by Tim Heath
“Get me everything you can on the people around Filipov. The actress, for starters. Tell me where they bank their money, where they own properties, who they trade with, where they have the family. Get me everything. If any of them have an influence in America, I want to know about it immediately. I will not stand for them using my nation or me anymore. If we can hurt them, I want to have the options before me. I’m not talking about anything obvious or traceable, but something that could be implemented with minimal fuss and with maximum nuisance to them. Get busy the lot of you,” Trump said dismissively, meeting over, as he sank into his chair, head down until the last of his team had left, before swivelling in his chair to face the front lawn. His mind was already replaying that handshake that never happened.
10
Yefrem Fyodorov’s Main Residence––Moscow
An FSB unit was waiting at Fyodorov’s home before he’d even left the conference centre, the call having been put through from Svetlana that, as Matvey had suspected, the oligarch was taking a stand against him.
“What is this?” Fyodorov demanded, as two agents came towards him, Fyodorov’s own security drawing weapons, only to have another eight agents move in behind, guns raised to the heads of each of his men. There was a moment of tension before Fyodorov got his men to stand down. The FSB took the weapons from the oligarch’s guards.
“Who are you?” Fyodorov said, addressing the man leading the unit.
“I’ve been leading an FSB investigation into corruption within Russia, and I’m placing you under arrest, Yefrem Fyodorov.” He drew a pair of cuffs from his pocket and placed them on Fyodorov’s hands. He knew this was Filipov’s doing, the response swift, hard and ruthless. Just like the great communist leaders of old. Maybe Fyodorov had underestimated the President?
“What am I guilty of?” he asked as he was being led to the car.
“That will get addressed at the station,” the man replied, no further words said, nothing more given. Two men from the FSB unit were already securing the property. Filipov had insisted all assets belonging to Fyodorov were to be seized and returned to the State, following a full criminal investigation.
The news broke later that day. To the watching world, it was a positive sign that the new President was so openly prepared to tackle corruption. Many praised the move. Within Russia, and particularly in the close-knit circles of real wealth, it was a clear warning shot. For the other five men whom Svetlana had spoken with that day, it left them in no doubt this directly resulted from Fyodorov’s refusal to come alongside the new President.
It was Filipov himself who had given Fyodorov the information to gain control of the Banking Union in the T10 competition. Bribes, blackmail, threats, Fyodorov had crossed the line and because Filipov had been controlling the whole thing from the inside, he knew all about it. He knew everyone’s weak spot. They had caught Fyodorov, and he didn’t have a leg to stand on.
About a quarter of Fyodorov’s liquid assets were in Russian banks. They seized this money along with all the properties owned by the oligarch. The move was swift and coordinated, and less than a week after the conversation with Svetlana, Fyodorov had faced a closed court and been found guilty on all charges, sentenced to five years in prison. They stripped him of everything he owned––Fyodorov had money stashed away in Zurich, as they all did––but aside from those billions, he was a broken man. And even those billions were on Filipov’s radar, as was the wealth of another hundred oligarchs.
Hong Kong, St Lucia and Siberia
Rad touched down in Hong Kong on a hot and humid evening. He was on the trail of a Russian, a target who hadn’t been seen or heard from for days. Had Filipov got to him already via another route? Rad doubted that point the moment it crossed his mind. The most plausible was that his prey knew, somehow, he was looking for him. That or the oligarch was just elusive and secretive, which was entirely possible. Rad figured anyone who made it onto the list of three names handed to him by his new President, would have plenty of reason to keep out of the way.
Going to ground, however, was never something that concerned Rad for too long. Once he picked up a trail that wasn’t yet cold, he’d move in for the kill. Finding that trail was proving a little harder to do this time.
Rad got a taxi to the regional headquarters in question. The group’s billionaire owner had been reported there three times in the last six months, by far the most frequent business stop off of his companies. It was possible he was hiding out there.
Rad paid the driver, grabbing his bag from the back seat––he hadn’t flown with his weapon, as this was a fact-finding mission. If needed, something could be passed to him quickly through Russian diplomatic channels. He only had to alert Svetlana Volkov of the need.
They booked Rad into the hotel directly opposite from the skyscrapers that Mark Orlov owned in the heart of the former British colony. He’d specifically asked for a street-facing room, on an equivalent floor to where Mark kept an office. Someone showed Rad to his room less than fifteen minutes after exiting the taxi.
He went straight to the window.
In his bag, he had his scope, and thermal imaging equipment. He went to work setting everything up. Ten minutes later he was studying the building across the road from him. There was nothing obvious as far as he could tell. Only the next few hours would be enough to be sure of what was going on with Mark. If the Russian was in town, a shot was possible from the hotel, though far from ideal. He was too close. Rad would struggle to get away unnoticed. The kill would be too easily traced if done from the hotel room, and that would lead the police in his direction, even if he had travelled under one of his assumed names. He didn’t want to take that risk.
But first, he had to locate his target.
