by Tim Heath
His name had also been on the list, and though he was Irish, Anissa had been able to track him and keep somewhat of a close eye on him. She had no access to the Irish border police and therefore was unaware that he was also about to board a plane that would eventually drop him in St Petersburg, via a short stopover in Amsterdam. At thirty-five, he was the youngest of the four. Divorced twice, despite his age, he lived alone, though because of his work he was always around people, especially the other tradesmen with whom he had set up a small business. He sat looking out of the plane’s window, wondering why he was actually doing this. Maybe it was all true; perhaps this would be his big break, he kept reminding himself.
The last of the four was a second generation British lady of Jamaican origin named Twila Dalton, who lived in the city of Leeds in the north of England. She was forty-seven and worked as a fitness instructor in one of the city’s many sports centres. Twila was getting to the point where she knew she couldn’t keep up with the demands of training, her body showing the signs of the harsh punishment she had often put it through over the years, not to mention at times the drugs she’d pumped into her veins to help build muscle. She was a fading beauty, desperate to put the clock back but unable to do anything to stop it. This trip offered her a new start, as she set out in her car, driving the hour or so it would take to get to Manchester airport and a flight to Russia that offered her everything she needed to start over again. Her passport also flashed up on Anissa’s screen as Alex joined her later that morning, the second confirmation that same day that anything on these four people was worth the time they had spent investigating them.
It had been a frustrating two months. Nothing more had yet been heard from Andre Philips, this informant’s silence having been reported to their bosses at MI6 while enquiring at the same time if anything had been heard from him. The answer that followed, which was that they’d not heard anything from Alex’s mysterious informant, had made it clear it was a cover-up. Anissa had found little information on the names listed; all seemed to be ordinary people doing very regular jobs. None of them travelled very far, and there was nothing to stand out at all that would make anyone take a second look, besides the fact that in his seemingly last message to his MI6 handlers, Andre had taken the time to list them in his report.
Alex had looked at dates too, but with so much potential conflict, it was hard to track what exactly they meant really. They were all dates in the past. There seemed no pattern as to when they took place––two were on the weekend, the other four on each weekday except Friday. They were in different months, on different days of the month. It made little sense. There was no pattern.
Concerning Dmitry, he’d had a little more success, though still nothing concrete. A typical Russian first name, at least half a dozen men were sharing that name who might be counted as a Russian oligarch. He’d written down the six names on a clean piece of paper, confident that one of those men was part of these secret Games. It was a start at least. He spent many hours reading up on these men, writing down what he thought was important, mapping out as much as he could the connections and influence each man had, not knowing who or what he and Anissa were up against. He, therefore, recorded as much as possible that might be useful later, if and when they were ever to place a surname to his first name.
Now, though, they suddenly had movement. Without any obvious warning, and almost beyond their expectations that anything would happen, two of these people, the two based in England that they knew of, suddenly decided to leave the country, on journeys that would take them to Russia’s second city.
“What do you think?”
“Right now, Anissa, I’m not sure. But it’s my hunch that Andre knew these folks were being watched right back when he made that report. We have to assume the other two are on the move as well, though we probably won’t hear from the Irish and you could never trace that fourth name, anyway.”
“It makes no sense. These names, these people, we’ve both looked at them closely. They aren’t anyone.”
“I know, but maybe that’s the point. Let’s start with how these people obtained a Russian visa in the first place. These things take time and therefore need planning. You can’t just wake up and decide to fly to Russia. They each had to have known when to fly and must, therefore, had made plans of some sort. Annabel is a single mum with a son who’s only just a teenager. I doubt she’ll have just left him on his own. We need to find out what they each knew about today.”
“Can we track flights to Russia? Maybe we’ll pick up these other two people as well, assuming they are also involved in all this today.”
“It’ll be hard. We can say there is a security risk, but even then we might not get access to what we are looking for. The Russians aren’t going to give us open access to passenger manifests, either.”
“There must be something we can do?”
“We could just board a flight and see for ourselves what is happening.”
“Fly to Russia, Alex? Are you mad?”
“I am meant to be on holiday, after all. You can make some excuse about something, I’m sure. We can use diplomatic channels to clear our need for a visa. It would enable us to have a look around.”
“The FSB would be watching us closely. Ever since what happened with Charlie Boon they’ve been very cool towards us.”
“I know, but I have a contact I think will be willing to help within the FSB.” He was talking about an agent named Sasha, an agent who’d made himself known to MI6 the previous year after one of his colleagues had been killed in a bomb attack in Zurich which had been aimed at another MI6 agent. “He’s probably our best bet.”
“Okay, Alex, let’s do this. I’ll clear it with home and meet you at the airport.”
“Don’t say where you are going, Anissa.”
“Alex, he’s my husband. I’ve already told him everything we’ve been up to these last two months. He thinks we’re crazy, but he won’t say a word.”
