The Kirov Conspiracy

By Anthony Talmage

Paul Scott, aide to media tycoon Sir Robert Talbot, is in love with his boss's daughter, Alex, heir to her father's billions. Disapproving, Sir Robert exiles Paul to run an offshore media centre based in the tax haven of St Pierre in the British Channel Islands.  Feeling desperate and alone, he becomes bewitched by local political high flyer, the sensual Kate Batiste.  As their relationship develops, Paul uncovers a plot by the Russian Mafia to use St Pierre to launder billions of dollars of drugs money to fund Putin's various wars.  In a frantic battle against the odds Paul sets out to stop a tidal wave of drugs engulfing Europe. But there's something sinister in his midst keeping his enemies one step ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Talmage
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223891208

Anthony Talmage

In his career as a BBC journalist and broadcaster and a national and regional journalist, Anthony Talmage had written his fair share of stories about The Unexplained, which is what prompted him to develop his interest in the paranormal. It led him to membership of the widely-respected Society for Psychical Research, and the British Society of Dowsers where he learned the art of divining. After establishing the Guernsey Society of Dowsers, he went on to focus his dowsing skills on the areas of Health and Subtle Energies. He later taught dowsing at the Guernsey College of Further Education and he still runs workshops on both dowsing and energy healing. Through all his many years of researching the metaphysical, esoteric, mystical, occult, paranormal, the Mysterious and Things That Go Bump in the Night Anthony came to the conclusion that The Unconscious Mind is the one factor common to them all. Which, he believes, means that everyone has access to psychic or so-called paranormal powers. This is now his mission – to encourage everyone to use their sixth sense to fulfil their potential.

Book preview

THE KIROV CONSPIRACY

One

A review of your life doesn't flash before you when you're about to die.  My only thought was of Alex - Alexandra.  Up until now, the flight had been a routine one and Beauregard, the island's capital, was slipping under us at an angle of 45 degrees as the pilot lined us up for our final approach.  The flimsy plane was full with me, and eight other passengers, shoe-horned into its long, pencil-thin fusilage.  The two engines were buzzing like Saturday afternoon lawn mowers as we crabbed towards the runway. 

For the entire flight I had been  thinking about Alex and our last goodbye.  I'd been outmanoeuvred by her father and was being exiled to an alien dot on the map in the English Channel off the coast of France.  Not that Sir Robert had put it that way.  He preferred the positive approach - I was being offered the challenge of restoring the waning fortunes of his European multi-media hub based on the self-governing (but complient) island of St Pierre, one of the  British Channel Islands. 

How had he put it?  A year offshore and I'd return the Golden Boy of  the Smart  Media conglomerate.  But we both knew what his real motive was.  He wanted to keep Alex and me apart.  He didn't want his only daughter, apple of his eye and heir to a billion pound media industry, throwing herself away on a 35-year-old media hack.  And a Yank hack at that. 

I might have felt the same way if I'd been him.  His beautiful Alex could do a lot better than me in choosing someone to share her bed with.  I'm not bad looking, I suppose.  I’m told my face has got ‘character’ and my eyes are blue in the Daniel Craig mould.  I'm just under six foot, reasonably fit with my own hair and teeth.  But, that's it.  No rippling muscles, no Black Belt and no yacht in Monaco.  To the Brits my only distinguishing feature might be my American accent. 

But what Alex and I had was something special.  On every level we were in tune - especially when it came to making love.  Alex had advised me to go with the flow and not antagonise her old man.  So, I had flown over, had a look at the location, selected the office I’d be working from and flown back to say my goodbyes.  But this trip I was on now was for real.  I was re-locating from my familiar life in London to what seemed like a foreign land.  I now had an inkling what Special Forces must feel when they are parachuted behind enemy lines.  There was that feeling of insecurity, the uncertainty of unfamiliar terrain, of isolation.

It was while I was wondering how soon I could get back for a weekend at Alex's Chelsea apartment that I noticed the lawn mowers weren’t mowing lawns any more. 

We were still at least 150 feet up but those eager-to-please engines were now just coughing apologetically.  I was near enough to the pilot to reach out and touch him.  I could see the tension in his neck as he swung us into the wind to buy us some gliding time.  He turned and shouted over his shoulder just two words, 'Brace brace' and then we were sliding sideways towards the ground. 

In B movies someone always screams.  But this time, in real life, nobody did.  We were all dumb with fear.  Almost gracefully our port side skidded onto the grassy apron at the edge of the taxiway.  That old cliche about moments of crisis happening in slow motion was true.  The left wing snapped off and we part-ploughed and part-skidded to a standstill.  Both main wheels on either side must have collapsed because we ended up level. 

