by Tim Heath
“So what did you make of that?”
“Lev, you mean?” and Anissa nodded her head, both agents watching the crowd, sitting side by side but not facing one another, speaking in hushed tones, their hands often in front of their mouths blocking anyone that might be watching them from understanding what they were saying. “I think he’s a very observant man. He knew who we were before we were introduced.”
“I thought that, too. Do you think he knows about us being in Russia?”
“No, I doubt that. He’s not got those kinds of connections, from what we’ve learnt, anyway. I guess it’s just the nature of his life; he must come across a lot of people like us. He’s probably just accustomed to people in our walk of life.”
“Yes, I guess that makes sense. Have you spoken with any of the others?”
“No, not in the same way as what just happened. I’ve been around them all, listening in as I can. The three Russians, when together, speak with each other only in Russian. They do speak English with others, but they’ve said very little. They all seem on edge.”
“Yes, I was going to say that. More on edge than most here, or is it just my imagination?”
“Maybe––these are all wealthy people, after all. Some are multi-billionaires from various backgrounds, others have just crossed the line into their first billion. I guess that dynamic alone is enough to put anyone on edge? Especially if you are the ones at the bottom of the pile.”
“Crazy, isn’t it. To be that rich and yet in a room like this, be considered one of the poorest people present. What a messed up world we live in.”
By the evening of that first day, all one hundred delegates now accounted for, Alex had managed to meet with most of the people present, many having positive words to say to him in the process, happy for MI6’s presence at the event.
He’d been close enough to all five Russians, and their English ability was passable. He imagined they understood more than they spoke, no one present needed translation––though he wondered if any self-respecting billionaire would even ask for help if they had needed it. It was an interesting thought.
People started leaving just after ten pm, those that didn’t own property in London staying at any number of executive hotels in the city.
Once the last guest had gone, Alex and Anissa did a final sweep of the building, going through the motions but keen to be seen doing their job, before they too left for the night. Tomorrow’s first session was due to start at ten-thirty, the two agents needing to be on-site at least two hours before.
They parted company, Alex heading to his home where he lived by himself, Anissa back to her home, where the kids were asleep, and her husband was watching the closing stages of a film that was on the television. They talked a little, but Anissa, tired and drained from the day, took herself off to bed with a mug of peppermint tea and a book, just before eleven.
18
Frustratingly, the longer the second and final day went, the less apparent the reason was for Alex and Anissa's presence there. They saw out their role well, and there were no incidents of any kind to report. Hardly the need for such senior agents from the Security Service to have been there all the time, but they’d put themselves forward, no one had made them. They had been able to get close to the Russians somewhat, but it was as close as anyone is to someone who is part of a crowd. Nothing more was learnt, the Russians only freely talking when it was just them, and no one else was around.
Alex had taken a risk and installed two mikes in the ceiling area of the main auditorium, in the section of the hall where the group of three Russians tended to meet, away from the serving area, apart from the food––alone. He hoped they would be able to pick up at least some of the conversation which could be translated at a later point, their words analysed and understood. Anissa had also worked on her own idea; an altered front page of one of the leading newspapers made to feature an article about the bankruptcy of Annabel Herbertson. The bankruptcy was going through that week but had not made the front pages.
On the newspaper which Anissa had got the team to photoshop, there was a prominent full-page photo of Annabel with an equally captivating headline running across it. She’d brought the copies to Alex, who’d seen them and instantly appreciated the effort and idea. They made sure the papers sat within easy reach of the two groups of Russians, and they watched to see what reaction they would create.
Much to their initial frustration, the first group of Russians––the two wealthiest who mainly socialised with each other when not with bigger crowds, avoiding the other three Russians present at the conference––made nothing of the image. Neither man appeared even to notice the paper. It seemed the photo on its front cover, and maybe the brand of the newspaper itself was of absolutely no interest whatsoever to either billionaire. The same was mostly right of the other group of three, though there was undoubtedly eye contact from Osip Yakovlev, the briefest of glances which made the others look, their own responses suggesting very little as to what, if anything, it might have meant to them.
The conference was now over, the various parties, their teams in tow, leaving as swiftly as they had arrived. It had been a useful time for them all, once again. It was a conference light on actual content as the real purpose was the peer-to-peer connection, no one firm or individual taking all the limelight.
In previous years iconic figures had been shipped in––film stars, a retired president, sports people. That model had been scrapped for this year, the firms preferring to keep business in-house, their gathering a little more low key. Away from too much attention, they could be left to size up the opposition themselves, though many made meaningful connections also, the time and space available offering the opportunities that busy diaries for globetrotting entrepreneurs just didn’t otherwise allow.