“He’d better not!” but there was a smile as Alex said that, though Anissa still gave him a look that told him not even to go there.
“Russia it is then,” she said, grabbing her bag and leaving the office.
4
In a busy part of the heart of the city, the oligarchs started to arrive. Although they had begun in Moscow, the capital and power base of the nation, they’d made the shift to host their Hunts in St Petersburg five years previously. Most of those who were based in Russia lived near their capital, where their business and political connections were mostly located. St Petersburg, once the capital itself and still very much the cultural centre of their nation, offered them something different. A break from their day to day life, a place of indulgence. And as the first of the men pulled up to the five-storey residence not five minutes’ walk from the Hermitage, Peter the Great’s stunning Winter Palace, few could guess at what was about to take place.
The car pulled away, though three security men joined him, security personnel that all of Russia’s wealthiest men now had around them in constant supply. The door was opened automatically for them, an electronic lock released as the tall Russian had approached it, his eyes, posture, and movement scanned and recognised. The building was otherwise off limits and impenetrable for the average citizen.
Outside the building, at the expense of the property’s owner, sat three teams of four, each aware of the others but operating independently, all highly paid to keep the building’s integrity, and the lives of those fortunate enough to be admitted, secure.
As the tall man entered the building, he was greeted warmly, “It’s wonderful to see you again, Fifteen.” First names were strictly off limits, even in a building thought to be so safe. Instead, within this group of ten men that were soon to be gathered together once more, they were merely referred to by their number, which corresponded to their position within the league, based on their wealth.
“As always a pleasure,” he replied, taking the grand staircase which would lead him up to
the second floor, the heart of the whole operation. Banks of monitors covered one wall, with a team of dedicated people keeping the technology side of things running in real time and keeping the network as extensive as they could make it. Very few sporting events had as much coverage as they used to keep track of every Contestant. And the next Games day, which was due to start the following morning, had four Contestants.
Drinks were readily available, people helping themselves as they pleased. Besides each man’s security personnel, who mostly remained on the first floor anyway, there were very few people around, which was part of the plan. The Chair, the person who put on the event, was there for sure and sat independently of the other oligarchs, an impartial viewpoint if that were possible in such circles. Rich as well, to hold a similar position with the other oligarchs, the Chair which was the usual term in Russian, ran the show. You didn’t cross the Chair and remain in the Games. It was a select group of people that played. The only other person in the room apart from the ten oligarchs, the Chair and the technicians who were needed to operate all the graphics, was the Odds Maker who set the odds as well as controlled the bets. Rarely was money traded. With men of such wealth, it mattered little, though when it was traded, it became extreme. Lives had been shattered when things had turned into personal conflict in the past. Rules now forbade any oligarch directly interfering with another oligarch’s Contestant. That didn’t stop it happening, of course. Mostly, however, it was power, or connections, that were traded. Sometimes promises were used too, like withdrawing from a particular region if the bet was lost. This approach was especially prevalent when business interests overlapped with another oligarch you were coming up against.
As with all in Russia, though, honour and shame became the most significant factors for most men. To lose a Hunt in front of their peers brought shame upon that person. The money they might have lost meant nothing, a loss of face before the others meant everything. Honour would be restored only by getting back everything they had lost, and there were strict rules around this too, but few oligarchs adhered to them. Honour was honour. If someone happened to take their money, they’d break them until they had bled them dry of every last cent, penny or kopeck. They took no prisoners. Bets were not set on just who would win or lose––Contestants had very little chance of winning, anyway. Instead, being a real-time event, it was often based on what ways they might try, or how quickly they’d fail. Any number of things would be used to make a bet between other oligarchs, besides the pure joy of watching poor and helpless folks scrambling for something they had no right to have.
Still, oligarchs were encouraged to make bets along the way––it wasn’t to be a spectator sport, nor did the men let it become one, as entertaining as it all might have been for them. Each oligarch took turns to Host a Hunt. A Hunt consisted of a Contestant––their Contestant––being handed a ticket which the oligarch had sourced. They were effectively daring this unwitting Contestant to now try and take the money from them, even if the innocent foreigner had no idea they were being involved in some big game.
That meant each oligarch also had their teams of people constantly moving around Europe. Some were there to source lottery tickets. If an oligarch knew it was their turn to Host a Hunt in six months’ time, his Buyers would monitor the appropriate country for options. Starting with countries like the UK and Switzerland, where claimants had one-hundred and eighty days to collect the money, they would move onto Belgium, one-hundred and forty. Then Ireland, Portugal and Spain, ninety days before trying France or Luxembourg which only allowed sixty days––though that just added something to the mix. They looked at both the national lottery systems, as well as the Euro Loto, which sold across many countries––claimant time for both depending solely on where the winning ticket was purchased. These teams had often suddenly had to travel to another country the day after a successful ticket was discovered, in the hope of being able to get to the claimant before they contacted the lottery or, often just as vital, before another team of Buyers got to them.
