The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  “You’ll kill the President?” Putin waited before responding. He thought about whether he should say anything, or how, but the whole conversation was secret, and they needed to know. They needed to be ready. It helped those doing things they didn’t feel were right sleep easier at night. It might all be undone in the morning. So they had to know. Soon they would all know. The Alpha Lion was back to recapture his pride.

  “Yes, I will kill Filipov,” Putin said. “Get me the opportune time, and I’ll do the rest.”

  “I’ll look into it. Same time tomorrow?”

  “Confirmed.” Putin ended the conversation, sitting back with a massive smile on his face. He would spend the next twenty-four hours working through what men he could get hold of and what equipment, though he wanted to personally be the one to pull the trigger or plunge the knife into that imposter’s back. Putin would use all his training, his years of KGB work, to make the opening. One chance was all he needed. With Filipov dead, and with himself physically in the Kremlin already, Putin could rule from the very centre of power. He would bring in the cavalry right around him, ranks of soldiers loyal to him. The Russian Guard were still loyal, Putin was sure. Then he would correct the wrongs of the Filipov months and steer Russia onto a more difficult and stricter course than ever before. The world had laughed when Putin was removed. Nobody had come to his rescue in Syria. He was confident they knew why Filipov had dramatically changed his focus in that war-torn hell-hole. They would have been happy to find a photo of his mangled body among all the others. One dead former President.

  But not anymore. Putin would make them regret that approach. In Filipov, all they’d got instead was a tyrant and madman, more bent on destruction than Putin had ever been. But if the world wanted war, if that was the role they had been delighted for Filipov to fill, then this time Putin would indeed give them a battle. He would invade the nations the West was sure he planned to invade. Putin would be the villain their media and governments were convinced he was. He didn’t care anymore. Putin just wanted his place in history restored, his seat at the top table of Russian politics. He wanted to be President again.

  So he would take the next day to plan everything he needed. He would leave nothing to chance. When his insider came back with the opportune time, Putin himself would look into it. He would check all the angles, cover everything the other person might have missed. Putin would make sure nothing was overlooked. Then he would make his move. He would have to get to Moscow, of course, but he already had a few ideas. There were Russian fighter jets in Syria, after all, and many of these flew out from bases in neighbouring Jordon. These pilots were probably more loyal to Putin than the current man. Someone would be able to fly him north. To fly him home. Once they got wind that Putin was making a move for power, a genuine and final move, Putin was confident they would comply. They would know Filipov’s brief time in charge was over.

  25

  West Siberian Plain––Russia

  Inside the house, Kaminski had seen the rockets launched in their direction. One had hit the next door room, where Sergej had been. Kaminski scrambled to the door. He saw his fellow Russian badly wounded, blood on his face and knocked to the floor. The wall was missing, the curtains––partly on fire and partially missing––blowing in the space that now existed where the bricks used to be. Kaminski thought about running in and rescuing Sergej, but there didn’t seem much to save. As he backed away, the second missile hit the room behind him, killing Sergej for sure.

  Kaminski raced downstairs. The building and security were taking a pummelling. Kaminski met the head of security. He looked most alarmed.

  “We can’t repel them,” he said, his face grave, his eyes fearful. Kaminski left the soldier for the time being. Three rounds of a high calibre sniper’s weapon could be heard. Kaminski, through a downstairs window, had seen one man fall outside. The glass had been blown away, presumably by one of the rockets fired a minute before.

  Kaminski wasn’t going to let them take him, though taking prisoners didn’t seem their aim. He wasn’t going to die on their terms. He had the gun Sergej had given him. More missiles continued to rain down on them, a little small-arms fire, but his men weren’t fighting back. He didn’t blame them. This wasn’t their fight. It wasn’t even a close contest. It was obliteration.

  Lev Kaminski pushed the gun underneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

  Despite all the carnage, all the noise outside, the gunshot so close brought the head of security running. He saw the fallen oligarch, the gun still in his hand. He’d seen Sergej dead upstairs. Both oligarchs were now dead.

  The man ran into what had been Mark’s bedroom. He tore the white sheet from the bed, brick dust and glass scattered all over it, as the building continued to take a pounding. He’d instructed his men to stay hidden. Anyone running into the open was going to be picked off by the snipers. It wasn’t worth trying to fight back.

  Fashioning a pole, he quickly tied the white sheet to the end of it. Approaching one window carefully, he pushed the white flag out through the gap. Moments later, the shooting stopped.

  Mossad Compound––Israel

  Putin was back at his device for the third communication in as many days with his man at the Kremlin. In the last day, Putin had managed to source all he needed. He would travel light. Once Filipov was dead, he could move in the heavy stuff, but Putin needed to remove him first before he could openly be seen to return to office. A gun, a knife and a pilot willing to fly him north to Moscow was all in place. Now he just needed to know when.

