by Tim Heath
“Yes, I’m here,” Anissa said, after another second’s silence. “It’s just I don’t want to assume it’s that bad yet, is that okay?”
“Sure, of course. I’ll keep looking. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon,” Gordon said, though there was no conviction there.
The call ended. Anissa looked over, spotting Anastasia watching her, no doubt reading her face for signs of hope, though she must have only seen sorrow. The two women, metres apart from each other, had an understanding. The man who they both cared about––in different ways, granted––was probably never going to be heard from again. They might as well start the mourning process. Anissa knew a part of that had to involve visiting the wife of Phelan, and as nobody else knew the truth about Phelan and where he had gone, the only way the wife would know was if Anissa told her personally. Anissa determined to do that soon, though walking back to Anastasia, the two women not saying anything to each other, Anissa knew the focus had to be on the present.
The bell went for the start of the afternoon session.
“Come on, let’s get moving,” Anissa said, gently guiding Anastasia back the way they had come. The journalists were now nowhere to be seen and were no doubt already in place inside the courtroom, somewhere Anissa would have loved to have been present. To look Kaminski in the face, to see him answering the difficult questions, or just watch his reaction as various pieces of evidence were displayed. It was all damning for sure, she’d been through it all. Some of the crimes listed on her office wall could be accredited to Kaminski. Finally, someone was going to pay. There were another two dozen crimes that Anissa had not known about, all detailed in the evidence Anastasia had supplied. Few doubted that Kaminski was going to be serving time in prison. What assets that Kaminski owned in his own name––other than what might be deemed as belonging to his wife––were already being seized pending the outcome of the trial. That outcome was still a few weeks away.
Kresty Prison, St Petersburg––Russia
The unmarked yet armour-plated vehicle pulled in off the main road alongside the River Neva and into the prison through the open gates at the rear. Not more than a few hundred metres from there, and across the other side of the river was the British Consulate though it had been closed for a few months. Had it been open, they might have had an interest in the British man being smuggled in that day, but no one besides the President and his core team knew anything about Alex’s arrival.
Alex was wheeled into his cell, a concrete six-by-ten-foot room, empty of furniture apart from the basics. A high barred opening gave some outside light, though too high to see anything. In the coming months, the snow would fall. What was already a cold cell would get dangerously close to freezing.
Following the construction of a newer prison, the Kresty was officially closed and received more tourists than inmates but the place still had its uses. Off the map, out of public knowledge, Russia still used the facility to house some of its most valuable prisoners, or in Alex’s case, people detained who the State wished to keep anonymous. Alex was indeed in that bracket. There were three other men in his part of the prison, something he’d seen as they wheeled him in. He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak to them––Alex lacked their language––nor did he imagine they would allow the prisoners to mingle.
Alex knew all about the reputation of the Kresty, knew it to be officially closed, though he had learned the truth from Sasha. To now find himself there was ominous enough.
In the corner of the room was a toilet––basically a hole in the floor, the smell already getting inside Alex’s lungs. He heaved once but managed to control himself after that. The hygiene was the least of his concerns at that moment.
His leg was in plaster. Broken within ten minutes of Filipov leaving his presence weeks before, it had hurt continuously ever since. There was no way he would be escaping on foot, any time soon, that much was clear.
Alex manoeuvred himself from the chair to the bed, a problematic process and painful all the more, but finally managed to lie down. The bed was as he suspected, barely offering any more comfort than the wheelchair he’d just been in, but Alex had been sleep-deprived and didn’t know how long he would have until something more was demanded from him, so shut his eyes.
His thoughts flashed to Phelan, the moments before and after the shot fired. He thought of Anastasia––would she even mourn his absence––but quickly moved onto Anissa, his long-term colleague at MI6. He knew she would be beside herself with concern. Russia had sucked so many people in over the last few years, and Alex knew it had nearly broken Anissa. She’d come back a different woman from that final time she had been in Russia when she’d been in St Petersburg for a trial. The defendant had taken her own life, though Alex doubted that was true. He was certain Filipov must have been behind it all.
Alex had seen the monster himself, face to face. He doubted he would be allowed to see him again.
Dinner was served at eight in the evening, at the point when Alex wondered if anything was coming at all. Were they going to starve the inmates? It was bread and thin soup, with a few odd looking chunks of cheese, the cheese way past its best, but Alex ate it all. He didn’t care any more, needing the food, lacking the energy, requiring the distraction. Alex had read that the hardest part of incarceration is the loneliness, the isolation, the boredom. For him, however, it was the uncertainty and fear of the unknown that kept him in a state of nervous tension. And no one knew he was there. No one knew he was even still alive. Would they carry on without him? Would there be a memorial service held in his honour, various MI6 colleagues in attendance, Anissa and Sasha standing side by side, reading out words they’d prepared about the life of Alex? Then they would all get on with life, all put the past behind them and move on to new things.
Alex refused to feel sorry for himself. He’d known what risks he was getting into when he joined MI6, and he especially knew the danger of agreeing to join Phelan on this mission. Alex had never considered that they might get caught. He’d made sure they planned their route carefully, that they were ever vigilant and careful about when and where they crossed the border.