For a moment all you could hear was the ticking of hot metal cooling down.  And someone sobbing.  Then, I joined in the collective sigh as we all realised we were still alive, and life reverted to its normal speed.  Blue lights raced down the runways and fire and ambulance crews wrenched at the doors.  They seemed disappointed that there were no bodies to remove or any injured to ferry away.  The pilot used his own escape hatch and was waiting for us as we staggered into the open. ’Not one of my best landings,' he said laconically,’ but welcome to St Pierre.  .  .’ 

Two

They offered us a free medical checkup at the local hospital but apart from being shaken, I was OK.  So I politely refused. 

I was in my room in the Hotel Breton three medicinal whiskies later and thinking of a TV dinner and an early night when the phone rang.  No-one knew I was here, so it had to be a wrong number.  I let it ring but the caller wasn't easily discouraged.  ’Paul Scott,' I said like a man in a hurry. 

'Hello, Mr Scott, I think we should meet tonight.’  The woman's voice carried the kind of authority used to getting its own way.  She'd got me curious.  We'd never met, so why call me at my hotel?  If it was to do with my job at Smart Media, why not come to the studio centre in office hours?  I was intrigued and it would be ungallant of me to refuse a lady.  ’OK, where and when?’  She told me the Captain's Cabin, which turned out to be a bijou bar with a nautical ambience in the hotel basement. 

Half an hour later, after a shower and a shave, I was feeling human again.  And my fourth shot of Black Label was helping me get over my dramatic arrival on this tiny, tax beneficial Crown Dependency.  From my table in the darkest corner of the bar I saw her come in.  She was tall for a woman, a couple of inches shorter than me.  Her bearing had the same air of confidence and command as her voice on the phone.  She had the sort of aristocratic beauty that comes from a long line of noble ancestors.  Add to this high cheekbones, a wide, sensual mouth and white, even teeth and you had the sort of woman used to making heads turn as she made her entrance.  She was wearing a black evening dress with a pearl choker which flattered her island tan.  I'd put her age as early thirties. 

She waved to the barman who nodded in my direction.  I got up as she approached and I saw her best feature close up.  Her smile lit up the room.  It spread to her eyes and told me that there wasn't another person in the world she'd rather be spending time with. 

We shook hands.  Before I could ask her what she'd be drinking, the barman was there with a large prosecco which she took off a silver tray.  She carefully put it on the drip mat and sat down. 

She was calling the shots, so I kept my mouth shut.  She raised her drink and smiled that smile again.  ’Here's to Smart  Media,’ she said.  ’And here's to the new man at the helm.’

I said, 'You seem to have the advantage of me,' trying not to let the strain of the day show in my voice. 

‘Sorry,' her eyes were suddenly serious, 'let me introduce myself.  I'm Kate Batiste.  I'm the chairman of St Pierre's Broadcasting and Digital Technology Committee.  That's why I know about your arrival in the island and what you're here to do.’

I still didn't understand how she knew so much.  Sir Robert wasn't in the habit of disclosing his plans to politicians - particularly those who might have associations with the opposition.  And in a small community, any politician was bound to wear several overlapping hats.  I gazed at her steadily.  'What else do you know?  I'm intrigued.’

'I'll have to be brief as I'm here in the hotel to make a speech about our development of FinTech and how it fits in to our relations with Europe,’ she said.  I don’t flatter myself that I know everything about modern communications technology but, as someone in the media business, man and boy, I try to keep up with developments, which seemed exponential these days.  But Kate had come up with something new to me.

‘What’s FinTech?’  I asked, trying not to give the impression that I was out of my depth in the world of Information Technology which I shouldn’t be as this was supposed to be why I was here in the first place – to pull Sir Robert’s multi media chestnuts out of the fire.  Kate didn’t seem phased by my question.  ‘You’re not the first person to ask me that,’ she smiled.  ‘FinTech is short for financial technology.  It’s a 21st century technological phenomenon which is increasingly being used to facilitate financial services through the use of computer technology.  And, as you know, this tiny island of ours is one of the world’s most successful International Finance Centres so we have to be at the cutting edge to keep ahead of the competition.’  She took a deep breath and gazed at me over her glass.  ‘There, you’ve just heard part of my speech tonight which is really a sales pitch to the global finance industry.’

So that explained the chic, black number and the pearls.  Not that I'd been thinking it was for my benefit. 

