The Machine (The Hunt series Book 4): Bad Men Fear Those Who Lurk In Shadows

by Tim Heath

  Inside, there was no sign of Trump. Half a dozen people––presumably the President’s advisory team––were standing around the hallway, faces furious, as Matvey walked in. He went straight up to one of them regardless.

  “Where is he?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” There was a deafening silence, the man looking around at his team. There was no protocol for this, nor was Matvey an official foreign dignitary. He was just a hopeful, at best, a man looking to pull a political stunt, something they all knew he’d managed in spectacular style. They were all under orders from the President––he was done for the day.

  “He’s not seeing anyone else at the moment. Something has come up, I’m sorry, it will detain him for the rest of the day.”

  Matvey smiled. “Of course it will. Too much of a coward to have one more conversation, I see.”

  Again, no one knew what to say, though Trump had apparently been listening, as he came storming through a door from the Oval Office seconds later.

  “Get in here right now,” he barked at Filipov, Trump’s team starting to walk his way as well. “Just him. We’ll talk this out like gentlemen,” Trump added.

  Matvey moved into the President’s office, the door closed behind them, Trump himself standing with his hands on his hips.

  “That was a hell of a show out there,” he said.

  “You would know all about that, of course.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Why? I thought that was obvious. To show you up in front of the watching world. Believe me, before the day is out, my ratings will be through the roof, and yours––if it’s possible to go any lower––will be scraping the barrel.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Shut up and think, for once. I know exactly who you are, and how you operate.”

  “Really?” he said as if humouring the Russian in front of him. “Go on, enlighten me.”

  “A bully. Wealth makes you do whatever you want, say whatever you think, act however you feel. You don’t care about anyone else. It’s just a game to you.”

  “Last time I checked, you weren’t so different yourself, Filipov,” he said, aware that Matvey was a Russian oligarch himself.

  “With one noticeable difference.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m much more wealthy than you.”

  “So, we are measuring our dicks now, is that it?”

  Matvey didn’t respond, wandering over to the windows which looked out onto the lawn, the television crews outside starting to clear away after the press conference.

  “I’m here to warn you about any reciprocal interference in our upcoming elections.”

  “Reciprocal? Besides, there is no way you’re getting into office, Filipov,” Trump said, standing in front of him though compared to the Russian he seemed rather short. “We’ll make sure of it. You can’t stop us!”

  Matvey laughed. “On that note, I’ll once again have to disagree. I already have stopped you.”

  The plan had been to directly interfere with the Russian elections via the EU-controlled Basement in Tallinn, where a team of specialists had been in place for a year and tasked with keeping Putin out of the Kremlin. Matvey knew given his actions that day––a trip he’d planned and thought about for months––they would just as quickly adapt their plan and use the team in Tallinn to keep Matvey from winning. That was why during the centennial celebrations––when the focus of the Security Service was on stopping the terrorist attack––a team of Matvey’s people had jumped on the back of this and gained access to the system. The Americans’ link into the Russian voting system was now compromised––the West’s ability to influence the outcome lost. They would find that out too late.

  Trump laughed, taking Matvey’s comment as nothing but an empty bluff.

  By six that evening, Matvey was back in his private jet, the final clearance coming for take-off. Already the news was starting to circulate––#thebrushoff was already trending on Twitter––and news studios around the world were beginning to discuss what it meant going forward.

  Before Matvey had even landed in Monaco, he held a three-point lead in the polls––in one day he’d managed to put himself in the lead in the race to become the next President of the Russian Federation.

  26

  London, England

  With the dust still not settled following Filipov’s unprecedented visit to the White House days before, another storm was about to break, this time involving the other Presidential candidate.

  It was a British tabloid which first broke the story, leading with a headline of From Russia With Love––the title being the only element of class about the entire article. The following day another led with the headline The Spy Who Shagged Me in keeping with the movie title theme. The news that a British spy––no names or sources given, nor was it stated where the man in question worked––was involved in a twisted love triangle including the wife of Russian Presidential hopeful Dmitry Kaminski.

  Kaminski and Anastasia were filmed by the gathering press corps, very much at arm’s length from each other, scurrying away from their London address as the vultures closed in on them.

  Anastasia had called Alex the first morning she heard about the article, saying they had to stop seeing one another for the time being. She was terrified of what it all meant. A severe first row with her husband had followed minutes after, as feeling betrayed and angry, he confronted his wife over breakfast after seeing the allegations firsthand.

  It was the second time his face and name had been splashed around by the British media in recent years––besides the election campaign––and once more the coverage was damning. Last time it had been the harmful exposure surrounding the collapse of his Banking Union, of which he was the Chairman, as well as the loss of his bank in particular, of which he was the sole owner. No presidential hopeful craved the kind of negative association which came with bankruptcy, even if it was a foreign business involved. Kaminski still had money; the articles made that point look even worse for him. It was the poor souls which had given everything to the failed bank who were the big losers.

