by Alex Shaw
Leaning back on his plastic garden-type chair Arnaud sipped what had now after three days become his usual, Obolon Temne – Obolon dark beer. “That girl. Jesus she is… oh I can’t describe…”
“Which one?” Snow knew exactly who but wanted Arnaud to squirm.
“Larissa, the one from the school.” Arnaud stared into the distance.
Michael smiled and spoke in Welsh-accented Russian “Sto procent.” He continued in English, “One hundred percent. Now if I had an unemployed knob…”
“How do you know her?” Arnaud turned to face Snow.
Snow sipped his Svetly – light beer. “Just about everyone has tried it on with her and got nowhere. She doesn’t even give me the time of day – as you saw.”
“Perhaps she likes the rugged handsome type?” Arnaud adjusted the collar on his shirt.
“No, she turned me down,” Snow countered.
“That’s because she is looking for a lover not a father.”
“Cheeky sod.”
“Could be a lesbo, if so I’d like to watch…” Michael pulled on his cigarette.
“Well she hasn’t said no to me yet,” Arnaud retorted.
“Good luck.”
Arnaud took a large swig of beer. “Who Dares Wins.”
“What?” Snow paused, mid slurp.
“You know, the old SAS motto.”
“SAS.” Michael raised his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses and looked at Snow.
“Shoreham Angling Society,” Snow said deadpan.
*
SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv
Budanov arrived back at the SBU building on Volodymyrska just after eight in the evening. He had taken the first flight to Odessa arriving at 11:40 a.m. where he had been driven to the address in Fontanka by a waiting car. He had been shocked by whom he was to meet and what implications this had on the investigation. Varchenko had been a legendary KGB officer long before Budanov was born and to meet him was not only a privilege but chilling at the same time. Budanov had tried to control his nerves and had acted as professionally as he could.
This special mission had placed far more pressure on him than anyone could imagine. During the one hour and ten minute return flight he had sat alone constantly checking and rechecking his notes and computerised image. He did not want to make any mistake for Gennady Stepanovich. He entered through the main doors and flashed his pass at the bored guard behind the protective glass who waved him past and continued to read the Fakty newspaper concealed beneath his desk. As he approached his chief’s office he could see light seeping under the door. He knocked and was immediately told to enter. Dudka looked tired, the bags under his eyes seemed even larger than usual and for the first time Budanov could see a five o’clock shadow around his jowls. There was also a faint smell of pepper vodka in the air.
“You have the report?” Dudka glanced up from his papers.
“Yes Gennady Stepanovich.” Budanov passed him the notes. Dudka looked at the hand written sheets which were surprisingly neat. “I will have this typed up for you by nine tomorrow morning.”
“Very well.” He handed them back. “Show me the video-fit.”
Budanov opened his bag and powered up the laptop. “Shall I print the image or would you like to look at it on the screen?”
“Show me on the screen. Later I’ll connect it to my printer in this room.” He motioned to the large printer standing next to the filing cabinet.
The Fujitsu Siemens came to life and was placed in front of Dudka. The image appeared on the screen. The face was thin with round dark brown eyes and a wide mouth. There was a prominent chin. The hair was dark and swept back, the ears quite small.
“You are sure that the man looked like this?” Dudka questioned.
“Yes Gennady Stepanovich. General Varchenko was quite adamant.”
“He is no longer a general, Boris Ruslanovich.”
“He said that the eyes were most striking and that the chin was prominent.”
“OK Boris. You have done well. Was there any money left over from that which I gave you?”
“Yes Gennady Stepanovich, $80.” Budanov pulled out his wallet and placed the notes and also his receipts on the table.
Dudka took the receipts and put them in his drawer. He then pushed the money towards Budanov. “Thank you Boris, you have done well. Blazhevich will now continue with the case. Take this and get that pretty wife of yours something nice.” He nodded at the SBU’s rising star.
Budanov took the money and nodded in return. “Thank you.”
“Goodnight Boris Ruslanovich.”
Budanov rose and left the room. “Goodnight Gennady Stepanovich.”
Shutting the door behind him Budanov pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow and hands; both were clammy.
Back in the office Dudka continued to look at the image for a few minutes, consigning it to his memory, before he shut down the laptop and popped it into its bag. He opened his draw and removed the half bottle of vodka, poured two fingers, stood and walked over to the window. The street lights illuminated the cobbles. An electric faded orange and yellow trolley-bus glided along towards the opera. He remembered, years before, going with his wife and half smiled at the memory. Irina had loved the opera and loved him. They had made quite a pair, the then dashing young KGB officer and the ballerina. Their mutual careers had been good for each other. She had toured and he had sometimes accompanied her, gathering intelligence as he went.
The doors to the Opera House opened and patrons started to flood out, the street lights catching their brightly coloured evening gowns, further illuminating the night. He had not gone to the opera since her death, he couldn’t bring himself to. Together they had been strong and in love. Cancer had killed her, it had torn him apart inside and he had never recovered; but this he had also never admitted to anyone. He watched for a few minutes more as humanity passed by. He downed the vodka, a silent toast to the past. It was a two minute drive in his official car or a ten minute walk mostly downhill to his empty flat, empty apart from his little dog. It looked nice out so he decided to walk. He picked up the laptop bag and locked his office.
