The Machine (The Hunt series Book 4): Bad Men Fear Those Who Lurk In Shadows

by Tim Heath

  Around ten that morning, the Director General himself poked his head into their little office, the door open. Anissa’s wall of evidence was safely hidden behind the cork boards, the wall having two boards on it as the original one now wasn’t big enough to hide everything.

  “Alex, I’d like to have a word with you at eleven up on the top floor. Can you make that?” he said. It was highly unusual for the man himself to come down and make such an appointment. That was what his PA was for, after all.

  “Yes, of course. Just me?” Alex said, not knowing if it was something that should involve Anissa, who was standing next to him.

  “Yes, and I’ll have some lunch brought in.” How long was he expecting them to talk?

  “Of course, I’ll see you at eleven,” Alex confirmed, checking he’d heard right, the Director General waving a hand in the air as his goodbye, before turning around and vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “My oh my,” Anissa said. “Maybe he’s found out about the girlfriend?” She laughed.

  “Let’s keep working on what we were looking at for the next hour,” Alex said, ignoring what Anissa had just joked. They’d been looking into what lottery tickets had recently been claimed, knowing New Year was always the Games’ biggest gathering. There were no significant lottery tickets claimed, nor any unclaimed. It was as if nothing had happened at all in St Petersburg.

  “What do you make of it?” Anissa finally said forty minutes later, once, and as far as they could tell, they’d exhausted all possible options.

  “I don’t know. We’ve seen that for the last few years they’ve gathered at this time of year.”

  “They plan it months in advance––the tickets would have been purchased as far back as last summer. This hasn’t just failed to happen. They’ve known it wouldn’t take place for months.”

  “Do you think they know about us or know of someone at least watching them?” Alex said. Anissa couldn’t help but think of Sasha once more.

  “Maybe that’s why we’ve not heard from Sasha?”

  “I don’t think that would be the case, Anissa. There’ll be another reason for that––maybe he finally took that long holiday we’ve been saying he should take? It is the first week of January, after all.” They’d learnt from Sasha that most government offices––which included the FSB, of course––closed for about the first ten days of January. It was highly likely that Sasha had just gone away.

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” she said, convincing nobody that she was anything but worried.

  “He’ll be fine, Anissa. He’s a good man.”

  “That’s just the problem. If anything were to happen to Sasha…”

  Alex patted her on her shoulder. Ever since she’d been deported from St Petersburg––which carried with it a blanket five-year exclusion from ever returning to Russia––she’d not been the same. Alex had urged Anissa to get some professional help with regard to what had happened with Josée, though he didn’t know if she’d ever done so. He was no help to her in that regard, a good listener, though his approach was always to try and solve the problem, not often patient enough to just hear the speaker out.

  “Look, I’ve got to go. Keep looking at the screens, see if anything comes up. You know where I’ll be if you need me,” Alex winked and walked out through the door.

  “He’ll see you now,” the Director General’s PA said to Alex from behind her desk, motioning Alex into the spacious office as the DG replaced a telephone handset on his desk.

  “Please, come in and take a seat,” he said, guiding Alex over to the two leather sofas on the righthand side. A tray of tea and coffee already sat on the little table between the two sofas. This apparently wasn’t going to be an overly formal meeting. Alex sat down, the DG sitting opposite and immediately proceeding to pour the drinks.

  “Coffee?” he asked Alex.

  Drinks now poured, they sat in silence for a moment. Alex didn’t know what to say, he’d had minimal contact with the DG before––the DDG, Thomas Price, always acted as the buffer at Six between the agents and the man at the very top. Price’s office, next door to the one Alex was now sitting in, remained empty.

  “I’d like you to consider becoming the new Deputy Director General,” the DG said, catching Alex go wide-eyed with the suggestion.

  “Wow, I don’t know what to say.” And he didn’t. The suggestion was probably the furthermost thing from his mind when he’d pondered the purpose of their meeting as he’d climbed the stairs.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Alex. You’ve been around these parts longer than most. I think some fresh blood like yourself around this floor could be the very thing Six needs. After all, I’m not getting any younger. Another ten years and they’ll be interviewing for my position. Being DDG is a great stepping stone for that,” which it had always been, apart from Thomas Price’s case where he had been overlooked entirely. Alex was beginning to understand why that had been the case. To have had the head of MI6 actively coercing a Russian oligarch into challenging Putin for the Russian presidency would have been a national scandal––and most certainly a provocation to war. Keeping Price as the DDG meant he flew under the radar sufficiently to be left to himself, much to his own annoyance at the time.

  “I’m honoured that you would even consider me. How long do I have to decide?”

  “Oh, there is no rush with that. Of course, you need time to think about things. You’ll be giving up active service, for starters. No racing around like you have been. That’s not something everyone can adjust to. It came at just the right time for me, mind you.”

