by Tim Heath
Despite his late start, Price arrived first––no surprises there––and was shown through to his usual booth in one minimally lit corner. There were about half a dozen others in the room at that moment, sitting at three separate tables.
Dmitry Kaminski arrived only five minutes after Price had.
“Thomas, good to see you, sorry I was late––the weather!” Price stood to take his hand then once they had both sat down he indicated to the waiter behind the bar that they were ready to place their order. He came over straight away, their request for a pot of tea taken and the young man went away to prepare it.
“So, Dmitry, how have you been?” The fact a senior member of MI6 was meeting with a wealthy Russian oligarch was nothing new, the two men having been connected in some way for quite some time.
“Business is good. Lots of job opportunities for British people.” Kaminski had been based in the UK––one of a handful of wealthy Russians who lived in London––for quite some time. His companies were in the FTSE100 meaning he got a seat at the top table when it came to the country’s most influential gatherings. Price also knew his UK based firms employed far more Europeans––especially Poles––than they did Brits. He let it go.
“How are things going with your special group?” By that, he meant the T20, the group that played the Games.
“Couldn’t all be working more in my favour if I tried, despite a recent session where I was not as successful as I might have hoped.”
“And Sokoloff?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? What, completely?”
“Yes. I thought you guys were behind that, the same as with Krupin?”
Stanislav Krupin and Sokoloff were the two wealthiest money men behind the Putin administration, responsible for nearly eighty per cent of his funding, especially when it came to his re-election efforts, which didn’t come cheap. Both men had grown in influence and wealth by being a part of the T20. Significantly, both men were now out of that group––Krupin had lost his position in the T20 in the previous Games, and now Sokoloff was out. His behaviour had made sure of that, and now he had been cut loose and was in free-fall. It was estimated he would lose as much as three-quarters of his wealth before he would even begin to bottom out.
“No, we had nothing to do with it. Just good fortune I guess.”
“Yes, fortune indeed,” Kaminski echoed, but he had never believed fortune governed too much. It made him wary for a moment, but unsure why that was.
The tea was brought over to them at that point, the waiter leaving them to it once he’d placed the pot and cups in the centre of the table.
“Putin’s cut Sokoloff out of things already.”
“Really? That’s got to have hurt.”
“Sokoloff is not a man to take these things lightly.”
“Can Putin mount a genuine challenge for re-election this time around without Sokoloff?”
“Not if I can help it,” Dmitry smiled. It was no secret that Dmitry Kaminski harboured political ambitions, though what might have been a surprise to some was that he intended to run at the next Presidential elections, due to take place in a little over a year’s time, in March 2018.
A charismatic and likeable figure too, he was Britain’s choice, at least within the elite establishment that included the Deputy Director General of MI6. Kaminski was deemed a man of the West, having had long-term connections in London already, someone the UK could work well with if he was to become President.
The involvement of MI6––and Thomas Price in particular––was highly illegal and unethical. That was why both men went to great lengths to keep their working relationship a secret. Britain couldn’t be seen to be trying to influence the Presidential race in another country––not least putting forward their own candidate––though, for his part, Dmitry Kaminski had primarily done that himself. It had been his dream since childhood.
Part of the challenge had been––and the West was only too well aware of it––that Putin had such a tight grip on the nation it seemed impossible ever to see anyone else capable of challenging the man who was already in his third term of office. He was predicted to make that a fourth and no doubt fifth term when the time came. No one within Russia saw any other contender, and that’s what most bothered the two men sitting in that club at that moment.
With finances freely available––the money Sokoloff and Krupin put in was nothing compared to the kickbacks they got from having Putin in charge––Putin could do what he wanted. As Sokoloff controlled the media and internet, he could make sure that the President got the maximum exposure right across Russia. Elections that were meant to be free and open could be managed, news channels controlled, making sure that the most substantial audiences saw what their President was doing for them, perpetually feeding the widespread support that kept Putin so very firmly the nation’s number one.
The nation as a whole had not been united in their choice. The cities––especially the capital Moscow and St Petersburg––had favoured Medvedev in the 2012 vote. He was the sitting President at the time having served one term in office. It was the massed ranks of the rest of the country that had seen Putin restored to his position, a position that had only been affected because of law at the time that stated no President could serve more than two consecutive terms in office. That law was abolished during Medvedev’s reign, and presidential terms were increased to six years from four.
It would take a monumental shift to oust Putin from power––and with the fall of his two money men, that change had already started. Sokoloff was losing control of his own television, newspaper and internet companies. This was being shared out among others, men who weren’t so loyal to Putin. Cracks were appearing for the first time in the otherwise impenetrable world in which Putin existed. And Kaminski, with the help of Thomas Price in his role at MI6, would do everything in his power to make sure those cracks weren’t covered over. The wall had to come down––it had to be destroyed.
