by Tim Heath
As his plane touched down the following day in Moscow––they’d lost a lot of time with the flight east––the coverage had been given the once-over by his team, who’d worked through the night and were now exhausted. Their bit was done. Matvey, who had managed to take himself off and sleep for a few hours, felt refreshed and alive. The first clip was due to go out within half an hour, catching the early morning news programmes in the west of the country––Moscow and St Petersburg included––and the lunchtime broadcasts further east. By the end of that day––the election itself kicking off on the following day––it would be clear for whom the nation’s favourite actress was rooting.
The news broke as a sensation. Seeing beautiful Svetlana alongside ageing Matvey––the symbolism was quickly drawn about the resemblance to the US President, with his trophy wife––got journalists and bloggers talking nonstop about it. Some were even suggesting there was more to the relationship than purely political. She was single again, was one of the most beautiful women known to Russia, and had previously been married to an oligarch, who many thought had been much older than her. She apparently had a thing for rich men. Might she soon be residing in the Kremlin?
Sergej Volkov was at home digesting the news, dumbfounded that Matvey had pulled her into things. Maybe they’d been too shortsighted in casting her aside so quickly? Was this her way of hurting them now? Of hurting him. Did she know about them? Did she not know anything about the monster she’d just endorsed for President? Probably not.
Sergej called Mark, who was with Lev at the time, and they’d both seen the news.
“I don’t know how he did it, but I think he’s just guaranteed his place in the second round,” Mark said, resigned to the fact they weren’t going to see Matvey immediately eliminated as planned. Entirely who the challenger would be was not clear, it was either Putin or Kaminski, and they’d made the call to back Kaminski before the news had broken connecting Lev with Pavel’s disappearance. There had been no contact since.
Foma had been making a few more appearances, talking up Putin’s chances of remaining for one last push, the man with the best track record, and that the nation should get behind him. Foma then warned Russia about the dangers of a man like Matvey––someone he’d once called a friend. Yet Matvey had held him as a prisoner and then left him for dead when he had thrown Foma the keys to his damaged yacht. Foma had not gone as far as to state publicly that Matvey had tried to kill him, but the implication was there.
As the last day of canvassing came to a close, opinion polls showed that the three leading candidates had percentages in the low to mid-thirties. These numbers suggested that between them they nearly had the entire vote, at least according to what people had told the polls. Polls did have a way of not always revealing the actual truth, as was pointed out multiple times. The two oligarchs’ inclusion in the race had taken voters from both Putin and the Communist Party, the latter candidate the peripheral runner-up, though not even in the running for this election. Predictions that a second round would be needed were being openly reported, something that would happen for only the second time in history. Everyone was still encouraged to turn up and make their voice heard. Doors opened at nine the following morning right across the country, with results expected to start coming through from midday onwards, as those in the east were finishing their day.
29
Moscow, Russia
Kaminski was growing tired of the hotel suite he’d made his base for the final days of the election campaign. If he had to spend another three weeks there, he would need to sort out a more convenient resource.
Solely based in London, he’d sold his properties in Moscow over recent years, and besides the business interests he still retained in the Russian capital, he had nothing else. If he was to win the election––at the outset that had been a reasonable target, though he’d grown tired of the fight the nearer it all got––he would need to relocate to Moscow. At least the job came with its own accommodation.
He was currently alone in the suite. His team were off working the voters, polling and releasing pre-recorded videos, his face going out in a final set of videos which all spoke of the need to change from the dominance of Putin, as well as the fears and danger of using such a change to usher someone like Filipov into office.
Still, wherever he went––be it the videos posted onto social media or interviews given on television––he always attracted a wave of negative comments, bringing to mind his own failings, and his questionable family connections. His mother had thankfully not been interviewed directly on the screen, but was referred to many times––often in very vulgar ways––and Kaminski had merely stopped responding, stopped even reading them.
He’d not spoken with Anastasia for days, the last time being before he flew out from the UK for Moscow. The story had broken in the UK at that point revealing the apparent connection between his own wife and a British spy. Kaminski had not been able to get the name of the spy, yet. His team were trying desperately.
That last encounter with his wife had been a full-blown argument, and more concerning still as Kaminski had walked away from it all, it was apparent there was truth in the story. That had hurt most of all. Not the public exposure and ridicule that brought, nor the damage it might or might not do to his campaign. It was the broken heart it had caused him. He had felt angry when he knew Matvey was making a move against his Banking Union and counted the cost that the financial hit caused him. But he felt jealousy like never before when it came to his own wife being unfaithful to him.
He had just left her there, no doubt throwing her into the arms of her nameless lover. The slut.
However, he still loved her, and that was what hurt most of all. By the time the week was out, was it possible that he would lose both the election and his wife?
