by Tim Heath
“Sasha, I don’t know why she sent me that message, but I’ll only find out if I agree to meet her. I’ll be careful, I assure you.”
“And I’ll be with you,” Sasha said before Alex interrupted.
“No, you won’t. Neither of you will be. I have to do this alone.”
“Alex,” Anissa started, but he cut her off.
“I’m serious, Anissa. It can’t involve either of you in this. This is between her and me. I need to hear her out.”
“Make her see sense, you mean?” Anissa prodded, angry that once more, and with the same woman, she was seeing Alex jumping in feet first without adequately reading a situation.
“No. Yes. Maybe. Look, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Alex said, talking with his hands as much as he was with his mouth. “I need to know, okay. I need to hear it from her. She owes me that much. If this is why she’s meeting me, to tell me it’s over, so be it.”
“You don’t mean that Alex. I know you,” Anissa said.
“I do. If it’s over, I’ll take it. But only from her.”
Sasha had watched Alex downing drink after drink the last few nights, calling the Belarusian every name under the sun for going back to Kaminski. Alex apparently had thought it was already over, especially with all the coverage the couple had been getting in the press. Now Sasha saw hope in his friend’s eyes once again, and couldn’t help wonder what he would do if he were in the same situation.
“Be careful, okay, and let me know if you need me for anything,” Sasha said, reluctant to give his blessing to his friend’s reckless actions, but seeing he had no choice but to be supportive. Anissa gave Sasha a look as if to say thanks for nothing but soon was also coming to the same conclusion. There was no use fighting Alex on this one.
Alex grabbed his phone and went off to type his reply.
“I hope we’ve made the right call,” Anissa said, turning to Sasha now it was just the two of them. “For all our sakes.”
“A certain Irishman has been in touch with one of our agents recently,” the message went, Bethany May, the DDG, leaving it at that. Filipov would know exactly who she meant. She ended the call to the Russian’s answering service––they never spoke directly, and the box that collected such calls was untraceable. Filipov would pick it up before the day was out; that and another dozen snippets of information that came from similar sources right around the world. Years of investment, years of working with specific people––people with weaknesses, people with secrets––was finally bringing about a considerable return on his colossal spending.
Yet Bethany May knew nothing about the real identity of Phelan. This information––the dirt, the secrets and therefore the power Filipov held on them all––was privileged information, and something Filipov himself only passed on when it suited him.
The Russian had just finished a meeting with Svetlana. Plans were going well. He was on his own when he listened to the message left from a few hours before.
Filipov poured himself a stiff drink.
Pacing around his office, he wondered not for the first time if he’d finally bitten off more than he could chew in the form of Phelan. There was only so far you could tame such a beast before it turned around and bit the hand that fed it.
Filipov typed out a message to Rad. Move on to target number three immediately. He’s become a threat to our personal safety.
Going over to his safe––one of many he had in his various properties––Filipov worked the combination until he heard the familiar click, a sound that always meant so much to Filipov, who lived for his safes, lived for the information and secrets they contained, the power they harnessed. He flicked through the dozen files in that safe and pulled out the one that had Phelan’s name on it. It was much thicker than most. Filipov took out the last three pages, something he’d prepared years before, just in case. Now the moment had come. It was time to cut Phelan loose and let the vultures move in for the carcass.
In the same way he had done just weeks ago with the information about Lev Kaminski and the oligarch’s link to his own brother’s murder, Filipov enveloped up the information he held on Phelan, and once again addressed the package to MI6. They were proving a useful outlet for him, and they’d been swift to act the previous time.
He could only imagine what they would make of this latest revelation.
“Get this to the courier immediately,” Filipov ordered, having called in one of his office staff. Someone took the envelope from the President and in less than twenty-four hours, it would be on the desk of MI6 in London.
The following day, Anissa once more had a document originating from the Kremlin in her hands at Vauxhall House. Alex and Sasha were with her as she opened it. It gave Phelan’s real name––something that initially meant nothing to any of them––before giving a detailed history of the former legend. Clippings and police files listed the crimes accredited to the man at the top of the Most Wanted list for over two decades. It was clear from the information they had never caught the man responsible, his identity unknown. A quick search seemed to suggest most thought someone had killed him, ending his reign of terror on British forces.
The most recent link connected Phelan to the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Salisbury.
The three of them were speechless as they finished reading the information. Anissa was already on the telephone.
“I need to see the Deputy Director,” she said, once connected to the DDG’s secretary. “It’s urgent.”
Two hours later, Anissa had finished explaining all someone had sent them that morning, Bethany herself holding the information. The shock of learning about Phelan was mixed with something Anissa couldn’t figure out.
“I was in on the Cobra meeting the other week. There is no question that the same substance, known for years to have been connected to this IRA terrorist, was found at the scene of the Salisbury attempted assassination. This information reveals the link to Moscow, and finally the identity of the man himself. And you’ve met this man, you said?” Anissa had said that, confirming she’d met with Phelan twice. Now Anissa realised she never even knew the danger she was in.
