by Tim Heath
“I’ve got you this far, and you still question my sources? You surprise me, Alex. And disappoint me.” Alex was sick of being spoken down to as if Matvey was some disapproving father figure who was continually frustrated at a wayward son. Alex let it go.
“Where did they meet?”
“Sorry?”
“Putin and Price. They must have met somewhere. He had time.”
“Does it matter?”
“Price was heading somewhere.”
“They probably chatted in the car. I hardly think it matters what the location of the meeting was. He had your boss killed. You wanted the information, and this is it. Do with it what you will.” Matvey had suddenly become very short with him. Alex figured he either didn’t know where they’d met, or didn’t want to say.
Alex remembered the barman who’d given the police Price’s name––someone they’d never been able to trace, despite searching extensively. Someone local who knew Thomas Price.
“And tomorrow?” Alex said, dropping the subject about his former DDG and turning it back on to more pressing matters.
“You’ll have the information as soon as I have it. I take it you have everyone in place?”
“We have people on the ground, yes. In place? Until we know where to look, that’s a little harder to organise.”
“Give me time,” and Matvey ended the call. Alex hadn’t been as easy to control as Matvey had hoped. The agent should have swallowed the information in one go about Putin and the killing of the DDG, yet there had been only questions. Matvey wasn’t going to mention Duke’s as the location of the meeting. Alex would just have to accept what he’d given him––there was going to be nothing more in that regard.
Matvey looked at a photo on the wall. It was of him and his son, standing alongside the new yacht. He’d taken ownership of it the day of the photo, going out with Andre on the water for the first time moments after that picture was taken. Good memories. He paused for a while, recalling the connection he’d discovered with his son. They’d purchased the yacht after the death of his wife––Andre’s mother––and the years since had seen them relate like they’d never done before.
Now Andre had been taken from him too. And the yacht was gone as well.
An insurance payout was still awaited on the yacht, not that he really needed the money. The vessel had yet to be located, and given the cost of the payout, the insurance company wanted to confirm it had actually sunk before shelling out.
Matvey focused his thoughts on Mark Orlov. He could picture him with a gun in his hand, shooting his little boy. In the nightmares, Andre was always about five or six, an age his father had always remembered, the connection to his son still innocent. He was a father who could do no wrong, at least in Andre’s young eyes. By the age of seven, Andre was old enough to realise his daddy wasn’t really there for him––too busy with work to spend time with him––their relationship stalled.
Mark Orlov had taken this all away from him.
A statement needed to be made. It would be possible to just arrange a sniper to take out the murdering betrayer that Mark had become. Yet that would be too easy for a man who had to suffer. Matvey would also have had to select the said assassin carefully––these things had a nasty way of backfiring if you spoke to the wrong people––but he was sure he had the contacts.
Matvey also knew very little about the Machine––a word that had been enough of a rumour for his son to fly to Paris and seek out Mark Orlov, only to be killed as a direct result. Matvey needed to expose everyone involved in whatever the Machine was. He’d dismantled the Games: Svetlana with her group of oligarchs and all their secret associations. He feared the Machine was a beast not so easily stopped, not so easily infiltrated and therefore much harder to actually locate.
At least he had Orlov. This was where he would start.
Orlov owned properties everywhere. He was a man worth well over $13 billion, one of Russia’s wealthiest oligarchs. Men that wealthy tended to have an abundance of homes scattered around the planet. As far as Matvey could tell, however, the two that Orlov most treasured were his Moscow residence and an island getaway property he had in the Caribbean. Matvey would destroy both. While Orlov was focused on Tallinn and the following day’s events, Matvey had instructed two teams to plant explosive devices at each location––obliteration was the order of the day.
A message had to be sent. By ten the following evening, Mark Orlov would receive that message loud and clear.
18
Tallinn, Estonia
Centennial Day––AM
Anissa had woken early and was eating breakfast with Charlie and Zoe before eight that morning. Overnight, terror alerts had been raised to the highest level. Calls had been put into Westminster alerting the British Prime Minister of the threat, as well as similar calls to some other nations.
By the morning, these had included The White House and NATO command.
“Good morning, Anissa,” said the field commander of the MI5 unit based in Estonia as he walked over with someone she didn’t recognise. MI5 was tasked with the personal safety of all British dignitaries involved in the day––though there was no specific threat reported on any of these people. MI6 were working the wider angle, and trying to help with the efforts of closing down any threats there might be. “This is Toomas Sinisalu of the Estonian Internal Security Service,” he said to Anissa as she rose and shook the Estonian’s hand. His jacket depicted a crest with some sort of eagle holding a banner with three lions on it. The letters KaPo had been worked into his jacket sleeve.
“It’s nice to meet you, Toomas,” she said.
