by Tim Heath
As always, there were very few people in the club, three other tables occupied, the rest just clear of any trappings. It was how it always was. As exclusive as you could get, there was a long waiting list for membership and the weekday allowance was even smaller. It was how they wanted it. Everyone respected the other members’ privacy. It was, therefore, a place for politicians, the Security Service and wealthy businessmen to come and talk quietly, without fear of some journalist listening in from the next table. It was their domain.
Thomas stood to greet Dmitry as the Russian walked over to the booth, the Brit shaking the hand of his guest, both men’s grip strong and true. Hardly old friends, though there was indeed some shared history, and politically––as well as economically––it was undoubtedly true that they viewed Kaminski as a friend to the UK. A friend who––with their backing––they hoped would become the next President of Russia.
Drinks were ordered; it was mid-morning, so these were hot and plentiful––a jug of coffee and pot of English Breakfast tea placed carefully in the middle of the table by the man working the bar that day. He left them to it after leaving some milk, and the two men poured their favourite refreshment, as Dmitry then took off a jacket.
“There’s something I’ve not fully explained to you, that I need you to know now. And I need you to do something,” Dmitry said, Thomas instantly wary of the tone, dreading he was going to thoroughly dislike whatever it was the Russian was about to tell him.
“Go on, I’m listening,” is all he opted in response.
“The spate of takeovers and bankruptcies there have just been,” he said. Price was well aware of the general business news, though he had not taken too keen an interest, aware enough that some scaremongers were predicting the start of a second financial crisis. “They aren’t random, and these firms weren’t at risk. They’ve been deliberately targeted, as a way of getting to me. They’re coming for my Union, and I don’t think I can do anything to stop them now.”
“Who are? What do you mean? These firms had nothing to do with you, the ones that have recently gone bankrupt, I mean.”
“There is something you don’t know about them because I hadn’t released it to the markets. But each of the four main banks in my Union had heavily financed the salvage packages for these eighteen companies that hit rocky ground during the recent crisis. We lent aggressively, borrowing heavily in the process. All eighteen firms were on strict payment plans––we’ve got billions tied up in these firms, and now they have all been either declared bankrupt or soon will be.”
“You can’t have only been working with these firms? You must have many other interests, too?”
“Of course, but following the crisis, we focused everything on a few firms. My bank invested heavily in the four key businesses, as we saw it, and following advice from the British government. We were trying to help. So ninety per cent of our income is now––was––dependent on these four businesses repaying the loans we made them. Now that is gone.”
“Can you still make repayments yourself?”
“Probably, yes, certainly I can personally. I have my own money to use if needed, to prop up the payments, but that isn’t true for the other banks. It’ll swallow all our operating money, and even if I can speak with JP Morgan Chase and readjust the repayment plan a little, it’ll take everything we have.”
“Dmitry, how could you get so sucked into a few companies?”
“I was trying to bloody help your nation if you care to remember! Don’t patronise me as if I’m new to all this. Of course, I now know it was a bloody stupid mistake––I should have let them collapse, and all those jobs just be lost. But I didn’t. I was asked to help, and we stepped in––I got the whole Union involved, though it was the big four banks that carried the risk. Without having done that, there would have been no danger to any of us, and yet now, we’re wide open. So I need your help. I need the British government to help us negotiate with our creditor and give both sides certain guarantees that will secure our immediate future.”
“I’m not the government, Dmitry, in case you forgot.”
“Screw you! You’re bloody government when it suits you. You’re all the same, you lot. You’ve been fostering a relationship with me, and for what? But what’s it really worth to you all? Because I need your help now, and if I don’t see what I want, it’s going to have an impact on my attitude towards everyone going into the future. You got that?”
“Calm down, Dmitry. I was merely stating I’m MI6 and in that role––as it's designed to be––I am completely separate from the political sphere. But I do see where you are coming from and that, now, in your time of crisis, a solid and heartfelt response and intervention from our side would go a long way to forging a lasting relationship with you, and in time, your nation.”
“You do talk a load of crap when you get going, but it’s good crap.” He was smiling again now. “So we have an understanding? You help me through this mess, and we’ll be able to keep on meeting like this.”
“Yes,” Thomas said, suddenly aware he didn’t necessarily have the power or role to state that categorically, but it was what his Russian guest needed to hear at that moment, so it was all he’d say. “I’ll need a little time, but I’ll make sure we back you in this. With all the job losses related to these other eighteen collapses, it’d be an easy sell I think to stop the rot from spreading. I know the markets are already in a little bit of a negative spin. It doesn’t take much nowadays.”
“Good. Please keep me informed of whatever you can accomplish. I’ll do the same from my side.”
“Who’s behind it then? You said it was personal, that they were using it to target you?”
“That is maybe a problem for another day if I ever need your help in that regard. Chances are––especially if you do your bit––that problem will take care of itself. The priority now is that you cover my back. Let me worry about who’s behind all this and deal with that myself.”
“Okay, but this better not be anything that’ll come back to bite us, okay?”
