Alex Shaw - Hetman - Donetsk Calling

Snow thought back to the last time he had met Varchenko. It had been four years before and Snow had prevented a paramilitary group from relieving Varchenko’s bank of ten million dollars. Snow had been injured in the assault and Varchenko had visited him in hospital to give his thanks.

“Here, call your wife.” Blazhevich handed Webb a mobile phone.

“Thanks, I’ll just finish me can first or she’ll smell the beer.”

Snow looked at Blazhevich. “Did you see where they took Kopylenko?”

“Who?”

Snow explained as Webb spoke to Katya.

“I saw a Militia van leave a few minutes before you appeared. It was going deeper into the village.”

Webb reached forward, handed the phone back to Blazhevich and then quickly grabbed Snow’s head. He kissed him on the cheek. “That’s from Katya.”

“I won’t ask if I get one.” Blazhevich kept his eyes on the road as they headed back towards the city centre.

Snow wiped his cheek with his hand in mock disgust. “We need to go after Kopylenko. Imyets means to get rid of him.”

Webb shrugged. “He is Ana’s father after all, even though he is knob-head.”

Blazhevich would have used a stronger term. “There is also the small issue of kidnapping but I agree, we need all the Intel we can get on Imyets. I’ll get the boys back at HQ to ask officers Brovchenko and Klyuyevs if they have any idea where Kopylenko may have been taken.”

“Please do more than ask.”

“Aidan, we are not going to water-board them.”

“Pull over.” Webb pointed. “There’s an Opteka there and I feel like me skulls splitting open.”

The Passat left the Zhytomyrska highway and glided into the bus station that served long distance travellers. All three men got out. The car was not parked in an official bay but its SBU number-plate would avoid any fine or complaint.

“Can the SBU lend me some cash?”

“Here.” Blazhevich handed Webb a two hundred Hryvnia note. He then shook his head and gave Snow one too. He retrieved his phone and stepped away to call HQ.

Webb gestured at a stall selling draft beer, snacks and water. “Get the drinks in lad, I’ll be back in a mo.”

Snow ordered two cans of ‘Burn’, a couple of ‘Nuts Bars’ and a half litre of Lvivski beer from the overly attractive girl and sat on the long green wooden bench seat that was affixed to the front of the concrete building. As he drank the energy drink and munched the chocolate he saw Blazhevich gesticulating into his phone and then to his right he heard raised voices. He glanced over. A thin drunk was waving his arms at a chubby woman who also appeared the worse for wear. She told him ‘where to go’ and stormed off, her tight jeans barely concealing her large buttocks. The drunk caught Snow’s gaze and raised his plastic beer glass. Snow looked the other way but the man was not dissuaded and shuffled over.

“Where are you going?” The man asked in Ukrainian

Snow looked up. “Nowhere.”

The drunk laughed and tapped his chest. “Sergey.”

“Sasha.” Snow gave a false name; Aidan would mark him out as a foreigner.

Sergey swayed and then sat. “That woman you saw me with, she is a professional. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Sasha, did you like her? I could call her back. A real professional.” He laughed and spilt some of his beer on his dirty jeans.

“He is a professional too.” Snow pointed to Blazhevich who was walking towards them.

“Whatever you like you like.” Sergey seemed puzzled and moved away.

“I think we’ll have an address soon.” Blazhevich stated as he sat.

“How soon?”

“Ten minutes perhaps. Where is Webb?”

Snow was suddenly worried but then relaxed as he saw the Yorkshire man nearing them carrying a plastic shopping bag.

Webb pointed at the beer. “Is that for me?”

Blazhevich looked him up and down. “You really need to get some medical attention.”

Webb dropped down heavily next to them. “I’m gonna start now.” He retrieved a bottle from the bag. “Dr Vodka.”

“I’m serious Brian.”

“So am I.” Webb reached into his bag again and produced two packets of pills. He then proceeded to pop three ibuprofen and two paraceatamol tablets. These he washed down with the vodka straight from the bottle. “Ah that’s better.”

“How is the ankle?” Snow asked.

Webb held up his leg. “No ballet for a bit but I’ll be ok. To be honest I think it’s just a hangover. I’ll soon drink it off.”

The three men were silent for a moment as they watched a coach arrive and a stream of travellers walked in front on them. It was a stiflingly hot Sunday afternoon and Snow did not envy anyone travelling without air conditioning.

Blazhevich answered his phone. “Tak?” A smile spread across his face. “Dobre.” He hung up. “The boys have worked their magic; apparently Brovchenko was very concerned that we may torture him.”

“What a drip.”

Blazhevich cast Snow a stern look. “So as I was about to say we have an address. There is a full tactical package in my boot, if you are interested?”

Snow stood. “Let’s do it.”

Stoyanka Village, Kyiv Oblast

The part of Stoyanka village where the target was being held was nicknamed ‘Cuba’ by the locals. Blazhevich did not know why. It was only three kilometres further along the Zhytomyrska highway than Imyets’ house. It had originally consisted of a handful of Dachas on a large plane surrounded by a border of high trees. Over the past fifteen years however an ever growing number of three and four story houses had been built with new and dubious money. Half built houses and pegged out plots littered much of the remaining grassland. The address that officer Brovchenko had given up was one of the original Soviet era single story houses that had not yet been engulfed by new developments. It was on the edge of the village and faced the trees. A twenty-five minute drive from Kyiv’s centre, with Militia lights flashing Kopylenko’s men had used the house for ‘nefarious’ purposes. Blazhevich parked his Passat on the main road a quarter of a kilometre away from the target next to a second SBU vehicle. As ordered Webb stayed in the car and finished the remains of the chocolate and vodka. The SBU officer, who was already at the scene, shook hands with Blazhevich and then Snow before spreading a map across the bonnet of his Mazda.

“This is the target. As you can see it is on the edge of the village with one access road here. We can however gain access via the copse here.”

Blazhevich asked his fellow operative. “How many men are inside Roman?”

“Victor and I have observed two men in the garden and other shadows inside. But we cannot confirm the number of hostiles.”

“Victor has a visual now?”

Roman nodded. “He is in the trees directly opposite the dacha.”

Blazhevich turned to Snow. “So Aidan, you have been better trained than us in hostage rescue techniques. What would the SAS do?”

“Go in, hard and fast and use the element of surprise. Roman, do you have schematics?”

“No. But it is a single story building.”

Without Intel, planning and time, any assault would have an element of Heath Robinson about it. “OK. Here is my idea. We simultaneously throw flash-bangs in windows at the front and rear, but we go in through the rear. We clear each room and grab Kopylenko. They are Militia officers not terrorists, they do not expect to be attacked.”

“Agreed but as they are not terrorists we are not shooting to kill. Roman, you and Victor will go to the front of the house and Aidan and I will take the rear. Fire warning shots, engage only if fired upon.”

Snow smiled humourlessly. Not engaging an enemy was a recipe for disaster but Blazhevich was right, it would be senseless to kill members of the Militia, however corrupt they may or may not be.