by Tim Heath
“So why am I being followed?” Alex started up, coming back to the one question most pressing for him. “Whose feathers have I ruffled enough for them to put a team on me?”
“Whoever it is, whoever sent men to Oslo, will know you are onto them now that you didn’t show up in Norway. I don’t think we can risk meeting like this anymore,” Sasha said, taking a piece of paper from his notepad, writing down an email address and password. “Here, use this,” he said, giving the piece of paper to Alex, “we create a draft message and save it within this email address. We check it daily. Nothing gets sent, no calls to me whatsoever, we write everything down on the draft email and wait for a response. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sasha,” Alex said, realising more than ever just how much they’d expected from Sasha, putting him in a precarious position within his own organisation––there being no doubt that the FSB would deal with him ruthlessly if they were ever to find out his involvement in this matter. Anissa made a mental note of the details as Alex showed them to her, and then tore up the piece of paper into tiny pieces.
They chatted a little more, mainly lightheartedly, the previous conversation getting sombre so quickly as the reality of the situation started to dawn on them all.
When the food arrived they tucked into quite good quality food, washing it down with a brand of local Estonian beer that the waitress had recommended once they’d asked, as the afternoon wore on with no hint of the sun yet ready to leave the bright blue skies above.
Sasha dropped them at the airport, an evening flight taking them back to London leaving at nine, himself planning to drive back to St Petersburg, having brought his own car the moment he realised that Oslo was off limits to them. He hadn’t dared risk flying at all.
They hugged each other warmly, like old friends now, aware that meeting up was no longer going to be possible, and they went their separate ways.
In London the following morning, it was a beautiful day. Alex and Anissa had parted company the night before, Anissa taking a few days with family––a long overdue rest––Alex promising to press on with things in the meantime.
They’d talked a lot on the plane about needing to open this whole investigation up to more people––senior people––within MI6. That was a risk, as they still had no idea who wasn’t being entirely honest with them and why, nor whose feathers they were ruffling in the process.
Alex had arranged a meeting that morning with the Deputy Director General himself. The DDG was second in the chain of command and profoundly connected to the whole organisational structure within MI6. In his younger years as a field agent, after a successful military career, he’d served time in the Moscow region, as well as being based in Kiev, Ukraine, for many years after his time in Russia. The meeting was arranged for eleven.
Bringing his small team up to speed on what they had found out on the trip to Oslo––he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone other than the senior technician that they’d been diverted––Alex ran through some things, one eye always on the clock, really just going through the motions.
Involving the DDG in things was a slight risk––and also threatened to annoy Alex’s immediate superiors––the act of taking anything directly higher always seen as somewhat of a betrayal of trust to those who’d been leapfrogged. You don’t break the chain of command easily within MI6. It was a gamble he was prepared to take. Getting time with such a busy person was also a challenge, which was why he was happy when the man’s secretary had confirmed there was a slot of fifteen minutes on the dot of eleven. He would make every second count.
At ten to eleven, Alex left the office on the third floor that he’d been working in and climbed the two flights to the top level, where the DDG had his office, a lush but slightly smaller version of the actual Director General’s office, which was at the end of the same corridor.
The door was open, Alex arriving a couple of minutes early, the secretary smiling as he entered the room. The DDG looked up from his desk, signed a paper and passed it to his secretary. She took it and left the room without saying a word, shutting the door behind her.
“Please, take a seat, Alex,” the DDG waved, Alex sitting down in the chair facing the desk. On the far side of the office were a couple of two-man black leather sofas, where people could sit in more comfort, taking time to chat––this was apparently not such an occasion.
The DDG had almost blond hair, which looked bleached but that seemed unlikely for a man of his senior years. Old army photos hung on the wall, the hair colour distinctive in all, the eyes not changing one bit throughout the range of photos, even if the face in front of him now was showing signs of age.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”
“Alex, it’s not often you come to see me…how long has it been since the last time? Two years, maybe?” and he paused for a moment, though he didn’t need Alex to answer. He knew precisely how long ago the last meeting had been; there was very little that slipped past his bright mind. “So if one of our most capable field agents demands to see me at short notice, you get a sense when you’re in my position that there is something he needs to talk through.” His tone was warm towards Alex, bordering on jovial, but Alex didn’t know him enough to feel that he could read the man just yet.
“I need to bring you up to speed on something I’ve been working on.”
“I’m guessing you are bringing this directly to me for a reason.” Both men knew how it worked within the service, the DDG fully aware of the usual chain of command––which got ignored nearly as much as it got adhered to––or maybe that was just his perception, and yet here was another example of it about to happen.
