The Devil's Handshake

33

Moscow

They arrived at Sheremetievo airport’s private terminal early Tuesday morning. They progressed quickly through customs and immigration because the resident FSB officer had cleared them as belonging to the ‘trusted person’s list,’ a godsend as Mikhail’s and Saul’s Israeli passports under most circumstances would have meant at least a two hour delay traveling in and out of Russia.

Getting quickly into the dark blue armored Range Rovers the TLH group owned, Thomas and the team set off for his home in Moscow with a black BMW X5 with a blue light from the FSB tailing them.

The Director of FSB Dmitri Arkady Pavlov was sending his message, “I am always watching you,” just as he did with Thomas and all of the seventeen super wealthy brethren, all with a net worth of over one billion U.S. dollars in Russia otherwise known as “a National Champion.”

With a gifted Russian passport, Thomas was considered no different, despite on this occasion, having used his British documentation, as the visit was unplanned.

Traveling quickly through the dark streets due to the fact that the early morning arrival had provided them with the benefit of being able to avoid the dreaded Moscow traffic that seemed to get worse every time he returned to the city, they reached the house thirty minutes later.

Met by his former Ghurkha batman Sgt. Tan and his wife, who ran the house and had done so ever since he had bought it when he had first come to Russia in the early 1990s. A tired and jetlagged Thomas asked Tan to wake him at six-thirty before making his way to the bedroom where he hit the bed, fully dressed apart from his shoes and fell fast asleep.

Three hours later Mr. Tan, just like when they were in Army, gently placed a cup of extra sweet English Breakfast Tea by the side of his bed. Old habits dying hard Thomas was instantly awake and alert.

“Good Morning, Sir Thomas!” beamed the batman.

“Mrs. Tan will have breakfast ready for you in the Conservatory whenever you’re ready,” he continued with a smile because he was happy to have his former commanding officer back home.

“Thank you, Tan,” Thomas said rubbing his weary eyes as his old Army Batman and trusted servant left the bedroom.

Sitting up, the former Gurkha officer took a sip of the sweet tea. Instantly the potion did its magic by helping to clear his mind. Seeing he was still dressed, Thomas got up, quickly took his clothes off then walked into the dressing room then finally into the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later, completely refreshed, the old warrior emerged from the bedroom, clean-shaven wearing a simple tailored blue suit with a sky blue shirt and tie, and then went downstairs for breakfast.

Entering the conservatory he found Saul already up and dressed like him except he was in a grey suit with white shirt and purple silk tie.

“Morning, Boss,” he said with a smile as he set about bashing his boiled eggs.

“Bloody hell, Saul, don’t you ever sleep?”

At just thirty-three years of age with short cropped jet-black thick hair, deep blue eyes and a thin physique, Saul Berkovic had become Thomas’s CFO of his Private Office after having been recommended for the job by Hanna Pschenicnikov who knew his family well before she had married Mikhail.

Joining TLH straight after graduating from the London Business School, the hawkish looking book warrior had become an indispensable member of his team over the last few years because of his “terrier” ability in being able to run the numbers for the hordes of lawyers and bankers of the overall group around the world. So much so, Thomas had made him an Executive Director of TLH Group and one of Victoria’s trustees despite his young age.

“No rest for the dammed,” replied Saul taking it as a backhanded compliment. Thomas just shook his head while he sipped a cup of coffee.

Breakfast over, Thomas departed to his study. Unlike his homes in England his Moscow abode was ultra-modern in design, with Swedish look with black and white and stainless steel reflecting the style of the furniture. The art in the room though, was most definitely Russian with a beautiful Icon from Peter the Great era of the Madonna and Child taking center stage.

He looked at the vintage Patek watch on his wrist, a special gift he had never changed, as the timepiece had come from his mother. Seeing it was seven-thirty he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the CEO of the new Russian-Adwalland joint venture Bank. Then the CEO of the Russian Correspondence Bank before finally the person who was his overriding reason for coming to Moscow: Alexei Nikolai Anynkov.

“Good morning, Director,” Thomas offered as soon as the Director of the SVR picked up his call, earning a simple reply of his name in Russian as an acknowledgement.

Knowing Anynkov didn’t bother with small talk, Thomas asked for a meeting with him to give an update on matters in Adwalland, again Alexei Nikolai was quick in his response by confirming he could see him at ten o’clock.