  Putin had managed to get hold of some Chinese technology, something he’d used many times before. Using the code supplied to him by the Kremlin insider, he was able to break into the President’s calendar. He studied the various arrangements carefully. Anything outside of the Kremlin––there were very few options, Putin noted––was not a viable hit. Putin had already warmed to the idea of carrying it out inside the actual Kremlin, anyway. One particular meeting, the details of who it was with left ominously blank, caught Putin’s eye. Late one evening and precisely the type of covert discussion Putin himself would have had. That would be his chance. It was only two days from then.

  “This has to be the last time,” the insider said.

  “Why?”

  “Filipov is back soon. I think they are suspicious of me.”

  “I’ll protect you.”

  “No, it’s better I stay low. I’ve got the opening for you, however.” Putin smiled, though he wanted to know about the evening meeting scheduled for two day’s time.

  “I think I have one option myself.”

  “There is an off-the-record discussion here on Wednesday night.” Putin actually laughed out loud––he was alone, so no one else heard. The insider was thinking of exactly the same slot that Putin had settled on, though he didn't know who Filipov was due to meet with.

  “I’ve seen that. Very interested in that opening. Who is the meeting with?”

  “An oligarch.” Putin sat closer to the screen. Money and power were always a dangerous mix, though Filipov was wealthy enough in both of those departments already.

  “Who?”

  “Mark Orlov.” Putin swore. He was sure Orlov was with the Machine. Were they trying to strike a deal? Orlov had been clear that he was trying to keep Putin alive himself. The meeting intrigued Putin. Showing up personally, therefore––and Putin knew all the secret routes around the Kremlin, he’d had most of them designed––would be doubly impressive to an oligarch who represented an organisation of significance that sat in the shadows. Maybe it was time it came into the light? Putin had shunned their presence for a while. He’d known about them, knew they were lurking. Only when Orlov had personally sent the security to Syria to watch Putin had the former President felt they were genuinely on the look out for him. It certainly made the Filipov/Orlov meeting a highly significant target.

  “Security?”

  “Minimal. Actually, less than that. Orlov's own me
n won’t even be in the Kremlin. Filipov has followed suit.”

  “Interesting.” It was indeed. Putin thought a little more about what more to say. “Thank you,” is all he decided to end things with. Putin now had all he needed. He would be able to personally reward the insider once back in power, and suddenly that looked a real possibility. Two days, a covert flight north and a carefully planned entrance into the Kremlin, and Putin would wait for his chance.

  “So I’ll sign off then and wait for the headlines?”

  “Yes. Thank you for your loyalty. I assure you, it will not go unrewarded.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The communication stream went dead. Putin pushed his keyboard away. He now knew what he needed to do to become the President of Russia once again.

  West Siberian Plain––Russia

  It was the team south of the building in the six o’clock position who spotted the flag.

  “They are surrendering,” the call came across the radio.

  “Hold fire!” Rad commanded. “Snipers, keep watch. Anyone tries anything, you take them down.” It was soon apparent it wasn’t a ploy. The same man who’d raised the flag could be seen in the window with hands held high, and his weapon lowered to the floor. He was calling to the other men, those still alive. Quickly, all seven survivors were in the open, guns gone, hands in the air. They moved away from their positions and huddled in a group.

  “Get us down there,” Rad ordered, back in the truck, the other men moving in on foot, weapons ready, though the situation demanded a calm approach.

  As Rad pulled up, the head of security recognised the renowned Russian sniper.

  “They are both dead,” he confirmed, clear that Rad had been sent for the two oligarchs. He wasn’t there to kill them all.

  “Check it out,” Rad told the man leading his team, giving him his mission briefing which had the names and faces of the oligarchs, but nothing else. Two soldiers went into the house carefully, did a quick sweep and a minute later emerged from the same door they’d gone in by.

  “It’s confirmed. Volkov was clearly killed by an RPG and Kaminski appears to have taken his own life.”

  “Very good.”

  “We have no issues with any of you,” the head of security for the oligarchs said as if he needed to state their case. “We are just working for payment, nothing more.”

  “We’re sorry you got caught up in all this,” Rad said, standing in front of the men. He had no intention of doing them harm. They were just like him. Men doing their job, following orders. His team had collected up their weapons. A search was done on the seven men, but none of them was carrying anything threatening.

  “You’ll be allowed to leave,” Rad said, his word final to all those under his command.

  “Thank you, sir,” the head of security said, offering Rad a full military salute. Rad returned the compliment.

  “We’ll take you back to the airfield. You’ll be free to make your own arrangements from there.”

  Rad left it at that. Turning to his men he said, “Let’s get this place cleaned up, shall we. Nothing gets left behind.” The men went to work. Everything that wasn’t bricks and mortar was loaded into the trucks, together with the five bodies: the two oligarchs and the three soldiers killed by the sniper bullets.

  Only three hours after arriving, they were all heading out. The house was now just a damaged shell, its walls exposed, some fires still smouldering. If the place burnt down, it didn’t matter. Nobody was likely to find it. Everything of any value or worth was collected together. It would all be returned to Filipov for him and his team to look over. The spoils of war, perhaps.

