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

by Tim Heath

  “Damn you, Kuznetsov, if you’ve had anything to do with this!” Dmitry screamed, going for the throat of the man celebrating before him and needing to be restrained.

  To have broken protocol and used a real name––despite everyone knowing who the others all were––was unheard. Using only a number reminded them they were just Hosts in a Hunt. Actual names were only for the real world, where they could go up against each other in business.

  Here it was just pleasure, or meant to be.

  The Chair came over to the two men––Twelve now separated from the man he’d started throttling––Fifteen catching his breath again, trying to shake off the fact he’d been caught off guard by such a physical onslaught.

  “If I ever hear or see anything like that from anyone ever again, you’ll be carried out of this room in a bloody body bag! Have I made myself crystal clear, gentlemen? Twelve, we’ll have words with each other immediately, follow me.”

  The room became silent, the Chair walking off to one side, Twelve reluctantly following––like a schoolboy pulled into the headmaster’s office.

  “Your behaviour was unacceptable just now, and I expect much better from you.”

  “Don’t you see, he’s done this to me, he must have done? That guy had help today.”

  “We don’t––yet––know what has happened, and I’d remind you that making wild accusations will not help anyone. You stepped out of line with making this a personal defeat. You became violent, and you broke the code.”

  “Screw the bloody code!” he snarled back, the Chair catching him across the face, hard, with an open hand.

  “How dare you disrespect everything I’ve put together, coming to my home and acting like you run the place.”

  Twelve, his right cheek visibly reddened, straightened and made eye contact, locking in a stare that was as cold as it was brash.

  “What about the code that says one Host can’t actively bring down another?”

  “If that is proven to be the case, I’ll deal with it––not you. Don’t think for one minute I’ll let anyone get away with that. But you’ve lost, for now. Deal with that first, and leave me to decide if anyone has broken the rules, okay?”

  “I can’t afford this loss!”

  “Then you shouldn’t have been stupid enough to have made that bet, now, should you! Get out of my sight,” the Chair said, before whispering into his ear as he turned to walk away. “You’ve disappointed me today, Dmitry.”

  The following thirty minutes were silently chaotic, each man tiptoeing around the room, the day’s events over but no one wanting to leave––there was so much they wanted still to see. Twelve, the second most ranked oligarch in their league, had held that position for the whole time.

  He’d become proud, reckless at times.

  Seeing him take a fall was something not to be missed––but what a fall. If it was to be believed, this deal he’d agreed to in theory with Fifteen could destroy him overnight.

  It was a considerable amount to hand over, connections and business opportunities just handed on a plate to this rival, a man who that morning was beneath him, weaker than him, too––now, however, his prospects didn’t bear thinking about.

  Worst of all and the bitterest of all pills he currently had to swallow was that he’d lost. The man he’d put forward had beaten him, tricked him and taken his money and his pride. In doing so Phelan had brought shame on him, and that was the hardest thing of all to face, especially in front of a room full of fellow billionaires.

  Could he even include himself under that title anymore, unsure even now of what impact this would all have on his financial security?

  That was secondary––pride could always be restored. These defeats happened from time to time, as Annabel’s success in the previous event showed. It was how quickly you broke them––how fast you claimed back every cent that was rightfully yours––that mattered most. And he was going to destroy Phelan McDermott if it was the last thing he did.

  22

  Two days later Alex and Anissa sat with printouts in front of them, which detailed the fact that two long-standing tickets had been claimed over the previous days, one day apart from each other. Both winners had remained anonymous, a usual practice the two British agents had come to see when it was the Russians reclaiming their money.

  Once more, both in France and the UK, the two lottery providers refused to give any information about the identity of their winners.

  “So, do you think there was another event just held?” Alex said, walking with Anissa alongside the banks of the Thames.

  “Yes, I do. This is one of the dates those three Russians couldn’t make available to me when I approached their offices about having them speak at a fake conference I was proposing. One happened to be in the country the week before, the others already overseas. He left on a flight to St Petersburg three days before the first ticket was claimed in London.”

  “What do you make of the fact they were claimed on separate days?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit. I don’t know what to make of it. They usually hold the event on the same day, certainly from what we saw in St Petersburg. All four people were involved at the same time. They seemed to be trying to make it out that same day, convinced they had one day to claim. Our suspicion has always been that there is, in reality, an additional day to claim––which the Russians then use to grab the prize themselves once they’ve got hold of the ticket. So it is even possible that the one in the UK was, in fact, a winner from this event. The fact they’ve remained secretive is a little off. Usually, people want to make the fact known, especially in something like this. There must be the sense that greater public awareness would make you less vulnerable to reprisal.”

  “But more obvious for charity seekers,” Alex said.

  “That’s true, too. It’s possible that the Contestant got as far as the UK before being caught. The Russians might then just have claimed the prize themselves that same day and had done with it. Surely there is something we can do, somewhere we can look for answers and not just have doors closed in our faces? We are MI6, after all.”

