by Tim Heath
“I think you know exactly what I mean,” Sergej concluded. He was a good reader of faces and had a fair idea what Svetlana was thinking at that moment.
Their car had been driving them to the conference centre they were due to visit and it pulled up at that point in the argument. The door was opened by their driver before anything more could be said. The couple got out, camera bulbs flashing from the huddle of the press who were present, Svetlana instinctively taking hold of her husband’s arm, smiles on both faces, ever the picture of marital bliss––if only they knew.
Sergej had addressed the crowd at the start of the gathering––it was always informal in nature, more of a celebration than a traditional conference, in keeping with the time of year. During the first break, Sergej took a call, the man excusing himself from his guests and leaving Svetlana behind in the main room. She had been mingling as she always did in such settings, though she was not usually personally present at that specific event.
Now by himself in a separate room, Sergej answered his mobile.
“It’s done,” the man said.
“He’s dead?” It always paid to be clear––especially if it ever turned out that the situation was anything but true––he’d be able to punish someone for lying to him.
“Yes, we left him where we shot him. The FSB won’t be interfering anymore, sir. Do you want us to come back in?”
“Yes, it might be time. Bring them all back in now, comrade.” Sergej ended the call. It was not a move he’d made lightly. But his nation was on the verge of a potentially explosive election for the next six-year term of President––and the more he’d learnt about the two primary challengers, the more Sergej became aware that direct action was required.
The Machine needed to act once more.
As the conference came to an end, the guests began to leave. Svetlana cut a strange figure––there were no guests still there to see her––as Sergej came back into the room, ready to make the journey out to dinner. She was broken, something had snapped inside her that morning. Externally, she was every bit the beautiful actress who had graced the big screen from her early adult years––yet her eyes told a different story.
For Svetlana, the day had become a living hell. She knew her world was falling down around her––losing the Games was one thing, the revelation that her husband had known about it all along and had someone on the inside, made it all suddenly seem a mockery. She was a joke, not even taken seriously by her husband, a man she’d been with––albeit a loveless, mutually acceptable marriage––for most of her life. How could she carry on now? How could she remain trapped in this mirage, this fictitious pairing that the world marvelled at, and yet it was all fake? It had always been fake.
She felt a fraud for the first time in many years––she felt a failure. Had any of it been worth it? Yes, she had fame and riches––she had plenty of both before she married Sergej, but they had increased in equal measure as a result of their marriage. And she tolerated the marriage because she’d always had the belief it was working in her favour––he was the adoring husband, who was lucky to have her and therefore would do anything she asked––and she had control of these oligarchs. Men who ruled in her nation, men of influence, men who had no doubt done terrible things to get where they were, forced women to do things to them and their associates just because that’s what money commanded. And she’d been able to control that––control them––and make them pay. This was her way of punishing them for all they’d done to her. For what they’d made her do.
And yet, it was gone. In fact, it hardly felt if it had ever been. Svetlana had stood there for most of the day wondering if they were all, in fact, laughing behind her back the whole time. Had they all known, ever since the beginning? Was it actually some joke to them? An insider oligarch joke? Were they telling her story––the big charade––to all their friends in Gentlemen’s clubs right across Russia?
The couple left the building. If there were any press still there, which there weren’t, they would have seen a couple walking metres apart, Sergej striding out in front, ever the image of confidence, Svetlana slinking behind. Head down, eyes close to tears. He didn’t even wait for her to get into the car, Svetlana opening the door and sitting looking out of the window for the whole journey. The marriage was as good as over. She had nothing.
5
London, England
Anissa was running late for her meeting with Alex, stuck in football traffic which she hadn’t factored in on that particular Saturday. She was heading for a café, somewhere Alex had sent her details for when he had informed her he had something to share with her.
As Anissa walked into the café, she was surprised to see a female sitting beside Alex, the couple initially oblivious to her entrance until Anissa was nearly upon them, both Alex and his companion looking very comfortable with each other. Anissa hadn’t imagined that it was this aspect of Alex’s life that he had intended to share with her, but now it all made sense. Her initial frustration at his request to meet up on the weekend suddenly long forgotten as she took a seat opposite them both.
“Anissa, this is Anastasia,” Alex said, the two women greeting one another politely. Anissa couldn’t help notice how strikingly attractive the Belarusian was––Anissa assuming this was, in fact, the very same mystery girlfriend Alex had first mentioned the previous week. Long blonde hair, dark eyes––green or brown, it was hard to tell in that light––wide eyes and tight lips. Anastasia seemed a little nervous around Anissa, which was maybe understandable. Anissa reasoned that Alex had no doubt told her quite a bit about the woman he worked with––or perhaps not. Suddenly Anissa didn’t know what her connection to Alex was meant to be. She’d never before had this type of situation.
