by Tim Heath
Interpol had an arrest warrant out for him, initiated by the British. Lev was a fugitive, and with Filipov now in power in the Kremlin, he had few places he could hide, even in his own homeland. The Machine's headquarters in the middle of nowhere on the Siberian Plain made as good a hiding place as any. It was also reassuring to be around the other two men. They’d grown closer over recent months.
They had a common enemy.
Orlov had just heard back from the team leader in Syria. The team leader had reported that he was travelling alone with Putin, nearing the border. That was the last location Mark had been updated on. What had troubled him most was how quickly the men had moved away, once they found out the money was gone. The same firm supplied the protection in Zurich. They’d come to Orlov’s rescue and recaptured the Bank after Filipov’s failed attempt.
It hadn’t utterly failed, of course. Filipov had managed to destroy Mark and Sergej’s assets that were located there. Orlov was sure that wasn’t the sole purpose of the robbery, however. There was enough wealth there to start almost anything and know you would have the finance to see it through. But the blow had devastated them. Syria was just the beginning, Mark knew that. Zurich would be next. Without pay, the security would leave soon, if they had not already gone. The Bank would be completely vulnerable to anyone in the know, and anyone with the vault's complicated combination.
Sadly for those leading the Machine, Matvey Filipov ticked both those boxes. They were confident he would move in for the kill once it was clear the protection had gone.
Then he would most certainly move in on them personally.
Sergej had kept looking out of the window. The men guarding the grounds and surrounding land were from another firm. The place was way out in Siberia, so far from anything resembling civilisation that it might have been on another planet. Word had evidently not yet reached them that the money had run out. And now that Lev was back, that was no longer the case. Lev had put in a few million of his own. That enabled increased security again and covered the cost for them all for a few months. One less thing to worry about.
Orlov knew, however, that sooner or later, if they just sat there like the unprotected Bank in Zurich, Filipov would come for them. They too were sitting ducks, out of funding and nearly out of time. Mark had never before felt so trapped. He loathed the President all the more.
Sergej regretted some of the actions they had taken. Storming the Bank in Zurich so quickly had shown Filipov what they had up their sleeve. The President would now know what to look out for––he could just send a still larger force, a shootout and enough blood spilt to retake the Bank, but that would be too public. Filipov didn’t want anyone knowing about his hidden treasure chest. That’s what made the place so unique, so special. That’s why no one was meant to know of its existence. Yet that Russian knew.
Sergej regretted Mark’s own actions in murdering Andre, Filipov’s son. He’d not said it at the time, but he had thought the action stupid at best and idiotic at worst. It was always going to bring a response. Mark had lost homes––lives were lost in those explosions, too––and now Filipov had taken out their money. It wouldn’t be long before he would have the businesses also. Stuck in Siberia they were limited in what they could do for their own business empires. When the owner was away for long enough people started asking questions. The markets began speculating. The share price then always began to drop.
Yet what ate away at Sergej most was the involvement of Svetlana in everything Filipov now did. Sergej knew Filipov had taken in his wife––they were not yet officially divorced––purely to spite him. He doubted it was anything sexual, questioned that they were a couple, but the longer it all went on, the more those thoughts rose in Sergej. The beast was awakening. She was his. Yes, their marriage was one of convenience and not of love, but that still made her his. He had protected her for decades, they had grown strong together. There had been mutual respect, or so he thought. She had got as much as he had from their marriage. It had been win-win.
Now they were getting a divorce. That made Svetlana fair game for some, and what a prize she would make. Sergej didn’t know a more beautiful woman in Russia. He’d always enjoyed that aspect of life with her. She was forever pleasing on the eye.
Of all the men who could pursue her, however, Filipov was one step too far. Sergej couldn’t allow the President to get his claws into Svetlana any more than he already had. Sergej was livid inside, his temper short and his behaviour increasingly erratic.
Orlov saw the signs, of course. He was a good reader of people. Mark had a fair idea about what was going on in Sergej and planned to use that aggression to help them fight back. Lev just chose to avoid Sergej whenever he could. There was a large part of the criminal mastermind in Sergej that had always scared Lev, though he would never let on.
After lunch when the three men were sitting together mostly in silence, Lev dropped a brochure onto the table. It was a prospectus from a state-of-the-art security firm based in Moscow.
“I think we should use additional technology to increase the security out here,” he said, the other two looking at the brochure that had just landed in the middle. They knew the firm well. Mark had used them for his own home. They’d never needed to consider it in Siberia as they were so rarely there and it was so remote you could see for miles in most directions, only a few clumps of trees giving any cover for a would-be visitor.
“And you’ll fund it, I take it?” Sergej grunted. He resented the fact that he was now reliant on the support of Lev, his own operating money gone unless his lawyers could change the settlement in the divorce. So far Svetlana was not playing ball.
“Of course.” Lev was somewhat put out. His own safety was on the line as much as theirs. Filipov would be happy if they were all dead.
