by Tim Heath
That evening Andre held video conference calls with the other remaining, non-Moscow based firms within the group. He was making sure they knew he was on the scene.
Matvey was due there the following day, the jet having returned that evening to Monaco ready to fly him over to Moscow. The next round of debates was just days away, and Matvey wanted to be around for these as they were happening. He was involved in the third debate.
In Monaco, Matvey was talking to Foma, who was continuing to complain about his prison-like existence. Matvey hadn’t told him anything about what Andre had been doing that day.
“You need to square with me, Matvey. It’s been too long. I need to breathe fresh air, smell the sea air, to look upon a beautiful woman in the flesh and feel alive again.” He sounded desperate to Matvey, weak in fact.
“You’re right, of course,” Matvey said, his mind made up. “Of course. No one is looking for you here.” Matvey went silent for a moment, Foma just watching him. Matvey walked over to pick up a set of car keys. “Take my car for a spin, drive down to the marina, watch the sea.”
“Thank you, my friend. You’re still on track for the election?”
“Absolutely. Tomorrow I fly to Moscow for the next round of debates. You know, it feels more like a circus than a political race.”
“It’s how it’s all going. Look what happened in America!”
“I can’t help think we’re just making a mirror image reply.”
“Once you win, you can put everything back in order.” Foma said. Matvey forgot how much he enjoyed his friend’s conversation. They were comrades, they went back a long way. Foma had watched his back longer than anyone else.
Now on the ground floor, Matvey threw Foma a different set of car keys.
“Take the Mercedes instead,” he said, “it’s got blacked out windows, to keep you firmly hidden, just in case.”
“Is anyone watching?” It seemed unlikely that Matvey would have allowed that to happen. He was always so careful about that side of things, and the community in Monaco––often privacy-seeking people themselves––were ever wary.
“No, Foma, there isn’t, but it pays to be careful, that’s all. I don’t even want the staff here to know. Best if they assume I’m out in the car.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Foma said, moving towards the rear door that led into the garage.
“Oh, one more thing. You don’t want to be stuck in the car on a day like this,” and Matvey threw over another set of keys, Foma catching them in midair. “Take the yacht out for a spin. You know how to handle it all by yourself, so get away from the area, do some fishing. I’ll see you later.”
Foma dropped the keys into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he said, turning away from Matvey and entering the garage. Moments later Matvey heard the car pulling away.
“Goodbye, old friend,” is all he said.
Over the Atlantic––Heading to Moscow
Mark Orlov was flying back from a two week trip to the USA when he was told the news; that everyone was being called in, the members of the Machine were being convened.
Mark had always been number One in the Games. He’d been in from the start––it had been deemed best that he have a presence in the group from its inception––and it had been a useful link ever since. Following the successes the team he’d been a part of had in the last T10 event, he was now worth close to $20 billion. It hadn’t been his doing, or even his team, although he had been in the best financial position. It’d been Matvey Filipov’s idea. That had come a little out of the blue, at the time––he’d certainly made their radar now, and his emergence wasn’t a welcome sight.
Mark had ordered his team to permanently sever all known links that these oligarchs had previously had within institutions right across Russia––which included the army, police and FSB. The recent killing of Foma’s top-level contact within the St Petersburg FSB ranks would go a long way to dismantling these men’s stranglehold in areas they shouldn’t have been allowed to influence.
Yet, as always, money got things done, especially in Russia.
However, the same was true for them. While they reckoned that the Machine had the nation’s best interests at its core, all that they did––and their capabilities were vast––was only possible because they had nearly unlimited resources. The Machine had never taken an action that would harm the financial security of one of its few members. So it was a self-funding, self-sustaining group. They were making as much money as those they were aiming to stop, probably more in fact.
Mark was in a cheerful mood. He was still a few hours out of Moscow, though would make all the necessary calls long before they were due to land. Some people still needed bringing into the fold. He would then fly on from Moscow in a day or two to make his appearance felt at the Machine’s gathering. Their one building, a vast and secured former nuclear silo, was rooted in the Siberian wilderness, where only tigers and mad men ventured.
Mark, known as One in the context of the Games, had been called the Eagle in his earlier days and that had been revised to grey Eagle in his advancing years.
The original nickname had been bestowed upon him by a previous leadership team of the Machine itself. It was noted that a bald eagle––hair loss had never been a problem for Mark, so only the eagle element had stuck––would steal osprey chicks right from the nest, or prey from the beaks of other birds. And in the same way Mark had taken another man’s inheritance, seized another’s property. Because Mark hadn’t been born into money––nor was it his to inherit. He was an impostor who had stolen that name and position from the real Mark Orlov.
