Hetman Read online

  “Yes. Aidan what’s wrong, what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since after…”

  “Arnaud was killed? It’s OK, it’s been four years. Look, Brian called me this morning and said he was in trouble, I’ve never heard him speak like that.”

  Katya now seemed more concerned that angry. “He’s not come home some nights when he’s been out drinking. Euro 2012 was awful, he met up with a group of England fans and Michael Jones; well you know Michael. I just thought that he’d done the same. I thought you were him at the door. Do you think something has happened to him?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “You are a good friend Aidan for coming here.”

  They were both startled by the doorbell. Katya looked at Snow. He nodded and made for the door. He looked through the peep-hole and saw two men in uniform. He sensed something was not quite right; he put the chain on and opened the door.

  “Hello can I help you?”

  The two officers reminded Snow of Laurel and Hardy and looked a little confused by being faced by a foreigner. The nearest and much thinner of the two spoke. “Is Webb, Katya at home?” He asked in Russian before adding in English, “Please.”

  Snow continued to play the dumb foreign visitor. He did not want to let on that he spoke Russian fluently. “You want Katya, ‘da’?”

  “Da.”

  “Ok.” Snow called back into the flat. “Katya the police are here and want to speak to you. I don’t understand as I don’t speak Ukrainian.” He was telling the truth, Russian was different enough.

  Katya looked at Snow; eyebrows raised but made no comment. She had pulled on a long t-shirt dress. “Tak?” ‘Yes’ - she asked in Ukrainian.

  Stan Laurel persisted with Russian and said. “Can we come in?”

  “What is this about?” Katya too now used Russian.

  “Your husband.” Oliver Hardy stated.

  “Come in.”

  Snow stepped aside as the two uniformed men entered the flat. They all went into the lounge. Katya took up her previous seat and lit a new cigarette.

  “Who is this?” Oliver Hardy the older, more senior officer asked as he tilted his head towards Snow.

  “A family friend. Now what is this about?”

  “Your husband has been taken to our station for questioning.” It was Stan Laurel, the younger officer again.

  “About what?”

  The older officer took over and Snow wondered if this was an attempt at ‘Good Cop – Bad Cop’. “He has been identified as being at the scene of a very serious incident. We need you to tell us where he was yesterday.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “I am afraid that until we have investigated further I cannot tell you anymore.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” Katya’s face flashed with anger. “I demand you tell me why you are holding him!”

  “It really would be in your own best interests to answer the question.” The younger officer smiled, as did Snow.

  “Where was he yesterday?”

  “He was here.”

  “With you?”

  “No.”

  Oliver Hardy looked confused. “Where were you?”

  “Yalta.”

  “So how do you know he was here?”

  “I called him.”

  He nodded and pointed to the house phone. “On that number?”

  “Yes, I mean no. I called his mobile.”

  “And he said he was here?”

  “Yes.” She could feel herself starting to redden.

  “So how do you know he was really here?”

  Snow cut in, still using English. “Anyone for tea, or coffee or perhaps ‘sto gram’?”

  “Ask him to be quiet please.” The older officer asked Katya.

  “Do it yourself.”

  He didn’t. Stan Laurel pointed at Snow. “Mister, quiet please.”

  Snow smiled, the officer now sounded more like a young, homosexual Borat. “Oh, sorry.”

  “So how do you know he was here or not?”

  Katya did not reply straight away but let the smoke flow out of her mouth. “Have you informed the British Embassy that you have arrested my husband?”

  “He has not been arrested.”

  “So he is free to leave?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The older officer abruptly stood. “It is difficult. He is being questioned.”

  Katya stood and stabbed her finger in the man’s direction. “I demand you let him go.”

  The officer’s face changed and Snow sensed that violence may be on his mind. “You are in no position to make any demands! In fact I may have to arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.”

  “Please just answer our questions.” The younger officer pleaded.

  Snow stood and readied himself for a physical confrontation. “So how many was that for tea? Milk and sugar?”

  “Shut up!” The older officer spat in Russian. “Now, tell me do you know where your husband was yesterday?”

  “He said he was here.”

  Oliver Hardy seemed to relax and looked at his colleague and nodded. “That is all for now but we will need to come back if we have any more questions. Your husband’s situation is serious.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “We will let you know.” Both Militia officers headed for the door. Snow gladly let them out.

  Katya shook her head in despair and lit another cigarette. “I mean what the fuck? What is happening? What is this all about? Aidan do you understand anything?”

  Snow put his arms around her. “Look you and I both know that Brian is harmless, he’s a lover not a fighter.”

  Katya snorted. “He’s not a lover either.”

  Snow ignored the insinuation. “At least we now know where he is. I’ll go to the Embassy – I have contacts there and if they aren’t going to charge him I’ll get him out.”

  Katya started to cry. “Thank you Aidan. I’m scared. Can you stay here with me?”

  Snow looked down at her. “I’ve got to see a few people but yes afterwards I’ll come back and stay here. Get a pen and write down my number, just in case.”

  “OK.” She smiled and moved away.

  Snow had a thought. Brian and Katya’s daughter was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Ana?”

