by Tim Heath
Twenty minutes later they had finished the interview. Filipov called through to his secretary. Phelan was given the job, the other candidate who sat waiting for her turn dismissed and sent home immediately. The position was taken.
In those twenty minutes that had followed the mention of Phelan’s birth name, Filipov had told him everything, proving how much he knew about the Irish Devil, and how much those in power wanted to put the man behind bars, for life. There was an international arrest warrant out for the man, though most assumed he was dead, probably long gone. Yet Filipov had the man sitting across from himself at that moment. At no point did the Russian feel in any personal danger. He had men nearby––the first sign of trouble would bring them rushing in––but Filipov had studied the legend that surrounded the former IRA explosives expert. He was a man who could make things blow up, moving on to chemical weapons before vanishing. He wasn’t a man to fight with his hands. Filipov knew he was in no imminent danger, and Phelan was anyway, apparently, a reformed character.
The Irishman now had something so valuable in the life and family around him that he wouldn’t contemplate losing it. Filipov had him.
“Work for me, and this all stays between us,” Filipov had said, as the interview was drawing towards its last few minutes.
“Sorry?”
“You heard me. I could have great use for a man like you in my ranks. A man no longer motivated by a political ideal or by the threat of terror. But a man compelled to keep his past hidden, for fear he would not only lose the wife he loves and the child he adores but will have to spend the rest of his days on this planet behind prison bars for the crimes committed in a former life. Yes, I think we could have an understanding.”
“Work for you, and you’ll make all this go away?”
Filipov paused for thought at that moment before speaking. “Go away? No, I can’t make it go away but it’ll stay buried. No one will know.”
“No one will know, unless you tell them.”
“And why would I do that, Phelan?” They both knew precisely why Filipov might do that, and that would be if Phelan failed to do what they told him. Step out of line, and they’ll all know. However, Phelan knew he was trapped regardless of his choice. He agreed to take the job. At least by working for the man blackmailing him, he could keep his new life. Phelan was a changed man, and the beast he had once been long since fled, he was sure. He would never harm again, and Phelan loved his wife and child. Phelan wanted another child with her, he wanted a growing family. And he needed a job. What Filipov was offering––career-wise, and the starting salary––was everything he’d wanted a week ago, and yet he’d never considered that they would have discovered him in such a way. No one, he thought, was alive who could have connected him to the crimes in Ireland and on the mainland. That meant Filipov had deeper connections than even he had once known.
Phelan wondered how much more Filipov knew about him that hadn’t come up. Did he know about his stash of Novichok-5 still stored away in a nondescript warehouse on the edges of Dublin?
Phelan started the job that same month. Filipov backed off––he had a much larger group to take control of, the firm Phelan was working in only a small part of the UK operation. Phelan didn’t come across Filipov again for some time though the initial encounter had rocked Phelan’s mind for many months. Through the first months in his new career, Phelan often used to wake during the night in a cold sweat, fear that the police were entering his house, weapons raised, dragging him off to prison. That was a bad recurring nightmare. Many other variations followed. Debbie was struggling through nights with their son, Phelan not able to offer much help with his own working hours and erratic sleep. Still reeling from being discovered a few years in, Phelan had started an affair with a woman from the office. That would eventually put Phelan back onto Filipov’s radar, now with something less explosive to control his puppet with. By that point, Filipov had started to outwork his plan for election. He was playing the long game. Get everything into place first and then wait for the perfect moment to strike.
With the Games in full flow, Phelan would have a perfect role to play. Filipov once again entered the Irishman’s life, to disrupt and manipulate him all over again.
14
Rad had spent the entire day watching the house. He had noted the three men inside––Mark Orlov being one. He appeared to be on friendly terms with the other two. Rad didn’t know what to make of the fact Svetlana’s estranged husband was one of these two men.
The chance to take the shot had yet to present itself, however, before a message came through to Rad’s satellite phone. It was from Svetlana herself. Target number two is on his way to Switzerland. You need to stop him getting to the Bank.
Rad swore under his breath, but not taking the current shot was most probably the best scenario. Much as he had tried to think it through, he couldn’t work out how he would get away without drawing return fire. At least Rad now knew the three men connected to the Machine. He could always come back to the area if needed and if Orlov were not otherwise targetable in another location.
Rad packed away his equipment that night, heading out as soon as darkness fell. He would most probably be too late to stop the second target reaching Switzerland, but from what Rad had read about the matter, it was far from a straightforward process to contact the Bank. If he could get there by the following day, Rad was sure he would have a perfect chance to head the man off before any damage could be done.
Zurich––Switzerland
Rad touched down on his morning commuter flight into the Swiss city the following day after being pulled from Siberia. For a man used to flying in and out of situations, even he was feeling the last couple of weeks catching up with him.