Anissa also couldn’t escape the thought that she’d seen this woman before.
“You might have met each other in London the other year,” Alex said, starting the conversation. “Anissa was running security with me for the event.” So, Alex had apparently told Anastasia about them both working for MI6, at least that was settled.
“Yes, maybe that was so,” Anastasia said, her accent slight, her mannerisms very British. She’d apparently been in the country for a long time.
“That’ll be where I’ve seen you,” Anissa said, doing her best to sound convincing. She didn’t recall any encounter at the conference, though knew she’d come across her before, maybe seeing her on one of the security monitors, though she hadn’t worked in the CCTV room during the conference in question. Anissa knew it was from somewhere else. Both women were a little suspicious of each other. Neither said anything.
Over the next twenty minutes, they ordered some hot drinks and cake––Alex himself oblivious to anything else that might be going on. He was very obviously smitten with the girl, Anissa could tell that much.
Finishing off their drinks, Anissa quizzed Anastasia with a bunch of questions; how they met, how long she’d been in the country, where home had once been, what she did for a living. Alex realised how much he hadn’t actually asked about Anastasia, and found the answers fascinating. Anissa hardly believed a word. There was something this woman was hiding, something she was not letting on, something that Anissa’s inner warnings were alerting her to, a skill she’d honed over the years and trusted immensely.
Alex eventually called an end to the interrogation, as he’d called it, making it a joke comment but catching Anissa’s eye as if to say quit playing the Gestapo.
It was Anastasia who needed to leave first, which she did after Alex had settled the bill, the two agents remaining at the table after the Belarusian had gone, the café far from busy.
“So, what do you think?” Alex asked, Anastasia barely out of the door. He was beaming like a boy on Christmas morning.
“She’s gorgeous, for a start. Totally out of your league, of course,” she said with a smile, though it didn’t last for long.
“Tell me about it!” he said. “Seriously, though?”
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br /> “She seems…very nice, Alex.” She wasn’t sure what more to say––she still didn’t know how she felt about it. She posed Alex a question instead. “Are you happy?” It was a pointless question––she knew he was––but she wanted to turn the focus away from what she felt. She didn’t trust herself, not until she could lay her anxious thoughts to rest and work out where she might have seen Anastasia before––if, in fact, she had even seen her before.
“Yes, I’m thrilled. Sitting here, listening in as you went hard at the interrogation,” Alex started. Anissa opened her mouth as if to interject, but didn’t and Alex had carried on anyway not giving her the chance. “It made me realise how much I still didn’t know about her. I mean, we’ve talked, but obviously not about all that stuff.”
“Have you been seeing her often?”
“Not that often. When she’s in the country. She travels for work like she said.” She had said that, though Anissa hadn’t bought any of it at the time. Alex clearly had. “We’ve been on about four proper dates––two of them, well, were an overnighter, if you…”
“I know what you mean, Alex,” she said, cutting him off before he needed to say any more. She’d longed for him to get together with someone, so didn’t know why she now felt cautious about it all. She wasn’t his mother, and he was old enough to take care of himself. Still, Anissa hadn’t thought it would be like this.
“I think I’m falling in love with her, Anissa, I really do.”
“But you hardly know her!” she said before she could stop herself. It was clear Alex didn’t know half the answers to the questions Anissa had asked Anastasia, necessary things like what she did and where she came from. Most of the answers given Anissa could tell were obvious lies, too.
“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” Alex said, standing up and grabbing his coat.
She followed him out of the door, not knowing what to say, so kept quiet.
“And one more thing,” Alex said. “I know it’s the weekend and what I’m about to say is work-related, but this can’t wait until Monday. I’ve made my decision regarding the offer to become the new DDG.” Anissa wasn’t sure how much she could take in one morning.
“And?” she prompted when he remained silent.
“I don’t think I can take it permanently. I’ll offer to help in an acting capacity until the right candidate is put in place. I might even get to have a say on who that is.”
“So you aren’t giving up active service?” There was noticeable relief in her tone.
“Not while I’ve still got you, Anissa,” he said. She had pondered what it would have been like if she no longer worked with Alex. Would they pair her with someone just starting out, someone she had to train and nurture? What would that have done to her career?
“That’s great news,” she said, smiling naturally for the first time all morning.
“I’ll inform the Director General on Monday.”
“You know they might never offer you the position again, right?” She couldn’t help think about his long-term prospects, even when she didn’t want to lose him as an agent.
“I know, I’ve thought that all through. I’m not sure I really want all that, you know. I like working with you too much to even contemplate being stuck behind a desk in my own office looking at a computer screen on that top floor.”
“The feeling’s entirely mutual. You take care of yourself, and I’ll see you on Monday, Alex,” she said, getting back into her car. Her older son had a football match that afternoon, and she’d promised she would be around to watch it with her husband and younger son.
