by Tim Heath
By the evening, they were eating at a steak restaurant in town––they always put their generous budget to good use––and their spirits were high. The meeting at the printer’s had gone well, their order placed. Money was paid upfront to keep everything quiet, though the company had been sourced for them as it was known to be discreet. Cash payments always left less of a paper trail.
Light snow was falling as they left the restaurant, the fresh cold air bringing a little life back into their overfed––overwatered––bodies, as they moved out into the streets of the Old Town. A music event was underway in the Town Hall Square, though the three-person group headed away from the small crowds who’d braved the weather to listen to the show.
As they wandered around cobbled streets, taking in the sights, exploring parts they’d not yet come across, another man––about fifty metres behind them––was keeping a close watch, remaining at a safe distance so as not to be seen, but very much on their tail.
London, England
Alex had been doing little all day––he’d not seen Anastasia, as she’d been busy––and he was bored out of his skin. It wasn’t in his nature to just do nothing. He desperately needed something.
Little did he know, as he wasn’t allowed to make contact with the office during his gardening leave, but the investigation into the murder of the journalist had taken a new twist. A full forensic search had been made of Manning’s home, and prints had been found that didn’t belong to the deceased. The dead man had lived alone.
These prints were being fed through the police database. Everything else was being checked, but nothing in the man’s possessions became apparent to give them any more than they had already.
It was that same afternoon when a fingerprint match was found––a call was put through to MI6 immediately.
“It’s one of yours,” the chief of police at New Scotland Yard had said once he was speaking to the Director General.
“Whose is it?” he said, though given the context, given the house in question where the print was found, the DG feared he already knew.
“Alex Tolbert. A single right thumb print found on the glass table in the victim’s dining room.”
“Okay, thank you for coming to me. Keep this between us, you are to make no official statement until I’ve given you the nod, understood?”
“With all due respect, you can’t just brush this one under the carpet…”
“Of course not,” the DG said, cutting across what he guessed was coming next. “I’m just asking to be able to resolve this internally, that’s all. Nothing must get leaked about this from your end. This is potentially a very sensitive situation.”
“I understand. I’ll give you a week.”
“Thank you. Remember, nothing until I’ve given the okay, got it?”
“Loud and clear.” The call ended.
The Director General stood and helped himself to some whisky that filled half of a crystal decanter he’d been given for an anniversary or birthday a decade or so ago. He swallowed hard, enjoying the burn the liquid made as it slid down his throat before putting the glass down. He stopped himself pouring another. He wasn’t going to go the way of his father and grandfather.
He went back to his desk, picking up the desk telephone and reaching his secretary.
“Get me Tolbert, immediately,” he said.
Two minutes later, she’d called back, connecting the call with Alex without saying anything.
“Alex, we need to speak,” he started, and over the next five minutes told Alex everything he’d just found out.
“I’ve never been to that man’s home,” Alex said, not for the first time.
“As you keep telling me.” His boss had in fact sided with his agent in the matter. The more he saw of it, the more he believed Alex, despite the evidence suggesting otherwise. He’d known straightaway that an agent of Alex’s ability––he was amongst the best they had––would have made a clean sweep of any prints he might have left behind. Had Alex been involved, there would have been no prints in that home. And yet, a single thumb print was found––in perfect condition––in a prominent place. After the DG had sounded Alex out, he’d come to the same conclusion: someone wanted to make it look like Alex was the culprit.
“I’ve stalled Scotland Yard from doing anything with this, for now. They won’t stay that way forever, of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” Alex said, relieved that it seemed finally his boss believed him. Nothing had been mentioned about Anastasia, however. That was a situation Alex was intimately involved with.
“What we need to work out, is who’s behind this and why? And why target you at all?”
“Maybe anyone would do? I just drew the short straw,” Alex said, trying to make light of the fact it’d been him.
“No, that doesn’t fit. There must be something more to it.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” which was a big lie. “I don’t know what more we can do.” Alex had plenty of places he could start looking, however. “Does it mean I can come back in?” There was a pause.
“It’ll be a little complicated to do that right away, you know how it is. I think we can get you back here within a few days. Anything sooner might look like I’m burying it all, to protect one of our own. While I know you are not involved––and I’m relieved to have that proof, now, Alex, you must know that––others will not be so easily convinced. You’re the only suspect they have at present.”
“Okay, I’ll stay where I am.”
“No, don’t do that. Go somewhere else. Anywhere will suffice. Just make sure you aren’t followed. I’ll catch you on this number when it’s time to bring you in.”
They finished the call, Alex grabbing a few things and putting them into a bag, not knowing how much he needed, but not wanting to take anything bigger than a rucksack in case he was being followed.
