by Tim Heath
All he could see were bodies.
The jet that he had been watching had flown away immediately––it didn’t even wait for the men who had been about to board, men who had instead come towards him. So much for loyalty.
Andre Filipov’s presence there––and that could only mean the involvement of Andre’s father Matvey Filipov––meant they were directly connected to the men who were carrying out the barbaric attacks on civilians. Assaults on gays and Muslims that were credited to both the Putin and Kaminski camps––news footage which made both Presidential candidates look evil in the eyes of the watching world.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. Apparently, the alarm had been raised––the carnage would be evident for anyone to see––and it was, therefore, the last place where Sasha wanted to be seen.
He strapped up his leg as best he could. The bullet hadn’t come out, and the pain was beginning to overpower him. He picked up a large stick that was lying on the ground amongst the trees, and using it as a crutch, moved as quickly as was possible––which given a man who was very fit, was agonisingly slow.
Sasha couldn’t allow there to be any connection between him and the airport shooting––nor could he turn up for work with a bullet in his thigh. He knew he was stuck.
Sasha would have to go to ground. He had managed to contact Alex in those frantic few seconds before the shootout with the photos he had taken––Sasha had checked his phone and confirmed that he had indeed saved the email draft correctly. So at least his two British friends would soon know the news––understand the connection––before too long. He wasn’t going to tell them about his injury.
Two hours later Sasha was home. He’d managed to pick up a bottle of vodka on the way from an open-all-hours store that was just down the road from him. The cashier made no reference to his injury, and Sasha had left the crutch once he’d reached the city.
Now in his bathroom, Sasha pulled out a medical kit from under the sink, taking a swig of the vodka, which would be used in equal measure to both sterilise the wound and be swallowed to numb the pain.
He first had to remove the bullet.
He’d thought about going to a hospital or medical centre. It was too risky, however. He didn’t trust anyone, and he had removed a bullet once before, though that time had not been from his own thigh. He had to control how much he drank––Sasha had lost quite a bit of blood already, and it would be no good passing out before he had managed to carry out his minor piece of surgery.
In the end, he’d just bitten down on a piece of wood and using his two fingers, had managed to reach in, locate and remove the bullet. Blood oozed immediately from the wound, though not in the way it would have done had an artery been broken. He’d surely not have survived long had that been the case, anyhow.
Sasha managed to stop the bleeding somewhat by just wrapping a bandage around the wound tightly enough––and a few swigs of vodka later, the bottle nearly half empty, he was at least able to start cleaning up the floor. He used a broomstick as a makeshift crutch to help him move around the flat, and went to put the kettle on. It was nearly morning.
After breakfast, Sasha collected everything together––the bloodstained towels that he’d used to clean up, the bandage packets––as well as grabbing fresh supplies, before locating his keys and phone. He limped out of his flat, locking it securely behind him. There was no foot traffic around the building––most people were still sleeping off the night before, and after dropping his trash into the metal rubbish bins which adjoined his apartment block, was racing away in his car and heading for his dacha. He planned to keep his head down there for a while, assess how things stood, and when he had a game-plan, to make his move from there.
The early 1990s––Moscow
“How’d it go?” Vlad said as Sveta rushed back in through the door. He’d apparently not been out to buy anything––aside from maybe some more cigarettes and what looked like a small bag of drugs. He’d been hooked on something for months, though she didn’t know where he got the money from. She stopped asking. He was most probably dealing himself.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, grabbing a towel, not looking him in the face.
“The water is still off, Svetchik,” he said, calling after her as she went in that direction anyhow. “So, are you going to make it to Hollywood?” but she was out of the door, slamming it firmly shut behind her. Vlad grunted, picking up the bag of drugs, allowing a little of the white powder to drop into the palm of his hand, before sniffing it up his nose in one smooth motion. He lay back on the bed, the room already spinning.
She was nowhere to be seen when he came around sometime later––he had no clue what time it actually was, but her towel lay drying on the radiator next to the window, the metal object far from warm. It hadn’t been working for days.
As the weeks went by, the prospect of landing a role in a film grew ever closer, though always just out of arm’s reach. She had to play their games for a little while longer. Auditions continued, though by the end of it, the stage wasn’t even there, just a double bed. A man or two––always described as essential friends of the Producer––were often waiting for her. She only had to keep pleasing his contacts, and the role was hers.
If this was what it took to get out of her hellhole, then this was what she would make herself do.
Unlike many women in her position, eventually a role did materialise. It was her first professional job as an actress, and filming started just weeks before her actual eighteenth birthday, though she didn’t let on her real age to anyone. It was for her second film––a prominent role, though still with only a few lines––that she first got to fly to America. She was always very much the little lost Russian girl in the big-wide-world––a world too regularly, it seemed, surrounded by immoral men looking to take advantage of her.