As everything was packed away, the conference venue now deemed clear and the offices allowed to be rented out again, the two agents left, the organiser of the conference thanking them for their involvement and suggesting they do so again in the future. Neither Anissa nor Alex responded to the suggestion, thinking it best to say nothing rather than let on to him how it had been anything but successful from their point of view. At least there had been no incidents, which from a security viewpoint, was always the primary goal––it just hadn’t been their goal.
The recordings were sent on to the team, and a freelance translator brought in to work through what was said, giving them a written transcript of everything spoken between the voices, their names and identities kept secret, even from the team within MI6.
The typed transcripts had just been finished when Alex and Anissa arrived back at the office after their three days’ absence.
Alex touched base with his team, on what was the final day to tie up any loose ends from the conference. The workforce needed to dig into the lives of the super rich and powerful was no longer available to Alex and Anissa for their own purposes. Anissa called over to Alex, papers in hand.
“What is it?” he said, just the two of them, their voices low.
“Look, here,” she said, pointing at the papers she had in front of her, the transcript from the illegal microphone they’d placed in the conference centre. “They mention Annabel’s name, just briefly, as part of their conversation.” Alex read the sentence Anissa was pointing to, the two of them then scanning through the entire sheets that made up the whole transcript, but there was nothing else, no other reference. The sentence itself wasn’t anything definitive––nor could they have used the evidence anyway since the source of information was far from authorised.
“They knew of her,” Anissa said, almost a revelation to herself as much as anything else.
“Exactly––we have it! The paper worked, it sparked something, just a comment is all we needed. Her picture in a paper made total sense to these three Russians. They had to have been involved in the event she won.”
What the transcribed words on the sheet before them could not do was express the style, the
flow of speech and how it was spoken. For this, they listened themselves to the recording. The did not understand the words spoken at all, but by using the detailed tracking system, the timing of each section corresponding to the words written down on the paper, they found what they expected to be the section in question, and played it through several times on repeat.
“There’s definitely a laugh there.”
“Unmistakably,” Alex said.
“Who is speaking?” Neither could be sure, only having had a few words with each in English, the three on the recording speaking confidently and fluently in Russian, their style and voices, therefore, sounding different. Without someone working through the full playback, knowing who was who, it would be impossible to identify the speaker.
“I guess it doesn’t matter too much at this point, but this is an in-joke, shared by all. What they said would not make sense if you didn’t know all about Annabel and what she otherwise meant to those involved in the Games. The fact all of them shared in the joke––regardless of who was the one speaking at the time––can only tell us that they were all there at the event, all involved in it.”
It was the only thing they had that came out of the entire three days spent at the conference centre. That and a few face-to-face meetings, which now, given the fact they were most likely to run into these people again but in more hostile situations, probably wasn’t a good thing at all. But it was another piece to the puzzle.
The information they’d gained before the event had also been helpful, and for what it was worth, confirmed what happened with the three Russians during the conference. The travel dates and times for the other two Russians hadn’t quite matched up with the other three––who had matched almost perfectly. Apparently, they were not part of what the other three were and could mostly be left out of it.
Now, though, Alex and Anissa did have three names they could focus on, three men often in London and other European countries, men they could now watch from afar, tracking those with whom they might associate, waiting for any more connections to what was happening behind the scenes.
Alex and Anissa left the office contented with the fact that they had made another step forward in this painfully long and arduous journey.
A little over four months earlier, they had nothing––besides a rumour––an urban myth about such an organisation working amongst a select group of Russians, secretive people who made no mention of anything to anyone, each oligarch sworn to total silence.
That had changed with the confirmation from Andre––with his list of names and dates––and now finally, months into an investigation that needed to be kept off the record for fear of who might otherwise be watching within their own ranks, they had three names, proof of previous trips and what they hoped was a way of predicting when, if not where, future events would be taking place.
It was indeed something worth celebrating, the two going out for some drinks, their working day over. Anissa had called home, clearing it with her husband, the kids already in bed and a football match about to start on the television. The two agents walked into a favourite bar not that far from the office, but far enough to avoid any of the usual work crowd that might otherwise have shown up. They each ordered their favourite drink, found a seat in the corner, and toasted one another.
“To progress,” Alex finished, and they savoured the taste as they each swallowed. They would order a few more before it was time to go home, which they did just after eleven that night, Anissa taking a taxi, Alex able to walk, delighted with the fresh air since be had been inside for too many days.
Around him, in the shadows of the night, a team of three kept their watch on him, as they’d been ordered to since he first got introduced to their boss on the opening day of the conference.
In Moscow, Sergej Volkov, with his wife Svetlana, was just leaving the residence of the President, having spent three hours with him and some key government officials. For his glamorous wife Svetlana, who’d made the transition well from pin-up actress to political circles quickly enough, it was just another role she got to play.