Alex had had no idea about Bethany May, however. Was Anissa aware? He knew Anissa had a great sense on such matters. Alex was confident that his exposure, the fact he had seemingly vanished in Russia with Phelan, without the hit having been carried out on the President, would only point Anissa to the fact that someone was dirty. He hoped Anissa was onto the DDG. What was it about that position and its connection to Russia?
The guard came back for the tray, Alex already finished, his soup bowl wiped clean with the bread he’d been given. Sunlight could still be seen high above in the window; it seemed brighter than at home.
Alex thought about home, thought about Sasha who would now be living in Alex’s apartment––a house they shared together since Sasha arrived in the UK––alone. Would Sasha know where to look for Alex? Would he come after him? Alex partly hoped he would and partly hoped Sasha would know better than to do such a foolish thing.
Coming to St Petersburg had been a foolish move, he knew that clearly now. It had, however, been a move Alex had agreed to and had personally made happen because of his own emotional anguish. Alex realised that now. It made no sense, none of it. He had no right to be there, and he knew the British would not be looking for him. Officially, MI6 was never in Russia. Alex had been working on his own agenda with Anissa and Sasha when they agreed to get Phelan across the border.
A simple pop at Filipov and new elections in Russia would bring in a new man. Who that would have been, Alex now didn’t know. He didn’t care.
He should have known better. Alex caught himself, however. He hadn’t been thinking with his head but acting from a broken heart. Alex thought about Anastasia for the first time since being caught. Memories of the early days to subdue the fear now taking up residence. Days when Alex had been clueless about who she was. Purposely ignorant. Then the journalist had known, and that had changed things. He should hav
e walked away at that point.
Alex thought about all those secret liaisons at the hotel, Anastasia on the run from her husband, who was fighting an election, before losing in the first round. Alex was with Anastasia the night the results were announced.
She’d finally told him she was ready to go to Germany. She had family there. She was going to lie low, divorce her husband, and then when the dust had settled, Alex would find her. She would make contact. Germany, she’d said. Alex remembered his thoughts now, from when he'd last left her hotel room, his imagination taking him to a future meeting in Berlin or Munich, tasting the local beers with Anastasia, taking in the local culture. Alex had warmed to the idea immediately about finally having the chance of happiness with her.
Then Anastasia had vanished. Alex had assumed she’d gone to Germany as planned, but soon he knew otherwise. Anastasia was back with Kaminski, and in their final chat, she had told him it was over. She’d said to his face she didn’t love him.
Alex had half expected Kaminski himself to walk in at that moment. If she really didn’t love him, wouldn’t she have involved him? Wouldn’t that have been the nail in the coffin? And why had she talked about Italy? They’d never once mentioned Italy together, not earlier, not throughout any of their many midnight chats or afternoon meetings.
A cold sweat came over Alex, as for the first time his logical mind got the better of his raging emotions, telling him what a fool he’d been.
Kaminski was listening, he had to have been. Only now could Alex see that. Of course, it made sense. Alex would have done the same. If the woman he was married to had cheated on him, he would want to be listening in on the conversation where she broke it off with the other man. He wouldn’t trust it any other way. Kaminski had to be listening in, Anastasia must have been miked.
So why talk about Italy? Why mention something that they’d never discussed?
But they had discussed getting away. Anastasia had suggested the idea.
She was lying to her husband.
Panic raced through Alex. He’d gone to Russia because he no longer cared, no longer had someone who loved him, and now, on his bed in a Russian prison, he doubted himself for the first time in many years. How had he not seen it before? He recalled her passionate pleading eyes, a look he’d seen plenty of times as they made love. She’d been sitting across the table from him, speaking words he didn’t want to hear, but those eyes had been the same. She was talking about Italy and ending things with him, but the eyes were pleading. Begging him to understand.
And he’d dropped it. He’d missed it. Now he was a dead man.
Alex wept.
5
West Siberian Plain––Russia
Mark Orlov and Sergej Volkov were still camped out at the only property the Machine owned, as hidden away and secluded as almost any place on Earth. Despite that, security had been beefed up in recent days, especially since the attempted raid on the Bank in Zurich; Mark had been able to send in enough reinforcements in time to stop everything being stolen.
He was still awaiting confirmation from the Swiss as to what had been taken.
Lev Kaminski, the uncle of the man standing trial in London, had flown away from them to get some news, but his own travel options were vastly limited, given the evidence the British now had on him. He couldn’t leave Russia, and with Filipov against him, even Russia was not safe for him. Kaminski was running out of options.
Mark had been discussing with Sergej what they should do. Putin had been kept alive in Syria, that much they knew, though where he currently was and whether he was in any more danger now was frustratingly something they couldn’t find out. Mark knew there were funds in place, and when money flowed, the protection remained. It was how it always worked. These men who risked their lives to protect the rich and powerful never did it for love or a noble cause. The mighty buck was all that mattered. And oligarchs always had plenty of the stuff to wave before their various security elements.
