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Lesukov’s eyes glinted; he had anticipated this. ‘I will give you ten per cent of each shipment that passes successfully into Ukraine.’
‘Thank you. While that is a good offer, my friend, can I ask if you find it easy to export your “goods” from Ukraine?’
Lesukov paused and in that millisecond confirmed what Bull had expected. ‘They are squeezing me from both ends. At one end I have the SOCOL and at the other border guards, customs officials who will not accept payments and…’
‘Thirty per cent, Ivan.’
‘What?’
‘Thirty per cent and I take care of imports into Ukraine and exports out of the territory.’ Bull folded his arms.
Lesukov scratched his nose. ‘My margins are not that high, Tauras. I can give you twenty.’
‘Twenty-five per cent and we can start today.’ Bull held out his right hand. Lesukov momentarily paused then grasped it with his own.
‘Deal. But you will not start today. Today we have a little fun, eh? I know an interesting club!’ He refilled the glasses and then placed a call on his office phone.
This time Bull made the toast. ‘To business.’
They drank. There was a knock at the door; Lesukov beckoned a young man into the room. ‘Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Arkadi. He will take you to the hotel.’
‘Zdravstvyite.’ Arkadi Cheban greeted both men in Russian as he shook their hands. ‘This way, please.’
Lesukov regarded his two comrades as they were led down the steps and out of the factory. He had once been a Spetsnaz warrior himself, but now – he held his considerable gut – he was the director of a chair factory. Officially.
Regus Business Centre, London, UK
The City Chamber of Commerce and Industry pre-mission briefing for the forthcoming Trade Mission to Ukraine was held at a Regus business centre in Central London. The fourteen participating companies had, in the main, sent their representatives on this wet July day. Alistair Vickers was one of the first to arrive and had taken a seat, as befitted a man from the embassy and official guest speaker, at the head of the long oval table. To his right sat Nicola Coen, the mission leader who would be accompanying the group to Kyiv. On her right sat the official mission travel agent, Wendy Jenkins from Watergate Travel. Vickers had made a joke about the company name but, in Wendy’s case, it had been heard by ears that hadn’t understood. Nicola had smiled and looked down at her papers, not wanting to make fun of her ‘travel management provider’.
The seat to Vickers’s left was empty and reserved for the other guest speaker, Bhavesh Malik. Vickers had met him once before and on that occasion he had also been late. He picked up his copy of the handouts that accompanied the briefing and read the information about Bhavesh’s father, Jasraj, which had been lifted from the company’s own unapologetic website:
‘NewSound – a success story! At the age of fifteen, Jasraj moved to the UK – East Sussex, Portslade, in fact – to work for his uncle’s hearing aid dispensing business. But by twenty-one, ‘Jas’, as he became known to all his friends and customers, was qualified as an audiologist and set to work designing his own aids. These were some of the first BTE (Behind the Ear) models to go on sale in the UK! Now, after forty-seven years of hard work, Jas’s front-room workshop has turned into three manufacturing plants in the UK, Pakistan and Ukraine, producing high-quality hearing aids and covert listening devices.’
Vickers skipped the more self-congratulatory bits and focused on the part the missioners had come to learn about:
‘…Opened in 1999, the Odessa manufacturing site is based in what was formally a top-secret Soviet telecommunications plant. Initially aided by European Union money and taking advantage of Investment Zone status granted to the area by the Ukrainian government, it soon started mass production…’
Vickers replaced the handout on the table and picked up the mission brochure detailing the various British companies ever-hopeful of selling their particular brand of goods into Ukraine. These companies included, among others, a manufacturer of industrial chemical metering equipment, a management training consultancy, a nickel alloy welding supplier, a pharmaceutical manufacturer and distributor, a language school, a giftware company and, much to his amusement, a Savile Row tailor.
Looking around the room he saw that most of the missioners had now arrived and were just waiting for the final two to finish pouring their coffee and deciding which biscuits to put on their saucers. The tall double doors opened and in stepped Bhavesh Malik. He smiled at Nicola and Vickers and, after placing his umbrella in the stand and brushing the rain from his lapels, took his place.