Especially with significant wins, the mainly less well off people who played the lottery were often concerned about the publicity that came with such a considerable payout. People they only knew a little suddenly made out they were lifelong friends, always slipping into the conversation the need for some extra cash for this or that. By offering to give the winners an immediate cash equivalent, a surprisingly large amount of people took them up on that offer, too blown away with the sight of so much cash to think anything further about it. Usually, the Buyers pretended to be from the lottery itself, which made sense. How else would they know where the winning ticket was won, arriving on the doorstep with cash to the exact amount won, offering to make a switch there and then––the money for the ticket? Simple, anonymous and instant.
The bigger the winning ticket, the higher the interest in the Hunt. Billionaires liked nothing more than flashing their wealth before the other oligarchs. While a million pound lottery ticket still made for a good prize for any Contestant, there was always something extra special when a Buyer got their hands on one of the huge wins––€30 million, €45 million and even right up to over €100 million at times. Those Games days certainly had an edge to them, when so much was on the table. The bets were always a little more juicy, too.
So teams of Buyers worked continuously throughout the various nations in which the most popular lotteries ran, always selecting Europe, for two reasons. Firstly, it had to be near enough to give the Contestant an idea that they might be able to make it, in such a short time. Usually, they only gave the Contestant one day to make it back to claim. Secondly, other regions, especially North America where there were plenty of giant lottery wins, demanded claimant’s details be made known. While there was still a legal case going through where someone was trying to challenge that, it was unlikely to change the rules too much. Most victorious oligarchs found a way of then claiming their ticket, usually through some other people, recouping the money they might have paid out months before. Pocket change to be used in future Games, no doubt. Occasionally the oligarch would leave the cash unclaimed, framing the ticket in a show of apparent defiance, as if to say; here’s a winning lottery ticket for over £10 million that I can afford not to claim.
The other team of people that each billionaire employed, besides their Buyers, were their Spotters. Important as it was to have a high-value lottery ticket to put into a Hunt, it was nothing without a worthy Contestant. The Spotters were the people that dug deep into people’s lives, tracking them for months, looking for the right types of characteristics that were deemed necessary to make someone interested enough to become a viable Contestant. Each team of Spotters and their respective oligarch no doubt had separate requirements but shared across the group were things like greed, a person’s willingness to take a shortcut, a person’s ability to think on their feet and determination not to give up. The better the Contestant, the greater the Hunt. The odds reflected these well, too. Whoever provided a perfect Contestant for a Hunt they were responsible for, made the odds that bit more exciting. After all, if the person who found the ticket just did nothing with it, there was no Hunt, no chase, no fun. They’d perfected their processes over the years, realising that people who were already in St Petersburg for another purpose, were less likely to do much about it all. But people who they’d managed to get to the city for that very purpose, were more likely to make a decent go of it.
Of course, between the various Hosts, who varied from Hunt to Hunt depending on who was selected for any particular event, when you influenced such things as the border guards and the transport networks, it made it much easier to frustrate the plans of the Contestants. Without knowing anyone was actively working against them being successful, nearly all would fail. Some got lucky, for a while, though that never lasted for long, the newfound wealth vanishing as quickly as it arrived as the oligarch moved in, closing down their businesses, affecting their family members so much that in the end, the winner
s had nothing left and no fight to offer.
This was why they kept it all so secret. They were having too much fun to allow anyone to expose what they were doing and risk making more people aware of their Games, or worse still, shut them down for good.
The final group of people involved, and these were provided by the organisation and therefore run by the Chair, were the Trackers. These were the teams of people that followed each Contestant during Hunt time, relaying real-time updates on progress and positioning, going places maybe the drones couldn’t access or where there were no CCTV cameras. They were not allowed to interfere with the Contestant, just relay the information in real time to the Games Room. The Trackers, like the Buyers and the Spotters, had no access to the actual league of oligarchs, unaware of who they all were, sometimes even unaware of what was going on. Most of the people in these teams were now freelance, though some still held positions within Russia’s security departments, which made getting access to specific information a little more accessible at times.
“Gentlemen,” the Chair said, otherwise referred to by the nickname the Wolf. This was a person you didn’t cross who held a lot of power within the room. “It’s great to see you all again. Tomorrow we have an exhilarating day ahead of us, with four Contestants primed to perform in front of our eyes. Eleven, Fourteen, Fifteen and Nineteen, we are at your bidding tomorrow as you announce your particular Contestant and the prize that might await them.” There was a slight murmur around the room, but it soon settled back down. “Enjoy the drinks, everyone, and sleep well. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow.”