Mark had been born Igor Maksimov––a man with no money, no future, besides a passion for causing damage and a willingness to do whatever it took to get out of his hole. Back then he was everything the Machine could have hoped for. Now he was a crucial part of the three-man team which ran the whole organisation.
8
The 1980s & 1990s––Soviet Union
The last decade of the Soviet Empire were crazy years––lives were lost, friends were betrayed, and people disappeared overnight, never to be seen or heard from again. Fear ruled the streets. The KGB was ruthless and notorious, having eyes and ears everywhere. In the age before the internet––this was the last generation before the world changed, particularly for Russians––information passed from person to person was the only way.
Despite that––or maybe because of that––the Machine had kept its existence secretive, its presence unknown. They had grown stronger as the years progressed, and notably, as the Communists’ hands weakened.
Those who formed the leadership within the Machine––always just called the Leadership as letting a name slip would result in an almost instant disappearance––saw it all coming, of course. They’d been preparing for the day the walls came crashing down. Now they were ready.
The great sell-off happened during that last decade––assets were stripped out, usually handed to friends of the President––billionaires made overnight.
One such prospect was an empire that controlled much of the infrastructure of the nation––technically, empires and private ownership were not allowed during Soviet times, but within closed circles, that never stopped the rich keeping hold of their own interests. As long as they were loyal to the leadership of the Soviet Union. Yet, while stable for extended periods, these leaders did have a tendency to change.
Marcus Orlov was a man of outspoken naiveté. Despite being worth what would have been billions in the current climate, in one swift move, he was removed from his home––his entire security team missing, never to reappear––and Marcus was never heard from again. Popular legend suggested he was taken on the trains to Siberia, where he became just another face in the crowd––alongside poets and authors, political leaders and opponents––and that the man lived out the remainder of his life in obscurity.
Marcus had a son––Mark. He’d been away the night of the arrest and was take
n into hiding by a family friend. This friend was never heard from again, and fourteen-year-old Mark was on his own, but safe. The Soviet Union didn’t know where he was, though they needn’t have feared him. He was loyal to his country, his mother––before her own death from natural causes shortly before Mark’s twelfth birthday––had taught him never to question the Soviet State. She’d seen the way her husband was going. Although she did not live to see the day he was finally taken, she knew it to be an inevitable fate, and she had to protect her only child.
The Soviet rulers might not have known where the heir to the Orlov empire was, but the Leadership of the Machine certainly did. They’d tracked him the whole way. If the Machine was to be central to the rebuilding of the nation following the inevitable collapse of the USSR, they needed people loyal to their own cause, men they could allow into the very core of who they were, in place amongst the key organisations and industries around.
It was three years––Mark had been left to adjust to his surroundings, turning seventeen just days before he was approached––when the Machine first entered his life. They knew who he was, they had said, and they could help him take back everything he’d lost. When the Soviet Union was dissolved, they promised to reinstate it all for him.
Only if he would work with them.
They should have known it from that first visit––it took them a further two visits before they realised it was all a lost cause––but Mark wasn’t going to sell out his inheritance to a group of capitalist pigs. He had Soviet blood running through his veins, he’d said, he was a good Communist just as his mother had taught him to be. Mark wasn’t going to make the mistake his father had made. And he wouldn’t stand to see the glorious Union of Soviet Socialist Republics come to any harm while he could help it. He was ready to reveal his true identity to the Kremlin––despite his third meeting with those representing the Machine––and even in a day before digital identity, Mark was sure those who ran the country would all soon know exactly who he was.
The Leadership had been clear––if he was unwilling to join them, Mark Orlov was to be killed. They would just have to find a new heir to fill his place.
Igor Maksimov grew up in a village of just a dozen homes situated about two hundred kilometres from Moscow. His resemblance to Mark Orlov had been remarkable, not that it really mattered. The only official photos that existed of the heir to the Orlov empire were of a young teenager, and despite Igor being eighteen at the time––so a year older than the now murdered Mark––it was a natural switch. No family members or household staff were still alive to verify who he was.
After being picked up and driven directly to Moscow––Igor, who had known trouble despite his youth and had been initially fearful that the KGB were also behind his arrest––he was relieved to be told they were not a part of the ruling Communist Party.
His education happened over the following year––everything he could be taught about his new identity, he was told. He was to assume the life, and therefore inheritance, of Mark Orlov. He was to become Mark Orlov, future billionaire oligarch and inside man within the soon to be reinstated Orlov empire. When the dust settled on the final days of the Soviet collapse, he had been ideally placed to swoop in and take over.
An eagle invading the nest.
The Eagle was ready.
Moscow, Russia
February 2018
As the month rolled on, the next round of Presidential debates was happening back to back over seven nights. Audience figures were expected to hit new highs––the current President was no longer given favourable coverage across the national network, as Putin no longer had the tight grip on the media that he had enjoyed when his support Sokoloff, now long gone, had owned most of the outlets. That was undoubtedly being felt by the Putin camp, though by all reports he still held a narrow lead in the polls.
