by Tim Heath
This same network of Matvey’s men had been the ones who had set up the ranch in Montana, the same farm from where the Irishman had now had to flee. Needing to direct them somewhere else––their safety still a primary concern––another more remote option was put forward. It was a property on an exclusive island a little off the coast of Seattle, where Matvey also owned the main ferry route, the only link between the island and the city itself, though there was a road bridge coming in from the north. Most travelled via the ferry, making it an early warning system for anyone who might come looking for trouble.
The last he’d heard from Phelan had been when they were three hours into the journey, a trip that would take about fifteen hours in total to get them from Savage to Seattle, where the ferry would transport them across to Whidbey Island. Matvey’s property was then only another fifteen minutes on from there.
He’d suggested they drive it in one go, alternating drivers to make it to the island as fast as possible. He’d arranged extra security to meet them at the property. Keeping them out of harm’s way had become his latest mission.
Matvey arrived in the marina at the seafront in Monaco––small boats tied up as far as the eye could see in the central part of the port––only a few more significant vessels kept in a more secluded, more accessible to launch, area. His yacht was in the latter, a fifty-foot triple decker of which he was very proud.
It was also an excellent opportunity to spend time with his son in the fresh air, both having been indoors more than usual lately, and between the two of them, they could easily navigate their way out to sea, where they planned to do a little fishing.
As the vessel expertly navigated around the final part of the marina, his son at the wheel, Matvey got confirmation from a man from whom he’d been waiting to hear. Matvey finished the call and threw the phone up to his son. “It’s time,” he said as the young man caught the phone in one hand while keeping the other on the wheel. He guided the vessel into open water as he dialled the number, the call answered in a matter of seconds.
“Alex, it’s Andre, we need to talk,” he said, the next stages of their plan well underway already.
30
Phelan had driven the final leg––the fifteen-hour journey long and hot––though the air-conditioning did something to help with that. Besides a few toilet breaks, they’d pressed on solidly, the children bored but going along with everything they were being told.
Their entry onto the ferry, which already sat in the dock as they pulled up, had been cleared in advance, their van ushered in ahead of other vehicles, putting it at the front for quick disembarkation at the other end. They went upstairs, sitting around a large table, a few other passengers already there, though the journey wasn’t that long, and those that did it regularly just stayed in their cars.
As the boat approached the small dock on the island, they all went back down to the van, Phelan again taking the driver’s seat, his father-in-law once more riding shotgun, the most confident navigator there.
They were the first to disembark, rolling forward carefully before climbing up out of the harbour, the road rising for nearly a mile before levelling out, as they made the short drive it would take to get to the property they were aiming for, another one that Matvey had made available. They made a few turns, glad of the detailed directions they’d been given, the map tallying correctly with where they needed to go.
As they arrived at the edge of the property, entering the drive, the kids called out in excitement, for the tree-lined driveway was like something out of Jurassic Park. After two minutes, the main property came into view, the van pulling under the covered roof, two giant wooden doors opening as they got out of the van, a man standing there, ushering them forward.
He’d been sent––with a team by Matvey he explained––promising to keep his men out of sight, an invisible force that would be there nonetheless.
The kids ran around the house, having never seen anything like it before. The main hall opened into a giant library-cum-lounge, huge windows looked out to the sea beyond, the lounge opening into the vast kitchen-cum-dining room. There were three floors, they were told, as well as an entire wing that was on the left as they’d entered the main doors––that slept eighteen across nine rooms––if they wanted. The property also offered two further buildings: a separate two-storey home just next to the main house that only slept two and a beachfront home that could put up ten. It was suggested they might want to base themselves at that last property.
Having explored the main house––which held a cinema in the basement, seats for about twenty catered for in luxurious black leather sofas––they walked the five minutes it took to wind their way down towards the beach house. The water seemed just metres beyond, and though the kids took a little persuading––the cinema room just too tempting––they all agreed eventually that the beach house would serve them well.
In Savage, the Russians had arrived just after ten, a little under four hours since Phelan had sped away from there in what had still been the early hours. They’d quickly located the store where the details had come up, one of the team entering and getting into a conversation, his accent making it evident that he was not from around town.
When he said he worked for an Irishman who had just arrived, agreeing to do some general labour for him, he’d struck it lucky, the lady mentioning a ranch she said was just up the road, asking him if that’s where he was meaning. He thanked her, and returned to his team, passing on what he’d learnt.
The three of them got back into the van and headed north, searching for the name of the ranch mentioned. They passed the four that were within a twenty-minute drive, three of them having nameplates clearly displayed––which didn’t match the one for which they were looking. They turned around and headed for the ranch that hadn’t had a name displayed, turning into the dirt track, seeing two farm buildings, as a train cut across the land in front of them. When it had passed, a third building was visible beyond the tracks, but there were no signs of vehicles at any of them. The team swung by the first two houses before crossing the train line and pulling up to what appeared to be the main property, a few kids’ toys visible on the ground around the front of the home, a child’s bike resting against the side of a wall.
