own people that they couldn’t afford to run them. Feigning indignity in public, but realising his lucky escape in private, he agreed. RusGaz purchased a percentage of Beltransgaz for $2.5 billion and, to show good faith, made initial instalments totalling $625 million. Yet by the due date for the Belarusian ‘gas bill’, the country had defaulted. RusGaz’s money had been transferred to the Belarusian Ministry of Finance and the $500 million went unpaid.
Kushnerov broke the silence. ‘We must ask the finance minister to pay up.’
Kozlov opened and closed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘That is what I shall advise the President.’
Kushnerov, by nature a timid and nervous man, clasped his hands tighter. He didn’t like this double-dealing and trickery. For him, a price was a price and a deal a deal – the old Soviet way – but now everything was skewed by capitalism, the need for greed. ‘So what is our response?’ The conversation, as he feared his lunch just might, had come full circle.
Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK
The international reporters and journalists sat and waited for the press conference to start. The ambassador’s press secretary had just finished going over the rules they must abide by: not to interrupt His Highness while he was speaking and not to address him unless he invited questions. The Saudis did press differently to almost everyone else. In their opinion the press were there to listen, accept, and report. The crews from the BBC and Sky News exchanged looks and rolled eyes.
His Highness Umar Al Kabir, Saudi ambassador to the United Kingdom, entered the conference room and sat. Behind him on the wall was a large banner emblazoned with the Saudi national emblem, the crossed swords above the palm tree. He looked at the amassed reporters from the international press and started his statement to them.
‘At approximately 11 a.m. today, my niece, Princess Jinan, was abducted from her place of education by a group of unknown men.’ There were deep intakes of breath around the room and camera flashes. Prince Umar continued. ‘She was gagged, bound, and placed in the back of a car. Her father, my brother Prince Fouad, was contacted this morning by the kidnappers, who made ridiculous demands.’ He paused and looked around the room, the flashbulbs of innumerable cameras painting his face. He nodded then continued. ‘I am happy to say that, as of 1 p.m. today, Princess Jinan is safe.’
There was a muttering around the room and several reporters threw up their hands, while others attempted to ask questions. Umar reined in his annoyance and instead addressed them directly. ‘Yes, you. Please ask your question.’
The reporter from Sky News started to speak. ‘Your Highness, can you please tell me if she was rescued or returned?’
Umar nodded. ‘She was rescued by a very honourable British citizen who happened to see her with the kidnappers.’ His lips curled up to form a smile; he was about to play his trump card. ‘You have video footage of the rescue already; you have been showing it on your networks for the past three hours.’
The room exploded as hands were thrown up; others left the room, retrieving mobile phones in order to call their networks.
Umar held up both hands. ‘Gentlemen, and ladies, on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I wish to personally reward and thank my niece’s saviour. I will be meeting with him here within the next two days. All of you are invited.’
Prince Umar stood, nodded, and left the room. The press secretary was mobbed by reporters and camera crews wanting more clarification.
In Whitehall, Robert Holmcroft slammed his fists on the desktop and swore out loud for the first time in years. His friend, Umar, had just bamboozled him. He had publicly thanked a murder suspect for saving the life of Princess Jinan, a man who was currently being held pending charges! The deaths had been playing on international TV screens all afternoon. As Home Secretary he had the power to issue a ‘DA-Notice’, an official ‘request’ to news editors not to publish items on specified subjects, for reasons of national security. This story should have come under DA-Notice 05: United Kingdom Security & Intelligence Special Services. But he had been too late. The cat was well and truly out of the bag with this story thanks to a pair of juvenile delinquents with 3G mobile video telephones using YouTube.
The light on his desk phone flashed and he glared at it before pressing the answer button. ‘Yes!’
There was a pause; his secretary was taken aback by his angry tone. ‘The Prime Minister is on the line.’
Holmcroft let out a sigh. ‘Put him through.’ This was going to be a very difficult conversation.
Minsk, Belarus
The man with no official title was the first passenger to step off the Belavia flight from Moscow. He was greeted by a large black government sedan and driven away without completing any form of customs formalities. Maksim Gurov was the deadly hand of the Premier Minister of the Russian Federation.
A former member of the Russian KGB, the FSB as it had become in 1995, he had been in the First Chief Directorate, responsible for foreign operations and intelligence gathering; within this, he had commanded the ‘Vympel’, the most secretive and deadly of all the KGB Special Forces groups.
He didn’t appear officially on any staff list. He was known only within the Russian Premier Minister’s very small and select circle of advisers, the powerful and the deadly. This meeting was to be with Ivan Sverov, head of the Belarusian KGB. No official records would be kept; to all intents and purposes, the meeting wouldn’t have taken place because Gurov didn’t officially exist. He hadn’t done so since 1995.
Gurov sat in silence in the back of the sedan as they sped towards the presidential dacha in the Minsk woods. He had a simple proposal to deliver and expected a simple answer. He would be back in the air within three hours, the last passenger to be let onto the plane.
The Mercedes paused briefly as the heavy iron gates were drawn back, before continuing on into the grounds of the dacha. A light rain had started to fall, obscuring what was left of the weak daylight that attempted to penetrate the heavy tree cover.
Inside the dacha, Sverov stood by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth from the burning logs. Behind him on the wall, the eyes of the President seemed to peer from the large oil painting. It was August and the dacha felt unseasonably cool; a severe winter was expected for the people of Belarus. He heard his security team open the front door and straightened to receive his guest, the man from Moscow.
Gurov wasn’t a memorable man in terms of looks or stature. At just under six feet he was of average height, weight, and build. He had the look of a middle-level banker, except for his eyes, which were an unnerving dull grey that did little to hide the seriousness of the mind behind them.
Sverov extended his hand. ‘It is a privilege to finally make your acquaintance.’ The handshake was firm and he fought the urge to shiver. ‘Please take a seat.’
Gurov nodded and sat. ‘Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.’
‘My pleasure.’ There had been no choice; his President had been informed that this man was coming but Sverov saw no reason to be impolite. He sat opposite his visitor, a low table separating them. A pot of coffee sat in the middle.
‘It has been brought to the attention of my Premier Minister that your country has certain unpaid debts relating to the supply of gas.’
Sverov blinked but said nothing. This was not his
