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

by Tim Heath

  “Well, he won’t get that from us. There was no deal in place.”

  “Do you think I had a deal with him before I did what he needed?”

  “That’s different,” she said, defensively. It was different. Phelan had become a millionaire as a result of his involvement with Filipov. That counted as some deal in her book.

  “You think because I got something out of it, it makes me different? Less innocent?” He’d read her reaction to his last comment.

  “I’m not sure what I think at the moment, Phelan, if I’m perfectly honest.”

  They ate their food slowly. It tasted good, as Anissa had assumed it would. Her dish alone cost more than an entire meal out with her family.

  “What is MI6’s stance on Filipov?” he said, trying his luck. She’d been clear this wasn’t up for discussion several times already.

  “You know I can’t share that with you. Trust me, we know where you are coming from. I share your concerns.”

  “I just wish there was a way to stop him.” He’d said that several times, almost verging on desperation now.

  “So you’ve said, though without giving me anything more to go on. Give me something I can use, Phelan.”

  He ate another piece of steak, washing it down with red wine.

  “I don’t think I know anything you don’t already.” Nothing that he could tell her, anyhow. What Matvey ultimately had on Phelan was something he hoped no one else would ever know. “I had little personal contact with him. I met him face-to-face in Moscow just before my trip up to St Petersburg. Besides that meeting in a hotel, it was all done over the telephone. Even when I changed numbers, he knew it before I’d been able to let him know. He was always onto me, always able to contact me whenever he wanted to––usually at the worst time for me.”

  “Does he know you are speaking to me?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He paused as if reassessing. “Maybe.”

  “Why do you say maybe?”

  “He has people everywhere. That’s how he operates. Teams and networks. I think it’s what keeps all these Russians ahead.”

  “The oligarchs, you mean?” She was sure the average Russian citizen was like anyone else the world over: mostly clueless about such things.

  “Yes, those bastards.”

  She still couldn’t thoroughly read the Irishman.

  “If Matvey did know you were speaking to me, would he be happy?”

  Phelan sat back in his chair, his lunch finished, as he thought of a response, something witty, something to lighten the mood, but there was nothing along those lines that came to mind.

  “He would have me shot, let’s be frank.”

  “It’s a good job he doesn’t know then, right?” she said with a grin, though couldn’t hold it for long. She’d been around too many people who were now dead due to crossing that group of Russians.

  He paid the bill when the waiter came back to the table.

  Outside, they headed for his car, just one of many expensive vehicles parked on that particular street.

  “Men like Filipov are bullies––just look at Trump in the US. Can you imagine how much worse it would be if someone like Filipov was allowed to run a country like Russia? You think you had your hands full with Putin? Who knows what Filipov’s agenda is.”

  “Putin has hardly charmed the West though, has he? Many are calling for change.”

  “I’ve never met a man I’m more afraid of than when I’m around Filipov.” They got back into the car in silence, his last statement hanging in the air for a while. He pulled away.

  “Look, there isn’t a whole lot we can do from the British side of things, besides making sure a fair election takes place and that Russians are allowed to vote freely for their man.”

  “Fair? You think it’ll be fair?”

  “I’d like to think so, yes.”

  “Then you’re even more naive than I thought!” He suddenly found the need to focus on his driving and nothing more was said until he pulled up at the park gates where he had collected her.

  “Thanks for lunch,” she said as she got out of the car, having spent the last minutes going over what he’d said to her, just looking out of the window, willing the journey to end.

  “No worries. Maybe we’ll do it again some time,” but before Anissa could reply, he was off. Anissa stood there for a moment but turned and headed back to the office. She was sure it was the last she would hear from Phelan given their final exchange. She just hoped that Matvey wouldn’t find out what he had been doing and have him killed.

  Alex was not in the office when she got back, a note saying he’d left for the afternoon. There were no details as to why, and Sasha didn’t know anything, either. She sat there with the Russian talking through her time with Phelan, sharing about the Irishman’s general concern towards Filipov, without naming anything specific. She had no evidence they could use, and although Phelan’s views fitted with their thoughts on Matvey, there was no more they could do. Yes, they had grave concerns over Filipov, but the same was true for both of the other two candidates, yet one of them was going to win.

  “Sasha, I meant to talk to you about that last time I saw you in St Petersburg,” she said finally. Sasha had been waiting for it for days and had sensed it was on her mind from the moment he arrived in London.

  “It was nothing. You were quite drunk for one thing.”

  “I know, but I meant to apologise. It wasn’t me. I let myself down.”

  “Rubbish. It was nothing.”

  “That’s not true, Sasha. At that moment, I wanted it to be something. I felt so bad about everything that had happened in court that day, everything she’d gone through.” It was apparent to Sasha that Anissa still couldn’t mention Josée’s name without it causing a tear. “I misread your intentions, and I let myself down. I think I would have done anything with you that night, and I’ve felt guilty about it ever since. I’m married, Sasha.”