“You are not in a position to be able to bargain with me, Mr Price. You need me a lot more than I need you, just remember that.” That didn’t seem true from where he was currently sitting, quite the opposite. Thomas had not seen Dmitry so worked up in a long time. Things didn’t usually seem to get under his skin––men of wealth usually always had layers of protection so that real life issues never got close enough. That was apparently not the case this time, and the Russian had been nearly pleading for help. He let it drop.
The two men finished their drinks, their meeting over, each going their separate way. Dmitry left first, followed just minutes later by Thomas, each with crucial meetings ahead of them, and now added to that, the DDG needed to find a way to speak with those at the decision-making level of one of the world’s biggest firms.
6
Phelan had returned to Maggie a more controlled man, more focused––as well as an infertile man following his rushed procedure at the clinic. He wasn’t going to tell her anything about that and trusted she didn't want him to jump straight into bed with her. Their last words had been harsh––he’d been harsh towards her advances––so they’d need to work through that before anything else might occur anyway.
They went for lunch during the following day, Maggie only able to give him an hour to meet her, work and the ripples coming from these apparently random bankruptcies still causing rumours and fear to spread. They met just around the corner from her city centre office, and after eating something––the food rushed down, as the ice was slowly broken––he’d been able to apologise for his outburst. It’d been a shock at the time––he didn’t like change, he’d told her. She’d bought his display.
The more he immersed himself in Maggie’s life, the more he felt the betrayal of his wife. The image of her with a target across her face––as if a sniper was watching her steadily, Bluetooth earpiece on their head, just waiting to pull the trigger. Phelan
couldn’t shift the image, nor the danger he felt his wife, and the whole family, were now unknowingly facing. And he wasn’t there to protect them––in fact; he was in London living with another woman––sleeping with a woman who wasn’t his wife––all for what? He wasn’t sure, had never in fact been sure what it was he’d be required to do. Matvey had not yet told him, just that it was imminent; whatever that meant.
He was losing weight––not that it was evident at that moment––but he’d noticed it himself. He was drinking too much as well. Sleep had been erratic for weeks already, despite the happy front he put on when he knew Maggie was watching him. And she did like to watch him. Entirely why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just her contentment, her joy at seeing a man––and Phelan at that––in her life again? Perhaps it was the realisation that long-forgotten dreams of starting a family of her own were now possible? Maybe she didn’t trust him, could see through his disguise, knew about his dirty little secret that he’d worked so hard at keeping from her? Maybe it was something else entirely?
He was living in limbo. It was not what he’d envisaged when Matvey proposed he get involved in the Games and when Matvey had detailed how he would guide him to a successful outcome––a very profitable one at that––which would set him and his family up for life. And they’d tasted a bit of that the last month or so before he’d left. Life had been good, great even. And then the call had come. Like a call from the hospital in the dead of night alerting those listening to some devastating news, his world had slowly imploded over the last few months. None of it was fun anymore––had he ever really enjoyed the fact he was deceiving someone so completely? What did coming through this all even look like for them? What would it do to her? How would he explain it––if indeed he said anything––to his wife and children? It’d been this lost feeling, this growing and fast expanding emptiness that had been eating away at him the longer he lived that lie in London.
With lunch finished––they’d started the conversation, but much more was needed––he and Maggie parted, Phelan agreeing to meet her when she finished work. At least they weren’t arguing with one another. That was a start.
He filled his afternoon by taking a long walk around the city, hitting a few of the parks when they occurred, and just wanting space to clear his head of all the negative thoughts that were threatening to spiral out of control. To some degree, the flowers in bloom in Green Park did just that, the openness of Hyde Park and the crowds that walked the busy streets, the roads full of black cabs, all helping him lose himself in order to find a new purpose. He couldn’t put Maggie’s well-being before that of himself or his family. If he had to pick the lesser of two evils, it’d be Maggie Thompson to take the hit. This whole situation couldn’t destroy what he’d left behind in America––what he longed with every fibre of his being to be united with once again. That wasn’t going to be how his story ended.
Whatever it took, he’d play the role Matvey had demanded he play. He’d do what he needed, and as far as Phelan understood, that would be easier to do the more thoroughly he was wrapped up in Maggie’s life. He should propose to her, therefore. That’s what she’d suggested––marriage and a family the very thing that had caused him to blow his top with her. These things took time, and because of the vasectomy, the family bit would not be possible anyway. So he’d push that angle as much as was possible. If Matvey was true to his word––something the last month had caused Phelan to question for the first time in his relationship to the Russian––this should all be over before anything got too serious, or problematic.
He headed straight for Hatton Garden, the renowned jewellery district of London, in search of a ring. Matvey had given him ample spending money––it seemed there were few limits when it came to getting things done for the Russian––and Phelan would see how far that money would stretch now, wanting something that was eye-catching. She would be able to sell it when he was gone, recouping a significant amount of money––no doubt small compensation for a broken heart––but at least it was something. The more expensive the ring, the happier Phelan felt about doing this.