The couple didn’t have any children and hadn’t been married for that long, anyway. And besides, she was still making movies, and becoming a mother did not quite fit in with her current commitments.
She’d spent time amongst many of the other wives––many of whom were former actresses, models, the usual type that end up marrying into vast wealth and power.
She was also happy within a male environment, not hiding away when the President walked over to her husband, staying by his side, even striking up her own conversation with her country’s leader. Sergej had especially liked that front of her, and his influence amongst those he rubbed shoulders with was noticeably increased as a result.
In his earlier years, he’d had a rough reputation, his nickname of the Wolf going back, and most appropriately, to his first two decades in business, when he took hold of the companies he’d been handed responsibility for and turned them into successes in just a few short years. Back then, he made no prisoners, and so the legend around him grew.
In recent years––certainly publicly and especially since his marriage to arguably Russia’s most iconic current actress––he’d shown far less of that side of things that had so shaped his first years and forged his reputation.
Now, they were seen as a model couple, two people bringing so much to the nation, working together, often seen publicly, the wife beside her husband. It was a definite message the Russians wanted broadcasting across their country, two people working hard for one another, standing beside one another, equally supporting each other in the talents they possessed.
The President, too, was most impressed, knowing Sergej personally from their time at university together, and then a few years after that when they served on the same team within the former KGB. He’d only met Svetlana recently, in the years since her marriage to Sergej, though he knew of her as any President would since she was a leading performer with a worldwide audience. Like many sports people, as well as the successful business leaders, anyone bringing attention to the nation naturally came onto the radar of the President’s office. He was delighted to see this particular match when it had become known, the wedding big news in certain circles––those in the know understanding it would only cement Sergej’s position within the hierarchy.
As much as Sergej’s earlier years had been marked with threats and insults, Svetlana represented the complete opposite, the picture of peace––of tranquility––most often seen in public in white fur, the very image of tranquil beauty.
They got into the back seat of their car, the driver closing the door behind them before taking the wheel in the front seat, the glass partition between them closed, their privacy secured.
As a couple, their combined wealth made them amongst the wealthiest couples in the country, and everything about their lifestyle confirmed it. Their primary residence was in Moscow, though they had properties in St Petersburg too. The couple had to make regular visits north, for various reasons and so it was all the more important to have their own places there.
Small teams of people ran each property for them, everything cleaned and ready for whenever they were to arrive next, often on different jobs.
Sometimes she’d have an acting job that would take her away for a few days, and sometimes he’d have some business that needed sorting. They travelled together, very often deliberately arranging meetings in the same cities at the same time, making the most use of each trip.
They had people who ran their diaries, keeping them up to date on what needed doing when, and it was a set up that worked exceedingly well for them both. So when Sergej announced that he was travelling once more to St Petersburg, Svetlana was already clear in her diary, plans underway for what she would do with her time in the city. It was as if she too realised that the connection and influence that their marriage brought was as much for her as it had been for her husband. They both used it to their advantage.
The days following the conference in London had become quite productive, the offices of MI6 busy with activity, as Alex and Anissa worked with one or two people pulling together what they could.
Alex had been asked to give a debrief following his involvement at the FTSE100 conference, which had seemed like overkill, given the low-key nature of the event. It was also confusing that in the listening crowd there were such senior figures present from MI6 as Alex ran through his notes, in barely twenty minutes. He covered the entire three days, not going into any real detail, and thankfully not being asked anything else about it.
Meeting over, he returned to Anissa, a little taken aback by everything that had just happened. He was sure that someone within that room was keeping an eye on him––which was disturbing––since it was only MI6 personnel present.
Going over the information they had on the three Russian businessmen and oligarchs they were now focussing on, a link had been made with one of them––Dmitry Kaminski. He had a connection to some private firms that offered immigration services for those based in the UK and Ireland for people who wanted to visit Russia. Applications were not dealt with at the Embassy in London or Dublin; they were processed first by third-party companies who would collect all the information needed, before forwarding on the passport and details to the Embassy, the main work already carried out.
It was these first contact companies that Dmitry ultimately––through a complex number of connections––had control over. That made it possible, though most probably untraceable, for him to sanction the applications for visas to be made in the names of the three people they knew about, to travel to Russia in the first place. Because of the connection to the Russian, Alex and Anissa didn’t attempt to contact the handling agent that had dealt with the initial application, wary of the risk of word getting back to Dmitry should their request be declined. They had no idea who made the application therefore for Annabel, Twila or across in Dublin for Dubhán, but they were sure they were fast-tracked without the usual processes––and probably without the three making the application themselves.
