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

by Tim Heath

  It was just forty minutes after arriving back that they felt they were closing in on to where Phelan McDermott and his family had disappeared. They’d managed to trace him from the night he’d collected his prize to a London hotel, not far from the airport. A credit card had been used to pay for the suite he’d stayed in that night. After a little work by the MI6 technical team, that same card had appeared three days later, taking cash from a bank machine in Montana, USA. That led them to look online for further clues, their area of search narrowing to that one particular state––the same entry in a small store’s database finally being found, confirming Phelan’s presence, they were now confident.

  They realised that if they’d been able to locate this information, then so could others. Whether knowingly or not, and they suspected it was the latter, Phelan had broken the silence that existed around his current location, a digital reference like the one that had been made standing out to anyone with the ability to know what to look for, like a flashing light in the darkness. A beacon calling to attention their arrival in a little town in the east of Montana––a foolish mistake. It might already be too late for them, though Alex had no way of knowing that for now.

  Phelan woke to a ringing noise, hitting an alarm clock he didn’t remember setting before waking up enough to realise it was his mobile phone. It was still dark, the clock showing it was half past five in the morning. The number displayed on the screen of his smartphone was a Russian one––a number he knew well––for it was Matvey Filipov’s private mobile number. He answered it on what was about the sixth ring.

  “Phelan here,” he said, willing his mind to get up to speed, still a little fuzzy from being in deep sleep moments before.

  “It’s me,” Matvey said, as it was clear who would be calling from that number. Besides, his voice was distinctive enough to be unmistakable, even at that hour and from so many thousands of miles away. “I’ve looked into what you told me about that store recording your details. It’s easily accessible. Two days ago two people were killed in London who worked for the lottery, one being the lady that dealt with your prize. I believe she gave them your location before they killed her.”

  “But I didn’t say where we were heading. I made no mention of the ranch at all, just as you said.” Phelan’s wife was now stirring, her sixth sense picking up from her husband’s tone that everything wasn’t all right with their world.

  “Is it possible you mentioned America?” The Irishman thought before replying:

  “Yes, it’s possible. I think I mentioned something about heading stateside.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Get everyone together. I traced three Russians––all of whom work for Sokoloff––who boarded a flight yesterday afternoon to Seattle, with an onwards connection to Billings.”

  “Jesus!” Phelan swore, jumping out of bed at that point, starting to get dressed, his wife doing the same, panic beginning to take hold of her.

  “They landed last night at around midnight. I can’t tell what happened after that, but you haven’t got long. You need to move from there, and I mean immediately. Call me when you are out of the area.”

  Phelan put the phone in his pocket, his wife pulling on her jeans, a bag already on the bed, a few items inside it.

  “Leave everything, just get the boys. We have to be out of here immediately!” She looked up at Phelan––terror in his eyes––no words needed, her husband’s actions confirming this was what they’d feared.

  Three minutes later they were putting the last of their three children into the back of the van––two still asleep––though the oldest had woken, not taking in what was now going on. Phelan had the phone to his ear, calling ahead to his parents, telling them they were coming immediately for them and then doing the same for her parents.

  It had taken fifteen minutes to get the others into the van, Phelan going into his parent’s house, screaming at them to get moving, a reaction that communicated this wasn’t a time to mess around.

  The van, now fully loaded, sped down their dirt track, dust rising as the first glimmers of the day broke over the horizon, the sun only partially visible. They turned right, away from town––just driving––not clear where to yet, but wanting to put distance between themselves and the ranch. No one said anything, the six adults just processing everything in silence, with Phelan at the wheel, keeping his speed up but nothing too excessive. He kept one eye on the rearview mirrors, watching for anyone who might be following, though, at that time of day, traffic was light, the roads in that part of the country mainly occupied by agricultural vehicles, anyway. The others just watched the fields pass by, each looking out through the windows, wondering what unseen danger lurked––what mistake they’d made that required such a sudden departure––knowing now wasn’t the time to have that conversation, not with the boys awake.

  The previous night, the flight from Seattle had landed at Billings International on schedule, and despite it being quiet at that time in the airport and few passengers getting off the plane, it was still gone midnight by the time the three Russians walked through security. The airport building itself was deserted, the shops and cafés long since closed for the day. The same was true for the three car rental booths that were visible.

  The only person they saw was sitting behind an information desk, though the man himself was most probably some airport night guard, his uniform displaying the word security on the material in his front pocket. They left him alone, the three drawing the gaze of the man––but he wasn’t overly interested and left them to it after a few seconds.

  On the wall in front of them were some telephones, linked to various hotels, the information displayed claiming a free transfer was possible for guests. The leader picked up one of the phones. The team had felt tiredness set in during the last flight, knowing that their best option was getting a good night’s sleep and then picking things back up the following morning. As it was, they’d only have about six hours to rest, and that depended on how long it took to be picked up and checked into a hotel.

