by Tim Heath
“You said we were here to make money, not piss it all down the drain!” one man protested, half addressing Svetlana at that moment, as she’d invited them, half addressing the President.
“And you will, I assure you.” That comment from Filipov brought some order to the room. If money was to be made, somehow, despite what had been said, then they were listening. “You’ll be considerably well compensated for your losses, I can assure you. We’ll find you all new markets, as well, in turn, but Europe is off for you now.”
“Can I ask why?” It was Timur Budny who asked this, one of the four oligarchs present who had been a part of the Games from before. Though his main industry was iron––he was not going to become impoverished by missing out on the gas sale as much as most of those present––he did have the controlling stake in a couple of small suppliers.
“Western Europe is no friend of Russia,” Filipov said. While true that tensions were high, maybe as bleak as during the Cold War years, business was business. It had never stopped Russia trading with anyone back then, nor did it warrant such a change now.
“You’ll have to give us more than that,” Timur said again, becoming the spokesman for the group all of a sudden.
“No, I do not,” stormed back the President. “I don’t have to answer to any of you! Is that clear? I’ve given you an order. Anyone not putting this into practice immediately will have their licence to drill for gas or any other metal or fuel this country owns suspended indefinitely. Is that explicit enough for you?” Such a move had never been made, and they wondered if it was possible, but then again, the President of Russia always tended to play by his own rules. Nobody said another word for the time being.
“But I did say you would be compensated, and I’ll come back to that now. You’ll each submit to my office your earnings reports from supplying gas to Europe for the last twelve months.” He had an idea of these already, but wanted it on paper, from the firms themselves. It would give him a better idea of how much each man was really worth, as well. “You’ll be compensated at one hundred and ten per cent of what you are losing from the gas, though when you sell it, the money you make will be deducted from the compensation.” They were all doing their rough calculations. An extra ten per cent on what they were currently bringing in daily was huge. It also represented millions. There was no way Filipov had that amount of spare cash to keep it all going indefinitely, though he had said about helping them sell the gas elsewhere in the future. They reasoned he might have buyers lined up, the need to cover their losses only short term. The extra profit they were about to make short-lived.
“You’ll add ten per cent to what we make from our current daily supply to Europe?” the man who ran Russia’s biggest gas company asked.
“Yes,” Filipov said, smiling, though he could see that wasn’t enough for the man, who followed up the question with another.
“You don’t have enough cash to last you, what, two weeks. Where is the money coming from, especially if we can’t sell gas anywhere else?” It was true, in his firm’s case, they had invested heavily into the pipelines taking gas across and into western Europe.
“I have a source of limitless funds,” he said, smiling at Svetlana. For the first time the former actress understood that Filipov was intending to use the Bank to finance this operation, though the reason for it all in the first place, still baffled her. Why strike out in this way at Europe? It would only cause Russia more problems in the long run.
“Nothing is limitless,” Timur said again, by far the most outspoken there.
“There is more than enough for what you'll all need, believe me. You’ll see. I’ll have each of your reports on my desk tomorrow. Svetlana will give you the details of where to send them, and I’ll leave her to address any other questions you have,” he said, leaving at that moment, no further comment to Svetlana. How was she meant to address any questions when she was as much in the dark as the rest of them?
“Does he really have the funds?” one man asked Svetlana when the door had firmly closed behind the President, and a suitable few seconds had passed for him to have vacated the area.
“Yes, he does,” she said, making the decision then and there to go with it, to fully back whatever plan Filipov had, and to be seen as entirely on board and in the know when it came to what had just happened.
“Where is the money?” There was a smile on the man’s face. It wasn’t a challenge. Clearly, these wealthy men wanted to sniff out such a fortune that could be described by an oligarch as being nearly limitless. Svetlana didn’t answer, smiling and shaking her head.
“You know what is expected of you,” is what she did say. "Have the reports sent to me. You can email them across, and I’ll have my team print them out and handed to the President in the morning. I suggest you get going and make sure they are accurate. He won’t take kindly to anyone screwing him.”
They all knew that much. Svetlana, however, felt the most screwed of them all. As the last of her guests left, she shut the door behind them all. She went over and poured herself a drink. Her hands were trembling––both pent up rage and the need for the bottle, in equal measure. She slumped into a chair, taking a long sip. What had promised to be an exhilarating morning had turned into something completely different. Filipov had gate-crashed her party, she knew that for sure. He’d orchestrated the whole thing all along, never intending her to be allowed to control the group. He’d never expected her to rerun the Games, either, she realised.
He’d wanted a room of these ten oligarchs. He wanted their gas, or more crucially, the control of their gas and a switching off to Europe. Svetlana knew that such a move would bring consequences, as well as cause Europe some damage. She’d seen that happen in the past. Gas had become cheaper to produce than other fossil fuels, especially coal. Most coal plants had closed now. There was no longer an alternative energy source for the majority. They relied on gas for heating. Winter was right on the doorstep. Russian homes would forever remain warm, but the same could not be said for Europe. Supply was limited, costs would skyrocket unless Europe looked elsewhere. It would have to supply energy quickly and in bulk. She knew Europe was in a tight spot.