  “Anissa, you didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, I knew about your family. I wasn’t going to take advantage.” She couldn’t help but appreciate him all the more.

  “This can’t ever get out.”

  “Relax! Nothing even happened, anyway.” She let out a smile as if a heavy weight had started to loosen.

  “You’re right, of course. I just never got the chance to clear the air with you.”

  “Consider it thoroughly cleared, in that case,” he said and left to grab a coffee.

  Alex was at that moment home with Anastasia. As Sasha was staying at Alex’s, they had needed to conduct their affair around the British agent’s new living arrangement. Her husband had also started taking more notice of her activities. She feared he was beginning to suspect something.

  They’d planned to have lunch with each other that day, but she’d had a horrible row with Kaminski before the Russian had stormed out, leaving his wife in tears. She’d been a mess by the time she sent Alex a text message, suggesting they meet.

  Two hours later, Alex was rolling out of bed, hungry and happy, a dozing Anastasia sleeping blissfully beside him, her legs entwined with the sheets. He filled the kettle. Their relationship had become intense in recent days––she’d been more distraught because of her home life, he’d been trying to catch chances to see her. Was that what made the physical connection so passionate, or was it the thought in their minds that this would all be over soon? That Kaminski would come knocking on the door––he would never send his men to something that personal––and gatecrash their little secret. Was it even a secret anymore?

  As Anastasia lay awake but content in Alex’s bed, she thought through her last argument with her husband that morning. He’d accused her of being unfaithful. Kaminski had come out and said it plain as day, though when she pressed him––why should she admit it outright until she knew for sure Kaminski knew––he had been unable to say anything more, unable to give a name. He couldn’t have known about Alex, not yet, anyway. What was it that had made him suspect some
thing? She was always there when he came home, giving herself to him whenever he demanded sex––which wasn’t often, in fact––and Alex had never been to her home. Was it one of the household staff, had they picked up on something and mentioned it to her husband? But then again most of them were loyal to her––would they have said something even if they knew? She doubted it.

  Did she just smell of betrayal?

  She still loved her husband, in her unique way, but their relationship had been stagnant for too long. Her husband’s focus was very much on the Presidency, and it had been for many years. She liked living in London, and she’d told him many times she didn’t want to live the political life in Moscow––wife of the President, yet not even Russian herself. Many in Russia would view her nationality as an issue, taking offence at her before she had even arrived in the Kremlin.

  She had then met Alex. Not the time he looked after the security at a conference in London––then, she’d hardly noticed him, he was just part of the background noise. She had met him again by chance, on a warm autumnal day in London. She’d been feeling unusually low at that point, her husband in Moscow for a series of talks or something––she’d stopped asking him by that point––and Alex was just the right fit for her.

  She’d never told him who she was––she assumed he knew, most people she met usually did––and enjoyed the fact he seemed oblivious to her real identity. He confirmed that fact when after their third or fourth date, he’d suddenly asked her if she was married. She said it was complicated. He didn’t probe any deeper; it was clear what she meant.

  It was a few weeks after that when he first mentioned he knew who she was. By then she’d already started falling for him, and he’d already told her that he loved her.

  Now they continued seeing each other while keeping their minds closed to the problems––she didn’t ask him about his job, though knew he worked for MI6, and he didn’t ask her about her husband. At least Alex had the chance of turning on a television and finding out as much current news as she knew about Kaminski if he wanted, the Russian regularly filling the screen as the countdown to the Russian election heated up.

  25

  The White House, Washington DC––USA

  Campaigning in Russia was reaching fever pitch, yet in the middle of it all, with the election only two weeks away, one of the candidates touched down on American soil for the first time with his mind on different things. President Trump had not visited Russia in his first two years, his vocal rhetoric increasingly aggressive, neither had he extended an invitation to any of the Russian candidates for the upcoming election, especially not the sitting President.

  The accusations, before Trump had been elected, of his connections to Putin were explicit and public. The West even accused Russia of directly influencing the American result, and while that had indeed been true, it had nothing to do with Putin at the time. He was merely the man whom the Machine had chosen to sit in the Kremlin. They also reckoned that America under the extremist Donald Trump would be a far easier target than nearly any other person sitting in the White House had been. Trump would likely start a fight with half the world, and so it was proving.

  So there had been no formal invitation from the Americans for any of the frontrunners to visit the USA, and yet, on a cold but blue-skied March morning, a twenty seater private jet was coming to a stop on the Washington airstrip, in what was to be only a half day visit.

  There would be plenty of cameras present to record all that happened––these had been arranged in advance. It was an opportunity to stand beside the American billionaire and show the Motherland that the President-elect had connections, that he was a man whom the Americans––and therefore, the West––took seriously. He was the obvious choice for President.