Nicola started the briefing. ‘Thank you all for coming today. I know that, for some of you, London isn’t the easiest of places to get to. As you’ll see, each of you has a briefing pack which includes our itinerary for today, the proofs of the mission brochure, and copies of the information Wendy and I will be giving you. But first I want to start by introducing our two guest speakers for today. Alistair Vickers is the commercial attaché at the British Embassy in Kyiv. He’ll be giving a business overview of Kyiv and the rest of Ukraine.’
Vickers smiled and looked around the room, finding a sea of expectant faces.
‘Bav Malik is managing director of NewSound UK and his company is somewhat of an export success story. He’ll be letting you in on the secrets of how to make your business work in Ukraine. But first to practical matters, Wendy here, who I believe most of you will have spoken to on the telephone, has some good news. Wendy?’
Wendy unfolded her arms and opened an envelope; her accent, much to Vickers’s chagrin, was estuary English. ‘I’m happy to say that Air Ukraine International has now confirmed your seats and sent me the tickets. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve managed to get you all complimentary access to the business lounge at Gatwick and on your departure from Boryspil Airport.’
Vickers sipped his tea and listened as Wendy handed out tickets and, together with Nicola, went through the travel itinerary. These were the usual points that needed to be clarified, but Vickers didn’t know why he had to sit through it. Nonetheless he pretended to look interested and not stare at the clock, its hands moving ever so slowly, at the opposite end of the room. The technicalities over with, the floor was his. Vickers delivered the prepared FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) statement on Ukraine, told the story of the country since independence in 1991, and gave an overview of the investment climate, current government and, of course, the inherent risks of doing business in an emerging market. ‘I am now happy to answer any questions you might have.’
‘I saw a lot at the time about the Orange Revolution, in the press and on television.’ It was the language-school rep – or Director of International Studies, to quote his mission entry. ‘What do you think will be the long-term outcome of this and what will be the impact?’
Vickers nodded. He, of course, had two opinions on this: the official HM Government line and his own personal one. He decided to live dangerously. ‘As I’m sure you must be aware, the former president had been in power for two terms so couldn’t sit for a third. More reforms were needed and the new government promised to introduce these. The new president, Victor Yushenko, was a former prime minister and head of the National Bank of Ukraine. His party came to power representing reform and I believe that’s what got the people’s vote. The main rival candidate for his presidency, you’ll remember, was the then prime minister, Victor Yanukovich. He was being backed by the then president.’
‘Leonid Kuchma?’
‘Yes, Kuchma. When Yushenko got elected, he wanted to form closer ties with the West; however, that was over a year ago. In the recent parliamentary elections, Yanukovich gained the most votes and now he’s prime minister once again. He, it’s fair to say, would rather strengthen ties with Moscow.’
The Director of International Studies raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think the parliamentary election was rigged like the first presidential election was?’
Vickers realised he was on thin ice. ‘I can’t comment on that. I think the electorate might have expected change to come too fast. Perhaps that’s why we now have both Yushenko and Yanukovich, as it were, “in power”. This, however, is only my opinion. The reforms are still going through and so far the business environment has seemed to improve. Yushenko, at least, is working hard to attract foreign trade and investment.’
The next question came from the pharmaceutical rep. ‘In other markets I’ve visited there have been counterfeit versions of my company’s products. Is this likely to be the case in Ukraine?’
‘Ukraine is not yet a member of the World Trade Organisation but is hoping to join. It’s quite common to see pirated DVDs, CDs and some fashion items in the open-air markets. There are imported medical products from the subcontinent which have been investigated. There are, however, many international brands trading in Ukraine and they’ve not reported any serious problems, either to myself or the Ukrainian Chamber of Commerce. But that’s not to say some counterfeiting doesn’t exist.’
The pharmaceutical rep made a note on his pad. The last question came from the gift company’s export sales manager: ‘Do you like living and working in Ukraine then?’
Vickers looked at the round-faced missioners and felt awkward. He really did like Ukraine but found it hard to put into words. ‘I do. Kyiv’s apparently got the highest number of chestnut trees of any European capital city, hence the city’s leaf emblem. In May especially, when the trees bloom, the city is full of life. There are lots of parks and the old architecture makes it quite picturesque. I really feel it will be an important European city within the next ten to fifteen years. But no “Easy Jet” yet!’ He was proud of this joke and it drew a couple of smiles.