  “We could make it an official operation.”

  “That’s taking quite a risk.”

  “We can’t just keep guessing though, always in the dark. We need to know more, need to open this up a little.”

  “I get your frustration, Alex, I do––believe me, I feel the same. It’s just I have a family to think about, so to risk it all for this means I can’t just think about what I want, they get affected too.”

  “Look, I don’t want you to do anything you aren’t completely okay with. I just don’t see that we can carry on as we are––always behind the actual events, always chasing shadows––fitting this around the other stuff that we need to do. If we make this an official operation, it becomes our sole focus.”

  “What would be the angle? We would need to prove that this is a threat to our national security, even if we did manage to get it signed off from above.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I don’t see what we could say.” He stood there a while, the pair just in silence before Alex said; “Andre Philips. We pull every resource to track where he is––that’s a legitimate investigation. Okay, it might not warrant as many resources as we would need, but we could work with that. It would give us more capacity than we have now. We keep his name out of it all, for now. We still don’t know where the leak is, but they do know we had a man in Russia and now he’s gone missing. I think we base our case on finding out where he is––or what happened to him. That’ll enable us to hopefully turn over the stones he was hiding under, legitimately looking into the lives of those he might have been around, all within MI6 remits. He was a key informer for us who mysteriously vanished. Remember, they don’t know we heard his last broadcast or when that was. We just have to say we haven’t heard from him in over nine months. We have a right to set up a search for him, to gather information. They can’t fault us fo
r trying to look for him.”

  “I guess it does make some sense. What do we say if we are asked to disclose his real identity?”

  “I don’t know what that would mean, especially if he’s still alive and simply hiding somewhere. If his name got to the wrong person within MI6––the one who put a lid on the last transmission he sent, not allowing us to hear it––we have to imagine their intention is malicious until we find out otherwise. I don’t think we can risk disclosing his name, for the time being. But we can put in a request to be granted time to track down our informant’s whereabouts, stating we are increasingly concerned for his safety and that we are sure he has information that is highly valuable to us if we can safely locate him. I’d imagine the mole here––assuming that is what’s happened––would be only too keen for us to find this man and therefore learn his identity.”

  “Very good. Let’s go with that then. Make contact again with Sasha, see if he’s uncovered anything from the last few days in St Petersburg. Tell him what we know––see if he can trace Andre himself from that end. I think we can trust Sasha, now, don’t you?”

  “I’d lay my reputation on it.”

  Alex had spoken with Sasha; a call made to his private number from a pay phone at London Bridge station. He’d given the Russian a little of the information they had, running through in highlights what they thought had just taken place. Sasha promised to have a look around.

  Alex then gave him the details about Andre Philips, asking him to have a look into him from the Russian side, seeing if anything could be found on this man that MI6 had on the inside. Sasha noted down the name.

  They agreed to meet in Oslo, Norway, in a few days’ time. Staying out of Russia was probably the most natural way of keeping Alex and Anissa off the FSB radar––something Sasha was desperate to do. If that happened it would risk having his connection with the two MI6 agents known, and that was something he knew would be fatal. They ended the call, Alex placing the handset back, the station busy with activity.

  Watching at a table in a Costa Coffee booth that occupied a corner of the main concourse there at London Bridge station, were the same people who had followed them after the FTSE100 conference, having listened in on his side of the call with the aid of a directional microphone.

  It was clear that the British agent was speaking with someone––presumably in Russia––though Alex had been clear to say very little, everything implied, the agent well trained in conversations conducted over the telephone.

  He had given up the name Andre Philips and had repeated the city Oslo once, those listening deducing some meeting was planned for Norway.

  A team would be ready for them at the other end, the team on him in London able to track him to the airport, so they would be sure when he was making the trip, giving folks in Oslo a few hours’ warning to get everyone in place.

  If a meeting were going to happen somewhere near the airport, maybe even in some of the restaurants that existed once you came through passport control, they would have people in place. They needed to know who Alex was speaking with––they had to cut off permanently any connection between this Russian and the British Security Service.

  Phelan woke up to his alarm clock sounding. It was just before eight in the morning. He was now €33 million richer, and it felt amazing.

  The last couple of days had gone smoother than he thought, but the next few days were vital.

  He was staying in a hotel in London, not having gone to see his family yet. They were being brought by car to him later that morning––the house packed, their essentials in two cases––the rest left in storage. They didn’t know if they would ever be back to collect it.

  They’d not mentioned anything to the children’s school. It was as if they’d dropped off the planet overnight, here one day, vanished the next.

  It was the way it needed to be, Phelan had been told. For the time being, anyway.

  His wife’s parents were flying out later that day, taking a day and a half before reaching the destination they were all heading. Phelan’s folks were already there, having moved the month before.