On the plane Rad had read everything there was to read up about Foma Polzin, the second name on Filipov’s list of three. Being a former friend, and someone Filipov had worked closely with for a long time, there was much to catch up on about the Russian oligarch who had switched loyalties to Putin just before the election. Filipov’s own actions had been the reason for that betrayal, there was no doubt. Filipov had let his friend sail in an unseaworthy yacht and left him for dead. But Foma had escaped and to Filipov’s horror had announced his survival live on television after the final debate between Putin and Filipov.
Now he’d commissioned Rad to take Foma out.
Foma knew a lot of secrets about Filipov, information that, now that Foma was out of Filipov’s inner circle, could be potentially explosive if it made it to the right people.
Foma knew all these things, a growing list of damning and critical evidence and knowledge, that should he pursue that path, would at least cut Filipov off from the world around him, and at worse make him a wanted man.
More crucial still and something very few people knew about besides Filipov––Foma being one of these people––was this betrayer of the President knowing about the biggest secret of them all. Foma knew about The Bank.
The Bank had been around for over one hundred years though it had come into its own in the years after World War II. A lot of Nazi leaders, those not killed in the finale of the war, had buried treasures deep inside the secluded vaults. No other institution in Switzerland knew about it, and that was what made it special. In a land of supposed pacifists and non-confrontation, there lived a bank, an organisation, that would take blood money and conflict diamonds, that would do money transfers for Third World dictators, First World presidents and all and sundry in between. Over one hundred Russian oligarchs kept most of their money there.
If someone declared it, it would be one of the most asset-rich institutions on the planet. The money they held was for safe keeping away from watching eyes. It wasn’t for open investment, nor for a quick return. It was by nature under the table, off the record, and therefore ultimately safe. Governments had frozen many a tyrant out of dozens of banks as sanctions rained down, and yet because of this Swiss institution, these men and women still had money.
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Few knew the actual whereabouts of the Bank. Those who did were a select group, all trades done through these handlers, as the knowledge of the Bank’s existence would bring into question everything that was happening.
Switzerland, as a nation, didn’t want that kind of attention, either.
Filipov had come across the Bank like he did with a lot of things, by getting wind of something and digging hard. He’d been following moneymen for various other oligarchs over fifteen years before, and they all seemed to meet with the same man, a Jordanian living in Switzerland, yet meeting together in different European nations, most commonly in Luxembourg. It appeared most assumed the Bank itself was in Luxembourg.
Filipov went deep, using his extensive network to pull open everything it could about the secretive world of banking, and all had eventually been revealed. Filipov had forced his way into the small list of people who knew about the place. He’d involved Foma, who would act as his go-between, especially as Filipov positioned himself for power, his run for President starting more than a decade before.
Filipov hadn’t told the Bank that he’d let on their existence to anybody else, but they suspected he had. They regretted bitterly allowing someone of Filipov’s position into their closed world but had seen they had little choice. If the world was to be told about them, it would put them out of business, shut down and no doubt long prison sentences would await them. They knew the money they had stored would never see the light of day. Governments would fight over it, in the shadows, claiming it was theirs.
Money could not be wired in or out, not directly anyhow. The Bank did not exist on any online system, and therefore couldn’t be hacked. It specialised in physical cash, diamonds, gold and any other items of value.
Its design was based on German engineering for battle fortifications, and its vaults went deep into the Swiss soil, far more profound than anyone could have suspected. When the Zurich U-Bahn, the underground train system, was first proposed in the late 1950s, early 1960s, the route would have taken it right through the Bank. Strong opposition was raised––most not knowing the real reason it wasn’t a good idea for the city––and the line never got built. The Bank remained undiscovered.
When Filipov had been there––his only visit in person––he had been surprised even by his standards. A single doorway, in an inconspicuous building, on a generic street. Nothing hinted the depth and volume that existed underground. When the oligarch had finally got inside and down into the vault, he was blown away by the scale of the place.
Part of Filipov had always had an eye on the treasure. And now he was President, he could use that knowledge to get those in power to do whatever he wanted them to do, or they risked losing it all. That was why it was crucial to him to stop Foma from exposing the place. There was no telling what his former friend’s presence in such an area would do to the situation, and with the level of betrayal Foma had since shown to Filipov, it was high time the President sorted out both issues.
15
Kiev––Ukraine
It was in Kiev when Svetlana understood adequately what had been going on. She was there to meet with Rurik Sewick, the only non-Russian in the Games. He was Ukrainian. Rurik had been an outspoken anti-Putin voice following the unrest in his country. The emergence of two oligarchs in the 2018 elections had given him hope that there was a change on the horizon. He didn’t have a vote but had encouraged those he could to get behind Kaminski, and after Kaminski fell, to back Filipov’s name in the second ballot.
Rurik had taken a call from Osip two days before Svetlana’s visit to the Ukrainian capital.
“You know, I might betray his confidence, but you aren’t the only person canvassing me this week,” he said, before going into some detail about what he knew. At least three others had apparently joined Osip and Kaminski in forming moderate opposition though it was too early in the Presidency to know what influence they were having.