  Alex hadn’t considered that aspect. He was still reeling from the initial shock of being asked to fill Price’s shoes. His expression changed dramatically as he thought through what had just been said.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to leave active service, sir, if I’m quite honest.”

  The DG was very calculated in his actions, slow and methodical, like a wise old wizard from Lord of the Rings.

  “Take your time to think it all through. You don’t need to come to any type of decision about anything yet. I don’t want you to make a hasty response––one way or the other––and come to regret it years down the line. As you know, this type of position doesn’t come around very often.”

  That was true. The fact this post was even available––the man himself having been murdered––was conveniently left unspoken. Both knew that point well enough. The longer time passed, the more his death was put down to something personal instead of an act of terrorism. No one else felt they were in any greater danger than before the DDG was found dead in an alley just a mile or so from their office.

  They chatted extensively––clearly the DG was using the time to get to know a man, should he want the position, whom he might soon be working with a lot more closely. Not long after drinking their way through the coffee did lunch appear, which was a prepackaged selection that had apparently been brought in.

  Alex asked the DG about his own background, and was fascinated with stories from the man’s time in the British Army. He had joined at the time of the armed uprising in Yemen, which was followed up a few years later with combat in Borneo. He managed to mostly avoid the increasing terror that was becoming Northern Ireland––as the IRA stepped up their campaign during the 70s––only serving two postings. He was out of the army altogether long before the Falklands war, already employed by Her Majesty’s Secret Service, first within a role at Five before moving onto Six a decade later. He’d been promoted to the position of Director General––ahead of Thomas Price––more years ago than he would care to recall. He’d been in that role since Alex had joined the Service.

  Alex left the top floor just after one––he’d spent a delightful two hours with the man who ran Six––and it’d been the longest he’d even been up on that floor.

  Anissa wasn’t in their shared office when he returned, presumably off at lunch herself. He’d have to fill her in on things late
r. He sat by himself for a while, mulling over the offer. It would call an end to his active service days if he took the job. What would come of their investigation into the Games? That aspect most troubled him, especially with Anissa now herself banned from travelling to Russia. Would a more senior position within Six actually aid their search for justice? They were desperate to find a way of exposing everything this bunch of men had been involved with. He pondered that thought for a few minutes.

  Still on his own after a while, he got up and went in search of Anissa.

  St Petersburg, Russia

  January 2018

  Once more the Volkovs had taken their winter holiday in Russia’s second city, though this year––especially for Svetlana––it felt so different. She accompanied her husband to his various functions, for a start. Usually, she based herself at their city centre mansion––as Chair of a Games event––but this year none of that had happened. She’d disbanded the whole group.

  The shooting of Foma Polzin––number Eleven as he had become in that second group––right outside her home had been the last straw. For the hit to have been made by a man on the inside––one of the very oligarchs she’d brought into her valuable world––was unforgivable. He’d most certainly made the call while standing in her Games Room. They had all, therefore, taken this away from her.

  She had very little else now to keep her occupied, something that was becoming apparent to her husband. Emotions had grown heated on their flight to St Petersburg, their first argument in full flow before the jet had even reached cruising altitude. There had been several more since.

  When socialising, as always, they put on their public face––the couple very much together, one entity not two. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  The most significant revelation of them all had come the morning of New Year’s Day. Svetlana had been in a particularly dark mood––waking up, knowing no Games were happening later that day, no guests coming to her home, to stand before her and listen to her every word. These men had adored her––and her husband’s position, albeit invisible but there in the shadows, had always made sure they stayed in line. He was forever the implied threat––someone she had managed to manipulate, or so she thought, over the years, dishing out retribution and penalties to men who had stepped out of line––one way or another. Proving she had the steel and contacts to strike back when a statement needed making. And Sergej Volkov, through his web of underworld ties and connections––a backdrop which had never gone away, despite what others might now believe about his reformed character––always had a way of getting to someone, however well connected they might have been.

  That morning, in their most heated argument yet, he’d come out with it––he knew all about the Games. Had known all along, in fact. It had served his purposes for her to play that role, so he’d never said anything. He’d even invested in property––their St Petersburg mansion a prime example––so that she’d be able to pull it all under one roof. Keep everyone close.

  “How in the world did you know anything about what happened?” she’d demanded. She for one knew there were no cameras––besides the ones she controlled––in or around their home. He hadn’t been watching her that way.

  “You should know there are plenty more ways of getting information than just spying.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” But Sergej didn’t initially respond. They were due at their first social gathering in just over an hour, and both were far from ready.

  “How did you know?” she snapped at him again, grabbing him by the shoulders. Of the two, she was the one who tended to get physical––he’d never laid a finger on her, didn’t need to, in fact. He had other means of hurting people. He shrugged her off.

  “I have eyes and ears on the ground. Have done all along.”

