by Tim Heath
“Did the DDG put you onto this last bit of information, ask you to dig around those eighteen failed companies?” Anissa said.
“No, I thought of it as everything came to light about Phelan’s presence.”
“And you’ve not passed this on yet?”
“No, I wanted to see what you both made of it first. You know I could lose my job for even sharing this with you.”
“We know, and we know it’s not the first time you’ve taken that risk for us. I trust you won’t have to do so for much longer. Keep what you have from Price, for now, especially anything on these eighteen firms. See if you can find out any other connections, and make a list of all the names. Maybe there will be some element of criminal charge we can stick to these people at a later point if it’s proved they deliberately sabotaged these firms from the inside, from a privileged position of trust and power, something they would have had to abuse to do what has happened.”
“Sure, I will. Let me know how it goes with Phelan if you manage to speak to him.”
“We’ll do our best. You’d better get back to the office. Thanks for sharing this with us, we both really appreciate it,” Alex said.
“Yes, we really do Gordon, we know it can’t be easy for you,” Anissa added.
They watched Gordon leave, before ordering another coffee.
“So Matvey Filipov places moles inside these companies––meaning he must have known about the risk, must have known how to really get to Kaminski and his Union.”
“And that doesn’t happen overnight. It takes months of planning––years maybe.”
“Which is what bloody worries me, Anissa, it really does. If we think we have to tread carefully around our own DDG, then we have to be even more careful coming anywhere near a man so dedicated to what he wants to achieve, that he can place people in firms years before they are needed. All so that when the time comes, everything he wants to happen can simply happen. It makes you ask the question––who else does he have in place that we don’t yet know about?”
Alex parked the car a few streets down from the address Gordon had handed them.
“Nice neighbourhood,” Anissa said, looking around at the mainly semi-detached presumably at least three-bedroomed properties surrounding them, each with a bit of garden out front, probably one at the back too. They were in West London, a more spacious part of the city but where your money couldn’t buy you that much. It was mainly the haunt of company executives or footballers––of which that part of London had plenty.
Maggie’s address was a couple of streets over––there’d been no street parking allowed on her road, so they’d had to find somewhere close by––and the two agents walked for a few minutes before arriving back to where they wanted to be. They weren’t police, so couldn’t sneak around to the rear of the property, neither did they have the chance, as Maggie lived in a row of terraced houses, much like most of the city––ignoring the many high rises, of course, which most people tried to.
Anissa walked up the small path, the garden a little wild, planting minimal at best. Some litter had blown into the corners of the area––a couple of crisp packets and a supermarket shopping bag––but aside from that, there was nothing of note. She rang the doorbell, which chimed quietly away, nothing too distasteful. Seconds later, a female face peeped around the edge of the curtains, catching Anissa’s eye, before disappearing quickly, presumably heading for the front door. Moments later it opened, but only on the safety chain.
“Yes?” Maggie said through the gap, her eyes red, voice patchy. This was apparently a woman who had been crying considerably in the minutes––hours for all Anissa could tell––before they had arrived.
“Maggie Thompson?” It was always good to confirm it was the occupant you were looking for, especially when arriving unannounced.
“Yes,” though she still sounded just as cautious, the door edging a little closer to being shut.
“My name is Anissa, and this is my colleague Alex. We work for Scotland Yard,”––it was always better to mention the police force, their identity cards concurring with that, than to mention anything to do with the Security Service. No one knew what MI6 really did, nor were they always so well received as the police: “and we’d like to ask you a few questions about someone who you might know. Are you alone right now, or is there anyone else with you?”
For a moment Maggie didn’t move––or say anything––though the door opened a fraction, so it was clear she wasn’t afraid of them anymore. Alex produced his ID, which displayed on one side his name, a few details and a photo, and on the other side the badge in cast metal for New Scotland Yard, the home of the London Metropolitan Police. Anissa did the same with her identification, Maggie taking in the details as she was releasing the safety chain on the door.
“Yes, it’s only me at home again,” she said, the door now opened for them both, as she ushered them inside. There was something about the way Maggie said again that Alex picked up on straight away, sure that Anissa would also have seen the clue. She rarely missed a trick.
They left their shoes at the door––inside, it just seemed that type of place, everything neat, the furniture sparse but well appointed––and followed her into the lounge, where a large sofa sat along one wall, two individual armchairs facing it. Maggie sat in one of the single chairs––here were magazines and an old, not quite empty, coffee mug resting on one arm––clearly, her regular spot. The two agents squeezed into the larger sofa, though there was plenty of space once they settled.
“So what’s this about?” Maggie said, a tissue to her face once more, wiping away another tear.
“We’d like to ask you about your connection to a Mr Phelan Mcdermott.”
Maggie put a hand instantaneously to her mouth at the mere mention of his name––a cross between heartbreak and outright rage showing in her eyes suddenly––her clenched fist willing her emotions to stay in. She lasted ten seconds before they came. Tears, a torrent of tears. She lowered her head into her hands, and wept bitterly, groans of pain coming out, her whole body shaking from the sheer rush of energy being poured into the outburst.