Alex told the DDG about his investigations, going over the details of Andre Philip, their connection to him and what Andre had shared in his last recording before apparently going missing, MI6 unable to trace him from then on.
He then talked about their trip to St Petersburg and what they’d learnt since about the involvement of unusually high profile Russian businessmen within a specific organisation. He’d avoided the word oligarch, but the DDG understood who this young agent was talking about precisely, what types of men he’d begun to investigate. Alex finished with the suspicion that he was now being followed by someone from the Russian side––possibly FSB––possibly people connected to some of the oligarchs. He didn’t say where he heard this from, deciding to keep Sasha’s name out of everything, his identity known to very few, and his role in helping this latest case known to even fewer.
After what was nearly ten minutes of going over the details, Alex finished, the DDG sitting back in his chair as if allowing the last drops of information to filter through to where they needed to be stored finally.
“You sure go for it when you pick up a scent, don’t you?” is what he said. “Who knows about this within Six?”
Alex ran through the small list of people he’d been working with, the DDG making a mental list––as always––of everything, his pen not touched throughout their entire conversation, his pad still showing a blank page in front of him.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I think you were right to bring this to me. As you said, we’ll have to be careful. It’s a little difficult to see what actual crimes are taking place––the actual threat––so we can’t just round these men up and hand them arrest warrants. We need more.”
“I know, and I’m working on that.”
“You mentioned earlier something about having reservations with sharing this within MI6, and I guess that’s the reason you came directly to me today. What did you mean exactly by that?”
Alex had not gone into detail about the transmission not being shared with him. He’d tried to protect the man who had told him about it, the senior technician now part of his small team.
“I meant that last report we had from Andre Philip. I would never have known about it coming in had I not been made aware of the fact a few days after the event, the person who received it becom
ing concerned that nothing had been done about it. He didn’t know what else to do.”
The DDG picked up his pen for the first time, taking the pad with his other hand and jotting down something on the paper now on his lap, the angle such that Alex could not see what was being written. The DDG glanced at the clock on the wall, their time up, and Alex knew it.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Alex. You were right to do so. Please keep me informed daily of any further developments. I will not file an official report, as requested. This will be just between us, for the time being. It can’t stay that way forever, you understand?” He stood from his chair, arm extended for a handshake. Alex stood.
“Thanks for your time. I’ll keep you informed,” and Alex met the hand, the DDG’s grip strong and firm, and he left the office, closing the door behind him.
The DDG sat back down behind his desk, pondering all that he’d just been told, jotting down the highlights from the conversation onto the pad in front of him, circling one or two critical pieces of information.
Later that day, a call was put to the teams watching Alex. They were all told to stand down, that the situation had changed, and they were to stop tracking him for the time being.
One van with three people in it had been stationed outside his home for a few days, passing themselves off as telecom engineers. They packed up their things, everything put back into the van, and they drove away.
Outside the offices of MI6, another two individuals––a man and a woman whose cover was as tourists––stood up from where they had been waiting, having come onto the job only that morning. Their task was following Alex as he left the office, listening in on anyone with whom he might be meeting.
As quickly as this group of people had arrived, they disappeared, dropping back out of sight, hiding once more––gone.
25
Leicester Square had been closed off all evening, the police in place, the crowds of onlookers jostling for a sight of their idols. The latest Hollywood blockbuster had come to town, though it had partly been shot in studios around London, too. The cast was international, in keeping with the nature of the film––the star, a beauty of world cinema, the Russian––Svetlana Volkov.
She and her husband had flown in on the family jet the day before, travelling and spending the night in a London property that they kept for such visits. It was their first stay there in six months, her work mainly taking her to America, at least for the last two projects, his primarily keeping him in Russia, or the Far East, when he wasn’t with his wife in California.
They walked arm in arm down the red carpet, flashbulbs lighting the night sky. She wore her now familiar white fur jacket, a trademark connected to her as much as wealth was connected with them as a couple.
They made an interesting pair and gave middle-aged men hope when they compared the two people, though despite how it looked, the age gap wasn’t anywhere as significant as people assumed. She looked years younger than her actual age, and he’d always had an air of maturity around him, often going beyond his years. He was only seven years her senior, but as they walked up the red carpet––one of many couples to have done so––no one would have been surprised if they’d been told that the age difference between them was twenty years.
They posed for a few more photos, his wife the one taking the lead. Sergej had never been one for too much publicity but had adjusted to it well since his marriage to Russia’s most prized actress, coming to understand that every time he was seen together with her in public, his image improved––it was just great for business.
This latest film had been a big one for her, coming into a popular franchise but given a significant role. It was suggested that she was there to shake things up a bit, to stop it all getting a bit tired, and the early reviews from the critics had been excellent, her role within the film marked as exceptional. There were even faint murmurs of an award or two heading her way.
