The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset

by Tim Heath

  Twila, indeed, was heading west, across a bridge over one of the many canals, heading in the direction of the Finland Railway station, which connected the north side of the city by rail with their Finnish neighbours to the west. However, she opted not to enter the station but instead approached a small white transit van with a board in the front windscreen indicating it was heading to Helsinki. The bus was already nearly full, and as she got on board, paying her rubles to the driver, the doors closed and the bus pulled away.

  The team of Trackers followed the vehicle. The men that the Host had sent were only able to watch from a distance as they came running from the station, unable to see where she’d gone or which bus she was on. The Games Room erupted, two of the four, and the only active Hunts at present, seemingly going against their billionaire Hosts, shaming them for being outwitted by such everyday people––and two women, at that.

  Sasha had now rejoined Alex and Anissa, and they’d driven some distance before stopping for some food. While they had been waiting for him, the two British agents had spent their time exploring a little of the cathedral. Many people were begging outside the entrance to the building, apparently hoping to stir the consciences of those leaving the church. They’d then wandered along the canal, circling the domed Church on Spilled Blood, various market stalls visible a little further beyond, though there was not a lot of foot traffic. They both purchased a hat from the market, the cold starting to get to them, even though it seemed the worst of the winter had long passed. The canal was still mainly frozen, though the centre was clear, the ice littered with cans and champagne bottles, the odd remains of fireworks also visible.

  When the two hours had been up, and it was time for Sasha to return, they walked back to where he’d parked before, but as no spaces were visible, they continued to the central Nevski Prospekt. Sasha pulled over, blocking a bus lane that was thankfully empty at that point, and they got into the back seat as they had in on each of the previous occasions.

  Now sitting down around a large wooden table, three bowls of warm Russian soup in front of each of them, a red metal teapot to one side, Sasha started to explain what he’d found out.

  “All four of these names appear on migration cards received at Pulkovo airport yesterday,” he stated, both Alex and Anissa lowering their spoons as the confirmation hit them. “None of them are staying more than three days.” That meant the chances of hearing from a hotel before they’d left again were remote.

  “Can we stake out the airport on the day they are due to leave?” Anissa said.

  “Yes, that’s possible. To what purpose?” Sasha said.

  “Besides, it would tell us very little,” Alex added.

  “I put a flag on these names. It’s common practice and just informs my office if and when an attempt to cross the border is made. The border guards will not see the warning. I only used the basic level, which just informs me. If I’d done anything else, it might alert others to our interference in the situation.”

  “Yes, very good. So, we will at least know if and when they decide to leave the country, assuming it isn’t on the very day they stated on their migration card.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And we won’t find out from their hotels where they are staying?”

  “It’s unlikely, Alex, no. The law requires them to inform the authorities within seventy-two hours, five days as a maximum. Very rarely do the hotels get around to doing it before that time. These people would, therefore, most likely have left before we are told.”

  “If they are still in the country by then,” Alex added.

  “You think they’ll do whatever they are here for before that time, then?”

  “Look, if we are to believe all that the rumours say, and they have been just rumours up until now, then these four people have been brought here for a particular purpose. It could even be today, maybe tomorrow. We need to find these people as quickly as we can.”

  “My city is five million people. We don’t know where they are. There are well over two thousand six hundred hotels in St Petersburg. Even if we narrowed down the search to a particular area or price bracket, we don’t have the time or personnel to make such a search in the hours we have. I’m sorry.”

  “So what can we do?” Alex didn’t like the idea that he was just idle, waiting for something to happen that would give him the next piece of the puzzle, always behind the events, still chasing something, never ahead.

  “We wait, and in the meantime, let’s look into the other information that you have and see where we get. You mentioned some dates…”

  9

  Almería, south coast of Spain

  The flight from Gatwick had been smooth, as the two-person team of Buyers working with Thirteen touched down on the daily easyJet shuttle that was working that route. All around them on the approach, they’d seen fields of white, the polytunnels covering acre upon acre and growing all sorts of produce to be shipped globally, especially to the UK. The sea lined one side of the runway as the plane taxied to its position on the tarmac.

  The pair, both of Ukrainian origin, like their boss, were in Spain’s hottest region because someone was waking up potentially €33 million richer following the previous day’s Euro Loto result. The Buyers had been in London hunting down another potential option, but the claimant had beaten them to it, already notifying the UK Lottery that they had the winning ticket. In those cases, the procedure was just to walk away, because once the big guys knew about it, the risk of exposing their presence wasn’t worth the hassle.

  The airport was small, flights in and out limited. It made getting through security very easy, and they were walking out from the front of the terminal twenty minutes later, keys for their rental collected and car waiting out front for them in the car park. The heat was hitting them already, though they weren’t too bothered by that. Pine trees with cones the size of tennis balls greeted them as they walked up a ramp that took them to the parking area. They located their car without any trouble, got in, air conditioning working away, and were off before ten o’clock. They had a lot of work to do if they were to be successful on this one, and it was possible that there could be other Buyers in the market for the ticket, though Thirteen had reassured them that was unlikely. He was the only Host of the Hunt in just under three months time without a ticket, so he figured he would get this one without much of a problem if they were willing to sell. A ticket of this value, while not overly rare, did make a good prize.

