by Tim Heath
Svetlana left the room without saying another word.
Filipov, however, regardless of what he had just suggested, knew precisely where Putin was. He guessed that a man of such resources as Putin might well make a run for it so he had his own satellites watching the Soviet-era aircraft as it made its way south. Had it gone much further, Filipov would have lost visual, but seeing it landing in Syria, he could follow the convoy all the way to the Assad compound. How the West would love those coordinates. Maybe he would just do them all a favour.
Filipov was as yet unclear on what Russia’s attitude should now be towards Syria. Putin had wholeheartedly backed the Assad government, while the rest of the world, it seemed, were arming the opposition. Somehow, in the middle of that, the terrorists appeared to rise, despite both sides fighting them. Assad and his forces had nearly come out on top. Peace might be possible at last. Filipov wanted to avoid a proxy war in Syria between Russia and the West. That would only make a delicate situation even more complicated.
Filipov was due at a press briefing that day on Syria. It was to be his first public statement since taking office, as the nation adjusted to his leadership, after being under Putin’s control for so long. Filipov was also yet to form a government, those who had been sitting in positions of power told to remain while the new President worked out who he wanted to keep. Some, loyal to Putin, had already walked away. Voices were calling the election rigged. Filipov would have to do something about those negative minorities, but for now, more significant issues loomed. He had a speech to write.
8
Press Centre, Kremlin––Moscow
It was standing room only for what was to be President Filipov’s first official address to the waiting journalists. Svetlana Volkov had been warming the place up––she’d been working as an unofficial press secretary, her actual role and title still unclear to the masses, and she’d avoided answering that very question about what she did for the President.
At four o’clock, they ushered Filipov into the room. Camera bulbs flashed as everyone tried to capture every angle of this groundbreaking occasion. For once, Putin had no place at a Presidential press conference.
Filipov had been running through his options with his team, Svetlana included. They’d agreed on a unified approach, Svetlana happy to see consensus in the room. They deemed a less hands-on approach in Syria was best for all. Millions of civilians had already been displaced, and the ongoing support for Assad by Russia had put them into direct conflict with Western and NATO-allies for too long already under Putin. Filipov’s team had urged him that using his first speech to suggest scaling down in Syria, would go a long way to building bridges that had otherwise been burnt over recent years. The statement had been finalised a few minutes later, everything handed to the ever-present Filipov, who had taken it to memorise it. Svetlana had begun the press conference in the adjoining room.
Filipov now stood before them all. The room was silent again though the occasional bulb still flashed. They waited for the first words of his first proper address as President, besides the few comments he’d made immediately after securing victory in the election.
“Good people of Russia,” he started, using an agreed line on which the ink was barely dry, “it is my honour to stand before you as your freely elected President. There are many situations that as President I have inherited, issues that were not resolved––nor could be resolved––by the previous regime. One of these is Syria. It is an issue that has dogged the world, not just Russia, for many years already. Too many years. They have lost many lives.” Svetlana glanced over to Filipov, who’d not missed a word of the speech, speaking from memory now, as he wasn’t reading any more. She glanced at the room, journalists with pens in hand, writing frantically, attentive and engaged. Then his words changed even if those who had written the speech were the only ones to recognise the variation.
“It is my passion to see an end to the conflict in Syria and to make that happen soon. The country needs to see a conclusion to the war that has ripped itself apart this last decade. The people have to return home from right across the region and to start the painstaking rebuilding process, something Russia and the rest of the world have to be involved in. To that purpose, I will tomorrow be deploying twenty-thousand ground troops to help with peacekeeping efforts, and I will vastly increase the aerial support to assist the swift and absolute end to the conflict. Tactical support will be offered via ships in the Black Sea and other units nearby. I repeat: I want to see an end to the conflict in Syria and invite my Western allies to join us to that goal.”
Filipov turned from the watching cameras, not even looking at Svetlana, who had focused on him alone, her mouth slightly open, though no one was watching her, thankfully. Filipov had everybody’s attention. He left the room.
In the next door office, there was silence. The President had gone entirely against the consensus they thought they had made just fifteen minutes before. Svetlana was the last to join them in the room.
“Well?” he asked as if asking for feedback on a shot he’d taken at the eighteenth hole.
“You’ve just agreed to ramp up military conflict in Syria, not to stand down!”
“I know it’s not what we discussed,” Filipov said, not sure why he was having to justify himself, but if they could learn the lesson at this early stage, that he would do whatever he thought he needed to do, then it would save them inevitable disappointment. “But I took your thoughts and didn’t feel I could run with that. Left to itself, Syria will continue to fight its little civil war. We can end it.”
“By obliterating everything there?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“And Assad?” Filipov had said nothing about Assad in the press conference, but it was undoubtedly the most urgent question. Filipov had just invited the world to join Russia in seeking an end to the conflict, and yet under Putin, the ending differed from what the West wanted. For Filipov, Putin’s presence with Assad made it even more opportune. He could do away with one threat while bringing an end to military conflict inside Syria.
