“This is not good, Sergei,” said Demenok, “we cannot simply have Marsaud killed. There will be too many questions even if it’s made to look accidental.”
“My thoughts precisely, sir. We need to keep him alive and silent, at least until the probe has returned to Earth. Longer term permanent silence would be better of course. Yes, alive and silent. Then once he’s a nobody again and the spotlight is off we’ll track him down and secure his permanent silence.”
“So what do you have in mind, Sergei?”
“Sir, I know just how we can deal with this French pest,” replied Bekov with a devious grin as he pictured his newly hatched plan in his mind’s eye.
***
August 25, 2058 SVR Headquarters, Yasenevo District, Moscow, Russia
Bekov sat behind his fine antique desk in the opulent, high-ceilinged surrounds of his wood panelled office. He read intently the report on his display detailing all that was known about Ethan Marsaud’s life and activities since arriving in Russia six months before. It seemed that these WGA reps overseeing the manufacture of the fusion reactors did not like staying long in Mother Russia. “Too damned soft,” said Bekov to himself.
“You’ve been busy snooping, Mr Marsaud,” murmured Bekov. He was reviewing the log of files the Frenchman had accessed in the two days since the visit to Kamkin. Looks like Marsaud has been trying to find out what we’ve tasked Kamkin with, he thought. He clicked on a report from an FSB informant working in the maintenance department of Gorshkov Works. It seemed that Marsaud had been overheard talking about SVR jurisdiction in Russia and his personal rights to a colleague he was known to play squash with. It was the fact that the report mentioned the SVR by name and not what most civilians would normally assume if they saw ‘men in black’—that they belonged to the FSB, domestic security service. “Interesting,” whispered Bekov to himself, trying to work out the implications of this. He surmised that this young Marsaud was not a foreign agent—even the most incompetent of them would not openly discuss the SVR in the staff canteen. No, something has told him that I am SVR, thought Bekov. Let’s see what else we have in his dossier.
He clicked on the penultimate link in the list of files labelled ‘Wiretap’. It was FSB protocol to intercept all voice and internet communications of foreigners in Russia. There was only one voice call of interest in the past two days. It was made the previous day at 2205 local time to a number in San Francisco registered to one Nicole Marie Dubois. Bekov had already read in the background info section that Marsaud had a fiancée in the US called Nicole. Must be missing his sweetheart, thought Bekov malignly as he identified another strength in his plan due to this fact. He played the twenty-two minute conversation. A lot of it was just the usual small talk, but then came the part that piqued his interest:
“Honey, you sound tense. I know when you’re tense. Is everything going ok over there?” asked a young American female voice – Nicole – with genuine concern.
“Sure, it’s just like I said. Miserable place, babe. But, well… Yeah, something shook me up a little I guess,” Marsaud confessed.
“Anything you want to tell me, hun?”
“Ok, well, yesterday I was at work in the office corridor and I heard this noise coming from the boss’ office…”
“You mean Kamkin, the little fat guy you told me about?”
“Yeah, Kamkin. Well it sounded to me like he was getting slapped around, you know?”
“And…?”
“Well turns out he was. I crept up to outside his office door and listened. There were two guys in there. Scary guys. So I ducked inside an unused office nearby before they came out. They didn't see me. But I saw them alright. One was a massive brute of a guy, looked like a bouncer—security detail I’m guessing. The other guy was the one who freaked me out though. I thought I’d seen his face before. I checked it out on the web when I got home. He’s SVR, Nicole. Sergei Bekov.”
“What’s SVR?” asked Nicole.
“Russia’s CIA basically—except nowhere near as nice.”
“CIA nice? That’s funny, but also a little scary. Please tell me these guys didn’t see you!” she said, anxiety in her voice.
“No, no I’m sure of that—they definitely didn’t see me.”
“So if they’re some secret intelligence bunch how do you know this guy Sergei-whatever-his-name?”