SEVEN
Podilsky School International
“I’m going to do it.” Arnaud drained his coffee and nodded.
“You are a braver man than I.” Snow finished his slice of pizza. “Are you sure that you want to shit on your own doorstep so soon?”
Snow and Arnaud were sitting in the small staff room of Podilsky School. It was lunchtime and Arnaud had not been able to get Larissa out of his head. Michael bit into a cheese roll. “Why not try? All that can happen is she slaps you.”
“Who’s been slapping who?” It was Vanessa Taylor, a Canadian pre-school teacher, who had heard the end of the sentence as she opened the door.
“Just a silly-billy in my year three class. I made them sit in the corner,” replied Michael.
“Best thing for them. They should kiss and make up,” replied Vanessa as she grabbed a biscuit and left the room.
“There you are, just kiss her,” advised Michael.
Arnaud stood. “I will.”
“Go on then,” Snow pushed.
“OK.” He wiped his lips, popped a mint into his mouth and left the room. He walked out through the reception, along the corridor and past the main entrance. The greasy smell of the institute’s café on his left and their abominations hit him as he passed. He turned the corner and saw three doors straight ahead and a staircase on his right. The writing on the doors was in Cyrillic but there was a small emblem of a watch on the first. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It didn’t open. He knocked again and it was opened by a fat peroxide blonde woman. Speaking Russian, which he didn’t understand, he guessed she had asked him to sit, before she shut the door and returned to the fax machine which was disgorging a multi-page fax.
Arnaud looked on wondering what the hell to do next. The blonde woman, who was clearly th
e receptionist, shouted into the back room and a man in a tie and shirt sleeves appeared and looked at the fax. He shouted at the woman and disappeared back into his office without even acknowledging Arnaud. The receptionist tried to fold the fax, which was still falling from the machine on a continuous roll of paper. Arnaud still had no idea what to do. He did not speak the language so could not ask for Larissa and did not know what to say to the receptionist. He’d started to rise to leave when the outer door opened and in stepped Larissa. She was wearing a burgundy skirt which hugged her hips and a matching jacket which accentuated her bust. She glanced at Arnaud, puzzled, then the receptionist ran to her and pointed at the fax. Arnaud still did not understand a word but knew that he had obviously come at the wrong time. Larissa took the fax and scanned the pages. Her face looked serious. Arnaud stood to make his escape.
“Can I help you?” Larissa asked in accented English.
Arnaud stuttered, “I… er… I… wondered if you…”
Larissa looked back at the fax then mouthed something, “…depuis de ton…” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the words.
Arnaud’s ears pricked up, he had heard French. “Vous parlez Français?” he questioned.
Larissa raised her eyes for a moment, not comprehending, then she spoke again in English. “The fax is in French but we do not understand.”
A huge smile appeared on his face. “Let me help you.” Arnaud took the fax and read it out loud. Both Larissa and the receptionist stood wide eyed. The back room door opened again. The man looked at the stranger reading his fax. “Bonjour.” Arnaud smiled.
“Bonjour,” replied the man uncertainly. He turned to Larissa and spoke before retreating back into the room.
“Can you translate into English for me? It is very important, from our new supplier in Switzerland.” Larissa looked directly into his eyes.
Arnaud’s heart started to pound in his chest. “Yes, I can do that, but I do charge.”
“What is the cost?” Larissa asked.
“Go out with me in the evening?” His heart pounded faster.
“Go out?”
“Yes, meet me for a drink or a meal.”
Larissa closed her eyes momentarily and shook her head, a slight curl appearing on her lips. “OK. I am free tonight.”
“Superb.” Arnaud’s smile became so wide that his face hurt.
*
Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
Heavy curtains hung at the doors to the club. The interior décor was dark and opulent. The several other clients that could be seen were partly hidden in their own secluded booths. Bull faced his guest. “It would be an electronic transfer?”
The clerk nodded. “The money would be sent from one account to another through the ether. It takes milliseconds.”
Bull refilled the clerk’s glass. “The client could then draw on it?”
“In theory yes, but what usually happens is that the money is never seen at all, merely shifted from one account to the next. It is not like a personal or small business account; the client will not walk into the bank and demand cash.”
“But he could?” Bull enquired.
“Of course he could, but it would take several days for the bank to retrieve the funds.”
Bull was shocked. “The bank has $100,000,000 in cash?”
“It would have to get it. If the bank has accepted the transfer then through international agreement the money would be allocated to the bank by the clearance houses. But can you imagine how heavy that amount of cash would be?” The clerk laughed and emptied his glass. He drank the expensive whiskey like a toast, quickly, too quickly to savour.
Bull smiled, refilled the tumbler and asked, “How heavy?”
“I cannot estimate how heavy but it would fill ten vans at least, maybe more.” The clerk looked wistful. “Imagine what you could do with that much money…”
Build a seven star hotel in Odessa, mused Bull. “So tell me, how much could a client, in general, demand in cash?”
