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  There was a distant rumble of tyres on the dirt track then a shape emerged through the trees and turned towards the highway. In the green world of Voloshin’s own night scope he identified the vehicle to be the pool car of Officer Blazhevich. He would strike immediately when the Passat joined the highway. He had his orders regardless of the Ukrainians, who wanted the two old men alive. Voloshin floored the accelerator of the Lada Niva. The engine took a huge breath before launching the 4X4 off of the grass and onto the road. The tyres bit into the tarmac and the Lada shot forward. Voloshin’s plan was to ram the target vehicle and then terminate Sukhoi.

  Headlights exploded behind Blazhevich, dazzling him. He saw a vehicle in his rear view mirror accelerating towards him from the opposite side of the road. He pushed his right foot to the floor and felt a surge of power from the VW’s engine. The Niva slewed behind him just missing the boot. Blazhevich kept his foot firmly planted as the Passat accelerated but the Niva, although a slower machine had had a slight head start and swung back slamming into the rear offside passenger door.

  Glass smashed as the heavy soviet 4X4 made contact with the sleek German saloon. Sukhoi was thrown to the opposite side of the cabin and cried out in pain as his belt dug into his broken ribs. In the front, Dudka’s head was jerked into the door. The tyres squealed loudly as the car was momentarily pushed sideways. Blazhevich struggled to keep control as the Passat headed towards the ditch. However, the tyres regained their grip and the Passat again started to accelerate.

  The rear windscreen exploded as a round tore its way through. Blazhevich ducked and Dudka scrambled for his hand gun, twisting in his seat, he shot back into the darkness blindly. Sukhoi remained down, holding his ribs. More rounds in return pinged off the Passat’s bodywork. A junction on the right and like a giant ship at sea, a fuel tanker swung slowly onto the highway. With the lights still switched off it did not see the Passat. Blazhevich jinked left and narrowly avoided the cabin. Blazhevich tried to control his breathing.

  More rounds cracked against the Passat until they finally pulled out of range of the much slower vehicle.

  “Leonya are you injured?”

  Sukhoi sat up. “My ribs are hurting, but I’ll survive. What about you?”

  Dudka felt his forehead. His wound had opened up again and blood had started to trickle into his eyebrows. “Bloodied but not beaten.”

  “I’m ok too.” Blazhevich added concentrating on the road ahead.

  “I would expect nothing less, Vitally.” Dudka patted him on the shoulder.

  They drove on in silence for several more kilometres each alone in their own thoughts. Sukhoi had brought his dear friend into this business and now he too was being targeted. Dudka’s own mind was trying to work out how; the assassin had known where they were.

  A warning light flicked on. “No!” Blazhevich banged the dashboard. “We have a puncture.”

  “Can it be fixed?” Sukhoi was anxious.

  “Maybe but we can’t stop.” Blazhevich’s mind sought a solution.

  “We’ll take another car.” Dudka spoke matter of fact. He looked ahead. “The Kyiv checkpoint is no more than four kilometres down the road. Find a militia vehicle there and I’ll commandeer it.”

  “Simple.” Sukhoi added.

  With the steering getting progressively heavier and unresponsive they continued on until the check point came into sight. A hangover from Soviet times the Militia check points served several purposes. They ensured that all heavy goods vehicles did not exceed their stated weight, served as a visible ‘speed enforcement camera’ and had on occasion been used to extract bribes to subsidise the under or non-paid militia officers. They were however also used to prevent ‘the wanted’ from either entering or leaving the capital by road.

  As they neared the raised barrier the tyre finally gave out and parted from the rim. The Passat lurched sideways and sparks flew from the wheel flaming brightly in the still predawn. The barrier went down and a young officer jumped out of the control booth holding up his hands. Blazhevich steered the Passat as best he could to the grass verge, the car lurching and trying to dig into the soft earth.

  Dudka exited the car and straightened up, speaking before the militiaman could say a word. “What’s your name officer?”

  The militiaman gulped, taken aback. “Plishko Yuri.”

  “Well Plishko, Yuri. I am Dudka Gennady, Director of the SBU.” Dudka held up his id. “Are you in charge here?”