  “Impossible!” Svetlana said, though immediately she felt exposed, naked even. If true, she’d never been as free as she thought. If true, Sergej had someone planted on the inside––it could only have been an oligarch––from the very beginning. That narrowed the list down a little, though for the life of her she couldn’t begin to figure out who might possibly have been in league with her husband for so long. She had significantly underestimated him.

  “Who?” she demanded, once Sergej had said nothing back to her, his face––that calm, damn, nonchalant manner he always seemed to have––just watching her.

  “It doesn’t matter. But I’ve known, and I get it––you’re pissed your little project has run its course.”

  “My little project!” She was practically hissing at him. “How dare you insult me! I control some of the most powerful men in this nation! Me! My work, my gathering. Men who would dance to my tune. These men became richer because of me.”

  “Some of them became dead because of you,” he added.

  “That had nothing to do with me, as I assume you are obviously very well aware.” She went silent, before being the one to speak next. She had to know more.

  “Is it Matvey Filipov?” she said, though Matvey had only just joined the Games, he hadn’t been around long enough to have been her husband’s inside man since the beginning.

  “Of course not! Yet he’s the cancer who has pulled your world apart. You were too blind to see it coming. He’s ripped you up from the inside out.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” but even as she was shouting, as the words were passing her lips, she knew Sergej was probably right. Ever since Matvey had been included––and she’d been inviting him for many years––things had escalated way beyond her control. She thought it was all just entertainment––she was providing these men with a fantastic show, that was why they kept coming back. But, in fact, she had been blind to it all. The last year flashed through her mind––she’d allowed Matvey to propose the targets for his first T10 Hunt, had allowed his son to take over one of the vacated spots in the T20. How quickly it had all fallen apart––following the death of a man Matvey was close to, a man who was like an uncle to Matvey’s son.

  “I think you know exactly what I mean,” Sergej concluded. He was a good reader of faces and had a fair idea what Svetlana was thinking at that moment.

  Their car had been driving them to the conference centre they were due to visit and it pulled up at that point in the argument. The door was opened by their driver before anything more could be said. The couple got out, camera bulbs flashing from the huddle of the press who were present, Svetlana instinctively taking hold of her husband’s arm, smiles on both faces, ever the picture of marital bliss––if only they knew.

  Sergej had addressed the crowd at the start of the gathering––it was always informal in nature, more of a celebration than a traditional conference, in keeping with the time of year. During the first break, Sergej took a call, the man excusing himself from his guests and leaving Svetlana behind in the main room. She had been mingling as she always did in such settings, though she was not usually personally present at that specific event.

  Now by himself in a separate room, Sergej answered his mobile.

  “It’s done,” the man said.

  “He’s dead?” It always paid to be clear––especially if it ever turned out that the situation was anything but true––he’d be able to punish someone for lying to him.

  “Yes, we left him where we shot him. The FSB won’t be interfering anymore, sir. Do you want us to come back in?”

  “Yes, it might be time. Bring them all back in now, comrade.” Sergej ended the call. It was not a move he’d made lightly. But his nation was on the verge of a potentially explosive election for the next six-year term of President––and the more he’d learnt about the two primary challengers, the more Sergej became aware that direct action was required.

  The Machine needed to act once more.

  As the conference came to an end, the guests began to leave. Svetlana cut a strange figure––there were no guests still there to see her––as Sergej came back into the
room, ready to make the journey out to dinner. She was broken, something had snapped inside her that morning. Externally, she was every bit the beautiful actress who had graced the big screen from her early adult years––yet her eyes told a different story.

  For Svetlana, the day had become a living hell. She knew her world was falling down around her––losing the Games was one thing, the revelation that her husband had known about it all along and had someone on the inside, made it all suddenly seem a mockery. She was a joke, not even taken seriously by her husband, a man she’d been with––albeit a loveless, mutually acceptable marriage––for most of her life. How could she carry on now? How could she remain trapped in this mirage, this fictitious pairing that the world marvelled at, and yet it was all fake? It had always been fake.

  She felt a fraud for the first time in many years––she felt a failure. Had any of it been worth it? Yes, she had fame and riches––she had plenty of both before she married Sergej, but they had increased in equal measure as a result of their marriage. And she tolerated the marriage because she’d always had the belief it was working in her favour––he was the adoring husband, who was lucky to have her and therefore would do anything she asked––and she had control of these oligarchs. Men who ruled in her nation, men of influence, men who had no doubt done terrible things to get where they were, forced women to do things to them and their associates just because that’s what money commanded. And she’d been able to control that––control them––and make them pay. This was her way of punishing them for all they’d done to her. For what they’d made her do.

  And yet, it was gone. In fact, it hardly felt if it had ever been. Svetlana had stood there for most of the day wondering if they were all, in fact, laughing behind her back the whole time. Had they all known, ever since the beginning? Was it actually some joke to them? An insider oligarch joke? Were they telling her story––the big charade––to all their friends in Gentlemen’s clubs right across Russia?