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

by Tim Heath

  “Looks like I’m passing a zoo?”

  Alex turned to Sasha. “A zoo anywhere near here?”

  “Yes, put your seatbelt on,” and he pulled away, heading along the side of yet another canal, the Fortress across from them on the left, before Sasha swung the car round to the right.

  Inside the Armoury, Josée emerged from a vault in the floor, the body of the man she’d allowed to have sex with her still warm. There was little she wasn’t prepared to do for €30 million, but dying indeed wasn’t one of them.

  Having watched the janitor showing the two men into the Armoury building earlier, she realised the janitor was her best way in. She’d found him, putting her French charm to good use, and before long he was escorting her over to a place he’d been bragging about, offering her exclusive access to somewhere regular visitors didn’t get to see.

  He’d shown her a little of the room––including the vault––before insisting they had sex there and then. She had already seen the ticket by then. It wouldn’t take much to pick it up once they were done, which going by his face, wouldn’t take long.

  Instead, the door had sprung open, and before she knew it, a knife had appeared across his throat, blood gushing everywhere as he fell. Josée was stuck for a moment, lying with her back against a table, legs apart. The attacker demanded the ticket, and there was a brief stand-off before Josée gave the slightest of glances, indicating she hadn’t taken the ticket, and sure enough it was still where it was meant to be.

  Leona grabbed the ticket as the shooting started outside, Josée darting for the cover of the vault. Leona paused at the door before exiting through it during a brief gap in the gunfire.

  The French woman stayed underground for a moment hidden in the vault, hearing someone come into the room above before she listened to the sound of the door closing, the lock put back into place.

  Thankfully the vault had its own exit, and lowering the wood back in place above her head, she went down into the vault, navigating the narrow corridors, before pressing through a space that even given her slender frame, was scarcely wide enough. She emerged outside the walls of the fortress, no one around her, only darkness for company.

  Across the canal, Sasha had located Anissa, who’d lost sight of the woman she’d been pursuing, darkness her biggest obstacle at that moment. Leona had sensed she was being followed, and with the hired shooter she’d recruited that morning to protect her racing down the river in a speedboat at that moment, she didn’t want to take any chances herself. Seeing her opportunity, she darted into the shadows, watching as Anissa walked right past, a car pulling up not long after, presumably connected with her pursuer in some way. Leona had no idea who they were, but they weren’t going to get her ticket.

  Inside the car, with the pursuit lost, attention turned to Alex.

  “We need to get you seen to, Alex, and I don’t care what you say.” Anissa agreed, and there was surprisingly no further protest coming from Alex. He put his head back, feeling pain in his leg at every bump in the road, trying to shut it all out, the loss of blood becoming more of an issue the longer it took.

  Inside the Games room within the Volkov mansion, the screens displayed to the watching Russians who was still in the running. Two Contestants were seemingly out of the Hunt after the second day––Stafford Davison, who represented Fourteen, Akim Kozlov, was dead and guaranteed to play no further part. Walther, serving Rurik Sewick, the only Ukrainian within the group, sat in police custody, and unless his Host could produce some miracle, wasn’t going to pose any threat, either. All five tickets had been located, and this after only two days of the Hunt.

  The whereabouts of all remaining eight Contestants were known and displayed on the screens. Teams had visual feeds on most of them.

  The Russians with the least pressure on them currently were Nineteen and Eighteen. Osip Yakovlev––because his Contestant had pushed another in front of a train, so now had a clear run for the ticket. He still needed to avoid the authorities. However, his face had begun circulating, though his Host had done as much as he could to limit the risk. Pavlov, at Eighteen, also had a seemingly effortless run, with Benita’s opponent in custody. It remained to be seen what might be done with that situation, but the longer his girl had, the higher chance there was of her claiming the ticket without any further opposition.

  Both of these men now had the best chance of success, and the bets they’d each made seemed like very worthwhile investments. They stood to gain significantly if their Contestants could see it through, and having got that far, what was there to stop them?

  The only thing that could hinder either one would be direct involvement from another Host––something that was not allowed, but with the stakes so high, something they’d all done and would happily do again if it meant victory. It was something that bothered Osip the most, being one of the three based in the UK.

  His contacts back in Russia were not as well established as those of the men against him. If one of them wanted to stop his Contestant––even though there was now no direct competition––they could. Maybe, because he had killed someone for the ticket, his position was more fragile. There was still a long way to go for both of these Contestants.

  More interesting still were the other three Hunts, separate pairs of Contestants randomly matched against each other. Despite one person holding the ticket, it didn’t mean much in the bigger scheme of things. They still had to take it in person to the country where they could then make a claim. That would take effort.

  Josée was the only one on the screens who wasn’t watching her opponent, but she had seen her during the brief confrontation inside the Armoury. If she hadn’t been holding a knife, Josée would have gone for her. She was an expert in self-defence but didn’t want to take on an aggressive opponent, still yielding a bloodstained knife. She’d also been half naked at the time and was therefore entirely at the mercy of her opponent, who thankfully hadn’t turned the knife on her after getting the ticket. That was something at least.