“It’s time for a change in that nation. I don’t think we can stand behind Assad anymore.” Filipov turned and left the room, his team of advisers stunned by what their President had just said.
News outlets around the world were picking up the clear one-eighty that Russia was now taking regarding Syria. Some even praised Filipov for having made a move.
In London, the government was meeting behind closed doors to discuss what it meant to the ongoing operation. Did Russia know where Assad was hiding out? Would the new President let on, or did they need to follow his jets in and see where they bombed?
Right across Europe, the region second most affected by the refugee crisis after the countries bordering Syria, the news was met warmly that an end to the conflict was on the table. A few were raising the question, however: that peace talks weren’t being mentioned as the means to that end, but an up-scaling of military force. Protesters arranged a few demonstrations, Russian embassies the obvious targets for the protestors.
The White House refused to comment on the story. For personal reasons, the American President had determined not to work with or deal with the Russians. They weren’t about to give them their open support in Syria even though the implied understanding from Filipov’s words seemed to fit with their agenda. They had been looking to withdraw troops from the region––too many soldiers were fighting on foreign soil, yet another example of previous mistakes by bad administrations. The fact Russia had just said it would increase ground troops made the American stance easier to stand by. Let someone else get their hands dirty. Trump wanted nothing to do with Filipov.
At the Assad compound itself, both the Syrian President and the former Russian president were watching a replay of the speech. Neither man said anything. The growing, unvoiced fear in Assad was now manifest.
“We have to move,” Assad said, Putin just shocked that his nation could apparently
so quickly turn on an ally like that, but then he knew it wasn’t his nation at all. It was solely the country’s new leader.
“He’s using the conflict here to get at me. He must know I’m here. I’ll leave.”
“And where will you go?” It was a telling question. The aircraft that had flown Putin down from Russia was long gone. Syrian jets were otherwise engaged.
“I’m the target, not you.”
“Friend, I’ve been a target of the West for many years. It’s only because you backed me I am still here speaking to you today, and the only reason my country still stands. Those devils would rather have Daesh running this nation than its elected President. So, now we have your nation against us. We’ll manage.” Both knew that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t even a contest. If Russia withdrew their protection, and more than that, aggressively came against the Syrian forces––men they were protecting just days ago––the end would be swift.
“We can’t stay here.”
“I know. I’ve ordered an evacuation.”
“Where else can we go?” Putin had known they had picked the current compound because of its location, local support and global anonymity. Putin was sure, however, that Filipov had got their whereabouts from someone formerly loyal to him. How allegiances changed overnight, it seemed. Getting out was their only option.
Various Locations––Moscow
With the dust now settling on the election result, Filipov wanted to move fast to establish better connections with people in positions of power within Russia. He’d brought in Svetlana for that purpose.
The two had spent time over lunch together at the beginning of his second week. He was tasking Svetlana with reconnecting with all the previous members of her Games and seeing where each man stood.
“And if they aren’t for us?” she asked. She used the word us though they both knew she meant him. Most, if not all the oligarchs would have time for Svetlana. It’s how they viewed their new President that Filipov was most interested in finding out. If they were supportive, getting them involved more would only be good for his chances, and he would give over specific responsibilities to such men. If they were against him, however, that posed another challenge altogether. These men were wealthy, and therefore influential. They held sway in the nation. How Filipov dealt with such people would go a long way to showing how in control––or not––of his new country he was. He determined to make an example of anyone not falling into line.
“If any man is foolish enough to not be supportive of this new administration, you are to let me know and carry on with the others on your list. I will deal with the troublemakers.”
“What will you do to them?” She had a fair idea, having seen his approach to similar matters in his first week in power.
“Svetlana, what you have to remember is that rebellion runs in the veins of some Russians. Our history is littered with revolution and uprising. If I do not stamp down on these men who oppose us, then there will be bloodshed. It might even be our blood. This nation has always functioned best when controlled from the top down. It takes a strong hand to hold this nation together, and I intend to be that strong hand.” Iron fist might have been a more fitting term, and she’d heard that said about leaders in her homeland before. She kept those thoughts from Matvey.
“Very well. I will talk with these men, get them all on side, and report back to you when I’m done.”
“And remember, anyone not on-board with us, I need to know immediately.” She nodded. She would have to work her magic getting them all to agree to be supportive.
Svetlana rose from the table, said goodbye and went to her waiting car, which was to take her to a function happening across the other side of Moscow.
Sixty minutes later she was finally pulling up outside the conference centre. Lunchtime traffic had been as severe as usual. A few members of the press got several shots of the actress-turned-political aide walking from her car and into the building, the doors opened ahead of her by the security guards expecting her arrival. She refused to answer any of the questions from the chasing journalists, which centred on two themes––her relationship with her husband, Sergej, and what she was doing for President Filipov.
