Transition

by Ethan Arkwright

  3

  Moscow

  Calvin Mitchell, Chief Executive Officer of the largest and most influential oil company in the world, surveyed the Moscow skyline from his top-floor hotel room.

  ‘Uh, sir, you probably shouldn’t stand so close to the window,’ said one of the security men standing by the door to the room.

  ‘It’s bullet-proof glass,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘Still, sir, we have instructions,’ the security man said in a slightly plaintive voice.

  ‘Here’s a new one. Get out.’

  The two security men at the back of the room looked at each other.

  ‘Now,’ said Mitchell.

  The two men slowly slunk out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  Calvin Mitchell put one hand on his Armani belt buckle and the other on the window pane. He wasn’t looking at the amazing view of the city, he was looking at his own reflection in the glass.

  ‘Good to be on top,’ he said to himself with a smile.

  He was in the plushest hotel room in the land. Exotic delicacies and expensive drinks from far-off places adorned all the tables.

  Got to take moments like these to enjoy the fruits of hard work, he thought.

  Calvin Mitchell was fifty-eight; his place in oil industry history was already assured, and he had enough money to buy all the ranches adjoining his in Texas. He still had time to run on his tenure as CEO, yet these days he kept finding his mind turning to the breeding of his heifers, rather than the next giant oil deal.

  He heard the main door opening again but did not turn around. He knew it was his head of security.

  ‘Sir, you shouldn’t be in here alone,’ the security officer said, as he closed the door behind him.

  Mitchell ignored him.

  ‘Russian security is really busting our balls, sir. Say they won’t set up the meeting with their man tomorrow unless we comply with some of their rules.’

  ‘Ah, the meeting,’ Mitchell said, savouring the words; rolling them around in his mouth as if they were delicious sweets.

  The global energy picture for the next twenty years hinged on the outcome of this meeting.

  Would the Russians tie up with Europe and the American oil companies? Would it be enough to shift the balance of power away from the Middle East? Would the cost of trampling human and property rights in ramming a massive pipeline across Eurasia be worth it? All in the name of squeezing terrorist funding and advancing humanity?

  It was up to Mitchell, as head of the largest oil company in the world, to decide which way it went. Mitchell had already decided he was not going to go ‘all in’ – not bet on the full-house scenario with his stake.

  He was going to go in with a ‘light’ version that he knew was acceptable to the environmentally minded Russian vice president. There would be a deal, but not the one many stakeholders were expecting. No massive pipeline to bind the infrastructures of the West and Russia, but a number of smaller development projects to still draw their economies closer. He would still bow out on a high, and he was so close now he could smell it. He sniffed again loudly through his nose.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said to his security man. ‘I tell you, I’ve been in this game since I was fifteen. If I was worried about security, I wouldn’t have got into oil in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, sir, however, they do seem very serious.’

  ‘Fine, tell them they can set it up and I’ll comply. Now get out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mitchell heard the door click closed behind him.

  He took in a deep intake of air, like he was sucking in the city.

  ‘Good to be on top.’

  On a higher floor at the other end of the building, in the suite of the hotel adjoining the conference centre, Viktor Maslov, the vice president of the Russian Federation, poured himself a mineral water with ice from the bar, as his security people briefed him on the upcoming meeting.

  ‘The American will not listen to us about security,’ one of the agents said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Viktor Maslov. ‘I will talk to him. I want you to set up the logistics of the meeting tomorrow. He must follow instructions, or it does not happen. Mitchell may be a complete boorish asshole, and those being his best qualities, but we still need him to agree. There are too many other interested parties wanting this not to happen. I think he will. He wants this as well. It will allow him to ride off into the sunset in his stupid cowboy hat.’

  Maslov leaned forward to sit on the edge of his seat. ‘Make sure he gets to the meeting. We have to save the environment for future generations. The project that has been bandied around for decades that no one speaks of ...’ Maslov paused. His face darkened. ‘The one which you only hear whispers, and what whispers you hear scare you – this must stop. We can have concessions in the north and east where there are plenty of resources. Russia needs the development and the Americans will be satisfied. This week we end the whispers with ink on paper.’

  The security agent nodded. He was of the old school and would do whatever was instructed of him. He looked around the room at the six agents lining the wall. All good men – hand-picked by him. Ready to do their duty.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ the agent said. ‘Everything is ready for tomorrow; right down to the statements of the press secretary.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black mobile phone. His fingers quickly jabbed a number on the keypad and he reached across to give it to the vice president. ‘Just tell John Wayne to be ready at eight-thirty in the morning.’

  Across the building and two floors down, the phone next to Calvin Mitchell rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Let’s meet,’ said the voice of Viktor Maslov.

  4

  Moscow

  In a hotel room on the third floor of the Zhinovsky Conference Centre, a group of ten assassins were pulling all sorts of disassembled weaponry out of carrier bags. Having been given their fake uniforms and necessary passes, they had arrived in Moscow the previous night and moved into the hotel part of the conference centre this morning. They were all dressed as catering staff. The kitchens to the venue were huge, and a hive of activity as the breakfast needs of over two thousand people were taken care of.

