by Tim Heath
“I thought you said Price had been drinking. There was alcohol in his blood.”
“Yes, and given the time, it’s possible he went for a drink after––if the Russian President had just threatened him, you would imagine he might have needed one.”
“You don’t buy that, though?” Sasha had learnt to read Alex well by now, and that was something Alex so appreciated about this interesting Russian he’d been glad to get to know. He knew he’d make an excellent addition to the MI6 ranks.
“No. Someone––we assume a barman, though we never managed to trace him––named Price when they discovered the body. He spoke to two police officers. He knew him. Price had to have been a regular, and that bar had to be nearby.”
“Maybe once you get me back to London, I could have a look around?”
“What do you mean?”
“Use my Russian background, play the gangster. If there’s a secret venue that Price used to go to, let me find it. Maybe that’ll give us some answers.”
Alex sat back and smiled. “That might just be an excellent idea.” Alex stood up. “Grab your jacket, let’s go and get something to eat. I’ve got just the place in mind,” and he left the hotel, Sasha following close behind.
22
Novosibirsk, Central Russia
Campaigning for that month’s first round of voting in the Russian Presidential elections was well underway. For Dmitry Kaminski––and all men involved––there was a carefully detailed plan allowing each candidate to cover most of the country, without overlapping with another.
Matvey Filipov never played by those rules, however. He was in the same city––not to canvas for votes. That would come in a few day’s time when he was there in an official capacity. He was in the city that day exclusively to meet with his opposite number. Kaminski was not yet aware of that.
Finding the right moment to speak to him was not going to be easy. With a packed schedule, and journalists always hired to be around––it was a trick most politicians did when they wanted coverage––finding a time when it was just the two of them with no watching cameras was going to be a challenge. It wasn’t a meeting Matvey cared to have recorded by anyone.
The window of opportunity came that evening in a half hour gap between Kaminski’s last interview of the day and an evening function. Kaminski arrived back to his hotel tired yet up-tempo––it’d been a positive day. When there was a knock at the door––his security team outside, so whoever it was had come through them––Kaminski was shocked to see his rival.
“Yes,” he said, the door open, his men standing ready, just waiting for their boss to give the signal and they would dump the unwelcome visitor back out onto the street, regardless of who he was––they knew full well who Matvey was.
“Can we chat?”
“About what?” He hadn’t moved an inch from the door, the doorway still blocked.
“I think you’d prefer to find that out inside the room rather than here,” Matvey said. There was an awkward silence––Kaminski was trying to read the man in front of him, the problem was he’d never been able to. He feared him, in fact, though Matvey had come alone, and apparently wouldn’t try anything with so many other people around. Kaminski stepped back from the door, and Filipov stepped in. Kaminski’s men looked at their boss, but with a shake of the head he managed to communicate with them: I’ve got this one, you wait outside.
“So what brings you here?” Kaminski knew Filipov’s schedule––he wasn’t due in the city for another few days.
“I came to speak with you.” Matvey was calm, very much in control, his demeanour the same as always––irritatingly so, still on the front foot, always making whoever was talking with him scramble to work out where the conversation was going.
“And?”
“Let’s take a seat, shall we?”
“Is this going to be long, because I don’t have the time?”
“You have precisely twenty-five minutes before your driver will knock once more on that door and you’ll be whisked off to dinner. Believe me, you will want to hear what I have to say. I’m doing you a favour.”
He doubted that very much, and it showed on Kaminski’s face at that moment, though he couldn’t hold it for long. Here stood a man in front of him who’d nearly destroyed him the previous year. Matvey had targeted him deliberately––that much was clear now, given their shared ambition of becoming the next President––and it was only his uncle’s advanced warning of the takeover attempt that had at least meant he’d salvaged something. Not a lot, however. It had destroyed his Banking Union. Thousands of jobs had been lost and hundreds of thousands of pensioners left without their investments. Kaminski had personally managed to get out intact––he was still in the fight. When he was President, he’d be able to right those wrongs.
Kaminski motioned to the sofa for Matvey to sit down––how his opponent knew his schedule that well, was anyone’s guess. Kaminski took the seat opposite, reaching for the bottle of vodka he had on a tray––something he’d saved for later in the night, but suddenly the thought of it seemed right.
“A drink?” Matvey accepted the offer; it would have been rude to refuse. Both men drank, eyes always on the other, Kaminski refilling without speaking, before glancing across at the clock on the wall.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Matvey said, taking the hint. “Some information has come to light, of a delicate nature, that I think you of all people should know.”
If this were another trick, Kaminski would have his guys rush into the room and use Filipov as a punch bag for a while. Kaminski remained silent, knowing his compatriot was enjoying every second of this. Whatever Filipov thought he had to share, Matvey had the appearance of someone who thought he had the upper hand. Don’t react Kaminski told himself, don’t rise to the bait. This is just his power play.