  Shane Brennan was seen still watching the hotel where Talbot, and his ticket, had stayed for most of the day. Everyone was watching that particular contest, the fact it involved the disgraced Sokoloff only adding something extra to the whole situation.

  Hilary had followed Ambra to a building she thought she was in, though she couldn’t tell for sure. It was only those within the Games Room who knew she was outside the right building. She had recognised her the moment she had seen her again, but Hilary was biding her time. Those watching were wondering what she would do––what any of the remaining Contestants would do for the type of life-changing money they each had within touching distance.

  19

  It was the third day of the year, a fresh morning, though temperatures were still above zero. Alex had spent the night at a private hospital, something Sasha had sourced for him, a place where questions wouldn’t be asked. The bullet wound to his thigh had missed all major blood vessels, lodging in the muscle. Once the bullet had been removed, three stitches had been needed to close the hole, and it would heal. Another war wound to tell the grandkids about, if that day should ever come.

  Anissa had spent the night back in the hotel they’d both been booked into for their whole trip, continually thinking about Alex, as well as her own family back in England. It was hard to be away for so long without them knowing what she was doing. But then again, if they had known it was under the radar, they wouldn’t have been so supportive of the fact she needed to make such trips. Her employers at MI6 certainly knew nothing about it.

  Sasha had taken himself off annual leave with the FSB and returned to his office. The crimes were stacking up, and there was enough evidence for him to take the cases on board within his team.

  The metro murder, as it was being called, was a prime example of this. One foreign national dead, another seen emerging from the tunnel at the next station, also deemed to be non-Russian. Sasha’s team were leading the investigation on everything related
to the case. In an apparently unconnected situation, a German man was arrested carrying a weapon, in an area off-limits to tourists, at St Isaac's. Again, it gave his team enough scope to get their hands on some of the details of that case, though at the moment he was allowing the police to get on and do their job.

  The video footage from the security cameras at the Hermitage looking at the two females who’d paid a visit moments after opening had also come back by the time Sasha made the office that morning. He scanned through the information they had on Hilary Barber and Ambra Esposito, two women both somehow caught up in all this. They were both recorded outside the General Staff Building, which sat facing the Hermitage and where the paintings from the French Impressionists were now located. Only Ambra had entered the building, her emergence from it picked up by CCTV, which recorded Hilary arriving at that precise moment, pausing as the woman passed her then turning to pursue Ambra. They could be seen running away, though as of yet, no further CCTV footage showed where the chase had gone. Red flags were put on their passports and migration cards, meaning if they tried to cross the border, they would be held, and Sasha would be notified.

  “Sir,” a young officer said, coming over to his boss who turned and took the information he was being handed, “we have a confirmation on the hotel that the Italian is staying at.”

  Sasha took the information with him, thanking the young officer, and left the office.

  “Anissa, meet me at the Petro Palace Hotel. I’m leaving for there now. It’s close to you, maybe ten minutes on foot,” Sasha said, telephone in hand as he got into his car, racing away a few seconds after the call had ended.

  Anissa was the first to arrive at the hotel, the traffic at that time of the morning meaning Sasha took another ten minutes to travel a relatively short route. He pulled in at the kerb.

  The hotel was in a lovely part of town, and a stone’s throw from the Hermitage itself. Ambra had been holed up there since losing her pursuer as she’d emerged from the art gallery, only to have been followed back to the hotel. Hilary had not been entirely sure because she’d been some distance behind at the time, and thought she caught a glimpse of someone entering the hotel who matched the description but from her range couldn’t be entirely sure. She’d checked out the entrance and café area within the hotel, but whomever she’d seen enter wasn’t there, suggesting the woman she had followed was a guest. So she stood outside, on the other side of the road, watching and waiting. Time was racing on, and she was starting to wonder if she’d made a big mistake, after all, the ticket long gone. But it was all she had to go on.

  Hilary took in the scene. First, a woman arrived and stood outside the hotel, just looking at it but not entering. Then a Russian turned up, and the two of them then went in through the main doors. If the woman had been dark-haired and looked anything like a local, she would have assumed the woman was on the game, and this was another score. But she was apparently foreign, a stranger as much as Hilary herself was. It made her cautious about entering and yet more sure than ever she was at the right place.

  Inside the entrance, the foyer was lush and spacious––it was amongst the city’s better hotels––and Sasha went straight up to the reception desk, his FSB card open and an A5 colour printout of Ambra Esposito taken from the security footage.

  “Is this guest staying with you?” he asked, though it was clear from the expression on hotel employee’s face that she knew the FSB didn’t come asking questions if they didn’t already know the answer.

  The lady behind the desk studied the face for a moment, before looking back into Sasha’s sharp features.

  “Yes, she is staying on the third floor. Do you want me to call her room for you?”

  “Is she in the hotel at this moment?”

  “I believe so, yes. I can call her for you if you like…” and she started picking up the receiver on her desk.

  “No, that’s okay,” Sasha said, using his right hand to stop her and she replaced the receiver. “What room number?”