As he put the telephone back on the hook, Mikhail walked into his office looking refreshed and as always looking more like a businessman than his personal bodyguard in his Brioni suit instead of his Adwalland attire of chinos, desert boots. The holster with his Heckler & Glock pistol in it showed over his polo shirt with dark sunglasses over his eyes.

Morning greetings out of the way, Thomas informed him that they had a meeting with Alexei Nikolai at ten o’clock. Looking at his watch, knowing that the office of the SVR was on the other side of Moscow, Mikhail immediately suggested that they leave at eight thirty knowing the unreliability of the ever-growing Muscovite traffic it would be a push to get there on time

“Oh and tell Saul to get some sleep, will you Mikhail?” Thomas added concerned that his young CFO was burning himself out.

“He needs a good wife,” replied Mikhail with a smile.

“Who says that, you or Hanna?” asked Thomas, knowing Hanna’s habit of acting like a good commanding officer wife when it came to life’s of many members of his team, and that including him before Nara entered his life all those years ago.

“No, comment!” Mikhail said as he departed his study.

As always Mikhail was right on the money; the traffic was absolutely terrible. Arriving at quarter to ten and on walking into the tall structure known as “Les” or “Wood” in English on the outskirts of Moscow in the Yasenevo District amongst the trees that surround it, Thomas was met by an attractive blonde in her late twenties and immediately shown to a conference room.

Refusing the offer of tea, Thomas waited patiently for Alexei Nikolai. In business life, Russians hate being late, seeing it as a kind of impoliteness Thomas took it for what it was and in spite of his unique relationship with Russia and his citizenship he was still a foreigner in the eyes of the technocrats that run the country and as such he would always remain so.

Over the last five years since Alexei Nikolai had become the head of the SVR the organization of 13,000 men and women had redeveloped itself into an impressive network of operatives that followed the second pillar of recruitment for the “Love of Russia.” Though Thomas wasn’t one of them in heart, the Mayor had made sure he was very much an instrument as when needed.

“Good Morning, Fama,” said Alexei Nikolai entering the room not bothering to give his hand as he sat down. Despite the insult nevertheless Thomas responded politely using the Director’s title in front of his surname instead of the informal but respectful use of his two Christian names.

Having listened for ten minutes during which his assistant delivered them both a pot of black tea, Alexei offered his views.

“So you believe Singh is being bankrolled by Americans interests?”

“I have no proof, but it makes sense, the economics of the deal suggest a primary underwriter of the deal he is offering and the Americans have been very vocal in their attacks on this investment,” replied Thomas. He was referring to the media he knew the Director of SVR Analysts would have almost certainly been monitoring including his personal interview, but still not declaring the actual source of the intelligence that had confirmed it for him had actually come from Rebecca in their meeting at Farrow Hall.

Taking a sip of tea, Thomas tried to gauge the director’s reaction.

“Do you believe the President’s at risk?” Alexei Nikolai probed.

Thomas nodded then offered, “I have to say the answer is Yes!” before adding that he had also asked the bank to make ready the ten million U.S. dollars in cash to take back with him to assist in shoring up the President’s position with the chiefs.

Alexei took a moment to reflect on Thomas’s response in silence. It was true the American media had been carefully increasing the temperature through various worldwide media outlets over the last couple of months. This method of destabilization certainly wasn’t new—they had used the same strategy in Russia in the early 1990s.

The new director of the CIA also had a reputation of being a manipulator of the dark arts.

With an ambassador due to be deployed next week. A regime change was the last thing Alexei felt he needed primarily because Vladimir Vladimirovich had made this agreement a cornerstone example of the re-emergence of Russia’s traditional rights in the world.

He didn’t like the man sitting across the table from him. Thomas was an example of everything that was wrong with the Russia emerging from the ruins of “Catastroika.” Ever the pragmatic though, that certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t useful plus he had certainly been making a difference in the sectors of the economy the President had told him to invest in.

As he respected Thomas’s business experience and contacts this meant the Englishman wasn’t exaggerating the situation that was fast developing in the Adwalland. It was because of this he took a decision.

“I will make sure that Jawari has a team of suitable advisers he can turn to if he wants to and I will take your thoughts under advisement,” offered the Director of SVR before getting up, signaling that their meeting was over.

Taking his cue, Thomas also rose and followed him out of the conference room. A brunette instead of blonde met him this time to show him out of the grey building.

Met by Mikhail, his trusted old friend asked how it went.

“He listened!” was all he said as he got into the Range Rover. He debriefed Mikhail as Barek drove the off road vehicle back to the house. His trusted driver offered a piece of information.

