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

by Tim Heath

  “Can I look into this one?” she said.

  “Sure, be my guest. I’ll get cracking learning as much as I can on these companies Andre has given us. You might need to expand your artwork on the wall by the time we’ve finished,” he said. With so much new information, so many more names, space would become an issue right away.

  “Let’s report back to each other after lunch, see if we can find the link that connects this all to the Games. Andre’s highlighted them for a reason, as always.”

  They got to work, Anissa staying at her desk where she’d been camped out since seven that morning, out of the family home before anyone else had stirred. Alex preferred to do research related tasks in a café, with noise around him, drinks readily available, and a good WiFi connection. He could then lose himself in the mission. He knew just the place.

  At one that afternoon, both agents were sitting together around a small table in the staff canteen, eating their salmon and potato lunch, one of the exceptional specialities that the normally decent catering staff offered from time to time. Alex finished first, and Anissa motioned for him to tell her what he might have found out.

  “The companies listed fit the bill, for sure. Every single one I looked at was the subject of a hostile takeover bid within the last three years. Some were ferocious battles, ending up in the courts, accusations of insider dealings, moles, leaked documents, even one case of corporate espionage. Some of these companies managed to fight off the takeover––I’ll come back to these in a moment––others got taken over. Only about half the ones taken over ended up making the new owners any noticeable profit. The other half were swallowed into the existing group, but at first glance, I can’t see why the takeover had been worth it. Unless, of course, it was more about the victory than anything the company brought to their portfolio.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any clear links back to Russia?”

  “No, but that hardly comes as a surprise. All there is is a mass of interconnected companies, split interests, and you name it; it’s all there. But––I’m sure––if we start to piece it all together, if we can find some people from these companies willing to talk to us, we would be able to make a connection somewhere.”

  “You said earlier that you would come back to something?”

  “Yes, it concerned the companies that managed to resist the takeover. It might have been because they were strong enough, or had the skills needed to combat the clutches of those wanting to take them over. But I remembered something Andre said about the pairings, pitting two oligarchs against each other. It’s all just a game to these men.

  “In each of the situations where a company seemed to save itself from being taken over, at about the same time––within a month at most––hostile takeover of another company was confirmed.”

  “So the firms that survived were the ones paired with the ones taken over?”

  “Yes, it makes sense given what Andre said. Once one of the companies under threat was purchased, that particular contest was over. The other guy walks away––the company in question appearing to have fought off the takeover.”

  “But it’s most likely simply the oligarch, having been defeated, walking away?”

  “Yes, and as I said, sometimes the damage was already done to the company, meaning it fails anyway. The costs to fight off a hostile takeover have crippled a few of the companies, making them easy targets for other firms some years––or just six months––after the initial battle. And get this: it took a little digging, but there are plenty of reference points on the internet now I know where to look. Take these five pairings over the last three years,” and he dropped another sheet of paper in front of Anissa, two lists of five companies, the rows standing side by side. “The companies on the left are ones that were taken over. I’ve noted the date it was publicly announced underneath each firm. On the right are five companies that fought off a takeover, or so it would seem. Again, by the date, you can see why I’ve paired them together.” Each date was within a month of the other, some just days apart. “Here’s the most interesting thing of all. Looking at the value of each company according to their stock listing, way back before any news of a takeover approach was announced, and you get this,” Alex turning over the sheet of paper, the company names in columns as before, the dates replaced by an amount in hundreds of millions of dollars. Each pair was the same value, give or take a few million here or there.

  “It fits what Andre told you.”

  “Exactly. Two companies with equal value––that’s the game, and the Russians compete against each other to see which of them can get the controlling interest first.”

  “Some of these companies are worth over five hundred million dollars,” Anissa said, seeing that four of the ten listed––two pairings––were valued at over that amount according to what Alex had researched. “That’s serious money.”

  “Absolutely, but then these are seriously rich people. Forbes lists the least wealthiest of the ten men in the T10 as being worth $8.9 billion––the richest up at $14.4 billion.”

  “Have you much information on the men?”

  “No, apart from everything Andre gave us. I’ve not looked at them yet. Thought we could do it together this afternoon.” It seemed a good idea. Andre’s information appeared to be incredibly detailed already. She wasn’t sure what more they could add to it if they tried, but they would work through that after lunch, and see where it led them. Maybe they would be able to map out a connection to some of the hostile takeovers. Someone, somewhere, must have slipped up, leaving a trail that would lead them up the ladder. “What did you find out about this woman Andre mentioned?”

  “Josée Allard, yes, I wanted to come to her. She’s thirty-five and has lived in Paris most of her life. She was once a cop, getting out of the service about two years ago and became a personal trainer, giving classes mostly in self-defence at a city centre gym.”

  “Why’s she of interest?”

  “It wasn’t clear, but knowing who gave you this information, I had to assume she was connected to St Petersburg, and even then, surely linked to the most recent event. I called the gym she was listed as working for––their website still had a picture and information on the classes she ran. But they told me she’d quit, walking out suddenly at the end of December.”