  “Three zero eight.”

  “Is there a problem?” the manager asked, coming across and hearing the last part of their conversation. The security of guests was always a key concern for such hotels. Sasha flashed his card, the manager taking hold of it, reading it carefully. “Sasha Barkov, Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti. So to what do we owe the pleasure of our very own FSB visiting us?”

  There was something about the manager that Sasha didn’t like.

  “I’m following up on something, that’s all.”

  “And is there a safety element involved, a security issue that threatens the State?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean?”

  “All I’m saying, Mr Barkov, is that you turn up from our Security Service, an agency tasked with the utmost protection of our nation, and therefore I can only assume there must be due cause for such a visit here. Our guest must have done or been contemplating something very wrong to make it onto your radar, no?” There was contempt in his voice, no real questioning here. Sasha could tell the manager knew more about the guest than was otherwise expected.

  “I have jurisdiction here,” Sasha said, taking back his card from the manager.

  “Then shall I call your office and let them know you are here?”

  A tense silence fell. Anissa did not understand any of what was being said around her, the short phrases of Russian sounding argumentative, though the language always did to her. Someone had told her before that this was how it came across, but looking at Sasha’s face, she didn’t need to be told that he wasn’t happy with what was being said. Sasha turned, motioning with his hand for Anissa to follow, and headed for the exit.

  “Thanks for paying us a visit, Mr Barkov,” the manager called from behind, but Sasha was through the door before he’d finished speaking.

  “What was all that about?” Anissa said, now just the two of them back on the street outside the hotel.

  “I don’t know, but my gut tells me it stinks. He must know about that guest, and therefore he must know about those behind her. And now he knows my name.”

  Anissa took in his point, seeing first-hand the layers of challenge that existed in Sasha's homeland, the not knowing who you could trust. She’d read all about the Soviet years while she’d been staying in her hotel, how people vanished overnight, how not even your neighbour could be trusted. People lost faith in one another, and that lack of trust had continued into the present. She understood how much Sasha had been risking working with them, hosting them as he had been, under the noses of his own employer and, as far as she knew, undetected. Had they pushed it too far, now? Had they risked too much?

  Hilary, still standing outside––it hadn’t been long, anyway, since the two agents had entered the hotel––was surprised nonetheless to see the two strangers re-emerge so quickly from the hotel. The guy indeed seemed agitated. She watched them get back into the car that he’d pulled up in just minutes before until they were both out of sight.

  Inside the hotel, the manager was already on the phone.

  “We’ve had an FSB agent in my hotel with a photograph of your girl, asking if she was staying with us.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “Yes, Sasha Barkov? Mean anything to you?”

  “No, but I’ll call it in and see what he’s up to. Good work. Keep me informed, and if you see them poking their noses around again, let Ambra know. I’m paying you enough already to keep her out of anyone’s reach. So it’s the least you can do for me.”

  “Of course, Mr Kuznetsov.”

  The call ended.

  Aleksey Kuznetsov moved further away from the other Hosts to a quiet corner on the Games Room floor. He dialled the number he had for an FSB contact, though his connections within the Russian Security Service were surprisingly weak for a man of such wealth. He realised, now more than ever, that he would have to sort that out soon.

  The man who answered the phone did not know Kuznetsov well, only by reputati
on. After a few words of introduction, Kuznetsov said, “I have someone that I need you to take a look at, a fellow agent of yours. His name is Sasha Barkov, and he was recently at the Petro Palace Hotel. He had no obvious reason to be asking the kinds of questions he was. Can you find out what he was doing there and shut him down?”

  There was a muted reply. The call ended. Kuznetsov dropped the phone back into his pocket, turned and nearly collided with Motya Utkin, who was standing behind him. Neither man said anything to the other––their two Contestants were currently in direct competition with the other––they carried on their separate ways. Kuznetsov headed back towards the centre of the room and Motya walked over to the drinks.

  Picking up another glass of the same white wine he’d been enjoying that morning, Motya then called the FSB himself, an agency within which he was widely known, his long list of contacts forged over many years, going back even to the KGB era.

  “What was that about?” Motya asked, the man he was speaking to––the same man Kuznetsov had called moments before––detailing what he’d been told. “Leave everything as it is. Do nothing about the agent you were given information on. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear. Thank you,” and the call ended.

  If it were true that an FSB agent was sniffing around, if he were in fact onto Ambra, that would only help his cause.

  Indirectly, it would save Sasha, for now. Unknowingly, Sasha’s involvement was good news for Motya and his Contestant Hilary, who was still only able to watch Ambra from the sidelines. If this Sasha Barkov was trying to stop Ambra, Motya was only too happy to let that continue. He didn’t care at that moment why Sasha might be chasing the Italian; it just meant that his Contestant could still win after all.

  So as far as Motya was concerned the FSB could carry on as they were. Motya didn’t pause to think why the FSB was even looking, what they might know about Ambra or also about the Games. Had he done so, the Russian’s course of action might have been entirely different.