  First stop was the central bank in the region, a multinational that had branches not only across the whole of Spain but right across Europe, too. They had called ahead to the bank––it wasn’t every day that such a cash withdrawal was required, but the funds had cleared the day before and the money made ready in €500 notes as requested, each bundle of one hundred notes worth a cool €50,000. With six hundred and sixty packets to collect, it required several large boxes to store it all. They hoped the back seat of the car would have enough space to house all the boxes. The boot was small and already cramped with their flight luggage.

  By eleven, the money was safely collected and stored in the car, the staff at the bank curious to see quite who the mystery clients were, though standard client protocol meant they’d been as discreet as one would expect from such a large bank.

  The Buyers called their tech guy next.

  “Anything?” they said, the phone on speaker as they drove back out of the city, mountains visible ahead of them. They’d spoken English to their contact person who was of Romanian nationality. He was the vital third piece to any Buyers’ team, as he regularly monitored, and often hacked into, systems, listening for what he could. Usually, after such a big win, someone said something. He had tracers put on most luxury websites selling anything from yachts to Caribbean getaways. It was a known fact, that before a claimant ever contacted the lottery organiser, which usually had to wait until the morning after, they were already virtually spending the money they had yet to collect, searching a
nything their mind conjured up. It had proved the fastest way to track a lottery winner and was now widely used by all the Buyers working for the various oligarchs.

  “I’m still looking. Possibly something here, just sending you GPS now,” and a text message came through to a handheld tracking system they were using. If a claimant only checked one website, it was nearly impossible to trace, unless you knew almost exactly what region to search in. But multiple searches made from the same IP address and they had their target. “Two searches made from those coordinates late last night. It appears to be a small village in the mountains. The Ferrari they were looking at is hardly practical for tight mountain roads, and neither is the ocean going yachts they were looking at just after. Not very easy to store a vessel like that in such a remote place. I’d say we have our winner.”

  “Thanks, keep watch, and we’ll let you know how it goes.”

  There had been the odd occasion when the Buyers made a run for it. Millions in cash can do that to any individual, making them feel they were invincible and so far away from those that might miss it. Those people always ended up dead, and very publicly, too. The killings had been a sign and a warning not to mess with an oligarch. Their network was just too far-reaching, there was no hiding ultimately unless they never used the money. But what was the fun in that? Most Buyers knew their place, part of a much bigger team, paid well and given generous budgets to travel widely. It was a good life if you could make it work.

  The female of the pair now driving the roads of Almería typed in the coordinates that had been sent through, the map taking just moments to configure before displaying a route, time and distance in front of them. They were fifty minutes away, and the morning was pressing on. It was critical they got there in time.

  “Roma,” the driver said, reconnected to their computer expert once more, “we aren’t going to be there for another hour or so. You’ll need to take out the telephone signal from that area.”

  “Already onto it. I figured the same a few minutes back. I’ve taken out the internet too, for good measure. It should ground them, and if not that, at least stop them calling it in. Mind you, a win of this size usually takes them a little while to get around to claiming the money. It’s funny, and you would think playing the actual thing they would be more prepared for winning, but they never are.”

  “True. Anyway, I don’t want to keep you, and you are ahead of the game on us anyway,” he said, glancing at his partner. The computer whizzes always thought they were one step ahead of everyone else. “If there is anything more to come from the area, let us know.”

  “With the internet and phone lines out, I’m not sure what you expect me to do from here. I’m only so good.”

  “Good point. Keep safe,” and he hung up, laughing. “So he’s not all-powerful, after all.”

  Travelling at some speed, they were approaching the village forty-five minutes later, taking the often sharp turns carefully. The map led them just beyond the centre of what was only a small mountainside community and brought them to a free-standing house that was probably part of the farm next to it, no other buildings visible. The house itself was small and compact, built of stone. The roof seemed in need of a little attention. There was one car, a tiny Fiat, parked next to the house, in front of a single garage. Goats moved around in an adjoining field. There was an orchard of some sort at the end of the garden. As they were deciding what to do, whether to park up behind the Fiat on the drive or leave the car on the road, a man was seen looking through the front window. They pulled up behind the Fiat and got out. Moments later the front door opened.

  “Are you from the internet company?” the old man asked in Spanish, the female of the pair the only one fluent enough to understand him.

  “No, sir, but we know the whole area is down, phone lines too. We’ve been trying to call you all morning. We’ve been sent from Euro Loto HQ. Congratulations on last night’s win.”

  The man froze on the spot as if shocked that his secret was out despite not having told anyone, but then relaxed––of course they knew, they were the ones selling the tickets.

