Hetman

  Hetman: Donetsk Calling

  An Aidan Snow short story

  Alex Shaw

  Hetman: Donetsk Calling

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2012 Alex Shaw

  All Rights Reserved .This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4689-1289-0 (ebook)

  Praise for Alex Shaw

  About the Author

  ALEX SHAW

  HETMAN: DONETSK CALLING

  An AIDAN SNOW short story

  Digitally published with consent from Hetman Publishing. Date of first UK publication August 2012. This Booktango edition published August 2012. Copyright © Alexander William Shaw 2012

  The right of ‘Alex Shaw’ to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents, other than those which are public domain, are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated or transmitted without the author’s prior consent in any format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is dedicated to my wife Galia, my sons Alexander & Jonathan and my family in England and Ukraine.

  This short story was written entirely on location in Ukraine and the UK in August 2012.

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  Brian Webb swayed as he hailed a taxi. It was the early hours of the morning and he’d been drinking since the early evening. The heat of the day had long since given way to the chill of the night. Webb shivered in his short sleeved shirt and cargo shorts. Within seconds a battered, yellow Daewoo Nubira pulled into the curb. The driver lowered the front passenger window and then with a price agreed Webb climbed into the back. It was four a.m. as they sped along the all but deserted city streets. Even by his standards this had been a late night, Webb chuckled to himself. Life was good. He had a great life in Kyiv, a great wife and a great daughter. What more could he want? He let his eye lids drop as the taxi moved from tarmac to cobbles and headed downhill towards the Dnipro River. The vibration made his stomach wobble and his head nod. Webb had arrived in Ukraine in October 1997 with only four words of Russian ‘Da’, ‘Niet’, ‘Babushka’ and ‘Vodka’ but had somehow managed not only to survive but thrive. Not passing for a local, with his thick Yorkshire accent but being accepted as one by his neighbours, he would be sad to leave his adopted home. He opened his eyes as the taxi crossed the river and wound down the window slightly, breathing in the river cooled air. His eyes met those of the driver who quickly looked away. The man seemed to be in no mood to talk. The taxi continued on across the bridge, through Hydropark and then onto Levo Berezina – Kyiv’s left bank. The taxi abruptly pulled in at the side of the road. Webb sat forward and looked around. It wasn’t his street. The driver quickly got out and walked away. His brain slowed by alcohol, Webb remained seated for several seconds before he realised that something was wrong. He hauled his bulk out of the car and leant against the door. As Webb stared at the driver, the Ukrainian looked back and then broke into a run. Webb heard footsteps behind and turned around. It was then that he saw them, illuminated in the eerie glow of the street lights. About twenty feet away a group of four large men were heading directly for him. Webb watched mesmerised for a moment before his eyes focussed on the baseball bats two of them were carrying. The nearest figure pointed at him and then the group broke into a run. Webb felt his pulse quicken. He was defenceless. He looked down and saw that the keys to the taxi were still in the ignition. Without giving it a second thought he clambered into the driver’s seat, took the hand-break off and spun the taxi away from the curb. He heard shouts and then a loud crack as something hit the rear of the taxi. Webb’s heart started to beat raggedly; it felt as though it was trying to escape from his chest. He forced the Daewoo to accelerate away and squinted to focus on the road ahead. He was now sweating; his hands wet on the wheel. He chanced a look back and saw that there were lights behind him, following him. What was happening, why was he being chased? Webb had no idea. He shot through a set of traffic lights narrowly missing a large tanker. He knew the roads now, he wasn’t too far from home but he couldn’t lead them there. The road swung in and out of focus as the alcohol refused to leave his system, Webb was heavy on the controls and the car jerked as he changed down to negotiate a bend. He clipped a parked car with his wing mirror, the glass shattered as it was ripped off. The chase lights he now saw belonged to a large BMW and were getting closer. His breathing became heavier. Thoughts raced through his mind; who were they…what did they want… He reached the highway that dissected the Harkivskiy Massif district and saw lit up by the neon lights of the Billa Supermarket signage a Lada Samara with Militia markings. Webb aimed for it. As he slowed and drew near he saw that it was empty. Webb banged his fist on the wheel in frustration and was about to curse when there was a loud crack and something pinged off of the Daewoo. He ducked, he had never heard gunfire before but instantly realised that was what the noise had been. Whoever was chasing him had started to shoot! He floored the accelerator. The Daewoo jerked forward cresting the curb and across the car-park, before bouncing over the grass verge and back onto the tarmac. A grating noise started to come from the front suspension as Webb thrashed the car back up the gears. He saw a gap in the central reservation, snapped the steering wheel to the left and crossed to the other side of the road, changing direction. He urged the taxi to go faster, he had to get away. The Daewoo started to vibrate angrily as it reached the 100k mark. He wiped the sweat from his brow. There were a few more cars about now as he continued along the main road back towards the river. He looked in the rear-view mirror and couldn’t see anyone following him. He let out a deep breath and relaxed slightly as the adrenalin started to leave his system. It was now almost five a.m. and a wave of tiredness rolled over him. His eyes closed…the Daewoo violently shook and bucked. Webb’s eyes snapped open. He had driven off the road. Too late to avoid the bus stop, Webb folded his arms in front of his face. His head hit hard and he blacked out.