It was then the turn of Bav Malik to talk about his company and how, as per the handout, it had taken advantage of a tax-free investment zone and set up a factory near Odessa. He spoke at length about what they had done and how they had done it. This elicited quite a few questions from the assembled party. Finally, the formal part was over and light refreshments and wine were brought into the room. Some of the missioners rushed back to their offices to complete their day’s work while others lingered to chat, quiz Nicola and enjoy the complimentary Chardonnay.
Bav cornered Vickers with a glass. ‘That went well. I see you didn’t mention the cheap beer as the reason you like Ukraine then?’ He sipped his free wine.
‘I prefer the cheap vodka,’ countered Vickers. ‘I thought your father was going to be here?’
‘He couldn’t make it. He had some meetings in Odessa to attend so he deputised me.’ It was Jas Malik, father to Bav, founder and chairman of NewSound, who was actually responsible for the success in Ukraine and many of their export markets. Bav, at thirty-seven, had followed his father and would eventually become ‘chairman’; his cousin in Pakistan would then be the MD.
‘Do you get over to Odessa much?’ Vickers knew the answer but had to say something.
‘I didn’t used to but now they’ve scrapped the whole “visa” thing it’s a lot easier. I can just hop on a plane.’
‘That,’ said Vickers, ‘is the most positive thing the Ukrainians have ever done for tourism. It was originally for the Eurovision Song Contest. Did you see it?’
Bav smirked. ‘Not quite my cup of tea.’
‘Really?’ It was Vickers’s.
He let his mind wander back to May the previous year. There had been a real carnival feel to Kyiv, even more so than usual. Vickers had walked along Khreshatik with a broad smile on his face. Closed to traffic every weekend, the boulevard had become a huge pedestrian zone. This was one of the only edicts of the former President Kuchma that had been welcomed. Street entertainers juggled balls and bottles, comedians told anecdotes, tented bars had appeared like mushrooms overnight, and couples strolled from end to end. Many people still wore the orange of the revolution and the new president.
He, however, could not take full credit for the high spirits. That honour was shared with a raven-haired local singer called Ruslana, who, thanks to a very athletic dance routine, had won the 2004 Eurovision Song Contest for Ukraine, bringing the following year’s contest to Kyiv. The United Kingdom was in the finals, as of course was host nation Ukraine, with the Orange Revolution’s protest song Razom nas bagato – ‘together we are many’. The song had been sung nightly in Independence Square by thousands in subzero temperatures the previous December to vent national outrage at the ‘rigged’ election results that had temporarily put Moscow-backed Victor Yanukovich into office.
By May 2005, with Victor Yushenko having been fairly elected, the Eurovision in town, and the world’s media focused on them for positive reasons, the population felt huge pride in being Ukrainian. For several days the contestants had rehearsed by day and partied at night, giving impromptu concerts in local bars and clubs to the ever-grateful Kyivites. Vickers loved the Eurovision and had done so for as long as he could remember. His mum had been a fan of Cliff Richard but he preferred Bucks Fizz. This was a secret he didn’t care to share.
Brought back to the present, he looked at his watch. ‘I’d better thank Nicola.’ Vickers held out his hand. ‘It was nice to see you again, Bav.’
Bhavesh shook his hand. ‘You too, Alistair.’
Vickers left the businessman and crossed the room to where the diminutive girl from Yorkshire was making small talk with several middle-aged men. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must say goodbye to Nicola.’
Nicola looked up at the tall, thin figure and shook his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. ‘Thank you ever so much.’
Vickers bowed slightly. ‘Delighted. No trouble at all.’ He left the business centre and took a cab to Vauxhall Cross. He had another, more important, meeting to attend, this one with HM Secret Intelligence Service.
Chapter 2
Offices of the Directorate for Personnel, Moscow Military District, Russia
The two high-ranking officers from the GRU listened to the sound of boots approaching at a steady pace along the wooden-floored corridor. The colonel took the file the major had given him and looked once more at the release form. He shook his head in dismay. In Soviet times he could have refused point-blank to let such an outstanding young officer go, but this was the new Russia and times had changed. Now a skilled man such as this could earn hundreds of times his current salary in the business world. Russian Military Intelligence couldn’t keep him if he didn’t want to be kept, and that was the harsh reality of the ‘new Russia’.
The doors to the cavernous room were opened by a low-ranking aide and the guest was let in. He drew nearer to the desk before coming to attention and saluting his two superiors.
