Cold Black. Alex Shaw

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      Snow pretended to be more injured than he was and, just as his IRA guard was removing his sack, he lunged out with his leg, sweeping the man to the floor. The young Irishman was winded and dropped his handgun. Snow rolled on top of him and using his head as a weapon, broke the Irishman’s nose before clamping his still-bound hands around the youth’s neck. He had only meant to render him unconscious but the adrenaline of the situation meant he’d pressed too hard.

      This was Snow’s first kill, a hard kill, but he had had no time for remorse. Using the volunteer’s knife, he cut through his bonds, collected the gun, and made, as stealthily as possible, for the farmhouse.

      In the kitchen, Fox wasn’t tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, while McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who hadn’t lived far away, Fox was regaling his watchers with stories when one of them sensed movement outside. Fox sprang to his feet and kicked the nearest man in the groin. The first terrorist crumpled and Fox grabbed his assault rifle. As he did, Snow sent two 9mm rounds through the window and into the skull of the second. Fox ventured further into the house, as Snow moved through the door, pistol trained on number one, lying on the floor clutching his groin.

      Fox heard shots but McKracken hadn’t stayed to fight. He had taken his Cavalier and was making good his escape. The night had been a success. The bomb was defused and the remaining IRA cell member turned ‘grass’, delivering valuable intelligence. Fox and Snow had made an effective team.

      Fox stood. ‘Come on, let’s get some grub.’

      ‘What about here?’ Snow fancied the homemade steak and kidney pudding.

      Fox looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Do you enjoy living?’

      Dave, who was collecting the glasses, stared at Fox. ‘Think about me. You get to walk away, but the missus insists on cooking for me every bloody day!’

      They exited the pub and moved down the high street. ‘You wanna move the car?’

      Snow shook his head. ‘No, it’s a pool car. If it gets towed I’ll get another.’

      ‘“MI6 takes on clampers” – that’d look good in the Evening Argus.’ Fox enjoyed his own quip. ‘Right, I fancy an Indian.’

      Fox marched the pair of them around the corner to the Indian Cottage restaurant, a sixteenth-century cottage converted to become Shoreham’s best Indian. The fact that, like most Indian restaurants, it was owned and staffed by Bangladeshis was lost on the two former soldiers.

      *

      The noise of a seagull outside the bedroom window woke Snow with a start. Head throbbing, he unzipped the ‘maggot’ Fox had lent him and rolled off the mattress. Wearing only his boxers and T-shirt, he walked to the window and looked out. The house had a view of the street opposite and, if he craned his neck to the left, Shoreham beach and the English Channel. The early morning sunlight danced on the surface of the sea. Snow pulled on his jeans and made his way downstairs in search of ibuprofen, aspirin, or paracetamol – anything to avert the hangover which would soon fully manifest itself.

      The sound of a kettle boiling and the smell of bacon met him halfway. As he reached the bottom Fox greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Have a nice lie-in? You must be getting soft in your old age.’

      Snow checked the time on the microwave: it read 7:15. Fox grabbed the kettle and poured the scalding water into a pair of mugs. ‘Here, regulation brew. Milk’s in the fridge.’

      ‘Cheers.’ Snow poured a measure then handed it to Fox. ‘You got any…’

      Fox cut him off. ‘Second cupboard. Still got some horse tablets they gave Tracey for her back.’

      Snow took two painkillers and gulped them down with hot tea. ‘How are you feeling?’

      Fox cracked an egg. ‘Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunnyside up?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Snow nodded, although truth be told he was still full from the previous night’s curry.

      ‘What time are they expecting you back at spy central?’

      ‘It’s flexible.’ Snow took another swig of tea. ‘So?’

      Fox spread his arms. ‘You want me to give up all this for a fistful of sand?’ Snow remained silent as a smile spread across Fox’s creased face. ‘Did you think I’d actually say no?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Eat.’ Fox slapped two eggs, three rashers of bacon, and a pair of sausages onto a plate. ‘For tomorrow we may die.’

       Arizona Bar and Grill, Kyiv, Ukraine

      Gennady Dudka was looking forward to seeing his oldest friend, Leonid Sukhoi. He crossed his arms and smiled, reminiscing about times long ago. They had been conscripts together in the Red Army before being selected for the KGB Border Guards, where they had both stayed and risen through the ranks until Sukhoi transferred back to his native Belarus and Dudka returned to his homeland of Ukraine. They had met up as frequently as work would allow over the years and had enabled as much collaboration as possible between their two KGB divisions.

      Then, however, 1991 happened and the mighty Soviet Union imploded. The two friends found themselves working for different countries, Sukhoi now employed by the Belarusian KGB and Dudka by the Ukrainian SBU, Ukraine having dropped the Soviet name but not much else. As the Nineties and the new millennium passed, Ukraine had gradually stepped out of the shadows of the former Soviet Union and was walking, if slowly, towards the West and the EU. Belarus, on the other hand, had tried to rebuild the Union and sought to create, first, a ‘Belarusian and Russian Union’ and then a ‘Greater Slavic State’ with Russia, Yugoslavia – as was – and Ukraine. Yugoslavia had crumbled into civil war before they had a chance to sign up, and Ukraine hadn’t answered the door to their neighbour; they were busy entertaining their new visitor – the West. Now isolated by all but the infamous ‘Axis of Evil’ and Russia, Belarus was alone and mainly ignored, a remnant of the Soviet Union that neither fitted into the past nor the new democratic future of Europe.

      Dudka hadn’t seen his friend for… he counted on his fingers… close to three years. He frowned. Had it really been so long since Leonid’s granddaughter married her own ambitious KGB officer from Minsk? Time had passed in an instant; now both in their early seventies, Dudka had started to realise that Leonid and he didn’t have all that much time left. Dudka was in as rude health as ever, but he feared for his friend, who, although taller, had always been ‘delicate’. He made a resolution to keep in touch more, in future, with those who mattered to him most.

      The restaurant had started to fill up with early Sunday customers; it was just after twelve and Leonid was due any moment. The waitress again asked Dudka if he was ready to order, and for the second time he told her he was waiting for someone and could she just bring him a glass of water and turn the air conditioning down? He shivered; outside it was a balmy, early September day, but here it felt like the midst of winter. His water arrived, complete with ice cubes – an American idea. He gave the waitress a withering look. Not taking the hint, she left as he noticed his old friend enter the room.

      Dudka smiled broadly and held out his arms, shook Leonid’s hand, and then embraced him. ‘My dear friend. How good it is to see you!’ He meant it; he loved Leonid like a СКАЧАТЬ