by Tim Heath
“I’ll look into it for you,” the doctor promised.
“And please, don’t tell Sasha, will you. He’ll be hurt at the thought that I’m not able to speak to him.”
“You have my word,” the doctor said. Anissa smiled.
Five minutes later the assessment was over, Sasha was home from his jog and wanting to catch the doctor before she left.
“All okay?” he asked, sweat running down his face, his t-shirt partially soaked.
“She’s making progress. I’ll adjust the medication taking in what you’ve said. Do try and regulate what she is drinking. She wouldn’t be the first who turned to the bottle in the face of a crisis.”
Sasha took the warning to heart.
“I’ll let you go. I need a shower.” They both smiled, the doctor letting herself out, Sasha heading into the bathroom without calling out to Anissa.
Moscow
The screech of brakes was the first thing that caught his attention. Three, then a fourth vehicle stopping at speed outside his building.
Putin peered through the window. All four FSB vehicles were being emptied of their officers, at least four men per car. They knew he was there.
Putin backed away from the window, but the lead agents were already bursting in through the front door. Putin could hear a sharp dialogue going on. Clearly, one of the three men Putin had looking after him had thought about reaching for his weapon. He was soon talked out of it. The FSB presence was too strong.
Putin then heard them demand in plain Russian, Where is he?
Moments later, they were coming into the room Putin was in. There was no point denying it, they knew. Someone had told them he was hiding. The room was soon filled with agents, though they were putting away their guns. Putin wasn’t armed.
A stand-off followed for a few seconds.
“Gentlemen,” Putin said, aware that at least the agents in his room were all men. “Why are you here?”
“We could ask the same of you, but that much is known.”
“Really?”
“You’ve killed the President. You’re under arrest.” The lead agent started to step forward, handcuffs dangling from his left hand.
“Hold on!” Putin demanded, causing the FSB agent to pause momentarily.
“Save it,” the agent replied, coming around and despite his protest, cuffing Putin’s hands behind his back. “You’re charged with treason.”
“I’m the President of Russia! I’m your President!” he demanded.
“No, you are not. You were, but this isn’t the way back.” The agent turned to his men. “Take that device and anything else you can find. Gather everything,” and he pushed Putin in the back. It was time to leave.
Outside, the three soldiers stood silently as Putin was put into the back seat of one of the FSB vehicles. The car sat there for a while, the rear door shut. There was no escape for the former President. A couple of boxes of evidence were withdrawn from the room Putin had just been in. He saw the device he’d used that morning poking out from the top of the second box. He had not had the chance to make another check. He’d not left the base where he had spent the night. How was Filipov dead? Was it even true? Had wires been crossed? Did they know what he was planning? Or had someone else already got to Filipov? But if they had, why in the world was he now sitting in the back of a squad car?
Putin knew he still had that insider. They would be able to get the proof Putin would need. Whatever his reasons for being in Moscow, he’d done nothing wrong. Nothing treasonous, yet, anyway, that was for sure. Intention alone wasn’t enough when it came to the highest charge in the Russian legal system.
Five minutes after Putin had been handcuffed and led out, the convoy was moving. They were heading to the central police compound. Putin would face questioning there.
On arrival, Putin was led in through the back door. A bag had been placed over his head. It was important nobody knew who he was, and that he was back in Moscow. People would soon hear the news, once charges were brought. They first had to go through the evidence.
Putin was dropped into a holding cell. Some come-down for a man at the top of his nation for so long. Those on duty were stunned to see Putin. Orders were given. The news was clearly filtering through. Filipov was dead. Putin had come back to kill him. Putin had heard the whispering. He even heard the suggestions that there had been a double killing at the Kremlin.
Putin was at a total loss.
An hour later they came back with even more strength, another guy––someone Putin didn’t know and hadn’t seen––opening the cell he was in and leading him out.
“Where are you taking me?” Putin asked.
“Now the questioning starts,” he replied, though he didn’t look at Putin directly. He pushed the prisoner forward, and they turned left at the end of the corridor. A door stood open not far beyond that, two agents behind the desk, Putin ushered in and seated facing them. On the table itself was the device Putin had used that morning. It was attached to a screen.
“We have you,” the lead officer said. “This actual device, found in your possession, used at your location, and containing only one set of fingerprints––yours––was used to gain access to the Presidential-aide’s personal calendar. You looked at his entire diary but focused your attention on today. You looked at the meeting arranged between Filipov and Orlov, your now dead co-conspirator.”
“Dead?”
“Don’t play dumb, Vladimir, it doesn’t become you.” The use of Putin’s first name was a severe put-down. This wasn’t his President he was speaking to, this was a common criminal he was about to nail. “We have it all.”
“What do you have?”
“Everything,” he said, smiling. He took the next hour going over what they had. They had Putin accessing various vital files. They knew he was looking at the diary, particularly the meeting between Filipov and Mark Orlov. They had him taking a flight from Israel, his pistol and knife.