The colonel returned his salute. ‘At ease, Gorodetski. Please sit.’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The young officer sat in the indicated chair.
There was a long pause while the colonel looked at the form again, then at the man sitting in front of him. ‘You are at the end of your second tour of duty, Captain. You have achieved much.’
‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’
The older man furrowed his brow. ‘You are still young; you have an extremely bright military career in front of you. One day you could be sitting here, and have these…’ The colonel indicated his rank bars. ‘So, that makes me ask why. Why do you not want to extend your duty?’
Sergey Gorodetski looked first at the colonel and then at his major, the man he had originally given his release form to. ‘I am grateful for what the Russian Army has done for me but I now wish to pursue other interests. I have been offered an opportunity—’
The colonel snorted and cut him off. ‘This is your opportunity, Captain.’
Gorodetski continued. ‘With respect, Comrade Colonel, I have something I must do.’
The colonel was not moved. Before him sat a rare breed of soldier, the ‘intelligentsia’ of Spetsnaz. With his supreme language skills he could pass for a foreign national and was also deadly with a Dragunov sniper rifle. ‘I knew your brother. You are better than he was.’
Gorodetski nodded. He didn’t know how to take this comment. His brother, too, had been a Spetsnaz officer but he had been killed in Afghanistan. The colonel continued, ‘You have made your family very proud and upheld your brother’s name. But you can do so much more. Will you not reconsider your decision?’ He didn’t like to plead but damn it; this man was one of the best he’d ever seen.
Gorodetski shook his head slowly. ‘I have made my decision, Comrade Colonel. I am sorry.’
‘A Spetsnaz officer should never be sorry.’ The colonel held out his hand and the major passed him a pen. He cast one more look at the young officer before signing the form and marking it with the official stamp. All three men stood. The colonel handed Gorodetski the papers. Gorodetski saluted and left the room.
‘Fool,’ muttered the major.
‘Exactly the opposite,’ replied the colonel.
Horley Community College, Horley, UK
‘My dad says all the French are poofs,’ Danny Butterworth stated to the class of fifteen-year-olds.
‘Sam knows French, don’t ya, Sam!’ added his comedy partner, Dale Small.
Samantha was busy reapplying eyeliner and didn’t look up from her mirror. ‘Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?’
‘Everyone has, you slapper!’ Dale shouted.
At the front of the class, Arnaud took a deep breath. ‘That is enough!’ He slammed the French textbook on the desk and glared at the offending class members. ‘I have asked for silence and I will not ask again!’ A hand went up at the back of the class. ‘Yes, Danny?’
‘Which page we on, mister?’ Danny replied with a cherubic expression.
Arnaud paused and inwardly sighed before answering. ‘Page sixty-nine. Le Weekend.’
There were sniggers around the room. ‘That’s when Sam does her French, sir – at the weekend,’ shouted Danny across the classroom.
‘Twat!’ Sam put down her compact and raised her middle finger.
‘Stand up.’
There was a pause and Sam, a heavily made up girl, her hair streaked bleach-blonde, stood up. Arnaud looked her in the eye she held his gaze. ‘Wot?’
‘What do you mean, “wot”?! I will not tolerate that kind of language in my French class!’
‘But it is French, mister,’ shouted Dale
‘And she is a slapper, sir!’ added Danny.
Sam threw her textbook at the two boys. ‘Wankers!’
‘Get out. Just get out.’ Arnaud was turning red. Unbelievable, unbelievable.
Making as much noise as possible, Sam pushed her table away, scooped up her bag and left the room. Slamming the door, she added, ‘I am twatting going!’
Danny and Dale looked at each other, Danny raising his right fist and Dale hitting it with his own. They were enjoying this, their weekly game of wind up the ‘gay teacher’, made all the better if they could also piss off Sam Reynolds. Danny leant back in his chair and put his feet up on the table and Dale opened a can of Coke. Arnaud, facing the whiteboard, was oblivious of this and continued to calm his breathing, writing the page number, date and title in his neatest handwriting. He would report this behaviour once the lesson was over; Sam was already on report and would be internally excluded for her outburst. Behind him the noise level in the class started to grow. He was about to turn around again and give them another telling off when suddenly it stopped.
‘Put your feet on the floor, and you… put that can in the bin.’ The man at the door looked at Arnaud, a stern expression on his face. ‘Let me know the names of the ones who’ll be picking up litter at lunchtime.’