“He’s Sergei Bekov, director of Cyber Warfare, so I found out on the web. He’s a public figure, connected to some pretty high up people and vain as hell. One overseas dissident blog I managed to find called him untouchable—as in above the law. This is Russia, Nicole, not the US, they do things differently here. It likened him to a World War Two Gestapo guy I’d only heard of in history lessons.”
“Thank God they didn’t catch you listening to them, Ethan. So, what were they saying? I mean did you hear anything?” asked Nicole, curiosity replacing fear now she’d accepted her fiancé’s assurances about avoiding detection.
“Well, not much, but I think I worked out what they were talking about after a little detective work,” explained Marsaud, sounding quite pleased with himself.
“And, what did the great Inspector Clouseau find?” she asked, giggling slightly at her reference.
“Well, I heard Bekov tell Kamkin that he’d better do what he was told, or else. Then Kamkin, under duress, agreed. So, I was thinking, what would a big hitter like Bekov be doing in a dump like Severodvinsk? The only thing around here these guys’d be interested in is the fusion reactors for the probe.”
“They’re building them for the space probe, aren’t they?” she asked.
“Yes, they are. Which is why they’re the only reason important enough for these guys to get involved. Anyway, so I was thinking why would the SVR be coercing the Gorshkov company boss into doing something? This contract is super-important for Gorshkov Works. It could guarantee a lot of business now the Cold War is thawing and international markets are opening up for Russia again. Gorshkov and Kamkin want this thing to go like clockwork—it’s their biggest test and it will secure their future. It’ll make them or, more precisely, the oligarch-owners, billions. The biggest shareholders in Gorshkov are two Jewish brothers and these guys are probably the state security apparatus’ biggest headache. They have enough money and security of their own – which includes a private army of battle droids on their enormous estate – to be relatively untouchable. But they do not always play ball with the likes of Bekov and the SVR if it does not suit their aims. I don’t know. It’s just my theory after some web research. But one thing’s for sure: the Russian elites are not one united bunch—there’s a whole lot of factions vying for power and money here. And they’re stepping on each other’s heads trying to get to the trough now that international markets are opening up.”
“Nice background, Ethan. But you still haven't told me what these SVR guys want with the probe reactors,” said Nicole, now drawn into this story and curious as to where it was leading.
“Sorry, got a little sidetracked,” conceded Marsaud. “They must be trying to infiltrate the probe’s internal computer network—maybe by installing a virus or some code that steals data or technical details. These are the Russians we’re talking about, they’ve just come out of a thirty-year Cold War with the West. The thaw isn't so warm that they’ll trust us to tell them everything we find on Avendano. These guys are paranoid as hell and don’t trust anyone—it’s just the world they live in. That information about either Avendano or the tech on board the probe will be gold dust, Nicole. This thing is big.”
“Who are you going to tell?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet. My boss at WGA? But I need more evidence, at the moment it’s just hearsay and could cause a major diplomatic incident if I’m wrong, or just make me look like a fool. I need to keep digging, Nicole, it’s important,” said Marsaud, with a hint of nobility in his voice.
“Be careful, hun. This could be dangerous,” warned Nicole.
“Ahhh, I just do
n't know what to do!” said the conflicted Marsaud. “Look, don’t mention a word of this to anyone—best you keep out of it just in case,” he concluded.
The call contained nothing more of interest. “Clever, dangerous little bastard. Clouseau indeed,” Bekov remarked quietly to himself, safe in the knowledge that he would find the perfect solution to this problem. He prided himself on outfoxing his adversaries—it was one of the things that gave him a buzz and never got old. He listened to the rest of the intercept but there was nothing more of interest.
The final link in the dossier was a log of Marsaud’s internet activity. Nothing of interest from work or while mobile. But his home internet log was a different matter. Delta-five, one of Bekov’s most loyal analysts, had already highlighted it. Bekov chuckled to himself, “Been missing Nicole’s charms have you, Mr Marsaud? Dirty little bastard!” Marsaud had spent a total of three hours and fifteen minutes inside internet virtual sex rooms. Bekov could even tell the device Marsaud had used—an Ocular Vista 5a lightweight virtual reality headset complete with neural stimulation cap. The neural stimulation cap consisted of an array of hundreds of tiny electrodes. These directly stimulated the relevant neurons in the brain and brain stem. In Marsaud’s case, they simulated the feeling of touch and sex. Bekov knew all about these devices and internet sex rooms—he had used them more times than he could remember. They were inhabited by real prostitutes, were fantastically realistic and addictive as hell. Many states had tried to ban them, but with little success. Not as good as the real thing thought Bekov, but close. He had no need for artificial pleasures now he had the money and power to fuck any high-class call girl, model or actress he chose. All whores, in the misogynistic Bekov’s opinion.
