by Tim Heath
“Try again,” said the team leader, as one of his men came back from another room. He had been trying to arrange aerial cover for the final stretch to the border.
“I did, twice,” the man confirmed. “There is no money.”
Putin had overheard the frantic Russian being spoken, Assad not able to understand the language and therefore oblivious to the concern being voiced. He watched Putin leave the room but thought nothing more of it.
“Is there a problem?” Putin asked, startling the two men, though only by his sudden appearance. He was speaking in a low voice.
“There is no problem,” the team leader said, unsure of what to say to the President. If what he’d just been told was right, if there was no money, there was indeed a huge problem. They were all there because they were being paid well, not to mention the fact the money financed all the flights, the fuel, the protection. No money and there was no way all that was able to carry on. The team leader might feel an element of loyalty and responsibility, but he knew for a fact the men around him were not putting their lives in constant danger for the pure love of either President. They were mercenaries. Soldiers paid to do a job. No pay meant no soldiering. It was basic economics.
The team leader dismissed the man in front of him, wanting to speak with Putin alone. The man did not seem too happy about it all. He was confident of what he’d just passed on. The money was used up. There was nothing else, no other options. They were funded by the Machine, though they didn’t know the name. They knew that Mark Orlov arranged the payments. They’d been working for him for years already. Their firm had been the ones to send men into Zurich to retake the Bank, to shore it all up. No money meant all their operations would have to stop. He left his team leader to talk with Putin, shutting the door behind them both.
“Tell me plainly,” Putin said, able to read between the lines as well as anyone.
“I’ve not been able to confirm anything, so I don’t know what there is to say, sir,” he started, but Putin was smart enough to see through the waffle.
“I asked you to be direct.” He knew such men didn’t make mistakes. If the man who’d just left had reported a problem, it was most likely already as good as confirmed. No one serving in such a unit would ever bring something to their commanding officer without knowing one hundred per cent that what they were saying was accurate.
“The money that finances this whole operation is gone,” he said, Putin taking in the words, before understanding the full connotation of what it all meant.
“I see,” he said. “And your stance on that?” Putin felt he could count on the man in front of him right now for a certain amount of loyalty. He’d known him for many years already.
“You know where I stand, sir, but regardless of wages, we need money for everything. The jets, the shield around us, the weapons. We need money to get across the border.”
“You know I’m good for the money, comrade,” Putin said, a pay off he knew was entirely dependent on him getting back into a position of power. As he was, he was weak. Running for his life, hiding in bombed out shells of buildings. It was not the life he once had, nor the future he wanted. He was called to higher things, though those dreams seemed as far removed from him as almost anything else at that moment. A bomb sounded in the distance. He was in a war zone. He was no longer President, and the new man in the Kremlin was leading the charge for his extermination.
And now the money put in place to make sure he survived had run out.
“It’s a gamble that not all the men will be willing to take.”
“A gamble?”
“Yes, sir. You only have money if you survive, and even then, only if you manage to claw back power from Filipov. There is an arrest warrant out on you.”
“But these men are under orders!” Putin retorted.
“Not from you, they aren’t.” Only now Putin understood for the first time that these men weren’t there because of loyalty to Russia, or commitment to him.
“Then who do they answer to?”
“Mark Orlov, ultimately. He paid them to come and look after you.”
“He’s the man behind it all?” Putin had come across the Machine during his time in office––they never had a name for it, only the fact something was there in the background. They knew its presence if not its intentions. It seemed, at last, their plans overlapped. They were backing Putin and wanting to keep him alive. He was sure that would only be so that they had a huge role in whatever future he might be a part of.
“Yes, him and a few others. We work for them, employed by them, financed by them.”
“And they have no money?” The idea sounded even more extraordinary, given that Putin knew Orlov was worth a reported $15 billion.
“That is what I’ve been told.”
“How long do we have?” Putin was looking desperate for the first time in a long time. He knew how quickly these situations changed, how suddenly things could become dangerous.
“How long? If the money is out, it’s already time. I’m sorry.”
Putin swore. Both men went to the door. As they moved into the other room, it was apparent that word had got out. The men were packing away their things.
“What are you doing?” the team leader demanded. Nobody said a word, the man who had passed him the news five minutes before the first to be packed. He’d apparently told them all there was no more money. The entire unit was leaving. The team leader looked at Putin.
“Well, are you about to leave me too?” Putin asked, the question causing a dilemma for the team leader. The former President could see that much in the man’s eyes.
“I’ll get you to the border,” he said, determining at that moment he owed his President that much. Without support from outside, without the finance needed, he didn’t know what he could really do, what he could offer. It was like flying a commercial airline without an onboard computer. He was blind.
