by Tim Heath
The shooter was a former soldier––a sniper at that––and Sasha printed out the details of the dead man. Frustratingly, however, he was not able to make a connection to anyone else.
The sniper apparently worked freelance. If he could trace the man’s address and bank account––assuming he even had one––maybe that might highlight a connection to someone else further down the line. Right now, he would settle for a name and had the beginnings of a theory as to what might have been going on.
Clearly, there had been a shooter. Given the reports and the physical evidence, Sasha had to believe that there had indeed been multiple shots fired; that the stories which had long been removed were in fact based on reality. That much made sense. However, until a connection could be made between the dead sniper and whoever it was who had initially employed him, there was nothing more concrete Sasha could piece together. Sasha realised he needed to find this missing information, and seeing that the police were not pursuing the matter––he’d checked, the investigation had been closed off from on-high already––he would have to do it himself.
Working alone, he hoped he would slip under the radar somewhat of anyone watching out for him. His role within the FSB gave him an element of anonymity, though as always he would have to be careful. The dangers in life were never the threats you could see––someone, as trained as he was, could always take down a physical attacker coming at him––but those you couldn’t, like a predator waiting in the grass. That was what he most feared and what his nightmares consisted off.
15
It was sunny and scorching in Monaco––as you would expect it to be at the beginning of July. Matvey stood looking out to sea, the local harbour––his yacht included––lay down there, out of eyeshot from where he currently was. The sea looked calm, inviting. He held a warm drink in his hand as he slowly stirred the sugar into it with a spoon, tapping the spoon three times on the edge of the cup before he laid it on the saucer. An old habit, one of many his son Andre had also picked up without realising it. Foma sat down on a sofa to one side. It’d been a challenging few days for him.
He’d been angry because Matvey hadn’t warned him about the shooting. When he’d heard the shots fired––men in his position, with security always around them, still feared that sound––he thought his number was up. Knowing that it could only have been a fellow oligarch who’d commissioned the kill, such men paid for only the best––these snipers didn’t miss. Yet, as his men bundled on top of him, and dragged him into the waiting vehicle, something he’d thought about since, impressed by their reaction––his own money well spent, it seemed––he knew he hadn’t been hit.
His body hurt, that was for sure. That came because a man of his age wasn’t used to being thrown to the ground, with eighteen stone men manhandling him forcefully.
But there was no blood––he was still alive––so whatever had just happened, it hadn’t been a kill shot.
His first thought had been that maybe one of his men had been hit––though as they raced away across the city, that was soon clarified, everyone in his party accounted for. He was delivered thirty minutes later to the private terminal at the airport, where Matvey’s own jet awaited him. Then it all started to become clear.
As he boarded and the flight took off, he was on the phone to his fellow Russian, who then shared what he’d done. Their conversation had been heated––Foma wasn’t the type of man who liked to be kept in the dark about anything, especially his own attempted assassination. However, Matvey had assured Foma he’d personally been in control the whole time, that there had never been any real danger to him, and that Foma should let him finish explaining, which he did. Matvey then went on to say how it was all a great opportunity. If Foma was presumed dead––and that was why he was leaving on Matvey’s jet, and not his own, to lie low for the time being––once it was proved that Kuznetsov had something to do with it, Matvey would then use that information to blow the Games apart.
Despite the fact he was now a part of the T10 and his son, alongside Foma, was a part of the T20, Matvey was only there to destroy the world of the Games. Any context that put such men together––maybe giving them a common cause––was dangerous. Like a pack of lions, you couldn’t ever overpower them as a group, no matter how strong any one individual lion was.
But on their own, they could be tamed––and if not tamed, destroyed.
That’s why Matvey had laid careful plans that had begun many years before. He was a diligent strategist. He knew that victory couldn’t be won overnight, that any short-term successes would never stand in a nation with so much going for it, so many people with their own agendas. The fact Svetlana Volkov––the people’s darling––could have been conducting her own private group for over a decade, was a testament to that point. How many other secret allegiances there were, he didn’t know. Svetlana’s one––because of the men it involved––was undoubtedly one of the most influential, and therefore the most dangerous.
He’d worked hard to get the right type of people––he always prided himself on being able to employ a workforce with particular skills, and a very dedicated outlook––in place at the right type of firms. They’d been his deep sleepers, getting on with their jobs, becoming fully integrated into the companies they’d been placed in while receiving substantial payments from Matvey for doing so. It had been that group whom he’d used to beat the Banking Union––his target being Dmitry Kaminski all along––and he’d since found suitable positions for all his key people who would otherwise have lost their jobs.
Staying on the outside as Matvey had been up to that point, it had been easier than he had expected to gatecrash the T20 event two years before, getting his own man––Phelan McDermott––chosen as a Contestant, something he had started working on months previously. He’d carefully set the trap. It was important that Sokoloff’s men thought they were the ones discovering the Irishman. Like an expert fisherman setting out to land a mega catch, Matvey had set the bait just right. The rest had taken care of itself, and once Sokoloff had gone in person to watch his man––something Sokoloff always prided himself on doing––Matvey knew it was a done deal.