  Webb tried to understand where he was as the world swum back into focus. He slithered out of the crumpled car. His eyes stung. He wiped them with his hands and saw blood now covering his palms. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket he dabbed at his eyes again. Webb looked back and saw that the passenger side of the car had been concertinaed, taking the brunt of the impact. He was lucky to be alive. It was a Saturday morning and the pavement was still empty as he tried to walk. His left ankle gave way and he all but fell. He hobbled from the scene of the accident still not knowing what to do. On the other side of the road he saw a large dark blue BMW saloon stop. Two men got out and started to run across the road dodging the light traffic whilst the car moved off again looking for somewhere to cross. Webb took a deep breath, put his head down and tried to run. He was fifty-six, overweight and drunk…and the pain in his foot was excruciating but he managed to move. He loped away from the road and towards the near
est block of flats. Reaching the monolithic high rise he clambered up the five steps to the entrance hall and went straight out of the other side. He was in a courtyard created by four apartment blocks facing each other. In the middle there was a small children’s play area. He bumped past the slide and into the entrance hall of the next block. The building was very much like his. He called the lift, was surprised to see it worked and sent it to the top floor as he ducked around the side of the lift shaft and hid in the shadows by the entrance to the maintenance room. He hunched over, panting. All was quiet apart from the sound of his chest heaving. He vomited as waves of pain roared through his body. He couldn’t go home; he couldn’t go to the Militia. He had no other choice; there was only one person who could help, one man he knew would not let him down. He pulled out his old Nokia and called Aidan Snow.

  Worthing, United Kingdom.

  Aidan Snow slowed his pace as he felt his Blackberry vibrate in his zip pocket. He retrieved the device and saw that it was an incoming call from one of his closest friends, a friend however he had not seen for too long. Snow answered the call and started to walk.

  “Brian Webb, how are you?”

  “Aidan is that you?”

  “Er yes. Don’t tell me you’re pissed already? What time is it in Kyiv, eight a.m.?”

  Webb’ voice was rushed and his breathing laboured. “Aidan I need your help I don’t know what to do – they are threatening me and the family.”

  Snow stopped and placed his right foot on a bench to stretch his ham strings. “Brian take a breath and tell me what’s happening?”

  “Aidan I’ve got to keep moving they’ve found me…” Webb stopped talking abruptly and Snow could hear raised voices at the other end and banging.

  “Brian. Brian are you still there?”

  “Aidan can you come to Kyiv? Can you get here quickly? I need you to help…”

  “Brian…Brian!”

  As Snow looked out to sea he could hear Brian speaking to someone then he heard a yell and what sounded like a crashing sound. Suddenly a deep voice came on the phone and asked in Russian. “Who is this?”

  Snow replied in English. “Is Brian there?”

  The voice switched to heavily accented English. “Yes.” The line went dead.

  Snow redialled and the call went to voicemail, Brian’s voicemail. “Brian call me when you can.” Snow looked up Brian’s home number, hoped it hadn’t changed and dialled. He let it ring for a minute before disconnecting. Snow frowned, he could count his number of true friends on one hand and Brian was one of them. Brian now owned a chain of English language book shops in Kyiv, but it had been before this that Snow had met him. They had both been teaching at the same international school and Snow was the ‘new boy’. Brian had taken Snow under his wing. The Yorkshire man was twenty years Snow’s senior but the age gap had not made a jot of difference especially to Brian’s pretty wife Katya who was younger than Snow. He had never heard the happy Yorkshire man speak like that before. Still carrying the guilt of failing to save one friend years before Snow had vowed never to let it happen again. Snow dialled his boss’ number.

  “Patchem.” A voice said after four rings.

  “It’s Aidan, sorry for calling you this early on a Saturday.”

  Jack Patchem, Snow’s controller at the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) too sounded out of breath. “Not at all. Ok, I’m listening.”

  “Jack I need to take a few days off, some of that holiday time I’m owed.”

  “You are asking for a Holiday?”

  “No something’s come up, a personal matter.”

  On the golf course Patchem raised his eyebrows. “Anything that I should know about?”

  “No. I just need to help a friend out.”

  “So from the timing of this call I expect you need it immediately? Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go, but make sure you can get back if I need you.”

  “Thanks.” Snow ended the call and then tried both of Brian’s numbers again; neither were answered by a human. Snow put his Blackberry back into his zip and pocket and ran the remaining mile home along the promenade. Back indoors he quickly purchased a ticket online for the next flight to Kyiv, which on this occasion happened to be with Ukraine International Airlines before taking a quick shower. Dressed in khaki combats, dark blue polo shirt and a pair of UK Gear PT1000s; he collected his ‘grab-bag’ before leaving the house and rapidly driving to Gatwick.

