by Tim Heath
Anissa didn’t know what to say. Was Filipov really able to control both the Security Service with Bethany May and now the government with Prime Minister Westfield?
Bethany sat in traffic as her smartphone vibrated, confirming a notification had come in. Her driver was taking her home, where she would spend Christmas alone. She was not married.
The Deputy Director General opened her phone. She read the notification, which linked to an app she’d had purposefully made to work with the MI6 mainframe. Having set up specific keywords, specific commands, she was informed when information of a more sensitive nature was viewed. Sasha’s investigation into the PR firm behind the new PM had set off one of these alerts.
“We have a problem,” she said, calling the same number she always had for Filipov. “Anissa and Sasha are looking into me and now Westfield. I think they finally feel that have enough to act.” She ended the call. Filipov would get it and respond soon. It wasn’t Christmas in Russia for another two weeks, New Year before that. Russians were not yet off on their ten-day holiday, and there was no way this could wait.
She felt exposed. Knowing Alex had gone rogue was one thing. She had no news of what had happened to him since, but his failure to reappear had been troubling. She’d been the one to suggest to Anissa it all got covered over as an unexplained disappearance. A memorial service had been arranged, the DDG saying a few words at the event herself, but they were empty and meaningless. She didn’t know Alex and apparently didn’t think much of what she did know. It was all for show.
For everyone present, they got to say their goodbyes. Anissa hadn’t stayed at the service for long, Sasha going off after her. Anissa had been most upset.
Bethany didn’t know what Filipov had done with Alex. She knew Phelan had been killed. That much had been reported. She could only imagine where Alex was now. He was still alive, she was sure. Alex would make an excellent bargaining chip or puppet if the time came. The British could hardly plead innocence if an MI6 spy was paraded on camera, having been caught in Russia trying to get a known terrorist close enough to the President to kill him. That would never ring sweet in the ears of the world. Filipov was also too ruthless to ever allow someone like Alex a quick death.
Bethany didn’t like violence. She had others do it, and her information often led to terrible things happening, but she couldn’t stand by personally and see it happen. Bethany didn’t want any harm to come to Anissa, but Bethany was also frightened about her own position now. She feared they were onto her.
The car continued to take her home, Bethany pondering all the while about what it meant. She was a fool for having trusted Filipov in the past and was now in a dead end herself. But she knew a lot. That much dawned on her in the moments that followed. She was worth something to Filipov, of course. That’s why he used her, relied on her and how he’d got her into the position she was now in. She had dreamed of one day running MI6. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
But she came back to her thought. She knew a lot, it went both ways. If push came to shove and she was exposed and vulnerable, what she had on the President was powerful. She would have something tangible to bargain with, an opportunity to turn and come right in the end, and a chance of redemption, to save herself. It would make her a traitor to Filipov, and she knew what he did with enemies. But she would be protected. She was foolish, for sure, but not so naive that she couldn’t see how these things went. She could bargain her way out of the hole she might be about to find herself in.
The Kremlin––Moscow
Svetlana had been called into Filipov’s office the following morning. It was Christmas Day in most of the world but in Russia it was a typical working day for them all, though the holidays were not far away. It had been a hectic year, which started with intense campaigning for the presidential election. Svetlana had only been involved late on, just before the vote itself, but her sudden appearance had undoubtedly helped. She’d since got a taste for politics. It was much the same as show-business. Read the lines prepared for you, look good in front of the camera and keep your dirty little secrets hidden. She’d always looked good in front of any camera, had few secrets left that the world didn’t already know, and was now as expert at writing lines, as she was at reciting them. She’d never needed a teleprompter when giving an address on Filipov’s behalf. She merely fell back onto her training and years of experience. A speech delivered from memory flowed better and was more heartfelt, something with life, emotion and passion, than a plain and straightforward political statement. She’d seen the power in her method, an approach few could copy, as they’d never had the practice or training.
It gave her an edge.
For now, she was using that to help Filipov. It might not always be that way, however.
Filipov was standing behind his desk as Svetlana came into the office and shut the door.
“I’ve heard from May,” he said, Svetlana aware he was talking about the current Deputy Director General at MI6, and not the former British Prime Minister. The current PM was reportedly sympathetic. She had yet to learn why. “We will need to see to Alex’s two colleagues. She’s worried. Where is Rad?”
Rad was Russia’s best sniper, though this hardly called for someone with those particular skills.
“He’s at home,” Svetlana said. He had spent most of the summer, when not racing around the world on errands for the new President, at his dacha, a wooden shed deep in the forest and three hours from Moscow. With winter approaching, he could no longer stay there. He had a flat in the city, though for years he hadn’t stayed there so regularly as he was now. He was first and foremost a soldier. He’d been fighting in Syria the day Filipov won the election, summoned back from beyond the frontline almost immediately. Filipov had since been putting Rad to good use, as Svetlana herself knew. He’d most certainly saved both the President’s life and her own by taking out Phelan before he could have attempted anything.