Matvey had provided Phelan with help and protection and enabled him to get away and claim the lottery win. That single event had destroyed Sokoloff. He’d never really had the chance to recover, nor had Matvey allowed it. With both of Putin’s money men out of the Games––Sokoloff dead in fact within months of that Hunt––his attention turned to the group as a whole, as well as to Kaminski, who had his own political ambitions.
Matvey had already laid that trap, with his people in place awaiting further instructions from the man who’d made this his single obsession. Once the Hunt had been set, it’d been executed flawlessly.
“This trial,” Foma said, turning around from the window. He didn’t like last minute rushed jobs. He planned well, and he planned long. “It does give us an opportunity.” They’d only heard about it relatively late. No one had ever brought a case against the Games––directly or indirectly––before.
Matvey had immediately managed to get to the defence lawyer, a considerable retainer paid and much more promised. He now had an inside track on the trial. It was after speaking with his own legal team––men and women who’d been finding loopholes for decades and knew how to argue their way out of an awkward position––that he suggested to Leona’s lawyer that she shouldn’t deny her client had been there. Admit to it in fact. Matvey pointed out––after the lawyer’s initial protest––that the prosecution would undoubtedly be able to prove Leona had been in Russia.
Matvey had also managed to swing another thing in their favour, getting just one judge to hear the case. While he wanted the Games destroyed, he didn’t want it done publicly. He was also now currently involved himself in the group, so would get his own name and reputation muddied along with the rest of them. Keeping the trial low-key, therefore, would limit exposure. The press was shut out.
The fact Jos�
�e was a witness––with an MI6 shadow around her, too––made it all the more interesting. Josée had been representing Kaminski at that Hunt. Matvey saw another golden opportunity, though he hated having to rush anything. Despite his reticence, it was an advantage too good to miss out on. His team had once again gone to work.
The second day of the trial, happening thousands of miles away from the mansion he was standing in on the coast there in Monaco, would force Anissa onto the stand.
The defence lawyer would call her up first, in a surprise move, where the involvement of MI6 in Russia would get brought out for all to see, even if just before one judge. News would spread.
Then they would go for Josée.
They would dig hard into her, reveal the whole picture. If they could get the name of Kaminski connected to her––the man who had only recently seen his Banking Union collapse, leaving hundreds of thousands of people in an uncertain financial situation––it would be another bright stain on Kaminski’s character.
16
Anissa had slept soundly but woke early. As she opened her sleepy eyes, the room not instantly making sense to her until she remembered where she was, she became fully awake.
It was day two of the trial, and she would most certainly that morning watch Josée take the stand. The lawyer said Anissa might also be called personally to give evidence, but it wasn’t certain. If she could keep Anissa off the stand, she had insisted she would.
Anissa showered and went down for breakfast, which had not long opened up for guests when she entered the restaurant. She was the only one in the dining area. Anissa ate very little, her appetite vanishing after just a little bread and a glass of orange juice. She left everything else on her table and returned to her room.
At nine, the lawyer and Josée swung by in the hire car, Josée quiet and reflective in the back seat, the lawyer behind the wheel. Anissa got into the rear seats. She felt for the woman next to her, knew today wasn’t going to be easy for any of them, especially for Josée who’d been right there at the time. Today she would have to relive that nightmare––retell the things that had kept her awake for many nights at the beginning––and had woken her during many dreams since. Yet, still, on the previous day the defence had started to suggest there could be doubt over who actually made the kill––thereby implicating Josée directly––which was the most significant shock of all.
They pulled up outside the courthouse just before nine forty-five. There were fifteen minutes before the trial was to resume, and they wanted to be in and preparing their opening questions well before then.
Inside, Leona was already there. She wore a dark pinstripe suit––very expensive looking, very respectable. Very much the wealthy woman so manifestly unfairly targeted for her money in this whole beastly affair.
Anissa had been there that day––she’d chased Leona on foot––and there was nothing expensive or classy about her back then. She was just a thief––a murdering one at that––who’d got lucky.
The picture she was now portraying of herself––clearly something orchestrated by her expensive lawyer––couldn’t pull the wool over Anissa’s eyes, even if it might temporarily do so for the Judge.
When proceedings started––at quarter past the hour, the day already running a little late––Anissa was shocked to be called immediately to the stand. She had a few words with the French lawyer––she was just there as a material witness, she was assured, so just go up there and tell the truth.
The truth, that was an interesting phrase. She was an MI6 agent who’d been covertly––against Russia’s knowledge as well as that of her own Security Service––operating in St Petersburg. The truth might not be so easy to share.
“Anissa, if you would explain me this,” the lawyer said, her English well rehearsed, a smile always kept on her well-presented face, her tone steady, voice calm, “because I’ve not been able to get the confirmation from your employer. If you were in fact in St Petersburg––and I’ll be clear, when speaking with MI6 they were not able to say that you had been in fact operating within their remit in Russia––what were you actually doing here?” And there it was. Before she could answer, as if wanting to strengthen her own position as the person asking the questions––as if to ascertain certain facts before everyone listening––she added; “You do work for Military Intelligence Six, do you not?”