  “Summer camp.” Katya replied as she returned from the kitchen clutching a pen and a post-it note.

  Snow scribbled down his number. After they had finished there was a moment of silence. Katya spoke first. “Aidan I’m scared.”

  “I know, it’s a scary thing to happen but wait here. Don’t open the door or speak to anyone, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Call me if you get worried or if anyone unexpected turns up. OK?”

  “OK.”

  Snow kissed her on the forehead and left.

  Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  Alistair Vickers enjoyed relaxing in the bath. He had a CD of Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor playing as he luxuriated with a very expensive glass of Ukrainian Cognac. It was early Saturday evening and for once he had decided to cocoon himself from the world and its worries, his phone was off and he had no intention of answering the door. He found nowadays that he generally preferred his own company in his down time. Running with the ‘Kyiv Hash House Harriers’ or going to the ex-pat hang outs was fun but more and more it left him feeling empty. If he had been asked years ago where he would have seen himself at the age of forty five he would have said living in suburbia or some such foreign equivalent with a wife and two point four children yet here he was, single and inebriated sitting in a bath. Vickers smiled he mustn’t get depressed, that had been a side effect of the painkillers he had previously become addicted to. No he must just relax and stop trying to explain his unbelievable lightness of being. He half smiled. Life was good, his life was good. Alistair Vickers was the SIS intelligence officer responsible for Ukraine. He closed his eyes but
reminded himself that he mustn’t fall asleep lest he become a second Whitney Houston.

  He snapped his eyes open, the bath water was cold, the CD had ended and there was a ringing at his front door. He dragged his tired body out of the bath, pulled on a dark satin robe and made for the door. He peered through the spy-hole and couldn’t believe who he was looking at.

  Snow removed his finger from the bell as the door opened. He shook his head, for the second time that day he had been greeted by someone in a state of undress. “Alistair, you needn’t have bothered getting dolled-up for me.”

  “Very droll. Come in.”

  Without being bid to do so Snow made for the kitchen and started to make himself a coffee. “I thought you would know I was here already?”

  “On a work day maybe but my phone is off and so is my computer. So to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Brian Webb is being held by the police.”

  Vickers sat at the kitchen table. “What for?”

  Snow shrugged. “I don’t know, the Militia wouldn’t say.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Coffee?”

  “No I’m fine.”

  Snow added boiling water to his cup and stirred. “I was at his flat when the Militia came to question Katya.” Snow sat and explained the events of the day thus far.

  Vickers nodded. “If they haven’t charged him they have to let him go, habeas corpus and all that. Unless the Militia has reason to believe it’s related to terrorism.”

  “The only thing Brian terrorises are the local bars.”

  Vickers nodded as Snow’s truism. Brian Webb was the largest ex-pat boozer possibly in the whole of Ukraine. His marriage to Katya had initially seemed to steady him somewhat. “You want me to go to the Militia station and petition for his release or at least get a clarification of his charges?”

  “Alistair you are not just a pretty face.”

  Vickers shook his head. “Fine. Let me get a suit on and then you can tell me which regional station he’s in.”

  “Thanks I owe you one.”

  “It’s my job, just get me a bottle of the good stuff and we’ll be even.”

  As Vickers left the room to dress, Snow went onto the balcony and looked at the street below. He missed Kyiv, he missed his old life but most of all he missed the friendships. For a tuppence ha’penny he’d quit the SIS and teach again. He’d happily swap his licence to kill for a contract to teach.

  “Let’s go.” Vickers looked imposing in a dark blue Savile row suit, bespoke brogues and an ‘old boy’ public school tie.

  Snow nodded his approval. “You scrub-up well for a dustman.”

  “Aidan as always I appreciate your honest feedback.” He tossed Snow the keys to his diplomatic Land Rover defender. “You drive, I’ve had a few.”

  Berezniki Rayon, Kyiv

  Snow parked the Land Rover Defender in front of the Berezniki Rayon Militia station and Vickers got out. They had decided that Snow would stay with the car, him potentially being seen by the same two officers who had questioned Katya earlier would raise questions. Snow opened a can of ‘Burn’ energy drink and observed life passing by.

  Vickers entered the Militia station and was greeted by the desk officer berating an elderly woman. She was pleading with him to let her son go as he was innocent, but the officer would have none of it. In an angry voice and using no uncertain terms he told her to get lost. She left talking to herself. The desk officer looked up from his papers and was surprised to say the least to see Vickers standing in front of him. His mouth creased up a little as he asked, “Can I help?”

  “Yes.” Vickers answered in Ukrainian. Like Snow he was a fluent Russian speaker, unlike Snow he had also started to learn the real language of the country he lived in, Ukrainian. “My name is Alistair Vickers. I am the Commercial Attaché at the British Embassy and I believe you are holding a British Citizen without the due authority.”

  The Militia officer’s mouth dropped open and he struggled for words. “Wh…What is the name of this Englishman?”

  “Brian Webb.”

  The Ukrainian swallowed. “I see.” He stared at his computer and wished it would engulf him. “He was here but he has now been transferred.”

