Cold Blood Read Free Page A

that the muscles may not knit back together. They advised that he be taken off of active duty, given a desk or other duties. He ignored them and attempted to defy all medical opinion by pushing himself harder than he ever thought possible. He spent hours in rehabilitation, both with PT instructors and then later on his own. He was twenty-four years old and a member of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment; no one was going to tell him what he could or could not do.
    His effort paid off and the Regiment doctor signed him off as actively fit for duty, no limp, just a scar. However the one thing that Snow has not admitted to anyone, least of all himself, was the mental scar. The nightmares, for want of a more macho term, that prevented him from sleeping and turned him from the jovial troop member into the withdrawn loner. Snow sought professional help and then accepted the truth. He left the Regiment within the year with an honourable discharge, his military career cut short.
    He felt his leg ease as he reached the bottom of the hill and swore at himself for yet again allowing the past, something which he could not change, to ruin a perfectly good day. The sun was now higher in the sky as he jogged through central Podil and headed towards Hydropark, the largest island and park in the Kyiv stretch of the Dnipro River. Perhaps he’d risk a swim?
    *
    Tiraspol , capital city of Transdniester
    Disputed autonomous region of Moldova
     
    The two men embraced like the old comrades that they indeed were. Bull regarded the face of his friend and former Spetsnaz brother Ivan Lesukov. “You have grown fat old man.”
    “And you ugly.” Lesukov laughed heartily, “I see that Sergeant Zukauskas has not changed – you still look like a pig!”
    “That is why the Muslims hated me so much!” Oleg, the barrel-chested Lithuanian winked.
    Lesukov raised his glass and the others followed. “To fallen comrades.” The vodka was cold, having been stored in the fridge Lesukov kept in his office.
    “You have an empire here, Ivan,” Bull congratulated his friend.
    “I am the King of Chairs,” Lesukov replied, spreading his palm at the window which looked out over the factory floor below. “The main industries of our country are furniture, and electronics, but we can’t sell abroad because of those bastards in Chisinau.” He shrugged. “Our products do not carry the Moldovan government stamp and as our country of Transdniester is not recognised outside of its own borders we cannot sell.” Lesukov refilled the glasses. “But I don’t care a shit about the electronics or even my chairs. What I have brought you here for today is to discuss how you can help an old comrade with his export business.” He raised his glass. “To success.” Again the glasses were drained.
    Bull spoke first. “I understand that of late you have been having some logistical problems?”
    “Our ‘friends’ the Russians are understanding if not supportive of our ‘specific’ situation. They let my goods pass freely through the security zone. In fact some of my goods even originate from the weapons they are ‘peace keeping over’,” he tapped his nose with the end of his index finger. “So with the Russians, here in Transdniester, I have no problem. They are good boys. It is the Moldavians to the west and the Ukrainians to the east that I am having problems with.” He balled his fist.
    Tensions between Transdniester and her neighbours of Moldova and Ukraine had been high since Transdniester separatists, with Russian support, broke away from Moldova in 1992 and declared independence. The short civil war that ensued left more than 1,500 dead. An uneasy truce brought about by Russian ‘peacekeepers’ had stabilised the region since then. In a strange turn of events Europe’s biggest Soviet army weapons cache was now to be found not in ‘Mother Russia’ but near the Transdniestern town of Kolbasna and guarded by the two thousand Russian soldiers acting