as warmly. ‘You too, old rogue.’
Dudka took a step back and regarded his friend; he had put on some weight, his shirt and jacket seemed a bit tight, and he did not seem at ease. They sat.
‘I trust it was a good flight from Minsk International?’ It was a joke; neither the airport nor the airline were truly international.
Sukhoi smiled half-heartedly.
Dudka frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’
They paused while the waitress brought more water and ordered quickly before she had a chance to leave.
Sukhoi drank his water then mopped his brow; he was sweating. ‘Genna, you are the only one I can speak to. You are the only one I trust.’
Dudka’s expression turned serious. ‘Whatever I can do to help, I will – you know that, Leonya.’
The head of the Belarusian KGB’s third directorate nodded. He was in a dangerous position; so dangerous, in fact, that he had had to leave the country he commanded and enter Ukraine to seek help. He glanced around the restaurant. He had initially chosen it at random but was later happy to find it was an ex-pat favourite – not many old Soviets.
‘There are certain elements in my government that would seek to destroy my country.’ Sukhoi’s tone was serious. His words hung in the air as their soup arrived, Borsch being one of the only Ukrainian dishes on the menu.
‘Lukachev has done a good job so far; I say let him finish.’ Dudka dipped his roll then took a soggy bite; his comment was laced with sarcasm.
Sukhoi noticed a crumb fall onto his friend’s tie. It was no secret between them that neither was enamoured of the Belarusian leader. The problem was that like-minded men in Belarus were hard to find. All those of their age had too much to lose and the younger generations had been indoctrinated during the overlong years of Lukachev’s rule.
‘Something terrible is being planned, something that would almost certainly bring about the destruction of the Belarusian nation.’
Dudka’s spoon stopped and its contents fell back into the bowl, splattering his tie. His friend was being even more alarmist than usual. ‘What is this about?’
The KGB man swallowed hard. The restaurant was fine for making contact but he couldn’t take any more chances. ‘Is there somewhere we can go that is secure?’
Dudka narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes. You are serious?’
Sukhoi nodded. ‘I need help, Genna.’
Dudka knew not to push the matter any further. Both men sat in silence and finished their soup, neither having an appetite for a main course.
Dudka paid and they left. He had parked his government-issue Volga outside. The SBU’s younger men had been given new Volkswagen Passats but he preferred his Volga. He nodded at the restaurant’s security guard, who, dressed in full urban grey and blue camouflaged fatigues, looked more like a commando than a glorified doorman, and unlocked the car parked just outside. Traffic rumbled past them along the Naberezhno-Khreshatik, the riverside highway that neatly dissected Kyiv.
Sukhoi looked around nervously as he opened the passenger door. Suddenly he groaned and fell forward onto the bonnet before sliding off and onto the asphalt.
‘Leonya!’ Dudka moved swiftly, for a man of his age, around the far side of the car. He heard a sound like heavy hailstones and saw Sukhoi’s body convulse. Dudka threw himself to the floor. Someone with a silenced weapon was shooting at them! Lying flat on his face, he reached out to grab Sukhoi’s hand. Something hit him and there was a sharp, stinging sensation on his face. Dudka winced but reached out again. He couldn’t feel a pulse. Raising his head, he saw an Audi 80 parked on the other side of the road pull off in the direction of the new bridge and the city’s left bank.
Moving with more speed than he had done in twenty years, Dudka was up and firing his service-issue Glock 9mm at the disappearing target. The shots were wild except for one, which smashed the rear windscreen. Dudka turned back to his best friend, who lay motionless at his feet; there were specks of blood behind his head.
King Khalid Airport, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
For the past ten minutes the passengers around Fox had formed long queues for the toilets on the Riyadh-bound Boeing 747. Once in the tiny cubicles they removed their Western clothes and replaced them with Arab robes. The cabin changed from a sea of coloured shirts to an almost monochrome of men in white thobes and women in jet-black abayas. The only flashes of colour now came from the red-chequered headdresses of the Saudi men and the few remaining Westerners.
Just before they entered Saudi airspace the chief flight attendant announced that, to comply with the law of the land, the bar would now be closed. The cabin crew would collect all miniatures and empty glasses. Unlike other flights, no one here dared hide a bottle in their pocket for later. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was a good job the content of the passengers’ stomachs wasn’t scanned, Fox thought to himself. He had never seen so much booze being put away on a commercial flight; it had been like a knees-up at Stirling Lines!
Thirty-five minutes later, his seat upright and tray stowed, Fox braced himself for landing. He didn’t fear flying; he feared crashing. As the plane touched down there was applause from the locals returning to the Kingdom; the ex-pats, however, didn’t look pleased. No sooner had the aircraft come to a halt than the Saudis were standing and removing their bags from overhead lockers. The flight crew asked for all passengers to remain seated once, then a second time, then gave up.
Fox collected his rucksack from the overhead locker and exited the plane. He looked wistfully at the grinning cabin crew, realising this was probably the last time he would see female flesh for a while. Stepping out of the fuselage, the heat hit him like a wall. The temperature was in the forties and he immediately felt drowsy. Alcohol, heat, and tiredness did not a good mix make. The short drive to the terminal was cramped and hot. The terminal was also crowded, but cooler, as innumerable air-conditioning vents spat at travellers.
At passport control there were several long queues, each for a different counter, one for KSA residents, another for diplomats, yet another for VIPs, and finally the one for the rest of the world. There had been another desk for ‘tourists’, meaning the Hajj pilgrims, until all Hajj flights had been redirected to Jeddah and a purpose-built terminal. Millions of the faithful, dressed in loincloths, would descend upon the Kingdom annually for the ritual of circling the pillars and throwing stones or something – Fox didn’t care for the facts; to him it was daft, pure and simple. The world’s largest and most dangerous pyjama party where, each year, hundreds were crushed to death. These thoughts, however, were highly offensive to Muslims and would get him arrested, if not worse, if he were to voice them. Fox joined the nearest and longest line. To his right was the sign for the toilets. It had two signs, one showing the head of a bearded man wearing robe and headdress and the other a woman’s veiled face. It looked like a prop from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
‘Any women here?’ Fox muttered to himself as he replayed the stoning scene in his head.
The queue moved slowly forward and eventually Fox produced his passport. His visa was examined by a uniformed Saudi, whose eyes opened wide on seeing that he was