  “What?” Vickers started to ‘ham it up’. “Has Mr Webb been charged with anything?”

  Again the Ukrainian looked, too hard, at his computer screen. “No. Not yet but he is being questioned in relation to a serious incident.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t say.”

  When Snow had approached Vickers earlier, Vickers had thought this all to be a commotion over nothing. A drunken episode perhaps that had done no ham but now he was starting to feel that something indeed was not as it should be. “So correct me if I am wrong. Mr Webb is being held, but not here for something that you say he may have been involved with but that same something you cannot confirm to me the nature of. Correct?”

  The officer paused, confused. “Yes, that is so.”

  “So where is he now?”

  The officer again checked his screen. “He is under the authority of Captain Budt.”

  “Now we are getting somewhere. Where is Captain Budt?”

  “In transit with the prisoner.”

  “But Mr Webb has not been charged.”

  “But sexual assault is a serious matter.”

  “So are you confirming to me that Mr Brian Webb is being accused of sexual assault?”

  The Militia officer had been forced into a corner and had made a mistake. “No, not at this time but perhaps.”

  “So where is Mr Webb in transit to?”

  “I am sorry I cannot say.”

  “What is your name officer?”

  “Brovchenko, Yuri.”

  “Well Officer Brovchenko, first thing on Monday morning if Mr Webb does not reappear or is released I shall be lodging a complaint with the head of the city Militia and the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Am I making myself understood, Yuri?”

  Brovchenko nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. Goodbye.”

  Snow watched Vickers leave the Militia station and was irked to see he was alone. Vickers climbed into the Land Rover, the look on his face showed confusion. Snow asked. “Where’s Brian?”

  “That’s the thing, they won’t tell me.”

  “What? I don’t get it?”

  “Drive and I’ll explain.”

  Snow shook his head after Vickers repeated the conversation and said. “Have you ever heard of this happening before?”

  “Never. That is what’s so strange. He is guaranteed access to a representative from the Embassy yet we weren’t informed and now he is moved without being charged?” Vickers massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He had the start of a headache. “There’s nothing more I can do until Monday morning. Where are you staying?”

  “At Brian’s flat with Katya.”

  Vickers removed his hand from his face and looked at Snow. “Isn’t she that sexy one with the…”

  “Yes and she is also my friend’s wife.”

  “Good, just as long as you remember.”

  Snow rolled his eyes. “Who do you take me for – Mitch Turney?”

  “No.” Vickers laughed. Their mutual friend had a well-deserved reputation as a womaniser. “Are you going to give him a call?”

  “I should, and Michael Jones. They may have been with him yesterday.”

  The two SIS operatives arrived back at Vickers’ apartment building. Unlike Webb’s 1980’s monstrosity on the city’s left bank, this building had architectural worth and character. All its occupants were expatriates. Snow turned off the engine and handed Vickers the keys. “So I’ll call you first thing on Monday?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Thanks.”

  They got out of the car.

  “Aidan, if he is implicated in sexual assault then you know we both have to distance ourselves from him don’
t you?”

  “I know, but he’s not.”

  “I just ‘know of’ him but you ‘know him’ so I’ll bow to your better judgement.” Vickers waved and entered his building.

  Khreshatik Street, Kyiv

  Snow headed for Kyiv’s main shopping street Khreshatik and his meeting with Michael Jones. Jones had been only too happy to get away from his wife Inna and catch up with his old drinking partner. As Snow walked he suddenly realised that he had not eaten since ‘lunch’ on the aeroplane some hours before, or indeed had much to drink. Although it evening the temperature was still in the high twenties, a whole fifteen degrees higher than it had been on Worthing’s seafront that same morning. Snow used the underpass to cross from one side of the wide street to the other and then entered the large McDonalds that stood on top of the Metro station. It had been Jones’ choice of meeting place. Even after years in Ukraine the Welshman remained fussy about what he ate unless he’d cooked it himself. The eatery was fairly busy with a few families but mostly twenty and thirty something’s chatting and flirting or taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. A figure waved from a large semi-circular seat. Snow couldn’t help but smile at seeing his old friend. Michael Jones had not changed a bit. With his craggy features and dark blonde hair he looked like ‘the drinking mans’ Gordon Ramsey.

  “Aidan, Hokay?” The Welshman’s accent caused a couple of diners to stare.

  Snow adopted a fake Welsh accent. “Hello Mister Jones, how are you?”

  “Eh, not bad.” Jones beamed. “Just look at the crumpet in here!”

  They sat and Snow laughed out loud. Jones had never been subtle. “It’s good to see you Michael.”

  “You too. It’s been far too long. You teaching again?”

  Jones knew of Snow’s Military past, that he had been a member of the SAS and of course the events that had led to their mutual friend, Arnaud’s death. Jones did not however know that since then Snow had been recruited into the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow decided to stick with his legend. “I’m teaching at a private school near Knightsbridge.”

  “Full of Arabs I bet.”

  “Not politically correct, but correct.”

  Jones raised his eyebrows and the tone of his voice to express mock outrage. “Politically incorrect? Politically incorrect! As a native Welsh speaker, I’m an ethnic minority myself!”