  The Machine, therefore, was completely destroyed. One great monster plucked from the sea and made to regret the day it was born. Just one man survived from the Leadership of that organisation, Mark Orlov, a man Filipov had in custody. He wouldn’t survive for much longer, the President was sure of that.

  26

  The North London Hospital, London

  Anissa was out of bed. Sasha helped her to her feet, her first tentative steps taken in a month, though her legs had not been seriously injured. She was healing well. The physical scars and wounds would clear up soon, if not already on the mend.

  Sasha wasn’t concerned about the physical damage, however.

  Sasha had talked about the funeral. He’d not gone into huge details––he didn’t think she could handle it––but had assured her it was a beautiful experience.

  She didn’t talk about it at all after that. She wanted to know about work, wanted to understand what had happened. She was glad the team of thugs who’d planted the bomb were behind bars. She’d made it her mission to follow that piece of news. The trial had been the week before, the verdict guilty, a long sentence awaited.

  Now she was walking. The doctors had suspected and mentioned to Sasha that they felt she could walk for some time already, possibly a couple of weeks. She’d forcefully refused to move when they had said they would help her walk, however. Her scans all checked out, her brain was repairing following the knock to the head that had led to the initial damage. It was her spirit that was low. The court verdict had caused at least some improvement.

  Sasha had not seen her smile, and even now, taking those steps which came naturally enough, there was little of the old Anissa present. She was signed off from work for another month, at least. Before being allowed back, they would sit her down with a couple of doctors––one checking her physical ability, the other addressing her emotional and psychological readiness.

  Sasha knew she had a long road of recovery ahead of her.

  Anissa had become his life for the present time. He too had been given extended leave, in a work capacity, to be close to Anissa for when she needed him. The Russian had volunteered for that, MI6 was more than happy to sanction the use of his time in that manner.

  The hospital had made available a room next door to Anissa’s where Sasha could sleep at night. He’d been staying at the hospital, therefore, for the last fortnight, only twice going back to Alex’s flat to do some washing, and check for messages or mail.

  Sasha had lost Alex, he wasn’t prepared to see Anissa go the same way.

  Anissa reached the window, Sasha alongside her, but letting go of her hand finally, not aware he’d still been holding it, tight and secure. She touched the glass. The outside represented a world she didn’t understand anymore, a world that had broken her. A world with a vast gaping hole that could never be filled.

  “I need a coffee,” she said, her voice weak. The canteen wasn’t far from there.

  “This way,” Sasha said, taking her by the hand, like leading a small child to the bathroom in the dead of night, Anissa’s tiny footsteps following behind.

  He sat her down at one of the empty tables. “I’ll get us both a drink,” he confirmed, going over and joining the small queue. When it was his turn, the lady behind the counter smiled at the Russian. He’d made quite an impact on them all, a daily visitor to the canteen, yet not a patient himself.

  “Two coffees, please,” he said, his accent only increasing his attractiveness to them all, but he wasn’t aware of any of that. His thoughts were solely on Anissa. He dropped the money onto the counter and took the coffees. He didn’t remember how Anissa took hers, so he added milk to one and took a few sugars. He could drink his coffee either way.

  She said she took milk and no sugar, so he dropped the correct one in front of her and added a couple of sugars to his black coffee. They sipped their drinks in silence, though Sasha did not take his eyes from Anissa for a moment. He was anxious about her.

  “Tell me about this friend of yours again. Tell me about Rad,” Anissa said. Sasha had said all he knew, but it was a conversation starter. He was hardly a friend, but that didn’t matter.

  He took the next ten minutes recalling stories from the orphanage, most not including the Russian sniper, but he did include the two incidents that had forged their connection back then. He saw the edge of
a smile for the first time as he talked about his own childhood, not that it was much about which to make anyone smile. He was at least happy to see some response from Anissa, some signs of life. He put his hands over her hands in the middle of the table, though after a few seconds returned to the final few sips of his coffee.

  “Tell me about your childhood,” Sasha said. The doctor had told him that talking with Anissa about her past, starting with the happy times might be helpful to her.

  “What’s there to tell? I had parents,” she said. Sasha knew that. They’d popped by the hospital now and again but he always made himself scarce at those times. He’d also kept his distance at the funeral. He’d seen Anissa’s mother, crying her eyes out. A woman who looked so similar to Anissa with a little more age showing. Anissa would look good as an old lady, that was almost guaranteed.

  “What funny things did you do?”

  “I can’t think of any now, Sasha.”

  “Tell me about school.”

  “I was a good student. Top of my class usually.” He didn’t doubt that.

  “Did you always want to be in this job?”

  She turned her nose up at the thought of MI6. “No.”

  “What did you want to do?” She thought for a few moments.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Probably didn’t know.”

  “So why MI6?”

  “Can we talk about something else, please?” She threw her empty cardboard cup into the bin on the other side of the aisle, catching the edge of the container before the container dropped down inside safely.

  “Want another?” Sasha asked.

  “No, one’s enough. I’ll be in the loo all day otherwise.”

  “Alex was into football. Do you support a team?” The mention of Alex and football had made Anissa’s eyes moisten. Sasha realised his mistake.