Svetlana also knew sanctions would follow. The West––America would always get involved, they always did––would look to hit back. They would take the switch-off as a clear violation. A clear message and warning to Europe. Svetlana knew Russians would suffer as an indirect result. It wasn’t a move she would ever have advised, and that was probably why Filipov had never discussed it with her.
She felt used, again, and not for the first time by Filipov. Why was she working for him? But what option did she have? He was only another version of all the other failed leaders out there, all the other wealthy men in her country who got their own way, by hook or by crook. There were plenty of criminals amongst her pool of super-rich.
Svetlana required a second drink to fully steady her trembling fingers. She waited five minutes before emerging from the room. She would need to discuss what had just happened with Filipov at some point but now wasn’t the time. He would probably be expecting her to burst into his office at any moment, swearing at him and demanding to know what that was all about. She might get to that point, but today wasn’t the day. She wasn’t going to play into his hands.
Instead, she would keep her head down and get on with it. She would do what was expected of her. She knew the money existed. Filipov had explained he would soon be able to go back and collect it all. So she knew the finance was there. The ability to pay these gas firms to make up for their losses. The ten per cent bonus made it a no-brainer. They stood to make millions more without having to sell anything.
What she didn’t know was why. Why now? Why this? What was Filipov ultimately working towards, because if it were merely a cheap swipe at Europe, she would be somewhat surprised. A move like this demanded a more in-depth answer. It suggested there was something else going on. With Filipov, she now learnt, there was always somet
hing else going on. The more she discovered about him, the more she understood this. She was getting closer to him through her role than maybe anyone else on the planet. There was no romantic connection at all. She had done with that aspect of her life, for sure.
The more Svetlana saw of Filipov, the more she worried. Filipov was lining up to become one of the worst dictators her nation had ever produced. She was sure it was only a matter of time before everyone else found that out as well. Would it be too late for them all when they did?
7
The Crown Court, London––England
The trial lasted for two weeks, and the judge retired to consider his verdict. This was not happening before a jury, though some of the charges might later require such a trial if needed. It was expected, given what they already had on the man, that such a prosecution would be mostly academic. He wasn’t getting off lightly.
“All rise,” the call rang out, as once more the judge entered the courtroom for the last time. Kaminski cut a striking figure, even in his position as the accused, even in the setting of a courtroom. He was the first oligarch to have stood trial in the UK. The Kremlin had said nothing on the matter. It was widely believed that Filipov was more than happy for one of his political rivals to be put behind bars in a foreign country. Under constitutional law, it would also prohibit Kaminski from ever being allowed to run for the Presidency again.
Anissa sat with Anastasia in the balcony, away from those who might be watching––the upstairs was not open for the public or journalists––and away from Kaminski’s line of vision, but both women wanted to be in the actual room for the verdict.
The judge took his seat. If this had been happening in Russia––and Anissa’s mind flashed back to when she’d been in that very scenario––it was anyone’s guess as to what was about to happen. It would have been highly likely that the billionaire's money had found its way to influence the judge in some way, if not the Kremlin themselves, though again, Anissa saw a guilty verdict only helping Filipov. The fact it might be about to happen in the UK made it all the easier for him. Such a conclusion in Russia might easily be conceived as a political manoeuvre against an outspoken opponent. Britain was doing Russia, and Filipov himself, a huge favour. Not so very long ago the same nation was trying to get the same man into the Kremlin. How the tide had turned regarding Kaminski.
Everyone took their seat.
“Will the defendant please rise,” a voice rang out again, Kaminski slowly getting to his feet.
“Dmitry Kaminski,” the judge said, his voice sure and steady. “You have stood before my court for these last two weeks and faced a whole list of charges linked to business actions spanning the last two decades. Not limited to the business world, these crimes have grown into much more serious situations, including murder. Now, there is no doubt in my mind that these crimes were committed. We have plenty of evidence on that. What we lacked until a fortnight ago was who was ultimately responsible for these horrific, and at times, barbaric actions.
“I will not elaborate more than I need to, as we’ve all seen the evidence, all processed every piece of information, most of which is in your very handwriting. All admissible, all deeply incriminating. Dmitry Kaminski, it is with no shock to anyone I imagine that I find you guilty on all counts, and I will be writing to the prosecution service with my recommendation that you face trial for further crimes in due course unless a plea bargain is agreed. From what I have seen, and believe me, the evidence was as watertight as I’ve known for a decade within these four walls, I already have enough grounds to sentence you to twenty-five years, the maximum permitted for these charges. It is my expectation that you will spend the rest of your life in prison.”
There was silence for the moment, Kaminski himself looking down at his own feet, a man very much defeated by life one last time, and this a blow his money wasn’t going to be able to protect him from, nor rescue him out of. It was over.
“Please take the prisoner away,” the judge concluded, those journalists waiting, making their final sketches of the scene, writing their last words in their notepads as Kaminski was marshalled out of the room and then out of sight. The judge left his seat as well.