  “Please, come inside,” he said, ushering them towards the door.

  “Thank you, my colleague will just bring some boxes in from the car so will join us in a moment,” she said, walking towards the door, her partner already starting to manhandle the four large cardboard boxes from the back seat.

  Inside, the house was messy. A photo stood above a small dressing table of a younger woman, the picture itself in black and white.

  “That was my wife,” he said, noticing the lady looking at the photo. “Died many years ago, now, before we’d had the chance to start a family of our own. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

  “Well, that’s about to change, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You have nothing to be afraid of, sir,” she said. The many times she had been through this situation helped her to come across as motherly, caring as a nurse would speak to her patient. “We know it can be challenging for people like yourself following such a big win. That’s why we’ve come to you today with a cash payout. There doesn’t, then, need to be any publicity. It’ll be totally up to you who, if anyone, you choose to tell.” She smiled and let that last phrase sink in as her partner brought in the last of the four boxes into the room.

  “This is all the money, you mean? Here?”

  “Yes, sir. We can transport you to a bank of your choice if you’d prefer. But yes, from our experience, when it comes to people in your situation, they prefer to take a cash prize and stay out of the papers. You see, those that didn’t do it that way end up getting run out of town. First, the neighbours start calling around all the time, pretending to be friendly, but they all want a piece of your good fortune. Then it’s a relative that had not been heard from for years suddenly showing up on the scene. Letters come pouring in from every hopeless case under the sun asking for just a few thousand here, a few thousand there. It drives most people crazy.” Her partner had opened the top box as she’d been speaking, the old man’s eyes taking in the sight of more cash than he ever thought he’d see in his life. His defensiveness changed as soon as he saw the money, going over to touch some, being handed a bundle of notes as he got to the boxes. Once they’d seen the money, they were always as good as sold on the idea.

  “Of course, we will need to see that you have the actual ticket. You see, it’s just regulations. We can’t do anything with you until we’ve confirmed that you are in fact in possession of the ticket.”

  Now, it became necessary to check that he did have a ticket. Winners always made a move at this point to prove the fact, and the old man was no different.

  “Here you go,” he said. The ticket had been sitting on the lounge table all along, though under a book he must have been reading, probably to help him sleep the night before. She scanned the numbers, and there was no doubt, it was what they expected.

  “Very good. So, what would you like to do with the cash?” They always worded it like that, making up the mind of the claimant for them, just assuming they were taking the option presented. Of course, the claimants themselves just believed this was how it always happened, being the first time for them, but reasoning that those standing before them must do this all the time.

  “I think I’d like to take you up on the offer of taking me to my bank. I don’t think I could manage these boxes by myself in that old Fiat, after all. Nor does the idea of leaving such amounts around the house fill me with anything but dread.”

  “Of course, sir. We’ll take you right away,” and her partner started loading the boxes back into the car. “One more thing, sir. I will have to take the ticket from you.”

  “Yes, of course,” and he handed over the ticket, not a moment’s hesitation, the cash prize already in front of him. He did not need it anymore, after all.

  10

  The momentary silence of the Games Room in the five-storey mansion
in central St Petersburg was broken as a roar of delight went up. Annabel had finally popped up on their grid again, her passport cleared at the Ivangorod border station in western Russia, meaning she’d crossed the river into the EU, arriving in the eastern city of Narva, Estonia. While there were a few bets that might have a payout, the real power came from seeing fellow oligarchs falling. A Contestant who managed to escape Russia was humiliating for the hosting oligarch, and the other oligarchs loved to make that fact known. Reputations were made or broken in that room, based on how far someone would go, what stops they’d pull out, to come out on top. Whenever a Contestant had made it out of Russia, their odds of then claiming the reward jumped dramatically, just under twenty per cent of people getting that far had gone on to claim their prize. Only one man had attempted to claim without even leaving St Petersburg, by sending the ticket via Fed-Ex to his wife, who happened to be sleeping at her lover’s house the day the courier arrived and therefore failed to receive it in time. Since then, with no fun to be had chasing a package across Europe, the delivery companies had all been seen to. Most were now owned by the very oligarchs in that room, as they all looked to increase their grip on situations that might otherwise befall them.

  The Trackers, who had been on the first train and were still clearing the border when the call was put through to them, would continue to Tallinn, the destination for which Annabel was heading. The two men who had boarded the train on the instructions of the Host would get off before the border. There was a high chance their names would flag up on the western side of the border, and they would then most likely get detained. They weren’t any help to their boss locked up somewhere. He’d have to pull in other favours, instead.

  Twila had been followed all the way to the border by the car that her team of Trackers were using. She’d been trying to pick up any form of internet signal so that she could book a flight to the UK, but nothing had been showing in that barren and wild part of Russia. Twila hoped that across the border and into Finland, she would pick up something, probably once she got nearer to the capital.