At seven in the evening Putin was formally charged with treason, the murder of the President of Russia. Putin said nothing as he was led away. He didn’t know what to say. Someone had beaten him to it but the FSB didn’t see it that way. In fact, they had Putin firmly in their sights.
30
London
It took a few days for Anissa’s doctor to find out Bethany May’s address. The former Deputy Director General of MI6 was sceptical, but the doctor promised to be present. It was seen as a critical part of Anissa’s recovery for her to be able to speak to someone. Anissa had made the request.
Bethany picked a public place, the doctor initially saying that wasn’t going to help her speak, but Bethany unswerving on where they would meet. It was a busy cafe in the heart of London. She didn’t trust Anissa’s intentions.
The doctor met Bethany at the door. The meeting was arranged for two in the afternoon, Anissa slipping out without telling Sasha what she was actually doing.
Bethany took the seat facing the entrance, the doctor the one between––it was a table against the wall, the only other spare chair now facing Bethany, its back to the door. The former DDG clearly wanted to have all the exits covered. Drinks were ordered, Anissa apparently running late.
Twenty-five minutes after the scheduled appointment, Bethany was looking at her watch every minute. After the third time, the doctor took the hint.
“I’ll call Anissa, see what’s keeping her.” She pulled out her phone. There was no answer, the doctor allowing the call to ring for thirty-seconds. No voicemail kicked in either. She ended the call. “She must be getting close.”
They waited a further ten minutes, but Bethany was by that point already getting cold feet about the whole idea.
“I’m sorry, I have to go. I can't do this,” Bethany said abruptly, the doctor a little taken aback. They’d not been speaking for the last five minutes and Bethany was growing more nervous though the doctor couldn’t understand why. Bethany walked out. The doctor tried Anissa again, the call
continued to ring with no answer.
Anissa was across the street, in a black hoody borrowed from Alex’s clothes, at least two sizes too big for her. Her phone was still vibrating from the doctor's call to her, as she spotted Bethany leaving the cafe. Anissa started to follow the former DDG down the road.
Bethany was edgy, Anissa could tell that much. Twice she’d doubled back on herself, as if sensing she was being followed, but had spotted nothing. Anissa had been expecting it. She played it safe and had managed to remain unseen.
She followed Bethany back to a terraced house less than a mile from the cafe. The doctor had confirmed roughly where Bethany lived but had not given details. Picking a Saturday, Anissa had gambled that the former DDG would choose somewhere local to home. It appeared the gamble had paid off.
Anissa hid in bushes someway down the road, though she had a good view of the house. Bethany lived there, Anissa was almost one hundred per cent sure. She noted down the address.
News hit the Moscow television channels that evening at eight, a flurry of reports confirming the tragic events from the Kremlin that afternoon.
President Filipov had been assassinated. Two men had been caught, one killed at the scene, the other arrested an hour after. No names were yet given for the two attackers.
It was not classed as an outside terrorist attack, that much was made clear.
The camera crews huddled in the cold grounds outside the media compound at the Kremlin, as a shocked looking Svetlana Volkov stepped out from a side door. She was in her white fur coat, the iconic image from years before suddenly resurrected, though the chilly night had maybe made that call easier. She looked at her elegant best––clearly upset, and deeply troubled by what had happened that day––but putting on a brave face. Her country needed her to be strong.
“Thank you for gathering here, in what has been an unprecedented day in Russian politics.” No serving President had ever been assassinated before. Svetlana wasn’t going to mention to them yet that Putin was the man the FSB had in custody, the man who the Security Service had told her personally was behind the murder.
“As you might expect, I am shocked by this tragic news. Filipov was new to this role, but you’ll have seen, he shared a passion for this country equal to my own. Together we have set our nation on a path towards greatness. These aggressors can never be allowed to win.
“I’ve been informed about the identities of the attackers, and I will come to that in a moment. But let me be clear. This was a Russian hit. We have not been struck from afar. This was not the work of some terrorist radicals. This was internal, one of our own.” The shock was clear from the watching journalists. She let them settle for a moment. They’d heard the rumours, but Svetlana was confirming it in plain sight.
“This country is on the rise. I will not allow this setback to stall the process that both Filipov and I started with your mandate ten months ago. In many ways, nothing needs to change.
“There will be no need for new elections, not yet. Filipov had five years left, but of course, his murder might change that.
“But I’ve been asked whether I will be prepared to step into his shoes, while we work out what needs to be done, and I have no hesitation in accepting this great honour.”
There was an audible gasp, though many there had the same questions lined up. Svetlana seemed the perfect fit for the time being. Had she not said anything, they would have been asking her about the position.
“I’ve played some of the most prominent roles in Hollywood throughout my acting life, but I would say I’m about to play my most important one yet. Becoming President of this great nation is something I take as a tremendous honour. Of course, it’s only an interim. I get that, and as such I am unelected. But when the dust has settled, when there has been adequate time to understand all that has just taken place, and when I’ve been given a chance to prove myself, I’d like to be a contender. I would want to stand in that future vote as the woman in pole position.