  Their official entry cards were checked at the entrance and passed without incident. They had walked through the kitchen carrying a variety of assorted catering boxes and carrier bags. Only one security guard addressed them as they were getting into the service elevator for the third floor. They would probably find his body on top of the elevator tomorrow after he failed to report in and a thorough search of the premises undertaken; by which time the killers would be in unmarked cars being dispersed in all directions of the compass.

  ‘How long till we go?’ said one of the men in Russian, as he slammed a fully loaded clip into an automatic rifle and checked the sights.

  ‘About an hour,’ another said, as he checked his watch and then began handing balaclavas out.

  ‘Everyone practised yelling their Arabic insults?’ the group leader asked. ‘They need to be convincing if we’re to get this blamed on the Muslims.’

  All the men nodded.

  Amongst the clicking of metal, catches and clips being engaged as they started to quickly assemble their weaponry, one of them turned on the television and switched it to the news channel.

  Live news footage of the conference centre came on the screen. An attractive female reporter was standing outside, describing the meeting that was to take place between Viktor Maslov, the vice president of the Russian Federation, and Calvin Mitchell, American CEO of the largest oil company in the world.

  ‘An unusual meeting for a Saturday,’ the reporter was saying into her microphone. ‘But this was dictated by the heavy schedules of both men and the wish to use the result of the meeting in the keynote address to close the seminar on Monday. Many are hoping that their meeting will result in an agreement that allows a level of oil and gas development that the Russian government and the oi
l company are happy with, but that also limits areas for drilling in many parts of the country and in former Soviet states due to environmental considerations.’

  In another part of the building, the security chiefs of Calvin Mitchell and Viktor Maslov were standing side by side, watching the television that had been set up in the corner of the room. Behind them, the doors were closed where their bosses were meeting.

  They were in an anteroom adjoining the main meeting room. Their men were posted all along the main hall outside, and on the floors above and below. The secret service, as well as the local police, had also provided security. These personnel were scattered all around the lower floors of the hotel, the lobby and entrances.

  All were adamant in having the security detail done their way. This meant there were effectively four security operations going on. The biggest threat was probably a misunderstanding between different security personnel, where one over-zealous graduate might pull a gun out too soon and other forces would react.

  ‘All units – report!’ the American security officer said into his sleeve. He then held his finger to his right ear to listen to his positions being checked off with the word “Clear!”

  So far everything was going well. The two security men had closed the door to the main meeting room themselves. The meeting was scheduled to go on for another twenty minutes. The door behind them clicked open, and they both quickly turned.

  The phone in the room where the assassins were rang for one shrill ring before it was picked up. The man in the balaclava who picked it up listened for ten seconds, and then replaced the receiver without saying a word.

  The other nine men in the room were all looking at him. Their white caterers’ uniforms had been removed and were in a pile in the corner. They were now all dressed head to toe in black – even their faces being covered by balaclavas.

  Each man had one main automatic rifle next to him, and an array of weaponry on his person.

  ‘We go in thirty minutes,’ said the man who had picked up the phone.

  He was looking at the television on the opposite side of the room. The female reporter was back outside the convention centre with her microphone.

  ‘We’re getting reports from inside the centre that the meeting even finished early,’ the reporter was saying on the screen, ‘with common objectives being agreed. No details of what has been agreed yet, but initial reports from representatives indicate the meeting went very well. The details are being left to the respective press secretaries for the rest of the afternoon. We have been told that they will issue statements on Monday morning.’

  At the very same moment across town, a man in a grey trench coat emerged from a stairwell onto the roof of a three-story building on the south-west corner of Pushkin Square. The man was carrying a standard business briefcase and, if challenged, could claim he was a surveyor for a billionaire investor, who was interested in the building he was on top of. Property was always hot in this part of Moscow.

  The man walked to the edge of the roof and fixed his gaze on a white, three-storey building across the road on Tverskoy Boulevard. The building he was on was unique in that it was one of the few in the area that was not infected by the plague of neon signs that seemed to have taken hold all over the city.

  When it was dark in a few hours, no one would be able to see him up here, as they would be blinded by the tunnel of neon that the street became once the sun took its last rays off the land. The man hunched down and clipped open the briefcase. He pulled out a high-powered rifle scope and stood up; then fixed the scope to his right eye to look through a window in the building over the road.

  He adjusted the lens to focus the cross hairs on a wooden chair behind a table, which was draped in freshly pressed white linen.

  ‘The chair Clinton sat in,’ the man said quietly to himself. ‘How predictable.’

  He hunched down again to quickly and efficiently begin assembling a black high-calibre sniper rifle. After slotting all the parts together to form the weapon, the final touch was to slide and clip the scope into place. It went in with a neat click.

  Everything was set up and ready to go.

  He gently placed the rifle against the wall, took his coat off, and placed it over the top of the long barrel to cover it up. Looking at his watch, the man noted that he had just under an hour to wait. That was fine, he was a hunter – the wait was all part of the game.