  “I am...not.” He indicated towards the booth. “Officer Svinarchuk is but he is…”

  “Asleep on duty?” Dudka shook his head disapprovingly. “Officer Plishko. I am commandeering your vehicle. We are working on a matter of national security and our vehicle is damaged.”

  “But you can’t…”

  “Officer Plishko, as you can see from the registration plate the car is an SBU vehicle, I am an SBU director and the men in the car are SBU officers. Now hand over the keys. I will take full responsibility for this.”

  Plishko frowned but did not argue. “Follow me, Director.”

  The two men walked towards the control booth. Dudka followed the young militiaman inside and was greeted by the smell of onions. Officer Svinarchuk was sprawled face down over the desk, snoring drunkenly. Plishko reached for a hook and handed the keys to Dudka sheepishly. Dudka nodded and they exited the booth.

  “I will need a receipt for those.” Plishko gushed.

  Dudka spoke without looking back. “I am always on the lookout for those with SBU potential, officer Plishko and unlike your ‘colleague’ I believe you may have it.” He reached the boxy blue and white militia Lada and opened the door. “Here is my card. Be sure to have your superiors ask for me personally.”

  Dudka stood straight and saluted, something he had not done for a very long time. Plishko snapped to attention. Dudka started the car and drove it closer to the Passat. Blazhevich helped Sukhoi into the back seat before transferring the bags from the boot.

  Dudka looked again at the bewildered militiaman. “You have done an important thing today officer. You have helped maintain the integrity of Ukraine.”

  With Dudka now in the driving seat, they continued on towards central Kyiv and the British Embassy as all the while the sky around them was changing colour. Reaching Kyiv’s old town - Podil, Dudka drove the underpowered Lada, illegally, lights flashing, up the very steep and heavily cobbled Andrivskyi Uzviz then took the first left onto Desyatynna Street, the home of the British Embassy. Outside there was another militia booth, and the battered Land Rover Defender that belonged to Vickers, with its tell-tale red diplomatic number plates.

  The militiaman got out of the booth and regarded the Lada suspiciously. The front door of the embassy opened and Alistair Vickers stepped onto the pavement. He held his hand up to the guard and spoke in Russian.

  “They are with me.”

  The militiaman shrugged and disappeared back into the booth.

  Blazhevich looked warily both ways before getting out of the car.

  Vickers held out his hand, Blazhevich shook it swiftly. “Let’s get them inside.”

  With nods but not words Dudka and Sukhoi were let into the Embassy, Blazhevich led them to Vickers office whilst Vickers himself shut the door behind them.

  “Welcome to the United Kingdom, Director Sukhoi.”

  “Thank you for your support Mr Vickers.” Sukhoi replied shaking the Englishman’s hand.

  “It is good to see you again, Director Dudka.” Vickers now shook with Dudka.

  “You too Alistair. I hear you are still speaking Russian.” Not yet Ukrainian he didn’t need to add.

  Vickers did not get the jibe. “I am always trying to perfect it, Director Dudka.” Vickers eyes moved to the blood smear on the old man’s forehead. “Please sit, you must all be tired.” Tea and croissants had been set on the meeting table. “Director Sukhoi, on behalf of the Government of the United Kingdom I should like to offer you political asylum. Do you accept?” It was a
formality but Vickers had to ask.

  Sukhoi cleared his throat before taking a sip of hot tea. “Yes.” His voice was small and tense. “The information I have is very important, more than my life, indeed my country has tried to prevent me from divulging this to anyone.” Sukhoi drank more tea. “I must get this information to the UK safely.”

  Vickers nodded. “Director Sukhoi, you are perfectly safe here in the embassy. You will stay here until this afternoon when we shall take you in a diplomatic car to Boryspil Airport where you will board the British Airways flight to London. At no time will anyone be able to stop you. On arrival you will be taken to a safe house and debriefed.” After this it would be a new identity and a house in a quiet location somewhere in England’s south east, but Vickers need not explain further.