Inside the building, Svetlana was greeted warmly by Roman Ivanov, a man worth nearly $14 billion, who after Mark Orlov, had been the next wealthiest former member of the Games.
“It’s good to see you again, Svetlana,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Likewise,” she responded. Roman was one of six men present who had been a part of the Games. “Are they all here?” Svetlana had contacted Roman and requested that the seven of them find a small room somewhere private as she wanted to talk to the six oligarchs as a group, and then individually.
“We are ready when you are,” Roman said, turning and leading the way. He opened a thick, soundproof door to a conference room on the side of the building, and allowed Svetlana to enter first. The other five were already inside, and all came to greet Svetlana when she walked in. She went to the front of the room, just like she did when she ran the Games. How she longed for the chance to do something similar again, something Filipov had hinted as being possible, in fact. She still did not understand what precisely he had in mind.
“Gentlemen, I thank you for gathering with me, and I don’t want to keep you long,” she started. “I wanted to address you as a whole, as what I have to say to each of you from the President is the same thing, so it seemed best to do that as a group. I will then chat with each of you afterwards; thank you for your patience with this.” Roman looked around at his fellow oligarchs. He’d still not got used to hearing Filipov referred to as President. Of the five men in the room who had been a part of the T10––Motya Utkin, the sixth man, was T20––only Yefrem Fyodorov had been in the same team as Matvey for that final event. The other four had all been teamed with Lev Kaminski in what had been a losing group. Fyodorov, however, had been the most outspoken against Putin, Filipov and Kaminski during the election, as the only communist in the Games. He didn’t think a billionaire should run the country, despite himself being worth $11 billion.
“Matvey has sent me to offer you all a hand of friendship as he looks to gather around him men who can help him shape this country of ours into a bright new future.” There was a collective sigh around the room. So this was the President’s move. His Who is with me? by proxy. Svetlana ignored the somewhat frosty tone and continued almost without a pause. “As you know, he can’t do everything on his own. The new administration needs men like you, outworking his vision, and pulling in the same direction. Matvey has asked me to meet with each of you––both as a group and in person, which we’ll do in a moment––and to offer you his hand of friendship. He knows that previously, you might not have all seen eye to eye with him, but he sees that now as nothing but water under the bridge, I assure you.”
“And if we say no?” Fyodorov interjected, cutting Svetlana short, the room silent, though keen to hear the answer to the question on all their minds.
“Yefrem, I will chat with each of you after and you can express your opinion then if you wish. If I may continue,” she said, as if seeking his permission to go on, which he allowed her to do with just a wave of his hand, no further words spoken for now. She’d not answered his question publicly, which told the room all they needed to know. “Matvey very much looks forward to working with you all again,” she started, not that he’d worked with most of them in the past. “He has ambitious plans for the country, and these can’t be reached if his key citizens, men like you, aren’t prepared to help him progress. I’m here today to say you have a golden opportunity to come alongside the new President, in this brand new era and help us outwork the vision of a greater Russia. Believe me, you will all be much better off with us, than otherwise. Your loyalty will not go unnoticed, I can assure you. With that, I will not keep you any longer. I would ask for just a few minutes of your time, and I’ll chat with you first, Yefrem, if you’ll oblige me. Gentleme
n,” she said, addressing the other five men, “would you kindly give us two minutes and wait outside, I shall not hold you up longer than needed. You can decide amongst yourself which order you come in,” and with that, she turned to Yefrem, who was standing alongside her now, the other men––worth a collective $50 billion––walking out of the door like a class of schoolboys being dismissed. The door closed firmly behind them, and it was just the President’s right-hand woman and the Communist who remained.
“Do I have a choice?” Yefrem said, his attitude indicative of his tone during her speech.
“You have a choice, Yefrem.”
“You know I can’t side with him.”
“Yet he made you wealthier because of your connection to him during his only T10 event. You must have seen he had it planned all along.”
“Setting a trap is one thing. Filipov played that well. Running a nation is another. Unless he’s prepared to change his policies, I can’t see how I can help.”
“But you are as wealthy as the rest,” she said, not mentioning the fact she was a billionaire herself, though not classed an oligarch, neither was her former husband.
“You don’t think someone can be a Communist and wealthy?”
“All I’m saying is that compared to most, you are already an extreme example of what it means to be a communist. You are a hybrid.”
“Ms Volkov, it is true for many in my party I am deemed not a true believer. They see my wealth, my lifestyle, and they do not accept me. And I have to admit, I am enjoying the trappings of wealth, the luxury that my life has become. But is this the model of how things should be? No, I do not believe it is. Can I live one thing and believe another? Yes, for sure.” She couldn’t help but see the blatant hypocrisy in that viewpoint. No true communist she knew of had ever accepted Yefrem as being one of them. He was apparently on his own even if he couldn’t recognise it himself. He made to leave as if they’d said their piece to each other, meeting over. Svetlana grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him for the time being.