She swirled her glass as she collected her thoughts. 

'As a senator in the island's government, it's my business to know what's going on here and elsewhere that may affect our future.  We keep in touch with the UK Home Office, mainland politicians, Channel Island representatives in Brussels, the police, Special Branch and, in these days of global terrorism the security services, plus our own network of contacts.’  Her eyes crinkled in a brief smile.  ’One of my contacts, which gives me inside information on Smart Media, is none other than your boss Sir Robert Talbot.  He and I have had business dealings for years.  That's one of the reasons why he decided to take a chance on setting his operation up here in the first place.’

Now things were making sense.  And I could see Senator Batiste was a powerful political mover and shaker and not one to get on the wrong side of. 

She glanced at her watch and drained most of her drink. 

She said, ‘I’ve got a little time in hand...how do you see your role here?’

I said, ‘Actually, although I’ve spent my career in the media industry this job here is particularly challenging.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, in most places you get a strict division between local media and their national and international counterparts.  Small communities have their local newspapers, radio and TV and so on while the cities host the main-stream media like the national newspapers,  24-hour satellite tv and radio, and now their on-line personas.  In main centres like London, Bristol, Birmingham, Glasgow and the like, or in my country New York, Washington, Chicago and so on,  small pockets of the population are served by local journalists, some even amateurs, who help to keep people in touch with what’s going on in their neighbourhoods....’

Senator Batiste picked up the theme, ‘...While National and International news and programmes are handled by the big boys, sort of High Street versus Fleet Street.’  The woman obviously knew her media.  I pressed on, ‘Precisely.  And, usually, never the twain shall meet.  And this is where this job is different, because we have to be both – we have to provide local coverage for the locals while, at the same time, transmitting national programmes by satellite from our base here to Europe and, if Sir Robert’s ambitions are fulfilled, way beyond to Asia, Africa and the Far East.’

I thought a pithy summary wouldn’t come amiss.  ‘The island of St Pierre is a miniature London - on the one hand Smart Media are the people of St Pierre’s eyes and ears and on the other we’re a kind of BSkyB operation broadcasting to other countries.’

Kate didn’t look as impressed as I’d hoped.  She said, ‘I can appreciate it must present special challenges but the reason we supported Sir Robert’s licence application here in the first place was precisely because he offered a local service alongside his satellite operation.  I suppose he saw it as a kind of sweetener.’  Kate’s face hardened slightly, ‘We’ll be holding him to his word.’

This was interesting stuff which I wasn’t aware of.  And as I didn’t want to appear unbriefed on what was obviously sensitive territory I changed the subject.

'Did you hear what happened to my plane this afternoon?’  I suppose it was a stupid question and I deserved Senator Batiste’s look of disdain.  ’Of course I heard, Mr Scott.  The crash-landing of one of our inter-island flights is not such a regular occurrence that it would pass unnoticed.’

Hidden in the sarcasm was a flash of the steel that made this woman a dangerous one to cross.  ’Sorry, I just wondered if you knew how it happened.’

'I've heard a preliminary report and it seems the fuel was contaminated by water because the ground crew didn't follow procedures.  A thorough investigation will be carried out and those responsible will never work in the aviation business again.’  As she was speaking I had this strange feeling.  We were making polite conversation at one level, while at another there was an extraordinary magnetism building up between us.  I'd never experienced anything like it before.  We were talking as strangers but when our eyes met, it was if we'd known each other before.  I could tell Kate sensed it too.  Her voice was steady and controlled but her hand was trembling almost imperceptibly  as she lifted her glass to empty the last of its contents. 

'Perhaps we could meet for a nightcap later,'  I suggested.  As soon as I'd said it I realised Kate could think me arrogant and presumptious.  I was ready for a well-deserved brush-off.  Instead she said, 'I'd love to.  There's still plenty you might find useful to know.’

'What time will I see you here then? ‘  I was wondering how I could pace myself without getting plastered before she came back.

'I've got a better idea, Mr Scott.  I'll come to your room when my meeting's finished.  It'll give us more time.’  She smiled,  ‘So don't retire for the night.’

As she reached the door, she waved and smiled that smile.  She was a picture of confidence and self-assurance.  But there was another look that left me half fascinated and half afraid...

––––––––

It was eleven o'clock before there was a knock on my door.  She was standing there with an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon in both hands.  I noticed she was swaying slightly. 

'I thought, Mr Scott, that we might celebrate your arrival in our

little community in appropriate style.’