  Dudka looked at Sukhoi. What thoughts must now be running through his head? His friend of over fifty years. They had been young officers together, middle aged family men together and now old men, who had together betrayed their countries. For the first time since he’d met Sukhoi in the restaurant Dudka thought of his own career and the consequences of his actions. He had deliberately lied to his director, and by extension the President, about Sukhoi’s death. Misinformed Belarus about the loss of a senior intelligence agent and now would take full responsibility for his defection.

  Once Belarus found out about his role, relations between the two former Soviet Republics would sour even more. Wars had been started for less. But, friendship came first before loyalty to one’s country. A very un-communist belief, yet one that unintentionally the Soviet Union had fostered by throwing together millions of servicemen from an amalgamation of autonomous and semi-autonomous republics. Sukhoi and his daughter had been family to him and Dudka was not about to let anyone or anything simply attack his family and walk away.

  The realisation that his career was over and potentially his own life endangered did not scare him. He had lived a charmed life, produced a beautiful daughter and become a grandfather. He could ask of no more. He now had but two goals. Vitaly Blazhevich must not lose his career and his god daughter’s murderer must be found.

  “Mr Vickers. I can-not thank you enough for your assistance.” Dudka stood and extended his hand.

  Vickers rose and shook once again.

  Dudka looked at his oldest friend. “Leonya, I feel that this is goodbye.”

  Sukhoi, eyes moist replied. “Perhaps old friend, perhaps.”

  There was the briefest of embarrassed pauses before the two old soldiers embraced. Dudka nodded and snapped his fingers.

  “Vitally, it is time we went.”

  Dudka left the room without another word. A minute later, he and Blazhevich were on the empty pavement in the early morning light. Dudka took a deep breath and turned right.

  “So what now?” Blazhevich was a step behind.

  “We’re going to work.” The SBU Headquarters on Volodymska Street was a brisk five minute walk away. “I’m going to report the attack.”

  “But what of Director Sukhoi?”

  “Vitaly, in your desk you will find official orders, with the Presidential signature forged by myself, stating that you are to provide a protective detail for Director Sukhoi. Once the forgery has been discovered I will admit to ‘misappropriating resources’ and acting without remit. You will not be implicated, I will be finished and dear old Leonya will be in Britain.”

  They crossed Sofiyivska square as the sun started to hit the golden domes of the cathedral behind them, then passed the central Militia headquarters.

  “But Gennady Stepanovich, I can-not accept that. You have done what is right for Ukraine and the world!”

  Dudka stopped and paused, a grandfatherly smile on his face.

  “What is right for the world, Vitaly, may not be right for Director Zlotnik.”

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymska Street, Kyiv

  Yuri Zlotnik was far from happy. Dudka had arrived at the office, where he calmly sat at his desk opening the previous day’s post and drinking black tea. Furthermore, he had pointblank refused to talk about Sukhoi. Zlotnik had resorted to putting him into a holding cell, where to his dismay he had found Dudka had slept for three hours. Now Zlotnik stared across his desk at Deputy Director Dudka whilst trying to control his breathing.

  “You have been the subject of a nationwide man hunt!” He let the words hang in the air; Dudka to his amazement looked nonplussed. “Furthermore you have perverted the course of justice!”

  “I was conducting an undercover operation.” Dudka’s eyes showed no sign of fear or intimidation.

  “On whose orders?” Zlotnik’s nostrils flared.

  “Mine. I am in charge of my own department.”

  Zlotnik slammed his fist onto his desk in frustration. “Where are the mission briefing notes?”

  “Under lock and key.”

  “Where exactly?” Zlotnik pressed both palms flat against his desk in an effort to regain his calm.

  “My office.”

  Zlotnik stabbed himself hard in the chest with his index finger. “I am to be briefed on all matters that pose a threat to national security. This is something which you failed to do.”

  Dudka shrugged. “I was going to.”

  Zlotnik all but screamed. “When?”

  “Today, when the operation was over. There is a magpie in our midst, a traitor.”

  Zlotnik exploded. “The traitor is you, Dudka! You have aided and abetted a wanted criminal!”

  Dudka leant back in the chair in his boss’s office to show his forced apathy. He was not impressed by how Zlotnik was handling this, but then Zlotnik was a buffoon.

  “Explain.”

  Zlotnik‘s anger had rendered him momentarily speechless. He grabbed at a glass of water, spilling a large part over his shirt.