The attacks that had happened at the end of last year––mobs of apparent supporters of both Putin and Kaminski seen in videos violently beating both gay people and Muslims––had dramatically reduced. Many of the videos had gone viral, casting shame on their supposedly affiliated candidates among the millions watching in the West.
Of course, as Sasha had discovered, the perpetrators were not representing either candidate at all. They’d been organised and sent by Matvey Filipov himself, his son acting as the contact man, pulling them together and moving them around the nation as needed. It was good for public opinion to have his chief opponents vilified, and Matvey’s ratings had risen on the back of the bad publicity and international condemnation these attacks had brought.
These actions had ceased, though, after Sasha had spotted Andre at the airport. Andre was unsure if he had been identified, nor had he been able to confirm who it was who had been watching. His men had been sent to investigate and Andre had flown off without waiting, gone before the shooting had finished, ultimately leaving all his men dead, as well as the two security guards from the airport. There were no reports of any other victims found––which told Andre that whoever had been spying on him had most probably got away.
He’d kept this from his father.
The first of that year’s debates saw the remaining party candidates, who had only announced their running the previous month, go against each other. The comments and accusations were always biting, the contempt clear. In truth, these men were merely the also-rans. They were performing the role they were expected to perform––the Communist being naturally Communist, the liberals being liberal, the nationalists wanting everyone else to leave , etc., etc.
In the fourth debate, Kaminski himself stood before one of these newcomers. He’d come away from that discussion a further three points better off in the polls, taking him back into second position, behind Putin. Despite the negative publicity, Putin remained on top. Maybe the footage of these beatings was something of which his supporters approved?
Matvey was up next––he had gone against another newcomer before standing facing Putin himself on the last show that week.
That final show proved to be a fiery sixty minutes and produced the highest viewed debate of that year’s election campaign. Matvey had gone in hard––he accused Putin of rigging elections, of being too close to the Americans and Trump in particular then he called it time for a change in the nation. Putin wasn’t going to roll over, however. He rubbished the accusations and came back equally strongly himself. Putin denied having anything to do with the reported acts of violence, going some way to suggest it all seemed to serve Matvey’s efforts more than anything, though cleverly without actually accusing him of libel. Apparently, he hadn’t had the evidence to really back it up.
He ended, however, with the most significant blow of the lot––how Matvey was a man who could so quickly turn on even his own friends––the name Foma Polzin bringing an instant chill to Matvey, which was picked up around the auditorium.
“You talk like a man of integrity and loyalty––but what loyalty did you show to Foma, Filipov? Do you care to talk about this one-time friend you left for dead?”
It was the first mention of Foma since the rumours had been circulating which said that the Russian had been shot dead in St Petersburg. It was public knowledge that Matvey’s son Andre had taken over Foma’s entire empire.
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with the murder of a senior British MI6 agent, Putin, when you were last in London?” Matvey shot back. Two could play that game.
“No, quite the opposite in fact, though you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Filipov!”
“You surprise me,” Matvey said, though the confidence was surprisingly weak. He knew the British would be watching––the whole world was watching––and he had just been tainted with the killing of a senior British agent. “I’d have thought you would be the last person able to accuse another of some heinous, unfounded crime given your record since you’ve been in office.” It was a soundbite that would work in the West, though for Russians––who’d only seen Putin worki
ng for their best interests, and in the interests of Russians suffering in other places such as the Crimea––it would make no impact.
“But how could you have turned on Foma––a man you state that your own son calls an uncle?”
“I don’t know what you think you know, but I assure you, I grieve more than anyone at the savage murder of my dear friend, and will see that justice is done.”
“Murder? You make it sound as if your friend is dead? I didn’t say anything about him being dead, now, did I?”
Matvey stood there silent. What was Putin playing at? The cameras rolled on, yet the debate had run its hour––it was a mother of a cliffhanger to end things on.
The studio lights went off for a few seconds as the television audience were finishing that night’s broadcast, and once off-air, the lights switched back on again. The audience was being shown out of their seating, and Putin was already standing right in front of Filipov.
“Foma was your one big mistake, Filipov, and I’ll make sure it costs you everything!” he spat at Matvey, before being ushered away by a team of his security men, Matvey’s own men coming to stand around their boss, seeing the altercation but being a few seconds behind.
Matvey started to leave, a television screen on the side wall showing the final credits going up as the show was coming to an end on Russia’s main television channel––and suddenly Foma was displayed on the screen, speaking to the camera.
“My name is Foma Polzin, and I’m backing Putin for another term as President of the Russian Federation,” he said, much to Matvey’s dumbfounded astonishment.