His team, somewhat optimistically if truth be told, reckoned he was tied with Putin in second place, with thirty-one per cent of the vote, two per cent behind Filipov. This had been based on figures from a couple of days ago, before the Putin revelation and Svetlana’s endorsement of Filipov. They assured him there was everything to play for still.
Kaminski was quietly contemplating what to do with his uncle, however. Had Lev stabbed him in the back at a time when he was just a boy and had looked to his uncle for strength? Had he been behind it all? Lev’s apparent silence was damning. Surely a man accused of something he didn’t do would make contact with the nephew: what they are saying, is absolute rubbish. I’ve always looked out for you, always loved and taken care of you. It’s nothing but lies, so don’t listen to them, son. I’m here for you.
He was silent. There was nothing. That only proved Lev was guilty.
Kaminski realised how little he knew about so many things he assumed he understood. Anastasia, Lev, and the voting public to name a few. Years ago he’d been made promises, by the British government no less. Nothing official, of course. They couldn’t openly back anyone in a country’s Presidential election. But they were certainly doing that behind closed doors. Kaminski had had unobstructed access to Thomas Price, who was the mouthpiece for the British.
Kaminski had known all about Putin dropping in on Price the morning the DDG got assassinated. He had met with the British agent only minutes after, the man still reeling from the confrontation. Hours later Price was dead. Kaminski believed the reports naming Putin as the perpetrator; he just couldn’t come out and publicly profit from it. To do so might implicate him all the more.
To know his President had been on to him all along, and then everything that had since come out had shown Kaminski a side to life that even a man of his wealth and influence hadn’t realised existed. It both pushed him on to win to see the reform his nation so obviously needed, as well as caution him about what was the right way forward. There were many shadows which he knew little about. If he came up against the wrong one, it might be his life taken from him.
Like a man entering the gladiatorial ring of Roman times, Kaminski n
ow knew what fate awaited him. There was no turning back. It was win or be defeated. He’d played his hand. If that was not going to be enough, he would need to move quickly or face extinction himself.
As the evening before the election came around, Kaminski sat alone on the balcony of his Moscow hotel suite. A patio heater gave some protection against the air temperature, which was in low single digits, but at least it was north of freezing. He was halfway through a bottle of expensive French wine and in a relatively buoyant mood––the polls were tight, yet despite it all, he might still have a chance. He couldn’t help but wonder who he would fare better against in a second round. Against Putin, thus gaining the vast majority of the failed Filipov voters, or going against Matvey himself; the key then would be which of the two oligarchs managed to get enough of the Putin voters on their side.
He would just have to see how the dice fell. There was little more he could do. As he drained the bottle, he pondered the fact that he was even still in the running. Trump had managed to win in America despite the horrendous revelations that had come out in that contest. Kaminski too remained in the running. He’d most probably lost his wife and the relationships with his mother and uncle, but that would matter very little if he could get into the Kremlin. Then he would have the power to correct those wrongs.
Then he would have at least six years to drive the nation forward.
In London, Anastasia was staying in a hotel. She’d not returned to the home she shared with Kaminski since the argument, when she was photographed leaving. Those pictures had told a watching world that all was not well between the couple. Despite Kaminski being out of the country, she’d not bothered to return.
Alex had seen her twice at the hotel in recent days, each time sneaking in through a rear door and up in a service lift, avoiding the vultures camped out in front of the hotel, reporters who were desperate to put a face to the rumour.
Both Anissa and Sasha had urged Alex to have nothing to do with her, that she was a dangerous situation too hot to handle.
Alex understood where they were coming from––if the tables were turned he would surely have been saying the same, probably more forcefully making sure his advice was taken––but it was what it was. He couldn’t leave her alone by herself at a time like that. As messed up as it all was, he couldn’t help but dream of what might be, the hope enough to urge contact, to give her comfort.
He was with her that night. Having made love, an animal passion coming out in her that he’d not seen before, he was showering in the bathroom, when he heard the television come on. Svetlana’s voice could be heard loud and clear.
Alex towelled off, coming out to hear the last few minutes. Anastasia knew only a little about Svetlana. Kaminski had never mentioned the Games to her. Alex watched with interest, remaining silent when the report finished, and the studio moved on to the next story.
“What is it?” she said, coming over and kissing him on the cheek, Alex standing there in just a towel.
“I can’t believe that she would come out and openly support a man like Filipov, the day before the election.”
“Nothing surprises me,” she said. She’d told Alex before that she had chosen to ignore it all, though Alex had told her that wasn’t possible. If Kaminski were to win, she would have to be ready for the inevitable press interest all over again.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do if he does win?” Alex said.
She moved over to the window. The streets looked busy below, people going about everyday life, probably with their own issues but without a world waiting to pounce. It seemed unfair.