They got out of the van, leaving the doors open, not wanting to make any more noise than they already had. They circled the building, peering in through the rear windows, which showed personal possessions visible all over the place. Someone was living there.
At that moment the team leader called out to the other couple of men with him. A dust cloud was visible on the road behind them––someone was driving onto the ranch. The three Russians came together, wondering for a moment if it was the family arriving home. Their van sat in front of the house, which would be visible to whoever was approaching, especially once they were clear of the train line. There wasn’t time to move it, and as the dust cloud parted, the first of the cars appearing over the rise of the track––its blue lights flashing––the Russians started to run. Two further police cars, together with two blacked-out four-by-fours raced to a halt alongside their van, as the three made it to the edges of what looked like a fast flowing river.
The first of the officers were getting out of the car, pointing towards the river, having spotted the three men begin to flee. Shots fired, no one sure of who fired first, but both groups took cover, the police and CIA in a far more safe position, the Russians with only a little rock coverage between them and the police––the flowing river behind them. They also just had their handguns, since the weapons with greater firepower, and all their spare ammunition, was sitting in the back of the van.
They knew they stood very little chance, but couldn’t risk getting captured. The shootout was getting neither side anywhere, the police safe enough behind the building, but too far away to get a clear shot––not daring to come out into the open where they would risk being hit themselves. The team leader counted down the shots, his tw
o companions getting through their bullets far too aggressively, until both their weapons were empty, the team leader with three rounds left––it paid to count your ammunition. In one swift move, he shot both men next to him, killing them instantly, before he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
The men from the CIA saw what had happened, approaching the scene cautiously but quickly, but all three were dead by the time they got there. A cleanup team was called in.
“Andre, where the hell have you been all these months? We were starting to think you’d been killed.”
“I know, believe me, I’d like to tell you more details about it all, but it’s a long story,” he said, his English excellent, his voice easy to listen to.
“I’ve got time,” Alex said, wanting answers––needing to know why this man in Russia had been silent for so long. It had jeopardised their operation.
“Well, I don’t, not now anyway. But yes, I’m alive and well.”
“That’s good to hear, at least.” There was a long pause as if both men were waiting for the other to say something. Alex could hear a little background noise through the line, but not enough to make anything of it. Andre spoke next.
“Dmitry Sokoloff’s men just made a move for the Irishman and his family, but they’ve moved on to another safe place.”
“Phelan McDermott, you mean?”
“Yes, I’m glad you’ve been paying attention.”
“Since your last message all those months ago we’ve been working hard to piece things together. We followed those names you gave us, and we were in St Petersburg the day they all appeared in the city, though all we did was play catchup. We needed more to go on. You know, I never officially got given that report you sent through.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“How? How are you aware that an MI6 agent didn’t get a transmission sent to MI6 HQ?”
“Look, that’s a long story too, which I don’t have time to detail you in on now. But there is someone within MI6 who isn’t being straight with you all.”
“I’m aware of that. Who is it and how do you know?”
“I don’t know who it is. I just know it’s someone senior.”
“A spy? Is it someone leaking information to the Russians? You’ve got to give me something.”
“It’s not a double agent, at least as far as I know. It’s just someone that doesn’t necessarily share our interests.”
“Our? Are you talking as a British informant or for someone else?” For the first time, there was an edge to Alex’s questioning, which Andre picked up on.
“Look, Alex, you’re just going to have to trust me for a while, okay?”
“Trust you? I barely know you, and the man I thought I knew wasn’t meant to go underground for months on end with no word as to what had happened.”
“I’m sorry, it just had to happen like that.”
“Who else are you working with?”
“That doesn’t matter at the moment, and really, I haven’t the time to go into it all even if I could talk about it.”
“Which you can’t, because presumably whoever you’re working for doesn’t want us to know about it. Fantastic, we’ve got ourselves into a bit of a mess here, wouldn’t you say, Andre––if that’s even your real name.”
“It is my name to you, Alex, and that’s all that matters at the moment. Listen, we’ll keep Phelan safe, but it’s important he remains alive, free and his whereabouts unknown.”
“What’s so important about him?”
“Nothing in itself, it’s just what his continued freedom will do to Sokoloff.”
“Who wants him dead, I take it?”
“Something like that, yes. It’s become an honour thing. We’ll make sure he doesn’t find him. The slip up won’t happen again. We have the situation with them under control. We had underestimated quite how far Sokoloff would go––he’s a very dangerous man, so be careful of him. Very powerful and influential in Russia. Has the ear to the President.”
