Alex Shaw - Cold Blood

The next question came from the pharmaceutical rep. ‘In other markets I’ve visited there have been counterfeit versions of my company’s products. Is this likely to be the case in Ukraine?’

‘Ukraine is not yet a member of the World Trade Organisation but is hoping to join. It’s quite common to see pirated DVDs, CDs and some fashion items in the open-air markets. There are imported medical products from the subcontinent which have been investigated. There are, however, many international brands trading in Ukraine and they’ve not reported any serious problems, either to myself or the Ukrainian Chamber of Commerce. But that’s not to say some counterfeiting doesn’t exist.’

The pharmaceutical rep made a note on his pad. The last question came from the gift company’s export sales manager: ‘Do you like living and working in Ukraine then?’

Vickers looked at the round-faced missioners and felt awkward. He really did like Ukraine but found it hard to put into words. ‘I do. Kyiv’s apparently got the highest number of chestnut trees of any European capital city, hence the city’s leaf emblem. In May especially, when the trees bloom, the city is full of life. There are lots of parks and the old architecture makes it quite picturesque. I really feel it will be an important European city within the next ten to fifteen years. But no “Easy Jet” yet!’ He was proud of this joke and it drew a couple of smiles.

It was then the turn of Bav Malik to talk about his company and how, as per the handout, it had taken advantage of a tax-free investment zone and set up a factory near Odessa. He spoke at length about what they had done and how they had done it. This elicited quite a few questions from the assembled party. Finally, the formal part was over and light refreshments and wine were brought into the room. Some of the missioners rushed back to their offices to complete their day’s work while others lingered to chat, quiz Nicola and enjoy the complimentary Chardonnay.

Bav cornered Vickers with a glass. ‘That went well. I see you didn’t mention the cheap beer as the reason you like Ukraine then?’ He sipped his free wine.

‘I prefer the cheap vodka,’ countered Vickers. ‘I thought your father was going to be here?’

‘He couldn’t make it. He had some meetings in Odessa to attend so he deputised me.’ It was Jas Malik, father to Bav, founder and chairman of NewSound, who was actually responsible for the success in Ukraine and many of their export markets. Bav, at thirty-seven, had followed his father and would eventually become ‘chairman’; his cousin in Pakistan would then be the MD.

‘Do you get over to Odessa much?’ Vickers knew the answer but had to say something.

‘I didn’t used to but now they’ve scrapped the whole “visa” thing it’s a lot easier. I can just hop on a plane.’

‘That,’ said Vickers, ‘is the most positive thing the Ukrainians have ever done for tourism. It was originally for the Eurovision Song Contest. Did you see it?’

Bav smirked. ‘Not quite my cup of tea.’

‘Really?’ It was Vickers’s.

He let his mind wander back to May the previous year. There had been a real carnival feel to Kyiv, even more so than usual. Vickers had walked along Khreshatik with a broad smile on his face. Closed to traffic every weekend, the boulevard had become a huge pedestrian zone. This was one of the only edicts of the former President Kuchma that had been welcomed. Street entertainers juggled balls and bottles, comedians told anecdotes, tented bars had appeared like mushrooms overnight, and couples strolled from end to end. Many people still wore the orange of the revolution and the new president.

He, however, could not take full credit for the high spirits. That honour was shared with a raven-haired local singer called Ruslana, who, thanks to a very athletic dance routine, had won the 2004 Eurovision Song Contest for Ukraine, bringing the following year’s contest to Kyiv. The United Kingdom was in the finals, as of course was host nation Ukraine, with the Orange Revolution’s protest song Razom nas bagato – ‘together we are many’. The song had been sung nightly in Independence Square by thousands in subzero temperatures the previous December to vent national outrage at the ‘rigged’ election results that had temporarily put Moscow-backed Victor Yanukovich into office.

By May 2005, with Victor Yushenko having been fairly elected, the Eurovision in town, and the world’s media focused on them for positive reasons, the population felt huge pride in being Ukrainian. For several days the contestants had rehearsed by day and partied at night, giving impromptu concerts in local bars and clubs to the ever-grateful Kyivites. Vickers loved the Eurovision and had done so for as long as he could remember. His mum had been a fan of Cliff Richard but he preferred Bucks Fizz. This was a secret he didn’t care to share.

Brought back to the present, he looked at his watch. ‘I’d better thank Nicola.’ Vickers held out his hand. ‘It was nice to see you again, Bav.’

Bhavesh shook his hand. ‘You too, Alistair.’

Vickers left the businessman and crossed the room to where the diminutive girl from Yorkshire was making small talk with several middle-aged men. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must say goodbye to Nicola.’

Nicola looked up at the tall, thin figure and shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. ‘Thank you ever so much.’

Vickers bowed slightly. ‘Delighted. No trouble at all.’ He left the business centre and took a cab to Vauxhall Cross. He had another, more important, meeting to attend, this one with HM Secret Intelligence Service.

Offices of the Directorate for Personnel , Moscow Military District , Russia

The two high-ranking officers from the GRU listened to the sound of boots approaching at a steady pace along the wooden-floored corridor. The colonel took the file the major had given him and looked once more at the release form. He shook his head in dismay. In Soviet times he could have refused point-blank to let such an outstanding young officer go, but this was the new Russia and times had changed. Now a skilled man such as this could earn hundreds of times his current salary in the business world. Russian Military Intelligence couldn’t keep him if he didn’t want to be kept, and that was the harsh reality of the ‘new Russia’.

The doors to the cavernous room were opened by a low-ranking aide and the guest was let in. He drew nearer to the desk before coming to attention and saluting his two superiors.

The colonel returned his salute. ‘At ease, Gorodetski. Please sit.’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The young officer sat in the indicated chair.

There was a long pause while the colonel looked at the form again, then at the man sitting in front of him. ‘You are at the end of your second tour of duty, Captain. You have achieved much.’

‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

The older man furrowed his brow. ‘You are still young; you have an extremely bright military career in front of you. One day you could be sitting here, and have these…’ The colonel indicated his rank bars. ‘So, that makes me ask why. Why do you not want to extend your duty?’

Sergey Gorodetski looked first at the colonel and then at his major, the man he had originally given his release form to. ‘I am grateful for what the Russian Army has done for me but I now wish to pursue other interests. I have been offered an opportunity—’

The colonel snorted and cut him off. ‘This is your opportunity, Captain.’

Gorodetski continued. ‘With respect, Comrade Colonel, I have something I must do.’

The colonel was not moved. Before him sat a rare breed of soldier, the ‘intelligentsia’ of Spetsnaz. With his supreme language skills he could pass for a foreign national and was also deadly with a Dragunov sniper rifle. ‘I knew your brother. You are better than he was.’