Putin was joined at that moment by Assad who, picking up on the sudden change, wondered if there was some threat to them all, though his own men had confirmed there was nothing. He stood alongside the Russian former FSB agent, former President.
“Your men are leaving?” Assad said, as carefully worded as he could be, though the actions of the departing soldiers made the answer obvious.
“They are not my men, as I just discovered myself. They are nothing but hired help, and the pot ran dry.” Putin turned away in disgust. “How many forces do you have available?” he asked Assad.
“Not many. We are fighting a war, remember. They are further north. I have just half a dozen men with me here.”
“Well, I suggest you get the word out because we are going to need more. This man here will get me to the border,” Putin said, placing his arm on the shoulder of the team leader, a man whose face now suggested to Assad that he too was wondering if he should be packing his bags and following his men. Putin’s hand on his shoulder seemed to act as a prompt to push those thoughts to one side. The man smiled at Assad. “I don’t think you need to follow me all the way to the border yourself,” Putin continued, addressing Assad.
“It might be safer if you went alone, I feel,” the Syrian replied. If the Russians really were pulling out, if Filipov had got to the money, then being around Putin was not as safe as it was, and it had never been safe even with all the protection. Travelling light, just a few men, if that, would also be Putin’s best chance of reaching Israel. Assad knew he had no influence at the border anyway, and only risked falling into the hands of a Mossad snatch squad. He wasn’t going to give them that pleasure.
Putin eyed Assad carefully. Was this defiance, the cutting off of dead wood, or was this Assad really thinking about what was best for him? Putin decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He was fast running out of friends and didn’t want to risk what he had with Assad, as desperate as both of their situations were at that moment.
“We’ll leave immediately,” Putin said, addressing both Assad and the one man still
with him. The others had now left, none of them saying anything to Putin or their commanding officer. How ruthless they could all be, how openly driven by money and wealth they all were. Putin would make them pay if he ever got the chance.
The team leader went to collect his own things. He didn’t have a lot and gathered several weapons together. At least there were plenty of guns left behind and no small amount of ammunition. He planned to merely drive Putin the rest of the way to the border, the weapons ready in case they hit trouble, and hope for the best. Once in Israel, Putin had said he had options within Mossad. He’d trained with a number of the men during his FSB days, Sharon later introducing Putin to many of the men over several visits. He knew they were all highly trained, and men who placed a higher value on loyalty, he hoped.
Assad met Putin at the door.
“I guess this is where we go our separate ways?” the Syrian said. He embraced Putin.
“Thank you for taking me in,” Putin said, pulling away from Assad after a firm pat on the back.
“May God go with you.”
Putin didn’t respond for a moment.
“Stay safe yourself,” Putin said in the end.
The car pulled up a moment later, the one soldier remaining to protect Putin as he made his way to the border behind the wheel, a sub-machine gun on his lap, three other weapons in easy reach on the back seat. Not a lot to protect them from a considerable force, but enough to put up a fight. If a jet was to find them, however, they were easy meat.
Putin got into the front passenger seat, the door barely closed as the car took off down the dusty road, Assad himself disappearing back inside, the car working its way through a route with the least potholes. There were many such puddles, the water hiding their real depth, making progress for the first few miles a little slow.
Putin couldn’t help fearing what was overhead. No longer were there Russian jets looking out for him. The next one flying over could be aiming to kill him.
8
London
The news hit the media like a silent tsunami striking land in the deep of night that October. Every major British newspaper led with the revelations that five named members of the Lords and another five members of the Cabinet had not only been behind Dmitry Kaminski––now exposed and in prison––but had been for a while, with the express desire for him to succeed Putin as President.
Britain, for decades at the centre of Western democracy, on the sidelines in more recent years, nonetheless colluding in another sovereign state’s free and fair election. Now caught with their pants down.
The members of the House of Lords who were named in the reports––the information coming from known sources, the evidence damning––were hounded all morning. By lunchtime, they were already taking refuge inside parliament, from where they feared to move in case of more of the same treatment outside.
The Prime Minister was meeting with her inner cabinet and the Security Service.
“Is there any truth in these reports?” she demanded, not for the first time, though for once, getting the straight answer she’d been looking for. It came from MI6’s Bethany May herself.
“Yes, the information is correct. We don’t know the source, but the evidence checks out.”
She knew full well the reason, however, why the newspapers were now calling for blood. Despite the British press being mostly anti-Russia, this scoop concerning some of the most senior politicians in the country and their involvement in that year’s Russian vote was too good a story to let lie. They were after blood.
“Did you have anything to do with it?” the Prime Minister demanded of Bethany but knew full well the current DDG’s role had only started recently. Her predecessor, Thomas Price, was however named in the articles.