Sergej was immensely proud of his wife, and they greeted various VIPs who had been allowed inside for the first public screening of the film in the UK. The film had broken the previous weekend in America, jumping straight into the top ten if not taking the pole position, but the UK had always been the film franchise’s most significant market, and expectation was high.
Starting the following day, by happy coincidence for them, was the annual Russian businessmen’s conference, which was hosted in London each year, mainly for the Russians who had made London their new home. It was a chance to gather together, a smaller elite group, something different from any of the other dozen or so where they might find themselves rubbing shoulders with each other.
The Volkovs had often been invited, though this was only the second time they could make it. It would last for two days and attracted somewhere around thirty different Russians, their interests ranging from owning sports teams to national industries, not to mention some of the most opulent and now most sought-after properties in London.
The film finished its screening at just after eleven. The media then held interviews straight after with the lead characters, which involved Svetlana, her English now very good, though she often used the American term where it differed from the English, giving away the time she’d spent across the ocean.
The cameras loved her face as she granted those in the room twenty minutes of answering questions. She only responded to things related to the movie, dodging the odd journalist who dared to ask about things relating to matters outside her latest role. She quickly moved on. Yes, she’d enjoyed playing a role in the newest film, and yes, she was a fan of the series from a little girl, watching it with her parents. Never did she imagine she’d be considered worthy enough to be asked to come on board. They lapped it all up, asking her how she had enjoyed filming in England, how life compared to her times in Los Angeles.
By half eleven, the room was showing signs of the lateness of the hour, and Svetlana ended the interview, now tired herself. It had been a long day, and she wanted to celebrate with her husband, the couple expected at an exclusive party that followed the premiere before any sleep could be had.
She was used to everything that her life now entailed, as was her husband, who was waiting for her at the back of the room, the reporters now packing away their things, desperate themselves to make the evening’s print deadline, though most had emailed their reports across already.
“You seemed to enjoy that, my darling,” he said, having arrived for the last few minutes of the questions. She had a natural presence about her, and she came across well in front of the camera, whether it was the film cameras for the big screen or the television cameras during the interviews. She was always so softly spoken, so gentle. It made his character––at least in the public eye––stick out all the more. The man who was known as the Wolf in his earlier years, an image that had started to shift a little, indeed since his prison years, mainly referring to his previous years in business as one of Moscow’s most ruthless residents.
Their car was waiting for them out at the rear entrance, several of the film’s cast already using that exit that night, though out front the circus had mostly shut down once the last of the stars arrived. They knew they wouldn’t see their idols again; the carpet packed away before the movie had even started.
Five minutes later they were pulling in through gates on the street known as Billionaires Row, just a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace and the most expensive street in London. They were warmly greeted as they entered the property, a vast building owned by one of Britain’s wealthiest men who happened to be a fellow Russian. In the reception room, there were only three or four dozen people there, all recognisable to each other, even if they didn’t necessarily know each other personally. It was that type of gathering.
Svetlana was the only actor there. The Volkovs joined another couple, who were standing together with champagne flutes in hand and they handed glasses from the table to the Volkovs as they joined them.
“A fine display you put up
there on that screen, Svetlana,” the man said, the couple greeting each other with kisses.
“Thank you,” Svetlana said.
Sergej added, “I guess you wish your players responded the way she does before a camera.” Both men smiled, though sport was not Sergej’s most knowledgeable subject.
“Well, the talent your beautiful wife possesses is not so easily found in the world of football, and when it is, it costs a truckload of money.”
“It costs a lot of money outside the world of football, too,” Sergej said, a smile appearing on his trim face, his arm going around the waist of his wife.
They moved on, spending time with various groups––some of the men present due at the conference the following day. Sergej made a point of personally introducing Svetlana to each couple they came across, unsure of who she’d met before and not wanting to leave anyone out. She went along with it each time, not letting on whether or not she had, in fact, met them before. She had not met most of the women, though, that the men came with––how could she, when she figured most of the men would only have met their escorts themselves that same day? Sergej was a rare exception, it seemed.
At two in the morning, the party was coming to an end, and the various guests made their farewells, the Volkovs following the last few visitors out. As they got into the back of the car, their driver woke from a doze––they didn’t blame him. They were soon on their way home, a drive of only about twenty minutes.
The following morning, after a light breakfast, the Volkovs left their residence and headed for the conference. They were the first from the previous night’s party to arrive, though there were at least a dozen others who were also now present. Sergej did his part once more of making sure those already there were personally introduced to his wife, and she once more went along with it. She knew it meant a lot to him.