“Yes, before the election, he came to me.” Anissa would not say she’d had a call from Phelan two days before. The latest revelation, while shocking and mind-blowing, seemed all too sudden not to be connected.
“What did he want?”
“He was cautious about what was happening in Moscow. Wanted us to step in.”
“And did you?” It seemed an odd thing to ask. This conversation wasn’t about what Anissa might or might not have done, but about Phelan. Besides, everything MI6 had done was freely available for the DDG to see in the MI6 database.
“No, of course not. I told Phelan we couldn’t get involved.”
“Was this before or after he pulled off the hit in Salisbury?” Anissa paused, but only to think back to the timing of when it all happened.
“Maybe after. I would have to check. Why, is that important?” Bethany shook her head.
“Just curious. So Phelan’s not been in touch with you since?” The tone told Anissa it was a leading question, as if the DDG knew about the recent conversation, though there was no way she could have known anything about it.
“No,” Anissa said, studying hard the face of the woman in front of her. Was it disappointment she spotted in her eyes? The DDG said nothing, glancing back down at the information still in her hands as if she wasn’t bothered about the previous answer, as if she didn’t know her agent had just lied to her face. That this agent apparently didn’t trust her entirely was, however, a curious realisation. Bethany had thought highly of Anissa until that point.
“You’ll make sure the relevant authorities know?” Bethany said after a few seconds.
“Of course.”
“Superb. It’ll be a huge thing to have finally caught this man. He is one of the very few men not granted immunity from his crimes following the Good Friday agreement. Did you know?” Anissa did but
went along with it, anyway.
“Really? I thought they were all let off.” There was a frosty silence. Anissa couldn’t wait to leave, the DDG looking back down at the information as if lost in it, as if forgetting Anissa was even there.
“Was there anything else?” Bethany said after thirty-seconds as if Anissa’s continued presence there was now unwelcome.
“No, I’ll leave you to get on with things then,” Anissa said, clear her time was up, the welcome rolled out for her when she’d arrived ten minutes earlier now so quickly taken back. Anissa left the room, saying nothing to anyone as she went back to the office she shared with the other two. She filled them in on what had happened.
“And you think she knew Phelan had called you?” Alex said, picking up on that angle.
“I don’t know. She seemed deflated when I said I’d not heard from Phelan, as if she had been testing me, as if she wanted to know if I was telling her the truth. But it could have just been me. I don’t know her well enough. I could be wrong.” If that were the case, Alex would add it to the tiny list of times Anissa had been wrong.
“But there is no way MI6 would have been listening in to your conversation?” Sasha asked, since neither of the other two seemed to want to state the obvious. It was Alex who spoke up next.
“No, they couldn’t be. There isn’t the scope or manpower to do it, let alone the legal grounds. A large newspaper closed overnight a few years back because someone had caught them doing exactly that. When the scandal broke, it finished them.” Sasha seemed to take that answer in, discovering yet another way his new home country differed from his native land. That only meant if the DDG had been listening in, it wasn’t with British technology, or jurisdiction. Anissa dropped that thought. It seemed ludicrous. Thomas Price, the former DDG, was the one carrying out illegal conversations, though that was at the call of the government. Anissa knew that much though she didn’t know the names of those involved from their side of things. She doubted it was the current Prime Minister. She’d come to power long after Kaminski was being courted for President.
It apparently wasn’t only Russia, or even Phelan, that had skeletons in the cupboard.
21
It took a day to arrange a venue for the gathering. With the press less on their tail, it made meeting up a little safer, but Alex knew he could take no chances. He’d already been caught out once by a journalist sniffing around a story, and he didn’t want to draw any more focus his way.
The meeting point was in Canary Wharf, a part of the city Alex rarely visited but the buildings, by far the most visible in London, always had a certain appeal. It reminded him of New York, though Alex had only been to the east coast city once before, and that was before nine-eleven. How his world, and the world at large, had changed since that trip.
It was mid-morning, foot traffic lighter than had it been later in the day. Anastasia came dressed in a hooded top and scarf, despite the relatively nice weather. She was apparently keeping her identity a secret, and to the untrained eye, was a nobody, one of the many tourists in the area looking for a bite to eat. Anastasia spotted Alex immediately, and Alex caught sight of the Belarusian not long after she stepped in through the doors. She came over to his table, saying nothing, leaving her hood in place, though she loosened the scarf somewhat, Alex only now spotting it was more decorative than functional. He couldn’t detect the microphone she was wearing, something Dmitry had insisted upon. Kaminski sat in an office building across the road, binoculars in place. With the earpiece in, he could hear what was being said. He needed to witness this moment.