“No, but it is clear those in the conspiracy were speaking with Price, as the papers have reported.”
There was collective shock within the room. Nobody present had had anything to do with the scandal, no one had been in their current position when the idea had been hatched, and yet it was all those currently present whose jobs were threatened. People were already calling for a change in government.
“We need to get a handle on the press element,” the Prime Minister said. For once she was glad that the Russian embassy in London had been closed earlier in the year. The PM didn’t fancy calls demanding answers for why the UK had been involved in a Russian affair. She didn’t like the idea of having to stand before them and explain she had no part in any of it. She’d been vocally attacking and accusing Russia ever since Salisbury poisonings, and to have the focus now on her government's actions, felt uncomfortable.
“A statement is being drawn up as we speak,” Downing Street's press secretary said, there because of the delicate nature of the story and the need for a government response. “We should have a draft available for you all before the meeting is over.” That was the plan, anyway.
“Very good,” the PM said, wanting to move things along. There was a lot to discuss on the matter. “This didn’t come out during Kaminski's trial, but only now? Why, and what is the source?”
It was possible the story had been discovered during the search of his office and buried until now. The timing couldn’t have been worse for the government, with opinion polls at an all-time low, but then again, such stories too often broke like that. The government was already on the verge of collapse following the Prime Minister’s outspoken and unshakeable stance on Russia following the poisoning, as well as her unsteady handling of the Brexit negotiations. She now led a nation with no trade deal in place, with a worsening economy and a struggling currency. Her rise to power was meant to have been such a different story. Coming to power after the referendum result, she had been the person to trigger Article 5o and formally end the UK’s involvement in the European Union. Little had gone right ever since. She was now hanging on by her fingertips.
This story threatened to push her, and many others, well and truly over the edge.
“Why now?” the Prime Minister repeated, her last question leading to nothing but silence in the room.
“Why do any of these things break when they do?” came one reply. “Someone had the story, and no paper wanted to miss out.” There was some truth in that, but no one was buying it. Usually, one paper or news channel broke with the exclusive, the rest following in the hours, days and weeks after. This was different. They all had the story, all claimed to have the source. This was planned. This was orchestrated.
“Might the source be the Kremlin itself?” the PM asked, turning to Bethany May as if she was the one who would know. She was, as it happened, not that anyone present realised that yet. Bethany just represented the overseas branch of Military Intelligence. If MI6 didn’t know, then there was no way anyone else present could know.
“We’re looking into that,” Bethany said, making a mental note to do that at a later point. Just something on file, to cover her tracks. There was no such investigation going on, as this was all fresh. Bethany had come straight to the Cobra meeting from home that morning. She would head to Vauxhall House only at the conclusion of the meeting.
The Prime Minister turned to one of her closest personal advisors, a man she’d worked with for many years, a person who knew the lie of the current political landscape probably better than most.
“What does this do to the current government?” There were several people present whose very jobs, if not careers, were now on the line.
“The wolves are circling,” he started. They always were, of course, it was the nature of the job. There were always people ready to move in and make their own play for Prime Minister. “We’ll have to watch to see who makes the most of the story over the next few days.” That was always key. Interviews given, seemingly backing their Prime Minister and the current government, but often particular words added, or certain things not said. No, I don’t suppose the Prime Minister had any involvement. Yes, I would be shocked if she was involved, I think we all would. Does it make her
position untenable? Yes, it could have that adverse effect, sadly, but she knew what she was taking on when putting herself forward for the role. If I’d been in charge given what she walked into, given the timing of her appointment, I think I would have looked a little harder at things, so yes, maybe she has been naive here, perhaps it does indicate a weakness on her part that others might not have faced. Would I consider the role? Well, I’m delighted to even be considered. It would be an honour, of course, but we are behind her, though should a change be necessary, I would take that call. And so it would go.
A tap on the door brought things to a halt for a moment. It was the press team with a draft of the statement the Prime Minister was due to deliver in front of a room of waiting journalists within the hour. The woman passed the DDG the piece of paper, before whispering something in her ear. She then left the room.
“I have the draft,” Bethany May said, scanning it with her eyes as she spoke, though they all knew what it was. “I’ve also been informed that arrests are starting to be made. The police have detained three of the Lords already and are locating the MPs mentioned in the reports.”
“Good god,” the Prime Minister said. “So it’s started.”
West Siberian Plain––Russia
Lev Kaminski was now back with Mark Orlov and Sergej Volkov, the three men who made up the Leadership of the Machine in one place again. Lev had money, at least. It would go a little way. He’d never invested in the Bank like the other two had, hadn’t even been told about it––that much sucked, as he had thought at the time he heard about it. Now he was somewhat relieved. It put him top of the tree suddenly, not that he had anything to boast about.