceilinged room overlooked a small yard at the back. Rain beat steadily against the glass.

  He opened his briefcase and pulled out the half litre of scotch that he’d bought duty free on the plane. He poured a modest measure into the glass he found on the desk, and added some filtered water from the jug next to it. Kiev’s tap supply had a heavy-metal kick that left a tingle in the mouth.

  He downed the drink while glancing at the Polaroid that Figgis had given him. Oksana Koslova was a nice looker, he remembered now. He’d not known her name when he’d chatted with her a year ago. Slightly shy, slightly reticent, he recalled, with a smile that took some effort to extract but was worth it when it came. He decided he’d better make a move. He draped the raincoat over his shoulders, removed a telescopic umbrella from his briefcase and took the lift to the ground floor.

  The Khreshchatyk boulevard where he was to meet Oksana Koslova was a block away. He was there in minutes. A scattering of people ambled up and down the broad avenue despite the rain, young couples mostly. He crossed the dual carriageway at the traffic lights and walked up on the opposite side from where Figgis had said the bookshop was, remembering that it was from this very same street a year ago that Viktor Rybkin had taken him to sight-see the Maflya hangouts.

  Oksana Koslova emerged from the Teatral’na Metro station feeling that at any moment now she might die of fright. She was here to meet a foreign agent. Here to help her brother flee his own country. If the Militsia or SBU knew what she was doing they would lock her up. If the Mafiya knew, they would kill her.

  There was a second reason for her nervousness however, caused by the fact that the foreign agent she was about to meet was a certain Mr Sam Packer. She’d only spoken to him twice and very briefly, and that was a year ago. But his smile and the interest he’d appeared to take in her while waiting at the embassy reception desk for Mrs Taylor to come out to collect him was something she’d not forgotten. Emotionally she’d been fragile since her husband died, prone to tears. Most Ukrainian men she knew wanted women as unpaid housekeepers and prostitutes, but Mr Packer had shown her kindness. In the weeks that had followed his return to London, she’d spun fantasies about him, even to the extent of imagining a relationship. The prospect of meeting him again therefore was unsettling.

  Taking deep breaths to steady her heartbeat, she raised the collar of her coat and tied a scarf over her hair which had been newly set that morning. She started up Khreshchatyk, quickly passing the doorway where they were to meet. No one there yet. Five minutes to go to the appointed hour. She didn’t like being here alone at night. She’d heard stories of women being taken from the streets and pressed into the sex trade or worse. Snuff movies, they were called, she’d been told. Rape, torture and death on video for the gratification of sick minds and the financial enrichment of sub-humans.

  She’d thought long and hard about how best to handle the situation she was facing this evening, resisting the urge to drench herself in perfume. The man had come here to see her brother, not her. He’d do the deal with Mikhail then fly straight back – to his own wife and children probably. In the end she’d decided on pearl-drop earrings, a light touch of make-up and clothes that were more tidy than alluring.

  She bowed her head to keep the rain from her eyes, embarrassed by her own foolishness at having conjured up a whole world of fantasy from a foreigner’s smile.

  ‘Dobriden. Oksana?’

  She stopped with a jerk and gasped. It was him. He’d been coming the other way down Khreshchatyk and had recognised her.

  ‘Hello.’

  She felt her face turn scarlet. She pushed the scarf back a little from her forehead.

  ‘Shall we go somewhere out of this rain,’ Sam said without further preamble. ‘A bar? Café?’

  ‘Oh yes. Where you like,’ she said huskily.

  ‘You say where. I don’t remember my way around.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ She stared round, trying to think. ‘Truth is I don’t know such place here. For normal people here in centre of Kiev is too expensive.’

  ‘I’ll pay, don’t worry,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Sorry. I . . .’ She noticed he was nervous. He kept looking past her and glancing over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, gently. ‘Let’s go any place you like that isn’t soaking wet.’ He was holding his umbrella over her now, but the wind blew the rain straight under it.

  ‘I know somewhere . . .’ She’d remembered a place that had just opened. ‘At Independence Square.’

  ‘Back this way, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned round and she fell in beside him.

  ‘Look, I do need to meet your brother very soon.’

  She heard the urgency in his voice.

  ‘Yes, but first we must talk,’ she insisted. Misha had warned her to get the terms settled before anything else. He’d been showing signs of backtracking.

  ‘Well we’re talking now. There’s not much time, Oksana,’ Sam warned.

  She felt a little afraid of him.

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning you can talk with Mikhail. As long as you agree to help him.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t agree anything until we know what he’s offering,’ he cautioned.

  Oksana felt she was on a downhill tram with failed brakes. They walked on in silence, soon reaching the square that was the social hub of the city. The fountains and their floodlights h
ad been turned off and the gaunt, Stalin-era blocks that ringed it on three sides were darkly sinister. Two single men stood separately by a small monument, waiting for friends. On benches under the almost bare trees, couples huddled beneath umbrellas.

  ‘The rain,’ Oksana explained, trying to lighten things. ‘It is reason not so many people here tonight.’ She pointed across the square. ‘I think there is new bar over there. Every month there is new, then close when Mafiya make them pay too much.’

  Sam groaned as they entered the place. It was a plastic clone of an Irish pub. Abbey Theatre posters plastered the nicotine-coloured walls. Was nowhere in the world safe from the spread of stout bars, he wondered? The air was thick with smoke. Darkly varnished chairs and tables filled the floor space, occupied by young people in jeans and pullovers.

  They hung their coats on a bent wooden stand and found a free table. As they sat down, Sam looked Oksana over. She wore a knee-length brown skirt and a cerise pullover. She had good-sized breasts although their shape was concealed by a pointy bra. The smooth, pale skin over her high Slavic cheekbones glistened from the rain and her wavy hair had been flattened a little by the scarf. Her eyes were very blue and very frightened.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ he beamed, leaning forward on his elbows. She seemed to melt before his eyes. For a moment he thought she was going to cry.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to remember me.’

  ‘Never forget a pretty face,’ he smiled.

  A young waiter spotted Sam’s western-cut suit and homed in on them, hungry for tips.

  ‘Dobriden.’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Yablouchniy,’ she said.

  ‘Pivo.’

  The waiter slid away.

  ‘They are learning about service now in Ukraine,’ Oksana told him. ‘Slowly.’

  ‘So I see.’

  He folded his hands. He felt somewhat uncomfortable here. With his suit on he stood out like a dog in a cattery. Should have dressed down.