“It’s over,” Anastasia exclaimed, only now letting out a breath, so tense had she been.
“Yes, it’s over,” Anissa confirmed, an arm around the woman’s shoulder, and while not best friends by any means, the two had grown closer over recent days. Anissa could see an aspect to the Belarusian that Alex must have seen as well.
They both stood.
“What do I do now?” Anastasia asked. She’d only thought about the trial, her life on hold until the verdict could be called. Never had she thought it would be so conclusive, so final. Fear had started to rise that Kaminski would get off, that he would be allowed out. That he would realise she was the one who had passed the British everything.
“Now, you live your life,” Anissa said, though realised the stupidity of her own words immediately.
“Live my life? Carry on as normal? How can I do that with all that’s happened?” She was crying, the wall of fear and hope, question and final answers suddenly coming down, the floodgates opened.
Anissa held Anastasia in her arms for a moment; there seemed nothing more she could do. After a full minute, Anastasia pulled away again.
“I’m sorry," Anissa said, "I didn’t mean carry on as if nothing has happened, but I mean life can go on.”
“I know you meant no harm, but I’d not thought about this moment. The moment after the verdict, I mean. I was so scared he would discover me, that Dmitry would be freed, that I have not thought about the what next.”
“I know.”
“The what next was always meant to be a life with Alex.” Anissa understood that as well but wasn’t going to repeat herself. “And now Alex is gone, too, and where, I have no idea.”
“It’s not going to be easy, but you will have something left over once this all works through.” Anissa was aware that the British government had seized a large part of Kaminski's assets but she also knew that provision had been made for Anastasia, the wife and therefore owner of half of the marital assets, even while some of these were financed by illegal activity. An exception was allowed in her case, as she’d given them the information. Anastasia was still a very wealthy woman, if not a billionaire. She had more than she would ever need.
“Thank you,” Anastasia said, taking Anissa’s hand in hers, looking the agent in the face. “And you need to move on too, I guess.” She knew Anissa was also grieving Alex in her own way. “You got one of the men you were after.” That was true. Anissa had been pursuing these men for years, following yet always a step behind. Now one of them was facing life in prison.
And yet it all seemed anticlimactic.
Where was Alex? He would have enjoyed being involved in this trial. She missed him dearly.
Damascus––Syria
Bomb craters littered the roads, bullet holes the walls, though the damage was far less extensive than further north, or in the most war-torn cities where the fiercest of fighting had been taking place over the last decade.
Assad was with Putin, the two travelling south together, protected by Russian soldiers on the ground and by Russian jets in the air. Putin was trying to get to the border with Israel. Russia had some friends in Israel, Putin knowing he would be welcome there. Assad would leave the former President to it. The Americans would be only too happy to capture the Syrian President still clinging to power if he was to also venture into Israel. Assad had a nation to run, a country now in tatters, not helped by the sudden increased bombing over the last five months, ever since Filipov took office. Both men knew it was the new Russian President’s way of trying to kill Putin.
The party had experienced little trouble heading south. Their original convoy––the official vehicles sent ahead as a decoy––had been obliterated by missiles fired from Russian jets. The message was clearly understood. Following that attack, the
party had moved around in just a few vehicles, all locally sourced, and changed regularly. Bulletproof glass had been put into the windows, but if they hit an IED, they would most probably be killed. They didn’t have time to ponder that danger.
Months later, they were into a regular pattern. Meals were simple, breakfast that morning cooked over an open fire, the broken buildings around them all offering plenty of firewood, which, unlike food, was not in short supply.
Assad, for his part, did his best to keep lines of communication open with his generals. Only a few of them knew where he was, and even with them, it could often take a little while to specifically locate him. Assad had been able to get the word out whenever it was needed. That was enough for him. His primary concern was getting Putin out of the country. If he lost Putin, he probably lost Russia. A Syria without Russian support was lost. The militants would move in and make the entire region a bloodbath, and the killing would not stop there. It would spread to Europe, of that Assad was sure. He just couldn’t work out why the West was so shortsighted to see the danger. Why they’d pursued him, made him the enemy, and all for what. The worst humanitarian crisis in living memory, a migrant crossing threatening to turn Europe in on itself, nations shutting previously open borders for fear of being swamped. Thousands being illegally trafficked, many dying on the seas of Europe as they tried to make the dangerous crossings.
All because they couldn’t see.
Yet Putin had always stood by him. Putin was like a brother to Assad, which was why in his hour of personal need, Assad had been happy to step up. Assad was glad the former President had come to seek refuge in his country. He just wished there was more he could have done for him.
They were one hundred miles from the border with Israel, a border tight and secure, a people fearful of Muslim aggression. Putin hoped he would be able to gain access, however. Russia had always been a friend to Israel, not in the same way as they might have backed Assad, but there was a link, starting when Putin and Sharon had first come into power in their respective nations. Now the two former Cold War enemies were deemed friends. Many Russian Jews had fled to Israel in the 1970s. Putin was sure they would receive him.