  Kaminski had started to recover from that––the political coverage, while often referencing his troubles of the previous year, was generally positive, even going as far as dubbing him the fresh face of Russian politics. However, now it was his personal life and marriage in particular which was drawing the unwanted attention.

  He’d given no official statement on the reports, and he hadn’t answered the questions at the two press conferences since the story had broken. He had brought an interview to a swift close.

  At Vauxhall House, the home of MI6 on the banks of the River Thames, Anissa was with Alex and Sasha, who already knew about the situation. The day before Anissa had confided in Sasha after he had asked some probing questions. Alex would often take text messages at odd times, then suddenly leave home. Sasha had suspected it was a woman––he’d once found a pair of ladies’ underwear down the back of the sofa, but hadn’t said anything––though he was shocked to discover the connection to Dmitry Kaminski.

  “We have to find out where the story came from,” Alex said. While there had been no names mentioned––it was implied in the first newspaper to break the story that a name might come at a later point––Alex feared they already knew. Certainly the source of the story must have known unless Wilson Manning had mentioned it to others before his death. But two papers had released two different angles on the same story. There had to be now a fresh source speaking to them.

  “That’s the thing with your country. People can write whatever they want and there is very little to stop them,” Sasha said.

  “There is if it's libel,” Anissa added, though that didn’t help in this instance. They all knew the allegation was correct and Anissa couldn’t help but feel angry with Alex for letting it all get this far. Until he’d confessed to her two days ago that he was still seeing Anastasia––he said seei
ng, but she took that to mean sleeping with––she had been led to believe it was already history.

  Alex did not comment to either agent. His identity had to remain secret––both because of not wanting to be named in the case and because it was never right for the face of an active MI6 operative to be well known. Every male member of the Security Service would be scrutinised, Alex was sure. No unit would be happy to find the culprit in their ranks.

  Neither Anissa nor Sasha were prepared to feed Alex to the wolves, however. They would do whatever they could to protect him, even if they couldn’t understand how he’d let it all get that far, or get so out of hand.

  For Dmitry Kaminski, it was the last thing he wanted to have to deal with. Following his rival’s trip to the US, he had fallen back into second place––albeit level with Putin––and for some this latest revelation might prove one too many. For a man who was meant to be in control, his life was apparently far from that. A small section of voters would see the news in a positive way for Kaminski––and give him a sympathy vote, though the numbers were tiny. It would not be anywhere near enough to get Kaminski into the Kremlin. Russians didn’t vote for weakness.

  Kaminski feared for his place in the second round of voting. Russian elections were decided over two rounds. If there was no absolute winner after the first round, the leading two candidates would progress to a second round, and voting would start all over again. As far as the polls could predict, a second round of voting in the upcoming election was almost guaranteed. It was a close race and no candidate––Putin in particular––had an absolute majority enough to win at the first time of asking.

  Matvey and Kaminski were both men dividing the vote of those who were looking to oust Putin. It was easy to imagine that whichever oligarch made it through to the second round would then benefit by picking up the votes from the third-placed candidate, giving them a stronger chance in the second vote.

  Kaminski knew he trailed both of his rivals. He was confident the leak about the affair had come from Matvey. The fact his passing comment, made when Matvey had left him after that brief altercation in Moscow, had proved correct, sparked another thought. What had Matvey meant regarding his uncle? What Kaminski had taken as nothing but gutter talk from an opponent trying to distract him, suddenly started to take root.

  Two days after the story had broken––and Anastasia was by that stage staying under guard in a city centre hotel, the reason given that she needed privacy. It was not an official separation. Kaminski knew it was finally time to speak up himself on the topic, his election hopes hung in the balance and were not helped by his silence. If the Russian people were to be won over, he had to speak about his heartache. He had to let them know he was not afraid of a difficult situation, that he wasn’t a man to hide when the going got tough.

  Kaminski was also desperate to get back in contention––he was sick of seeing that failed handshake take up more coverage than it should have warranted. Filipov had ridden high on the back of it as a result. He was the man to beat, or so the papers said. However, there was some way to go. There were ten days until the first round of voting began. Everything was still up for grabs.

  The press centre in London was crammed with journalists from a wide range of papers––both UK based tabloid and broadsheet––as well as web-based publications and of course a variety of international representatives, especially those from Russian news media. Kaminski’s team had personally invited them, though not all had come. He tried not to take that rejection personally and trusted that what he had to say would only make those not present regret their lapse in judgement. It was to be Kaminski’s moment to even the score, to share his side of events, to come across a victim in it all. A man targeted by both the British and a morally loose individual, who’d managed to get his claws into his beloved wife for reasons that were not clear.

