by Tim Heath
“Kuznetsov’s contract killing, you mean?”
“Yes. Kuznetsov had hired the man, this guy was in place in the building opposite––the same one we used––and yet someone else got to him first. We have to assume they were Matvey’s men. They killed the sniper before the oligarchs started leaving, switched out the bullets in the man’s weapon with blanks, and then fired when Foma emerged from the building.”
“So while most don’t know what has happened, Kuznetsov obviously thinks that Foma is dead.”
“Yes, that’s my thought, too. The lack of public announcement could only add to that reasoning. Clearly, that’s what Matvey wants them to believe.”
“But why? What’s in it for him?”
“I don’t know. But secrets and mystery give men like Matvey a feeling of power––they control a situation others assume to have gone a different way. He’ll have an angle on it for sure.”
“He’s making it look worse than it is…” Anissa said, her mind stirring with a new thought.
“Sorry?”
“My boys…they are mad about football. Neither Paul nor I are much into it, but because of our sons, we get to watch a fair amount. What annoys me most is when a player goes down clutching his face, yet the replay shows there had been no contact whatsoever. Yet the ref doesn’t know that. Sometimes the apparent villain is sent off the pitch. Of course, sometimes the ref gives a card to the player acting on the ground. My point is––what if Matvey’s using this situation to pull a similar trick? What if this is his way of making Foma writhe around on the ground––so to speak––play acting?”
“Playing dead, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly. One member of the T20 has dared to arrange the assassination of another––something Matvey obviously got wind off, something he stepped in and stopped––yet he allowed it all to be played out anyway, but on his terms and with blanks instead of live rounds, the apparent result the same. Foma dead.”
“His next move will have to be to expose Kuznetsov as the culprit.”
“Sasha has already managed to find that out for himself, so how hard would it be for others? Especially Svetlana Volkov, who treats that group like her own property.”
“So Kuznetsov gets kicked out––sent off to continue your footballing analogy. Why bother to then make it look like Foma was killed? I don’t get that bit?”
“I think it’s just for added effect. Like those footballers. Stay down long enough––play dead for long enough––and it forces severe action to be taken. It could destroy the Games, as well as the culprit of course.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Matvey wants exactly that?”
“But he only joined the Games last year. Why try and destroy it?”
“We need to look into Kuznetsov. Why him personally? Maybe it was just the opportunity presenting itself; but seeing as the target was Foma, someone we know to be working with––maybe even working for––Matvey, we have to assume it was personal. Why is Kuznetsov now a target?”
Anissa had been typing away as they were speaking, scrolling through pages of results on Google, only now spotting something that made a little more sense.
“Here,” she said, “it’s a reference to Kuznetsov and Kaminski. Earlier this year there was some talk of the two working together. I bet it’s financial backing from Kuznetsov to get Kaminski through his troubles, in exchange for something once Kaminski has run for President.” The article didn’t give much detail on anything––aside from the reference to some shared initiative––but it was a fair guess. On her growing wall of evidence, Anissa now connected these two men with their own piece of string. The ever-expanding web was growing––a network of interconnected behaviour, of shared business interests. A web of an increasing number of crimes, several murders now dotting her cork board, the pictures of each deceased person only adding their own personal reminder––when these men lashed out, they hit hard, fast and low, and didn’t leave any prisoners. Alex and Anissa would have to continue to be extremely careful themselves.
19
It was already the closing weeks of August, the long summer days were starting to draw in, though in Moscow the days were never as long as they were further north in St Petersburg––neither were winters so dark.
Matvey travelled from the airport towards his meeting with Sergej Volkov. It was only his third time in Moscow in the last twelve months, and that already felt two visits too many. He wasn’t a fan of his nation’s capital––besides the Kremlin, with its history and symbolic importance––he much preferred where he most often resided and the relative quiet of Monaco.
He’d made the appointment the previous month to see Sergej––plus he hoped to catch a few words in private with Svetlana if that were possible––as he had continued his march toward building relationships with those not otherwise directly involved in the Games.
Sergej certainly fitted that bill––powerful and influential, if not quite as wealthy, even given the couple’s combined assets––he was a man well placed, however. That made him extremely valuable. He was the Danny Ocean of the oligarch world, an incredibly resourceful go-to man.
The two men spent thirty minutes together in the garden––the property was significant, though nothing out of the ordinary and much smaller than their St Petersburg property––but the gardens were a real highlight. Matvey had to admire the couple for the landscaping they’d had done around the grounds. For a man who had seen so much, it still impressed him.
Svetlana watched from an upstairs window, keeping out of the way as much as possible. The fact that a member of her T10 was speaking with her husband was nothing new. Because of their shared business lives, the men often had reason to see one another. The fact it was Matvey speaking with her husband on their lawn, might well mean something, however. Ever since Egypt––when he’d first proposed to her the idea for the latest T10 event, picking the targets himself––she had become increasingly wary of him. Then, it had been the impossible challenge. Like a magician chained in a pool of angry sharks, no chance of escape. Yet he had managed just that––and in a matter of only months. The Banking Union he’d gone up against––a Goliath compared to his David––had crumbled. The impossible had been made possible.
