by Tim Heath
The hottest topic up for discussion, and this flowed from their outworking of who their next President should be, was what needed to happen in Tallinn, Estonia, to mark both the one hundred years since the Machine was first established, as well as the centennial of Estonia first gaining its independence. If they organised an apparent attack on Estonia’s celebrations, seeing how Putin reacted would go a long way to deciding his value to them in carrying on in his current position.
Mark feared they were losing the ability to control and influence the man growing stronger with every passing year in office.
That had happened before. In the early years of the Machine, they had been a lot closer to the centre of power. Then men like Lenin, briefly, and notably Stalin came to power. He ruled with such an iron fist that the Machine had all but gone away from central politics. They spent these decades recruiting the future generations of Leadership, building secret resources and as the Soviet Union grew––the time of apparently shared resources for all––they helped get money out of the country and into places like Switzerland.
They had helped the original Kaminski’s get out of the USSR, though they hadn’t done that under their actual identity. Maybe that had been a mistake. When both parents were gone, they watched from afar as Pavel had taken things on, before finally making their move. Mark and Sergej knew all about Lev’s past, though none of them ever talked about it.
Dmitry still had no idea about the real history of his uncle. His mother had married Lev about three years after Pavel’s death––herself unaware of the Lion man’s actual role in the disappearance of her late husband. Despite there being no corpse––maybe because of it––it was quickly assumed he had in fact been killed. They were left with no other valid option. Three years had felt a natural time for them to declare their love––Dmitry had been upset about it at the time––and though still young, by the time they were married, he was old enough to go off and study, leaving them both to start their new life together. Dmitry would never return home to them. He’d been set up financially by Lev––something his new wife saw as pure generosity towards his own nephew, the son of his dead brother––but something Lev saw as his penance. He would forever be guilt-ridden with regard to Dmitry.
It was only the Machine––and the Leadership, to be exact––which knew the truth about what had happened.
By evening, some calls had been made. Lev filled the other two in on what he’d learnt regarding the reporter.
“His name’s Wilson Manning,” Lev started. “He’s freelance, which actually sucks. He could have shopped it around to many papers already.”
“What’s he know?”
“He’d made the connection between MI6 and Dmitry. As far as I can tell, he’s sitting on the story for a while.”
“That’s something, anyway,” Mark said, though it made little sense. “But why has he waited? Is he shopping around, looking for the highest bidder? I don’t see why he would delay––these guys don’t tend to think about things too much, just sell their stories to the highest bidder and move on to the next one.”
“It would seem he has wind of something even juicier,” Lev said, already angry.
“What?”
“When my guys took a look––there wasn’t anything showing online, but a sweep of the man’s home revealed enough of a clue––it’s clear that he thinks Anastasia is having an affair.”
“Your nephew’s wife?” Mark said, a little more aware of the Kaminski set up than Sergej was.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who?”
“Not obviously. There was another reference to Alex Tolbert, the same Alex from MI6 we mentioned earlier.”
“That could be in connection with his first line of enquiry?”
“I know that. But one way or the other, these two revelations could destroy Dmitry. And if the affair is real, especially if it's with this agent, I’ll see that he’s finished!”
The other two let the air calm for a moment, Sergej looking across at Mark, who was then the one to speak, his quick mind already slotting some moves together.
“I think I have a way of sorting out both of these distractions, Lev,” he began. “It starts with us silencing this journalist––we can’t have his story take Dmitry out of the running yet. We might still need Dmitry to challenge for President.”
They would spend the rest of the day going over the details of what Mark had in mind, as well as starting to think about what was appropriate for Tallinn at the end of the month.
12
Moscow, Russia
The days that followed Matvey’s last debate had been harrowing, to say the least. The appearance of Foma on the TV screens the second the broadcast had ended––a man who Matvey assumed was already at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea––was a shock. The explicit endorsement he’d then publicly given to the whole nation in backing Putin for President was a kick in the groin. There was no doubt Foma knew precisely what Matvey had intended when he had offered Foma use of his yacht.
Matvey bitterly regretted that choice now––no, in fact, he regretted getting it wrong, leaving Foma’s death up to chance and not having been more hands-on with it. That was what he most regretted.
The press had been hounding Matvey ever since. The polls were suggesting he was dropping behind, still in third place, but not a contender. The nation was being made aware of the apparently close former connection between Matvey and Foma. Large parts of the population subsequently backing another candidate––the sitting President––was worrying.
Matvey had gone at lengths with journalists to downplay the connection to Foma, though it didn’t wash with most. He’d cut them all off just two days after the debate, as the stories continued to escalate. Nothing he was saying was having any effect, and anything he was saying was just getting twisted. They could all go to hell as far as he cared. He’d been struck a blow––it was hard, and it was ruthless––but he wasn’t out of the fight yet. Far from it. Their most significant mistake might just have been the timing of it all––they played their hand too early. He had time to counter. He had time to work his way back into things.
