Cold Blood Read Free

finished his yogurt and dressed in his running gear. Be it Saturday or not, he would not allow himself to miss a run. It was a rule that he had learnt in the SAS and one that he would not forsake now that he was a civilian.
    Snow took the steps down to the ground floor to warm his leg muscles before starting his ritual of stretches in the street outside. It was just after eight a.m. and later than he normally ran but as it was a Saturday there were fewer people up. Running was something that had become second nature to him, it helped clear his mind. He ran most mornings although this was tough in the Ukrainian winter with an average temperature of -10. It wasn’t the cold that made it difficult, but the ice. Walking up and down the city’s hills was treacherous and running became suicidal. Thus far Snow had found the solution by running around one of the city’s central stadiums; either ‘Dynamo’, home to the famed football team or ‘Respublikanski’, built and used for the 1980 Moscow Olympics. The fact that both of these were open to the general public was another Soviet legacy that he embraced.
    Satisfied that he’d stretched enough, he moved off at a steady pace. He ran down Pushkinskaya until he hit Maidan. Dodging the stall holders setting up their kiosks, he then pumped his legs up the steep Kostyolna Street. Cresting the hill he entered Volodymyrska Hirka Park. The morning air had not yet become dusty and a breeze blew in from the Dnipro River below. He was taking his weekend route, as he had nowhere to be in a hurry. Reaching the railings overlooking the river he turned left, following the footpath. The park followed the river until it abruptly ended at the mammoth Ministry of Internal Affairs headquarters. As Snow ran past the building and towards the British Embassy in the adjoining street he once again was taken by the sheer size of the place. Looking much like the Arc de Triomphe but, he estimated, larger, the Ukrainian government building was not on any international tourist ‘must see’ lists, but he made a point of staring none the less. It was one of the many things that made him want to stay in Kyiv.
    Snow had grown up with a love for the unusual. His father had been the Commercial Attaché for the British Embassy, Moscow, in the mid to late eighties. As such Snow had been at the Embassy School there for much of his formative adolescent years. The upshot of this was that Snow’s Moscow-accented Russian was all but flawless. Ignoring his parent’s protestations to go to University, he joined the army immediately after his A levels. Turning down a chance at officer training he completed the minimum three year service requirements before successfully passing ‘Selection’ for the SAS. He’d wanted to be a ‘badged member’ ever since seeing the very public, ‘Prince’s Gate’ (Operation Nimrod) hostage rescue at the Iranian Embassy as a nine year old in 1980. His parents had laughed it off and bought him a black balaclava and toy gun, but as the years progressed Snow’s desire to join only increased. Then he was in. His boyhood dream fulfilled and although begrudgingly, he knew his parents had been a bit proud. Then it all went wrong.
    Snow slowed to a walk as he entered Andrivskyi Uzviz. The steep cobbled street lined with souvenir stalls, art galleries and bars had the ability to break an ankle of the unwary. He descended the hill. His right thigh had started to throb. The sensation always brought back memories of the accident in Poland of the unbearable pain he had felt, pinned to the back seat of the car unable to move, unable to reach for a weapon, to defend himself. The sound of flames and the vicious scent of petrol filling his lungs. Then the face, the serpentine eyes that looked into his and pronounced sentence upon him.
    Snow shivered in spite of the warm morning air. After the accident the doctors said that he would always walk with a limp, that the bone would be weakened and