And that kind of thing didn’t happen by chance, nor was it possible in the timescale his team had managed. She might not know much about business––though because of her marriage, she was learning that aspect faster than most––but she didn’t need to know much to understand Matvey had been planning that for a long time. He’d been planning that before he’d even taken up her invitation to join the Games.
Forbes was yet to update their rich list––that usually happened towards the end of each year, so there were a few months to go––but she was confident Matvey and his four other victorious oligarchs would climb the wealth ladder considerably. There would be some dramatic fallers, also. Kaminski had taken the biggest hit following that T10 event, and Kuznetsov had taken a similar hit during the summer Hunt. That one was still being worked through.
Most tragic of all, there’d been a shooting immediately following that last event. Foma Polzin was dead. She couldn’t believe it had anything to do with the Games––how could it have––clearly something to do with the victim’s own business dealings. These things were always possible, after all, and they didn’t keep such levels of security around them continuously for no reason. They knew the risks. But even with that, she wondered how they could continue to keep going. With Foma out of the picture, and potentially Kaminski, and also maybe Kuznetsov, given their losses, the group would be down to seven. Yes, they could bring new Hosts on board––she’d certainly done that before––but who would she use, and could they be trusted?
She heard the doors to the garden open once again downstairs and went to the window to confirm––they had come inside. She went down the stairway, though she couldn’t hear anything that was being said, so decided to join them.
“Why, it’s none other than your beautiful and ever delightful wife,” Matvey said as she entered the room. “Svetlana, a pleasure as always to see you,” and he kissed her on both cheeks, as was usual.
“Mr Filipov,” is all she said in reply.
“Svetlana, you show Matvey through to the sitting room, and I’ll go and rustle us up some tea,” Sergej said, leaving them both as he headed into the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” Svetlana said immediately when it was just the two of them.
“Just talking a little business with your husband, so relax.”
“I wasn’t aware you had any business with my husband?” she said, the two now in the sitting room, taking chairs opposite one another, their voices not much more than an urgent whisper.
“Not yet, but that’ll happen shortly. Look,” Matvey said, handing her a sheet of paper, “we don’t have long, and I wanted to bring you this.”
“What is it?” she said, looking down at what appeared to be an email of sorts.
“It’s the contract killing that Aleksey Kuznetsov arranged on Foma. This was taken from the dead sniper’s property.” Matvey’s men had found the same thing that Sasha had discovered.
Taking in his words, she studied the information more carefully, catching the oligarch’s name at the bottom, the reference to Foma clear and unmistakable.
“How did you get this?”
“Foma was a friend. He was like an uncle to my son. You must have known that I would go after the truth.” She slipped the sheet of paper under the sofa as her husband came in with the drinks.
“There you are,” he said, as Svetlana cleared some space on their coffee table for Sergej to put the tray on.
“What were you talking about when I was gone? Anything interesting?”
“Mr Filipov was just telling me a rather long joke, that’s all.”
“Oh, do tell me,” Sergej said, as he placed the cups on to saucers, Matvey starting to stand up.
“Another time, I’m afraid. I am expected somewhere else five minutes ago already.”
“And I’ve only just brought the tea in. Surely you can stay for one drink?” but Matvey was already on his way to the door, something that in some contexts would have been considered somewhat rude––though, in their wealthy circles, such behaviour happened. Svetlana handed him his jacket, Matvey going in close to her ear.
“It wasn’t a joke,” he said.
“Am I laughing?”
He straightened and smiled. He took Sergej’s hand when it was offered, both of their grips strong and confident, before he turned and walked out through the open door, his driver waiting for him on the circular driveway, opening the rear door to let him in as he got close. Seconds later they pulled away.
“A fascinating man,” Sergej said, turning and walking back in.
“What makes you say that?” Svetlana said, keeping her tone inquisitive, even if inside she was still reeling from what he’d just told her.
“Just everything we talked about. Business stuff really, his plans for the future. Nothing you’d be interested in, but I’d like to see more of him. I think he’s going places.”
She’d heard that phrase from her husband before––going places––and knew it meant trouble.
It was the morning of the sixteenth United Russia party congress, President Putin’s own party’s annual gathering. Once more the party members were gathering in Moscow, as September nights were drawing in. Over the next four days, various issues would get discussed, the first two days acting as the primary days of that year’s gathering, the first of which would be attended by Putin himself. He was widely expected to officially announce his intention to re-run for President at the elections the following March, something that he’d done at the 2011 congress, before his return to power. Not that he’d ever really laid down that power.
His announcement came just before the lunch interval. It was expected and planned––no one would be surprised to hear he was putting himself forward for a second six-year term––but the timing was such that as the delegates were just starting their lunch, the news was already beginning to spread.
