by Tim Heath
Sasha was paired with both Alex and Anissa for the foreseeable future. Their shared history and level of seniority in the Service made them the ideal choice. They’d been working as a team for some time already, and it made sense to see that continue now that they were within the same four walls.
The question concerning Sasha’s safety had come up many times––true, he’d been living a very precarious life before, as he had been helping MI6 over the last few years. But that had mostly gone unnoticed––especially among his colleagues at the FSB. Now, it was clear he’d fled. Soon, if not already, they would find out. Few agencies anywhere could stand to see an agent defect. The FSB was amongst the most unforgiving.
Sasha brushed these concerns under the carpet, it seemed. If he was worried, he wasn’t showing it. He was staying at Alex’s for the time being––MI6 aware that Alex lived alone, and had space––though something more suitable would be arranged soon. Alex hadn’t been able to have Anastasia over since Sasha’s arrival. It was a conversation he’d yet to have with his new Russian flatmate. Not that Sasha would have known who Anastasia was, but there were only so many vices you could reveal at any one time. Besides, Anissa was far from happy about that whole situation and had believed Alex had ended things with the Belarusian already.
The three amigos––as someone sarcastically joked––finished the afternoon by taking a look at the Presidential race. Sasha knew all about the connection Dmitry Kaminski had apparently had with Thomas Price––the implications of that for the British government had been touched on, though neither Anissa nor Alex felt like elaborating more than was entirely necessary. They were fascinated with Sasha’s views on it all––hearing it from a Russian mindset showed them a different angle. He’d given up his vote by leaving Russia, though Sasha commented that given what he knew of the candidates from what they’d just shared, he would have voted for the sitting President, allowing Putin to see out his final six-year term.
They left the office that evening a little after six. It had been enough for the first day together, and they wanted to have a drink to celebrate, though Anissa stayed for just one. She had plans with her husband that night and didn’t want to be late. She said goodbye to the two men––to her two colleagues, which still felt strange to say––and left them to it.
Alex bought another round, though after finishing up, they both headed home, walking the whole way, the sky clear, the change in the climate still so new to Sasha. He enjoyed seeing flowers already out in the parks they walked through, recalling to Alex that in St Petersburg, spring would sometimes only come in June. Alex picked up in Sasha the first signs it was all beginning to sink in, Sasha’s continued references to a home he would most likely not see again. Alex didn’t mention it––it would be something to talk about at a later point when there was a little more water under the bridge. Sasha wasn’t ready yet.
They got home just after eight. A football match that was twenty minutes into the first half was on the television.
“The English FA cup is famous around the world,” Alex informed Sasha, the two teams playing in what was a fifth-round replay. Sasha was more into ice hockey, though he watched the game with some interest. Midway through the first half, Alex received a text message. He got up and typed a reply, as he walked into the kitchen. Five minutes later he came back with his jacket on already.
“I just need to pick up some things from the shop. Enjoy the game, and I’ll see you later.”
Two hours later, match long forgotten and mostly unremarkable, Sasha was thinking about sleep, the day catching up with him, as Alex arrived home, empty-handed, though Sasha knew enough not to say anything at that moment. Something had been up––Sasha had known that immediately––and that Alex had no intention of getting any shopping. He kept silent. Apparently, there were still things Sasha needed to learn about his colleague and current flatmate.
London––Moscow––Los Angeles
Over the next few days, one Russian-themed story was challenging all others for the front pages of newspapers around the world, and for once it had nothing to do with the election.
Images had first appeared of a distraught looking Svetlana Volkov departing her Moscow mansion, bags packed, without her husband. Official word was she was leaving for the latest role she was playing in a big Hollywood production, but they’d always travelled together for such things in the past. Besides, she looked anything but her usual sophisticated self as her driver took her from home to the airport.
Journalists were waiting for her at every turn, and over the next few days, the story finally broke. Russia’s leading couple were getting a divorce.
Sources close to Sergej were quoting him as saying how things had been difficult for months, and they’d finally made the heart-wrenching decision in recent weeks to end their marriage. Sergej was hounded in London, and again when home in Moscow; the gossip columns were loving every part of a story that few had seen coming. However, the match had always been seen as favouring Sergej. More than a few papers were speculating what this would now do to his business image.
In Los Angeles, journalists pursued Svetlana relentlessly, the Diana-esque figure shadowed by the world’s press, trying to escape the lens and work it all through in private. Most stated that she’d lived in the public spotlight for all her life, so the reaction was therefore only to be expected. Her first day of shooting had to be called off due to it all––there was even talk of whether she was the best fit for the role.