Rad read through more of the information sent to him from Svetlana but had been prepared personally by Filipov himself. Against Mark’s name, there was a link to Paris and a paragraph about the death of Matvey’s son in a warehouse owned by Mark. Blood samples had tied the President’s missing son to that location. Rad knew that none of this was on public record. Officially, there had been little mention of a son, and Rad marvelled at that, especially since the father had just won the election in Russia. Why was there no one asking about the boy? Most interesting to Rad was mention of the Machine, something he’d never come across before. Filipov assured Rad that this was cause enough to warrant Orlov’s assassination, and he’d cautioned Rad about the danger this man posed if he ever knew the Russian sniper was after him. Filipov had said Rad was to take out anyone else he deemed to be a part of the secretive Russian group known as the Machine.
So far, Rad had nothing else to go on.
Rad could easily understand why Orlov had made the President’s radar, not that he needed to understand why he was being given an order. But in this case––the reference to the Machine hinting at danger, but the evidence was sketchy why it was a threat––it was clear concerning Mark Orlov. He’d killed Filipov’s son, and that made him a fair target.
Rad left the room shortly after three. There had been no significant action in the offices across the road, and he needed to get food and fresh air.
Hitting the street right outside the hotel, the air hot and traffic heavy, Rad knew fresh air would be harder to come by than a hearty meal would be. He went off, therefore, in search of a cafe of sorts, and found something serving delicious local food not four hundred metres up the road. The place was air-conditioned, which was a relief from the heat outside, and Rad took a seat by the window––old habits always dictated he kept one eye on who might come his way.
An hour later, his meal mouth-watering and incident free, Rad paid up for what he’d eaten and went back to his hotel. He jumped in the lift and ascended to the twelfth floor, getting out and walking towards his room. Instinct stopped him three feet short of his door. He bent down and picked up a tiny piece of brown card, something that would have easily been missed by the average person, blending in with the carpet–�
��except Rad had inserted it into his door before leaving. Someone had been into his room.
Rad reached for the knife he had in his sock, and secured it on the inside of his hand, slowly taking out his key card and opening the door. A quick check of the room told him it was empty. He shut the door behind him. Whoever had been in there were pros. All his other precautions were still in place, they had missed only the one in the door.
Rad scanned the room for bugs and cameras though nothing came up. The fact anyone had come looking for him in secret could only mean they knew who he was. Rad was confident it had to be connected to his target. He packed his bags quickly and left the room. They booked him in for five nights but knew he couldn’t stay there anymore.
Five minutes later he was in a taxi. He called Svetlana.
“I need a flight out of here immediately. Tickets to St Lucia on the next available route. Send me the confirmation as soon as you have it. I’m on my way to the airport,” and he hung up once Svetlana had confirmed his request, no details given why, though it was clear enough. Something had spooked him. Someone knew he was in town.
It was three hours later that a Delta Airlines flight left Hong Kong for Seattle, Washington. Rad had twelve hours in first class to process what had gone wrong. Svetlana had hired him a private jet that would meet him in Seattle as the connections resulted in too long a layover. It would be a six-hour hop to St Lucia.
Rad arrived somewhat jet-lagged, his body not having adjusted to the half day he’d lost travelling east to Hong Kong, let alone the further shift in an easterly direction to America. He passed through international channels and found his way to the private section where his crew were waiting for him. Rad showed them his identification and half an hour later was strapped into his seat as the only passenger heading towards the Caribbean island of St Lucia. Mark Orlov had a property on the island that had been destroyed in an explosion two months before. It was possible that the Russian was on the island overseeing the rebuilding of his luxury Caribbean getaway. Rad was keen to find out.
As the jet took off, Rad allowed sleep to capture him, finally letting go of the urge to remain alert. No one was after him at that moment. He could allow himself some rest.
Rad awoke only as the wheels slammed onto the Saint Lucian tarmac, the flight smooth and uneventful, not that the Russian would have known otherwise. His sleep had helped revive him, and as the jet taxied down the runway and into its position, Rad became more aware than ever that he didn’t know what might await him here. If Orlov had been onto him in Hong Kong and was present himself in St Lucia, things might get a lot more hazardous before the day was out.
Rad stepped off the jet into brilliant sunshine, but not the stifling heat he’d experienced in Hong Kong, something he was grateful for at that moment. He found a taxi after clearing immigration and headed towards the centre. All around was the sign of wealth; millionaires and billionaires the world over had been buying up what parts of the island they could, each making their own exclusive getaways, each trying to outdo what others had done.
Finally Rad reached an area where the driver had said they located all the best hotels. Rad thanked the man and grabbed his bag. He didn’t like being on the run like this; he had planned to remain in Hong Kong far longer than he had managed. Rad checked himself into the first hotel that had a room and decided he would not leave the room until the following morning. He kept his weapon beside his bed the entire time, and double locked the door. A good night’s sleep was in order if he could manage it, and then he’d see how things sat the following day.
11
Black Sea Coast––Southern Russia
A week after Fyodorov’s arrest and trial, Svetlana flew south to meet Vladimir Popov. He was an oligarch now worth $12.5 billion and had been a former member of the Games.