“I’m glad you didn’t feel the need to join them,” Svetlana said, once he’d shared with her everything he’d discovered. It had crossed Rurik’s mind, but he was a realist. Filipov most likely had the next twelve years in power, barring a disastrous first term in office and a failed reelection bid in six years’ time. That meant even if there were a viable opposition, it would be over a decade in coming, and Rurik wasn’t getting any younger. Besides, he didn’t fancy the prospect of twelve years with Filipov working against him. It was far better to be seen to support than join any opposition. And Rurik couldn’t help but see Kaminski’s political career was probably already over, despite what Osip might have tried to say.
“It makes sense to join forces,” he said, though that wasn’t the vocabulary Svetlana had used in any of the meetings. These were not partnerships they were forming. These were troops getting into line behind their commanding officer. No oligarch would pull rank and stand level with Filipov. He’d clarified that this wasn’t on the cards. He was in charge and would remain so. That was why he was happy to use Svetlana as his righthand person. Foma, had he continued in the role he’d once had with Filipov, might have wanted more power. Plus, Filipov knew to have the former actress on his team had been good for votes, as well as sticking one to Sergej Volkov. He’d never really liked the man, and far less so since discovering Sergej’s connection to Mark Orlov.
Svetlana thanked Rurik for his time and left as soon as she was able. Once she had learnt that the Ukrainian was on board, her quest was over, though hearing about the small support Kaminski had pulled around him was something new to her. She called Filipov at the first possible moment.
“That’s interesting to know,” he said, though he didn’t sound alarmed. Nothing seemed to faze him anymore.
“You aren’t worried?”
“By those five? Hardly. Besides, I have plenty to keep Kaminski busy. I’ll have him chasing others so much he loses all concern about what happens over here.”
“You have something on Dmitry?” Svetlana had been quite fond of Dmitry Kaminski during the years she’d got to know him. He was nothing like his uncle Lev; Svetlana had seen the allegations that had become public before the election linking Lev to the killing of Dmitry’s father, Lev’s own brother.
“I have everything.” The call ended.
Svetlana knew what that meant for Dmitry and didn’t know what to feel about it now. He had been another presidential candidate, and though she’d only joined Filipov late in the race, she had still thought highly of Kaminski as a man.
Filipov seemed to have a different take on loyalty. Svetlana had seen firsthand what he intended for Foma. His former friend was now a dead man walking. She’d been in the room when the list of three names had been passed to Rad. She knew full well what had happened since. Svetlana knew if she stepped out of line, she would share the same fate as was inevitably about to befall Foma, becoming a former friend, a former oligarch and former Host in the Games. So in agreeing to support Filipov, she’d accepted all that he stood for. If he were about to pull a move against a rival, then she wouldn’t stand in his way. It was just how it had to play out.
Zurich––Switzerland
Rad pulled into a smart-looking hotel on the edge of town. It was the same hotel where a Russian FSB agent had been killed several years before, the bomb damage to the front of the building repaired. No one could now tell anything so severe had ever taken place.
Rad took that information in his stride. It was the world he worked in, and he knew of how quickly it could all be taken from him if he missed something, if he got too far ahead of himself, or if someone was onto him. Rad had yet to sleep comfortably since Hong Kong. Someone had broken into his room though what they were looking for or what they found was not clear. That concerned him the most. Were they still on his tail?
Rad knew he hadn’t been followed to Zurich, but he knew enough about his world, and the people he increasingly found himself surrounded by, to know such people had nearly unlimited resources. There could be a hundred people
on his tail, and Rad would never know about it. He missed the army. There the enemy was clear, usually some general or captain at the end of his scope. The bad guys had guns pointing back in your direction. A battlefield made those lines clear.
In the real world, those boundaries were less noticeable. A friend one day could be the one to stab you in the back the next day. Foma Polzin, the man Rad was in town to kill, was a case in point. Not so very long ago, Rad knew Filipov would never have been contemplating such a move. If Filipov had a righthand man––which he didn’t, not publicly known, anyway––then Foma had undoubtedly been that man once upon a time. Now there was Svetlana.
Rad had travelled reasonably light, his equipment being delivered via courier to the hotel later that day. He dropped his travel bag in the room––a good-sized bedroom, with generous bathroom attached and a balcony overlooking the park––and left the hotel. The man on reception spoke excellent English as expected in such an establishment. Rad thanked him, took the proffered map and set out on foot to explore the specifics he was in town to see. First up was the hotel that Filipov had detailed was Foma’s accommodation of choice for his trip. How Filipov knew about this at short notice, Rad wasn’t sure. He hardly knew the man, and what he knew of such men was to not ask questions. It was always safest that way.
Foma was booked into a hotel not that far down the road from where Rad was staying––it was why he had selected that hotel. The young Russian walked straight into the central reception area, and much like his own hotel, the decor and surroundings were in keeping with high-quality premises.