by Tim Heath
“Had it not been for your new Deputy Director General informing me, you might have got away with it,” Filipov said, the comment causing a spark of life in Alex’s eyes, as much as he tried to play it cool. “Yes, Alex, you see she’s one of mine. She gave you up.” Fear raced through Alex’s eyes at that moment, less so for his own safety, but more so for those he’d left behind. The DDG would be able to pass Filipov anything. The Russians would surely know all about Sasha. “And I don’t mind telling you this, because you’ll never get away from here. I’ve told you her name so that you know you’re a dead man.” Alex had already made that connection. It was a tactic he’d come across before. Alex wasn’t going to succumb to pleading for a quick death, an instant release. If Filipov had deemed that possible, he would have had Alex shot seconds after Phelan was hit. In the moments after Phelan had fallen to the ground, Alex had been expecting the impact at any point. He’d been running, heading towards the water, a bullet to the back of his head undoubtedly about to take life from him. Until it didn’t. He’d been jumped on by four men and had nearly taken two down before they all got the better of him. He was just too outnumbered.
It was clear Filipov wanted Alex alive. That much gave him some comfort––when faced with torture, it helped hugely knowing they wanted you alive. That gave power to the victim. Any threat of death was only words. Except, Filipov had now given Alex the name of his informant, someone within MI6 itself. That gave the advantage back to Filipov. He wasn’t expecting Alex to ever have the chance to do anything with that information.
“Death will be slow and painful for you, Alex, I can assure you, and when it finally comes, you’ll embrace it like a long-awaited friend. It’ll take you from the hell you are about to experience to whatever torment might await you, I promise you that.” Filipov kicked Alex hard in the shin on his left leg, midway between the ankle and the knee. Alex actually cried out in pain, the shock travelling right through his body. “Plenty more screams to be released, I imagine, so don’t hold back.” He repeated the action, this time on the right leg. Alex suppressed the cry as much as he could, his eyes boring into the Russian as if to say is that the best you can do?
“Very good,” Filipov said, “defiance to the very end. I think we are going to have some fun with you,” he said, turning back towards Svetlana, who had one hand to her mouth but hadn’t said a word. She could never stand physical violence, and had been troubled by what she’d just seen, but was far too smart to dare to question anything. The British agent had come to kill the President, after all.
“Get the men to go to work on him,” Filipov said as if asking for tea to be made by the catering staff. “They can break one of his legs for now. I’ll let them pick which one,” and with that, he left the room, Svetlana glancing at the men, but they’d heard clearly themselves what had been said. Svetlana locked eyes with Alex, whose glare was furious but he didn’t say a thing, and Svetlana backed out of the room, the men already picking up a baseball bat that had been left on the floor. She quickened her pace to catch up with Filipov.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked, just the two of them.
“I know you are not one for violence, Svetlana,” he said, his tone almost fatherly. He appreciated the fact she had waited until it was only them, so as not to make a scene in front of anybody else. “But this needs to be done. They need to be taught a lesson.”
“But they won’t know. We aren’t announcing it to anyone. This never happened.”
“Of course it didn’t. But the ones involved will know. Even without any details, they’ll know what is happening, even if they wonder if he’s already dead.”
“Might Alex not be a source of information?”
“No, Svetlana, and besides, I don’t need him for that. I already have that source.” Of course, Bethany May.
“Then why keep him alive?” She didn’t like violence, but even she could see a quick death was the humane way over prolonged torture.
“Because I can!” he snapped. “Because they need to know they can’t come for me and expect to get away with it. Alex didn’t plan this on his own, you know. There are others. And I’ll find them. They need to know this isn’t over. They need to know there will always be payback.” Svetlana was already well aware that the number of names on that particular list was growing longer by the week. Anyone, it seemed, who stood against the new President was added to the list. A few of the names were already crossed off.
The Kremlin, Moscow––Russia
The flight down from St Petersburg had been a week ago, events since that time as reasonable as could be expected in the new world Svetlana now found herself in. Svetlana still hadn’t adequately come to terms with it all if she was totally honest with herself.
Following the capture of Alex and the shooting of Phelan, Svetlana had gone to great lengths to head off any issues before they became problems. Nobody on the team knew anything about who the two people were, and those who did were not going to speak about it. There had been no genuine threat to the life of the President, after all, as Rad had seen to that.
The level of hazard that might have been coming their way had not been elaborated to anyone involved. The whole incident could be brushed under the carpet as a couple of local clowns trying to get close to the President, but failing spectacularly.
What had been most surprising, however, so much so that she’d got to planning immediately once back in Moscow, was a conversation she'd had privately with the President on his jet while they flew south to the Kremlin. Entirely unexpectedly, and as if recalling the hope he’d once given Svetlana some months before, but having failed to raise the subject since, he’d come out and suggested she could set up her own Games events again.