  “Explain? Oh I am going to explain ‘Director Dudka’. I am going to explain to the President how you kidnapped a foreign intelligence officer and informed his country that he was dead.”

  “I also commandeered a Police Lada and broke the speed limit.”

  This time Zlotnik did shout. “You listen to me, Dudka. I don’t know why you have done this but you are finished! Do you understand me? Finished!!”

  “I agree.” Dudka nodded calmly.

  Zlotnik closed his eyes. Exhausted by rage and beaten by his subordinate’s insolence. There was a thick silence. Dudka nodded his head thoughtfully. Zlotnik made himself speak. “Sukhoi is wanted for questioning by our partners the Belarusian KGB. He is responsible for unspeakable acts of treason. If he is not stopped, these will have a devastating effect on our national security.” Zlotnik let his words trail away. “Dudka, where have you put him?”

  Dudka’s eyes drifted to the antique Jungens clock Zlotnik had restored and installed on his wall, the only thing in Dudka’s mind that showed Zlotnik had any taste or intelligence at all.

  “He is no longer on the territory of Ukraine.”

  Sipping now from his glass of water Zlotnik tried to control his breathing. “Where is Sukhoi?”

  The Jungens struck midday; his friend would be on his way. It would not hurt to tell Zlotnik now. “He is in the United Kingdom.”

  Zlotnik’s hands balled into fists. “Explain!”

  Dudka did.

  Moments later Zlotnik sat, apoplectic. “Do you understand what you have done? Do you understand the magnitude of your actions?”

  “Oh yes.” Dudka nodded. He had helped to halt a potential global catastrophe.

  Zlotnik unable to contain his venom any further shot to his feet. “You are hereby under arrest for treason and hereby stripped of you rank and office. You will be taken to the holding cells and you will give a statement and you will tell all.”

  Dudka’s mind drifted. So it had happened. He had lost everything. What did he feel? An emptiness, regret, fear remorse? No. Relief. Relief and calm. He had saved a friend’s life and perhaps the lives of thousands. The doors behind him opened and two junior officers, whom he did
not know by name, placed him in handcuffs and led him out. He passed Investigator Kostyan waiting in the anti-room. Their eyes met, Dudka smiled broadly. The Belarusian KBG Investigator stared back, a steel in his eyes.

  Zlotnik stood in the doorway and watched Dudka as his disappeared. He felt a sense of doom as he saw Kostyan’s questioning look.

  “Good afternoon, Investigator Kostyan. I am afraid I have grave news.”

  “What?” Kostyan dispensed with pleasantries.

  Zlotnik re-entered his room. Sitting behind his desk he at least felt a bit protected from the man who now sat opposite him. “Director Sukhoi has been granted asylum by the British and will be on a flight to London later today.”

  Kostyan’s eyes fluttered, he did not show the anger or indignation that Zlotnik had anticipated. “Where is he now?”

  “The British Embassy. He is to be put on the British Airways flight at 14:15. I am afraid that as he is officially on British Sovereign territory there is nothing further I can do. You must lodge a complaint with the British….”

  Kostyan stood. “I must contact Minsk.”

  Zlotnik got to his feet but Kostyan had already started to walk away.

  British Embassy, Kyiv

  The diplomatic car was ready and awaiting its occupants in the walled courtyard at the side of the embassy. The sound of a lavatory flushing, Vickers waited outside the WC for Director Sukhoi to emerge. The Belarusian opened the door, now dressed in a shirt, pullover, cords and a tweed jacket courtesy of HM Government. Sukhoi’s face was lined not just with age but worry. He nodded at Vickers. The two men exited the building and took the three steps to the waiting car. The Jaguar XJ was the Ambassador’s car and as such the most prestigious vehicle the embassy had. The Ambassador himself was not in Kyiv. It was also the only car available at short notice with the exception of Vickers own tatty, Land Rover defender.

  As the compound gates opened, Sukhoi sunk nervously into the dark red leather. Looking out through the tinted glass, Vickers saw nothing to concern him. The street was relatively empty and the Jag soon turned onto Sofiyivska square before heading towards Maidan and then the airport.