The two men ate lunch together, before leaving, the same six people still in the club murmuring around tables, Duke’s as secluded as always. Once again their cars were covered in snow and ice. But it had been worth the time. The political climate in Russia––and therefore potentially globally––was about to change, even if the weather in London at that moment resembled more of a Russian climate than it did their own.
23
The weather in Monaco, on the southern coast of France, was what you might have expected for that time of year. The cold snap that was swamping London had not made it down that far, nor would it. It was ten degrees Celsius, but the sun was shining.
Matvey Filipov sat with his guest in his large conservatory, which overlooked the sea. The panes of glass above captured the best of the heat, both men sitting there in their shirt sleeves, jackets not needed.
Matvey spent most of the year in Monaco. Besides the large house he had there, he had a yacht moored down in the marina, too. He tended to reserve boat trips for the warmer months––April was around the corner––and for time with his son. Business was mainly conducted either with a meeting like this in his home or should he be near one of his many company offices, there.
His guest was Foma Polzin who had travelled down to Monaco the weekend before. A long-term friend of Matvey, it was through Polzin’s influence that Matvey had decided to enter the Games the previous Autumn, the older man’s greater wealth placing him at Five, thereby pushing Polzin into the second group.
His first event had been a great success, on many fronts. He’d personally gone up against Sokoloff, and his broader influence had won through.
Andre, Matvey’s son, then walked into their meeting, taking a seat and pouring some coffee for himself. Andre was an only child, the sole heir to his father’s $11.7 billion fortune. Matvey’s wife––and Andre’s mother––had passed away five years earlier. The yacht was purchased after her death––named in her honour––as both men realised the fragility of life, that time was short an
d should be lived and enjoyed amongst family. In the five years since her death, the two men had grown closer than they’d ever been before.
When Andre joined them, they were discussing the latest event that happened in St Petersburg.
“It was very raw, I can tell you. Sokoloff didn’t like being thrown out, that’s for sure. A bad loser.”
“I would have loved to have seen his face, Foma,” Matvey said.
“Reports suggest he’ll be cut down to bite size by the summer, maybe down to $500 million,” Andre said, the numbers rolling off his lips as if half a billion was peanuts, though for these men, at their wealth levels, it practically was.
“Yes, I’ve seen the same reports,” Polzin said.
“What if Krupin gets his place back? I assume he’ll jump at the chance. Where does that leave us?”
“Stanislav Krupin can’t be allowed back into the group,” Matvey said, having been thinking about that possibility for some time. To have successfully ousted the first Kremlin money man and then followed that with Sokoloff, it would be an error to allow Sokoloff’s disgraced exit to be an open door for Krupin to crawl his way back into the T20. “How much is he worth? One point one?” Andre had always marvelled at his father’s ability to make only one billion one hundred million dollars sound like pocket money. “I would like you to loan my son, say, one point five. Give him control of a company or two. Then with your influence, get him a place in the T20.”
Polzin sat there obviously thinking it through. It made good sense, it would give them three places amongst the twenty––and Polzin understood Matvey couldn’t be seen to do it himself, the connection was too close. The end game would justify such a bold move, and Polzin trusted Matvey wholeheartedly. He knew Matvey would make a great President of Russia.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” he said, looking over at Andre, a man he’d also got to know well through his relationship with the father, becoming more like an uncle to him than one of his father’s business associates. Having both Polzin and Andre working together within the T20 would allow them to focus their attention on Kaminski, the most likely opponent in a competition to oust Putin. They knew he was working with the British, had been for a long time already. They didn’t want Kaminski to become their country’s next President. No, Matvey Filipov had his own dreams in that regard and had more than enough resources to make it a reality.
“Andre,” Matvey said––he didn’t call him son in the company of others, even someone as close as Polzin––“I think it’s time you arranged to meet once more with your contact at MI6. Pick somewhere neutral––Oslo maybe. Give them the information we’ve prepared for the T10.”
“That’ll give them your name as well, father?”
“I know, don’t worry about that for the moment. Do they still go by the name you gave them?”
“Yes, Andre Philip.”
“Good, then they won’t make the connection between us. Give them the information. They need to know everything about the organisation and members behind the Games. It’s time they learnt what goes on amongst the top group. It’ll put those lottery tickets into perspective, for sure. Give them everything.”
“Do I mention we know they are working with someone within the FSB?”
“No, Foma’s going to visit Sasha and have a word about that personally.”
“Okay,” Andre said, getting up from his chair, coffee mug in hand, “I’ll arrange the meeting and give him everything you’ve asked me to.”
“And Andre,” Matvey called, his son turning at the edge of the kitchen, “congratulations. You are officially a billionaire in your own right!”
Two days after leaving Monaco, Foma Polzin was back in St Petersburg. Winter had come with force, temperatures plummeting to around twenty below.