Matvey took another sip of the vodka––he didn’t down it this time, swallowing just a small amount, letting the liquid swirl around his mouth before sliding down his throat. He coughed, once, only to clear his throat, before starting to speak.
“I never really knew your grandparents, of course; a little before my time and they had already left the country, but I did know of your father.”
“Listen here, if you’ve come to rubbish the…”
“Be silent, Kaminski! Hear me out.” The instant silence was sickening, Kaminski’s eyes alive with madness, though he obliged. “In my line of business, you sometimes come across pieces of information that don’t fit, events that don’t quite make sense. The matter of your father and his brother was one of those.”
“Lev? What are you talking about?” The mention of his uncle––a man who had raised Kaminski since his father’s death––was something he hadn’t expected.
“Your uncle knows a lot more about his brother’s downfall than he’s ever let on. Don’t you see how he’s always done right in your regard? He even married your mother.”
“You shut up right there!” Kaminski stormed, standing up but not moving from the spot. “She was left heartbroken by my father’s death, and over time grew close to my uncle. They married––and yes, it was weird for me at the time––but I left them to it.”
“They’d been together for years before your father died, Kaminski. Sneaking off together behind your father’s back, up to no good.”
“Liar! You’re a liar!”
“Sit down!” Kaminski did, instinctively at the command, as if he was a boy again walking into his father’s study. “You were very young then, you wouldn’t have known any better. But they were together. It seemed your father didn’t know about the affair, too busy in the office, too focused on making a name for himself.”
“He did well on that front!”
“Yes, too well. It got your father the wrong attention, however. Some men approached him––nothing linked to the Soviet establishment, this was something different. Something separate. Your father wanted nothing to do with them; however, your uncle wasn
’t so sure about turning his back on such an offer. He saw the opportunity.”
“What opportunity?”
“The chance to align the family business with that group of Russians.”
“Rubbish. Besides, Lev wasn’t even involved then. My father ran things. He made all the decisions.”
“Exactly! With him in position, Lev didn’t stand a chance. The offer would go away, and that would be that.” There was a mocking smile on Matvey’s face.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Wake up boy! Your uncle was far more complicit in your father’s downfall than he’s ever made out. Far from the man to pick things up and put them all back together, he was the reason it all happened in the first place!”
“Liar! He’s done nothing but look out for me my entire life!”
“It’s been guilt that’s driven him, not love. He looks at you, and Lev gets reminded of his brother, your father. It’s probably only his feelings for your mother––and her love for you––that saved you. Most would have killed you off as well. Take out the father, take out the heir.”
“LIAR!” Kaminski screamed, throwing his glass across the room as the statement was already taking root. Matvey didn’t flinch as the glass exploded into a thousand pieces, the sound bouncing around the bare walls of the hotel room. Kaminski went over to the window, the curtains open and he looked down onto the streets below. After a minute, Matvey himself came and stood alongside him.
Kaminski’s mind was working at a million miles an hour. If what Filipov was saying was true, then everything he knew about his life was now tainted, nothing he recalled from childhood mattered anymore. He had to speak to his mother. She would tell him the truth about the affair. If she admitted that much, he would know the rest––he would understand that what Matvey was saying about his own father’s death would have to be true. He dreaded it was already the case. He thought about Lev Kaminski––uncle, businessman and friend––a man who’d been the male role model in his life, filling the gap left by the departure of his father. He thought about the start Lev had given him, the push in the right direction. Kaminski had always been the lesser of the two men––Lev controlled the primary business, he was the richest by a long way––but Kaminski had always been grateful for his uncle’s help. Did that all mean nothing? Was that all a lie?
“Why are you telling me this?” Kaminski said, turning to Matvey who was at his shoulder, though not touching him, the man just looking out of the same window, down at people living an ordinary hand to mouth difficult life that neither man had ever known themselves.
“I felt you needed to know.”
“Like hell you did. You want me to step aside, don’t you? To run away with my tail between my legs and give up my challenge for the vote.”
“If I wanted that I could just as easily have leaked this to the press. I didn’t. I came to you. I’m here, having this conversation.”
That much was true––if what Matvey had shared was accurate, and Kaminski would have to now find out one way or the other if it was––he hadn’t apparently taken it to the waiting journalists, who would have devoured the scandal. It would make a mockery of all that Kaminski represented. True, it might have worked in his favour––if he was to be legally given all that Lev had taken from his father, thereby assuming the role of inheriting son––he would be far more able to compete. He might even be as wealthy as Filipov himself. But that kind of story also had a way of destroying people.
Kaminski glanced at his watch. He had ten minutes. He felt his whole world was in free-fall at that moment.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” Matvey said, turning from the window, heading for the door but stopping behind the sofa halfway across the room. “There’s one more thing you need to know,” he said, his tone ominous. “It seems infidelity is a common issue which runs in your lineage. You might want to keep a closer watch on Anastasia when you are away from home.” Matvey turned again and this time continued to the door.
