by Tim Heath
The Prime Minister––female and sharing the same surname, though she was no relation––was very keen to see more women in high ranking positions within the Security Service.
She introduced herself to both Alex and Anissa that morning, Sasha currently off-site. She would meet him later.
“I’ve read your file,” Bethany said to Anissa. “Very impressive.” Anissa tried not to look too happy about it, though it was hard not to be. Anissa was instantly impressed with her new DDG, the contrast between her and the previous incumbent couldn’t have been more marked. Bethany turned to Alex, her face suddenly a little more focused, her tone severe yet playful.
“And I’ve seen your file, too, Alex.” Anissa watched to gauge what reaction her colleague would have to this, neither agent knowing their new DDG enough to have any chance of reading her. She suddenly smiled, adding, “It’s taking up half my desk and is so high I can’t see out of the window.” She laughed.
Neither agent said any more, as Bethany left them to it, glancing once more at Alex as she pulled the door closed behind her.
While not as young as she once was, Bethany carried a presence with her, for sure. Blond hair, large blue eyes and a charming smile. She would turn the heads of older men and cause younger ones to reckon she must have been something special when she was their age, while often admitting they still wouldn’t say no. She’d used all these assets to her advantage over a long career––longer than she cared to let on to anyone else––and was relishing her new role within Six, a fresh adventure and definite career path ahead of her. It had been clear from her interview that she could be running the place in a decade if she kept her head down and her hands clean.
Keeping clean had not always been easy, though not getting caught had become second nature. She knew she would fit right in.
“What do you make of her?” Alex said, the thought pressing on his mind for the last couple of minutes.
“I like her. I think she’ll settle in just fine.”
“Seemed to be a fan of you, though aren’t we all.”
“Shut up,” she said, throwing her stress ball at Alex’s head, though it missed and bounced off his computer screen. “What did you think?” She knew Alex had been asked about the job––it had been his to refuse, from what he’d shared with her––and she was glad he hadn’t taken it. It would have ended their partnership.
“She can’t be any worse than the last guy,” is all Alex said.
As the morning wore on, Anissa was working on the press coverage. MI5 had recently foiled a possible terrorist attack at the national stadium, and there was a lot of attention given to that, drawing the focus from the Russians––both Filipov and Kaminski having dominated the pages for days. There was still a little mention. Putin had coverage too, though noticeably more in the Russian papers than he was afforded in the UK.
Polls now suggested Filipov had a point or so lead over Putin, with Kaminski languishing in third––a complete role reversal from the previous week between the two oligarchs. It was still anyone’s guess as to what was going to happen. They were already calling this the closest election in modern Russian history.
In the US, the Americans had come out strongly in support of Putin, a man who had influenced the US election of two years before. Trump had needed to go some lengths to play down any association with the man. The sudden US backing of Putin could be connected to what Filipov had done at the White House. Few men took public humiliation well, and a billionaire President was no exception. In regard to Russia, therefore, for the Americans, it was indeed better the devil you know.
In Asia, it was the oligarchs’ connections that had these nations supporting the challengers, and Filipov had far more of these links than his less wealthy rival.
Europe was another story. Cautious of Putin for years, they didn’t know what to make of it. They dared to believe that a viable challenger had emerged, though many pondered two oligarchs would have had a much better chance if they’d worked together instead of splitting the vote. Still, if one was to get into the second round of voting, then Putin might be defeated.
But would any election that threatened to oust Putin ever be left to chance? Wasn’t corruption rife, bribes commonplace and power always so corruptible? Russia had so far refused to allow electoral observers in on things, stating their very presence would deter voters from turning up, and elections were already free and open and fair.
Television coverage was shared equally among the leading candidates, for the first time in history. No longer did the Sokoloff backed national broadcast channel put their own man, Vladimir Putin, in prime position, with twice as much airtime as any other candidate––and at the time most Russians were watching. For the first time in an election, the President did not control any of the television channels. If anything, he was at a slight disadvantage, the two oligarchs having moved into the vacuum created by the Sokoloff downfall––a name that now rarely came up, anymore. It was amazing how quickly people could be forgotten.
But Matvey Filipov had not forgotten. He’d taken down Sokoloff personally and relished the contest. He loathed the man and knew that the man who had kept up a constant feed from the Kremlin to the voters through so many media outlets had to be silenced. And silent he now was.
Matvey had joined the last event in the Games, no longer able to execute his plan from the outside, but now the Games were silent too. His only regret was the loss of his son––murdered by Mark Orlov––and the loss of a friend in Foma Polzin. Both situations needed retribution, though he had more pressing matters at hand.
Matvey had also identified a more significant threat––the very thing that had caused his son to have his life taken from him––and this was the reality of the Machine. An all-encompassing umbrella which covered everything that was modern day Russia. A monster of the deep with tentacles––Matvey was fast understanding––in every facet of influence and control within the nation with which he shared his heritage. Now that he had identified them, he would have to destroy them.
