Cold Blood. Alex Shaw
dead.’
‘Yet he is dead…’ Varchenko paused as Dudka fumbled in his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. ‘Go on.’
Dudka blew his nose. ‘Pollen.’ How one could enjoy sniffing flowers, he did not know. He wiped his nose and returned the handkerchief to his crumpled suit pocket. ‘That is all I can say on the matter. This partner of yours was a very high-profile businessman, liaised with his embassy, spoke at business lunches and drew much attention.’
Varchenko snorted. ‘This is a difficult situation for me, Genna, old friend, as I am sure you are aware. I gave this man my word it would be safe to invest here, to work here, to live here. He had my word, you understand, my word on this. My best men guarded him; he was in no danger from normal “business threats”. This murder places much stress on the status quo, on the relationship and understanding we share, Genna.’ Varchenko looked him in the eye.
Dudka grunted, ‘And you think I am not immune to this? Remember, I’m the one who has turned a “blind eye” to your business dealings here.’
‘And for this you are handsomely rewarded.’ Varchenko paused. ‘Ah, my old colleague, so we are both in the same situation. What is bad for me is bad for you. But the agreement works. What crime we have here is now under control – ask any one of your SBU underlings to give you a report. I have worked hard to ensure this, but then, when I am on the verge of a successful endeavour, it is potentially snatched away. By whom? That is what I must know. Who is it who dares upset us?’
Dudka shrugged. ‘You have no idea? I have seen some intelligence about the Turks and I have also read reports on the Moldavians.’
Varchenko closed his eyes to hide his rage. ‘Turks! I am aware of the Turks and they would not dare attempt this! And the Moldavians could not spell the word assassinate! No, this must be someone new.’
So his old superior was worried. ‘That, I am afraid, is all we have at the moment. We will, of course, be exploring all possibilities, Valeriy.’
Varchenko raised his finger. ‘All possibilities? We are both decent men, Genna. We did not work all these years together to protect the people’s interest to now be threatened in our golden years! We have kept it simple. Old-fashioned crime. None of the slavery, narcotica or weaponry…’
Varchenko’s voice trailed off and Dudka nodded. It was true. Varchenko was a bandit, but an honest one. There was crime in Odessa but, because of him, it was petty; the large-scale arms smuggling, people and drug trafficking of the early Nineties had been severely restricted. Dudka felt his stomach rumble. ‘Where is that lobster you promised me?’
Shoreham by Sea, United Kingdom
The morning sky was a brilliant blue, unusually so for this time of year, but Bav didn’t notice as he headed towards Lancing. Under the supervision of his father he had been, on paper, managing director of UK operations while his cousin held the same title in Islamabad. Jas had held the position of chairman with overall responsibility for NewSound worldwide. Now, with his death, Bav, at the age of thirty-seven, had been left the lot. His own dispensing business would have to cease as he took the reins of the three plants. He had never wanted to go into the family business. His only concession, albeit a large one, was to train as an audiologist. He had then, of course, been ‘persuaded’ to recommend his family’s products. And now he could hardly refuse his appointment as MD.
His old man was – had been, he corrected himself – a crafty one. All the while he had known deep down that Bav, and Bav alone, would replace him. That he, and not his cousin, Said Shabaz, would be the future head of NewSound.
He bit his bottom lip to stop the tears forming again. He could not stay at home and grieve; he had to carry on, open the factory – it was what his father would have wanted. Why did you have to die, Dad, why did you have to leave me? An old man who had only ever brought happiness had been snatched away by a bullet. It wasn’t working. He’d have to stop. The factory would have to open later. He pulled onto the hard shoulder, stabbing the hazard-warning button with his left index finger as tears fell from his eyes.
British Embassy, Kyiv
Simon Macintosh extended his hand. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Director Dudka.’
Dudka took the proffered hand and shook it with a firm grip. ‘It is least we can do, Mr Ambassador.’
Macintosh nodded and introduced the man standing at his side. ‘This is Alistair Vickers. He will be liaising with London.’
Vickers and Dudka shook hands.
‘And this is Vitaly Blazhevich. He is running investigation.’
Blazhevich shook hands with both British diplomats. The ambassador bade them sit.
‘My English not as good as could be. I am sorry. I speak Deutsch.’
Dudka put his hand on Blazhevich’s shoulder. ‘But Vitaly is secret weapon.’
There was a knock at the door and Macintosh’s secretary brought in a tray containing four cups of tea, a bowl of sugar, milk and custard cream biscuits. Dudka took a cup, nodded, blew on the surface of the tea, then took a sip. Momentarily his eyes flickered before he placed the cup on the table. ‘Dobre Smak.’ It was a lie. The tea tasted peculiar.
‘Earl Grey. Traditionally English.’ Vickers poured milk into his own cup.
Blazhevich opened a file and placed it on the table. Dudka spoke in Ukrainian and Blazhevich translated into English. ‘We are obviously very sorry for the loss of Mr Malik. We want to confirm that we will give our full support and resources to finding the person or persons responsible for this unlawful act.’
Blazhevich looked at Dudka. Dudka added two spoons of sugar to his tea and sipped. Vickers made notes on a PDA with a plastic pointer while Macintosh knotted his hands in his lap and nodded. The biscuits remained untouched. Dudka continued, with Blazhevich a phrase behind.
‘Here are photographs taken at the scene. They are not appealing. The angle of the impacted bullet leads us to believe the shot came from above. Scuff marks on the roof of a neighbouring warehouse substantiate this.’
Macintosh, his face pale, passed the photographs to Vickers, who spoke next. ‘What type of ammunition?’ Vickers studied the image. ‘7.62?’
‘Tak.’ Dudka smiled and continued in English. ‘Very common in former USSR.’
Vickers studied the image again. ‘May we presume it was a trained sniper?’
‘Tak. Our Red Army had many, many.’
Blazhevich added more information: ‘As you have hinted, the profile of the suspect we have is a trained sniper. This further adds to our suspicion that the attack was professional and pre-planned.’
Macintosh placed his palms on the table. ‘So we have a British citizen assassinated by a paid assassin, a sniper. Do you have any idea who the paymaster might have been?’
Vickers tried not to smile. For all Macintosh’s professional abilities, investigating a murder was not one of them. He tried his best but sounded to Vickers like a le Carré novel.
‘This is something we intend to investigate further,’ Blazhevich translated. ‘Can we ask you for any ideas you may have? For example, a list of Mr Malik’s business and social contacts?’
‘Alistair?’ Macintosh looked at Vickers.
‘We have searched all our files and of course asked the expatriate community; however, at this stage, we have nothing of any consequence.’
Vickers waited while his words were translated. ‘We, of course, know that Mr Malik was in partnership with a Ukrainian joint stock company and believe they would be the only party to gain from this.’
Dudka’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he spoke. Blazhevich looked at Macintosh then Vickers in turn. ‘We can assure you that we have started to