It was a cold February evening. A cloying mist hung over the Whitehall streets and turned the sumptuous London neighbourhood with its government offices and private social clubs into a monochrome wasteland.
Walking along the wet pavement, Sophie Akehurst pulled her raincoat tighter around herself. To her left and right, pedestrians slid in and out of the grey haze like ghostly silhouettes. Ten yards away a group of shivering commuters lurked beside a bus shelter, waiting for the N5 to take them to Edgware. Sophie bypassed them all and cut across Trafalgar square, walking past the towering edifice of the National Gallery and Saint Martin's whitewashed walls.
In the distance, Big Ben tolled the quarter hour, the echo of its chime ebbing away into the fog.
She glanced at her watch. Quarter past five.
She was late.
Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, Sophie jaywalked the street at a run. A cabdriver honked and hurled a mute insult at her through his windscreen. She ignored him, rushed down the street and then turned right into the cobbled forecourt of the London Savoy.
As she headed towards the hotel's sprawling entrance, Sophie's eyes moved briefly upwards, along the marble pilasters, stuccoed windows and long rows of balconies and then she slipped past the phalanx of porters into the Savoy's marble lobby.
The head concierge – standing behind his mahogany desk – greeted her hasty entrance with a fleeting glance of mute reproach. Sophie requited his frosty welcome with a gracious smile and slipped through a narrow door into the staff room.
Taking a deep breath, Sophie closed the door behind her and then set about her nightly transformation. Standing in the wash of subdued light, she tied her chestnut hair at the nape, swapped her jeans and sweatshirt for a uniform with linden-green lining and attached her gilded nametag that introduced her simply as Sophie.
And so, dressed in the Savoy's impeccably pressed battle gear, she stepped behind the counter of the Beaufort Bar – ready to face the world of high-toned sophistication for yet another night, eager for its little joys and candid glimpses into the abyss of the human soul.
Absentmindedly wiping a speck of dust from the mahogany counter, Sophie Akehurst scanned the room and took stock of her guests.
With its impressive selection of rare whiskeys and dramatic jet-black and gold décor, the Beaufort Bar was usually a busy spot on Friday nights. But it was still early and apart from an amorous couple and a solitary guest – a hawkish, grey-haired man in a formal suit – the golden coves along the walls were empty. The calm before the storm.
"Buttons, Miss Akehurst."
Sophie glanced up to see George Adley, the Beaufort's venerable, grey-haired chef de service, sweep in behind the counter.
"Sorry, I don't usually miss that kind of thing," Sophie apologised, fixing the topmost button of her blouse.
"I wouldn't have hired you if you lacked an eye for detail," Adley replied with a small smile. "Rough day at uni?"
"I was at the American embassy to apply for a new passport."
"Ah, a glimpse of hell's precipice," Adley said with a wink and set down the tray.
She smiled. "Ninth circle."
"The world outside these walls may be bent on going to hell, Miss Akehurst, but we have a standard to maintain." He nodded at a table across the room. "Table five needs clearing."
With a good-humoured smile, Sophie tucked a serving tray under her arm and went to work – clearing the table and picking up a left-behind copy of the New York Times.
It wasn't one of theirs.
The Savoy still ironed its newspapers like it used to in the olden days, to ensure that neither half-dried printer's ink nor an ungainly paper crease diminished the reading experience of their esteemed guests.
Back behind the bar, Sophie handed the tray to a kitchen hand, then placed the newspaper below the counter. For the fraction of a second, her eyes lingered on the title-page showing a grizzled, stern-faced man against the backdrop of a Russian flag. Curious, she skim-read the article below.
THE NEW YORK TIMES
Friday, 14th February 2020
THE RULE OF THE TWELVE
By K. Hirst, R.T. Bell, T. Birch and A. Mueller
In memory of N. Vetrova, who gave her life in service to the truth.
Although Leonid Kirov is not Russia's only oligarch over whom looms the shadow of crime and corruption, the string of accusations against the former presidential candidate remains a singularly spectacular one – arms trafficking, fraud, aggravated tax evasion, money laundering, interference in foreign elections, abetment of genocide, war crimes and human rights violations.
While the evidence against Kirov remains circumstantial to this day, the reluctance of the Kremlin and Western governments to touch this politically charged case has simultaneously stunned political observers and fuelled long-held fears that some of the world's most influential shakers and movers are deliberately stalling legal action against a suspected figurehead of the Russian mafia.
Yesterday's announcement by the US State Attorney to close the investigation against Kirov due to lack of evidence has once more shifted the global spotlight on the elusive criminal empire that Kirov is accused of spearheading.
Sometimes dubbed 'The Twelve' or 'The Olympians' in reference to its twelve-man-strong governing body, the 'Tsarstvo' has emerged as a singular power in the opaque realm of state-sponsored crime. It is a multibillion empire whose spectrum of services includes large-scale money laundering for sanctioned regimes, high profile political assassinations, election rigging and coup d'états as well as brokering of military intelligence, high tech defence systems and weapons of mass destruction. (Continued on page 6)
The sound of rushed footsteps and subdued voices made her look up. Through the glass doors, Sophie saw Herr Zumstein – the Savoy's German managing director – and a good dozen porters, butlers and receptionists scurry through the lobby to the hotel's entrance. Shifting her gaze to the windowfront that overlooked the forecourt, Sophie watched a convoy of identical black SUVs pull into the courtyard, the beams of their headlights flashing off the copper pilasters.
It was unusual for Zumstein to welcome a guest in person, so whoever was about to arrive was undoubtedly a well-heeled and rather illustrious client – most likely a tenant of the Savoy's sixteen-thousand-pound-a-night Royal Suite.
This would certainly prove to be interesting. Folding the paper, Sophie moved discreetly to the right to get a better look.
The motorcade stopped and a moment later the passenger doors, manned by the Savoy's liveried porters, swung open: Bodyguards – bulky, huge-grown men with trim suits and stern faces – issued like a small army from the waiting cars. For a second, they stood on the curbside, their eyes sweeping the forecourt for any sign of danger, then one broke rank and turned to open the rear door of the only car that had not yet disgorged its passengers. From it emerged the solitary figure of a man – tall, lean, coat around his shoulders.
Shielded from view and danger by half a dozen suited guards, Zumstein and the guest shook hands, then they slipped into the lobby and out of sight.
With a sigh, Sophie turned her attention to table twelve, to check if her taciturn, hawk-faced guest wanted to order another drink.
But he was gone.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'll update the story every Friday at 20:00. If you'd like to read ahead by one week, you can drop by my Instagram account (my username is TheMafiaGal ) where I usually post "next week's" chapter in my story highlights.