  The first twenty minutes had gone as Kaminski had hoped, and he continued to hold the attention of those present––no mean feat––as he talked from the heart about what had happened. Pushing it aside, he stated it would only make him stronger, more focused. Kaminski even joked how a few would not have liked a Belarusian in the Kremlin, though he failed to answer the follow-up questions as to whether Kaminski had split with her. He kept focused, kept on track––he was a man in whom the average Russian could believe. Kaminski knew heartache, he knew of difficulty and yet he was still standing, he was still running. It took a man of great courage to come through what he had and still be prepared to give everything for his country, to lay it all on the line and serve the needs of the people.

  Then the tone of the news conference changed dramatically as a question came from a man standing to one side––the journalist was Russian, his English accented but understandable. He was tucked in on the fourth row of that somewhat crowded meeting space.

  “What do you have to say about the rumours that the British authorities are looking into the role your uncle, Lev Kaminski, played in the disappearance of your father so many years ago?”

  The room fell silent, as the cameras and those listening picked up on the seemingly left-field question. A question Kaminski should have laughed off; he should have said he had no idea what it meant and quietly moved on. But he didn’t. For twenty long and painful seconds, he stood there––obviously thinking about his reply, trying to word a response that would be all of the above––and yet he remained silent, his mouth open a little.

  The silence had become electric, and it was the masses of flashing bulbs that finally broke Kaminski from his stupor.

  “I think we need to stick to facts, not made up stories, comrade,” he managed, though he convinced no one by the hesitant brushoff. There was a frenzy of questions, each searching for more answers. What do you know about these rumours? Was he aware of what happened to his father? Did he believe Lev had any involvement in the murder?

  Each voice drowned the other, until one rose above them all, that of the original Russian journalist who’d first asked the question. Did he know that his mother had been having an affair with his uncle for years before his father’s death?

  Again silence fell. People were starting to take note of the journalist who apparently knew more than most. They waited for any response––most were able to read the body language of their subject long before words flowed. Kaminski was broadcasting a dozen things in his frozen silence.

  He finally looked over to his press secretary, his eyes pleading. What had started out so well was fast becoming political suicide right in front of them all.

  His press secretary came across and stood in front of the room and Kaminski was partially hidden behind her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, that concludes the time Mr Kaminski has available during this busy period. We’ll make further statements, as always, in due course,” and saying nothing more, she moved from the front, Kaminski following behind, very much the man under fire. They left the room.

  Once outside, Kaminski swore aggressively. His blood was pounding through his veins, his head aching from all the stress of the last few minutes. “Where did that come from?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Find out who that guy is,” he said, the lady knowing precisely to whom he was referring. Every journalist had been vetted and prescreened. His name would be on her list.

  Kaminski walked away, needing some space. As he left the venue just fifteen minutes later, the shockwaves were already beginning to spread.

  At MI6 HQ their boss had handed Alex and Anissa the task of digging into the allegations surrounding Lev Kaminski. The disappearance of Pavel, his brother and Dmitry’s father, was still one of thousands of unsolved cases, and if there was anything to connect Lev to that crime, then it was indeed worth pursuing. As the pair had been so focused on the Russians for a few years, they were the obvious choice. They also had MI6’s newest member of staff, and fellow Russian, Sasha Barkov.

  The three agents watched the news coverage. When Kaminski ha
d first announced the press conference, there was little priority placed on it. Now it was fascinating. They then discussed it over coffee for a few minutes. Sasha couldn’t be long, however. He had managed to track down a few contacts in Soho who might have a lead for him regarding possible premises that Thomas Price could have used on a regular basis. Sasha was due to meet them at noon.

  “Do we have the name of the reporter who asked the two main questions?” Alex said to Anissa, the man’s questions now at the centre of both stories, two sparks to a raging forest fire.

  “He’s a London based reporter for Russia Today,” Anissa said. RT was now a worldwide brand. Someone must have fed the guy the information.

  “Can you get me the files on the disappearance in the first place and anything the Met might have on the mother?” Anissa made a note. She would pass that on to someone to hunt down, even if all that was available was copies of the original transcripts.

  “Look, I need to go,” Sasha said, glancing at the clock.

  “Keep safe,” Anissa called, Alex patting Sasha on the back as he headed past him and out of the door. The Russian had brought so much to their close-knit team, fitting in immediately, though to some degree they’d been working with him for a while already.

  Anissa would spend the next hour making a few calls. She was thinking of Sasha the whole time, hoping he wasn’t walking into something he couldn’t handle, yet he’d insisted on going it alone. If the contact sensed who they were, the lead would run a mile. Sasha’s cover had been the need to bring some criminal minds together for a gathering in London. The meet up was a first face-to-face. Sasha had to convince the man who he was.

  It was the first day of her latest posting as Deputy Director General at MI6, as Bethany May was shown around the building, meeting with most of the staff. She was forty-seven––therefore deemed a young one when it came to the more senior positions within the various branches of Military Intelligence––and had transferred from Five, where there was little chance of promotion given the current wealth of talent and experience in their ranks.