Between trips, she would still base herself with Vlad––to rent something herself in Moscow was not possible, and living with him offered her an element of protection. She knew she couldn’t stay with him for long. He was only going one way, she in an entirely different direction.
She also couldn’t stand the kind of people––men, always––with whom Vlad increasingly associated. But she understood it was how her country worked––had always worked. Knowing the right people––powerful, influential and therefore most often ruthless––really got you going in life. And Vlad knew of many such people.
And at the top of that pile, way out of reach of someone as insignificant as Vlad, was the man they called the Wolf.
When Sveta first heard Vlad make reference to him––he spoke of him as others might talk about Jesus––she started asking around. He was in prison––it was often on the news––and was the kingpin of nearly everything criminal that had happened in or around Moscow during the very turbulent 80s.
His name was Sergej Volkov.
Sveta knew that the only way for her to really have a place of influence in whatever shape her country was to take, would be alongside a man who opened doors––so to speak––for her in Russia.
After her first big break––a Hollywood production that carried a budget which would have fed most of starving Russia––she was forever set on a course for greatness. She’d made it onto the world stage even though in Russia women still had very little influence. How could she get back at the men who’d demanded so much of her, who’d belittled and humiliated her, even if no one else had known what had happened? She’d never let on how she felt––she was a great actress in those encounters too. She could make any man think she was madly in love with him.
She knew she had to get an audience with Sergej. He offered her the chance of real significance amongst those in power within Russia, not just regarding politics––and she had no idea about his connections there aside from the allegations of bribing state officials––but amongst the rich and influential.
Svetlana––as she had become known by then as an actress of the highest ca
libre––was now becoming very wealthy in her own right. But it wasn’t enough. She had always wanted payback. Always wanted to be able to command an audience of men, to control, to influence. And teaming up with one of the biggest villains in Moscow, one of the most feared and ruthless men her country had to offer, seemed like the ideal way to start.
Their courtship was quick. Sergej had not long been out of prison––it was a well-kept secret that she had first visited him while he was still behind bars––and they’d announced their engagement within months. The fact he was by that point––despite his time in prison––a billionaire, also helped matters a lot.
She’d been very clear with him from the beginning––it was a marriage of convenience for them both. For him––he’d emphasised when interviewed in the months before his release that he was coming out a reformed character––the match solidified his rebirth, or apparent one, as a new man. No Russian Hollywood starlet would naturally associate with a villain. And Mrs Svetlana Volkov as she now was had access to everyone. Her new husband––a wolf on a leash that she could set onto anyone––was sufficient threat for her to be taken seriously by everyone.
Over the years, they settled into a rhythm. She had consummated the marriage––playing the role expected of her, as always, and it had been a very public wedding, a well publicised honeymoon––but they mostly kept separate bedrooms when locked away at home. It just worked more comfortably that way and was what she had demanded. There were no children for that very reason.
Over the years, there still seemed to be little change in her nation, however. The overnight billionaires that finally materialised as the Soviet Union came crashing down were only getting more prosperous, most citizens getting poorer. Yet it was the way they controlled the nation’s politics and services––such as the KGB, which became the FSB, as well as the police and military––that concerned her most. Someone had to do something, someone had to step into the breach and take control.
3
London, England
January 2018
Alex rolled over in bed to grab his phone: “Yes?”
“It’s me.” It was Anissa. “Happy New Year and all that.” They hadn’t spoken for a few days––Alex had been off and otherwise distracted during the days surrounding New Year.
“The same to you, too.” Anissa could hear a woman’s voice in the background.
“Am I disturbing you there, Alex?” she said. She’d worked with him for nearly nine years and had never before caught him with a woman. Alex said something to the naked female lying beside him in the bed––away from the handset so Anissa couldn’t make out what it was––and moved into the lounge. Anissa took the pause as confirmation, every aspect of the connotations of that revelation running through her intelligent mind.
“I’m listening,” he said. Clearly, his love life wasn’t what Anissa was calling him about a few days into January.
“I swung by the office yesterday,” she said. Of course, she had––despite having a family of her own at home and having missed too many of the last few New Year Eves, she was still in work the day the office reopened. “I take it you haven’t seen the email draft?”
That was their code for the email thread they had running between the two of them and Sasha, their FSB insider. They would not mention his name across the telephone. The email itself, because it was only a draft and was never sent, but something all three, however, had access to, there was no danger of anyone viewing the messages.
“Go on,” Alex said, immediately on alert, trying to open up his tablet device and retrieve whatever it was Anissa was about to mention.
“It’s bad.” As she said this, the draft loaded, Sasha’s picture now coming on his screen.