In Moscow, the newspapers were discussing how it all reflected badly on Putin, the current President. A couple, deemed to be at the pinnacle of Russian society, now appeared in various papers with Putin, even though no previous association had existed. Rare photos of the three Russians together had been used to back up the growing claim. It had all been Matvey’s doing, his pressure in just the right places suggesting the now estranged couple were somehow central to everything which Putin represented. Their split was viewed as an ill-omen for the coming election.
In the UK, a national press that for the most part had been anti-Russian, mainly because they were anti-Putin, picked up on that angle, and the coverage of the split got more air-time as a result than it otherwise warranted. That caused yet more journalists––who had chased Sergej out of London and didn’t have easy access to Russia––to jump on a flight to California instead, where a now single Svetlana was doing her best to avoid their attention.
Anissa watched the news that morning with added interest, the closing report on the breakfast time broadcast talking about the world-famous Russian actress and her very public marriage breakup from reformed Russian gangster Sergej Volkov. Anissa wondered if she had a perspective on Svetlana that few people in her country, maybe even in the world, shared.
She recalled Dmitry Kaminski’s words he had once used to describe her: that wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Svetlana had been central to the Games. Anissa had discovered it was the actress––maybe playing her most prominent role, at least amongst those of enormous wealth and influence in Russia––who was key to it all taking place. It was Svetlana who welcomed the men to her home, doing so as far as they could tell, without Sergej finding out. How she’d managed to keep it from him, Anissa couldn’t know, though it was clear they were both busy people. Anissa had once spent the day watching Sergej––anticipating a meeting they thought was about to take place on New Year’s Eve––only to leave disappointed. They’d been watching the wrong person. That had given them a glimpse as to how busy Sergej was, especially during the Games events. Was that why she had managed to keep doing what she had been doing?
Had Sergej, therefore, finally found out what was going on? Or had he known all along? Had they been working together for all that time, she the mouthpiece, he the muscle? Whatever had been the case, it had now all emphatically come crashing down.
When Anissa got to the office––Alex and Sasha had also seen the news that morning––they went to the canteen and
talked over a coffee about what it all meant. It would be the first of many conversations that happened, across dinner tables and water coolers right around the world. Svetlana Volkov became the topic of the hour, as well as the most desirable, and single, female on the planet.
As the next few days went by––both Sergej and Svetlana had started to speak to the press, individual papers given so-called exclusive access to either person––what got shared was amicable, though the more one of them spoke, the more the other responded with their perspective. Divorce papers had already been filed with their respective lawyers. There was no turning back, it seemed.
In the Presidential race, the separation of a Russian couple, an albeit famous couple, which shouldn’t have played any role in the election, still did. The polls had Putin now level with Kaminski, a drop of a few points. Somehow, despite the desperate efforts of the Kremlin and those behind the Putin campaign, the association between their President and that celebrity couple couldn’t be shifted. It was as if the public were thinking: if this couple could split––a seemingly inseparable pairing––then maybe the same was possible for the people and their President?
24
Krasnodar, Southern Russia
Mark Orlov landed in the Black Sea region after a flight down from Moscow. The change in weather was evident to see, and Lev Kaminski and Sergej Volkov were already at the hotel waiting for him. For Sergej, getting away from Moscow was a welcome relief. He’d had a tough week so far.
No one would be allowed to follow him down south.
Not far from the Crimea––there was no longer a border dividing Krasnodar from the disputed territory––it was fitting given the location that between the three of them, they were meeting to discuss what outcome they wanted from the upcoming election. A call had to be made. As the Leadership of the Machine, which man were they going to back?
The proximity of the Crimea and all the repercussions that had resulted in Russia’s annexing of their naval base back into the Russian Federation was only too apparent. Putin had caused much harm with his actions in Ukraine. Had it all been worth it?
The polls currently had Lev’s nephew level––Kaminski had proved a viable competitor, and because of his link to Lev, would surely be the best man to back. That was the conversation that needed settling. Lev had convinced them he had the inside track with his nephew, and the Machine had nothing to fear in him. Lev was pleased to be finally in such a position, bringing something that big to the table––to be the man on the inside, playing a central role. It felt good.
That afternoon, they discussed every candidate in detail. Little time was wasted on the other parties’ candidates––they’d never been a genuine threat, nor would any of them survive the first round of voting. There were only three men in the running.
Mark Orlov had been most adamant that Matvey Filipov could not be considered. While the other two didn’t feel quite as strongly about it as Mark did, they all knew Filipov couldn’t be trusted with such a position of power. Filipov’s revenge handed out on two of Mark's properties had rattled Mark. Filipov was trailing in the polls––thankfully, the Russian people also saw through the oligarch––and the three of them would make sure Filipov would remain out of the running.