She was still in a little bit of shock about it. She had assumed Filipov's words spoken once to her, and this before she’d ever agreed to join his team, let alone before the man had become President, were just that. Words. Something voiced to get her on board, but something he had no intention of ever allowing. She knew full well the intricate detail he’d gone into to personally dismantle and disrupt the previous set up which she had been so proud of. Since she'd known he was running for President, Filipov had always said such gatherings were dangerous; he had joined in order to shut the thing down. For a man challenging for the Presidency, she could well see why.
Was it because he was now President and she was working so closely with him, that Filipov now thought differently? Would she really have the freedom? Even if she did, she knew it would have to look different. Svetlana was connected to the Kremlin now, she had responsibilities and influence, and she had Filipov’s image to think of. She couldn’t be caught up in something that would embarrass the President, but she wondered, for the first time in months, what she might be able to do. What kind of show she would be able to once again put on for the wealthiest men in the world.
She’d acted in some of the biggest films of the last two decades, but one of her grandest stages had always been before that room of oligarchs––each powerful, each influential, and all gathering for her event.
The thought of being able to really run something excited her, an event free of Filipov’s manipulation, free of her ex-husband’s silent knowledge. Truly her event, entirely Svetlana in power. The thought was electric.
Svetlana had spent the first day back in Moscow juggling time for conversations with various oligarchs around her usual duties, such as handling the journalists, putting out the press releases regarding the President’s successful visit to St Petersburg, and planning future trips and meetings that were due to happen over the coming weeks. Much of the latter she delegated to the growing team of men and women who she had hand-picked for the very task.
Her main concern, however, was on her Games, and what it might look like from now on. What the focus would be, who they would target, how they would compete, where they would host the events. The list of questions and thoughts was growing longer all the time, but nothing had
excited Svetlana more since before the election than the conversation she’d had with Filipov while flying back to Moscow.
The following morning Svetlana was meeting with some of the oligarchs who were on board with the President, and who had been involved in the Games previously. She hoped to be able to stir them with the idea of being involved in something again, and as always, having enough core players interested at the initial stage would help others, men who were maybe a little less interested, to get involved as well. There was nothing like the fear of missing out on something, especially among the super-rich. And Russia had plenty of these people.
Svetlana did wonder, given the dramatic drop in numbers from her original twenty, if she would need to pull in some new men, oligarchs who had never been involved in anything like that before. There were only seven former Hosts who she could really talk to from the previous Games.
That all changed, however, three days into her gatherings, each meeting informal and covering other official business, but every time Svetlana able to drop in the suggestion that she was recruiting again for a new Games event. The change was sudden and swift, Filipov personally coming into her office. Svetlana was deep in conversation on the telephone, but the appearance of the President always cut short such calls, regardless of their importance.
He handed Svetlana a list of names on a piece of paper. Only half of those men that Svetlana had been speaking to were on the list.
“These are the men who are to be involved in whatever you decide to do,” Filipov said, matter-of-factly and clear that there was no room for negotiation here.
“Why only these?” she asked, though she wished she hadn’t bothered.
“Because that’s all I’m allowing you,” he snapped, a little too harshly if truth be told. He realised that himself moments after. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s been a stressful week.”
She wasn’t sure what had been stressful for him––there could be any number of things––but she didn’t probe. She took in the names again.
“I’ll get right onto it,” she said, taking the names for what they represented, a list of possible Hosts. If Filipov was happy with them being involved in something, then that was okay by her. It made some of the conversations she’d recently had a little awkward now that they were no longer to be involved. At least two men who were definitely happy to be included would now have to be disappointed. Oligarchs didn’t take nicely to being told no, you can’t be involved after all.
“Do you have an idea about the theme of any such event yet?” he asked. Filipov had never shown any particular interest in the Games since giving Svetlana permission a week ago.
“I’m still working on the final plan but I do have a few ideas.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get there, and do let me know when you are gathering to speak with these men en masse. It’ll be good to know they are all happy to be involved.”
She couldn’t help but feel he was now showing more interest than otherwise warranted, but then again, whatever she might do would reflect poorly on his Presidency if she did anything along the lines of previous events, if caught doing so, anyway. She knew she would have to be smarter than that, have to come up with another way of offering something so incredible that billionaires would place huge bets against fellow billionaires, only one able to walk away with his honour intact.
Filipov left her, and Svetlana did nothing for a whole five minutes, instead just sitting at her desk, list in hand, going over in her head what he had just said to her.
