by Tim Heath
Within the Games Room, as the final Contestant made his way out of the building, a graphic had appeared on the screen, detailing who was competing against whom, as if this was merely a draw for a football tournament, pitting one team against another. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Aiming for St Isaac’s––and a room in the top of the building, far off the tourist track––was German weapons manufacture Walther Bruhn, hosted by Thirteen––Rurik Sewick. He was up against Spanish chemist Benita Rosales, Contestant for Eighteen––Pavlov. Their prize was a ticket worth €28 million which could be claimed only in Portugal. They had four days.
Aiming for Palace Bridge––the ticket located underneath and a few inches from where the drawbridge opened––were Talbot Riley and Shane Brennan, the wounded former paramilitary man from Ireland. At €35 million, their ticket was the most valuable of all five and could be claimed in Spain. The two Contestants paired newcomer to the group, Eleven––Foma Polzin, against Twenty––Sokoloff.
Heading for the State Hermitage––which was a stone’s throw from the first two locations––was British professional wrestler Hilary Barber, who represented Seventeen––Russian billionaire Motya Utkin. She was up against thirty-three-year-old Ambra Esposito, wife of a Mafia don, and part of the most influential Mafia family in Italy. Ambra represented Fifteen––Aleksey Kuznetsov––a man hoping to become at least the new Twelve when his bet was finally settled with the fallen from grace Sokoloff. The ticket up for grabs in that Hunt was worth £22 million and was claimable in the UK.
Aiming for the final city centre location on the Peter and Paul Fortress were Contestants Josée Allard, who had been the first person out of the building and Leona Chase. Leona, thirty-five and from the UK, was representing Twelve––Arseni Markovic. Frenchwoman Josée, the former cop turned personal trainer, was a Contestant representing political hopeful Sixteen––Dmitry Kaminski.
Heading for the southern end of metro line one––otherwise known as the Red Line––were Arnold Lucas and Stafford Davison, both from the UK. Their ticket was worth €20 million and originated in Ireland. This pair of Contestants, therefore, pitted Nineteen––Osip Yakovlev, against Fourteen––Akim Kozlov. While this location was less guarded than any of the other four which were popular tourist attractions, the metro line would be one of the hardest to penetrate. The trains always ran, just a few minutes apart, so there was not enough time to walk down the tunnel and safely return before the next train came rushing along.
All five tickets offered a high dose of risk and reward, and the ten oligarchs couldn’t help but admire the effort that had been taken this time around. The bar had undoubtedly been raised––game on.
15
For the pair of MI6 agents sitting in a restaurant having bowls of hot Russian soup for lunch, the day had been a little slow. The restaurant itself felt very Russian, the dark and gloomy windows, the over-busy walls, though it was clear not all the customers were local.
Nothing much had come to light as they had chatted. Yes, they had most probably discovered the location of these gatherings of a select group of very wealthy people, but there wasn’t much more they could do about it. The building, from the first inspection anyway, was probably one of the most secure locations in the city. There was no knowing what additional levels of security and personnel there were––going on what they’d already noticed told its own story.
Sasha had dropped them off so that they could get some lunch but had not stayed himself. He’d promised them he would be back within the hour, and for the most part, Alex and Anissa sipped their soup in silence, taking the occasional piece of dark rye bread and dipping it into the hot liquid.
“It feels like we could be doing more,” Anissa finally said, thinking about her family whom she’d left in England to celebrate New Year by themselves while she’d slipped away on this crazy mission. She wanted that sacrifice to be worth something, anything more than they currently had. It wasn’t enough to know this was all going on; they needed something substantial, something concrete.
Working under the radar as they were, as they had to be, could surely only get them so far, and yet what option did they have? If their own Deputy Director General was somehow involved, if he knew more than he was letting on and had in fact been working against them––for reasons as yet unknown––all this time, what did that all mean? And where could they turn to next?
Sasha, too, was walking an increasingly fine line. He had much more to lose than the two Brits. They faced the possibility of a severe reprimand or at worst the end of their careers, but he was likely to be killed if what he was doing for the British was ever discovered. It brought a sober reality to it all.
“I know, but we need to give it time,” Alex said. “This isn’t about catching some petty criminal in the act. These people are clever. They live in secrecy and are very good at keeping from our eyes the things they don’t want others to know about. Money tends to do that. It buys you silence.”
“Well, it certainly silenced those two National Lottery employees.”
“Yes, and that’s a crime for which we can prosecute. It’s all on the same charge sheet. But we have to build a bigger case first, we have to understand where all the pieces fit together, why it all fits together, and what the hell is actually going on.”
“So what are you saying? We sit and wait for something to happen?”
“Look, Anissa, we don’t have much choice. We aren’t meant to be in Russia, we are way off protocol here, totally on our own and working with someone who the FSB would hang out to dry if they knew he was helping us. One of our senior bosses has warned us off the case altogether. We’ve got nothing substantial to go on, besides some names, previous dates and knowing that something is happening today, here in the city, and all we can do is try to pick up on the trail.”