“Is this what it’s about, getting to Putin?”
“Look, I’m not going to answer that at the moment. Just lay off Phelan, it’s better no one goes looking for him, we don’t know what their connection in MI6 would do if you were to locate him and his family yourselves.”
“So you’ve called me after months of silence to ask me to back off from a man who must have so many answers it’s untrue? You’ve got to give me more credit than that, Andre.”
“Alex, I’m not messing with you here. Phelan only knows so much. He’s not your biggest threat.”
“Then who is?”
“I’ll get to that. I’m calling to give you the heads up, that’s all. Watch your back there at MI6, lay off Phelan because we’ve got that one covered.” Again Andre used the word we and everything in Alex wanted to demand to know who he was working with––working for––who was the mastermind behind his obviously planned disappearance. But he knew better than to ask about that again; he knew this wasn’t the time. “And lay off the pursuit until the end of the year. Everything is building for their New Year event, and that’s when you might get some answers.”
“You’re asking me to step down from our operation?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“Why, what’s in it for you? What don’t you want us to find out?”
“It’s nothing like that. I share your interest in getting this whole organisation exposed, I do, but it’s bigger than that. It’s much bigger than you realise.”
“Bigger than a bunch of billionaires spending millions securing winning lottery tickets to coax unwitting civilians into their self-gratifying games, you mean?”
“Yes, much bigger than that. All you’ve seen is the T20 event.”
“The tea twenty?”
“Top twenty. It’s a group of the eleventh to twentieth richest oligarchs that are part of this organisation. It’s like the second tier of your national football league.”
“So there is a Premier League, you’re saying?”
“Absolutely.”
“A T10?”
“Yes, and these guys take it to another level. If you combined the net worth of five of the oligarchs in the T20, it wouldn’t get you a place in the T10.”
Alex was struggling to take in all that he was hearing. Anissa also had her ear to the phone by this point, picking up most of what was said. He would be glad to run through things again with her after, making sure they fully understood what Andre was unloading at that moment.
“Do they meet together?”
“No, never. The second group don’t even know who the first group are, though it’s not too hard to guess. There aren’t that many options.” Alex made a note of that comment, scribbling roughly on his left arm as he listened. “One oligarch has just moved down, though. Someone who was ten has become eleven, and has switched leagues.”
“Why?”
“Because another oligarch has entered, so things get shifted around. It’s happened before, though not for a few years.”
“So what do you want us to do?”
“Take your foot off the throttle in your investigation––make it look like a lower priority for the time being. I’m on the inside, right alongside someone involved in the T10. But keep your eyes on New Year, it’s when the T20 next meet. It’s the biggest event of the year, and it’s going to be bigger than ever. I’ll try and get some names for you, though it won’t be easy.” There was a pause, the sound of what seemed to be some a foghorn in the background, though it could have been anything. Andre continued; “Read up on Dmitry Sokoloff and Stanislav Krupin. They were both involved in the T20––Krupin has just been kicked out following the latest shift around as he was the previous twentieth ranked oligarch, and by January 2, Sokoloff should be out of it as well. Don’t approach either of them, but learn all you can about them. Understand what connects them both. Okay, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch,” and before Alex could ask anything more––before he could
find out how he’d be in touch and when––the call ended.
Anissa had her pad open now, jotting down a few notes herself. Alex read the scribble on his arm and Anissa recorded it as something to look into.
“Also, the last thing he said about looking into the connection between these two men,” Alex said, Anissa already ahead of him with that one.
“Got it, it’s the first thing I jotted down. Last words tend to be significant.”
At some point during the call, their food had been placed on the table, neither of them registering the fact at the time. Anissa put her pad to one side, and they decided it was indeed time to enjoy the food before it went completely cold.
After a call like that, it was hard not to jump deeper into things––despite Andre asking them to do the very opposite. However, he promised answers would come, and that was enough to know for them to tread water for a while with their investigation, which was what they had just been asked to do.
Neither had slept very well the night before, both agents’ minds whirling with the information they’d been given by Andre the previous day, this mystery man making a sudden and quite dramatic re-entry. By ten their little office was filling up, both with people and fresh jugs of coffee, which seemed to increase in equal numbers.
Anissa had worked with two technicians getting everything together on the two specific names they’d been told––Dmitry Sokoloff and Stanislav Krupin.
It now made sense to them that the Dmitry who Andre had referred to in that December transmission from the year before had in fact related to Sokoloff––Andre was watching him back then already.
They noted the television and other media angles that Dmitry controlled, including the state news channels. Not a lot linked the two men. Then they saw them listed in a report. It was from a political column in a newspaper detailing those who had provided most of the finance for President Putin’s reelection campaign––and top of that list were these two men.
