The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.
An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.
Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’
‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.
Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’
‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’
Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’
‘You too. How long are you back for?’
‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’
‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’
‘Correct. I’m free this evening and then I’ve got meetings and business lunches until I fly out on Wednesday.’
Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Phew, I’m glad I just teach a few English lessons here and there. No stress and lots of time to drink, smoke, and observe the local wildlife.’
Snow shook his head at the fifty-something Welshman. ‘How’s Ina?’
‘Not bad. She lost her job, though.’ Jones’s wife of sixteen years was a banker – and her husband’s banker.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Eh, but she got a new one with a Canadian investment group. She may have to fly out there next month. I don’t mind, it gives me a chance to rest.’ Jones’s diction was lilting and slow, as always after he’d had a few pints. ‘But great to see you, eh!’
‘You too, Mr Jones.’ Snow became serious. ‘So, how have you been this last year?’
‘Fine. We obviously skipped Crimea this summer and thought for a while of coming back to the UK. But then I saw the house prices. I can’t bloody afford to get on the housing ladder at my age! So we didn’t. Our area was pretty isolated from the violence and unrest, thank Christ. But eh, it’s a shocking business, isn’t it? Who are the Kremlin to say Ukraine can’t join the European Union? Ukrainians are good people who were led by a corrupt president. Russians are good people but… people are people, let them live.’ He waved his hand and then drained the remainder of his beer.
Snow agreed with Jones’s statement, even if the wording was a little off, but he didn’t want to get political or morose. For once all he wanted to do was sink a few drinks, reminisce, and relax. And from the look of it, Jones was several drinks ahead of him. Snow caught the attention of the barmaid, who trotted over with menus.
‘Is this your friend, Michael?’
‘This is Aidan. He used to teach with me.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Snow said in Russian. ‘Two beers, please.’
‘Is Obolon OK?’
‘Fine.’
She smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar with a wiggle that Snow tried but failed to ignore.
‘Service with a smile,’ Jones remarked happily.
‘So, what brings you to this place then?’ Snow asked.
‘One of my students, Vlad, runs it. He’s a good bloke and the beer is so cheap for Kyiv prices!’ Jones was always counting his money. His love of bargains coupled with his love of alcohol had made him an expert on the cheaper watering holes of Ukraine’s capital city.
‘I’m not surprised it’s cheap – it’s in the middle of nowhere.’
‘It’s not far from the metro and if you’re near the metro you’re near everything.’
‘That’s true.’ The beer arrived and Snow held up his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘You too.’
‘What time does Ina want you home?’
‘Whenever. She doesn’t mind me drinking with you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.’
Snow smacked beer from his lips. ‘I thought she knew me better than that.’
The door opened and a hulking figure ducked his head to enter.
‘He’s a big boy,’ Jones noted, ‘and I thought you were tall.’
‘I am tall. He’s a giant. Do you know him?’
‘No.’ Jones returned his attention to his beer.
The giant, dressed in a tracksuit under a leather box jacket, strode to the bar and, with a booming voice, ordered vodka. He knocked back his drink in one and then demanded a beer.
Snow’s training kicked in as he scanned the bar. The other ten or so customers weren’t making eye contact with the new arrival, especially the table of women Michael had been watching. Two of them discreetly turned their chairs away. The man was dangerous, and by the way people reacted to him, known as being such.
‘Another?’ Jones asked.
‘Silly question.’ Snow winked.
‘Pani!’ Michael called out the Ukrainian word for ‘miss’, also used to mean waitress. ‘Two beers, please.’
The giant turned and leant against the bar, swivelling his large head to stare at them.
Snow involuntarily felt himself tense,