Stranger still was his son’s failure to get in touch. In a time when the world was imploding around him, Matvey knew he had someone on his side––yet he hadn’t heard anything from Andre since the day of the debate.
Foma was seen in public more regularly now. There was no reason given for his disappearance, no response given to the questions about what had happened to him in St Petersburg. When Foma failed to answer––and him standing there alive did go a long way to telling them all that any reports of his assassination were fake news––they soon stopped asking.
Foma took back control of his empire––shares rose sharply that day after a period of uncertainty, which had settled a little after Andre had stepped forward. Now things could continue as always.
In her Moscow home, Svetlana Volkov sat enraged in front of the television screen which showed a healthy, and very much alive Foma Polzin walking around the streets of her city. She knew immediately his assassination had been staged. It had been the thing that brought the Games to an end––she’d made that call based on what had happened––yet she’d been duped once again, and by Matvey, of all people.
He’d been using her from the start. She felt as used as ever––comparable to what she was forced to do to become a world star, in fact. Her husband, if she could still call him that, as they hadn’t shared a bed in months, was off somewhere. This had been one trip she was to have no part in, something he’d been very clear about. Had he finally given up on her? She was now past caring.
Svetlana had not worked in weeks. She’d rejected many scripts when she’d shut down the Games, and now, it seemed, they weren’t even sending any. Was she finished? Had word got out, somehow, of what had happened? Of who she really was? They lived a secret life, however, so it could only have been her husband’s doing.
Sitting there–�
�although it was only mid-morning, she was drinking her second glass of wine––Svetlana didn’t cut her usual image or figure. Seeing Foma, Matvey and even Kaminski on the news, doing their thing––she couldn’t help but feel that despite her best efforts, despite her prominent role within what she felt was Russia’s elite––despite all that, it counted for nothing. These men still did whatever they damn well wanted, and no one––not even her––could stop them.
She hated them all the more.
Hated what they’d made her do, who they’d made her become. Hated the fact that now she had no outlet, no way of paying back the hurt she felt, no people to control and manipulate. Nothing.
She had more wealth around her than at any point in her life, yet for the first time in decades, the sudden and unwelcome thought landed hard––she had nothing.
Matvey Filipov had some of those thoughts coming too––he and Svetlana were strangely united at that moment––but he wasn’t going to stop there. By the third day, he was also becoming concerned about his son.
Andre’s mobile phone was showing no signal––that set off alarm bells right away. Men in their position always had their phones with them, ever switched on, always ready for the next deal. Something must have happened to Andre.
Matvey started working through his son’s contacts and informants––they shared much the same calendar and had access to each other's too. It didn’t take him long to find tickets taking Andre to Paris on the day he’d flown to Moscow. So his son was in Paris?
Matvey made contact with his team in the French capital and asked them to locate his son––he didn’t give them anything more, nor suggest what was becoming his worst fear. He’d been around long enough, especially in their world, to know how these things tended to end. He’d been so focused on the campaign, he’d not been able to protect his son. He hoped he was wrong about what had happened––if it were just some love affair that had taken Andre off the grid, Matvey would have harsh words to say to him but that would be all.
It was in his son’s Gmail folder––an email Andre had apparently started to write, but never sent, nor did it have an address for who it was being sent to––that Matvey first discovered a reference to something he’d never heard before. It read: Ask Mark about the Machine.
Matvey searched his entire email folder for that same reference, but there was nothing. What was the Machine? And which Mark had Andre been referring to? The only one Matvey knew of was Mark Orlov, previously One in the Games, and a man he’d worked closely with, though his son had not. Would Andre have gone to someone like Orlov without speaking to his own father first?
Matvey looked up the number for Mark’s office––he had his personal mobile number, as was common amongst the oligarchs––but his intention wasn’t to speak to him, but to work out if he was in the office. After calls to various departments where Mark might have been, it was clear he wasn’t there. His employees didn’t seem to know where he was––were not aware he was away in fact. Matvey ended the calls.
So Mark was off the grid at present.
That still didn’t give Matvey a lot. He needed more.
The following morning, he got that. A call came in from Paris––the man didn’t say how he’d found out, but Matvey didn’t care. He paid them for information and paid them well. In turn, these local teams had their own established networks which could be squeezed for information and connections when the right type of pressure was applied.
“Andre was dropped off by taxi to the address I’m sending you across now,” the man said, a message confirmation coming through on Matvey’s smartphone moments later. “The address is empty––has been empty for a while. It’s up for sale.” He didn’t say anything about blood traces being found inside the warehouse, and that these were being tested. Until they could be sure, Matvey didn’t need to know.