  Three vehicles from the FBI met the jet as the stairs were coming down, a host of people getting off and filing into the waiting cars before the man himself emerged. No press had been allowed access to the airstrip for security reasons, so the disembarkation and short walk to the third and final vehicle happened without incident or delay. They were to be driven directly to the White House, where a press conference awaited. Only then would the Russian meet President Trump.

  Four police vehicles flanked the FBI convoy, and progress was swift as they sped their way to the destination. The last thing the Americans wanted was an incident on US soil, and the visit had been kept low key, though the actual presence of the man himself would undoubtedly cause something of a frenzy of excitement in the evening news bulletins. By then it was expected that his jet would already be clearing American airspace on its way home.

  A few members of the press––and around a hundred onlookers, some with very anti-Russian banners, anti–Putin in particular––were gathered by the gates and railings as the convoy approached. The security teams in place at the White House were alerted ahead of the arrival and waved the convoy through as soon as they approached.

  Outside the main entrance, two television cameras were in place for the arrival, where the President candidate would meet with Trump for the first time, on the lawn in front of the most iconic building in America, before a select group of journalists.

  As the vehicles drew to a halt in front of the building, the President’s men did a quick check of the area. Once happy, Trump himself walked out through the main doors, the camera bulbs and waiting press kicking into life, wanting to record and analyse everything they could capture. Such a visit was infrequent indeed.

  Some were there from the American side to see what truth there was about a previous Trump–Russia connection. Were they about to see during the next few seconds and all that followed something to prove what the rumours had been saying for months?

  Donald Trump stood just two metres from the rear door of the third FBI vehicle, the first two cars already emptied, the Russians who had got out of the car standing to one side, out of the picture; they were not the main event, just the supporting cast. The rear door opened, the black trouser leg of the Russian seen under the door––the blacked out windows not allowing anyone to see inside––and seconds later, Matvey Filipov got out and approached the President.

  Then it happened. With Trump holding out his hand to welcome the Russian, Filipov blanked him, turning to stand side-by-side, seen smiling to the world. The watching cameras and the footage they had just immortalised would send those last few seconds viral overnight. A dumbfounded Trump, hand stretched out in midair, mouth open in shock, and ignored by his Russian guest. The President-elect who didn’t fear the Americans one Russian newspaper would lead with that evening. Trump left red-faced another US paper stated.

  Matvey Filipov had arranged the trip to make a statement––more than that, to show he could play Trump at his own game, a game he was much better prepared to play than even the American standing next to him. If Russians wanted to see someone strong leading their country, they should look no further. He had just refused to shake hands with the symbol of all things Western.

  Moments later, they went straight into a prearranged press conference, happening right there in front of the White House. The FBI vehicles had cleared the scene.

  Everyone present was still reeling from what had just happened––those journalists who were able to, already in contact with their newsroom, the story beginning to spread like wildfire through dry undergrowth. Nothing had ever happened like that before, especially from a perceived NATO ally.

  Filipov had Trump on the back foot from the moment Trump set out onto the White House lawn, and Filipov planned to keep it that way. He’d arranged the trip for precisely that reason. He wanted it known that he was a man who feared no one, gave no respect unless it was deserved, and was prepared to play it tough when his country needed him to. He was a man Russians could get behind.

  The American President looked shellshocked throughout, the press conference live and ongoing, Trump with nowhere to hide. Matvey knew that put on the spot, cornered and unprepared, Trump was most vulnerable. Th
ere was no tweeting his responses, no hiding in the background. It was public, this was current, and this was a nightmare unfolding right in front of the entire White House staff.

  Ten minutes into the press conference, Trump’s team finally managed to pull the plug on it, their President turning swiftly––he apparently knew it’d been an undisputed failure––and heading back inside. Filipov stayed where he was, speaking in Russian to the cameras, seemingly wanting to address his nation in their own language.

  “I have shown today that I can handle the Americans. Trump is a nobody compared to what I can become for Russia. Have you seen Putin do what I’ve just done? No, because he doesn’t have the courage. Do you think that boy Kaminski would dare to face down Trump, whose wealth is much greater than that of Kaminski, even before Kaminski lost everything through his negligence?

  “President Trump is a man who divided his nation, but I intend to unite mine. The election is at the end of this month. Vote for a man who doesn’t fear the West as your current leader does. Vote for a man who can make our nation proud again. Putin’s had his time––look at how long he’s had to change everything, yet what good has that done to us all? Those who live in our big cities––Moscow, St Petersburg––you’ve already seen through your President. So I’m appealing to the rest of you, the vast populace who make up the majority. America doesn’t care about you, and neither does your current President.

  “Only I can make a real difference. I’ve shown in my own life that I can make a business work––I’ll make Russia prosperous again. I’ve shown today that I can’t be bullied––I’ll make Russia strong again. And I’ve shown most of all what it means to be Russian. Vote for me as your next President, and I’ll make you all proud once again.”

  His long-rehearsed speech finished, he turned and walked towards the White House front entrance, the watching journalists clambering to get a final shot of the man who’d just stood before them all.