“So now we know your poison, Mr Marsaud, we can use it against you,” concluded Bekov, sneering triumphantly. His appetite for inflicting misery on the hapless young man was now thoroughly whetted.
***
August 26, 2058 Nova Sensations, Porn & Virtual Sex Studios, Ryazansky District, Moscow, Russia
The glitzy eight storey glass and steel structure that housed its sole tenant, Nova Sensations, showed the money and scale of the adult industry in contemporary Russia. The porn company had benefited greatly from advances in technology that had brought virtual sex to the masses. And the continuous supply of young, attractive and desperate women and men kept their costs low and their customers coming back for more. The fact that laws enacted a decade ago relaxed most censorship and lowered the minimum age of a performer to sixteen only enhanced such company’s profits in an industry obsessed by the cult of youth. The company, like most in modern day Russia, had well connected owners, who did as they pleased. The only penalty for transgression was the risk of a larger-than-normal bribe. There was a dark underbelly to the flashy, legitimate looking facade and it was here that Sergei Bekov felt right at home.
Bekov and his security goon, Vasily, alighted from the high spec armoured car outside the Nova Sensations main entrance lobby. “Shall I send it to the car park, sir?” asked Vasily with his arm already raised horizontally in anticipation of tapping the instruction into his wrist mounted smart device.
“No,” replied Bekov, “I’ve never trusted these greasy porn kings. Keep it outside just in case.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men approached the reception desk in the marble-floored lobby illuminated by the high atrium letting in the late afternoon sunlight. Bekov approached the reception eyeing the stunning young model standing behind the glass desk. Just looking at her was enough to start Bekov getting hard. He took note of her name, ‘Yulia’. He’d get to know her better when he was less busy. Many companies had replaced receptionists with either terminals or lifelike AI robots, but Nova Sensations was clearly making a statement using a sexy girl as a receptionist. Probably one of the performers, thought Bekov
“How can I help you, sir?” Yulia asked in a soft, feminine voice.
“Issue us each a pass,” he ordered, showing his badge. “Alexei knows we’re coming.”
Daring not to argue, Yulia did as instructed, giving Bekov and Vasily a clip-on access pass to wear. She tapped her touchscreen display and a few seconds later said, “Sir, please go to the eighth floor. Mr Ozerov says he is ready for you there.”
“Very well, Yulia,” Bekov replied, maintaining eye contact with her until she looked down, intimidated. He looked her up and down once again, mentally undressing her from her already clingy red dress.
“Give me your personal contact details,” he ordered, holding his smartwatch up to the desk in anticipation of a near-field transfer of contact details. She hesitated, clearly nervous but unwilling to deny the menacing SVR man’s unwanted advance. Raising her wrist next to his she said, “Watch, transfer my contact details,” forcing a nervous smile onto her pretty, young face. A shrill ping indicated successful swapping of contact details. She would live in fear of the day that he would call. Bekov was enjoying every moment of their encounter. He was pleased he’d taken personal control of this operation.
The visitors passes, detected by access doors and elevators throughout the building, gave Bekov and his goon passage to the eighth floor elevator lobby. Pornographer, Alexei Ozerov, stood waiting for them there. The balding, overweight former porn actor wore a loud, purple, short-sleeved shirt with swirling tribal art patterns. He wore white jeans and brown loafers to complete the most un-Russian ensemble.