Anissa glanced across at her lawyer. It was open knowledge to those present that she did, so there was no danger in confirming that point.
“Yes, I do.”
“And you are still employed by the British Security Service?” She had a way of drawing out the full name of her employer as if to press home to the Russian Judge that this woman standing before him was a spy––a foreign one at that.
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to check, in case they’d fired you already.” A cheap jab. Anissa didn’t flinch, though inside she was already beginning to hate this lawyer. “So to come back to my opening question: an active service British MI6 agent is in St Petersburg without either the Russian FSB being informed nor with the permission or knowledge of your employer––tell me, why were you even here, therefore?” Going on something she’d been given, the lawyer had made the jump. She hadn’t spoken with MI6, nor would anyone have confirmed or denied anything to such a lawyer had she done so, but Anissa wasn’t to know that, and at that moment, the bluff had worked.
“I was conducting an undercover, ongoing and therefore covert operation that involved British nationals. I just happened to be at the Peter and Paul Fortress outside the Armoury when the crime occurred.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Anissa,” she said all too slowly, all too deliberately. It was becoming agonising trying to stay calm in front of her.
“So you were doing spy stuff? Here in Russia?”
Anissa looked over to her lawyer, who stood up at that moment. “Objection!”
“Okay, let me reword that,” the lawyer said, not waiting for the Judge to no doubt confirm the objection. “You stated,” and she looked down at her notes at that point as if she needed to confirm word for word what she’d just said about a minute before, “that you just happened to be outside the Armoury at the time of the alleged crime.” She paused for effect. “There was nothing, however, random in your being there though, was there? You were specifically waiting there, watching, weren’t you?”
She thought about what to say, how much to let on about her original aim in getting the Games the public exposure she wanted. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen now before a jury or the press––they were conspicuous by their absence––but there were still other officials around, people who weren’t otherwise tainted by that particular group of oligarchs.
“That is correct. It’s my personal belief that some high profile Russians gather to conduct events that innocent members of the general public are caught up in. That is why I was at the Armoury on that day. I’d found out that one of the lottery tickets that was used as a big cash prize had been securely located there. I was waiting for whoever had found themselves caught up in this criminal business to show up.” There, she’d said it––aloud, too. The lawyer didn’t appear too disconcerted, which should have been a warning.
“All this talk of entrapped people and lottery tickets…my oh my…” and she paused, taking a sip of water from the bottle that rested on her table. “How did you find out that there was a ticket apparently inside the Armoury? Who gave you that information?”
“My witness does not have to provide that information,” Josée’s lawyer stood up and confirmed.
“But you must have been working with someone else in St Petersburg?”
“I was by myself,” is all she replied. She’d been clear with Alex that she wasn’t going to implicate him or Sasha in any way.
“So,” and the lawyer picked up a piece of paper as if she needed to recall to memory something from her notes that would otherwise just have slipped from her mind. “Alex Tolbert,
also of MI6 and most often your partner in crime over in England; he has nothing to do with any of this?”
Anissa flinched instinctively but barely noticeably at the mention of his name. With her eyes fixed on the defence lawyer, her voice as calm as she could manage at that moment, getting as much confidence into her words as she could muster, she said; “No, he had nothing to do with this.”
“Okay,” the lawyer said, though it was obvious she didn’t believe the lie. “How did you gain access into Russia?”
“Objection,” the other lawyer interjected, “my witness is not on trial here. That is an irrelevant question, as is anything to do with her employment, as she well knows!”
“I’m merely trying to work out if, in fact, your witness was even at the Fortress. You see,” and she held up some papers for good measure, “I have the migration information for every visitor into Russia during the days around the alleged crime. There were tens of thousands of arrivals. My client is listed amongst these names, as is that of Ms Josée Allard, who sits before you. But your name,” and she turned back to Anissa at this point, “does not appear anywhere on this information. Can you explain that?” She could, but she wouldn’t.
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
“Oh, so you do have some inside help here in Russia, is that it? Someone within the FSB perhaps?”
“Objection!” the shout went up from her lawyer, not for the first time.
“Yes, please stick to the case in hand, will you. Where are you going with this line of questioning?” the Judge said, the first time he’d spoken in a while, though he was apparently taking copious notes throughout.
“Your Honour,” though it wasn’t a phrase that often got used in Russian courtrooms, “I’m merely trying to ascertain, if––in fact––this alleged witness was even in St Petersburg. If she isn’t able to explain how she managed to be somewhere she says she was––and the Russian authorities clearly have no record of her entry or exit––I would then say that would be grounds enough to remove this so-called witness from the stand. Unless, of course, she can concretely confirm how she was there.” She returned to her seat, the Judge turning to Anissa and looking her in the face for the first time.