by Tim Heath
Then as well as himself there was Dmitry Kaminski. He was very different, but they were both from wealthy backgrounds, though the future for Kaminski, based in England, was now anything but secure. The next six months would see all these contenders come together. Only one could become the next President of the Russian Federation.
20
The month of September had raced by, and despite MI6 being busy ahead of Putin’s Official visit to London just one week away, Dmitry Kaminski had demanded to see Thomas Price. They’d been meeting monthly, though this call had come only a fortnight after their last appointment. Kaminski had sounded rattled.
Once more Duke’s club was the venue, there were few places in London like it, even fewer where the walls did not have ears. Such establishments were a dying breed––and that was a shame.
Thomas was once again the first to arrive, but Kaminski’s arrival just minutes later confirmed somewhat the desperate nature of the Russian businessman. The DDG wondered for the first time if all their years of grooming, all their hours of working this man, were about to come to nothing. Price was seeing the man behind the curtain––and suddenly it wasn’t looking like much at all.
They took their seats––same booth, same positions just as always––their drinks being prepared already at the bar, the barman having long since stopped actually asking them what they wanted, both men always ordering the same thing. It gave them more time to talk, without the added distraction of a waiter coming over.
“What is it?” Price said, a little shorter than he intended to be, his tone like that of an authoritarian teacher or parent speaking to a moaning child.
“I need to know I have your complete backing,” Kaminski started, clearly not beginning with what was really on his mind, but Price would go with it, they would get there eventually.
“Do I have to repeat myself, Dmitry, you’ve had our backing for a long time.”
“And Putin’s visit next week?”
“He is still your current President, and it was announced to us rather than by invitation. Relax, it changes nothing.”
“It does if he manages to convince your lot he’s the right man to run the country.”
“My lot? You mean our measly excuse for a government? One thing we do at least agree on is that we don’t like, or trust, Putin. Haven’t for the last decade. Ukraine, Syria, his own country’s views on certain lifestyle choices…”
“You know I share much of those views, too,” Kaminski said. He’d always found the West’s openness to teach homosexuality to children as a way of life––imprinting the idea on such innocent minds––to be totally wrong.
“Relax, Kaminski, and drink your coffee,” which had just arrived, the waiter now gone from their presence.
“How are things with Meridian?” Price asked, his own understanding entirely clear, the collapse and subsequent dismantling of the entire Banking Union having filled the business pages for months already.
“It will all be public knowledge before the end of the year, no doubt. It’s all slipping through my fingers. Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do?”
“About what exactly? The billions of dollars of debt you can’t repay? I’m not sure you’ve exactly understood our relationship, Dmitry.”
“Relationship?” he spat, “you make it look like this is two way, but I’m just here to do your bidding, isn’t that right, to be Britain’s man in Russia? Is that all you see me as?”
“Are you thinking about your place in history, Dmitry, because, believe me…”
“Don’t you dare patronise me!” and Kaminski got up, swearing at Price as he threw his teacup clean across the room and into the wall nearest them.
“Sit down, Dmitry!” Price warned, “you are making a bloody scene, and that’s the last thing you need right now.” Kaminski sat down, the barman calmly going over to pick up the broken pieces. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened––wouldn’t be the last, either.
“I’m worried, that’s all. There are rumours,” Kaminski said, calmer again, as quiet as he could be with his pulse still racing, his blood pressure high.
“What rumours?”
“They’re whispers really, but in my line of work, that’s all we usually have to go on.” Price had not come across anything that he could immediately fit these rumours Kaminski might be alluding to. “One is Matvey Filipov. He’s a threat.”
“In what way?”
“He’s come at me––he’s been victorious, too, it would seem. Why? Why take me out unless I am a threat to him? Unless he wants the same thing that I want.”
“He wants to stand for President?” That was new information to Price. He knew of Matvey somewhat, due to his involvement with Kaminski––it paid to know who the other oligarchs were––but aside his vast wealth, which had always been considerably more than Kaminski’s had been, he knew little else. Maybe that would now have to change regarding Matvey Filipov. If Matvey might also be a friend to the UK and could beat Putin, then he certainly warranted some of their attention.
“That’s the rumour.”
“Where did you hear it from?”
“From enough people who I trust to make it valid, okay,” is all he said. He wasn’t going to give MI6 that insight into his connections.
“A few months ago there was a trial in St Petersburg. A British national was charged with murdering a Russian janitor. She did it, I’m aware of that fact, anyway. A French woman was the prosecution’s key witness. As was one of your own.”
“Oh, yes, Anissa Edison,” only now did Thomas make the connection.
“Yes, that one. The trial blew up in our faces.”
“In whose face? Yours?”
“Possibly, yes.”
“You said you had nothing to do with that? I asked you right here about that before I allowed my agent to take that bloody trip, and you sat where you are now sitting and categorically denied you had any involvement in that situation.”
