Alex Shaw - Cold Blood

Snow sipped his tea. It wasn’t a bad gig. The Poles were quick learners, as most of them, unlike their British Police counterparts, had already served time in the Polish army before joining up. This gave them an understanding, if somewhat rudimentary, of military procedure and firearms handling. Several of the men spoke passable English, which was good, as none of the SAS team spoke Polish! In cases of misunderstanding, Snow resorted to his Russian, which most of the Poles spoke as their first ‘foreign’ language.

‘My men impress you, Snow?’

‘They are very promising, Inspector.’

‘Good.’ Zatwarnitski sat. ‘History is a funny thing. A few years ago, your being here would have been unthinkable; the West was the enemy. Our hope, our future, our security lay with our Soviet protectors. And then? Like dominos, it all fell. To be candid, we never really wanted to be on the Soviet side. That is why we need you here, Snow; we are tired of the old methods and, of course, want to learn from the best.’

Snow smiled politely. He had been present when Zatwarnitski made the same speech on his visit to Hereford, courtesy of HM Government. The Pole meant every word and fancied himself as a bit of a public speaker.

‘Our biggest fear now is our old protector – Mother Russia. She is wounded and a wounded bear is the most dangerous kind. We really do appreciate your team, Snow.’ The older man reached out to shake the SAS trooper by the hand.

‘Thank you, Inspector, but we’re just doing our jobs. It’s your men that need to be thanked for working so hard.’

‘Modesty is something I hope you also teach.’ Zatwarnitski raised his mug in mock salute.

A shout came from the communications room; both men stood. Moments before, the radio had fallen from the operator’s hand. The call was from central despatch. Armed men had entered SchreinerBank on Wroclawska Street. They were the nearest specialist unit, could they assist?

Zatwarnitski looked Snow in the eye. ‘Are my men ready?’

‘Yes.’

Minutes later, on Zatwarnitski’s orders, the Poles and their SAS training team were in a convoy being led by a very nervous recruit. After eight weeks on the job, this recruit’s first real ‘action’ was as the lead driver on what the SAS referred to as an ‘immediate’. The young officer concentrated on threading his way through the traffic in his new police Omega. Never mind that his siren was blazing; the drivers of Poznan were none too happy to yield. In the passenger seat sat Zatwarnitski, with Snow, who trusted only his own driving, sitting behind.

Wroclawska Street , Poznan

Bull checked his watch. The local militia would be there in five more minutes. A dull thud came from the back room – his men had blown open the safe. Another sound registered in the distance. Sirens? They were early! The men from the safe detail lumbered into view, weighted down, their Bergen packs now full. Giving the signal, he and his 2IC, Oleg, tossed smoke grenades into the centre of the room and out onto the street. It was now time to leave. He felt for the remote detonator, then the two men took up sentry positions on either side of the road to cover the bagmen as they sprinted across, partly concealed by the billowing white smoke. The heavily laden Bergen packs were hauled into the waiting cars.

The recruit slued around the tight bend and into Wroclawska Street, where he saw smoke pouring from the bank, and men… men in black with guns. Forgetting his training, the young Pole panicked and gunned the accelerator, sirens still blazing.

Bull looked up. ‘ Blat !’ This wasn’t meant to happen; they weren’t meant to be here so soon. He realised these weren’t normal police vehicles. The lead car hadn’t yet reached the van, but it would at any second. Dropping to one knee, he pressed the button on the remote detonator as his men opened fire.

The second car came into view. The explosion tore through the Opel van, hurling debris across both lanes of the road. The full force of the blast caught the second Omega, tossing it up and sideways like a child’s plaything. It smashed into the façade of the post office. The lead car punched through the smoke, the recruit screaming as he lost control of his car. The force of the blast sent his charge headlong into the entrance of the bank. He and Zatwarnitski were killed instantly. At the end of the block the other van erupted, levelling a newspaper kiosk and gutting a bakery. The first BMW roared off and away.

As the remainder of his men delivered suppressing fire, Bull noticed movement in the first Omega. He moved to the devastated vehicle. The front of the car had been turned into a mass of twisted steel and broken glass but… a passenger in the back was alive!

The man was dressed in his own black coveralls. Bull looked down at the young, ashen face with dark-brown eyes. Who are you? he thought.

The mouth moved and, through the pain, a raspy voice whispered, ‘Piss off!’

Had he spoken in English? Who were these police who had arrived so quickly? The man tried to move but was pinned to the seat; blood seeped from his mouth and ears. This hero would die soon regardless. Bull pulled up his balaclava and smiled, letting the boy look at the last face he would see on this earth. Shots zipped past his head. More black-clad figures were running through the smouldering debris, returning fire.

‘ Blat !’ He cursed again and ran back to his car. Tyres screeching, they disappeared into the suburbs. Tauras ‘Bull’ Pashinski fell back against the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was now a rich man.

July 2006 . Pushkinskaya Street, Kyiv , Ukraine .

He was woken by the early morning sun warming his face and the excited barks of his neighbour’s dog scampering around on the communal landing, waiting for his master to lock the door and join him. Outside, three floors below, the swish of the street sweepers tidying up the pavements with their birch-twig brooms echoed gently. Aidan Snow opened his eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling. Gradually the image sharpened as his eyes became accustomed to the bright sunlight. He rolled onto his side and his nose found the empty glass bottle of Desna Cognac nestling between his pillow and the arm of the bed settee. Snow was wide awake now and knew that, whatever he tried, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He was a morning person, which wasn’t exactly a blessing after nights out. Swinging his legs out, he sat up. Never again, he told himself, and not for the first time. The parquet floor was sticky from spilt beer. Snow walked to the balcony doors and opened them, breathing in the fresh morning air. The street-cleaner van approached from the far end of Pushkinskaya Street with hoses spraying water over the dusty road and pavement. Kyiv glowed with pride in the morning sun, the workers below intent on making her even prouder. A well-oiled Soviet machine that still worked fifteen years after the Union had ceased to.

Snow leaned against the balcony railings and gazed at the Ukrainian capital city he now called home; he had yet to tire of the view. To the left, his street, Pushkinskaya, crossed Prorizna Street and carried on downhill through a high, ornate, double arch into Independence Square. To the right it also sloped downhill, crossing both Bogdan Khmelnitsky Street and Boulevard Taras Shevchenko, before ending at Shevchenko Park and University. These were named after the great Ukrainian writer, their equivalent of Shakespeare, and not the Chelsea footballer, as his pal Michael had insisted. Carefree locals drinking beer and enjoying life were to be found at these meeting places at either end of Pushkinskaya, not to mention the bars that dotted its entire length. For the first time since Poland, Snow was at peace, or as near to it as possible. He took another deep breath – at peace, that was, except for the hangover he was battling.