Sergej Volkov had been the one most unsure about Kaminski––he liked men who were ruthless and could handle themselves. Nothing he’d seen in Kaminski had shown him that. Added to that Kaminski had been too cosy with the British, which made him a liability. However, Lev had pointed out that the office of President would bring Kaminski back to Russia. The collapse of his nephew’s UK based Banking Union also cut his ties––Lev assured them they had nothing to worry about. A Moscow-based Kaminski sitting in the Kremlin would be a different prospect from the man’s current position. Add to that the family connection, and the Machine would have access to a President as they had never had access before.
By that evening, as the three men walked freely along a mountain path with views down onto the Black Sea, they were finally persuaded by Lev’s confidence, that they should fully support Kaminski’s election campaign at the cost of all others. Their current President had served them well, but more crucially they had no control over him––that was a problem. Besides, Putin could only serve another six years. If they could get Kaminski in, he would have a clear run for at least a twelve-year term. There was so much the Machine could do over such a long time with direct access to the very centre of political power in that vast nation.
They drove the thirty minutes it took to get back to the city. They were staying overnight. The sunshine was a welcome relief, though it was too early in the year to carry much heat. Sergej appreciated the time away from the limelight––the press coverage had got so extreme that he had banned all of them from further interviews. That had stopped most journalists from following him around Moscow, but with Svetlana continuing to talk to papers in the US, there was no end in sight. Sergej had submitted the divorce papers to his lawyers––the great carve-up was yet to start, though he was happy to give her half. They had brought roughly the same assets into their marriage––she with influence if not as much as his initial billions––but she had aided him significantly through the years by her association. He wouldn’t begrudge her having an equal share. They both had more than enough to live a very comfortable life.
He might even be able to find real love, himself. His dreams of starting a family, however, he had long since abandoned.
Moscow, Russia
After giving Kaminski the heads up about his own father’s downfall––Matvey was sure it would eat at him until the younger man went to find out the truth for himself––Matvey had done nothing else with the information. Nothing public, of course, though having revealed it to Kaminski in the way he had, that info would do much to help his cause.
Matvey knew there were other ways to play it, however. He would make sure Putin knew. His team had been instructed to give enough of the facts to the right people, and Matvey was confident that the allegations would then make it back to the Kremlin. Once there it wouldn’t be long before it landed on the desk of the team trying to keep their President in office.
That happened five days into the month––the election now less than three weeks away. The Putin camp would investigate the rumour thoroughly, and wait for just the right time to strike. Such damning revelations were best left until much later in the campaign. Things were a lot harder to put right then, and the impression such things would place in the minds of the voters so close to casting their ballot would be fatal.
Putin had initially thought little of the information when his team had mentioned it, though after being persuaded not just to let it drop, he’d become more interested the more they found out, finally asking them to run a full investigation. He had to know everything. If the uncle of his chief rival––a man who had been vocally behind his nephew in recent days––was somehow shown to be a snake, a poisonous traitor of a man, it could rip the Kaminski camp apart. A bitter end to their chances.
Putin couldn’t believe his luck. Fortune was smiling in his favour, at just the right time, as it always seemed to do.
London, England
It was Anissa’s second face-to-face meeting with Phelan. He once again swung by the same park gates in his expensive black car and the British agent, waiting for him on that warm sunny spring day, jumped into the front seat.
“So where are we going today?” she said, as Phelan drove down the road at speed.
“I thought we could talk over lunch. My shout.” He drove for about twenty minutes before pulling up outside a Mayfair restaurant, the street-side parking machines indicating an astronomical amount per fifteen minutes, but Phelan hardly even seemed to notice.
A table was made available for them––the place was about half full, plenty of Armani and Prada suits on display, mostly the haunt of local stockbrokers and investment bankers. She rarely came to places like that, both because of her modest MI6 salary, and
due to having the two boys––it wasn’t one for families.
“Very nice,” she said, looking around, though she instinctively sensed it was one of those places that were expensive for the sake of being expensive. The cheapest thing on the menu was £15, and that was a not overly elaborate homemade soup. The prices were there to dictate the type of clientele the restaurant wanted.
“I’ve never been here before,” he said, adding, “not my type of place, but it was nearby, and I wanted to see the look on your face.” She blushed as if caught out for a moment.
“Very good. Well, since you’re paying, I’ll make you regret that.” They both laughed.
By the time the main dishes arrived––Phelan had ordered them a glass of wine and some bread as they decided what to have––they were deep in conversation. She’d mentioned to Phelan a little about Matvey’s information to her office, wanting to know what it was that Phelan had against the Russian, despite the obvious.
“You have to see that anything he shares, he always has an ulterior motive. If it doesn’t benefit him somehow, you wouldn’t hear from him.” Anissa could understand that. Still, the information had helped them to stop a potential catastrophe in Tallinn. There was no distinct advantage to him helping them out in that instance.
“You have my word that we aren’t giving him any special access.”
“A man like Filipov will use everything to his advantage. He’s an expert at that. Maybe not now, but he’ll want payback at some point.”