Matvey had leaked the situation to the Russia Today journalist implicating Lev Kaminski in the murder of Pavel. Matvey knew Putin had come across the information but wasn’t going to let the President score any points by being the one to bring it into the open. The slur to Kaminski’s mother was also a bonus, and would serve Matvey well in the campaign. But those running the Machine had to be his ultimate target. It was clear they would do anything to stop Matvey getting into power.
Once he was in power––Matvey always possessed an eternal belief in his abilities, often to his detriment––he would make sure they experienced the full force of the power to which he would then have access. For now, he would have to keep his cards very close to his chest.
It was that evening that Bethany May, at the end of her first day at Vauxhall House, left a message with Matvey Filipov.
“This has us square now, I hope you know,” she’d said into the special voicemail box the Russian oligarch used for that very purpose. It was untraceable and couldn’t be hacked without his team knowing an attempt was being made. “You were right. There was a plan which originated high-up in Whitehall to covertly back Kaminski in his run for President. I’ve sent the information,” she ended, which would go to another secure server he used for handling data.
He finally had the physical evidence he needed that the British were behind a plot to influence the Russian elections, to have their man put in place ahead of Putin. The evidence pointed right to the very top of government, and Matvey would use it all to his advantage. Against Kaminski, he knew the revelation would be damning, almost certainly the final nail in his coffin. Against Putin, it would show strength. It was he––Matvey Filipov––who had exposed this crime, not their current President. Matvey was a man who could reach deep into British government and reveal their deepest secrets.
Matvey was the man of higher reach than even their President. He had to be the country’s choice.
&nbs
p; Still, there was a week to go before voting began. And as Harold Wilson once said, a week is a long time in politics. Anything was possible.
27
Soho, London––England
Sasha had been meeting with some well connected Russians from the London criminal underworld. His cover so far had held: that he was working with a UK based branch of a criminal gang which undertook black-ops for the Kremlin. He was after information on those who would have seen Putin during his visit the previous year.
The reasons he gave for needing to know this were sketchy––it was alarming for them anyway and thankfully nothing further was asked. If men connected to the Kremlin came calling, especially the off-the-record variety, then you gave them what they wanted and let them move on. No one, especially the Russian criminal world so freely operating in London, wanted Putin and his legends involved for longer than was needed.
There had been an extended agreement between the two worlds that one would not cross swords with the other, provided that the London operation never directly compromised anything or anyone belonging to the Putin administration. In exchange, the Kremlin did the same for the oligarchs who had made the British capital their home.
Alex had travelled with Sasha for this meeting––he would stay in the car, covering Sasha’s back as much as he could––as the two men went to the latest and most promising appointment yet.
The meeting was happening in a two-storey building in the centre of Soho, though as it was taking place during the day, there were far fewer people around than had it been later.
Sasha left Alex, who was parked and watching the rear alleyway which ran along the back of the property. If there was going to be any trouble, it would most certainly manifest itself there, away from the more respectable front of the building.
Sasha was scanned by a handheld metal detector as he stepped inside the front door. He wasn’t carrying anything that would cause them alarm, not anything that would be found by them, anyway. Sasha believed he had assessed the situation correctly. His story must have checked out. It was based, after all, on real if obsolete information.
“This way,” the man said, once the search was satisfactorily concluded. The man was well built, probably of mixed Russian birth given his fair hair and proper English accent. He led Sasha up a single flight of stairs, tapping on the only door visible before leaving Sasha alone. Seconds later the door opened, and a man he knew to be called Boris smiled back at him. It was the second time they’d met.
“Please, come in. I have some information for you.” Sasha stepped through into the spacious office area. They were alone as far as he could tell, though it was likely men with weapons were never far away. It was that kind of world. “Sit down,” Boris said, waving at a chair in front of the desk. Boris offered Sasha a cigarette, which he refused, before sitting down on the windowsill himself and putting a lighter to the cigarette in his mouth.
Sasha had glanced around the room as if admiring the surroundings. He’d noted there were no cameras, and that there was, in fact, another door that led off from the room, the doorway itself nicely disguised, probably intentionally so, on the far wall. There were perhaps men waiting in there to come in at the first sign of trouble. The only exit was the way he had come––taking him back past the one man on the door, who was apparently armed. It wasn’t a scenario from which Sasha would have liked having to flee.
“You said you had some information,” Sasha said, the two of them now speaking Russian. Boris reached across to a folder that had been sitting on his desk and threw it in Sasha’s direction.
“This is the man you were asking about. He worked the day Putin was in town. He would have seen the whole conversation, though from what we hear, he’s heard many a rumour in his time and never said anything.” Sasha didn’t look down at the folder, wanting to play it cool, taking in what was said.