  The call got answered almost instantly, the cheerful voice confirming a bus would be with them in about fifteen minutes, and their room would be waiting for them when they arrived.

  It was thirty minutes later that they were exiting the lift on the third floor of the hotel, their rooms all on the same corridor. The bus had been on time, the hotel about fifteen minutes from the airport, something they would have to factor in for the return journey in what was now only about five hours’ time, give or take.

  The hotel shuttle had brought them down a road which overlooked the city that was Billings, the hotel itself down in the valley, the airport naturally higher up than the majority of buildings that made up that town. They agreed to meet again at six––breakfast available from that point––before they’d need to make a quick exit back to the airport ready for the flight at eight. They entered their rooms, all three of the men asleep within minutes of falling onto the fresh, soft and very comfortable beds.

  As morning came around, everything had gone to plan, their flight busy, though there were still plenty of seats available when they walked into the airport at seven and purchased three tickets.

  They landed just after nine, a tailwind giving them a pleasant flight, and walked straight to the only vehicle rental booth that existed at that much smaller airport. A car was made available, and everything paid for in bundles of cash.

  Setting off just after nine thirty, it was less than thirty minutes to get to the little town of Savage, where they started asking questions, focussing mainly on the store that had logged the details of Phelan and his family, and seeing where that might lead them.

  Phelan had been driving three hours solid already by that point and was now over two hundred miles west of there, in central Montana. His conversation with Matvey had instructed him to head as far west as possible, where he had a new place for them to find shelter before they would reassess what their next move should be.

 
29

  Alex was once again waiting outside the office of the DDG at Vauxhall Cross, the home of MI6 on the banks of the Thames. After a few minutes’ delay, Alex––himself busy and not appreciating being kept waiting––was ushered into the room, the DDG standing at the window, a telephone to his ear. It was as if he intended to wind Alex up all the more, though he soon finished the call, turning to face his agent and now give him his full attention.

  “I need you to bring the CIA on board with developments in my case and have them deploy on our instruction,” Alex said, his phrasing making clear to the DDG that he wanted their American friends to be sent to do their dirty work stateside.

  “You know we have sixty active Daesh terror cells that we are continuously monitoring across Europe. Bomb attacks foiled by the month. You would have us chasing Russians like it was the good old days of the bloody Cold War,” he remarked, his tone jovial but there was a noticeable edge to his manner. Alex had yet to figure out the inner workings of his Deputy Director General.

  “There is a known and credible threat to nine British lives at this very minute,” Alex said, trying to keep his calm, not rising to whatever the DDG was trying to communicate. There was a brief moment of silence––almost a standoff––before the DDG went back to his desk, picking up another phone, that connected directly to his counterpart at Langley. Looking up from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, he said, “Give me the details,” as the call was connected then his focus was once more on the telephone to his ear. Alex came forward, passing the information he had typed up to him, and the DDG took it and glanced at it, while initial greetings were being spoken.

  “I’ve got a highly excited field agent here who’s been chasing some loose cannons and is reporting a viable threat to the lives of nine people––six adults and three children––of British or Irish nationality and last known location being the town of Savage, Montana.”

  There was a pause, while there was something apparently said at the other end of the line.

  “Exactly, though maybe that’s why they used that location, being as isolated as it obviously sounds. Anyway, we have reason to believe that their location has become known to parties that would do them harm.” Alex stepped closer and pointed to something he’d highlighted at the bottom of the page, the DDG not appreciating having something pointed out of which he was perfectly aware. “Look, we suspect that the Russians will now come after them, or people connected to the Russian under investigation. Could you flag this one up and get a watch put on these people? If you are able to intercept and detain anyone coming for our nationals, that would be most helpful.”

  Another pause and the DDG turned away from Alex briefly––saying something short but inaudible, before turning back––the conversation suggesting the call was coming to an end.

  “Excellent, and Craig, keep me informed about what you find out.” He replaced the handset onto his desk. “Done,” he said as if clarity needed sharing.

  “Thank you.”

  “Look, at some point, we are going to need to bring you back into the fold. The Paris and Brussels attacks have intensified pressure on the continent, and the fear is these, of course, won’t be the last attacks.”

  “Give me time. Something is happening among the wealthy men who hold great power right across the continent, as I’ve shared with you. These aren’t limited to just Russians, either, though we have no idea yet exactly who it involves. When you mix that much money and power, and they keep it all so goddam secretive, it can only mean something bigger is going on.”

  “Bigger than the terrorist threat from jihadists across every capital city in Europe?” the DDG barked, now laughing at the time-wasting efforts in which he saw his agent was so apparently caught up.

  “Until we find some answers, we don’t know what the threat is.”

  “Really, is it just some game to you? You don’t have much time. Fail to produce anything credible soon and I’m shutting you all down. This has gone on long enough, longer, I’m now aware, than either of you have informed my office of––and that’s telling me something.”