Ozerov said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to Nova Sensations, home of the most beautiful girls in porn and virtual sex—”
“—Cut the shit Ozerov, I’m a busy man. Just show me the whores like I instructed before I get Vasily here to tear you a new one,” Bekov interrupted, ignoring Ozerov’s attempt at a handshake. Bekov would not shake hands with anyone he felt was his inferior—which was almost everyone.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. You’re the boss,” replied Ozerov to the SVR man, head down submissively.
“Good, let’s go.”
Ozerov led them through to a studio with a brightly lit, plain white section of floor, walls and ceiling at the front. Along the wall stood six of the most stunning girls Bekov had ever seen. All sexy as hell and all completely naked apart from the transparent high heels that each of them wore. To say they were six of the best for Bekov was saying something—he’d lost count of the number of beautiful girls he’d had over the years. The six young beauties certainly looked like they were all still in their teens as Bekov had instructed. But it didn’t matter if they weren’t, it was the look that counted as far as he was concerned.
“Now the fun begins,” said Bekov to no one in particular. He approached the pretty, full-lipped brunette with firm c-cup breasts and long legs on the far left of the row. He started off stroking her hair and then her face before moving his fingers around and into the girl’s lips.
“What’s your name, my darling?” asked Bekov softly.
“Elena.”
“Wonderful, Elena, just wonderful,” said Bekov, his mind elsewhere as his ravenous hands wandered down to her breasts and beyond. Elena stoically accepted it with an occasional forced smile. She knew she was compelled to fake enjoyment as this perverted spook three times her age fondled her body.
Bekov strung out the inspection for a whole hour—he was aroused the whole time and would definitely be back there at a later date.
He stood in front of the six young porn actresses, weighing up his choice one last time. He looked at the first girl, Elena, and summoned her with his finger.
“The rest of you can go,” he ordered the other girls. “You too, Ozerov, I’ve got what I need.”
Ozerov stood there looking at Elena and said, “She’s one of my best girls. All the—”
Bekov cut him off and, in a cold, measured tone said, “You will be compensated, Ozerov. Now get out of my sight, you’re beginning to irritate me.”
Ozerov made himself scarce and departed through the same side door as the girls had filed out of. Elena’s f
eet were aching considerably by now, but she hid any signs of fatigue. She maintained her composure as she moved catwalk style towards the outstretched hand of Sergei Bekov and the last act of her young life.
Bekov could not resist ‘quality assuring the goods’. He subjected the unlucky eighteen-year-old to an ordeal in his luxury apartment that lasted well into the night. She was allowed to shower and dress and was locked in his unused maid’s quarters for the night.
August 30, 2058 Iconoclast Bar & Lounge, Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast, Russia
It had been a long, stressful two weeks for Marsaud—ever since he’d heard his boss, Kamkin, threatened by Bekov. On top of that, the volume of things he needed to check and report back to WGA headquarters seemed to be growing as the launch neared. There were just a few weeks to go now until the first of the fusion reactors would make its way to the orbiting Alliance Citadel space station. The reactors would first travel by cargo plane to the Baikonur Space Centre, Kazakhstan – now part of the Russian Federation – and from there blast off into low Earth orbit via a Russian Angara rocket. Marsaud would be counting the days until his assignment in Severodvinsk was complete and he could resume normal life in the US. His life and his plans had been put on hold while in Russia. He was engaged to Nicole, but they seemed to be slowly but surely drifting apart. As he sat waiting for his friend and colleague, Pavel, at the trendy Iconoclast Bar in the downtown area, he considered his fiancée. He’d only been able to see her twice in his six months away from home, flying back to the States both times. He missed her companionship, her smile and her affection, not to mention the lovemaking. He considered himself a relatively attractive, smart guy and Nicole was in a similar league to him—intelligent, nice looking and safe. They’d met at their friends’ wedding five years ago. She’d overheard his French accent and started talking to him fluently in his native tongue. Nicole Dubois was American-born, but her father emigrated from France and met her mother. The rest was history. She grew up speaking French with her father and his family on visits to the old country, and English with her Californian mother. Marsaud and Nicole became engaged after they learned he would be going to Russia. After four years together it was probably overdue anyway and they felt it would cement their commitment.
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