by Tim Heath
“Svetlana, this is Roman Ivanov,” Sergej said, introducing him to a man she had met before, the two shaking hands anyway. “Roman is one of the UK’s richest men, though of course a fellow Russian. His companies in this country are right up there with the best.”
“Thank you, Sergej, but you speak too highly of me. I’m just a humble man trying to make a living for my family.”
Sergej patted him on the back, the couple moving on, Svetlana catching his eye as they were passing, something momentarily communicated, then her smile returned, and she turned away, following her husband to the far side of the room, where she was once more reintroduced to Dmitry Kaminski. The two shook hands, and there was a noticeable nervousness about Dmitry.
“Thinks himself to be a future leader of our nation,” Sergej whispered to his wife, once Kaminski had moved on from their brief conversation. “Some say he would make a good President, too.”
“Do they?” Svetlana said, pondering the man she’d just been speaking with, watching him as he walked away.
Back at the entrance, more guests were arriving, amongst them a man she didn’t recognise, his dress code and colouring suggesting he wasn’t Russian at all. She observed him for a moment. Another Russian then approached this man, a conversation started. It lasted maybe one minute, the two parting company, the visitor scanning around the room––noticing the attention he was getting from Svetlana––before he turned and left.
Right then, Akim Kozlov came over, greeting them both as the old friends they were to him. When the time came to part, Svetlana went over to speak with the man she knew who had greeted the stranger––Dmitry Pavlov.
“Dmitry, that man you spoke with about ten minutes ago––the Englishman,” she said, making the obvious assumption but Dmitry seemed to understand who she meant. “Who was he?”
“I recognised him from the conference I was in the other month. He was heading up the security for that event––MI6. I wondered if he was responsible for security here today, too; it is unusual for MI6 to be involved with this particular set up, as you can understand.”
“Quite. Tell me, what did he say? Why was he here?”
“He didn’t say, though he left shortly after. I don’t think he is involved in the security aspect here.”
“Interesting,” she said, her husband coming over at that moment, a glass of orange juice in his hand which he handed to Svetlana.
“Excellent, the two of you have met. Did you know that Dmitry Pavlov is the great-grandson of Ivan Pavlov?” he said, Svetlana already aware of that, as well as for what Ivan had become so famous.
“Is that so?” she said, no hint that this was anything but new information. “It’s amazing what you find out at events like these,” she said, walking on with her husband now, as guests continued to arrive.
26
Dmitry Sokoloff felt like a dead man walking, the issues and debts flying around him, while he tried his best to carry on as before. Those closest to him within his business world didn’t know what to say––he’d kept what was happening from them. His closest financial advisor had not seen his boss this disturbed.
Instead of dealing with what was about to happen––which might mean he’d salvage something from the train wreck heading his way––Sokoloff did what he had always done, carrying on as if nothing was up.
He’d just left a meeting with yet another disappointed company man; the papers signed to sell off another of the group’s––so-called––struggling businesses. The reality was, he needed the capital; the sale and the loss of hundreds of jobs was just a numbers thing for a man who for so long had been untouchable––now he was exposed. Even this latest sale wouldn’t mitigate what he would be forced to do, and that was to break into profitable businesses, dismantling them in what would undoubtedly prove a catastrophic manner. That day wasn’t yet entirely upon him, and if he could stop that from happening, he would.
He had pushed up prices for advertising across his television network, that move unpopular, and again not likely to alter the inevitable. As the sole owner of the leading channels in the country, it was prime time viewing his customers couldn’t avoid missing out on, and he was squeezing them all for as much as he could get from them. It eased cash flow in the short term, but the full ramifications of what he’d thrown away in St Petersburg had yet to fully hit.
He was also a principal financier behind President Putin, one of only a few of the wealthiest men to wholeheartedly back his reelection campaign, and many things since. The trade-off with the power and potential this offered his empire was worth the investment.
He’d been trying to get a meeting arranged with the President all morning––as yet, to no avail. Had word reached the Kremlin about his imminent downfall, a collapse that could be avoided––he hoped––if he could get time with Putin? The President owed him, and it was the least he could offer for one of the few men backing him so recklessly financially.
All that money had been kept from the public record, of course, though was widely known among the wealthy elite, the very oligarchs he often rubbed shoulders with in the Games. If word had indeed spread, though he wasn’t sure it had, due to the secretive nature of their activities, his very reputation would be in tatters, his honour at stake. Guilt was never the issue, but a loss of honour was. He would do anything to restore that honour now, no matter how guilty that made him.
Besides the distractions of a crumbling empire that threatened to cost him nearly all his wealth––far more even than the value of the actual bet he’d made in St Petersburg––his primary focus since that day was fixed solely on Phelan McDermott, the as yet unlocated Irishman who had caused all this.
