James Craig - Buckingham Palace Blues

Ihor felt a dull pain in his stomach. Turning in his seat, he saw the two men standing by the door. Suited, shaven-headed, expressionless, they were facsimiles of himself from fifteen years ago. Faces like granite, while smiling on the inside. Slowly he forced himself to finish the beer. Who knows? It might be his last in this life. Placing the empty bottle on the table, he fished a couple of notes from his pocket and let out a small burp.

‘Urgh!’ Alex grimaced. ‘Let’s go.’

Another night, another drinks reception. It was all so tiring. This time it was abstract paintings by a famous actor. All well and good, but if the old bugger hadn’t won a couple of Oscars, no one would give a hoot. Tiring of the gallery owner’s attempt to sell him one of the canvases for a ridiculous price, Gordon Elstree-Ullick stepped into the street to bum a cigarette from his protection officer.

‘Got a fag, Tommy?’

Stepping out of the shadows, Dolan pulled a packet of Rothmans King Size from the breast pocket of his jacket and tossed it to Falkirk.

Falkirk removed a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and handed back the packet. ‘Got a light?’

‘Here you go.’ Dolan handed him a lighter, waited for him to light up, and then decided to have a cigarette himself.

For a few moments, both men stood smoking on the pavement eyeing each other carefully. This was the first time in almost a week that the SO14 man had turned up for work. Something was going on but, so far, Dolan hadn’t said a thing about what he had been up to. If there was one thing that Falkirk hated above all else, it was the help being unreliable. Unreliable and secretive.

At the same time, however, the Earl realised that things with Tommy Dolan were considerably more complicated than the traditional master-servant relationship. Taking a final couple of puffs, he ground out the remains of his cigarette beneath his Lobb shoes. ‘How’s it going?’

Dolan grunted noncommittally.

Falkirk watched a pretty girl walking down the other side of the road. ‘I hear you’ve lost another colleague.’

‘Messy,’ was Dolan’s only reply.

Falkirk half-turned to re-open the door to the gallery. ‘Tommy,’ he said almost casually, as if it was an afterthought, ‘if you had anything to do with that, anything at all, it will have a. . significant impact on our working relationship.’ Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back inside. Maybe he should spring for one of the limited-edition prints. It might make a nice Christmas present for the Queen.

‘Plonker!’ Dolan hissed, before retreating to the shadows.

Sitting in his ramshackle office, in front of a poster proclaiming the 1997 NATO-Ukraine Commission, General Dmytro Gazizulin puffed on his Montecristo № 2. Through a cloud of cigar smoke, he gazed across the desk at Ihor, his expression an uncomfortable mix of displeasure and resignation. ‘Alexandra tells me that the situation in London is irredeemable.’

Ihor shrugged. He looked at the bottle of Nemiroff Black Label on the desk. Beside it lay a Makarov PM semi-automatic, with the safety-catch on. Behind that was a framed photo of the general in his younger, Red Army days, his head popping out from the top of a T55 tank. Back then, Gazizulin was heading off to Afghanistan, fighting for the Motherland. Now all he wanted was to suck up to NATO and squeeze out whatever was on offer from the European Union.

The general was the ultimate pragmatist. Ihor liked him like that, since it gave him hope for his own future — over the next few minutes and beyond.

Normally, the vodka would have been flowing by now. Not today, however. That was fair enough. Ihor knew that he was not going to be considered Employee of the Month this time around.

The question was: just exactly how deep in the shit was he?

The fact that he had been brought to the Kirichenko barracks, thirty kilometres outside Kiev, gave Ihor confidence. He had relaxed as soon as Alex’s black BMW X5, with the four of them inside, had turned on to the H-08, heading south towards Cherkasy. Driving down the familiar four-lane highway the general’s daughter had even slipped the latest Sade CD on to the stereo. To Ihor’s mind, it was not as good as the old stuff, but still not bad. Soon Alex was singing along quietly, apparently oblivious to her travelling companions. Leaning back, closing his eyes, Ihor was able to ignore the goons in the back and enjoy the smooth tunes of Lovers Rock for the rest of their short journey.

Those same goons were now standing outside the general’s office, awaiting further instructions. If they were going to kill him, they would not kill him here. That at least gave him a chance of escape. And, anyway, maybe things hadn’t come to that, not yet at least. He knew better than to give the impression of being a condemned man. The Ukraine was not like London; people here could smell the fear. And they would act on it in an instant. He flicked a glance at Alex standing to his right, just at the edge of his vision, with a blank expression on her face. She had not said a single word since they had arrived at the Kirichenko.

The comforting sound of boots on the parade ground reminded Ihor that here he was on home territory. He felt a pang of nostalgia for the simplicity of the old days. He remembered hours spent on the square outside; in the snow in only a vest, his skin turning blue; the crunch of gravel underfoot; the cold air in his lungs.

That had been before things had gone out of control: before his discharge, before his move into the private sector, working abroad to avoid jail, and making money. Good money. The money had always been good. Ihor was not greedy; he had made money for the general and had never taken more than his own due. There was surely no reason why it should end now.

Inside the office the general had the heating turned up high, till Ihor felt the sweat beading on his brow. He felt drowsy. Maybe it would be better to be outside. He stifled a yawn. The general pulled a pile of papers out of a drawer and dropped them on his desk. ‘My final report.’

‘What does it say?’ Alex asked.

The general shrugged. ‘What do you expect? It concludes that the rumours about children being sold to Western countries have been grossly exaggerated. However, some people have a case to answer. By the time it goes to Parliament next week, the Director of the Sandokan International Children’s Camp will be in jail.’

‘But,’ Ihor frowned, ‘if he talks. .’

‘He will not talk,’ the general said, with quiet finality. ‘Parliament will accept the report, return to hurling insults at each other, and we will get back to business as usual.’

‘Assuming that we can still operate in London,’ Alex chipped in, giving Ihor a sour glance.

‘Quite.’ The general poked his half-finished cigar towards Ihor. ‘So?’

‘So?’ Ihor repeated vaguely.

‘Is it irretrievable or not?’ the general asked, clearly irritated, before clamping the cigar back between his teeth.

‘I can’t go back,’ Ihor said evenly.

The general picked up the gun. ‘Shooting two policemen,’ he said slowly, ‘that was a fairly stupid thing to do.’

Alex grunted her assent.

‘Only one of them was a policeman,’ Ihor protested, careful to keep a straight face, ‘and he’s not dead.’

The general looked over at his daughter for confirmation.

‘He was discharged from hospital in London yesterday,’ Alex confirmed. ‘He should be able to go back to work.’

‘Not that it makes any difference to our situation,’ the general complained. ‘We have invested a lot of time and effort in England.’

‘And made a lot of money,’ Ihor chipped in.

‘Which is just as well for you, or you’d already be pig food.’