“Make it happen,” Mark said, no need for a long debate about it, the situation pressing. It was surreal how quickly men in their position could find themselves so trapped. It didn’t suit them, and yet currently they had no other option. The call from Syria had been a blow––not wholly unexpected, however. Mark knew the challenge with hired help was loyalty. They were fighting for dollars, not love. When the money ran out, so did the soldiers. Literally in the case of Putin’s detail in Syria. Mark was thankful for the dedication shown by the team leader. At least he was escorting the former President to the border, though one man against a group of aggressors was not going to be much of a fight.
Mark pushed that thought away. Putin had to make it to the border. He was their one last hope. With Putin back in charge, with Filipov removed––a bullet was the only thing fitting for such a man––and with the support and loyalty the Machine had shown Putin to keep him alive, Mark hoped it would all be enough. They would survive, they would come through this. They might even have the ear of the President after all. They had envisioned a similarly close relationship with Dmitry Kaminski if he had won the election. Putin in charge and in their pocket, however, was an even stronger prospect. Orlov could almost feel a nervous expectation rising in his gut, a tingling that a man of such wealth rarely had. He finally recognised something he wanted, something money couldn’t buy him right now. It was a rare sensation.
9
Westminster
Two police vans pulled up at the Houses of Parliament, though there was no terror alert today. The officers who got out of the truck were unarmed and mostly relaxed. Ageing Peers of the Realm and overweight MPs were not the same threat as a group of violent terrorists causing havoc on the streets of the capital.
The press corps had been hot on the story all day, since that morning’s revelations. There were plenty of reporters camped outside the home of the British government as the vans pulled up. They’d seen at least two of the people named in the reports arrive for work that day, each scurrying away, terrified by the questions and accusations coming their way.
While the police were still in the building, a man who’d been in the political sphere for many years b
ut only an MP for the last eight was quietly going about his business on the second floor.
H.W. Westfield––Henry William to those in the know––was fifty-five years old, married with three grown-up children. He was pro-Russia, and he had met Matvey Filipov two decades before, though few people knew that. They had both joked with each other over a beer back then about having ambitions to one day lead their respective countries, something they naturally laughed about. They were each a million miles from doing that, Westfield merely a political aide, Filipov wealthy and powerful, but not moving in political circles.
Westfield had watched with fascination the previous couple of years when the unknown Filipov had seemingly come from nowhere to win the Russian election. The MP, as he now was, wondered if the Russian even remembered the beer he’d once had with a young Englishman when Filipov had let out the secret that he wanted to be the President one day.
Now he was.
Westfield wasn’t left wondering for long. Less than forty-eight hours after the result was announced in Moscow, a package had arrived at Westfield's home, his wife out, so that it was only him home to receive it. The box contained just two things. There was nothing that confirmed where it came from, nothing signed to say who had sent it, but Westfield knew. His blood ran cold.
Inside the package was a bottle of the same Georgian beer the two strangers had drunk that night as they had joked about one day leading their nations, and an unsigned note saying I haven’t forgotten what we joked about, have you?
Filipov was now the President.
Within a week of that taking place, Westfield had been contacted by all sorts of people, various spin doctors within the party and outside known to have ushered in new leaders who made sweeping changes. A stylist got in touch, as well as someone offering to help run his campaign should Westfield decide to challenge for the party leadership.
Westfield knew it was all Filipov’s doing. They’d shared a beer twenty-something years ago. A fun evening, filled with lighthearted banter and a few bottles of excellent Georgian beer. There had been no contact ever since, and now all this. Westfield knew it was connected, knew without any doubt it was Filipov himself and didn’t know what to do with it.
With so many people offering him help––he’d never stopped to question who had asked them to, who was paying them for their time because he wasn’t––Westfield knew he had a shot at becoming Prime Minister if there was to be a change, if the current PM was to falter or be dethroned. Others were waiting in the wings as well. But his support was growing, thanks to the team around him.
Thanks, ultimately, to Filipov himself.
The thought of becoming the Prime Minister––months ago an impossibility, as politically speaking, he was a nobody––filled him with both excitement and horror. He had secretly dreamed of it in his earlier years. Those jokes over their beers weren’t entirely unfounded. Filipov had apparently not been joking either. He’d won his own election when the time had come. But that was what scared Westfield most. Westfield was somewhat pro-Russian, primarily down to the positive connection he’d made with men like Matvey Filipov in his twenties. There was nothing else in it, no other deep connection, no desire to betray his country. He just had never bought into the negative agenda the UK had regarding their former Cold War adversary.
Yet, it felt like now he was betraying them. Filipov was getting to him. Did that make any move for power more possible or more dangerous for him? Could he really lead the country, and what would that mean for the UK’s relationship with Russia? Westfield was a non-confrontation kind of person. He championed dialogue over distance. He had been outspoken when his own PM had demanded the expulsion of Russian diplomats, at a time where a conversation was needed between the two parties, not walls of silence. Not distance and division. He’d actually grown some support within his party as a result. All done without Filipov’s help.
