by Tim Heath
She’d handed it to Sasha shortly after he’d kissed her on both cheeks––something she was getting used to and anticipating every time they parted––and he took it from her, thanking her. He glanced through the information.
“Are you certain?” he said, taken aback by what she’d given him.
“Yes, I know. Given what you had said to me, what we wanted confirmation of, I had to triple check. But yes, it’s genuine.”
Sasha stood there silently for a moment, gazing off into the distance as he thought everything through.
“Are you okay?” Helen said after a few seconds.
“Yes, sorry. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you on Friday, okay,” and Sasha turned, jogging once outside towards his car. He had to get back to the team at MI6 quickly.
Russian Federation
Approaching Voting Day
It’d been a frantic three weeks since the initial vote and campaigning had ramped up again. For Putin and Filipov––their teams always in tow––they’d been racing around the country for the second time in a month. Nearly everywhere, despite having covered these cities just weeks before, there were vast numbers of voters now freshly up for grabs. Most areas had at least a third of the voters who hadn’t backed either man at the first time of asking––this was the vote both candidates were desperately seeking while firming up their existing voter base in the process.
Svetlana Volkov was now holding rallies herself, without Matvey even needing to be present. That allowed them to cover two places at once, and she appealed to different voters from those who would naturally favour Matvey.
Both men got airtime, regular interviews and broadcasts going out, and once again it was equal. Never had this happened in a previous election, and Matvey couldn’t have felt happier. It’d been solely his doing.
By the end of that period, the final vote due to take place the following day, everyone involved was exhausted. With so much at stake––the polls had both men neck and neck the entire time––there was nothing to do but give everything to the cause.
In an unprecedented move, both men were to go live in a head-to-head debate on the night before the election. It was expected to be the single most viewed broadcast that year, and one of the most widely watched events worldwide that had ever taken place in Russia before. A final face-off between two heavyweights that it seemed few people could separate or predict which way the election was going to go.
Markets around the world were in a state of flux––as if taking a deep breath, anticipating the outcome while trying to work out, one way or the other, whether it would be good for the globe or bad.
“Citizens of Russia,” the presenter of the show announced into the camera, as the debate went live, “it is my great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight to witness once more, our two candidates, and their final words to you, the people and voters of Russia.” He was speaking Russian, addressing his home nation, though he knew many more millions would be watching abroad.
“Tonight, over the thirty minutes,” he continued, the show’s usual format halved, given the tiredness of both men before what was about to be a huge day, “we will once again hear from President Putin, looking to serve another six-year term, and from Presidential-hopeful Filipov.”
Over the next few minutes, the presenter continued to speak, as if milking the moment for as long as he could, in the limelight for probably the most significant night of his career, before the floor was given to the two men.
Standing side-by-side, Filipov had the height advantage over Putin, which the cameras couldn’t help but highlight. Someone from Putin’s team ran to the production team, and a different angle got used for a time.
“People of Russia, my faithful citizens,” Putin started, his five-minute timer visible for all to see as he walked with his microphone around the stage. “I’m speaking to you on a historic night. Never before have I been involved in the second round of voting, and this event itself has only ever occurred once before. So we are making history together. I’m delighted that as a nation you have turned up in numbers to make your vote count. Over seventy-five per cent of you did that three weeks ago, and I’m here today to ask you all, once more, to take that opportunity tomorrow. I see the fact we are here tonight as a shining example of how open and free these elections are, as they have always been. You have shown the world that you can express your choice in a transparent and fair way, without problem or trouble; and I have heard you. With both the emergence of the man standing next to me and that of third-placed Kaminski, who took nearly the same amount of votes as we did, you’ve voiced your concerns for a change. So I have heard you. You’ve made your point.
“Good people of Russia, I’m here today to ask you for one final term in office. This honour, this Presidency of our beautiful nation, is not something to be taken lightly, nor something that everyone can do. Change takes time in a country the size of ours, and if you give me six more years to complete what I started many years ago, I promise that I’ll leave things in a much better place. Whoever I hand things over to in six years time, will have the chance to build on my legacy.
“It takes a political party to run a nation. I, of course, lead United Russia––I dream that we would be a united people––and I’m thankful to have such an experienced political force behind me, men and women who each day put your needs before governors and foreign nations alike.
“Can the same be said for my challenger? No, it cannot. He does not have a political party; there are no regional offices you can go to when you need something changed in the village or town where you live. If you are thousands of miles from Moscow what then?
“Do you think an actress of the charm and grace of Ms Volkov is best suited for a life in politics?” He had twenty seconds left. “Good people of Russia, I’m asking you to trust me with six more years. Let’s continue what you’ve helped me start.”