She went through the names again. Only four of the ten had been involved before, the other six she’d never personally spoken to. Why was Filipov happy to use these ten, including the new people, at the expense of others both more wealthy, and more ingrained in their way of doing things? One thing she’d never forgotten, having learnt the hard way, was that nothing Filipov ever did was without prior planning. It had to help him in some way.
She poured herself a drink. Ever since the Games initially fell apart, ever since she’d found out her husband knew all along about what she was doing––laughing with his buddies no doubt behind her back. Ever since arriving in America having fled the press and her now ex-husband, only to find more journalists waiting for her there. Ever since all that, she’d been drinking more heavily than she had done before, always by herself, at odd times, and increasingly with stronger drinks. Now that she worked for the President, these drinks were readily available as well, as all visitors tended to offer a bottle or two of something expensive as a gift.
She looked after all the gifts.
Svetlana took a long sip, the fire-water burning her throat as only quality Russian vodka could. She paced around her office for a while, left to it by her staff who were busy working on all the tasks she had handed them. Svetlana had no intention of getting involved in the mundane while the fate of her Games hung in the balance. She would have a second shot at running the Games, playing it Filipov’s way, and she would gather his ten to see what they wanted to do. She didn’t know if the four oligarchs who had been involved in the past would even accept the involvement of men from outside, men they might not know that well. Trust, especially in their circles, was a hard-to-come-by commodity. It wasn’t quickly offered.
Her phone rang, stopping Svetlana from pouring herself a third glass of vodka. It was her secretary, informing Svetlana that her next appointment had arrived and was waiting for her in the conference room. Svetlana thanked her and ended the call, placing the bottle firmly back into position. She looked at herself in the mirror, a slight reddening of her cheeks, but nothing noticeable. She tidied her hair and grabbed her bag. There were things to do again.
4
The Crown Court, London––England
Anastasia sat with Anissa in a small room three doors down from the central court, which was currently in session. At last the trial of her husband Dmitry Kaminski was starting that day. If he were found guilty, he would be spending almost the rest of his life behind bars, certainly the next twenty years.
Anastasia had supplied the evidence herself, her role in the arrest kept secret, though her absence from the courtroom spoke for itself. Evidence taken from her own home, in an office that her husband kept there, in a building he assumed safe from thieves, it had been damning in nature and had resulted in the Presidential candidate’s arrest some weeks before. He’d been charged and held while a full investigation was carried out. Today’s court date was evidence that the next phase of things could now start.
“You’ve still heard nothing from Alex?” Anastasia asked. Anissa had been listening to the opening statements which were being relayed to them from the courtroom.
“No, I’ve told you,” Anissa said, as much concerned about Alex’s situation as Anastasia clearly was. Anissa had yet to try and reach out to Phelan’s wife and kids, who would naturally be beside themselves by now, at a loss about where Phelan had suddenly gone.
Anastasia swore. She was close to tears already, and that had nothing to do with the trial that was finally starting. Anastasia had done all this for Alex. She’d done this so she could be with Alex, and now she was with nobody.
“You don’t have to listen to all this if you don’t want to,” Anissa said. She would rather be in the courtroom itself than stuck in a side room, but had told Anastasia she would sit with her if she needed it. The Belarusian had taken her up on her offer, desperate for news about Alex. It was clear the women didn’t altogether see eye to eye, though Anissa understood the sense of loss and hopelessness Anastasia must be feeling at that moment. She knew it only too well.
During the break for lunch, both women left the room. Some journalists were present, and while not near enough to speak to them, a few saw the former wife of the billionaire being led away from one of the side rooms. Her presence there was telling, as was the fact she wasn’t in the courtroom watching proceedings.
Anissa ordered a coffee and placed the drink in front of Anastasia.
“Does it have whisky in it?” she joked but took a sip anyway.
Anissa’s phone rang at that moment. It was Gordon from Vauxhall House.
“Look, I need to take this,” Anissa said, excusing herself and leaving Anastasia to her hot drink. Anissa answered the call.
“I’ve got what we need. It took some digging, but there is an offshore account that links to BMW.” Bethany May.
“You certain?”
“Positive. I’ve printed everything out.”
“Great. Look, we need it iron clad. That’s great work, though. Keep it safe until I’m back. The trial is on a break for lunch. I’ll call in on the office before I head home later. Will you be around still?”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Good, I won’t be late. Look, I appreciate what you’ve done here. Any news on Alex?”
“No, less hopeful on that. I think we have to assume the worst.” The words hit Anissa like a hammer, though it was something she’d been trying to tell herself, yet each time the thought came, she would bat it away. Push it deep down. There had to be an explanation for the silence. Had to be some reason why Alex wasn’t in touch with them. Yet there was no contact, nothing from either man and the President was very much alive and being as aggressive as ever. “You still there?”