in 1992, declaring independence. The short civil war that ensued had left more than 1,500 dead. An uneasy truce, brought about by Russian ‘peacekeepers’, had stabilised the region since then. In a strange turn of events, Europe’s biggest Soviet Army weapons cache was now to be found not in ‘Mother Russia’, but near the Transdniestern town of Kolbasna, guarded by the two thousand Russian soldiers acting as ‘peacekeepers’.
A ‘confidential’ 1998 agreement between Russia’s then prime minister, Viktor Chernomyrdin, and Igor Smirnov, the self-appointed president of Transdniester, to share profits from the sale of 40,000 tons of ‘unnecessary’ arms and ammunition had made Lesukov and men like him very wealthy. However, once a copy of this agreement had come into the hands of the Associated Press, there had been protests in Washington and a scandal in the European media. Russia had denied the story as preposterous and Ukraine had condemned any potential arms dealing, stepping up the size of their border guards units.
Lesukov was beginning to feel the pinch as he found it harder and harder to get his goods out of the country.
Lesukov paused and refilled the glasses. ‘How many of the Orly still serve with you?’ It was a question to Bull. Orly, the Russian for ‘eagles’, wasn’t a regimental title but a traditional name used to signify fearless fighting men.
‘Of my Brigada, six; however, since becoming freelance we have many more good men.’
After leaving the Red Army Spetsnaz, Bull had recruited other former ‘Special Forces’ soldiers from numerous Soviet Republics. These were some of the most highly trained soldiers in the world, yet had been discarded when the Union crumbled. He had bought their loyalty for little more than a few hundred dollars each; as a hero of Afghanistan he already had their respect. For the past fifteen years he had built a reputation in several war zones as a ruthless leader, mercenary and surprisingly good business facilitator. He had brokered arms deals with the Mujahedeen, rebels in Georgia’s breakaway Abkhazia region, and insurgents in Africa, to name but a few. Now it was only natural that one of the main suppliers of weapons should want his direct assistance.
‘What had you in mind, my old friend?’ Bull asked.
Lesukov smiled, raised his glass again. ‘To women.’ The other two followed. It wasn’t that they especially wanted to honour women, just a Soviet tradition for every third toast. He placed his hands flat on the metal desk.
‘The Ukrainians have their own group of Orly, called the “SOCOL”. They are a highly effective anti-smuggling and anti-organised-crime unit. This I could normally admire; however, they have now turned their focus on my shipments. In the last two months alone they have intercepted three of them…’ His voice trailed off as he totted up on his large fingers how much he had lost, then doubled it. ‘They have cost me almost three million American dollars in profit!’ His face had grown red and any hint of levity had passed.
He sighed and remembered the dusty mountains of Afghanistan some eighteen years before, and the young Spetsnaz captain who had fought next to him. ‘You were the best in Kabul, saved us all. Now I ask you to save me again. I want you to stop this SOCOL team once and for all.’
Oleg, who had listened quietly, let his tongue run along the outside of his top lip. He loved action and had grown weary of ‘business’. To take on a real target was what he lived for. He looked at his CO.
Bull folded his arms and nodded. ‘It can be done, but of course there is a price.’
Lesukov’s eyes glinted; he had anticipated this. ‘I will give you ten per cent of each shipment that passes successfully into Ukraine.’
‘Thank you. While that is a good offer, my friend, can I ask if you find it easy to export your “goods” from Ukraine?’
Lesukov paused and in that millisecond confirmed what Bull had expected. ‘They are squeezing me from both ends. At one end I have the SOCOL and at the other border guards, customs officials who will not accept payments and…’
‘Thirty per cent, Ivan.’
‘What?’
‘Thirty per cent and I take care of imports into Ukraine and exports out of the territory.’ Bull folded his arms.
Lesukov scratched his nose. ‘My margins are not that high, Tauras. I can give you twenty.’
‘Twenty-five per cent and we can start today.’ Bull held out his right hand. Lesukov momentarily paused then grasped it with his own.
‘Deal. But you will not start today. Today we have a little fun, eh? I know an interesting club!’ He refilled the glasses and then placed a call on his office phone.
This time Bull made the toast. ‘To business.’
They drank. There was a knock at the door; Lesukov beckoned a young man into the room. ‘Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Arkadi. He will take you to the hotel.’
‘Zdravstvyite.’ Arkadi Cheban greeted both men in Russian as he shook their hands. ‘This way, please.’
Lesukov regarded his two comrades as they were led down the steps and out of the factory. He had once been a Spetsnaz warrior himself, but now – he held his considerable gut – he was the director of a chair factory. Officially.
Regus Business Centre, London, UK
The City Chamber of Commerce and Industry pre-mission briefing for the forthcoming Trade Mission to Ukraine was held at a Regus business centre in Central London. The fourteen participating companies had, in the main, sent their representatives on this wet July day. Alistair Vickers was one of the first to arrive and had taken a seat, as befitted a man from the embassy and official guest speaker, at the head of the long oval table. To his right sat Nicola Coen, the mission leader who would be accompanying the group to Kyiv. On her right sat the official mission travel agent, Wendy Jenkins from Watergate Travel. Vickers had made a joke about the company name but, in Wendy’s case, it had been heard by ears that hadn’t understood. Nicola had smiled and looked down at her papers, not wanting to make fun of her ‘travel management provider’.
The seat to Vickers’s left was empty and reserved for the other guest speaker, Bhavesh Malik. Vickers had met him once before and on that occasion he had also been late. He picked up his copy of the handouts that accompanied the briefing and read the information about Bhavesh’s father, Jasraj, which had been lifted from the company’s own unapologetic website:
‘NewSound – a success story! At the age of fifteen, Jasraj moved to the UK – East Sussex, Portslade, in fact – to work for his uncle’s hearing aid dispensing business. But by twenty-one, ‘Jas’, as he became known to all his friends and customers, was qualified as an audiologist and set to work designing his own aids. These were some of the first BTE (Behind the Ear) models to go on sale in the UK! Now, after forty-seven years of hard work, Jas’s front-room workshop has turned into three manufacturing plants in the UK, Pakistan and Ukraine, producing high-quality hearing aids and covert listening devices.’
Vickers skipped the more self-congratulatory bits and focused on the part the missioners had come to learn about:
‘…Opened in 1999, the Odessa manufacturing site is based in what was formally a top-secret Soviet telecommunications plant. Initially aided by European Union money and taking advantage of Investment Zone status granted to the area by the