  “When she must have flown to Russia.”

  “So it would seem.” She placed a printout of the photo from the gym’s website, Josée’s smiling face and long black hair the generic type of personal trainer photos all gyms the world over seemed to produce. Was there a written rule they had to look that way? “Is this the girl you saw in the Armoury?”

  Alex picked up the photo, turning it around a little so that the image was nearly upside down. He’d only seen her from that angle as he had peered in through the window.

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure enough for you to have a conversation with her, anyway.”

  “By the look of her, she would have been able to make it out of that small escape route from the Armoury, too.”

  “And if she was the girl getting screwed by that janitor, she would have seen the attacker for sure.”

  “Absolutely. You said you heard an argument taking place very briefly before the shooting started. She would be our witness.”

  Alex studied the photo again, trying to take his mind back to the brief glimpse he’d had, but it was impossible to be sure. The fact Andre had highlighted her to them––and his suggestion she might be willing to talk once they told her what they knew––was proof enough that she had information that would be useful to them.

  “I think you should travel to Paris and try to speak to her. Andre gave an address with the information he passed to us, right?”

  “I thought you might have come to that conclusion. I’m on the eight o’clock train to Paris tomorrow morning.”

  He smiled at the realisation. Of course, she was.

  �
�Let’s see where we can get with these Russian bastards then before that, shall we?”

  They got up and went back to the office, closing the door behind them, ready for what might be a painstaking afternoon looking in detail at the lives of ten very wealthy and enormously influential Russian oligarchs.

  26

  Phelan and his family had been settled into their latest base for a few days already. Their trip south had been event-free. They’d made Bakersfield by lunchtime, tired and exhausted––the kids especially bored––too young to understand why they always needed to move around so much. As parents, they didn’t want to burden the boys with what was going on overly.

  Once they’d caught up with Matvey’s contact, they moved on a little further and stayed in the lovely city of Santa Barbara while final arrangements were made. Only the connection would know where they were going next, as Matvey and his men tried their best to limit any repeat of what had happened before. As it would turn out, no one else would come looking for them again.

  A boat was arranged for the family––it would be their boat to use whenever they needed––and they made the hop across to Santa Rosa Island, the second largest of a group of islands that sat about thirty kilometres due south of Santa Barbara in the North Pacific Ocean. On the north of the island, which was sparsely populated, there was a large farm, ample space for Phelan and his family to make their home. Essential supplies were brought to the island from the mainland once a week, though there was enough on the island––cattle and dairy farming for milk and meat, chickens for eggs––that they could find what they needed locally as well. An airport was situated on the largest of the islands, which sat between them and the coastline around Los Angeles, to the east. Their boat could get them to the small airport in no time if an emergency of any type occurred.

  The whole island system was a national forest––it wasn’t just anyone who could obtain permits to live there––and the family once more marvelled at their new surroundings. They’d been on the run for many months, had money in the bank––millions in fact––but no chance to spend it, nor did they need to.

  This property, once more, was at Matvey Filipov’s expense, as he kept up his promise to keep them all safe. He’d warned Phelan before he got involved that they might have to keep a low profile for up to two years.

  At the rate that Sokoloff was imploding, Matvey hoped it would be much less time than that, though he hadn’t told the Irishman yet, not wanting to get their hopes up prematurely in case things should change.

  Phelan, for his part, trusted Matvey with everything, especially his family. As well as his wife and children, his parents and wife’s parents were with them on the adventure––mainly for their safety. If Sokoloff could have got to Phelan’s relatives to get to him, he would have done. They would probably have been dead already had they been left back home.

  Phelan’s wife, troubled at what impact all this unsettled life was having on their three boys, still managed to keep up a brave face, not wanting to express her concerns yet with her husband, primarily as they were settling into the latest property. She could see it was all weighing heavily on him, and she wanted to be a help–– support––not a source of any more trouble. She trusted him with everything. If he said this is what was best for them, she would go along with that. She hoped the boys would soon adapt. It wasn’t everyone who got to see what they were seeing, travelling to the kinds of places they were visiting, living in the type of homes in which they’d been staying.

  With millions in the bank––Phelan had claimed a winning lottery ticket, after all––it was undoubtedly all a taste of things to come. They wouldn’t always be on the run, he’d told her. It wouldn’t forever feel like they were prisoners, no freer than someone locked away for some crime they’d committed. But for the time being, they were still in hiding.

  Alex and Anissa had each taken five names from the list, Alex working on the wealthiest five, Anissa on the others. What was clear right away was that these men all had their fingers in lots of pies––you had to, to be worth so much. They’d all come into their fortune when the Soviet Union crumbled, a prerequisite for any genuine oligarch, in Russia anyway. Anyone who’d come into massive wealth in the post-Soviet era formed the new business class named New Russians.