16
Moscow, Monaco & London
It seemed to Matvey Filipov that the whole world was against him at that moment, and he couldn’t wait to get out of Moscow. The two debates he was involved in––one having been with Putin, the other with a Communist party candidate––were over. His opinion poll rankings were at a low point. He was in a weak third position. He still had time––there was a long way to go, and getting out of the public spotlight for a while might well boost his chances.
His jet took him back to Monaco, his longtime home that he shared with his son––a son he hadn’t heard from for days, and now Matvey was starting to fear the worst. He knew Andre had travelled to Paris and most certainly met with Mark Orlov there in a property the Russian billionaire was about to purchase. The blood traces––found in the warehouse and initially not mentioned to Matvey until the results had come in––were those of his son.
Matvey had already starting mourning the loss of his only child. There was no doubting Andre’s fate anymore.
Matvey was still punishing himself for how he had let this happen. He’d been up close and worked alongside Mark Orlov in his last, and only, Games event. How had he not seen another side of a man who had such a destructive nature? To have harmed his son just made it personal. Matvey was going to destroy him.
That would be a lot easier to do once he was President––and as he reminded himself of those damning poll results, that outcome was looking more unlikely by the day. Damn you, Foma.
Most of all, Matvey felt betrayed. Betrayed by a friend gone rogue, betrayed by a man who should have known better, betrayed by a son turning to another man––besides himself––for help. Betrayed by a nation too stupid to back his campaign. He would show them. He would show them all.
In the absence of Andre and Foma, the house felt empty; his household staff were there, but they formed an invisible backdrop, no more. As Matvey walked the corridors he refused to dwell on the memories. Andre as a boy, running to his mother, Matvey’s wife bringing him coffee on the terrace, Andre playing with his train-set inside the patio doors as the tiles burnt h
is feet outside. Matvey had spent far less time with his son back then. Matvey’s wife took care of Andre as Andre grew up, but still, those memories hung around like ghosts. Matvey shared good times with Foma too, not just during the imposed imprisonment after the attempted assassination, but during many business gatherings. Good memories. Moments of a significant breakthrough in business celebrated with a glass of something expensive.
For the first time in years, the absence of his beautiful wife suddenly hurt again––the connection to Andre since her death going a long way to cover the pain buried inside. Now Andre had gone the same way. Home represented a life he would never have again. Happy memories, but so very twisted now. Had Foma been planning his Judas moment for all that time?
Or had Matvey himself––his thoughts homing in on what others might have called his own personal failings––been the catalyst for Foma stabbing him in the back? Had he been too rash in discarding his friend, letting him take out a yacht he knew would sink? Had that been his mistake? Matvey dismissed it immediately. None of this was his doing. All he had been trying to do that entire time––all his life in fact––was make his nation stronger.
And the best thing for the future of Russia was with his leadership. If they were brave enough to hand him the power he would show the world how imposing his nation was. After, of course, he had cleansed the Motherland of those who had no place in that great nation’s future.
Matvey stayed only a couple of hours in the house that was now just bricks and mortar to him––a haven for so many years, but just as quickly discarded––and left without saying anything to anyone. He didn’t know if he would return. If necessary, he would arrange someone to sell it, informing the entire staff via an email that they were all fired. He would make that decision later.
He drove himself to the airport, where his crew had been preparing for an immediate turnaround. Refuelled and restocked, they took off just twenty minutes after Matvey pulled up alongside the jet and were heading to London.
There was one phrase which had stayed with Matvey from his son’s computer records. As the flight progressed, Matvey read through once more the notes he’d been making on the Machine.
Matvey was now confident that Mark Orlov was involved in whatever organisational structure this group had––it’d been hard to know where to start initially and had taken Matvey time and significant resources to find any sort of entry point. But he had got there in the end.
Knowing––just as his own network operated, in fact––that billionaires never did the legwork themselves, it was his search for any such support teams that gave Matvey his first inroad. He had men watching a group of three people who had suddenly travelled from Finland to Estonia, as well as people on the ground in England. He had a team of four working on the technical side, mostly trying to locate Mark Orlov himself, and from there ascertain to who else Mark was connected to.
Matvey was angry that he’d so greatly miscalculated Orlov. He’d been close enough to strike him––he could have quickly taken him out when they had been on the same team for that final Games event, though that was no longer in his thinking. Killing him would have to be the last thing Matvey did, once he’d thoroughly destroyed everything the man had. Orlov had to see his own demise first. He had to experience his world crumbling to nothing, those he cared about taken from him, everything he controlled handed to others. The man had to go through what Matvey had been made to experience––then death would be a welcome escape, a longed-for destination, and only then would Matvey finish him off.
Matvey landed in London––it was mid-February, and there were no other private jets at all scheduled to arrive that day. Most had better sense––and warmer places they would rather be––than to fly to a damp and cold England. Still, he’d been in much colder weather just a day before in Moscow, so the English capital was nothing, but depressingly cloudy.