“One more thing,” the man added after he’d answered a few quick fire questions that Matvey had asked. “The building is being purchased by a subsidiary company owned by Mark Orlov.”
Matvey thanked the man and ended the call. His son’s fate had no doubt been sealed already, possibly in that very building.
But why had Andre taken something to Mark and not come directly to him? Yes, Matvey had been a little more distant recently, and the election campaign was taking all of his focus. But why Mark? Besides the obvious––he was one of the most wealthy men in Russia. And wealth always connected with influence and knowledge of what was going on. Andre would have known––presumed, at any rate––that his father knew nothing whatsoever about the Machine and had therefore gone to someone who might have heard of it.
That suggested that Mark Orlov knew what the Machine actually was.
The knowledge that Andre had visited a facility that Orlov was buying––albeit through another company, and granted there was no proof yet that Mark had even been present––only implicated the fellow oligarch in his son’s disappearance. He couldn’t, however, think of it as anything more sinister. But that fear was growing.
And if Mark was involved in any way––if he had the slightest trace of his son’s blood, figuratively speaking, on his hands––Matvey would make sure he was destroyed. Yes, Mark was wealthier than he was, and therefore posed a significant opponent. But there were things money couldn’t save you from––everyone had to die someday.
Some people just sooner than others.
Tallinn, Estonia
The day after the gathering of the Leadership in Siberia, men working for Mark Orlov were already arriving in Tallinn, the northernmost Baltic capital. They had been in Finland on other matters and were on the first short ferry crossing from Helsinki that morning.
The three-person team––two men and one woman––were in the city to start the process of scouting out a possible target for an attack designed to provoke a reaction. They were on a very tight schedule, though there was nothing unusual about that. Most terrorist plots––the attacks carried out by militant extremists––were foiled because someone slipped up somewhere in the preceding months. This team were experts in their particular field and experienced at making quick and deadly tactical decisions. Other people, experts in weapons and explosives, were waiting in the wings to be called into action, if and when required.
That way, there was less of a trail. They were rarely ever foiled. That was what made their approach so deadly.
Estonia was only ten days away from officially marking their centennial, though celebrations had been taking place before and would continue long after, in what had been a carefully organised series of cultural events. Still, Independence Day itself––marking one hundred years as a nation, despite a long spell of occupation in the middle––was another thing entirely. The day would be like none before.
The team had spent the rest of the morning, since arriving at the port, walking the city. They went through the Rotermann Quarter with its host of converted mills that were now trendy wine bars and restaurants. Approaching the Old Town, with its medieval towers and broken down walls, they found Pikk Street, which rose sharply, taking them high above the surrounding city and out onto viewing points in various directions. From one spot they looked back down towards the port, where they had docked that morning, their ship already making the return trip to Helsinki as it did several times a day. Down below there were red bricked roofs which marked the Old Town, as well as the glass and high rise buildings of the rest of modern Tallinn which stood determinedly beyond.
They stopped for lunch at a café located on one side of Freedom Square, a relatively small section of the city––though all things in Tallinn were on a smaller scale than you might find elsewhere––the square itself where all the most important events were celebrated. Indeed, the parades of previous years had all been held there. It had been the spot where countless foreign dignitaries had visited, laying flowers at the war memorial. One YouTube clip the team had watched on the two-hour crossing that morning showed British Prince Harry doing prec
isely that before turning to shake hands with a few in the crowd.
Finishing up and paying the bill––even somewhere as central as they were, the prices were noticeably more reasonable than just across the Baltic in Finland––it was as they walked around the concrete of the square that they made their discovery. In one corner, there was a glass viewing point looking down on old walls. Reading the attached words––and doing a little study online––it was clear that these were the ancient city walls, dating back hundreds of years. They’d been discovered when an underground car park had been built on that very spot underneath the square.
The team soon found a stairway that led directly down, though only one door––at the third attempt––actually gave them access without a ticket for the car park. They drove there later in a hired van and discovered an incredible car park––with ancient walls seamlessly merging with modern construction––all directly underneath the square. A square which in just ten days would have leaders from right across Europe gathering to mark Estonia’s shared celebration––where the President of Estonia, a female, would watch a procession of military vehicles and tanks, as the armed forces made a show of strength. As the people celebrated what it meant to be Estonian––one aspect of it, anyway.
The three didn’t say anything to each other. They had seen enough and drove the van out of the car park after paying for the ticket at the machine. They pulled onto the road that ran beside Freedom Square, a massive tower in front of them as they exited with a large ninety-nine lit up in blue next to a clock of a similar design.
They’d found a location that would work––it was highly likely that the car park itself would be closed on the day of the event, though people visiting the area would need to park somewhere, so they were not entirely sure. However, they would research every aspect and report back to Mark before midnight that day, at least with their initial summary.