A memorial event was held for the two FSB agents killed in the grenade attack from the previous month when Shane Brennan had also died. The burials had been dealt with swiftly––the families barely told what had happened––as the authorities did their best to brush under the carpet a situation that never officially happened.
Internally, it was deemed acceptable to hold a memorial service to which the three units most affected by the death of their fellow agents at the crossroads stand-off would be invited.
Polzin was on first name terms with all the most senior members within the FSB HQ in St Petersburg, nearly as well connected in Moscow, too. He was a popular face around the building, his money used to good effect multiple times down the years.
As the short service was ending, various people were saying a few words––Polzin himself remaining quiet––and the agents started to leave in groups of ones and twos.
Polzin wasn’t FSB but saw the value of fostering a relationship with the Security Service. It was because of men like him that Putin had established his new Russian Guards, the President fearing the loss of direct control over his country’s Security Service. Men like Polzin were always putting their noses into situations in which they had no reason to be involved. His influence within the FSB ranks had been noted.
Polzin was free to roam the corridors of HQ and was occasionally seen doing so, no one questioning his presence. If you were in the building––making it through security was no easy thing––you were one of them. They didn’t welcome visitors.
Polzin walked into Sasha’s office, the young Russian agent sitting behind his desk, papers around him, and shut the door. Sasha knew all about the billionaire, though they’d never spoken.
“I’ve never had the honour of actually meeting you, Sasha Barkov, though I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Sasha stood, pushing his pen to one side, sliding the paper he was working on under other documents and took Polzin’s outstretched hand in greeting.
“Mr Polzin, an honour.”
“Please, call me Foma. Everyone else does around here.”
“You came for the memorial service?” It wasn’t a question, and he’d seen him in the room with all the others.
“Yes, a tragic loss. Did you know the two well?”
“No, not very well. I’d spoken with one of them a week or so before the incident. But I run my own team now.”
“Yes, and very well too, I must say, from what your superiors tell me.” So they’d been talking about him. That made Sasha a little more cautious right away, and it showed. “I’ll cut to the chase, I’m sure you have many things you need to get on with,” and he sat down in the chair that faced the desk, Sasha too retaking his seat. “I know that you’ve been, let’s say, helping a couple of other agents this last year.”
Sasha didn’t know what to say, his shock evident as much as he had tried to mask it.
“I’m not sure I quite follow?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Sasha. That would be fatal. I know about the others you helped––I know what happened in Stockholm. Anya used to speak to me as well, you know.”
The mention of Anya’s name only made his heart thump harder. She had worked for the FSB and had been blown up by her own employers for speaking with MI6 in what had been a terrible accident in Switzerland two years before. Fearing she was being watched at the time, Anya had sent everything she knew to Sasha––someone she saw as trustworthy enough for such sensitive information. Sasha, still reeling from the news of her death, had sent what Anya had given him to those responsible in MI6, personally meeting with two agents in Stockholm. And Polzin knew all this.
“It’s okay, your secret is safe with me,” Polzin said, standing up, their extraordinary meeting apparently coming to a close already. “About this latest involvement of yours, however––Alex Tolbert and Anissa Edison. I’m not sure their employer has our nation’s best interest at heart this time. I think it’s best you walk away from them at this point––for everyone’s sake,” and he went back out through the door, closing it behind him.
Sasha sank his head into his hands. So someone knew about his involvement with MI6? Someone so well connected with those who ran
the FSB as nearly anyone else in the country. That was alarming and dangerous news no matter what Polzin might have said about not mentioning anything to anyone. The implied threat to back off––and what it would mean if he didn’t––was clear enough. He had a choice to make.
24
The last twelve months––especially the last six––had been a living hell for Sokoloff. Once he had been the man who rode high in Russia, seen as a leader amongst his peers. It had been his firms that had nearly single-handedly ushered Russia into the twenty-first century. It was his firm that had brought high-speed internet connections to the nation for the first time when few others knew much about it. His newspapers had covered everything his country did, and those of its citizens, wherever that required being around the world, in the days long before the internet. It was his television stations that had carried for decades weekly addresses with their nation’s President.
And yet that empire was now crumbling around his feet, faster than anyone thought possible.
Sokoloff was in one of his Moscow properties––one of three residential houses he owned there––the other two in the process of being seised with much of his other assets. They’d been inadvertently linked to the now failing businesses––yet one more mistake he regretted bitterly. He gathered around him the few people who might still value their connection to him. People of the street, mobsters and crime syndicate leaders. They were his type of people, where the mere thought that he was only worth a reported $500 million––a significant drop from the $2.2 billion he had been worth a year ago––still held some influence, money this new group of criminals would still like to help him spend.
With his exclusion from Putin’s inner circle––a rejection he still took very personally––he’d also lost influence within the Russian Guards which Putin had set up himself. His loss of control had been most clearly displayed when he’d seen the units stood down after the confrontation with the FSB. That image––that apparent betrayal––had troubled him ever since.