“Jesus!” Alex said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m on my way to yours. I’ll be with you shortly, and we can chat there unless you have company?” She was never subtle when it came to prying into what wisps of a love life she might have picked up on.
“Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you outside after I’ve showered,” is all Alex said.
Anissa had been sitting in the car for nearly ten minutes when Alex emerged from the building’s front door––from where she was parked, there was no way of seeing into Alex’s apartment. She could only imagine who he had stashed away up there that he hadn’t told her about. Anissa had thought that there wasn’t anything about him that she didn’t already know unless this was all very recent. She doubted that––he wasn’t the type to do the one night stand thing.
Alex dropped into the passenger seat, glancing at Anissa after he’d closed the door––knowing what she was thinking, what she must be dying to ask––but said nothing. She pulled away, giving him the silence he obviously wanted for the time being. She would get it out of him before too long.
Twenty minutes later they were sitting around a table at a smart but quiet Italian restaurant. It was too early for the lunchtime crowd, and the coffee was excellent. They’d been discussing the fact there had been no further communication from Sasha. Anissa had added a comment to the draft, confirming that they’d seen his message.
“He was obviously safe enough to be able to send us the info,” Alex said, not for the first time. There was no other way they could really contact him. To call him at his office or even on his mobile would potentially give him up to the FSB––he’d be lost to them if that happened––and might also give MI6, their employers, the confirmation of their Russian contact.
Alex and Anissa chatted a little more about Sasha, though as the second coffees were placed in front of them, Anissa wanted to shift the conversation a little closer to home. She could keep quiet no longer.
“So, tell me about the girl?” Alex knew it was coming and mockingly got up to leave. “Don’t you dare,” Anissa said, Alex instead making himself more comfortable.
“What is this, the third grade and the boys’ locker room after PE?” Alex said, smiling at Anissa for finally asking what he was sure she’d been dying to know since waking him up that morning. Anissa remained silent.
“It’s nothing too serious,” he said, before adding, “yet.” Anissa gave a squeal.
“I knew it!”
“Don’t get carried away,” but he could see he was not going to be able to stop her until she knew everything. “I first met her at the London conference we both ran security on.” That had been a FTSE 100 event many months before that Anissa had co-led with Alex. Many significant Russians had been present, which was why they’d volunteered for the task.
“That was ages ago! You’ve not been seeing her since then?” She sounded more shocked at the prospect of him keeping something from her for so long than surprised.
“No, it’s only been the last few months. I ran into her again––quite randomly, actually––and we kind of just clicked.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s Belarusian.”
“She’s from Belarus? Please tell me she isn’t connected to any of the Russians we’ve been watching?” There was an edge to her voice now.
“No, I’m sure she’s not,” Alex said, though he couldn’t hide the obvious fact that he wasn’t entirely certain. “We chatted together a little at the conference––I remembered her, rather striking,” and Alex blushed just a little, but Anissa had never seen him like that before. It surprised her how quickly she was warming to this side of Alex. “When I met her again more recently, she actually came over to me, offered to buy me a drink.”
“Really?” Anissa couldn’t hide her surprise but broke out into a smile when she realised what she had just said.
“What, the thought that an attractive woman could ever want to buy me a drink is shocking to you?” They both laughed and let it drop. Anissa’s fixed stare clearly telling him: Carry on. “We got chatting. I can’t remember what about, but she’d been having a hard time of things, regarding work, I think. There was something about her––is something about her––I don’t
know what, but it's captivating.”
“Oh my goodness, Alex, I never thought I’d see the day.”
“What?” he said, going serious all of a sudden.
“You’re taken with her!”
“What?” he repeated, his guard now down.
“You’re falling in love with her, aren’t you?”
He didn’t say anything for nearly thirty seconds, and Anissa could see he was trying to calculate the right response, to come up with the correct wording to explain what he was feeling. He gave up as the silence began to get embarrassing.
“I think I might just be, Anissa, yes.”
She yelped out loud––thankfully there were only a few customers present––and the waiting staff after a quick glance across could see they were celebrating.
“That’s fantastic news, Alex!”
“Quieten down would you,” he joked. “It’s not that big.”
“Alex, it’s bloody massive, but I’m so pleased for you, I really am. So, when do I get to meet her?”
“When I’m good and ready!” he shot back quickly.
“Which is when exactly?” she teased.
“I’ll let you know,” and he jumped up from his seat, walking away and paying the bill before she could do anything about either.
Early to mid-2000s––Various Cities in Russia
The Russian fashion magazines had become increasingly obsessed with the Volkovs since their marriage, the couple seen by many as the leading celebrity pairing in their nation. By that point, Svetlana was getting leading roles in blockbuster films all over the world, but primarily in Hollywood, where she’d first made her name. She’d been involved in several Russian made, Russian financed films as well.
