Arnaud frowned.
‘This is not the ground floor but actually the first floor. Are you with me?’
He wasn’t but didn’t let on. On either side of the foyer sat rows of dark-green mailboxes, one for each flat.
‘How many flats are there here?’
The lift arrived and they manoeuvred themselves and the bags in. ‘Four per floor and six floors. But only one on the ground floor – the others are offices.’
The lift stopped abruptly and they stepped out. Snow walked the five steps to the furthest corner and opened the padded metal door. Inside there was a second wooden door. Opening it, he beckoned Arnaud forward. ‘Welcome to Chez Nous.’
‘Merci.’ Arnaud stepped over the threshold. ‘Why two doors?’
Snow shrugged and followed. ‘All the flats seem to have them. Security, I suppose.’
‘They look like blast-proof doors. You know, like in the films.’
Snow laughed, ‘Well, if you lose your key, please don’t try to open them with a block of semtex.’
Laughing, they walked along the hall and Snow nodded at two doors. ‘Your room is on the right.’ Arnaud followed Snow into the room and they dropped the bags. ‘Hope you don’t mind sharing a flat too much?’
‘Not at all, it reminds me of uni.’
‘It was Joan’s idea. She thought you could stay here until you found your feet. I had a spare room, so as far as I’m concerned it’s yours. Stay as long as you need.’
‘That’s great, very kind. Thanks.’
‘Nichevo – it’s nothing, just happy to help. Grand tour?’
‘OK.’
The flat had real wooden flooring throughout and light silver wallpaper. Snow led him in turn to the bathroom and kitchen before retracing his steps and heading into the lounge. Snow adopted an upper-class accent. ‘If you will follow me, sir, you will find yourself entering the lounge with a south-facing balcony providing panoramic views of the city centre.’ He dropped the act. ‘My room is here, through the lounge.’
Snow opened the doors and they stepped on to the street-facing balcony. Arnaud looked up and down Pushkinskaya. To the left he could make out the top of a building with a large electronic clock. ‘What’s that?’
‘That’s the clock on Maidan, Independence Square. You can hear it chime each hour. It also has a thermometer. I have a picture of myself standing in front of it with a reading of minus twenty-five.’
‘Cool.’
Southall Car Auction, London, UK
The hammer fell and the car was his. Arkadi Cheban was happy. The 2.5 V6 Vectra was a step up from his Escort and certainly a million times better than the beaten-up Lada he had left in Tiraspol. He had paid only £1,800 for the car, which was at least £1,400 less than the dealer price. He had waited outside the auction as the car was started, looking for any telltale blue smoke coming from the exhaust pipe and checking for oil leaks on the floor. Neither was present. The dark-green Vectra had a set of after-market 17’ alloy wheels fitted and a transfer on the rear screen proclaiming it to be a Holden. Both of these he would remove. The car would perform better on a pair of its standard 16’ rims, and it was a ‘Vauxhall’.
Cheban knew about cars; he knew how to tune them and he knew how to drive them. These skills he had learnt in his native Transdniester, working on Soviet-made cars where only the ingenious managed to stay on the road. By the time he had finished working on his new car, it would be anonymous and fast, just what he needed to operate without being noticed. He had almost bid on the BMW he had seen but decided not to. A BMW was a bandit’s car and, even though he was a bandit, he didn’t want the world to know. He was happy to be back in London and decided it was now time to finally spend some of the money he’d earned from his ‘uncle’. Shipments were coming in via Tilbury docks from the continent and he was always nearby observing, just in case anything went wrong.
On one occasion he’d believed the operation had been compromised when he saw a group of men watching from a van. He had kept his own watch on them and been very relieved to find they were from HM Immigration and were concentrating on a shipping company using illegal immigrants as labour. The fact that he himself was an illegal immigrant had not been lost on him. That had been close, as his shipment was due in the same day. But, unperturbed, he continued to lurk in the shadows with his pair of Leica, high-powered binoculars. He kept a ‘birds of Britain’ book in his glove compartment just in case anyone wanted to confront him. This, along with a false Ornithological Society of Latvia photo identification card and an RSPB sticker on the windscreen, would hopefully explain his strange behaviour to all but the very persistent. These he would need to add to his new vehicle.
He paid in cash for the car and drove it away. Sticking to the speed limit, he cruised out of South London and headed east for the Bluewater shopping centre in Kent. The traffic was mostly light at this time of day on a Wednesday, but built up as he approached the complex. He parked his new car by the House of Fraser entrance and entered the store. He was taken aback both by the range of goods and the prices. The shops on the streets of Tiraspol still displayed shoddy, Soviet-era clothes and cheap Chinese electrical goods. He still couldn’t get used to the choices available to him here, especially now he was ‘cash rich’ – compared to many, that was.
He picked up a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and almost laughed out loud at the price: £55. Nevertheless, he chose four: two blues, a black and a dark-red. Next he picked up a couple of pairs of chinos and three pullovers before finally adding a jacket to the pile. The assistant had a happy look in his eyes as he rang up the total – in excess of £700. Arkadi smiled and paid in cash. The assistant was slightly perturbed by this but put the sale through anyway and, in his estuary accent, which seemed out of place in an upmarket shop, wished him a ‘nice day’.
Cheban next picked up a mall map and studied the layout. He spotted the shop he wanted and entered. It was a small unit but full of authenticated celebrity items such as autographed pictures. He pointed to a photograph of David Beckham and said he wanted that one. The assistant informed him of the price; this time Cheban did laugh out loud but still laid down a pile of notes on the counter. Feeling happy with himself, he grabbed a large coffee before returning to his car and driving back to London. Later that day he would dress to impress and give the Polish waitress her present; he had overheard her say she liked the new ‘England football captain’. First, however, he would work a bit on the car. He made a mental note to go to the nearest Vauxhall dealer and get a set of proper wheels. He was allowed to look flash but the car was not.
Odessa, Southern Ukraine
Varchenko put the large Crimean grape into his mouth and looked at Ruslan. He was a mess. Tubes were sticking out of his nose and greasy hair protruded from his bandaged scalp. He was now sitting upright and could finally speak.
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ Varchenko held a cup to Ruslan’s lips and he drank thankfully.
‘We followed the BMW as you ordered, but, as soon as we got near enough to ram them, they opened fire.’
Varchenko had been given some information by the ‘tame’ local militia who had found the wreckage of the G Wagon and Ruslan, but he wanted to hear it