“Boss! I think that means the team who been observing us in Boroma belongs to Americans then,” he said as he drove.

“What team?” Thomas asked before answering his own question. “I think you’re right,” linking it to Rebecca’s information before Barek completed his explanation.

Returning to his office picking up the phone, the Director of the SVR dialed a number. The person he called was Sergei Andreyevich Petrov.

A tall man with salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes Petrov was the forty-nine year-old commanding officer of the SVR paramilitary unit known as Zaslon. Numbering just 500 personnel in size and reporting directly to the Director, the unit had a fearsome reputation.

Established in the late 1990s to perform covert missions abroad, the unit’s brief ranged from anything involving hostage rescues to assassinations. To many in the counter-intelligence community it was considered the counterpart of the Agency’s SAD, however within the Russian Intelligence as it did not even have a service badge, it didn’t even exist.

Joining the KGB straight after university during the last days of the Soviet Union but choosing not to resign like many of his colleagues after the fall and enter the world of commerce or organized crime, Petrov stayed to become part of the new ‘refocused’ SVR under Yevgeniy Maksimovich Primakov.

With his ear for languages and his unique survival experience, he had been deployed to the United States, Europe, Afghanistan, Jordan, Lebanon, Iraq, Pakistan, Syria, and few other places along the way.

A tough no nonsense man, he was a dedicated professional who cared deeply for his country. He had taken over the Zaslon unit after his predecessor botched the assassination of the Chechen leader Zelimkhan Yandarbiev in Qatar in 2003. Officially, Sergei’s title was Deputy Director of Planning but everybody in the service knew who he really was.

Although the conversation was warm between the two men it had been short with a request that Sergei join the Director for a meeting in his office.

“Of course, Director,” replied Sergei in his dress uniform of a blue pinstripe tailored English suit sitting at his own desk.

One hour later, the pair sat across from each other.

Old soldiers they went back along the way, with a bond of trust that had been forged in blood. First working together in the early days of the 1990s stealing industrial, scientific, and technological data from American and European companies, their role changed the moment the Mayor became President after the Chechen terrorist attacks.

Following that attack and working together as a team they set up a series of networks in the Middle East and Pakistan to combat the growing threat from the second Chechen war.

Bloody and ruthless with neither side backing down, Alexei and Sergei had both carried out sanctions in the past in response to the hijackings, the infamous taking of the Moscow theatre and the worst kind of crime the murder of children who were only guilty of going to school.

One such operation took place in the UAE. Sergei and his team had tracked the target to a villa in Sharjah who was known as the Financier of the Arab Mujahedeen in Chechnya and the man behind the kidnapping of the four Russian diplomats that were later executed in Iraq.

“Acting as the tip of the sword,” to quote the Mayor, Sergei had shot the Jordanian of Chechnya heritage in the head as he was coming out of the Villa and was awarded the Hero of Russia medal for the kill. Clean, efficient with little collateral damage he was always Alexei’s first port of call when he needed something handled with kid gloves so to speak.

Over the last couple of years with the exception of the successful Crimean Operation, Sergei’s part had been mostly handling the training of Assad’s militia and the covering of Moscow’s tracks by ensuring that sensitive military technology—including new surface-to-air systems—didn’t end up in foreign fighter hands in Syria.

A war the pair both sadly reflected was likely to become another Chechnya or Dagestan with it international funders from America and Wahhabists.

“I need you to put a team into Adwalland,” Alexei said once their friendly enquiries into each other families were out of the way.

“No problem, Alexei. May I ask what their role will be?” Petrov asked.

“Officially to provide protection services to the new embassy, unofficially to put a shadow team in theatre to ensure Omar Jawari maintains his position as President,” answered Alexei

“Who is the threat?” Sergei asked because his experience with regard to the country was limited to the fact that it was new and Russia’s President had reached an agreement to set a new naval base there similar in size to the one they currently had in Syria to replace their listening post located on one of the Yemeni Islands that was being shut down by the Pro-American Government.

“According to the ‘Blagorodnyy,’ the threat is coming from an ex-pirate who runs the Interior Ministry with backing from an Indian with American ties,” Alexei answered, using Thomas’s codename meaning ‘Noble’ and taking the intelligence of Thomas as read, even if he hadn’t acknowledged that he had.

Sergei nodded as Alexei handed in an encrypted USB stick containing analysis from the famous Support departments of the Special Services on Adwalland, the key players and intelligence evidence from the U.S.