James Rosone, Miranda Watson
Battlefield Pacific
Disclaimer
This is a fictional story. All characters in this book are imagined, and any opinions that they express are simply that, fictional thoughts of literary characters. Although policies mentioned in the book may be similar to reality, they are by no means a factual representation of the news. Please enjoy this work as it is, a story to escape the part of life that can sometimes weigh us down in mundaneness or busyness.
New Year’s Day
After spending an hour riding on the Tube and another forty minutes riding three different buses and taking two different taxi cabs, Anthony Chattem was exhausted. Had he not been receiving instructions from his head of security through his Bluetooth headset on what to do next, he never would have been able to figure out how to find the man he was about to meet. Putting all of that aside, Mr. Chattem was no spring chicken, and he felt every bit his sixty-two years of age.
He pulled the collar of his coat up and made sure his hat was situated just right to help hide more of his distinctive features, just as his head of security had told him. As the cab approached the café near the St. James's section of London, Mr. Chattem pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet and slid it through the hole in the plexiglass wall.
“Keep the change,” he said as he opened the door to the cab.
After the cab pulled away, Mr. Chattem surveyed his surroundings, making sure to keep his head down so as not to be caught by one of the hundreds of thousands of CCTV cameras across the city. Strolling casually down the street, he spotted the slight blue chalk mark on the side of a lamppost across the street that indicated he hadn’t been followed. Crossing the street, he spotted the next chalk mark, letting him know the man he was to meet had also not been followed, and he was officially in the clear.
He made his way to 71–77 Pall Mall, in the same St. James's section of London. He smiled when he reached the set of stairs that led to the entrance of the extremely exclusive and private Oxford and Cambridge Club. Mr. Chattem quickly climbed the stairs and opened the ornate door. Upon his entering the club, Michelle, his personal assistant, guided him past the check-in desk, where people usually stopped to present their private club cards to gain entry.
Walking into this exclusive club was like walking into a time capsule from the early 1900s British aristocracy. It almost felt as if he had walked onto the set of Downton Abbey. Michelle led him up the stairs and down the hall to the Chancellor’s Suite to meet with his secretive guest.
“Is he already here?” Mr. Chattem asked, hoping he wouldn’t need to wait too long. It was a huge risk meeting this man, and if he were caught, it would be the end of not just his political career, but most likely his freedom.
Max Weldon was a managing director for Rothschild Group in London. The firm was incredibly wealthy, with a rich and storied family history. It was the investment firm of choice for not just the wealthiest 1 %, but the wealthiest.01 % of the world, which meant Max was often in contact with some of the most influential men and women on the planet. This was not his first time sitting in the Oxford and Cambridge Club.
What everyone else at the establishment that night didn’t realize was that Max’s real name was Maksim Sokolov. He was the senior Russian spy in London, charged with managing a host of both intelligence and sabotage operations across Great Britain. He had been assigned to this post for twenty-six years, which meant he had now spent more of his adult life living in the UK than he had in any other country. He almost felt British, though he knew that everything he did was in the service of his true homeland, Russia.
During his undergraduate studies at the University of Oxford, Max had completed an internship with the Bank of England. There he’d met an investment advisor who had worked for Rothschild Group. The man had been so impressed with his language abilities, he’d offered Max a job on the spot. That advisor had no idea that Max had been recruited by the GRU shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union. As he had neared the end of his schooling in Switzerland, Max had been tasked with infiltrating the global aristocracy through the financial world. Going to work for the Rothschild Group was the surest way to gain access to some of the world’s wealthiest people.
Max was a legitimately gifted young man. His father had been a diplomat abroad and married a wealthy French woman while stationed in France. Max had grown up speaking Russian and French on a daily basis, and while he was in school, his parents had made sure he learned English. When he’d turned fourteen, he had been sent to the Aiglon College, an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. It was there that Max had honed his language and finance skills and developed his network of highly connected and influential friends.
When he’d graduated, the GRU had ensured that he was accepted to the University of Oxford to increase his likelihood of gaining the level of access Russian intelligence was after. While at Oxford, Max had used his connections from his time in Switzerland to leverage several coveted internships, which had ultimately led to his securing employment with the Rothschild Group.
As a financial advisor, he had worked hard to grow his book of business and develop a strong reputation within the firm. Being fluent in English, French, and Russian, he was able to handle a wide variety of clients. His position also enabled him to recruit people sympathetic to the Russian cause. In addition, he successfully obtained a lot of financial dirt on some very influential people, which the GRU made sure to use when needed.
In normal times, Max would never have met Mr. Chattem in person, but these weren’t normal times, and Mr. Chattem was not a normal man. He could not pass up an opportunity to meet with the leader of the British opposition party. If this meeting went according to plan, Max would have successfully recruited the highest-ranking source of any Russian operative in history. Max was determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure “his man” moved into 10 Downing Street and Britain left the war.
Max was getting impatient. He looked down at his Breitling Cockpit Night Mission watch. “Wealth does have its privileges,” he thought. Mr. Chattem had a few more minutes before he would be considered late.
A moment later, he heard a light knock on the door, and then it slowly opened. In walked Anthony Chattem, the head of the Labour Party, alone and doing his best to look as inconspicuous as possible. Standing, Max took a step forward and extended his hand to Mr. Chattem, shaking it as they exchanged greetings.
“Max, I’ll come straight to the point, since I don’t have very long to meet with you,” said Chattem. “I understand you have an offer you’d like to make?”
Max saw Chattem eyeing him over, attempting not to scowl. “He really does loathe anything to do with the elite, doesn’t he?” he mused.
Smiling at Mr. Chattem’s bluntness, Max gestured for the two of them to sit down. “I like a man who is direct and to the point. It makes negotiations a lot simpler,” he said.
Chattem took his hat off and placed it on the table between them. “So, this is a negotiation? What is it you’re offering?” he asked, carefully measuring Max’s facial features.
“Mr. Chattem, as you know, I work for a large, wealthy firm that represents a lot of varying financial interests. War can be profitable, but only profitable if it has been planned well in advance of the opening salvos. This is war without warning, and that has cost some interests I represent a lot of money.” Max paused for a second to let his words sink in. “There has to be a way to end this war peacefully and return the world back to its normal order.”