“It depends. At my bank perhaps $80,000, perhaps $280,000; it all depends. Some clients deposit funds regularly. I know of one who deposits large cash amounts monthly.”
Bull’s eyes flickered. “How much?”
The clerk shifted in his seat and looked around before answering in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Between one and four million US dollars.”
“So that amount could then be withdrawn?”
“Yes that is correct. It is a fallacy that banks hold millions. They have a reserve and whatever cash has been deposited before it is shipped off to be securely stored. Remember Odessa Bank is quite small. Larger banks attract larger clients.”
Bull signalled for another bottle of whiskey “So to clarify. If one knew when a deposit was to be made one could make a withdrawal of the same amount?”
The clerk smiled at the waitress, who was scantily clad and extremely beautiful, as she poured a large measure from the new bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label into his glass.
“Exactly.” His gaze followed her and her long legs back to the bar.
“Perhaps I will need to make a large withdrawal in the future and would need your assistance.” Bull fixed the clerk square in the eyes and placed a thick brown envelope on the glass topped table.
The clerk’s left eyebrow twitched as he picked up the inch thick package. “I am happy to help.”
Bull nodded and abruptly stood. “I am sorry but I have to leave you. Please stay and enjoy my hospitality.”
Bull took the clerk’s hand in a firm grip. The clerk was unnerved by the piercing green eyes but more than happy with the deal. Bull left and was replaced by the waitress, who sat close to the clerk and placed her manicured hand high on his fat thigh.
*
Khreshatik Street, Kyiv
Arnaud waited impatiently outside the main entrance to Khreshatik metro station. He felt like a right plonker standing there. He checked his breath for the umpteenth time and then his watch. Unlike most young men Arnaud was never late. He always liked to be the first anywhere so he could get the best seat at the best table for the best view. This he knew he got from his mother, who was forever hurrying his father up. Again he looked at the watch even though it was set five minutes fast – a fact that he could not forget – she was now ten minutes late. He’d give her ten more and then leave to find Aidan and the others. Aha! There she was! Trying to suppress his excitement and growing bulge in his jeans, Arnaud walked forward to meet Larissa.
“Hello there!”
“Hi,” Larissa replied, looking him up and down. What was he wearing?
“You’re a bit late. Did you have to wait for a train or something?” he enquired, leaning forward in an attempt to kiss her lips. She turned her cheek.
“No. Where are we going?”
“Where are you going to take me?”
She looked him in the eyes. “You are going to take me to Le Grande Café.”
“What’s that?”
She looked shocked. “You don’t know what Le Grande Café is?”
“No,” he lied.
“It’s the best French restaurant in Kyiv.” Surely he was playing?
“I thought we’d go somewhere Ukrainian?” he asked hopefully. Le Grande Café, he had heard from Michael, was as pricey as they came, and according to Snow survived primarily on the custom of New Ukrainians and corporate expense accounts.
“I hate Ukrainian food,” she replied and took his arm. They walked to the side of the road where she hailed a taxi.
*
Rock Café, Kyiv
Mitch Turney leant back in his chair and exhaled cigar smoke. “I’ve forgotten. You ever been to California, bud?”
Snow lowered his glass. “I’ve seen Baywatch.”
Turney nodded and took another drag on his Havana. “Let me tell you, those women are pigs compared to here, baaabbbyy.”
“Your ex-wife included?”
“My ex-wife especially.”
Mitch Turn
ey, country manager for Perry & Roe was a sleek, forty-two year old Californian who had been in Kyiv a year longer than Snow. Having just negotiated an eighteen month extension to his expatriation he was in a celebratory mood. Having already consumed half a bottle of imported tequila before Snow arrived and the rest after, he showed no sign of slowing down. The second bottle arrived. At over $60 a go, this made both waitress and bartender, who were anticipating a large tip, smile.
Turney continued, “Don’t misunderstand me man. I mean they take care of themselves there, but in the US you need a second mortgage to pay for all the damn cosmetics.” He stubbed out the cigar and cast Snow a look out of the corner of his eye. “So when are you going to hang up your chalk and get a proper job?”
“When are you going to stop selling sugar water?” Snow poured him a shot.
“Never.” He raised his glass. “I’ll make you a deal. You teach the kids how to drink my cola and I’ll promise to become a feminist.”
“Deal,” replied Snow.
Mitch necked Mexico’s finest. “I’ve often thought of myself as a Butch Lesbian. Speaking of which, I got an email from Donna.”
Snow put his empty shot glass on the table. Donna was his ex-girlfriend. It hadn’t ended well; she had dumped him. Snow folded his arms, a subconscious show of defence and insecurity, the old regiment shrink would have told him. “What earth-shattering statement did she make this time?”
Mitch frowned and poured two more shots. “She invited me to her wedding.”
Snow was stunned; it had been just a year since they had split. “Who’s the unlucky guy?”
“Aidan, come on man, don’t be bitter. She wasn’t for you. Call it fate, call it Karma. Yeah, Karma, things happen. My ex-wife and I split – Karma.”