Alex took Anastasia’s stifled response at seeing him as the omen of what was to come. There was no kiss, no touch, and though he knew she was cautious, nothing was showing on Anastasia’s face to suggest she was in any way pleased to see him. Her eyes were however still radiant, still full of life and colour, full of tantalising possibilities.
“It’s over, Alex.”
There was silence over those last words, as Alex felt the weight of them sink in, smashing into every part of his body, it seemed, before landing like a cannonball in the pit of his stomach.
“Just like that?”
“Please, Alex, don’t make this harder than it is,” she said, her eyes piercing into his, looking for Alex’s understanding, looking for his acceptance of the situation.
“Why?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Why? Because I’m married.”
“So, that didn’t stop us before. You’ve always been married,” Alex said, his voice rising a little before he caught himself, going silent for a moment. No one was in earshot of them if they whispered. “Why now?”
“Why now? You mean why did I walk away from you now as opposed to earlier or later?” Alex nodded. “It would happen at some point, Alex.”
“But after all you said. I don’t understand. I thought you loved me, Anastasia? I thought what I feel for you, what I felt for you, was mutual.” Alex caught himself, but not soon enough. It was clear he still had feelings for her, it was why he was so emotional, why he’d come to see her.
“What I said about Italy, you mean. I was confused. We both were. It would never work, Alex.”
“Italy? What-”
But she cut him off before he could say more.
“Don’t Alex, I can’t take any more. It’s over, and I’ve come to tell you I’m staying with Dima. We’ve worked through our hiccup, he’s back here in London now, and we can make a go of it. He’s my husband, I owe him that much.”
“You don’t owe him anything!” Alex spat out, again a little too loudly.
“Alex, let me go. I will not leave him.”
“Do you still love him?” The conversation went silent, Dmitry Kaminski picking up the binoculars again fearing that his headphones were playing up, only to confirm that she had remained silent. Alex repeated the question, this time with urgency and pleading. If she did still love Kaminski, there was no hope for him and her, but if she loved Alex instead, then anything was possible.
“It’s over, Alex. You already know my answer to that one.” She got up from the table, tears threatening to break out and with Anastasia knowing she’d said enough. Alex let her go, Kaminski closely watching the agent from across the street to see if he was about to do anything stupid, but instead just saw the face of a defeated man. Kaminski smiled.
His wife’s voice came through once more into his headset, Anastasia well clear of Alex and the venue they’d been meeting in.
“There, I’ve done it.”
“You didn’t answer that last question of his. Why not?” He was more intrigued than genuinely annoyed.
“He’s been through enough. He knows the answer.”
“And Italy?” It had been the only part of the conversation he knew nothing about.
“That was nothing. I’d suggested we take a holiday together there sometime, Alex was quite excited about it, but I’d already lost interest in the idea. Besides, you travel extensively. I’m sure I’ll be taking such trips with you before too long.”
Kaminski smiled. He might have lost his uncle in recent months, but he had not lost his wife.
Still inside the building, in the same seat he had been waiting for Anastasia in, Alex sat slumped, head down, his worst fears now realised. He’d given his heart to the woman, and just as Anissa had warned in the early days, he’d now been badly hurt. She was really gone. She didn’t want to get back together with Alex, something he’d held hope over but in those few brutal minutes they’d been talking, something now that was impossible.
Alex entered the first pub he found, something mostly populated with city workers, suits aplenty. Alex didn’t mind, and they seemed to leave him to it. He ordered a drink.
An hour later, three drinks aside, Alex was bothered by two men in the pub flirting with a short-skirted female sitting by herself at the bar. One man had just called her a whore, suggesting she leave the place.
“You shut
your mouth,” Alex said, sizing up the guy whose expensive suit indicated some sort of banker or trader, and Alex’s alcohol-induced state rating the guy highly on his utter dick radar.
“Back off, mate, this ain’t got nothing to do with you,” the first guy said, not overly threatened by Alex’s sudden emergence into their bit of fun. Alex was already in the guy’s face, standing between them and the woman who by that point stood up from the stool she was sitting on and now faced the two men.
“Easy,” said the other guy, going to grab Alex and pull him away from an altercation, before Alex snapped, instinct taking over, and in only a few moves, had the second guy on the ground and the first guy by the throat. He marched the guy to his seat, a crowd of presumably his pals already circling in on them. There was only so many that Alex could take on, alcohol or no alcohol. Alex gently pushed the guy into his seat.
“You see me, you turn the other way, am I clear?” Alex said, the crowd markedly more relaxed––these were office workers, not fighters––and Alex turned to the woman. “I’d leave these boys alone if I were you. This place is too good for you,” he said, and Alex walked out, the woman glancing at the crowd scene before following the agent.
“Wait,” she said, calling after him. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Alex,” he said, taking in her exceedingly nice looking legs, something he’d not properly appreciated when inside the pub. “Those guys,” he said, but didn’t know how to finish. He’d not been around such men before.
“Don’t worry. It happens.”
“Really? And were you alone?”