Coupled with the thought of the dishonour that the Irishman had caused Dmitry, was the niggling suspicion that Phelan was getting help and not just with his fortunate escape from St Petersburg. His disappearance since––and that of his more extensive family too––looked like something pre-planned and orchestrated. Within the Games, it was the number one rule that you didn’t directly set out against another Host––yet it certainly looked as if this had happened here.
The most obvious winner in his downfall was Aleksey Kuznetsov, the man who’d gone against him in the original contest. Dmitry had loathed the man for a long time, something within the other guy’s personality that just didn’t click with him. To be potentially handing over most of his empire to that man made him sick inside.
Much as he loathed him, he had investigated the man, and there was no way he could have orchestrated such a move. Aleksey was not the man behind this, fitting as it might have been to accuse him. He knew he couldn’t bring any such accusation against a fellow oligarch without something concrete to underpin it, and that so far had been hard to find. The thought that someone else, possibly within the league he played itself, could be working to bring him down––something that Kuznetsov had been the lucky beneficiary of––was a difficult thing to digest.
His private phone rang, for once it was not his desk phone with yet another business issue facing him.
“Yes,” he answered sharply, direct as always and to the point. It was the man leading his team of Spotters. With no prospect of hosting another event in the Games, he’d recalled them all from the various countries they were in, together with some of his musclemen and the Buyers that remained loyal to him and had tasked them all with finding Phelan McDermott.
He had placed the man who’d initially found Phelan in charge of the team of a dozen people, though he wondered if that was a wise idea. The Irishman surpassed the expectations of someone who should have known better. No Host ever wanted their Contestant to defeat them, just offer the others the thought that they might, before bringing them to a swift end––yet this one had got away.
“I don’t care what you have to say, no more excuses,” Dmitry interjected, cutting his man off as he once more tried to give his reasons as to why they hadn’t yet located the Irishman. “You find that son-of-a-bitch and
you bring me his head, plus the heads of everyone he loves, and anyone who has covered for him––otherwise it’ll be your head that I take. Have I made myself clear?” He had. “I don’t care what it takes; you must find me this man. I need to know everything about him. Look through all the previous notes you made when you first came across him. Maybe there is something there that will give you a clue as to who he might have contacted, who might know about him. Someone must be willing to speak. Try the lottery itself, and I don’t care who you have to kill; if they know something, make them speak. If he flew from England, someone must have driven them to the airport. Anything will be a start. Why do I have to spell this out for you people? Just find him!” he said, his blood boiling as he ended the call, throwing the phone hard against the wall, a chunk of plasterboard cracking and falling to the floor.
“Damn you McDermott for thinking you can cross me, take my money and get away with it. I’ll hunt you until I find you, and when I do you’ll tell me the names of everyone who has helped your little plan, every person who has conspired to bring me down, and I’ll finish every single one of them personally.”
Just then his second mobile device sounded, one he only used with fellow members of the Games. It was the Chair, the last person he wanted to speak to at that moment, but he swallowed hard, answering the call.
“Dmitry Sokoloff,” he said as if it was needed to confirm who would be answering that particular number.
“I’ve come to a decision about your future within the Games,” the voice said, its general authority pouring through every syllable. “I’ll personally grant your request to take part in the New Year event––the highlight of the year––but you’ll become Twenty. We have a new Eleven for this coming event, and therefore Arseni Markovic will take your old number at Twelve. Krupin is out,” the Chair said. Since Stanislav Krupin, the other Host from the last Hunt who was at number Twenty, this change meant he was pushed out and demoted from the event altogether. It was news to Dmitry and concerning at that.
“Thank you for giving me one more chance to prove myself.”
“It’s not going to make much of a difference in the long run, Sokoloff, from everything I’ve been reading.”
The thought of what the Chair had been reading flashed through his head, his whole situation so far kept from public knowledge, his companies’ share prices mostly unaffected by it all, as of yet. This was an internal document, concerning the various oligarchs within the Games.
“You’ll still be made to come clean and settle your bet.”
The phrase made to come clean spoken with total authority, and he knew it could be enforced. Though a significant player himself in a secretive group of people, bigger fish were lurking in the shadows that he only knew existed by reputation and suggestion.
These were people you didn’t cross, the men who ran the nation––besides the President––who still held certain powers the others didn’t. At least he personally still had Putin as an ally within the corridors of power.
“I just need a little more time. It’s a complicated situation.”
“You have until New Year’s Day. I expect to see everything settled by the close of that event, and I guess if you are lucky enough, you might have caught this Irishman by then.” Was it a snigger he heard in the tone at that point? Was his situation a joke to them now?
“Don’t worry, and I promise I’ll have everything in place. It might even keep me in the league.”
“I don’t see that happening now, do you?”
“What do you mean? I’ve got huge influence and bring a lot to this group.”