Arnaud returned with an equally stern face of his own, ‘Will do, Mr Middleton.’
Middleton nodded, glowered again at Danny and Dale, and shut the door. Outside he could be heard shouting. Arnaud let out a sigh, sat at his desk and opened his book.
‘Le weekend. Can anyone tell me what that means in English?’
The remainder of the lesson was only slightly less chaotic. Sam returned after having been spoken to by Middleton and sat solemnly at the front, refusing to work and doodling, while Danny and Dale were quiet because they were listening to their iPods. In fact, the only pupils working were the six on the front two rows. At ten-fifty the bell sounded and there was a sudden mass exodus. Chairs were left upturned and books lying on tables. Arnaud sighed heavily and made a note on Sam’s report. She looked at it and then at him with a face full of hate, before she, too, left. This wasn’t what teaching was meant to be like. He bent down to pick up a sweet wrapper and got a handful of sticky chocolate for his trouble. He wiped his hand on a piece of A4 paper and collected up the French textbooks.
Twenty minutes for break, then another two hours until lunch, and finally a free period for lesson five. Unless they gave him another cover! Two more Year Nine classes and then a bottom-set Year Ten. Now he knew why the government had paid him to train as a teacher! Still, he was nearly at the end of his NQT year and would be a fully qualified, respected teacher in September.
He shut the door and locked it behind him. Instantly, he was banged into as pupils pushed past in an attempt to get to the canteen and gorge on junk food as soon as was humanly possible.
He had grown immune to the knocks now. Arnaud had been at Horley Community College for almost two years, first as a student, when he was given easier classes, and then as an NQT – newly qualified teacher. The school had offered him a job and he, like a fool, had accepted it. ‘Best to work in a difficult school – baptism of fire, as it were,’ his mentor had told him. Yeah, right. At least it was a nice day outside, which was probably why the kids were so fidgety. He couldn’t blame them. Who would want to be inside concentrating on French grammar or asking how much for a kilo of pommes when, just through the window, the summer had truly arrived?
One more week, he kept telling himself, and then the summer holidays and unemployment. Well, not quite. Having given a term’s notice, his contract would finish at the end of August and the school had said there would be supply work for him if he still hadn’t found anything. Supply work, in Horley? He laughed to himself as he entered the staffroom; Beirut sounded safer.
Arnaud sat wearily in the worn easy chair that occupied the corner of the room. Around him, teachers scurried to get as much coffee as their break would allow. He spotted the sexy blonde student teacher he’d seen on the train and wished her into the vacant seat next to him. It didn’t happen. She sat between two fit-looking men in shorts. P.E. teachers! Puh! He sipped his hot coffee and burnt his tongue. Bugger.
‘Heard any more about that job you applied for?’ the Head of Foreign Languages, Richard Middleton, asked as he sat down heavily.
‘Not yet.’
‘Kyiv, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He moved his tongue inside his mouth, feeling the burn.
‘Ah, did you know that Kyiv is the birthplace of modern Russia?’
‘No.’ Arnaud turned in his seat.
‘Kyiv-Rus was the original capital of Russia almost a thousand years ago, long, long before the Tsars, the Bolsheviks and the Communists popped up. Back then it was populated by nomadic tribes.’
Arnaud was impressed. ‘Did you study Russian history at uni?’
Middleton smiled. ‘No. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.’
Odessa Oblast, Ukraine, near the Transdniester border
Bull looked through the kite sight. Nothing yet. He and his Brigada were watching and waiting. If all went to plan, this would be the first step. He shivered in the cold of the pre-dawn. It brought back memories of a lifetime ago…
The chill of the Afghan night had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the weak warmth of dawn. In the half-light, the poppy field stretched ahead of them and west on the valley floor. A beautiful flower to some, but to others as deadly as any bomb. To the east, the unnamed village with its ramshackle huts. Bull lowered his binos and rubbed his eyes.