  “What’s it bloody telling you?” Alex snapped, aware of who he was speaking to but for that moment unable to hold his tongue.

  “That you and your little team are loose cannons.”

  Alex left the office. The DDG paced around for a while then he picked up his mobile, hitting one of his speed dials, the call connecting in a few seconds.

  “Tolbert has just been in with me, and there is no sign he’s backing down yet. I just wanted you to be aware. I’ll keep you informed.”

  That evening, Alex had gone with Anissa for some food, the details about his time spent with the DDG shared in full, the two of them just going over where things stood. Neither knew what to make of the DDG’s reaction, but they put it to one side for the moment. They were both hungry, having not eaten since breakfast, the afternoon getting away from them, as it often did. Anissa had cleared it with her husband before agreeing to dinner in town with Alex.

  While they were waiting for the food to arrive, a courier walked into the restaurant, helmet in hand––holding a small padded envelope in his other hand––as he approached the bar. There was a brief conversation before the barman pointed in their direction. The courier caught their eye and walked towards the table where the two British agents sat.

  “I have a package for you,” he said, placing it on the table and opening a document in front of them then taking a pen from his trouser pocket. “I need you to sign for it.”

  “Where’s it from?” Alex said, examining the small parcel, which didn’t weigh much, about as much as a mobile phone, nothing more.

  “Arrived from the international shipping channels at Heathrow, marked as urgent––and this address was telephoned through to us sixty minutes ago.” They’d only left the office within that time frame, making their way towards the restaurant they often went to together, both fans of Italian food.

  Alex scribbled his signature on the document, giving the pen back to the courier, who told them to enjoy their food as he turned and left the establishment.

  Alex studied the package carefully, wary of what it might be and intrigued that it had been delivered to him in a restaurant. He cut the side of the envelope open, not where it was taped but actually through the base itself, checking inside before tipping a mobile telephone out through the hole, the rest of the envelope empty.

  The phone was on, the battery in a low power mode, showing that about fifty per cent of the battery life remained.

  It was only seconds later that it rang, startling them both, though the ringtone wasn’t too loud––they just were surprised it was buzzing at that very moment.

  “Alex, it’s Andre,” the voice said. Alex had answered it on the loud speaker, but picked up the handset and placed it to his ear after he heard the name of the informant who had gone missing, someone whom he’d feared was dead. It had been many months. “We have to speak.”

  Matvey Filipov left his multi-million pound home on the edges of Monaco with his son. The morning cloud that had been hanging like a blanket lifted, and the hot sun poured down on them. They were heading out to Matvey’s yacht which was in the harbour, one of many similar vessels that occupied space in that wealthy part of the Mediterranean coast.

  For a man of such riches, besides a couple of homes he owned––the one there in Monaco by far the grandest and the one he spent the most time in––and the yacht, he lived a relatively mundane life. A generous man throughout his sixty-plus years, he had worked with charities right around the world, a non-executive director of three of these organisations, offering his years of business experience to help their causes.

  Matvey was third generation wealth––not deemed an oligarch at all. His family wealth came from decades of building up sound businesses and networking internationally when most Soviet era people were not even allowed to travel. The vast majority of his $11.7 billion fortune kept outside Russia. These tactic
s had seen them through the communist years, and through the early stages of New Russia, where men became billionaires overnight, the political climate changing forever in the process.

  He was intensely proud of his roots, though he travelled back to Russia, and Moscow in particular, very little nowadays, much to the concern of those within the political office at the Kremlin, where his lack of overt support was a constant issue. He’d been outspoken at times against the Putin reign but had held his tongue enough, at least publicly, to avoid getting into the sort of trouble that led to being killed for what he was saying.

  He knew a change was needed, though, with a country like Russia, it would take a long time to come about.

  He was concerned about how widespread corruption still was, a country that should have shaken off the shackles from its years in isolation and be functioning just as well as any in the West were. Instead, with a bribe still the quickest way of getting anything done, it seemed Russia was its own worst enemy.

  About a quarter of his empire still operated exclusively in Russia and had become the Filipov brand. He’d made a point of never paying bribes within Russia, making sure every business conducted itself inside the law, wanting to use his firms there as a positive example of what was possible, though mostly these efforts were falling on deaf ears. People were too stuck in their ways to want to change––money too quickly made the old fashioned way for it ever to seem better to do business any other way. He felt, at times, he was fighting an impossible battle.

  Across much of Europe, and into the Far East, his business ethics had meant rapid expansion, building on the positive momentum he’d seen within Russia and vastly extending his connections.

  Matvey had men working for him right around the globe, nearly one hundred men and women solely keeping up surveillance and information gathering on various targets––especially those he knew to be a part of the Games. It was through this network of people that he’d been able to initially get hold of Phelan McDermott, a man he’d seen others tracking, and whom it was clear they wanted to bring into the Games.