  “Okay, hit me with what you have,” Anissa said, the day already running to an end, darkness outside, her schedule overrun. She’d intended being home earlier from work as she’d already missed seeing her children that morning and was due on the early train to Paris the next day. They would be in bed before she got back home as it was.

  “Mark Orlov, number one on the list. Known as the Grey Eagle for obvious reasons.” The photo showed a well dressed, well groomed greying man. “Worth $14.4 billion according to Russian Forbes most recent estimates. He’s Moscow based.” They agreed to give the highlights only, picking out anything noteworthy from the piles of information. They had each added sizeable amounts of data to the telephone directory-sized dossiers Andre had handed Alex in Oslo.

  “Roman Ivanov, number two. Also based in Moscow, business interests everywhere, valued at $13.3 billion.” There was no doubt these were all wealthy––and therefore very dangerous––men. “Next up we have Lev Kaminski, the Lion Man. He’s based in the UK as we know––steel, telecoms and investments mainly––big FTSE100 player. Uncle to Dmitry Kaminski, who’s Sixteen and in the T20. Next up is The Priest––Vladimir Popov. No idea why he has that nickname, maybe it's ironic. He grew up in central Russia, has most of his family still living there, travels between home and Moscow regularly. At four on our list, he’s worth $12.1 billion. Finally, I had Matvey Filipov, and Andre gave me very little on him. A hugely charismatic figure, popular and therefore powerful. Worth $11.7 billion. Lives in Monaco, wife died five years back.” Alex looked up at Anissa––it was her turn now. She continued:

  “Viktor Gavrilyuk––owns and controls most of far-eastern Russia, with companies based Vladivostok. He’s number six on the list, worth $11.4 billion. Seven is Dmitry Petrov but goes by Dima most of the time. Petrov Petroleum is one of the biggest oil companies in the world. He’s worth $10.9 billion and spends his time between Moscow and Dubai. One of the few non-Arabs allowed to invest there, and he’s gone big with that investment.

  “At eight there is Yefrem Fyodorov, a net worth of $10.5 billion. He’s a hard-liner, popular in the Communist Party back in the day and still influential in their circles, even if their political voice is somewhat limited. At nine it’s the other UK based Russian, Valery Holub. We met him briefly at the FTSE100 conference last year. He’s worth $9.3 billion. Last but certainly not least is Iron Man Timur Budny. He controls mining and processing of various metals right across Russia and down through much of Asia. That’s seen him amass $8.9 billion and he holds the tenth position in the T10.”

  It was quite a collection of people, that was clear. The inclusion of Lev Kaminski––uncle of Dmitry Kaminski––who they knew their boss at MI6 was meeting with, set some alarm bells ringing. Anissa jotted down a note to see if she could figure out what the current relationship was between the two. If they were close, it offered Dmitry a vast amount of protection and additional resources, not to mention the most valuable commodity in Russia––influence and connections.

  The two agents left the office, the last to leave from their section, and went their separate ways. Anissa took a taxi home, hoping to save a little time. Her husband had needed the car that morning to take the children to school. She’d been stuck in an office all day anyway.

  Once home, she shared a bottle of wine with her husband, the two chatting away a little, catching the final hour of a film that was on the television. She loved the normality of life at home, doing simple things. It transported her out of the world where she spent her days. As the film finished, thoughts turned towards the early start in the morning, Anissa taking herself to bed while her husband read a little.

  Her alarm sounded before six.
She stopped it on the second ring, dragging herself out from under the sheets, trying not to wake her husband, who moved slightly but still seemed to be sleeping comfortably. She showered and dressed, her bag already packed from the night before.

  She kissed her husband goodbye––he’d come downstairs to see her off, making himself a tea in the process––and she jumped into the rear seats of the waiting taxi, her small travel bag placed beside her. She didn’t intend to stay overnight in Paris, hoping to be able to speak with Josée and maybe catch an afternoon train back home, an evening train at worst. It all depended on how much the Frenchwoman knew, and whether or not she would be in a talkative enough mood about it all.

  Four hours later Anissa’s train was out of the tunnel and approaching Paris fast. She’d dropped off to sleep a little on the English side, the change in sound as the train first entered the Channel Tunnel causing her to stir from her doze and she gave up trying after that.

  She did some reading, working through various papers Alex had left with her, going over the same information again. The re-emergence out of the tunnel at least allowed her some time to watch the countryside fly by the window.

  Once in Paris, she travelled the metro for five stops before making it finally out to street level. In the information Andre had given her, he’d listed an address for Josée Allard, which took her into an area of the city shared mainly by the Jewish and Muslim communities.

  She grabbed a drink from a street-side café, working through what she would say if she got the chance. She didn’t want to appear unannounced and frighten Josée who might then refuse to talk to her.

  Pulling her phone out, she dialled the number indicated in the information. A female French voice answered it after the second ring. How did Andre get such accurate information?