Alex looked at Anissa––neither knew what to do, but Alex knew that a female touch was undoubtedly going to be of more comfort for Maggie at that moment––Anissa standing up, crossing over to Maggie before sitting on the uncluttered arm of the chair she was in, one arm around her shoulders.
“It’s okay, Maggie, it’s okay,” she said over and over again, trying her best to bring some comfort––anything would do––to a woman apparently at the point of deep soul anguish, a woman whose emotions were a whirlwind at that moment, tossed around randomly.
It was twenty minutes before they were all in conversation again. Alex had gone to boil the kettle––tea was an answer to most problems in his book––and the weeping had reduced enough for a few words to be spoken, before Alex arrived with a pot of tea, and some biscuits he found next to the bread bin.
Maggie then came out with the whole story––the last few months, Phelan turning up in December out of the blue. She alluded to the affair some years before but didn’t give any more details on that. A diamond ring sat on the mantlepiece––she’d left it there the moment Phelan told her he was going, that he couldn’t do this anymore, that he wanted out.
Maggie pointed to the ring as she told them this, pausing as the dam inside her once again threatened to burst forth, and said how just days before––a week or so maybe––she’d felt as happy as she’d ever been in her entire life. Everything had come together, she was in a relationship––getting married in fact––and the future looked good.
Then he’d mentioned something about her work––up to that point he’d never really taken any interest in what she did during the day. She put it down to the fact he’d retired––that was the story he’d told her, anyway––so maybe wanted to disconnect from the world of office life, so he just never asked her about it. Then he had all this information––
pages of it––and she explained how Phelan had asked her for a favour. She was so in love with him––so overawed by the beautiful ring that hung heavy on her finger––that she wasn’t really thinking straight.
The information was damning, for sure. It was clear the Banking Union didn’t have the funds secured to pay her employer back––didn’t even have the money to guarantee all that the investment capital firms and individuals had deposited with them. That was a severe breach of FSA rules. It was all there in the information she’d been given––all of which she’d given to her bosses so didn’t have a copy of any more, when Alex asked about it––and she’d been convinced it was the right thing to do.
Then yesterday, she explained through sporadic tears and deep breaths, Phelan just upped and left.
“And he gave no hint, no sign, that this was what he was going to do?” Alex said, Anissa glaring at him as he said it, but it was too late to stop him.
“No, nothing,” Maggie said, relatively calmly.
“Do you have any idea where he went?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Can I ask you a few questions about your role at JP Morgan Chase?” Anissa said, wanting to move the conversation away from Phelan for a moment, onto something she hoped would be less emotive, where they were less likely to ask her a question that would be like walking into a minefield.
“Go ahead.”
“You ran the Meridian Capital account?”
“Yes, I did. Worked on that account for the last eight years already, the last five as key account handler.”
“So nothing got done with that particular account without your say-so?”
“Not with Meridian, no. It was my account.”
“And presumably you were in the team that brokered the $100 billion loan? That must have been quite something?”
“It was my first role as the account handler, yes, and it was quite something at the time. With a firm like mine, these kinds of deals––much larger ones too––aren’t rare, though this was the biggest done in London that year.”
“Had you ever met Dmitry Kaminski during those negotiations?”
“Of course––he chaired the Union. I dealt directly with him, though mainly through his team. We met personally at least half a dozen times.”
“And he approached your firm for the loan?”
“I think so––I don’t know. They were already a client before I started working there. I came into the team that handled the Union eight years ago, before then running that account myself.”
“Have you ever heard of the name Matvey Filipov?” Alex said, sudden and swift. Maggie’s eyes darted to his––she’d been mainly answering Anissa’s questions, her focus therefore on her––before looking at the carpet, then up again at Anissa.
“Who?”
“He’s Russian,” Anissa said, herself picking up the cue that Maggie just gave them.
“No,” she said, far from convincing.
“How did you get the job at JP Morgan Chase in the first place, Maggie?”
She paused––another quick glance to the floor, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular; this girl was not a good liar––before she said: “I applied for a position, of course, like everyone else.”
“They didn’t headhunt you then?”
“No,” she said, looking them in the eyes. That at least was the truth.
“So Matvey Filipov didn’t have anything to do with you getting the position in the first place?” Alex said.
“No,” the word coming out far more forcefully than she needed it to, “no, like I said, I don’t know who that is.”
“Thank you,” Anissa said, standing up now, Alex following. “You’ve been most helpful.” They walked towards the door, both putting their shoes back on. Maggie opened the front door for them, Anissa handing her a business card.
“Here, in case anything further comes to mind. Sometimes people remember something they want to then let us know.”
Maggie took the card. “Thanks, but I think I’ve said everything I know.”