  5

  Moscow

  Viktor Maslov’s head of security clinked some ice into a crystal tumbler at the bar and took it over to the Russian vice president, who was reclining on the largest sofa in his suite. The security officer did not have to take the man water, it was not part of his job, but he didn’t mind.

  Maslov was an honest man, ducking and weaving as best he could in a pit of striking snakes – trying his utmost to accomplish something worthwhile. Maslov smiled as he took the glass and poured mineral water into it from a bottle on the table in front of him.

  ‘You know,’ Maslov said as he brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. ‘I think we might have done it. Actually co-ordinated a deal amongst all the morons and the devils. I’m so tired now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Maslov indicated for his security officer to sit down on the adjoining sofa and relax a little. The man hesitated as he was still on duty. There were five other agents in the room and two outside the door. The drapes where closed and they had blackout material behind them. It was still light outside, but inside the men had got used to living by artificial light. The security man sat down.

  He immediately stood up again. He had heard a noise outside the main door to the hotel room.

  ‘Anyone order anything?’ he asked all the men in the room.

  No-one raised their hand.

  The head of security simultaneously reached for the small radio in his inside jacket pocket and motioned for one of his men to go and check the door. As he clicked the button on his radio to speak into it, all the lights went out.

  ‘Breach!’ he yelled, as he drew his gun and fumbled in the darkness to grab the vice president. He knew what his men were doing. By now each one had his weapon in hand and was pulling out and putting on night vision goggles. His own goggles were in a pack behind the bar. He knew he would never get there in time.

  He grabbed a handful of Maslov’s jacket and started pulling the vice president on his hands and knees across the floor, to where he knew the main bedroom was situated at the rear.

  A sliver of light pierced the room as the door opened slightly, followed by a burst of multiple voices yelling in Arabic as a small container sailed into the room.

  A cacophony of deafening gunfire erupted and orange bursts of flame were being spat around the room as the security men opened fire on the door in the darkness.

  There was a small pumpf noise as the container exploded in the air and splattered the room with green liquid.

  The security men started screaming in pain. ‘It burns,’ yelled one.

  ‘Get it off me!’

  ‘Keep firing!’ The head of security yelled.

  ‘Don’t let them kill me!’ Maslov yelled in terror.

  Something no bigger than an aerosol can rolled into the room past the bottom of the door. The room erupted in an explosion of white light as a phosphorous flare ignited. All the Russians in the room screamed and clawed at their heads maniacally. The white light, intensified a hundred times through the night vision goggles, seared their retinas: they were all momentarily blinded.

  The door burst open and men clad head to toe in black charged in with automatic weapons firing. The flare was still burning, so everything glowed in incandescent white light. The assassins were wearing wraparound sunglasses under their balaclavas to offset the brightness of the flare. Bullets tore into the security men, felling half of them. The rest hit the floor and rolled to the nearest piece of furniture for cover. The men charged with protecting Viktor Maslov started returning fire by sticking their hands above couc
hes and tables and firing blindly.

  The assassins were moving quickly through the room. They wore full Kevlar body armour under their black clothes, so those that were hit by the wild shots of their prey were only momentarily halted. They were still picking Maslov’s men off easily; firing fully automatic bursts in to their bodies and following up with head shots.

  In the chaos of light, smoke and the smell of cordite, the head of security had made it to the bedroom door and was shoving Maslov through it. Splinters rained down on him as the firefight raged.

  The flare, thanks to his lack of goggles, had not affected him badly.

  Maslov was almost through the door when the security chief’s peripheral vision picked up movement. He turned to his left to see one of his men, Yuri, crouched behind a sofa. Yuri was looking at him and not firing at the assassins.

  What the hell’s the matter with him? he thought as he turned back to give Maslov one final shove to get him through the door.

  The security chief’s chest exploded in pain as a bullet hit the centre of it.

  Yuri! his brain screamed. From the angle, he instantly knew the bullet came from Yuri’s position. He turned in time to see Yuri fire at him again.

  One of his own agents helping them!

  The security chief collapsed flat onto the floor.

  All the firing stopped.

  The security chief’s vision was blurred from the pain – darkness began to close in on his mind. He knew he was going to black out.

  There were no more lines of defence for the vice president. He knew he had failed. He dimly saw black legs stepping over him, and the bedroom door being kicked open. He heard Maslov’s voice yelling, followed by rapid bursts of automatic gunfire – then silence.

  Maslov was gone.

  They had been betrayed.

  The last thing the security chief saw was the black legs stepping over him again. His last thought before the world faded to nothingness was ‘Mother Russia, what has happened to your sons?’

  At the same time, across the city, the crowd in Café Pushkin was just beginning to build. The atmosphere, like much in the new Russia, was wholly artificial. The restaurant embraced three levels. Guests walking in on the ground floor were greeted by a decorated pharmacy with a bar installed behind the counter. The grand restaurant was on the middle floor, decorated in the pre-revolutionary upmarket style: stuccoed sophistication covered the floors and walls, and shelves of unread books snaked around decorated columns. It was designed to make guests feel like they were in the Tsar’s private library in the eighteenth century – the only difference being that there was a classical string quartet in the corner.