Find My Brother

by David Chilcott

  Chapter Six

  The KGB in Russia is now known as the SVR, translated as the External Intelligence Service. It traces its history back ninety years. Mikhail Fradkov the current Director is an ex-prime minister, and one of the organisation’s most famous graduates is the President of Russia, Vladimir Putin. He served as an agent with the rank of Colonel in East Germany in the 1980s.

  The headquarters of the SVR are based just outside Moscow, in pleasant country surroundings – a large modern concrete office block several stories high.

  Timur Kuschenka was a middle hierarchy ranking director, whose current task was looking after the United Kingdom desk in relation to oil exploration. He reported direct to Vladimir Putin, the subject was so important, and the outcome even more so. The United Kingdom must not produce oil or gas from its shale reserves. Once it did so successfully, all the other EU countries would see that disaster did not follow, as Russia promised it would. Before Putin could lift a stick, Russia’s income from gas sales would dwindle like snow in summer.

  Putin did not put his trust in Kuschenka reporting the truth, so he had other people watching what was happening in the United Kingdom. He was not happy at what he was hearing. Despite the large-scale protests at every drilling site, the British Government were putting huge police resources into making sure supplies to the rigs were getting through. He had thought long and hard about the problem. Now Kuschenka had a solution to the problem. At least he said he had.

  Kuschenka received a call at his office. One of Putin’s aides was on the phone, telling him that he must report the next day for an audience with the President. The call terminated, Kuschenka put down the receiver, and noticed that his hand was trembling. He was aware that things were not going very well in the UK. He was producing the protesters, swamping the drilling sites. In the past, protests like this resulted in the UK government backing down. Questions were asked in Parliament, opposition parties called on the Government to stop acting like bullies. This time, on this subject, the Conservative Party were not backing down. And they had no need to, because the next largest party, Labour, backed the drilling for shale gas.

  That afternoon he called an emergency meeting of the UK Oil Committee. Apart from Kuschenka who chaired the meeting, there were only four others on the committee. He opened the meeting by telling them of the call he had received from the President, and that he had meeting in the Palace the very next evening. Evening, because that is when Putin started work every day. He did not rise until midday, and spent two hours swimming in the presidential pool, before having a large breakfast. Then he walked in the grounds, taking with him his Labrador dog. Putin was a lonely man, divorced from his wife, though you would not get that information from his personal website, nor the information that both his daughters lived abroad.

  Kuschenka himself read the minutes of the last meeting, before updating the committee.

  “We are still not preventing the shale gas drilling rigs from operating. I have figures here on the amounts being spent employing tough men, recruited from the employment centres. At some locations, we have over one hundred paid men in conjunction with our friends from the Green Party, and Friends of the Earth, who, of course, support our actions.”

  The vice-chairman of the committee said, “These pseudo political parties are no help to us.”

  “No, but they provide good television impressions of a democratic process. And they don’t cost money. However, the police are clearing our protesters, and getting supplies through to the rigs. Has anyone any ideas?”

  The youngest member of the committee, maybe only thirty years old said in a timid voice, “Perhaps we should target the drill rig workers.”

  Kuschenka pointed at him. “Come on, boy; please expound your theory in more detail.”

  With all eyes on him, the boy blushed. “Well, if we arrange to attack the rig workers, have them beaten up, and perhaps one or two of them murdered, there might be a reluctance to take those jobs. Without operators, the drills don’t operate.”

  Kuschenka continued to stare in his direction. “It has possibilities,” he said, rather reluctantly.

  There were very few other ideas, and after half an hour, Kuschenka closed the meeting.

  The next afternoon, Kuschenka arranged for a car to take him from the SVR building to the Palace, which is on the eastern side of Moscow, about twenty five kilometres from the Kremlin. It was four o’clock when they arrived and parked among many official cars in the car park. The weather was fine; a rather warm day for the middle of September and Kuschenka enjoyed the walk through the trees to the Palace entrance. Uniformed police were on the steps, and once inside more police, all armed, examined their passes. A civilian in a suit led the way to an elaborately ornate waiting hall. Here the seating was like that of an auditorium to a cinema, although there was no screen. The seats were nearly all taken, most of them by men, and they nearly all had a look of boredom, indicating that their wait had been long.

  Kuschenka sat alone, his driver having been siphoned off to a separate waiting area. He sat near to a stout man with grey hair, who he vaguely recognized. Kuschenka was convinced his neighbour was fairly high in the hierarchy, but couldn’t put a name to the face. He spent the next hour trying to guess where he had met him, or if he only knew him from the television. Half an hour after that, and he was being called by an usher, who accompanied him to the Presidential office. Under his arm the usher carried a leather-bound official binder, which he placed on the President’s desk. The desk was huge, and the surface nearly unoccupied. There was no computer monitor, for Putin was not interested in the internet.

  Putin looked up when Kuschenka was ushered in, and waved him to the chair in front of the desk. Then the President leafed through the file, flicking the pages, his face without expression. After several minutes he leaned back in his chair and again looked at Kuschenka.

  “You are not doing very well in the UK. The rigs are still being built.”

  “Yes Sir,” Kuschenka nervously clasped his hands together on his knees. “As you know, this has not been as easy as France. The main political parties are in accord, so they are not worrying about their popularity with the people. There is a balance of payments problem, and they see the production of cheap gas as a way out of their problem. However, I have thought of a new plan.”

  “Yes?” The word hung in the air.

  “To attack the rig workers. Once a few have been beaten up, and perhaps a few killed, they will not be so keen to carry on their chosen career. Without the workers, the drills will not be built, nor operated.”

  Putin said nothing for a few moments. He had an unsettling manner of staring at you, as though you hadn’t actually spoken. Kuschenka started to fidget.

  Putin said at last, “That could be promising. Put it into action straight away.” He looked down at the file, and picked up a pen from the desk, made some notes, and turned a page, looked at Kuschenka again, his face expressionless.

  “It says in my file that you have one hundred and two prisoners from the UK presently in residence at Prison Camp 135, near Archangel. Please explain.”

  Again the expressionless stare.

  “Mostly press people who joined the protests, but were actually spying, and moreover, arriving at the truth. We had to pluck them away before they could disseminate the information in their newspapers. Also, some are those who were searching for the missing ones.”

  “I can’t say I like it, but I understand your motives. Please ensure they do not escape, or they will defeat you. In fact they will defeat our plans.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Again the stare. Putin pushed a bell on his desk, and the usher arrived to escort Kuschenka out into the real world. Outside in the waiting room, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and once outside the Palace re-united with his driver, found that he was trembling.