through to Valeriy Ivanovich.’
There was a slight pause. ‘Who would you be?’
‘Tell him it is Genna.’ Dudka drummed his fingers on the plastic café table.
Another pause, noises in the background. ‘OK.’
Dudka heard a rustling at the other end and then a muffled voice started to speak, ‘Gennady Stepanovich, my dear friend, how are you?’
‘Fine, my friend. Is this an inconvenient moment?’
‘No, no,’ Varchenko replied. ‘I am in the middle of a rather good lobster. The next time you are in Odessa you really must try one.’
Dudka eyed his pathetic café sandwich. ‘I have something I need to discuss with you.’
‘Oh, and what might that be?’ Varchenko’s voice was now clear.
Dudka cast his eyes around the terrace; there seemed to be no one eavesdropping. ‘Can we meet at the dacha?’
If any other man had received a call from a Deputy Head of the SBU, the Head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime, they would have been justified in showing concern; however, with Valeriy Varchenko, retired KGB general, what registered sounded more like annoyance. ‘It is not very convenient.’
‘I insist, old friend.’ Dudka held firm; after all, he was still the enlisted man, even though he turned a ‘general’ blind eye to the general in Odessa.
Varchenko sighed, more for effect than anything else. ‘Very well. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll even have the chef here prepare you a lobster.’
‘Agreed.’ Dudka put the phone down. He knew where the chef could stick his precious lobster. He bit into his open sausage sandwich. The money and power had clearly gone to his old friend’s head.
Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow rubbed his right thigh, which was playing up again. Was he getting too old for this? He pondered a moment before dismissing the idea. ‘You’re thirty-four, not fifty.’ He surveyed the class as they continued to jog around the small area of grass circling the playground. Some of these kids, especially Yusuf, the Turkish lad, could give him a run for his money. ‘That’s it, two more laps and you’ve finished.’
Would these same kids be so eager to join a running club if they were back home in a normal comprehensive? He thought not. International schools seemed to bring out the best in children. Most would be bilingual by the end of their parents’ three-year stint. Snow blew his whistle and gestured that it was time to go in. Counting heads, he headed back to the school entrance along the small, paved path they shared with the residents of Kyiv’s Berezniki suburb. Yusuf caught up with him and trotted alongside. ‘Did you see how I run, Mr Snow?’ he asked expectantly. ‘I beat Ryoski and Grant.’
Snow nodded and smiled. Yusuf was twelve, quite tall for his age, and wiry. He had the perfect runner’s physique and a real talent.
‘Well done, Yusuf. I’m impressed.’
Yusuf smiled back, picked up his pace and jogged the remaining distance around the corner and into the main entrance. There was a banging; Snow raised his hand to screen the glare of the sun as Michael Jones opened the staffroom window.
‘Hey, Aidan, have you seen this?’ Michael’s west Wales tones lilted to accentuate the question. ‘Murder in Odessa. And to think I was there last weekend!’
Snow took the Kyiv Post and looked at the main page.
‘British investor slain in Odessa factory shooting.’ He scanned the story as Jones kept an eye on the rest of the runners ambling past.
‘What d’ya think?’ Jones’s eyebrows arched in his usual show of curiosity.
Snow studied his friend’s ruddy face. ‘I’m glad I’m just a teacher and no one important.’
Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine
The dacha was in the small coastal town of Fontanka, twenty kilometres from Odessa. During Soviet times it had belonged to ‘the Party’ and was for the use of high-ranking members of the YCCP. On Ukrainian independence, this and many other such properties had been sold off by ‘the state’ for hard currency to the highest bidder. The fact that many had been sold to the same person, who was acting as ‘the seller’ on behalf of ‘the state’, had been conveniently overlooked.
This particular dacha had been built in 1979 and used by some of the gold medallists from the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The new owner sought to commemorate this event and had the Olympic rings included in the design of his new nine-feet, wrought-iron security gates which guarded the entrance. The gates weren’t the only part of the dacha to be modernised, ‘remonted’. The original three-storey building remained but an additional wing had been added at a right angle, forming an L shape. Italian marble adorned the surfaces of all the bathrooms, of which there were now six, and the indoor pool. The back of the house led on to a large terrace, with an ornate garden and views of the Black Sea.
Varchenko leant forward to smell a particularly nice rose. He was dressed in an expensive, dark-grey pair of slacks, a black polo shirt and a pair of Italian loafers. A matching dark-grey cashmere sweater was draped casually over his shoulders. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Dudka exhaled and flicked his cigarette stub into the flowerbeds. Varchenko straightened up and frowned at his friend’s disregard for nature’s beauty.
‘What do you know, Genna?’
Dudka met his gaze. ‘I know your British business partner was assassinated in Odessa; I know it was a trained sniper; I know this is not good for general business; but I also know you now control the entire venture.’
‘And you think I am so transparent?’ Varchenko held his gaze.
‘I have to look at all possibilities, Valeriy. You provided a Krisha for the Englishman, yet he is 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”
