Ukrainian
Snow looked up. “Nowhere.”
The drunk laughed and tapped his chest. “Sergey.”
“Sasha.” Snow gave a false name; Aidan would mark him out as a foreigner.
Sergey swayed and then sat. “That woman you saw me with, she is a professional. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Sasha, did you like her? I could call her back. A real professional.” He laughed and spilt some of his beer on his dirty jeans.
“He is a professional too.” Snow pointed to Blazhevich who was walking towards them.
“Whatever you like you like.” Sergey seemed puzzled and moved away.
“I think we’ll have an address soon.” Blazhevich stated as he sat.
“How soon?”
“Ten minutes perhaps. Where is Webb?”
Snow was suddenly worried but then relaxed as he saw the Yorkshire man nearing them carrying a plastic shopping bag.
Webb pointed at the beer. “Is that for me?”
Blazhevich looked him up and down. “You really need to get some medical attention.”
Webb dropped down heavily next to them. “I’m gonna start now.” He retrieved a bottle from the bag. “Dr Vodka.”
“I’m serious Brian.”
“So am I.” Webb reached into his bag again and produced two packets of pills. He then proceeded to pop three ibuprofen and two paraceatamol tablets. These he washed down with the vodka straight from the bottle. “Ah that’s better.”
“How is the ankle?” Snow asked.
Webb held up his leg. “No ballet for a bit but I’ll be ok. To be honest I think it’s just a hangover. I’ll soon drink it off.”
The three men were silent for a moment as they watched a coach arrive and a stream of travellers walked in front on them. It was a stiflingly hot Sunday afternoon and Snow did not envy anyone travelling without air conditioning.
Blazhevich answered his phone. “Tak?” A smile spread across his face. “Dobre.” He hung up. “The boys have worked their magic; apparently Brovchenko was very concerned that we may torture him.”
“What a drip.”
Blazhevich cast Snow a stern look. “So as I was about to say we have an address. There is a full tactical package in my boot, if you are interested?”
Snow stood. “Let’s do it.”
Stoyanka Village, Kyiv Oblast
The part of Stoyanka village where the target was being held was nicknamed ‘Cuba’ by the locals. Blazhevich did not know why. It was only three kilometres further along the Zhytomyrska highway than Imyets’ house. It had originally consisted of a handful of Dachas on a large plane surrounded by a border of high trees. Over the past fifteen years however an ever growing number of three and four story houses had been built with new and dubious money. Half built houses and pegged out plots littered much of the remaining grassland. The address that officer Brovchenko had given up was one of the original Soviet era single story houses that had not yet been engulfed by new developments. It was on the edge of the village and faced the trees. A twenty-five minute drive from Kyiv’s centre, with Militia lights flashing Kopylenko’s men had used the house for ‘nefarious’ purposes. Blazhevich parked his Passat on the main road a quarter of a kilometre away from the target next to a second SBU vehicle. As ordered Webb stayed in the car and finished the remains of the chocolate and vodka. The SBU officer, who was already at the scene, shook hands with Blazhevich and then Snow before spreading a map across the bonnet of his Mazda.
“This is the target. As you can see it is on the edge of the village with one access road here. We can however gain access via the copse here.”
Blazhevich asked his fellow operative. “How many men are inside Roman?”
“Victor and I have observed two men in the garden and other shadows inside. But we cannot confirm the number of hostiles.”
“Victor has a visual now?”
Roman nodded. “He is in the trees directly opposite the dacha.”
Blazhevich turned to Snow. “So Aidan, you have been better
Snow looked up. “Nowhere.”
The drunk laughed and tapped his chest. “Sergey.”
“Sasha.” Snow gave a false name; Aidan would mark him out as a foreigner.
Sergey swayed and then sat. “That woman you saw me with, she is a professional. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Sasha, did you like her? I could call her back. A real professional.” He laughed and spilt some of his beer on his dirty jeans.
“He is a professional too.” Snow pointed to Blazhevich who was walking towards them.
“Whatever you like you like.” Sergey seemed puzzled and moved away.
“I think we’ll have an address soon.” Blazhevich stated as he sat.
“How soon?”
“Ten minutes perhaps. Where is Webb?”
Snow was suddenly worried but then relaxed as he saw the Yorkshire man nearing them carrying a plastic shopping bag.
Webb pointed at the beer. “Is that for me?”
Blazhevich looked him up and down. “You really need to get some medical attention.”
Webb dropped down heavily next to them. “I’m gonna start now.” He retrieved a bottle from the bag. “Dr Vodka.”
“I’m serious Brian.”
“So am I.” Webb reached into his bag again and produced two packets of pills. He then proceeded to pop three ibuprofen and two paraceatamol tablets. These he washed down with the vodka straight from the bottle. “Ah that’s better.”
“How is the ankle?” Snow asked.
Webb held up his leg. “No ballet for a bit but I’ll be ok. To be honest I think it’s just a hangover. I’ll soon drink it off.”
The three men were silent for a moment as they watched a coach arrive and a stream of travellers walked in front on them. It was a stiflingly hot Sunday afternoon and Snow did not envy anyone travelling without air conditioning.
Blazhevich answered his phone. “Tak?” A smile spread across his face. “Dobre.” He hung up. “The boys have worked their magic; apparently Brovchenko was very concerned that we may torture him.”
“What a drip.”
Blazhevich cast Snow a stern look. “So as I was about to say we have an address. There is a full tactical package in my boot, if you are interested?”
Snow stood. “Let’s do it.”
Stoyanka Village, Kyiv Oblast
The part of Stoyanka village where the target was being held was nicknamed ‘Cuba’ by the locals. Blazhevich did not know why. It was only three kilometres further along the Zhytomyrska highway than Imyets’ house. It had originally consisted of a handful of Dachas on a large plane surrounded by a border of high trees. Over the past fifteen years however an ever growing number of three and four story houses had been built with new and dubious money. Half built houses and pegged out plots littered much of the remaining grassland. The address that officer Brovchenko had given up was one of the original Soviet era single story houses that had not yet been engulfed by new developments. It was on the edge of the village and faced the trees. A twenty-five minute drive from Kyiv’s centre, with Militia lights flashing Kopylenko’s men had used the house for ‘nefarious’ purposes. Blazhevich parked his Passat on the main road a quarter of a kilometre away from the target next to a second SBU vehicle. As ordered Webb stayed in the car and finished the remains of the chocolate and vodka. The SBU officer, who was already at the scene, shook hands with Blazhevich and then Snow before spreading a map across the bonnet of his Mazda.
“This is the target. As you can see it is on the edge of the village with one access road here. We can however gain access via the copse here.”
Blazhevich asked his fellow operative. “How many men are inside Roman?”
“Victor and I have observed two men in the garden and other shadows inside. But we cannot confirm the number of hostiles.”
“Victor has a visual now?”
Roman nodded. “He is in the trees directly opposite the dacha.”
Blazhevich turned to Snow. “So Aidan, you have been better
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