The studio lights dimmed for a moment––the indication that Putin’s time was up––but he’d timed his speech perfectly. There was silence. Putin handed the microphone to Matvey, giving him the slightest of pats on the back. Try and follow that one, loser.
“Fellow citizens,” Matvey started, “what you all did three weeks ago gives me hope. Over sixty-five per cent of you did not vote for this man beside me. In the previous elections, that was the percentage of the vote that he received. You have therefore already voted for change. Then have the courage of your convictions and allow me to complete the job.
“When I am elected President tomorrow night, I promise to lead this country in strength. This man beside me mocks the fact that I have no political party––yet that fact only means I can listen to you all. Communist or Environmentalist, it doesn’t matter. And to suggest that this is a weakness is shortsighted.
“There are many things Putin can look back on with some pride. I’m happy to acknowledge that before you all. There is also much blood on his hands. Situations that have been allowed to continue, Russian lives lost, families left suffering. I will not be like that. It’ll be different when I lead this country, and that is what you voted for three weeks ago.
“For those who didn’t vote for Putin but didn’t vote for me, you now have a choice. You’ve already declared you want to change. You backed your candidate because you didn’t want this man here given another six years. Well done. Now see it through. Give me your support in the same way you backed your own candidate.
“What Putin has failed to see, is that brilliant minds surround me. Some of the best political minds over decades came from the business world, as he should well know from his team. You can’t build a business empire as I have without such people. That is what I bring to the table. A proven track record without the baggage of all that has gone on these last decades. Ukraine, Crimea, Georgia, Syria. The assassination of a British agent in London itself.” Matvey looked Putin square in the face at that moment. For a second those watching edged even further forward in their seats, wondering if a fight was abou
t to break out.
“When cancer gets discovered, it needs to be removed. It needs to be cut out of the body and destroyed. People of Russia––here stands that cancer!” and he was pointing at Putin, microphone dropping to his side, the presenter standing open-mouthed, before taking his prompt to continue the show.
Vauxhall House, London––MI6 HQ
Sasha came rushing in through the door to the office, Alex and Anissa turning to see what was the matter.
“You must see this,” he said, dropping the information he had received in front of them both. It showed that Duke’s was owned by Matvey Filipov, and had been in his name for decades.
“Jesus!” Alex let out. “It was him all along! He told me he had no idea where Putin met Price, stating it must have been in the car. All the time he was covering his own back.”
“Do you still think Putin had anything to do with the kill?” Sasha said, having thought it all through on his drive across town.
“I guess not,” said Anissa.
“If Filipov had control of that club, then he knew everything that was going on there. That’s how he knew about Price and Kaminski, that’s why he sent us that information.”
“And that’s how he knew Putin turned up to meet with Price,” Alex added to what Sasha had said.
“Exactly. Filipov saw his opportunity, the chance to silence two men in one hit.”
“Take out Price which would affect the British connection with Kaminski, and then make it look like Putin did it. He must have known we would look into it.”
“He didn’t need to. I asked him about it,” Alex said, “when he called me. He told me he’d found the proof that it was Putin.”
“He lied.”
“Naturally.”
“I guess he leaked the story to the press, too.”
They were all talking over each other but heading to the same conclusion. Matvey Filipov was far more dangerous than they’d ever realised. He had to be stopped.
32
Moscow, Russia
Voting Day
Turnout had indeed been higher than expected. Queues had formed outside some of the more than ninety-five thousand polling stations as, once again, the people of Russia voted for their next President.
Around the world, coverage focused on Russia, with constant updates and continuous online coverage giving viewers any information that came through. In London, the government was gathering for a special meeting. The news from MI6 had just reached them. There was little they could do at that moment until after the vote came in. Assuming Putin would remain in power, they would merely pass him the information and trust him to act on it.
In Washington, the American President was being briefed every half hour with news as it came through. He’d never met Putin since getting elected––rumour had it that there was a connection––but his encounter with Filipov in front of his own home still left chills running down his spine. It took a bully to know a bully. He’d instructed the NSA to do everything they had in their power to make sure Putin got re-elected. However, because the NSA’s link into the Basement had been compromised, influence was no longer possible, though they were not yet aware of that.
It was late in the night when results first got announced. Voting had taken much longer to count this time, given the fact that firstly there were more to count, and secondly that with just the two candidates, and margins so tight, they needed to make sure it was accurate.
As three o’clock that night passed, with no sign of things slowing down anytime soon, Putin had a two per cent lead with results as far west as Yekaterinburg declared. Kazan and Samara were expected anytime soon––cities that had voted mainly for Kaminski in the first round––and it was speculated what type of lead Putin would need before the capital’s vote was declared. Would the cities of Moscow and St Petersburg still mostly vote against Putin, or did Filipov scare them all the more?