Sitting in his office that day, the police downstairs, three members of the House of Lords removed in handcuffs for their attempt to oust Putin by courting Kaminski as a future President of Russia, Westfield didn’t know what to make of it all. If he was to come out and demand change, given all he’d learnt over recent weeks, and all that his new helpers had been advising him, he might well force the collapse of the current government. The Prime Minister would have no option but to resign. A void would appear, one that he was well positioned––some actually said best placed––to fill. If he rocked the boat enough right now, he could be the Prime Minister before the week was out.
Westfield sat in his chair for a long time. He was going over every thought, every possible outcome. Thinking through all scenarios. Each time he ended up becoming the new Prime Minister. He knew that was what he ultimately wanted, and now he knew it was possible. A few would call him a traitor for doing so, but there had been plenty before and would be plenty after in his line of work. Becoming the Prime Minister, however, was not his main concern.
What troubled him most was what Filipov would demand when he was Prime Minister. That frightened him more than anything. He didn’t owe the Russian anything, but would that be the view of the Kremlin? If it was Filipov’s help that got him into power, would that be used against him if he was to ever step out of line?
The members of the Lords being driven away in vans at that moment was a case in point. If you hold a public office and you do something wrong, it will come out. Sooner or later, they will know.
Despite never doing anything wrong, Westfield already felt guilty. He had a big choice to make over the coming days.
Zurich––Switzerland
Men working for Filipov had been in the city for a few weeks. They were waiting for the sign. That happened that morning.
At the main airport, the President's team stationed there spotted the mercenaries starting to get on planes. Most were flying to Ukraine. They had other work waiting for them.
It meant their previous assignment in Zurich was over. The money had been cut off, the whole system in place in Switzerland dismantled. The Machine was no longer looking out for the Bank.
The team called in this news to the Kremlin.
Around the city, quick searches were made of some of the known locations where the forces had been staying. The ones they searched––initially approaching cautiously, before breaking-in––were all empty. It was clear.
“We have a green light,” the team leader confirmed. He’d relayed the report to his contact in Moscow and the news had been passed to Filipov himself moments later. The reply came back equally fast. They were to take the building, secure the area, and this time clear the place out of all its hidden contents. All its treasure. Filipov now had his finance.
Of course, Filipov wasn’t going to trust one group with such riches. He had a complete second unit who were watching the first. Not for their protection, in case that was needed. They were watching them, to make sure they didn’t rob the President, rob Russia of this great bounty. They were to follow the first unit the entire way to the airport, where three specially provided cargo aircraft that had been borrowed from an international freight company were waiting.
Russian fighter jets would then be on guard, ready to intervene if anyone threatened the three planes heading east. Filipov had instructed the cargo planes to avoid flying over Ukraine. He didn’t fancy taking such a risk.
On the quiet and unsuspecting urban street near the centre of Zurich, five vans moved in at speed, ten men in each. Three times that force of people was waiting not far away. Any trouble and they would step in. Fifty men were all that could comfortably fit inside the Bank. Any more and it would attract attention.
As the men stormed in through the front door, those working inside were alarmed. This was the second robbery attempt that year. The order had been not to harm anyone this time. The three staff members present were cuffed, bags put over their heads, and they were led out to another waiting van, where they were driven away. They would wake up the following morning unharmed.
Inside the Bank, the vault was located, the code carefully entered using the same combination Filipov had sent through the last time, and once that was completed, the floor and wall once more shifted, the sound of locks turning, as if in the very core the earth itself, clearly heard. A stairway appeared, leading down into the now opened chamber within the Bank.
A team of twenty men, there because of their technical knowledge, went to work immediately on installing a lift mechanism on the stairwell. Once completed, it would carry the sturdy metal containers filled with the various treasures up to the surface. Lifting devices were then installed at street level, the boxes manoeuvred and pushed into the back of the specially reinforced security vans that would pull up outside, one by one so as not to make a scene.
Twenty minutes after entering the Bank, the first metal crate was on its way up the lift. It would take them a few hours to completely gut the place.
Outside the coast was clear. No alarms had been sounded, no men running to retake the Bank this time. Regardless of that, teams waited expertly on standby. They were not going to suffer a loss of life this time.
The first van drew up at a little after nine that morning. The rear doors were opened, as one man emerged from the Bank pushing the first two crates on his unique hydraulic device. For anyone watching, they were moving some business equipment or packing up a family home.
It took ten minutes to load the first van, the team inside disciplined and organised, the crates coming up effectively and everything ready for the arrival of each lorry. The trucks would be spaced ten minutes apart to give them time to build up a surplus in the central banking concourse. The first van pulled away, now fully laden. It would drive directly to the airport, returning later to take its place in the waiting queue.