“Our country has made great changes in the last twelve months. Filipov was the start of that, but I will see it through. The previous elections had three clear contenders. Two faced off in the second round of voting. As we know, Kaminski, the loser in the first round, is now a convicted criminal. Even if he was not in prison for a long time in England, he could not stand for the Presidency again. No criminal can. The same goes for Putin,” she said, the crowd wondering when the obvious choice was going to be mentioned. He had all the experience, all the qualities needed to come back, and he was the runner-up in the last election anyway. He seemed the blindingly obvious man for the job.
“Putin himself was the man behind this attack.” The utter shock was palpable. “He is being held in prison as we speak, charged with treason. He killed the President.” She went silent for a moment, looking around the stunned faces, her own eyes tearful. A stunning performance.
“This traitor of democracy was working with Mark Orlov, the billionaire who, unknown to any of us, decided to take matters into his own hands. Orlov is dead, killed as Filipov defended himself. Putin was caught having escaped, but Filipov died from his wounds at the scene. The murder weapon was found this afternoon among Putin’s personal belongings.
“Mark my words, there is no doubt that Putin was the man who pulled the trigger. He knew his way into the Kremlin, he designed most of it during the renovations he carried out. But we have him. He will stand trial for treason but will never stand for President again.
“This is why I see it as my duty to step forward. I’m best placed for this role, the most qualified now. I’ve been with Filipov the whole way, in every meeting. We worked as a team, and for that, I am now very grateful. If Filipov had not involved me in everything, I fear for what might have become of this nation given the gravity of the situation.
“But I’m not going anywhere. You all know me. Many of you have followed my career. I wouldn’t be the first actress or actor to move from the big screen into the top job. It’s time Russia stepped fully into its future. My time has come, and I will not let you down.”
She ended there, turning before questions could be asked. Turning and heading straight back from where she had been before, her long white coat flowing in the wind as her unseen feet whisked her away. Flashbulbs went off, capturing the last possible images, until, with one final wave to the crowd, the door shut and Svetlana was gone.
President Volkov had work to do.
Anissa woke in a cold sweat, in the pit of terror. She was sitting up in bed, the duvet off, the room in total darkness. She had no clue where she was.
Sasha came rushing into the bedroom, the door swinging open, alarm on his face. The light from the hallway stung her eyes for a moment, but he was a welcome sight. Her surroundings started to make sense, but her pulse still raced, the images she’d just dreamt etched on her vision like the sun, not yet ready to leave.
“It’s okay, it was a dream,” Sasha said. She’d screamed out in terror, not for the first time that week. The medication seemed to be helping little. Sasha sat on the edge of her bed, wrapping the duvet around her to stop her from getting cold.
She held him tight.
“I don’t want to be by myself,” she said.
“You aren’t, I’m here.”
“I can’t sleep alone,” she pleaded.
“No, Anissa, that’s not sensible.”
“Nor is leaving me in here alone.” Sasha relented. He was tired.
“Okay,” he said. He helped Anissa up.
“Thank you,” she whispered. They walked into Sasha's bedroom, she seemed half asleep anyway, the medication keeping her drowsy but apparently doing little to really solve the issue of her troubling nightmares.
She got into one side of the bed. Sasha placed a pillow on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s no space in there for us to share one bed. It’s not big enough,” Sasha said. That and the other blindingly obvious reason.
“Sasha, I can’t sleep alone.”
“I’m right here!”
“Please, give it a try.” He didn’t know what she was asking him to try, but he picked up the pillow off the floor and dropped it next to her one. She’d moved over somewhat to give him some space.
Sasha woke. It was three am. Anissa was holding him, her body close to his. He couldn’t tell if she was awake, but when he moved to free himself, she seemed to respond. She kissed him on the lips.
“Anissa, don’t,” he said, as she kissed him again. “You aren’t thinking right,” but she was moving to be on top of him, sitting on his hips. She rolled up the base of her nighty to allow her knees to rest either side. She gyrated a little, her groin connecting with his boxer-short covered crotch. He didn’t say anything for a while. Anissa grabbed his hand, placing it on her breast, though Sasha pulled away.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I want this.” She pulled off her nightie. Sasha put both hands on her hips, the movement and semi-darkness adding a lot to the moment, as did his tired but now fully awake body. He ran his hands up to her chest, Anissa letting out a small groan, the response sending electric shocks right through Sasha. She pressed herself forward, kissing Sasha with an abandonment he’d not thought possible, her body pressed into his, breasts clamped to his chest, his whole body on full alert.
At some point during the long embrace, he slipped off his boxer shorts.
31
Anissa had evidently been the first one up. When Sasha rose the clock showed it was approaching eight. Recollections came back from earlier that morning. Anissa riding high on him, before they made love. Sasha pulled on a robe and went out to the bathroom.
Anissa wasn’t in the flat. She’d obviously showered. Her towel was hanging up drying, and the shower itself was damp. She’d not left a note. Sasha quickly showered himself, and once dressed, tried calling her. Her phone was off, his call going straight through to voicemail.