“There was nothing to connect me to it, plus it wasn’t my girl on trial.”
“Your girl?––you’re connected to the witness?” Price couldn’t believe what he was being told.
“Possibly, yes. I think Matvey has that evidence, somehow. I think he’ll use it to implicate me in the crime. To at least muddy the waters.”
“Then prepare for it; make a statement or something. Pre-empt the attack.”
“That would be risky, and would certainly implicate me in the crime. I’d have to come clean about certain involvements, which wouldn’t go down well with anyone.”
“What option do you have? If Matvey does have this on you, he’ll use it.”
“It might just be rumours. I don’t know for sure.”
“You either are, or you aren’t, I can’t see what the problem is. Is this going to be a problem for you, Dmitry?”
“Is what going to be a problem?” he said, not liking the tone Price had just used as if looking down at a much weaker man in front of him.
“Being tough when you need to be. Striking out before you are struck.”
“Of course it isn’t! I just don’t think wading into what is already a very delicate situation with too much truth is what anyone needs right now.”
“You need closure on that one, Dmitry, before you announce you’re running, I’m telling you. Something like that could come back to bite you when you can’t afford it.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Price, I’m more than capable of making such decisions myself.” The Deputy Director General could see when arguing was becoming futile, instead placing his cup back on its saucer.
“Very good, I’ll leave that in your capable hands.” He’d called the Russian’s bluff. It worked.
“I’m not saying I don’t need your help and advice, my old friend.” So they were old friends now were they?
“What are you asking for exactly, then?” Finally, they were getting to the crux of the problem.
“Is there nothi
ng you can do about either man?”
“Putin and Filipov?” Kaminski nodded. “Do what, exactly?” Price didn’t like insinuations––if the man were asking what he thought he was asking, he would have to say it directly.
“Stop them. Do whatever it is MI6 do when they need a threat––a problem––to go away. You’ve said all along that you want our two nations to work together, to heal our wounds and become stronger. You’ve said you will back me with everything you have at your disposal to help me win that race. And yet, I’m just about to be kicked out of my home, my entire UK operations are now in the hands of other people, and I have two very dangerous men standing in front of me, neither of whom I now have the financial clout to be able to remove.”
“Assassinate them, you mean? You are asking me to order a British hit on these two men––one being your current President?” He sat back in his chair, arms raised to the ceiling, lost for words. He’d done some things in his time within MI6, but he’d never been asked to do something as potentially explosive as that before.
“Well?” Kaminski said, as if accepting it was asking a lot, but still he was there asking it.
“Well? Are you out of your mind? We can’t be seen to do anything like that, you must know that by now?”
“Be seen? God, Price, I’m not asking you to share the details with the world. It’ll only take one man––Putin has plenty of enemies in this country––to put a bullet through his skull as he tours your city next week.”
“It can’t be done here,” Price said, conceding for the first time that he wasn’t ruling out a hit.
“Where then? Moscow? You wouldn’t have a chance. London is as close as you’re ever going to get to him. You can take care of Matvey after.”
“You would have us just kill your rivals?”
“You wanted me to be tough. Well, this is it.”
Price sat there in silence for a moment, for the first time looking around the club, though it was as empty and private as always. He poured himself another cup of tea.
“We don’t know where he’ll be until he’s already here. They aren’t giving us that information.”
“Still, you can have someone ready, no?”
“I don’t know, Dmitry. It could force a war. If they ever found out…”
“Make sure they don’t. Besides, if these men are out of the picture, I’d be able to step in. We can call an early election––there are enough people who know I’ve intended to run all along, even if it’s not public knowledge. Once I’m President, you would have nothing to fear. As things stand, you might otherwise be heading towards conflict, regardless.” It was true, the protests outside the Russian embassy in London had been growing more violent over the last year, ever since Boris Johnson encouraged crowds to gather and make their voices heard on Syria. That was something that made Putin’s visit a surprise. Relations between the two nations were at an all-time low. Maybe that was why he needed to be seen here. Maybe he wanted to show his voters that the West didn’t scare him, that he’d go anywhere he was still welcome.
“I’ll have a look at the possibility,” is all Price ended with, Kaminski smiling. He knew if something like that was going to be done, London offered them an ideal opportunity. No other location would give them as many options. Ironically, it was Matvey Filipov who appeared to be the harder of the two targets right at that moment. Putin putting himself into British hands––he would have his own unit, but MI6 was tasked with organising a lot of his protection––had made the President vulnerable.
“We’ll meet here the morning of his visit, and we can toast each other to a bright future,” Kaminski said, “drink some fine champagne next time, for a change.”