Toomas had just come from a government briefing, following a call they’d had with NATO. The NATO aircraft in the area had been put on alert. The Estonian airforce, as well as the military, were in a similar state of readiness. As the news circulated and gathered pace within the security community, it was deemed that any such attack by anyone connected to any particular state––Russia was the name everyone assumed but no one said––would be tantamount to war, and a military response would be called for.
On its own, Estonia had little chance of defending its borders against an advancing army––their thousand year history served as a testament to that fact––though as a NATO member, they had access to help. In the build-up to the US elections two years before, Trump had made it clear that he didn’t consider it compulsory to send in troops, despite the NATO ethos that if one country got invaded, all were.
America’s stance was made clear the night before––the President was standing by that refusal to get involved––and the baton was passed to NATO. In stepped the rest of the world.
By eight that morning, therefore, a full-blown diplomatic situation was already underway, yet with each passing hour, it only seemed to gather more momentum.
In London, calls were made to Moscow, though these were not being answered. Relations between the two countries had soured massively in recent years, fuelled by several situations which neither side had come out from well. It was finally the Chinese who managed to get some dialogue going with the Kremlin, the firm response clear that they had no such interest in the events of Tallinn, neither was there any government sanctioned actions toward anyone.
In Brussels, European Union members were meeting together in a hastily arranged breakfast gathering. All were keen to avoid a repeat of what had been happening in Ukraine over the previous five years from repeating itself in Estonia, a country with a similar mix between ethnic locals, and those who had always lived there but with Russian heritage and speaking the Russian language. Everyone present was keen to see a de-escalation. They knew any military action––even if just to show defiance, to act as a deterrent––could be interpreted as a provocation. It only takes one spark to start a wildfire.
When Toomas had finished updating the three British MI6 agents on how things stood, he left them to their breakfast––which they’d all but finished by then anyway, and anythin
g left suddenly lost its appeal. The three agents quickly went.
Anissa caught Alex by telephone seconds after leaving the breakfast hall, filling him in quickly with the highlights.
“We’ve got to assume provocation is precisely what this is all about,” Alex said when she’d finished.
“My thoughts entirely. Is there still no news on the target?”
“No. Is the event still proceeding as planned? Surely this has to change things?”
“Word is we carry on as scheduled. We can’t be swayed by terrorists. This is a huge moment for the nation.”
“Which is precisely why it’s a melting pot of terrorist potential right now,” Alex said with some concern.
“Chase up Filipov, surely he knows something by now.” He had been trying to do that all morning, all to no avail––Matvey only answered the first of his ten calls and cut him off after saying he would call Alex when he had something to report. That was many hours ago.
Right across Tallinn, local police teams were beginning to put barriers in place as they prepared the city for the day’s events. The parade through Freedom Square would happen shortly after noon, following immediately on the back of a speech by the President. The ceremony would last an hour, finished by a ten jet flyover––one jet for every decade of independence. Besides, ten jet fighters were all the Estonia Airforce had available. NATO offered a few more––not for the event itself, but for protection should the need arise––but they were grounded for the time being, pending further instruction.
Police helicopters were in the air shortly after nine. A no-fly zone for any other aircraft came into force from ten, and flights in and out of Tallinn’s only commercial airport were suspended between eleven and two that afternoon.
A team of military snipers, supplemented by the British with their own ten men, were due to take up positions across eighteen key locations, watching for anything suspicious.
Freedom Square itself was closed off from ten that morning, diversions put in place and side streets leading to the area cordoned off. The underground car park directly underneath the square was closed––those twelve cars and one van already inside, checked off against a KaPo database and given the all clear. Not even buses were now allowed to move past that part of the city, those citizens living centrally who weren’t watching the day’s events, having to walk to leave the area.
Two lorries from ETV, the Estonian state-owned television channel were setting up their cameras for the live broadcast that started with the President’s words. It was to be a national celebration––the start of a two day holiday, the extra day added explicitly because of that centennial milestone.
Armed police officers––an unfamiliar sight around the streets of the Estonian capital––were visible and prominent. Today was about a show of strength, making a visual impression. No one was going to be allowed to spoil the party.
The Kremlin, Moscow––Russia
Centennial Day––AM
The President currently had his complete inner circle with him, calls which had started early that morning from various places not helping matters at all. First, it was the Americans, via their NATO connections. Then different European leaders. All asking––all accusing, in fact––Russia and Putin personally of being behind an imminent attack in Tallinn.
For it to be of Russian origin and for the Kremlin to know nothing about it––if indeed the rumours and intelligence were even right––was telling. And it was worrying. The sheer number of calls they’d received that morning indeed suggested there were some grounds to the fear that was surrounding the unfolding events in Tallinn.
“We have recorded military deployment by Estonia forces just beyond our western border, sir,” one man said, Putin very much in control of his war room. “NATO forces have been told to standby. Their bases across Northern Europe have jets armed and ready.”
