reassured that the SBU are actively working on this disturbing and unfortunate case, and that Director Dudka himself has taken a personal interest. I like Ukraine and like working here. Your country has made much progress towards becoming an investment and business power in the last few years, and the British Government will do all it can to assist in the continuation of this.’ He stood and shook Dudka’s hand again.
Vickers showed the two men from the SBU out into the hall. A minute later, after bidding them goodbye and thanking them again, he re-entered the room to find Macintosh with the plate of biscuits in his hand.
‘Nice chaps; not like the old KGB. I feel they will do all they can.’
‘I’m sure.’ But Vickers was not.
Lingfield, Surrey, UK
A low burble crept into Arnaud’s head. At first it mixed with the last-orders bell in the pub, until he realised it was a shrill electronic note and not the brass ding he’d expected. The busty barmaid who had been ‘chatting him up’ abruptly vanished.
‘Oh, no!’ Arnaud leapt from his bed and ran downstairs to the hall.
Now well into September; and still no permanent job. Arnaud had signed with a supply-teaching agency covering the Surrey and Sussex area. Sometimes he would get a call in the evening asking him if he wanted a day’s work the next day, but mostly they would call in the morning, getting him out of bed and in general giving him a matter of minutes to get to the station and on his way. He had started a routine. Regardless of a call or not, each night he would iron a shirt, make a packed lunch and ready his ‘schoolbag’. His mother was always offering to help, but since he had returned from university and was now living at home again, he felt somehow embarrassed he didn’t contribute enough around the house. The fact that the agency would insist on calling the house phone downstairs rather than his mobile was also irksome. His father had complained on more than one occasion.
‘Hello… hello… hello,’ he said to himself as he reached for the phone in an attempt to get rid of his ‘morning voice’.
‘Hello?’ There was a strange tone on the line. After a pause a voice finally answered.
‘Hello. Is that Arnaud Hurst?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Hello, Arnaud. This is Joan Greenhill from Podilsky School. How are you?’
Arnaud tried to think who this woman calling him at ten past six in the morning might be; then he suddenly realised. Podilsky School, the international teaching job he had applied for. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he replied, slightly lost for words but no more awake.
‘Good, good. Arnaud, I wanted to make sure I got you before you left for work… Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve just remembered the time difference. We’re two hours ahead of you. Oh, dear…’
Arnaud decided to be British and reduce her embarrassment. ‘Not to worry. I usually get up at six-ish to go for a run so I was already awake.’
The voice on the phone replied, ‘Oh, that’s good.’ It then took on a more professional tone. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get back to you sooner. I expect you thought we’d forgotten about you?’
‘Well, I did think the job must have gone to someone else.’ It had been May when he’d originally seen the advert in the TES overseas appointments section, and June when he’d met with the American interviewer in London.
‘Well, as a private school, we did have some staffing issues here, which meant we were unable to appoint over the summer, but I won’t bother you with the details. Arnaud, the reason I’m calling is that I have some good news for you. Your application for the position of teacher of French and English has been successful.’
Arnaud smiled and sat on the radiator in the hall, ignoring the cold metal on his bare buttocks. ‘That’s great news. Thank you very much.’
‘So you accept then?’ Greenhill asked expectantly.
‘Yes, I do.’ Arnaud caught himself grinning in the hall mirror.
In Kyiv, Greenhill smiled and beckoned Snow into her office. ‘I’m happy to hear that. Now, since you applied for the job, our teaching requirements have changed slightly.’
‘Oh?’ Arnaud held his breath. Was there a catch?
‘Well, we originally wanted you for French and English as a Second Language, but now we would also need you to teach some P.E. Would that be a problem at all for you?’
‘No, not at all, I’d be very happy to do that.’ P.E.? Oh, well, at least it was better than maths.
Greenhill beamed at Snow and raised her thumb. ‘Great. I didn’t think it would be a problem for someone as fit as you must be, running every morning. I know it’s quite short notice but can you start on Monday the 2nd of October, in two weeks’ time?’
‘Yes, I can; that’s no problem at all. The sooner the better.’
‘Wonderful. I’m going to put your offer letter in the diplomatic pouch leaving today, so, once it’s posted in the UK, you should get it by Wednesday.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Greenhill.’ Arnaud could say goodbye to Supply once and for all.
‘Call me Joan. Bye bye.’ She put down the phone and looked at Snow. ‘There we are, someone to help you out with your running club.’
‘Good.’
Greenhill continued, ‘As long as you promise to collect him for me and look after him.’
Snow smiled. It would be nice to get another British teacher into the school; he and Joan were outnumbered three to one by the Canadians.
Odessa, Kyiv Highway, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine
The silver 7 Series BMW pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the Maybach 57S, causing Varchenko to spill his cognac. ‘What is this?’ he shouted at his driver as his mobile phone rang.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Valeriy Ivanovich, I mean you no harm.’
‘Who the hell is this!?’ Varchenko threw the remainder of his cognac down his throat.
‘I am in the car in front of you and would like to talk.’
Two men stepped out of the BMW and approached. They had their hands raised to show they held no weapons. In the Maybach’s front seat, Varchenko’s guard unholstered his Glock 9mm as the driver put the luxury saloon into reverse gear, ready to perform a J-turn.
A third man emerged from the BMW; this one had a phone to his right ear. ‘I am getting out of the car and will now walk towards you. Your driver will open the door and let me in. He and your guard will then get out.’
‘Like hell they will,’ Varchenko roared into the Vertu handset.
‘Come now, Valeriy Ivanovich; I am sure you would like to know who killed Mr Malik?’
Varchenko went cold. Were the killers of his business partner about to make contact or were they about to kill him? Impossible, his mind retorted. Did they not know who he was and what he stood for? Varchenko’s curiosity got the better of him and he ordered the passenger door to be opened. By now his guard had called ahead and a backup car was on its way. While the two other occupants of the BMW looked on and exchanged professional glares with his own men, Varchenko was joined by his caller. The man pocketed his phone, calmly climbed into the car and shut the door.
Tauras ‘The Bull’ Pashinski extended his hand, but it was ignored. He shrugged and introduced himself. ‘I am Olexandr Knysh, and I killed the British businessman.’
Varchenko shook in his seat with rage, his face turning