“He’s not in any trouble,” Sasha said, though it was clear Boris didn’t believe that. It was no loss to him; the club had nothing to do with his operation.
“Have you met him?”
“The barman? No, they don’t allow our sort inside that often, you know. Ironic really, given who they do let in.” Sasha didn’t yet have a location or the name of any venue. There was a chance it was in the information; Sasha certainly hoped there would be some reference. To ask Boris would only confirm he didn’t know, and to establish that would tell the Russian he wasn’t following up on Putin’s visit. Anyone connected to that would have known precisely where the President had been.
He’d been five minutes. His mobile rang on cue. It was Alex, calling as planned.
“What?” Sasha answered in angry Russian, coming out with a whole spiel about not wanting to be disturbed before making it clear something had come up and said he would be over immediately. Sasha ended the call––Alex not having understood any of it, of course.
“Trouble?” Boris enquired, but he had already given Sasha what he’d paid for and was thinking about the rest of the day’s tasks.
“You know how it is. I’ve got to run,” Sasha said, getting to his feet with the folder firmly in his hand. He took Boris’s outstretched hand, and the two men parted company, Boris walking him to the door where Sasha was met by the same goon who’d first greeted him. Apparently, there was some system in place to notify the man when a guest was leaving. It made Sasha wonder what else existed behind those walls, but he followed the man down the stairs and stepped back out into the daylight. He didn’t even glance behind him and made his way around the corner. Alex was waiting, the engine running.
“Get it?” Alex said as Sasha climbed into the passenger seat, Alex pulling away moments later.
“I certainly hope so,” Sasha said, opening the folder once he’d slipped on his seatbelt.
Five minutes later Alex was turning the car around. Not only had the information––a personnel file, complete with a photo for the barman in question––given an address, it listed the name of the establishment: Duke’s club.
“We’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes,” Alex said, navigating through a part of London he knew a little better than most areas. Alex recognised the venue as soon as they pulled up, two men again visibly on guard just inside the doors.
“We called at this place twice after the murder, the first time getting nowhere as they demanded a search warrant, the second time with a warrant but the place was empty. They’d most probably cleared everyone out through the fire escape.”
They sat there for a moment. There was no visible activity, but it was also clear the two agents wouldn’t get into the place without a warrant. Duke’s was an extremely private Gentleman’s club, frequented during the day by a host of high-level figures who wanted their conversations––and those of the people they were meeting with––done away from listening ears. The evening crowd was different, but anyone there in the daytime was by invitation only––the waiting list was long, those deemed acceptable exclusively few. Designed for that purpose, in fact. And one of those lucky few had been their previous DDG, Thomas Price. His body had been found just metres from the front entrance in an alley.
“Makes perfect sense now. Price would have been grabbed not long after leaving the place. Putin’s men must have stayed behind,” Alex said, though the entire party had been tracked and had all left together the night the Russian President had been in London.
“You still think it’s him?” Sasha hadn’t jumped to that conclusion as easily as Alex had.
“I think it fits perfectly. A club Putin’s convoy happens to swing by and Price found dead hours later. Who else could it be?”
“Do we try and reach this barman?” Sasha said, holding up the photo of a man in his thirties with dark hair, brown eyes.
“We know he identified the body. If he’d been working that day, he would have witnessed the meeting between Price and Putin. But it risks getting word back to the Kremlin, assuming there is an ongoing connection here,” Alex said, knowing full well f
rom what Sasha had told him that in these situations, such connections never expired. “I say we head back to the office. There is no need to blow your cover trying to get in when we aren't allowed. We can run the name through the police database, and look into the club itself. I think that’s a lot safer.”
“Okay,” Sasha said, happy to go along with the suggestion. “Drive us back,” he said and sat back reflecting for the entire journey to Vauxhall House just how much his world had changed over the last few months.
The Kremlin, Moscow––Russia
There were now just five days before the first round of voting started in the most closely fought and unpredictable Russian Presidential elections in modern history. Within the inner chambers of the Kremlin, Putin was meeting with his campaign team. The final surge was before them.
“We’ve run a good race so far,” the President said, addressing the room. He was trailing by two points in the polls, Filipov currently leading, and Kaminski seemingly dropping back even more to a now more distant than ever third place. “But we must do better.” Putin had always been leading by that stage in all of his three previous elections, and had won outright each time in the first round of voting. Only once, in 1996 and before his time as a candidate, did the vote ever go to a second round, Boris Yeltsin winning that one in the end. That was also the only year––the reason for the second round, as well––where a third-placed candidate had received more than ten per cent of the vote. Up until now, the Communist Party candidate had always been second.
Now, everything had changed. Like they say about buses, you wait for ages for a viable challenger to the Presidency and then two come along at once. The appearance of both oligarchs in the race had thrown the election wide open, and the numbers were dictating that a second round of voting was all but inevitable.