“I was wondering when I would get my visit from you,” he said, as Svetlana walked towards him, the word having got out that Filipov was sending her to connect with all the former Hosts.
“And what a fine day it is to see you again,” she said, the sky blue, the sun bright and pure. They greeted one another warmly. Popov had been in the same team as Filipov and Fyodorov––as well as Mark Orlov––in that now catastrophic, and final, T10 event. Filipov had as much on Popov, no doubt, as he’d had on Fyodorov, who now sat in prison because of that. The timing of Svetlana’s visit couldn’t have been better coordinated. She’d arranged it precisely because of Fyodorov’s incarceration.
“So let me hear it,” he said, though Svetlana felt a little exposed just standing with him on the driveway.
“Shall we go inside, Vladimir?”
Two minutes later they were sitting in the lounge, the Black Sea property hired for the week, a trip that was meant to be a break away from everything. Vladimir’s wife had taken the kids outside for a walk towards the beach but apparently knew who Svetlana was and why she was there to see her husband. She’d looked concerned as she marshalled the children out through the front door. Now it was just the two of them, Svetlana across from Vladimir, the large windows allowing the room to bathe in the warm sunshine.
“I don’t want to keep you for too long,” she started. “I’m sure you know why I’m here?” and Popov nodded his head, trying to not look impatient. He didn’t see what choice he had in the matter, and that had also been the theme of a heated conversation he’d had with his wife the previous night. Fyodorov’s very public arrest and trial were a clear warning to anyone, especially those on whom Filipov had dirt. Popov knew that was true for him, having worked with Filipov. Svetlana continued. “I’m not here to threaten you, but to offer you an invitation.”
“An invitation? I think we both know a threat remains until I accept whatever invitation you are offering,” but he didn’t resent Svetlana for having this conversation. He’d voted for Filipov, having seen something compelling about the man who’d helped the team topple a Banking Union much more significant than they were worth. Popov now owned a bank himself. It was just the approach Filipov had taken since––the hardline with Fyodorov a case in point––that now made him worried.
“It doesn’t have to seem like that. Fyodorov was a difficult person. We all know that.” It was true. The communist worth billions. Popov had never understood how that worked. He’d not seen eye to eye with Fyodorov, personally, either.
“And what is it exactly that Filipov wants from me?”
“It’s not your money, that’s for sure. Matvey has plenty of that himself,” which Popov didn’t doubt, the President wealthier than he was, and this before the man took office. There was no knowing what Filipov would be worth soon. “It’s your friendship he desires.”
“My friendship? I didn’t see that one coming.”
“You know how it is, especially in politics. Matvey wants his friends close.”
“And his enemies closer, no?” Popov said, adding the usual ending, though Svetlana didn’t pick up on it. He let it drop.
“Matvey won’t allow his enemies space or the chance to get close enough, I assure you.”
“That much I believe. And it scares me if I’m honest.”
“You don’t have to be concerned. No one who stands with Matvey has to fear anything.”
“That’s precisely what I mean. What of those who stand against Filipov?”
“Vladimir,” Svetlana said, getting to her feet and walking over to the window. “This country of ours has always had strong leaders, men who have been fearless in putting the needs of its people ahead of other concerns. None of these leaders stood for open rebellion and those who ignored it didn’t last long. Matvey is just looking to understand where he stands with everybody, at the outset of his Presidency. He’s a strong man, Vladimir, and he will only get stronger. I think you are far better off with us than against.”
“I see he’s got you on board.”
“I’ve been on board for a while.”
“Even though you know he took from you the one thing you had?” Vl
adimir had turned the tables so effortlessly, that she’d not seen it coming. Yet he was speaking the truth: it was Filipov who had destroyed the Games which had been her special project.
“I know, and it did initially bother me. But with everything I’ve found out since, with all that Sergej did there had to be a change. Had to be someone to step forward and make a difference.”
“And you believe Filipov’s that man?” It was an obvious question, rhetorical.
“He won, didn’t he?”
“And Putin?” Vladimir said, aware that a strong lion didn’t give up its patch easily, though little had been heard from the former President since the result.
“What about Putin?”
“So it is true. Filipov made a move against him?”
“No, not exactly. But Putin’s not in the picture.”
“Really?” That thought surprised him. Without Putin in play, there really wasn’t a viable other option. They had heard nothing from Kaminski since the first round of voting, either. “I’m on board,” Popov said, smiling as best he could. As he saw it, he really didn’t have a better option. He would not let them arrest him and cart him off to prison like Fyodorov.
“That is wonderful news, Vladimir. I’ll let the President know immediately,” she said, standing up and heading towards the door. “I’ll be in touch when there is need of you,” she added, before leaving.
“Need of me?” he said aloud, just him in the lounge. He wondered if he’d done the right thing, but watching his kids playing in the sea in the distance, his wife standing on the white sand to watch them, he knew it was the wise decision. He didn’t want to waste any more time, didn’t want to risk losing them entirely. Sticking by the President was the only way of ensuring that, whatever it entailed. Popov had seen Filipov destroy too many men to know he couldn’t stand against him alone and survive for any length of time.