  Phelan had come clean the previous month before he even went to St Petersburg, painstakingly going over the details of the plan with each set of parents, before detailing everything for his wife. Life had to continue as before, he’d told them. He knew he was being watched, and they had to act as if everything was normal.

  His unexpected trip to Russia had to take them all by surprise, though he’d made it look like he was going to Germany, as he’d been sure to be seen telling them. His wife had suggested they make it seem as if not everything was right in their marriage––a touch Phelan had appreciated––delighted to have the backing of his wife.

  To drop entirely off the radar was not easy and required a lot of planning, and plenty of money. Thankfully the latter was now not an issue, and he’d had a lot of help with the preparation of it all, someone to whom he was eternally indebted.

  His wife and kids arrived at the hotel at ten that morning. The driver had been sure they were not followed. Their flight to Seattle was leaving in just over ninety minutes, so after greeting one another––the kids just happy to see their dad again after a few days’ absence––they started to move, Phelan first kissing his wife with a passion, before taking her hand and leading them all towards the terminal entrance from the hotel which was situated right outside the main airport building.

  Their bags were checked in for the entire flight. After a short stop-over in Seattle, they would have to catch a flight to Billings, Montana, via Salt Lake City, Utah. Each leg gave them only about forty minutes at each airport, but they were assured it would be enough time to make the connections.

  Finally touching down in Billings, there had been ample time––the fact they had small kids in tow helping them jump the queues, the longest being in Seattle where they had to enter America officially––the next two flights were just internal transits.

  Phelan’s parents met the sleepy travellers at the airport; the kids delighted to see Nana and Pops, a surprise they’d kept from the kids up to that point.

  They’d hired a minivan, enough to fit them all in, as well as Phelan’s in-laws once they arrived, and to then be able to travel around altogether. His dad drove, having adjusted to the roads there over the last month, allowing Phelan and his family some much-needed sleep, though the kids were too excited to stay sleeping for long.

  The destination was a few hours east of the airport, near the state line of Montana itself. They’d been offered use of a ranch that way, the area sparsely populated, providing them time to settle, staying off the grid, while they worked through their next moves. Phelan had been told he’d need a year––maybe eighteen months on the run––before it would be safe again.

  He’d already considered other places they could move to if needed, and he’d wondered about South America but was cautious about being an apparently wealthy family in countries that had so much crime. Besides, too much travelling would take it out of the kids, though settling anywhere for more than it was safe to do was something he wouldn’t allow to happen to his family.

  Driving along the roads––sleep now impossible for him too, an hour into the journey––he could see why Montana had been suggested to him, the sky vast on the windscreen in front of him, the land flat and lush, stretching for miles, with little sign of life. It was one of the largest states in the USA, and one of the least populated, too. It made a perfect stop-off point. Once the dust had settled, he would have to assess where they went next.

  Pulling up at the ranch, Phelan not knowing what to expect, he was delighted to see that it was what he might have called a farm, though its cattle-raising years had long since passed, the property sitting empty for a decade. There were three separate farms, all making up one large ranch, one family having occupied all the farms before. Oil was found on their land, money pouring in overnight, meaning the family decided to leave the farming lifestyle altoge
ther, the ranch abandoned in the process.

  A railway line ran through the middle, separating two of the farm buildings from the third. The plan was for Phelan and his family to live one side of the track, both sets of parents having their own houses on the other side. All three shared the only paved road in and out of the ranch, which opened onto the main street into town.

  A river ran along the edge of the property’s four-hundred acres, and there were cliffs high above on the other side. Wildlife was plentiful, deer ran freely and larger animals too. Various big cats could be found by the best hunters, all native to the area. It was a wilderness, not like anything to be seen in Ireland, and his parents had loved their month there already.

  The kids didn’t know where to run first, staying close to the house, well away from the railway line, not understanding the concept that everything around them was their land now, theirs to roam freely in––theirs to do what they liked with. Their Pops said he would take them out on the quad bikes later, each in turn, to show them around properly. They loved the sound of that.

  In a few hours, Phelan’s dad would make a return run to the airport, his wife going with him to be there when her parents arrived that evening, and that night they would all eat together under one roof for the first time since their wedding reception. Life was full of possibilities all of a sudden.

  23

  A team of half a dozen men employed by Dmitry Sokoloff had arrived in London, in search of Phelan McDermott. Sokoloff himself was beginning to feel the heat in Moscow––which would come to a head before the day was out.

  In London, the men went directly to the family home of Phelan, the two men dressed in some form of generic looking overalls and going up to the front door. There was no answer. Even from where they were standing, with a sight of the front room through the open curtain-less windows, they could see the house was empty. They went around the back of the house, checking no one was watching, and after forcing the back door, no alarm sounding, made a quick look around, but there was no point going upstairs––the house was empty, the family gone.