Kaminski wanted to go after him, to confront him and pound his fists into Matvey’s ageing face, to show him he’d got it all wrong, that he was way off the mark. He let Matvey leave. Reeling from both pieces of information, Kaminski felt as if he had just gone twelve rounds in the ring, coming off the worse for it too.
His uncle’s actions were one thing––that inspired rage and anger. But his wife? Jealousy was the most vicious of them all.
23
London, England
March 2018
The Russian elections were less than four weeks away. Right around the world, press coverage was focusing on it, the prevailing view being it was a pivotal time in modern Russian history. The polls still had Putin in the lead, with Kaminski a few points behind and Filipov five further back in third place. They were the three realistic challengers––these two oligarchs between them were scooping up the lion’s share of non-Putin voters. Some commentators had accurately pointed out that if only one of them were standing against the President, there would have already been a clear threat to Putin, and that challenger could well have been a long way ahead in the polls. The fact that there were two challengers in play––two oligarchs who had got a lot closer than anyone else had previously managed––might play into Putin’s hands. It would depend on how close the first round of voting was. However, the current President was very popular, and there were significant numbers of voters who still opposed the idea of any billionaire with zero political background becoming their next President. Though, the same could have been said in the USA before Trump was sworn in. How things had changed.
Alex was back in the office––the inquest into the death of a British journalist was still open, though with evidence shaky that Alex was even involved, he had been allowed back on duty. No one within his world thought Alex had anything to do with the death, and the police were also now taking it as a professional, possibly international, hit.
As Alex cleared security at Vauxhall House that morning––his third day since being taken off gardening leave––he was not alone. Sasha Barkov, one time FSB agent and MI6 connection for a few years, was with him, now wanting to switch agencies permanently.
Alex had immediately shared on his return what their Russian friend intended to do. The two men, after their time together in Tallinn, had flown back to England once it was clear Sasha would be allowed into the country. Alex had gone through all the debriefs required for his own return––warnings about this and that, though very much going through the motions. The British Security Service had to be seen, at least on paper, as dealing with internal issues correctly.
Sasha was known to several at MI6––his help in previous operations, even if only mentioned by name, meant his reputation preceded him. It hadn’t taken long to connect the history to the present, and his enrolment was fast-tracked. Deemed at high risk if he had remained in Russia, Sasha was granted a temporary right to stay in the UK for five years, the case reviewed by the Home Secretary’s office personally. It was assumed that once the five years were up, Sasha would silently be offered permanent residency, as well as a British passport if he wanted.
Charlie, Zoe and Anissa were there to personally welcome Sasha as he walked into the canteen with Alex, who had dropped just behind the Russian as they entered, to give Sasha space. They all greeted Sasha warmly, Anissa the only one to feel a little awkward––Sasha had all but forgotten their last encounter until he saw her reddening face––though he said nothing. Thankfully for Anissa, the moment passed, Sasha grinning before embracing her. Nothing more needed addressing.
After half an hour––as much time as they could spare during a busy day––they all parted, Charlie and Zoe going off to the office they shared, Anissa following the two men to their office. Sasha would be housed with them temporarily until a more suitable situation could be worked out. It had been a squash for two, let alone three.
At noon, Alex walked Sasha up to the top floor, where he was to introduce him persona
lly to the Director General. The office of the DDG still sat empty, though Alex knew a woman had been lined up for the job––which she’d accepted––and she was due to take up the post that week.
Walking into the Director’s office, the man himself rose from behind his desk and came to greet the Russian warmly, as if welcoming back an old friend. To have a high-level Russian agent switch as Sasha had, was no small thing. He would have plenty of unofficial––and he wasn’t actually meant to voice them, though such men always did through excited whispers––bragging rights around the golf club because of this one, that was for sure.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr Barkov,” the DG said, showing them both to the sofa, where a pot of tea was waiting.
They chatted for half an hour––it reminded Alex of his time there when he was offered the job of DDG, something he’d later turned down. When it was time to leave––both men drinking plenty of tea and having shaken hands again all round––Alex led Sasha downstairs.
“He seemed a nice sort of man,” Sasha said, just the two of them taking the stairs down to their floor. For the Russian now in London and at the home of MI6, it was a very different world. Everything he knew from his FSB days in St Petersburg seemed a million miles from where he now was.
“He has his moments.” The last time Alex had been in the office of the DG, it had been quite a different experience.
That afternoon, Anissa, Alex and Sasha were discussing the Games in their office, the cork boards sitting on the floor, the door locked. Sasha was amazed at the detail contained in their growing display.
Alex had talked to them about Matvey, going over some of the things Matvey had passed on to Alex. Sasha suggested once more that he would like to look into the accusation that Putin was personally behind the Thomas Price assassination. Anissa wasn’t as enthusiastic about sending Sasha in so soon after his reentry into the world of spooks, but Alex calmed her down. He’d been thinking about that idea for days already. The more he dwelt on it, the more interesting the idea became.