“I need you to get in touch with him. Get him some clean British papers. Get his equipment sent over ahead of him. Give him the details of this nuisance Anissa and the traitor Barkov.” Filipov had known of Sasha Barkov for a little while, another piece of intel from Bethany. Russia never took kindly to its own spies defecting. However, they were not usually dealt with by a sniper and a bullet through the head. It often had to be a slow, painful death. A message of deterrence always had to be given to anyone else who might try and betray the Motherland, yet still, they continued to occasionally do just that. If the British adopted such methods, maybe Filipov would not have been able to recruit so many people willing to give up information for money. He didn’t dwell on that thought. It worked in his favour.
“Is that wise, sir?” Svetlana rarely questioned Filipov, though it was why she was there. She couldn’t help but see that sending in such a valuable asset to do a job a mere hitman could be employed to do was somewhat risky. Rad could easily be compromised.
“I understand your concern. But a clear message needs to be sent to them all.”
“And if he is caught?”
“He won’t be. Besides, I’m about to give Europe something else to worry about. They’ll be so concerned about a nuclear meltdown, that they won’t see anything coming.” Svetlana said nothing. She wished she shared her President’s confidence but would organise some other local help to assist Rad, just in case. A message could be delivered without Rad having to overtly risk his own life. As any chess player knew, you don’t send the queen into a situation that a pawn could handle. You don’t give up your queen so easily. It was your last line of defence.
Svetlana did understand what Filipov meant about a distraction, however. She’d been in on the conversations with the seven-person nuclear team. As the various power plants came on around Europe––France, the UK, Ireland, Sweden amongst the latest batch of countries to announce an increased focus on nuclear power––the same back door gave the Russian team access to them all.
Filipov dismissed Svetlana as he picked up
his own phone. She had things to do for him, primarily instructing Rad on his next assignment.
“It’s me,” the President said, getting through to his team of experts. “You are to initiate the code against one of the German plants. It’s up to you which facilities you choose. Take them to critical, for only one day, then have it revert to normal. Leave no trace, no suggestion anyone was involved. They can’t be led back to us. Get everything ready. I’ll contact you when it’s time to implement,” he said, ending the call without the need for a reply. He would start with the Germans, before moving onto two nuclear plants in the UK. It would give the British plenty to worry about when two of their recently active nuclear reactors suddenly threatened meltdown.
13
London
New Year’s Day
Rad was in the UK, though Svetlana had spelled it out to him. He was to work behind the scenes and get some local gangsters to carry out the actual hits. She was clear that he was too valuable to risk getting caught.
The first group of men were watching Anissa. She was still home, as it was a Bank holiday. She’d been off all week. They knew she was due back into work the following morning. The plan was a simple car bomb to take her out before she ever reached the end of the street.
Rad had seen the plan, and none of it seemed right to him. He was a shot through the head man, clean and simple. A little less damage too, aside from the victim. But Svetlana’s words had rung true, and he didn’t want to be there any more than she wanted him there. He was also looking up information on the former FSB agent whose name Svetlana had given him. He found it shocking.
The three-man operation that was tasked with watching Anissa were awake early, despite the late night the previous day. They were drinking coffee from cardboard cups, as a local McDonald’s was open not far from their stake out. It seemed hitmen weren’t the only ones having to work that morning, though gangsters never really took time off. They were always thinking about the next payday. This one was a particularly good one.
A couple of hours later, they finally had something to observe. “Here, I have movement. Front lounge window,” one man said, a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He was sitting in the front passenger seat, watching the house one hundred metres in front of them. They’d worked out the layout of the property after being there, on and off, for three days. They knew everything about the two cars the family owned as well.
“It’ll be one of the kids,” another man said, looking at his watch. It was impossible to know for sure, the curtain no longer moving, though a light had come on. Everywhere else was dark, the sun yet to rise. Any parties that had been on the street the night before were, no doubt, nothing but hangovers now.
An hour later most houses showed signs of life. It was gone nine, and in the Anissa residence, everyone it seemed had risen. From the car, they could see into the breakfast room. The kids had clearly eaten earlier, their bowls still on the table, a couple of cereal boxes alongside them, as Anissa and her husband sat together. All the three men could do was observe.
They watched them all leave the house shortly after ten. The family went in the larger of the two cars, one that they had always opted for when out together. It was the other car the team of three had pegged as being Anissa’s work vehicle, nippier and better able to make the commute into work. That car was also solely registered to Anissa.