His Spetsnaz assault group had been given specific orders: attack the village, eliminate all Mujahedeen, burn the poppy crop. His men, the true elite of the Red Army, were ready. They lay prone on the ridge, waiting. To Bull’s left and hidden in a dip, Captain Lesukov’s fire-support team had their mortars ready; to his right were Lieutenant Gorodetski, Sergeant Zukauskas and the rest of the Brigada. The plan was simple, brutal and effective. Lesukov’s men would commence shelling of the village, and then Bull’s team would move from house to house, picking off anyone and everyone who survived. Intelligence supplied by a local informant had said the village was a sham, nothing more than a base for Mujahedeen fighters and Arab Islamic mercenaries to grow and distribute the death that came from the poppy in the field. The Red Army could not let this continue in a ‘partner state’. Hence the unequivocal orders. Bull looked at Lesukov. ‘Start firing your mortars in two minutes.’
Lesukov nodded. ‘Good luck.’
Bull smiled. ‘Ivan, we are Spetsnaz. We make our own luck.’
Bull’s men moved silently over the ridge and into the valley. Thumph. Thumph. Mortar shells whistled through the sky. There was sudden movement from the village. A robed figure appeared and looked directly at the ridge. He yelled, raised his rifle and fired into the sky. As he did so, an explosion tore the very earth from under his feet. More shells landed, flattening the Afghan houses and destroying the beauty of the new day. Then, as abruptly as they had started, they stopped.
Bull’s men now swept through the carnage before them. The dead and dying littered the village; many had been asleep, others in the process of grabbing weapons. Several had fled to the fields and were chased down by rounds not even the fastest could outrun. Bull reached the building he knew housed the village elder. The roof was intact even though part of one wall was now missing. The old man was sitting on a crimson rug in the corner, his henna-red beard specked with dust. His eyes angry, he showed no fear. He waited until Lieutenant Gorodetski had entered the room behind Bull before speaking words of venom.
‘He says it is a trap; that we have all been tricked,’ Gorodetski translated. The old man jabbed at them with a bony finger. Gorodetski continued. ‘He says we are infidels, not men of our word, not men of honour.’
‘Enough.’ Bull stepped forward and crouched. ‘We are men of honour. We did not break our agreement.’ Drawing his revolver, Bull shot the elder in the face.
Shocked, Gorodetski looked down at his captain. ‘Why?’
Pashinski stared at the young officer. ‘He was Mujahedeen; that is all you need know.’
An explosion behind, then another. Bull turned as Gorodetski backed out of the house. On the ridge above, the fire-support team were under attack. Gathering up his Brigada, Bull charged back towards Lesukov’s team. Reaching the ridge, wild rounds whistled past them. Lesukov’s men had been taken by surprise; a group of fighters numbering more than twenty had flanked them from the west. Lesukov fired controlled bursts from his Kalashnikov at the Afghan hordes. Of the team of eight, only he and two others were left.
Zukauskas grabbed a mortar and turned it around to face the oncoming threat; one-handed, he dropped a mortar into the tube and fired. Unsighted, the bomb flew over the Mujahedeen and landed harmlessly, save for an explosion. Securing the tube on the ground, he sighted it while Gorodetski dropped in a new shell. This time the explosion landed just to the left of the advancing fighters. Some stopped, others carried on.
Bull joined Lesukov. There was a grin on Lesukov’s face. ‘We make our own luck!’
‘No. We make it unlucky for them!’
A sound from below brought Bull very much back to the present. He raised the kite sight and saw three trucks moving slowly along the rural road. Shifting his weight slightly he looked to his left and could make out the hunched figures of the militia’s SOCOL Eagle unit further down the incline in front of him. His lips formed a serpent-like smile as he depressed the switch on his covert transmitter twice. Seconds later, his ready signal was acknowledged by three bursts of static in his earpiece.
On the valley floor the lead truck slowed and stopped. The driver stepped out and made a show of kicking the tyre in disgust. The two remaining trucks concertinaed and also stopped. Soon all three drivers were inspecting the ‘guilty tyre’. In the green haze of the night scope there was movement again as a larger but solitary truck appeared on the horizon, heading directly towards the convoy from the opposite direction. It joined them and the driver greeted his fellow truckers warmly and offered his help and advice.
As Bull had hoped, the stationary convoy made too good a target to pass up. The armed members of the SOCOL appeared on the road below and advanced towards the drivers, weapons up. The second SOCOL group on the hill now stood and started down the incline on a ninety-degree approach to the target. Bull pressed his switch again. SOCOL’s ‘plan’ was going to plan. Here, twenty kilometres inside the Ukrainian border, they would intercept the latest arms shipment and punch a hole in this smuggling route. That was, until…
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