Alex returned to his own car and drove himself the short distance it took to get back to his apartment, pulling up just in front of the building and going inside.
A man with a camera on his lap also swung his car into the kerb, grabbing a few shots as Alex walked from car to building before Alex was out of sight. The journalist pulled away again at speed, the morning’s work done.
Various Locations in Europe
1917 had been a bloody one in Russia. Both the February and October revolutions had seen significant changes in a nation trying to discover their true identity. The Tsars were gone.
Into the chequered picture of Russian history at that time came Julius Martov, born in Constantinople forty-five years before, but who had spent much of his life in exile. His initial connection with a young Vladimir Lenin was seen by many as the way forward. The Mensheviks finally had a voice. Progress seemed to be happening in Russia, and the nation could pull itself out of insignificance and lead the modern world.
The First World War put a halt to all that, and the revolutions of 1917 would set the entire course of the nation for decades to come. All opposition was crushed, all loyalties put on hold, and those fragile new beginnings were left to crumble.
Lenin took a firm, robust and unrelenting control of the nation.
All those, it seemed, who stood against their new leader were enemies––their punishment was swift. Exile, certainly––Siberia, the furthermost reaches of Russia, anywhere would do––it would all result in the same end. Death. Many were executed on the spot.
There were a few men––wealthy, influential and longsighted individuals––who could also see that voicing their reservations and opposition wasn’t the way to go about their misgivings. They had seen the fragility of relying on any one political system, any one idea or philosophy. They’d seen too much bloodshed to know these things could change overnight.
And that year they had.
What most connected these men was their wealth––kept secret, locked away from even their own countrymen so that fellow Russians didn’t know how much they owned, these men guarded that knowledge well. They knew something needed to be done, that a nation as large and vast as Russia couldn’t be left in the hands of just one man, or one political party. There was too much at stake.
It was at the beginning of 1918––as the Baltic nations were declaring their independence––that the structure of Russia’s ongoing protection, prosperity and power was finally put in place. The founding members called it Mashina––The Machine.
This organisation was to be the reinforcing mainstay in Russia, a behind-the-scenes structure and group which looked out for the best interests––as they deemed it––for their nation and its future. They weren’t driven by short-term political success or gains, but in the long-term sustainability of everything they stood for.
Over the decades the personnel changed––usually handed from father to son, just as the wealth was. These men met together very rarely, their existence a best-kept secret, for fear of what would become of them if their presence was ever known. The Stalin years became especially tricky, but they had always taken the long-term view. One day, things would be better.
As the Soviet Union fell––they had been working covertly from within the Union to dismantle it as much as the West had been openly challenging it in public––the Machine was growing ever stronger. They were ideally placed to rebuild the country in a way that would be beneficial.
Clearly, their own wealth increased significantly throughout this entire time, though initially, at least, their ideals had been mostly noble.
Nowadays, the Machine was fully integrated into everything that modern day Russia had become. They had first cleared the way for Putin to come into power––the man himself unaware of their efforts, a mere benefactor at the time––as Putin was deemed the best fit as President-elect of the country. The new millennium offered vast new opportunities, and the Machine had to manage that well.
Now, their control was absolute. They could manipulate the stock markets––not only in Russia but in London and New York too––and had branched into cyber warfare when few even owned a computer. They could also manipulate lottery results––some of the effects of that used, unwittingly, by Svetlana Volkov as she established the Games.
Most recently, it had been the Machine who’d been responsible for the cyber
vote rigging––their attacks had been the reason Trump had won the US election––and they’d also forced Britain’s hand in the EU Referendum. Brexit had been in the Machine’s––and therefore in Russia’s––best interest, so that was what they allowed to happen. They were active in Catalonia and had their eye on many other European elections due to happen that year.
When they had initially been formed, it had been around an idea, a belief system that in Russia, primarily, any man who was given power would ultimately use it for ill. The lives of average Russians would suffer. This proved to be the case, of course, and fuelled those rare few who were involved in the Machine with new belief that what they were doing was the right thing.
Absolute power should only be shared very carefully––and those within the Machine were the few they trusted.
These men rarely met in person––they each had people working for them, and their connections spread everywhere, though only the inner core of the Machine knew anything about the actual organisation behind it all.
They owned one building––hidden, secluded and off the map––but besides that, their existence appeared on no computer database, nor in any book or publication. It was how it always had been.
Yet the events of recent months––the challenge to Putin, the collapse of several oligarchs and the suspicion that the UK was backing Dmitry Kaminski to become President, was forcing their hand once again. They couldn’t remain silent as they had been. Everything they’d been doing over the previous decades now had a threat of being dismantled.
6