“I’m going for a walk,” she said, pushing the not yet finished bowl of soup to one side, pulling her jacket on as she walked away from the table before Alex could say anything. He didn’t bother to follow her; she needed a little time for herself. This wasn’t easy on any of them.
For a man who hadn’t spoken Russian for many years, what little he remembered had come flooding back as Walther made his way towards the centre of the city.
Where they’d all been dropped that morning, in the north of the city, was only a thirty-minute walk to the end of the Blue Line––Line Two of the St Petersburg metro system. They’d been told to bring nothing to the event. Each Contestant had been given a cursory search, and each had complied. What items they had brought with them to the city when they’d first arrived were either left, or stored somewhere securely, be it in their hotels’ luggage facilities, or one of the various lockers at the stations or shopping centres. Walther, therefore, didn’t have any money on him, or any form of ID. He would undoubtedly have to retrieve these before leaving the city, but getting into the centre would prove hard––and time-consuming––if he didn’t use the train. And while Walther was a law-abiding citizen, he was competing against others––he didn’t know how many were heading to the same location––so it was less about what he might do, but more about what they would do to win. Therefore, he would have to break the law as well, rather than risk missing out on €28 million. He could retire comfortably on that amount and never have to worry about anything ever again.
He spotted his opportunity, holding a man at gunpoint, to then only take one hundred rubles from the man’s bulging wallet, dropping it on the street as he ran from the man, even apologising as he went.
Walther only needed enough to get a metro coin, as attempting to gain entry to the underground system without paying would be asking for trouble. There would be police waiting for him before he’d even got off the train.
The gun had been a little over the top, but he wasn’t going to mess around, nor was he a fighter. He hoped that by leaving the rest of the money the man would not report anything, that Walther and his vi
ctim would go their separate ways. And it worked that way, as it happened: the victim of what was a £2 theft laughed it off, presumed the gun was a fake and decided it was just some prank.
Walther flung the note through the window at the ticket booth inside the metro station, asking for two tokens, received both and some change. He turned from the window, walked to a machine, inserted a token and walked through the turnstile. All around him were crowds of people, and the escalators were far from quiet despite it being a national holiday. He guessed those who had been sleeping all morning were now up and about.
Around Walther, as with the other nine, a team of Trackers followed his every move, additional units in place further down the tracks, as well as at each of the five locations toward which they knew the Contestants were ultimately heading. Two men were in the same carriage as Walther, another two in the last wagon. They’d watched as he’d held up the businessman, the gun visible and wallet left for the victim to retrieve. They’d even caught him saying sorry in his German-accented Russian. It was eight stops until he got to Nevski Prospect metro station; from there he would probably be able to reach where he needed to get to on foot. He also needed to retrieve his possessions before heading to St Isaac’s.
Walther was sure none of the other Contestants knew he was in the game. He had arrived first to the warehouse and had stood in the shadows watching the others as they came. No one else would be able to recognise him, besides possibly the girl he had travelled with, though she’d barely registered his presence. He, on the other hand, should remember the others. He would love to know who he was up against. If he could somehow take them out of the race, it would leave him time to figure out how he was going to claim his money.
The train pulled into the station and Walther followed the crowds, who all seemed to be getting off at that stop, though just as many were waiting to get on the train as well. The Trackers followed, lost in the crowds, but always keeping the German in view. Walther got on the escalator, the high climb in front of him packed with people going in both directions.
It took three minutes to reach the top of the escalator. Walther had tried not to look around, decided not to give any sign to anyone watching that he was anything but an average citizen––though inside he was a mix between growing nervousness, and bubbling excitement. It was as he walked out of the metro, onto Nevski Prospect itself, that he saw Benita Rosales getting out of a car, unmistakably her, and his heart raced even more. She’d arrived at the same time, and he could only assume they were both heading for the same place. The car drove on, no sign that the Spaniard knew the driver––maybe she’d hitched a ride into town, perhaps she’d been one of the first two out of the building––but either way, Walther didn’t like it. At least she didn’t know who he was; she couldn’t have known. He’d also not been seen by her, as far as he was aware. That certainly gave him the advantage.
The thought going through his head was, did he return to his hotel to collect his belongings, as he had planned, before going to St Isaac’s, or should he only do that after? What was she about to do? He decided to follow her for a bit––he could allow her to get close enough before using the gun on her and getting the ticket for himself. But even as the thought was taking root, it felt like cheating, as if he wasn’t deserving of it. If he obtained the ticket himself, the first to actually claim it, he could defend that position, use his gun against anyone who might come for him. But to steal it from someone else felt more degrading still. No, he would go straight to the cathedral and get the ticket first. His possessions could wait for after. She seemed to be heading that way as well.
Around them both, two teams of Trackers––one for each of the Contestants––were keeping a close watch. In the Games Room, it was clear Walther knew who the other Contestant was. That concerned Eighteen, her host, and risked his position in the Hunt. All the Hosts were keenly aware that the German was carrying a weapon.
The Russian put a call into some contacts he had with the police, informing them of a potential attack at St Isaac's, a known German terrorist spotted in town and that he was armed. That would set the cat among the pigeons.