There was an uneasy silence. None of this had been Putin’s doing––so why were they calling?
“Find out who is behind this. Get me real-time intelligence from the ground. These bloody people are acting as if a war is about to break out. Find out why!” he screamed, the various people present scampering away to find the answers he had demanded.
“Should we be on standby too, sir?” said the head of Russia’s armed forces.
“I don’t think that would be a wise move, Constantine, do you? They would almost certainly take that as a provocation. We’ve tested their limits enough. If we wanted to invade anyone, we would be in before they could make any response. So no, for now, we monitor. When we know what is behind all this––why they are in such an uproar––we can plan our next move. This might all work to our advantage. Scramble a team of special forces, have them made ready. We might be able to send in a team of our own to shake things up a little if needed.”
“Very well, sir.” The man turned on his heel and went to work.
Putin walked across to a television screen, which was showing events in Tallinn as preparations were getting underway for the centennial celebrations.
“Estonia, Estonia,” the President said, “of course this place had to be at the heart of today’s events.” Tallinn had held the regatta for the 1980 Moscow Olympics––then just another city in the Soviet Union. Putin, five years into his KGB career and not yet twenty-eight years old, had been posted to Tallinn during the Olympic Games. He had fond memories. He’d never since been invited back in any official capacity.
Estonia, like Ukraine before the civil war––and all the former Soviet states in fact, due to the Soviet practice of moving citizens around the Union––had a high number of ethnic Russians living there. Right down the Baltic nations, clear divisions still remained between the two groups––all natives of the land, all Estonian, Latvian or Lithuanian by passport, yet divided by those who spoke the national language, and those who only spoke Russian. Nearly forty per cent of Estonians fitted into the latter category. Some cities in the Baltics––especially along the eastern border with Russia––were almost entirely Russian speaking.
It was nearly an hour later when the entire war committee was once more gathered around his vast conference table. Various people were reporting NATO movements––the Estonian military was not an issue, and most were in Tallinn for the parade, anyway. Then the man who was his link to the FSB––the modern, respectable face of what had been the KGB, a security service steeped in sinister history––rose to speak to the room, though he addressed Putin directly.
“It’s confirmed, sir. It’s them again.”
When Putin had won his first election, there had been some noticeable influence––interference, in fact––in the background. It had worked in his favour, so he’d let it happen. If they weren’t against you, they were for you. Any support was good support. But because of who was involved––they knew it included Lev Kaminski and Sergej Volkov––there remained a little question mark over it all.
In public, neither of these men were overly enthusiastic in support of their President. If they were secret fans, they were doing a great job of hiding that. That made Putin cautious. He’d put a small team onto them.
Over the years––and his successful reelections––the information he had gathered grew. Nothing much was done about it––he was still winning, the nation was moving forward, and Putin was already thinking about his legacy rather than votes. His role was seemingly untouchable.
The background noise of the Games went someway to distract––the Kremlin had far less on them, aware of something happening but their meetings had always happened behind closed doors. It seemed to involve Volkov again, though it was not obvious why.
Putin feared what he didn’t know––what he couldn’t control––and anything within Russian ranks that threatened his power and influence, would always be seen as a target to be exposed and dealt with.
In that war room––it was the day after the Defender of the Fatherland Day in Russia, a substantial military celebration rememberin
g all soldiers, past and present, who had defended Russia––everyone knew who them meant. They’d never been able to find an actual name for the Machine––that was because they rarely used anything in communications––but they existed in the files of the Kremlin by reputation alone.
This organisation had been a hidden monster for many years––they caught Putin’s radar during that first election––but God knew how long they had already been living in the shadows. Maybe decades. Like any beast, hiding and secretive, it was human nature to want it exposed, to have a light shone upon it––ultimately to kill it. No one liked what they didn’t know. What they couldn’t control.
The man who’d just captured the room’s attention continued to explain what he knew––some sort of attack that day in Tallinn, of Russian origin, the reason and the target still unknown.
“Are they trying to force a conflict?”
“It’s possible, sir.” It would have been especially possible had the same happened in Ukraine––but it hadn’t. That had been the Kremlin, the naval base in the Black Sea on the Crimea just too valuable to lose. It was strike first or not at all. “It depends on who the target is.”
“Who is there?” No one from Russia had been invited.
“Mostly European politicians or representatives. The British aren’t there, nor the Germans, though they’ve sent a token gesture. The British Secret Service is there, however.”
“Interesting. Working with those clowns at KaPo most probably,” and there was a laugh around the room. The day after Obama visited Tallinn––a huge statement of support by the then US President, how times had changed––a black ops FSB team, despite Putin’s own public denials, had crossed the border into Estonia and grabbed a senior KaPo officer. He’d been held for over a year, finally traded and released back to Estonia in exchange for an imprisoned Russian spy.