“Many prospective candidates will be much richer than you by the time this is all finished.”
“I still have a lot of influence in this country. That means something to these people.”
“True, so I guess it depends on how much of your existing empire you manage to keep your hands on. If you lose the television and media companies, what good are you to anyone?”
It was a loaded question. Sokoloff knew more than anyone that his influence had been built around his ability to control what his nation watched and read. He’d loaded the last four elections in his people’s favour solely because of that. His was a ticket still worth something, and he intended to see this whole mess of a situation through while somehow retaining that particular position.
“One more thing, Sokoloff. As this is the tenth anniversary since we started the Games, we’re going for a big one to mark the occasion this New Year. We want every Host to put forward a Contestant for the event––we’ll provide the tickets this time. You’ll all be told what to expect in more detail later on.”
The call ended. It was the last thing Sokoloff wanted to have to think about and plan for. It would mean he would need to come up with another Contestant, someone who would apparently not have a chance of winning while looking the part. It was a distraction from what he most wanted, most needed, to focus on and for a moment he wondered if that was why it was being done. Were they all out to destroy him? Had it come down to the fact that they just wanted to see him buried?
Pushing from his mind those thoughts he walked over to his broken handset on the floor, the screen smashed. He reached down, picking up the broken pieces of plastic, pulling the sim card from the handset before dropping the debris into the bin. He would have to purchase a replacement phone soon, but for now, he inserted the sim into the spare slot on his other phone and called his team leader once more.
“There has been something of a change of plan. While I still want as many men on Phelan as you can spare, we will need someone for New Year, after all. Someone that looks the part, but has not got the guts for a challenge. I can’t have a repeat of what I am now going through. I also need to know who the other Hosts are looking at.”
“That’ll take a lot of manpower.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, sir, of course not, it’s just we're stretched as it is.”
“What do I pay you so much for, then, to have you complain when I finally ask you actually to do something worth your wage? Listen carefully, as I’m going to say this and then end this time-wasting call. You are going to deliver me Phelan McDermott in time for New Year. You are also going to find another suitable Contestant, one that isn’t tied to anyone else and therefore doesn’t stand a chance of repeating this diabolical situation. And on top of these two things, you are going to get me the information on every other Contestant my fellow oligarchs are looking at. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” is all that came back, Dmitry ending the call after hearing that. He was asking a lot of his men––he knew that––but then diamonds weren’t formed without being put under intense pressure.
It dawned on him that this all gave him a chance of a comeback. Getting the lowdown on every other Contestant, knowing how they were likely to respond, what type of people they were and therefore what he could understand about how he might break or control them, might give him the prospect of coming out of the New Year event better off than he entered it. If he played well in the Hunt, it could even leave him better off than he had been before the last event––when everything had come unstuck. Maybe there was light at the end of the tunnel, after all?
27
It was late, and the London street lights had come on long ago as the last two office workers left the building, locking up at Lottery HQ long after everyone else had gone home.
There had been no need to work late, and as the couple walked from the building, it was clear that work hadn’t been the reason they had stayed––left alone to themselves when everyone else had left.
The man’s hand was on her backside before they’d walked five metres from the building, though she instinctively knocked it away, laughing as she did so. They’d apparently been drinking––besides the other activities in which they might have done together.
Reports showed that the man, who headed up the marketing department within the firm, l
ived within walking distance of the office, and as they started to walk that way together, it was clear they were heading there. The lady, who dealt with those few lucky people who walked through their doors with high-value tickets to claim, was married.
The team of three men followed them at a distance as the lovestruck couple made their way slowly along the streets. It became apparent to those mirroring the couples’ every turn that they were heading back to the man’s house, something the team had been given the address of that afternoon. It had been a busy day already, and they were tired, but there was no stopping now.
The couple made it to the front door, the man fumbling for his keys––kissing the woman on the lips as he reached into his pocket––pulling out his keys and putting them into the lock. The Russians then made their move as the couple walked into the house hand in hand, oblivious to what might be happening around them. The lead Russian got to the door before it closed, his foot stopping it dead then he barged through, his weight nearly knocking the two startled lovers over, as the other two followed in behind.
The woman looked like she was about to scream, but when a gun appeared from the lead attacker’s jacket pocket, she went silent instead. They were motioned into the lounge.
“Please, we haven’t done anything. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Has my husband sent you?” the woman started to say, her body shaking in shock, the realisation of being discovered hitting her like there was no tomorrow.
“We are not here because of the affair that you are having,” the man holding the gun said, his accented English only adding to the fear rising in them both––like a villain from a James Bond film.
“Then why are you here?” the man said, bolder than he thought himself capable. One of the Russians hit him across the face, sending him to the floor, the woman screaming in shock, reaching for him as he fell clumsily to his knees.