By six the next morning the result got called. There were only just over one million votes in it––from a turnout of over ninety-million, a record for a Russian election.
Worldwide focus zoomed in on the presenter now in the middle of the stage of the Moscow studio. He looked tired and was running on coffee, but the announcement of the result was still the highlight of the night, and he would rally for one final push.
“The people of Russia have voted,” he started as if it was Eurovision or a twisted version of X-Factor. “With over ninety-eight per cent of the votes counted and verified, and with fewer votes left than the current difference between the two candidates, we can officially release the results now.” Most people watching added a drum roll of some sort, usually just their pounding hearts as the presenter paused and now moved to a large screen that was apparently about to spring into life with the announcement.
“The next President of the Russian Federation is Matvey Filipov,” he said, the oligarch's name flashing across the screen for all the world to see.
The Menace
The Hunt series Book 5
Character Glossary
Who’s who in The Hunt series––as of the start of this book
MI6 - Alex Tolbert, Anissa Edison, Sasha Barkov (former FSB) Gordon Peacock (head technician), Charlie Boon, Zoe Elliot.
Matvey Filipov––The President of the Russian Federation.
Svetlana Volkov––The ex-wife of Sergej, now Presidential Filipov’s aide. World famous actress and founder of the Games.
Former T10 members - Mark Orlov, Roman Ivanov, Lev Kaminski, Vladimir Popov, Matvey Filipov, Viktor Gavrilyuk, Dima Petrov, Yefrem Fyodorov, Valery Holub, Timur Budny
Former T20 members - Foma Polzin, Arseni Markovic, Rurik Sewick, Akim Kozlov, Aleksey Kuznetsov, Dmitry Kaminski, Motya Utkin, Andre Filipov, Dmitry Pavlov, Osip Yakovlev
Dmitry Kaminski––Losing Presidential candidate.
Anastasia Kaminski––wife to Dmitry, of Belarusian origin.
Lev Kaminski––brother of Pavel, uncle to Dmitry, though raised Dmitry after Pavel’s death.
Sergej Volkov––Billionaire and ex-husband of Svetlana, with huge influence within Russia, though otherwise unconnected to the Games.
The Machine Leadership––Mark Orlov, Sergej Volkov and Lev Kaminski.
Radomir Pajari––elite Russian sniper.
1
The Kremlin, Moscow––Russia
April 2018
Car headlights could be seen from the windows in his office, as traffic backed up across three lanes along the side of the river, the evening rush hour well under way. Matvey Filipov had been in power for just two days and his win in the Presidential vote had yet to sink in. He’d done it, he had got himself into the position for which he had been working tirelessly for the last twenty years. His sacrifices had proved worthwhile.
Now it was time for Filipov to take a firm grip on the nation, a people who had legally handed him the mantle of power, in a land that had spent too long––most of the recent decades, for sure––just drifting. A nation that had lacked the leadership Mother Russia ultimately required. Filipov knew the wait was over.
A knock at the door broke the silence. Filipov had been standing at the window, looking down on a capital that now had turned to him for answers. And he was confident he could deliver.
“Come,” Filipov barked, turning as the door opened, Svetlana Volkov seen ushering in a younger man dressed in full military attire.
“Comrade Pajari, the President will see you now,” is all Svetlana said, stepping back and closing the door. The young officer walked into the room, Filipov already coming forward to shake his hand. This was the young man he’d summoned two days ago within thirty minutes of the election result.
Radomir Pajari––always Rad to his unit, the word meaning happy, willing, in Russian, though his presence was usually anything but happy for his target––took the hand of his President, before being invited to take a seat. Rad eyed Filipov cautiously as they remained in silence for a little while––it was not his pla
ce to speak first, and he did not understand why the President had found the need to summon him personally, either. Rad’s young mind wandered to the unit he’d left behind the previous morning––thousands of miles away in what now felt like another world. It was.
“You had no trouble getting out?” Filipov asked though he had been the one to order the plane to collect Rad from the front line.
“No,” is all Rad replied. He’d always had an inbuilt distrust of politicians, forged in the days it had involved his only father-figure at a local level. That had left the would-be politician with a bullet through his skull, and Rad alone again.
“I’ve been following your career with some interest. Remarkable,” Filipov continued, looking most impressed as he spoke as if he meant it and really knew about the man in front of him. “That week in Georgia was something else, and what you achieved in Chechnya was unparalleled. You come highly recommended.” Filipov had read everything his new administration had on the man sitting in front of him. Filipov was sure there was much he still had to learn.
Rad wanted to ask who had recommended him to the new President––few knew of his role, even fewer were willing to speak about it––but Rad guessed the President was one person with whom they had to share information. He still did not understand why he’d been taken from where he was––a living hell-hole––and was instead sitting inside the President’s office at the Kremlin.