Benita appeared to be heading to St Isaac's on foot. She was moving quickly, but still, the distance was enough––and junctions plentiful––to mean it would take her some time to reach it. Walther jumped into a cab, hoping the small change he had left would be enough for the fare. It wasn’t, so the gun was waved once more as he fled from the vehicle, now alongside the cathedral. The cab driver was not at all pleased. He called the authorities.
For the police, it was the second report of an armed man in their city, with St Isaac's being the apparent target. A team of armed police was notified––as were the FSB. They would be on site within five minutes.
The cathedral was closed to the public that day, being a holiday. Walther hadn’t considered that possibility as he’d approached the building. Sirens could be heard in the near distance, getting noticeably louder by the second. He didn’t like it one bit, his nerves getting the better of his reason, telling him to take flight, which he did, running south-east from the square in front of the cathedral and crossing over a small canal. He was gone before the first of the police cars arrived at the building, the area locked down, even before the FSB came. Benita was to reach the spot fifteen minutes later, but seeing the building surrounded by the police, she stood in the shadows of one of the buildings that sat across from St Isaac's, a park of some sort covering the corner between her and her target. Had someone beaten her to the ticket? They might have been caught attempting to get the ticket, for all she knew. Indeed, something had caused this scene.
About a kilometre due north of St Isaac's, Hilary Barber was arriving in Palace Square. A crew was working fast to dismantle a vast stage, something she’d seen on television in what felt like much longer ago than the twelve or so hours it actually was. A large New Year tree stood near the centre of the square, next to the central marble column. The lights were still on, the tree covered in a dusting of snow, though the ground was mostly clear of it. Several street sweepers were working their way around the square, no doubt clearing up after the previous night’s celebration to mark the passing of another year.
To one side of all of this, sat the green fronted and always elegant State Hermitage, the Winter Palace, built by the founder of the city. Its gates were securely locked. She cursed her luck but then realised it made sense seeing it was Russia’s most significant holiday. She wasn’t going to try and break in––that would be foolish, especially as she didn’t have a clue about the layout of the building. Since it was one of the world’s most famous museums, she knew it would be pointless to try. There would be no winning anything if she ended up in a Russian prison cell.
She walked to the side of the square, crossing one road and sitting on a bench that overlooked the whole area, though it wasn’t a day to be sitting outside for too long. She wondered if she would catch sight of anyone else arriving, giving her a hint of who she might be up against.
Only a couple of hundred metres further along the road she had just crossed was the Palace Bridge which connected that part of the city with Vasilyevsky Island. Under the bridge was located one of the five tickets, which a Contestant could get hold of if they had the courage and ability to climb down and get it.
Talbot Riley, the sixth man out of the warehouse, was after that ticket. He had made good progress, hitching a ride into the city, his middle-aged female driver took an immediate shine to him. She left him her number, in case he wanted to meet up again, as he jumped out of the car, now alongside the river. Cameras trained in on him, the first of the two Contestants to have made it to that particular target.
Talbot scanned through the papers he’d picked up, crossing the road when the lights allowed and jogging down to the middle of the bridge. The pavement widened at that point where there was some form of watching area complete with a booth, though on that day it was unmanned, as far as he could tell.
At twenty-eight, he was the youngest, not to mention the fittest, of the ten. In the information there was a photograph, which as well as showing where the ticket was located, gave a clue as to how the underside of the bridge looked. Confident he was in place, and without wanting to draw attention to himself, he vaulted the side of the bridge in one go, swinging down underneath and landing hard against one of the many metal supports. His actions seemed to have avoided drawing any unwanted attention, and after a moment’s pause, whilst he listened for movement above, he went in search of the ticket. He found it in less than a minute and needed to take a moment to compose himself. He had never held anything as valuable before, yet there in his hand was a ticket to the value of €35 million––life-changing crazy money.
He pushed the ticket into the clear envelope, pressing it shut once more, and moved back towards the edge of the bridge, reaching up and pulling himself level with the road. With the coast as clear as he was going to get, he reached up, and in a few swift moves, was back over the railings and standing on the pavement once again. A couple of passersby looked his way as he landed on the concrete, but they knew enough to leave him to it. Russians didn’t engage with strangers comfortably on the street. That aspect of society worked in his favour at that moment.
He ran from there.
Still some distance away, Irishman Shane was making his way to the bridge but wasn’t going to find anything once he got there, as those within the Games Room were at that moment also coming to realise.
Another defeat for the fallen Sokoloff was a sentiment shared by most. It was a happy thought.
Sokoloff knew getting the ticket was just one stage in a long line of things that needed to happen. There was plenty still to play for, and the Hunt was only over once the ticket was claimed. He had his men tracking Shane––and the Irishman was already in on the whole thing anyway. He’d made a point of making sure this time his Contestant knew everything. One of Sokoloff’s men brushed past Shane on the metro and dropped a smartphone into his pocket, which rang moments later. Shane was at first unaware it was a phone on his person that was making the loud noise. The train pulled into a station and stopped as he answered the call.