I gestured for her to come in. ’Not, Senator Batiste, until you stop calling me Mr Scott.  It’s Paul.  Formality doesn't seem to go with champagne in a stranger's bedroom late at night.’

'Fair enough, please call me Kate.’

Now we'd established a more friendly footing, I was beginning to relax.  I opened the bottle and poured its contents frothing and sizzling into two tooth glasses I'd found in the bathroom.  Not the best receptacles for champagne but it would have to do.  This time I proposed the toast. 

'Here's to the Chairman of St Pierre's Broadcasting and Digital Technology Committee,  and Smart Media - long may they mutually prosper.’  We touched glasses and suddenly Senator Batiste looked more like a desirable woman than a politician.  Maybe I'd been shaken up more than I realised by the crash and my defences were low.  Or perhaps I was tired of being manipulated by Sir Robert.  Or I could have been lonely.  But I wanted to wrap myself in the warmth of that smile and hold this woman's body close to mine.  I knew she could see what I was thinking.  And she didn't seem to object. 

It could have been a charade, set up by Alex's father to prove to his daughter what an unworthy, unfaithful scoundrel I was.  But, I was in Kate's power.  I didn't even want to resist.  If she was the spider, I was a willing fly.  I slid my arms round her and her eyes closed.  She lifted her face towards me, her lips parted and her tongue sensuously caressed her teeth.  Then, our lips were touching and our tongues exploring each other as our bodies pressed together.  I slid open the zip at the back of her dress and Kate moaned, seemingly lost in anticipation of what was to come. 

Three

The next morning, the start of the first day in my new job, I decided to walk to Smart Media’s offices and studios.  The October sun had been above the horizon for over an hour  and was strong enough to throw a glare back from the white-faced jumble of homes and shops which looked down on Beauregard's harbour.  It was prettier than those pictures of traditional Cornish fishing villages you find on sale in traditional Cornish fishing villages. 

From my previous reconnaisance trip to St Pierre, and research I had done on what was to be my new home, I knew there was more to the island than being a tourist destination or a tax haven.  And because it was conveniently close to London or Paris it attracted an international clientele.  Some big names had second homes here and often took refuge in the island where they could get away from the relentless spotlight of fans with mobiles who would tweet or snapchat candid photos of their idols.  They seemed to have overlooked the fact that Sir Robert’s multi-media hub could flash stories and moving pictures around the globe instantly thanks to his satellite network and on-line outlets. 

In fact it had been the prospect of installing his spider at the centre of this offshore web, with the added advantage of zero corporation tax, that had persuaded him to go for it in the first place.  Why this licence to print money wasn’t performing was one of the reasons he had exiled me here.  So he said.

I had about a half mile to walk, which would give me time to think over the events of last night.  Kate Batiste had made love with total abandon, fulfilling that promise in her smile.  And it had been good for me, too.  More than good.  Despite the cliche of ending up in bed together after acquaintance of only a couple of hours, I'd felt a kind of closeness I'd never had with Alex. 

I suppose a decent man would have a conscience, but I didn't – well not much of one anyway.  Hell, Kate and I were free agents and Sir Robert's devious motives for sending me to this outpost included getting me away from his daughter.  As far as I was concerned, Kate was making the loss and the loneliness easier to handle. 

I arrived at Smart Media at a quarter to nine.  The studios were on three floors of a converted office block looking across the harbour.  From my so-called executive suite I could see the other two main Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey as smudges on the edge of the world.  I let myself in through the back door and avoided the lift, telling myself that climbing three flights of stairs would burn off some of last night's alcohol. 

My first move would be to talk to Mike Anderson, my number two.  He was ever the reliable second-in-command.  Whenever any of Sir Robert’s appointees to the top job in St Pierre fell from grace, good old Mike would step in and hold the fort.  And he'd been running the operation since my immediate predecessor, Howard Carter, had been called back to London.  I wondered if in a year's time he’d be doing the same for me – after I was hauled back to head office to explain my failure to beat the competition and make the setup pay. 

Mike might have been reading my thoughts because there was a knock on the door and he came in wearing the same lugubrious expression that legend had it he carried everywhere he went.  It probably came from coping with two young kids, a wife who despised him for always being the deputy, and a morbid fear of failure.  Like a lot of people who lack self-esteem, he's talented, conscientious, loyal and desperate to please.  He didn't deserve the hand that life was dealing him. 

'Good morning, Paul.  I hear it was your plane that crash-landed yesterday.  What a bloody awful introduction to St Pierre.  How are you feeling