Unlike previous years, Putin’s chief media connection and financier Sokoloff was especially conspicuous by his absence. He would typically have been orchestrating the media angle––last time around it had been a foregone conclusion that Putin was coming back to power––but still Sokoloff had worked the media side of things hard. They were not going to miss a trick.
While there were many journalists present––there always were––crucially, now, Putin didn’t have an inside track. The national broadcasters had been dramatically broken up following the Sokoloff collapse and subsequent suicide––which was still the only official story that had been released––and that continued to be an issue for the current President.
In his speech accepting the great honour and challenge of once again leading their great nation, Putin had talked about the growing tensions between Russia and the West––especially with America and the UK. He said that now was not the time to change leaders.
Now was not the time for Russia to go through the kind of meltdown Britain had had after its terrible handling of their own referendum on EU membership––something that would play into Russia’s hands––nor the shambolic way America had conducted their own Presidential race. It was Russia’s chance to show a different way––a United approach. The West was in tatters––those two votes had divided their own nations in half––and that wasn’t to be the case in Russia. They needed to be a united people, people to rally behind their current President and allow him to carry through all the good he’d started.
His speech was met with a rapturous applause––what you’d have expected on home soil, anyway––and it was a full ten minutes before the crowd began to go silent, lunch already calling.
In St Petersburg, Sasha watched the speech from his office at the FSB. It was impressive, strong and bold––everything their President should be, everything the nation demanded and expected from its leader. Sasha had not been contacted about Putin’s trip to England the following month, which wasn’t a surprise. Nor was he bothered by that. Knowing that Alex and Anissa were tasked with that responsibility from the British side, he’d get to know what was going on, the two parties continually sharing information with one another.
It put Putin’s words into stark relief––if these two Security Services would work together, instead of assuming the worst of each other––what more might be possible? Of course, he knew not everyone was like Alex and Anissa. He’d met Charlie in the past as well as Zoe. They seemed good agents. Open people. They were warm towards him, though he realised not everyone in his own agency would have been as welcoming. Anya had been––and that had got her killed. He was determined not to share her fate.
Dmitry Kaminski watched the speech from his London home. It was the only property he had left in England, the sale of his assets bringing in enough to keep the creditors away for the time being. Bitter lawsuits were being fought out in court, and Kaminski was struggling to keep hold of most of what else he had left. Kuznetsov’s money wouldn’t last long, and because of Kuznetsov’s stupidity in the last Hunt, Kaminski wasn’t sure if he now had much left anyway.
Kaminski knew nothing about who was behind the shooting, but believed the rumour that Foma was the victim. It might well work in his favour if Foma was out of the picture. Clearly, you couldn’t pay out a bet to a dead man, and outside of those walls––the walls and floor of the Volkov Games Room––no legal documentation could bind Kuznetsov to pay out his debt to the Polzin estate. It had been a man-to-man agreement, and now one of those men was no more. Kaminski would back his friend to the hilt––his own campaign chances were reliant on the funds Kuznetsov couldn’t afford to lose.
Matvey would catch up on the President’s speech at a later point. He knew what was coming, Putin’s announcement was nothing of a surprise to him––or anyone––but he
would watch it anyway just to get an up-to-date picture of the man. What would his main points be, where was his strength and therefore where were his weaknesses? Matvey already had a clear idea where those weaknesses were. It was Putin’s strongholds that he needed to undermine, and if not open them up, to at least expose them, to know what they were and where they existed. Then he might be able to do something about them.
He knew Putin was strong––that was why he’d been in power for so long, why the people loved him so much. You didn’t get that type of following in the West, where they couldn’t understand the Russian mindset, couldn’t work out why they backed their President as they did. Yet what example had these Western nations shown to them? Public slanging matches by Presidential hopefuls in America? What had that done to galvanise the country, besides giving half of the nation a common enemy? They were now divided as a result. Britain very much too––their collapse had been catastrophic, the plummeting pound doing Matvey an excellent service, as it further reduced Kaminski’s net worth, the man’s fortunes so explicitly tied to the UK economy. Their leaders had led their nation to a vote––only to all quit when the results were announced. A divided Europe––with the UK outside of the European Union could only be a good thing for the future of Russia. It made their nearest rival weaker.
The world had changed a lot in the last few years, and the next six would change it no doubt dramatically again. Russia held some keys to the future, a stable force in the face of challenging global conditions. Syria was an extensive dividing line between Russia and the West. It was the modern day Cuban missile crisis, waiting to explode, a potential flashpoint for direct conflict with America.
The next Presidential term would, therefore, include all these issues, and the next President needed to be prepared to be tough. Putin already held the office––and matched the criteria––but had he been in too long? Had the nations of the world started to work him out? There would be one or two other party candidates––those in opposition to Putin’s United Russia who would also put forward a candidate. Did any of them really have someone who would be a challenge?