The men set out, keeping track of the car ahead but not wanting to get too close. Twenty minutes later they pulled alongside a large park. They watched the family all get out. From the boot, various items appeared. A football, which one boy started to kick against the fence, and a drone of some kind, presumably a recent gift. The other boy held onto this like it was the crown jewels.
Anissa cut an attractive figure, walking next to her husband. They both did, arm in arm, following after the boys who were racing around, the drone set on a bench for the time being while they played a little football together.
The three-man team got out of the car, splitting up. One started jogging, as if out for some morning exercise. He would enter the park from the north entrance and swing back towards them all. The other two would go in the south gate but take different routes. They knew the plan, this was just a final preparation. One last look at the woman before they blew her up the following morning.
It was gone twelve before Anissa left the park, the three men already aware that the family were packing up and were themselves back in their own vehicle watching and waiting. They pulled away at the same moment Anissa did, now behind the wheel herself; her husband had driven them there. Anissa stopped at a large supermarket on the way home. The three men didn’t leave the vehicle.
Anissa reemerged from the shop twenty minutes later, the others in tow. Her husband had three bags of shopping in his hand, presumably something special for lunch and a top up of supplies for the rest of the week. They got back into the car and completed the journey home. At each turn the car behind following, though they hung back enough to remain unseen. They knew where Anissa was heading, and they were not prepared to give the game away. It wasn’t clear who she was, or why she’d been ordered dead, but they were paid to act, not ask questions.
The afternoon was quiet. Anissa did not leave the house, the lounge curtains closed earlier than required, the guess being they were watching a film together.
It was approaching midnight when the three men returned to the area. Everything was pitch black, the power to the few street lights that there had been the night before since cut. It meant nobody could see the man as he approached Anissa’s vehicle, getting onto the ground beside the car, sliding under a device that clung to the exhaust. Once it was put carefully in place, he pressed the activation device. The bomb was triggered by vibration, the switching on of the ignition enough to activate the thirty-second timer. The car would barely make it off the driveway before the time was up.
The man rolled away, getting to his feet. They were not going to be in the area when this thing went off. Anissa was due in the office first thing on 2nd January. The kids were still on school holidays. They had probably already seen their mother for the last time.
Sasha had spent New Year’s Eve with Helen. He’d joined her for Christmas with her relatives, the Russian’s first experience of a traditional English feast. They had pulled out all the stops, delighted to introduce Sasha to that very English affair, with turkey and all the trimmings. They were also pleased to finally meet the man their daughter had been talking about so often.
For New Year’s Eve it was just the two of them, Sasha taking Helen to a local restaurant, where a band played music all night, though the venue itself closed at eleven. The chimes of midnight were watched on television, Sasha holding Helen in his arms, seated behind her with his chin resting on her head. He was on the sofa, she on the floor, a couple close and tight marking the passing of an old year and the beginning of a new, both in a place they couldn’t have imagined twelve months before. Both in a relationship that was going somewhere.
They were in Alex’s flat, but Alex was not there. Helen knew very little about the flatmate, though she knew from the early days of their relationship that the apartment didn’t belong to Sasha. He certainly had the run of the place now, but she had always sensed whenever approaching the subject of where the other guy was, Sasha would close up. Sasha wasn’t willing to talk about it. She let it drop. It didn’t bother her, ultimately, and gave them the privacy they wanted. They weren’t having to tiptoe around another person or have someone walk in on them unexpectedly.
Sasha couldn’t help but think about his former home as the BBC showed shots from London and the London Eye, ablaze with fireworks at that moment. It reminded him of St Petersburg, the river awash with colour for New Year, the dark night sky radiating light. The previous year had brought a complete change for him. Now he experienced a new year in a new country and this nation began to seem less different.
Sitting there, Sasha couldn’t have been happier on many levels. A
beautiful woman at his feet, her soft hair against his cheek, the scent and feel of her sending neurons firing in his brain. He was out of Russia, however, which was a mixed blessing. Russia was everything he knew, and everything that endangered him both at the same time. He fitted there but had no place there anymore. That last part saddened him. Until a few months before, it was all he ever knew.
Sitting across the road from Sasha, with his eyes firmly on the Russian, his focus clear, was Rad. The sniper had no doubt about who he was looking at. This was indeed the man Svetlana had sent him to kill.
He put down his weapon. This would require a more direct approach. Rad returned everything to its proper place, climbing down from the rooftop that he had gained access to a few hours before. He’d been on Sasha’s tail for a while, picking him up as he’d left home that morning, watching him swing by a shop for a few last minute supplies, no doubt. He then purchased a large bunch of flowers from the neighbouring florist. Some lucky lady was in for a treat.
Rad thought back to his own home, the girl he’d left in the forest. In another life, this could have been him. Instead, he was there to kill.