At six, he was once again waiting outside her office––in much the same way he’d done the first time he had arrived back in London, following her all the way home only to stage an accidental encounter with her as she exited a cafe. This time she spotted him right away––he’d told her he was coming anyway––and she smiled, looking happier than she’d been at the start of lunch, joy back in her soul. He handed her the massive bunch of flowers he’d been holding out front––there was no way to hide them from her––and she kissed him warmly on the lips.
If he allowed himself––and he’d nearly done that fatally once before it all came out about his marriage––he could have fallen for her. He suppressed his body’s natural response to her kiss while meeting her and kissing back as best he could.
“So, where are you taking me?” He hadn’t mentioned dinner, but it had been implied as they finished lunch and he’d texted her that afternoon to confirm he was coming for six and that she couldn’t work late that day.
“You’ll see,” is all Phelan replied, Maggie just delighted to go along with her man, as in love with him as was possible for someone at that stage of a relationship, oblivious to Phelan’s other life.
It was two hours later, over dessert, when Phelan produced the ring. Maggie screamed in excitement and got up from her chair and moved towards him, kissing him before saying yes multiple times. Heads had turned all around them, a few shouts of congratulations for the obviously happy couple. He placed the ring on her finger––at twenty thousand it was far from the most expensive option available, but he felt it did the job nicely. He’d also pushed Matvey’s money as far as he thought was safe to go without it making waves.
“My God, baby, this must have cost you a fortune!” She didn’t seem too concerned about that fact, however.
“It’s nothing, my darling, all worth it if it makes you happy.”
“You make me happy, silly, but I do love the ring!”
A bottle of champagne arrived––the restaurant sensing the moment, though Phelan knew it would later appear on the bill––but while Matvey was funding him during this operation, he didn’t care what it cost. The higher the price, the better, not that it would ever hurt a man as financially secure as Matvey Filipov.
“I think we should get married straight away,” Maggie said as they walked in through the front door of her West London home. She’d been planning a few things in her head on the way when she wasn’t marvelling at the chunk of diamond now prominently displayed on her left hand. “We don’t need an expensive, fancy wedding. You’ve spent enough on the ring.”
“Nonsense. There is no need to rush the preparations. You’ll need at least six months to let everyone know––much longer probably to make sure everything you want is available. That’ll take us to the end of the year, which is possible if you want a winter wedding. Or maybe we should think about next spring?”
“That’s a whole year away!”
“And, I was raised a good Catholic boy, remember. I don’t think we should sleep together until the big day. Give us something to look forward to again later.”
“You are kidding me?” She looked at him in total surprise. Yes, he was Irish, but all the months she’d known him across their two relationships, he’d been anything but a good Catholic boy.
“I’m serious.” He’d been impressed with the way his plan had come together, sounding natural, sounding like something someone in his position might say. It would certainly solve the physical side of their relationship, and any talk of starting a family. While he’d had the operation, the clinic had insisted it would be six months before he’d be given the all clear, that a pregnancy could still occur before that if he wasn’t wearing a condom. And since she’d mentioned about not being on the pill––and he still didn’t use contraceptives, being a Catholic, albeit a lapsed one––this seemed the best solution p
ossible.
“Then we can’t possibly wait to get married until next spring. I’d be forty-one already. I think we should get married this summer. In a few months’ time. We can go anywhere in the world if you want. The Caribbean maybe?”
“There’s no way our folks will be able to travel at such short notice. Most have probably got their summer plans sorted already.”
“Well, they can change them––or we don’t need them there anyway. I want to marry you, and I don’t want to wait another year before I can be with you again.”
“Okay, the summer it is then,” Phelan said, his face calm, a smile appearing where stress might otherwise have been attempting to creep through. Assuming Matvey knew what he was talking about––and unfortunately, he usually did––Phelan would be long gone before the summer, long gone before they applied for a marriage licence only to have it confirmed he was already married. Long gone before this all got too serious.
“Great!” She kissed him again, pressing into him, her hands running all over his back, and down onto his jeans.
“Remember, nothing until the wedding night. I mean it.”
“Phelan! You’re impossible,” she screamed but relented. “This is going to be tough.”
Matvey was in Moscow, which for a wealthy Russian oligarch was no unusual thing, except this particular man tried to spend as little time there as possible. For the last few years, he’d mainly based himself in Monaco, where he had a sizeable property, as well as his yacht.
He was in Moscow because that was where the men he’d come to meet were all gathering. Following the success the previous September of the Army-2016 military and technical forum, another event had been planned––this exhibition larger still––for the following spring, and everyone within the Russian military chain of command was going to be there.
Russian Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu was once again there for the opening day. Matvey had arranged lunch with the Minister before he was due to leave the event altogether––it was mainly for the publicity angle that he was there, other men did the real work. Still, Matvey wanted to curry favour with Sergei, who’d been elected to the role in the Duma one year before, meaning he still had several years in office to run––a position that would overlap whoever the next President would be. That alone made Sergei a key target for the billionaire.