“Would it be such a bad thing if he did?” She’d made her views known about Filipov. Kaminski had talked about his fellow oligarch, who’d been at the centre of her husband’s business collapse, a bankruptcy that had driven a wedge between the couple. It was an area to which he never allowed her access. It was the first crack. And then there was Putin, a man few in the West understood, and most feared.
“You’re right, of course.” Alex was tired of it all. He couldn’t escape the feeling that whoever won, going forward, none of it looked good. Too many bridges had been burnt along the way, too many casualties created. Voting hadn’t even started yet. But Alex couldn’t shift his initial impression of Kaminski––the man the British government wanted––or the underhand way they had all gone about it. He and Anissa had been thrown off the investigation into the Games many times by Price, a man desperate to protect his candidate for President. Alex understood that now. And where had that left them all? Where had that left Price? Dead, of course.
Besides, Alex was also having an affair with the man’s wife. Alex could hardly think too highly of Kaminski, though it had never been anything personal, it still wasn’t in fact. It had just happened. He'd been with Anastasia, too involved before he ever knew who she was, long before all the madness started.
And here they were, alone and intimate, the night before the Russian election, Alex sleeping with the wife of one of the primary candidates, their marriage on the rocks. What would the future President of Russia do to the man who was sleeping with his ex-wife? No, Alex couldn’t ever bring himself to contemplate a Kaminski win.
However, who did that leave? Putin for another six years, as he looked to leave a legacy that was certain to involve military conflict before too long. Or Matvey Filipov, a man maybe more dangerous than the lot combined, who seemed able to manipulate and control anyone he wanted, with a deep-lying network of informants that Alex feared they hadn’t even started to uncover. It felt like trying to select a prom date for your daughter from a short list of Stephen King’s horror characters.
He switched off the television, before drying himself properly and then getting dressed. Anastasia remained wrapped in the bed sheet she’d been in for the last half hour.
“Do you have to go? Are you sure you can’t stay the night?”
“No,” Alex said. He was meant to be out buying food. He’d left Sasha two hours before––he knew he hadn’t fooled him in the slightest––watching a game. The match would be over by the time Alex made it home, though at least Alex had pre-ordered, the food ready for when he arrived.
Anastasia did her best to look disappointed but knew he couldn’t stay. She walked over to him as he was putting on his jacket, one nipple visible through the white sheet.
Alex held her tight, kissing her on the forehead, smelling her hair as it engulfed him for a moment.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, pulling away from her, as he reached the door. Checking through the spy hole that the coast was clear, he left the room quickly and headed for the same lift that had brought him up.
Five minutes later he was driving out of the car park. The food would be ready to collect, and he was already ten minutes late. Sasha would be starving.
30
Voting Day––Russia
The polling stations had been open several hours for the first round of the Presidential election. Moscow was due to start their electoral day in an hour. All candidates were in the capital, even the Vladivostok based candidate, where voting had been underway for hours. He was expected to be the first man knocked out of the race, despite his city of residence being one of the first to declare. He was at best only the fourth choice even there.
Putin had moved his centre of operations for the campaign out of the Kremlin, as had become the custom. Like a sports team giving back the trophy that they were defending in the final. It meant the victor in the election always got to physically move into the Kremlin when the results were in, even the sitting President.
If there were to be the second round of voting, that move into the centre of political power in Russia would be delayed a few weeks.
Kaminski was with his team and would remain with them for the entire day. He’d spent enough time alone, and voting day wasn’t one to be on his own with his thoughts. The whole group of people were watching nervously. Exit polls, which were starting to trickle thro
ugh, were keeping in line with what the pre-election polls had stated: a three horse race that was too close to call. It was the all but final proof that this time around the election would require a two-candidate run-off in the second vote.
Filipov was walking amongst his team, which now included Svetlana Volkov. She’d flown in the night before, the stories still gathering pace, and they were pictured that morning casting their votes in a specially opened voting booth, specifically for that purpose. The couple were being observed for any signs their coming together was anything more than a political one, and for their part, they kept their distance.
“Can you tell us how you voted, Svetlana,” joked one reporter as the actress emerged from the government building where the ballot was cast.
“I’m proud to have voted for Mr Filipov, a man I see as the perfect person to lead this country into a golden future.” It was a nice soundbite, but nothing they hadn’t expected. Matvey had been standing not ten feet from her, though he was out of shot, and the pair were seen getting back into the vehicle they’d arrived in, and off they went.
What the polls had also been recording was that while around sixty-five per cent of registered voters had turned up six years previously to re-elect Putin, turnout was even higher this year, as far as they could tell. The number was hovering at just over seventy-five per cent. Analysts were working out what that meant but only the first proper results would give them a more definite suggestion of the trend to follow.