London was a city that Matvey didn’t actually own a property in. He’d never seen the point, living in Monaco as often as possible, with business interests globally. The UK had not appealed to him as much as it seemingly did to so many of his Russian peers. They’d flocked to the British capital, buying up homes, businesses and even football teams.
Matvey was, therefore, heading to a city centre hotel where he had a suite booked for the week––he didn’t know how long he would be there, but he didn’t want to feel rushed––when his phone rang. It was his team in Tallinn giving him their daily update.
“It’s confirmed. The target is the centennial celebrations happening on the 24th,” the team leader said, Matvey automatically looking at the date on his watch despite knowing that it was four days away. “We think they are aiming to do something during the country’s Independence Day parade.” The men working for Matvey who were tracking the team in Tallinn had only recently arrived––they’d not seen anything to do with the car park underneath Freedom Square. They had to quickly play catch up. “They’ve taken appointments with several people––weapons, fertiliser, machinery and a printer.”
“A printer?” said Matvey.
“Yes, it seems odd to us too. We looked into it. Seems to be a legitimate printing operation, though they are noted as having strong connections with criminal organisations. They’ll happily print anything––and we mean anything––with no questions asked and nothing reported.”
“Still, it’s most probably their cover for being in Tallinn in the first place. These other meetings, you have watchers in place?” It was a foregone conclusion that they would, yet still, more often than not, Matvey asked the obvious question.
“Yes, sir, we have people tailing everyone they’re talking to. We’re gathering as much information as we can, as well as tapping into the local criminal underworld.” That was always sensible. There was nothing like the thought of outsiders stepping onto someone’s turf to get the locals onside. They could most often flush out anyone that didn’t belong faster than most.
“Very good. Keep up the good work, and I’ll speak with you again tomorrow morning.” Matvey hung up, there was no point in speaking longer to these people than he needed. They all had better things to get on with.
Forty minutes later he was dropped outside the front entrance to his hotel––an expensive and impressive structure in the heart of London. He was greeted by name at the door by a member of staff––he’d stayed there just once before, but that type of service was on par for such hotels––and was then taken directly up to his suite. His bags arrived moments after he’d been shown around the three-roomed complex. He was mildly impressed.
They then left him in peace. Matvey opened the door onto the balcony––a splendid view of the River Thames greeted him, the London Eye large and prominent along the water’s edge, the Houses of Parliament just beyond. Further down the Thames, at the point where the river twisted from view, sat Vauxhall House, home to MI6.
It was a member of the British Security Service that Matvey had on his mind at that moment.
Picking up a few sheets of information––his teams knew how much he valued detailed reports on anyone and anything he requested them to look into––Matvey read up everything there was on Alex Tolbert. He began with his suspected involvement during specific Hunt events, where he was at best just watching from the sidelines with his eternal colleague Anissa Edison. He had information on her, too, though Matvey’s mind had been focused on Alex since he had landed in London that morning.
Matvey read about all the recent troubles––the death of the journalist Wilson Manning was included in the report, despite it not being public knowledge. Matvey had always invested heavily over the decades to have people––his people––in the right places for just the right time. That had produced brilliant results in the cases of Phelan McDermott and Maggie Thompson. The first affair between those two––nothing to do with him but he’d indeed noted it, as he did with every single flaw he saw in anybody he had investigated––had been the way into Maggie’s final employer. By
forcing Phelan back into Maggie’s life, Matvey had used the affair to make her call in the loan made to the Meridian Capital Union, a Union ultimately controlled by Dmitry Kaminski––fellow Russian billionaire and a rival candidate in the Russian Presidential election.
Matvey made a series of calls as the afternoon pushed on, boats of various sizes moving up and down the river as the Russian stood watching, mostly from behind his closed windows, the outdoor air chilly and uninviting. The calls were to ascertain the latest situation regarding Alex––he knew that the British agent had been given gardening leave from his post within MI6. He needed to know who was behind it and why. His suspicions lay with Mark Orlov, as there didn’t appear to be any other people or groups with interest in the agent. As Matvey did with everything , if he could work these situations, he would turn them to his advantage. If somebody’s freedom or condemnation were within his control, subject to his say-so, Matvey had found over the decades that both were excellent motivators to get people doing precisely what he wanted.
And Alex was his next target.
It was that evening when Matvey made his approach. He had watched the female companion just leave––he knew immediately who she was.
“How interesting,” Matvey said aloud, the fact Anastasia Kaminski was seen coming out of the same building where Alex Tolbert lived, was indeed no coincidence. Matvey had been informed that she was most likely having an affair with someone––Matvey had people prying into the lives of all the men he was up against, which included Kaminski––but to make that connection to MI6’s very own Alex, made things all the more fascinating. He logged that piece of information.
Matvey entered the building alone, his team with him told to wait outside in the car. What he was about to discuss with Alex wasn’t for them to hear.