“No worries.” Both agents moved out through the door, before Anissa turned, and as if just wanting to add an explanation to their questioning. She very matter-of-factly said; “Oh, we were just asking about Matvey Filipov because we believe he employed Phelan McDermott to come back into your life, and do all this to you,” and she turned back, both agents leaving at that moment. The grenade had been tossed.
Maggie had still not moved from the doorstep––the door wide open behind her––as the two agents rounded a corner and went out of sight. She’d been thumped with the realisation that Matvey––a man who had done so much for her––could have been working behind her back the whole time.
He’d asked her to call in the loan months back––she recalled refusing point blank to do that. How had he then known about Phelan? Had Phelan been working for Matvey all along, even those years long before when they’d had their first affair? Was any of it real? Or had Matvey found out about that––her one weakness, her one big regret––and worked it all for his own good? Maggie knew that Anissa and Alex could tell she was lying about not knowing the Russian. It was apparently why Anissa had made that final reference as they’d been leaving, to see if it would prompt her to say something more.
Why wasn’t she? Why didn’t she just go with her urge to call out to them, to bring them back, and to tell them everything? To say to them the whole truth. Why had she hesitated? Why was she still believing that Matvey was good for her, was kind to her? His actions––which she’d outworked on the prompting of Phelan––had put thousands of people out of work, many of whom would struggle to get a job again. He’d also caused her own heart to break into more pieces than she ever thought possible to recover from.
If she could turn her pain into anger––an anger directed at someone who’d portrayed themselves as a friend––maybe she’d heal. If not heal, perhaps she'd be able to move on, to focus on revenge or some form of punishment she could dish out. Maybe then she’d feel again––if not love, then hate would have to do. Anything was a start.
She played with the card Anissa had left her, moving it in and out of her fingers, pondering, before she went back inside, closing the door finally behind her.
9
Phelan was mid-air crossing the Atlantic, heading towards America. He had completed his mission for Matvey, served his purpose. Now it was time to leave that all behind him––once and for all. No longer would he allow Matvey to have any more of a hold over him, though the more he dwelt on it all, the more Phelan thought that now more than ever he would be forever in Matvey’s grip. The Russian was now able––willing, certainly––to dangle before his eyes the threat of exposure, the risk that he could reveal all to his wife if he so pleased. The danger would never go away, therefore, not properly. Men like that never let these things drop.
Phelan had fled Maggie’s two days ago, saluting the two men in the black van that had been parked outside her home as he’d made his exit, one final act of defiance before he’d run the other way. There was no going back now.
Neither could he immediately go to his family, much as he longed for them, much as he missed them and just wanted to be united with them once more. He had to get everything together, he had to work out what to say. He’d been away for the best part of five months––having given little information at the time he’d left, nor anything during the intervening period.
He was sure he reeked of betrayal––his wife would smell it on him, see it in his eyes. There would be no way of hiding the fact, no way of brushing it all under the carpet. Surely she would find out, if not immediately when the euphoria of his arrival would be met with hugs and kisses, but later. In the quiet of the evening, when it was just the two of them. When they’d got through the physical stuff––the greetings and warm embraces––and when the heart connections needed to be restored, where intimacy happened. Intimacy––there was an awkward word. Could he ever be really
intimate again, did he know what that was anymore? He’d played that card a lot those last few months, being intimate with a woman who wasn’t his wife. Had he ruined it therefore for the one woman he wanted intimacy most with? Was that his problem, would that be where he was found out?
He’d thought about going on to mainland Europe, but that took him a little further from his family––insignificant as it was, it still mattered––and nearer to Matvey, with all the Russian’s connections and middlemen. He, therefore, booked into the same hotel he’d stayed in on the night he first collected the money. It was funny how things came around again. Then, his thoughts were only euphoric. He’d pulled off a fantastic victory, an extraordinary coup, and got to pocket the millions himself. Then, that money was already racing around the planet, various holding banks used to safely and swiftly get it to where the Russians––and Sokoloff in particular––couldn’t see it. He felt free.
Now, this money sat in his bank with millions of pounds in easy reach––and yet he felt more trapped than ever before, weighed down by the guilt and shame of all he’d had to do to Maggie, someone who deserved better. Things his own wife could never know.
If the hotel had known who he was, they didn’t let on. He booked into a similar suite to the one he’d used before––the exact one had been already taken––and quickly emptied the mini bar. If the distance from Maggie wasn’t able to settle his feeling of guilt, maybe the alcohol would?
He woke at half six the following morning, head banging but otherwise happy for the hours of sleep he’d managed, still fully dressed, having dropped off on the sofa, the bed untouched. He didn’t have any tablets for his head, and the breakfast area wasn’t open until seven, he was told. The girl behind the reception desk did have a packet of paracetamol in her bag and offered him a couple of tablets, which he gratefully received.
Showered and dressed by nine––this after a hearty breakfast––he’d got his head together enough to begin to think about his route home. The flights were one minor element to that––his story was the primary concern––but he figured he could perfect the latter over the many hours it would take to finally reach his loved ones.