At that moment, a knock on the door paused the conversation. The man walking in looked like death, yet he said nothing to Orlov while handing him a sheet of paper, the long-awaited news from Zurich. He left the room moments after, Mark surprised by the man's actions but he studied the information he'd been handed anyway, Sergej coming over to him and reading over his shoulder.
Mark swore.
What the confirmation showed them was their entire stash of buried treasure––gold, bonds, diamonds, to name a few things––had been entirely destroyed. Only items owned by Mark and Sergej had gone, nothing else had been touched. Lev never had anything in the Bank himself. For Sergej, it represented everything he was relying on, and all of his available resources. He’d signed off on the two billion divorce a couple of weeks before, giving it all to Svetlana, knowing he had five times that amount in Switzerland. Now it was gone.
Mark also had lost significantly, and while not everything, it was the entirety of what he ran his underground operations with. Outside of Zurich, his money was tied up. It was not liquid, and it was all above board. Only with the vast interest and dividends from the Bank was he able to pay for security, to keep the Machine going, to keep his network of informants well oiled. Now he was empty. Now he had nothing. He knew the wheels were about to come off.
“He took out only our deposits, no one else’s?” Orlov said, the information confirming that to be the case. The Machine’s forces had intervened before anything further could be achieved. They did not know if the intention had been to destroy it all. What they did now know was that both of them were effectively bankrupt. Loyalty would matter very little when the money stopped flowing.
“And the Bank itself?”
Mark Orlov financed the Bank, as did Sergej who shared the same responsibility due to his leadership role within the Machine. When his team, on Orlov's orders, had retaken the Bank from the attempt Filipov had made on it a few weeks before, they’d been paid using the money they all made from their deposits. Those working inside the Bank––there were relatively few who knew the location, or the source of the funds––traded the markets with the investments they had and made millions in the process. This was how the money was cleaned, how interest was made, and why everyone involved kept it so secret. Mark saw it as his responsibly to maintain the integrity of the facility, keeping those in the know to a minimum. He had no idea how Filipov had found out, nor how he’d managed to gain access into the vault itself.
“We have no money left to secure it,” Orlov confirmed, the realisation sinking in like a dead weight falling to the bottom of an ocean. His hands were tied. He’d lost billions.
“So Filipov will make another move for the money before we can relocate?”
Relocation was the only option on the table, an unprecedented move, and something that required intricate planning, as the existing building in the current location was almost perfect. The fact Filipov knew its location, however, had meant a move was inevitable. Now there was no money to make that happen, and no money to employ the men to keep it all protected.
“I don’t think Filipov needs to move in fast. He knows he’s cut us off upstream. Yes, for the moment, the river continues to flow. It’ll appear for a while as if nothing has changed. Those we’ve paid upfront, those who don’t yet know, they all carry on as before. But soon, they’ll start to fall away. Once we can’t pay them, once we can’t move them around, once we can’t bloody fit them with the best weapons, with plentiful ammunition, then they’ll all be off. The Bank will be left totally unguarded.”
“Can’t they sort something out themselves?”
“Trust someone at the Bank with that type of knowledge?” No one physically working there had any clue to the contents of the vault, nor its location, nor the code to gain access. They just worked on the computers, part of the trading set up, though far more people worked remotely than in the nondescript physical location. There was indeed no provision for security. It would be like asking a kindergarten to suddenly police the
city. They would have no clue what to do.
“Then they are a sitting duck!” Sergej said, the full reality only now setting in.
“Exactly, and it's a move I think Filipov knew he had to make. He had no intention of cleaning the place out the first time, nor did he need the money. He did it to get at us.”
Orlov said the word us, but he meant the word me. And Sergej well knew it was only ever personal between Orlov and Filipov, not helped one bit by Orlov shooting Filipov’s son dead in Paris. That had been a step too far, even given Sergej’s colourful history.
“Like a vulture, he can now sit back and wait. Well, I’m not going to lie down and wait for the inevitable,” Sergej said, though breaking cover now might prove a dangerous moment to do so. The money was about to run out. If that happened when they were in a more exposed place––which, outside of their current location, was everywhere––they too would be an easy target. Filipov would pick them up, or pick them off, in no time.
Orlov wasn’t so quick to run. He couldn’t think of anywhere safer, and knew now he didn’t have a chance to get to Filipov personally, though maybe Putin might. Putin.
“We have to focus all our attention on keeping Putin hidden,” Orlov said, the sudden realisation pressing in that no money meant no further security. No protection in Syria would quickly leave Putin and Assad exposed and very vulnerable. Without Russian help, the whole regime would have fallen years before.
“You think Putin is still alive?” Sergej asked, picking up on Mark’s line of thinking, and seeing his concern.
“Taking out Filipov is not going to be enough unless we have someone to put in place. I would take my chances with the former President, wouldn’t you? We’ve kept him safe. He’ll see that. We didn’t turn our back on him in his moment of need.” While that was currently true, they had opposed him in the election. Had they backed him, he probably would have still been in power. Filipov had caught them all off guard.