  Gatwick Airport, United Kingdom

  Ukraine International Airlines flight 502 would not get Snow to Kyiv until late afternoon but was the earliest available. Snow had been forced to pay a premium for a business class seat but money was not on his mind. What was bothering him was Brian Webb and what may or may not have happened to him. He again had tried both of Brian’s phone numbers but to no avail. He’d spent the three hours he’d had to wait until his flight boarded snoozing in the business lounge and reading the latest Stephen Leather ‘Spider Shepherd’ Thriller. Now as they took off he found himself sitting next to a businessman in a tight fitting suit. After the pre-flight drinks were served Snow’s neighbour, who’d ordered a double Scotch, introduced himself.

  “Cheers! Donald Bass, Don to my friends.”

  Snow tried not to let his amusement at the man’s name show. “Aidan Snow.”

  “Nice to meet you. I know it’s a cliché but business or pleasure?”

  “Personal.”

  “Not internet dating? I’ve heard the women there are quite tasty!”

  “They are but I’m just going to help a friend. I used to live there.”

  “I’ve never been. I’m meeting my Ukrainian business partner he owns a few bars but now wants to open a ‘fish and chip’ shop.” Bass handed Snow a business card. “Yep that’s me ‘Bass’ Plaice’. I’m now selling the franchise internationally.”

  “I think it will do well.”

  “Do you mind if I pick your brain?”

  “No.” Snow was glad of the distraction.

  “Is it Kiev or Kyiv? Look this newspaper is ‘The Kyiv Post’ but my guidebook says ‘Kiev’.”

  Snow remembered when ‘The Kyiv Post’ was ‘The Kiev Post’ but did not want to confuse issues. “Kiev is a translation from Russian but ‘Kyiv’ is from the Ukrainian.”

  “Oh. So what should I try to speak?”

  “You can use either in Kyiv but Ukrainian is the official language.”

  Bass pointed at the paper. “But this report says that they have passed a law granting Russian second language status.”

  “In the East the majority of the population is of Russian descent so they prefer to speak Russian. And beacuse the President is from the East he wants Russian to be used more. It’s his first language.”

  “So it’s a bit like Wales then? In Cardiff they speak English but go north and it’s all Yaki-da?”

  “Yes.”

  “I get you. It mentions here ‘Bandits from Donetsk’. Are there a lot of mafia types in Kyiv? Should I be worried?”

  “I lived there for a few years and never saw any trouble.” Snow lied but then his experience of Ukraine had not been unusual. “In the early nineties they had problems of course but that all got worked out. Kyiv is very safe, the new President has brought his cronies in from the East but as a foreign businessman they’ll welcome you. At the end of the day people are people, regardless of where they are from or what language they speak.”

  “I see. So what are the women like?”

  “Most of them have two legs.”

  Bass started to laugh noisily as the cabin crew started their safety demonstration and then readied themselves for take-off. As soon as the plane levelled out Bass ordered another double scotch and then fell asleep. Snow tried to doze again but his mind was too troubled.

  Levo Berezina, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Snow paid the taxi driver and climbed into the entrance to Brian Webb’s apartment block. As usual the Soviet era building was grimy and smelt vagu
ely of rubbish. Snow pressed the lift button and hoped that it worked. Brian had once joked that he lived in a penthouse. His flat may well have been on the eighteenth floor but it was certainly no penthouse. With a jolt the lift doors opened and Snow was jerkily taken to the top floor. As the doors closed Snow turned left and found the correct flat. He pressed the bell, which sounded like a strange kind of Chinese bird and waited. The door remained closed. He listened, heard nothing, and then rang again. There were noises from inside and then it was suddenly pulled open. Snow could not help but smile at the vision of Katya dripping wet clad in nothing but a bath towel. He still had no clue how Brian had pulled her.

  “Aidan!” Her frown turned to a smile and she stepped forward and hugged him.

  “Katya.” He dropped his holdall. He could feel her curves through the thin towel and had to remind himself that although she was gorgeous she was his friend’s wife.

  She moved away and looked up at him. “You look good. Come in.”

  “Thanks, so do you.”

  She smiled mischievously and as she turned he caught a flash of her bum as the towel rose up. Snow closed the door and followed her into the lounge. She sat and lit a cigarette.

  “Is Brian here?” Snow thought he already knew the answer but had to ask.

  Katya exhaled angrily. “No, he’s bloody not.”

  In any other circumstance Snow would have laughed at Katya’s use of language, clearly influenced by her husband. “Do you know where he is?”

  She shrugged. “He was meant to pick us up from the central railway station this morning. We had to drag our bags to the taxi rank.” She noticed Snow was frowning. “We went to Yalta for a week; Vika and I. You remember Vika?”

  Snow nodded, she had big breasts and Brian had a nickname for her which he couldn’t repeat. “So he wasn’t with you and he didn’t turn up at the station?”