Price smiled––he wasn’t so confident that there would be anything to celebrate. Yes, he had some contacts, but such a move would be going way off the national agenda. For sure, they’d been courting Kaminski for years, and that alone was a highly risky action, if it was ever known. The circle which did know that––he represented MI6, there were two within MI5 as well as about eight cabinet ministers––was small, and even then, he knew he couldn’t mention this latest request. He would be acting alone, applying what he understood as British foreign agenda, but writing his own contribution to that schedule.
The two men left––Price agreeing to meet Kaminski again on the morning of the Putin visit––though whether they would have anything to actually celebrate, depended entirely on what options he would be able to make work. Right now he didn’t know what to think, who to speak to, who to trust.
21
That same week in China there was a World Economic Forum event, and for the first time in her life, Svetlana Volkov had joined her husband on a trip to the vast nation in the east, though it shared a northern border with her own land. Having an actress of her stature in the country was seen as a boost for the Chinese film industry, and she worked that angle a little while being there.
At the event itself––something she insisted on attending with Sergej, despite his suggestion that she would be bored there––were a number of the Russians from her T20 group. Not all could make it, nor was this a specific Games event, but the six who were there gathered in an upstairs room during the first break. The others would just have to be told the information later on.
She was not in a good mood.
“There will be no event this New Year,” she said, the first time in the Hunt’s nearly twelve year history that there hadn’t been a gathering at that time of year, the cracks maybe beginning to show in what had otherwise been a solid partnership with them all. “It has come to my attention that the shooting of Foma Polzin wasn’t in fact just a random killing, but something planned, paid for and executed by one of our very own. Aleksey Kuznetsov,” who wasn’t one of the six who had attended that conference, “is the man in question, the very man on the losing end of yet another cataclysmic day’s betting. I fear therefore the novelty of what was always a little fun between us,” yet that was an understatement, to say the least, “has now run its course. I can’t be caught up in anything criminal. I will not accept or tolerate such behaviour. Gentlemen, for those who still deserve that title, anyway,” and she looked at no one in particular, though the accusation was there for all of them, “I wish you every success in the future, but my part in this is now over. You shall as always never make reference to what we have been involved in, and should our paths ever cross in the future––as of course they will––I expect you each to walk the other way. Have I made myself clear?”
It was difficult to hear such a bitter tone, such heated words coming from someone so elegant, so graceful as Svetlana, though she was clearly fuming because of the whole situation.
The shooting had really got to her. When she’d been given that confirmation––she had her own suspicions following what had happened that day, but didn’t want to believe the worst––that it was Kuznetsov, she’d gone into meltdown. Something she’d held so dearly––the Games––had been turned into something so ugly. Yes, Contestants had died before. The financial losses of one Host had even resulted in him taking his own life, though by that point she was long past mourning the death of Sokoloff, a man who’d slapped her across the face the last time they’d seen each other.
It had got wildly out of hand. The whole thing was ruined for Svetlana now and had to go. Even the T10––the last event multiple times bigger than anything ever attempted before, and won in a matter of months––was now ruined. She’d let the men get above themselves. Maybe that had been the issue, her mistake? To have allowed them to dictate what was going to happen, to come up with their own suggestions.
It didn’t matter anymore. There was no going back now. Some of these men––the winning five in the T10 for sure––were becoming very powerful indeed. Matvey particularly concerned her. She’d seen his type many times, including her own husband before they’d married. She’d managed to tame him––he was now a reformed character. But she was sure the beas
t remained, however. Buried, yes, and under control, but tame? She wasn’t sure. Gone forever? She was sure it wasn’t. If Matvey got too involved with her Sergej, there was no knowing what it would do to her husband.
She left the meeting room fighting back tears of anguish and disappointment, taking the stairs and thankfully not seeing anyone else as she went up to her top floor suite. She would stay there for the rest of the day until her husband returned. They were due out that evening for dinner with some of the Chinese Communist Party leaders––it was a big deal––and she wanted time to recover, to prepare herself and be ready to impress everyone on behalf of her husband. Just like she always did.
It was the final few hours of preparation before the Russian President was due to touchdown at a still unspecified UK airport the next morning. His precise plans were being kept secret.
Alex had been tasked with heading up the team and had gone at it somewhat head-on for the last few months, the previous week solid for sure. Senior technician Gordon Peacock was running the online surveillance side––so far there were no signs of trouble, nothing credible, anyway––but there had been plenty of chatter. The Russian President’s visit was causing quite a stir, with various groups planning to stage any number of protests and demonstrations in the capital during the coming days, and especially on the day of the visit itself. Some had already been held. Gordon was keeping a close watch on where these were heading––both in their geographical meeting points, as well as their aspirations for the protest itself.
Anissa––coming back into things more strongly only in the last few days, everything a little in the air since her arrival back from Russia some weeks before––was working through the possible routes and stop-offs Putin might take. She ignored the irony that herself deported and banned from Russia for five years just a few short months ago, she was on the inside of the security operation looking to protect the President of the country that said she was no longer welcome.
