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

by Tim Heath

  “You keep saying that. What is it you are doing for Matvey?”

  “It’s complicated, but nothing to lose any sleep over darling. I’ll be done soon, you’ll see. We can all get back to normal before you know it.”

  She could tell he didn’t need telling off; he needed connection. “Okay, I love you. Thanks for calling.”

  “I love you too.” He hung up.

  “Who was that?” Maggie said, poking her head out of the back door. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “That was my mother,” and he walked over to the door, kissing her on the lips, slapping her backside as they rejoined the rest of the party, music blaring from the lounge.

  Alex and Anissa had been granted time to pursue leads on mainland Europe––no further details given––nor were they required. As high ranking security agents, they had a level of freedom––and budget to match––that meant they were often running errands around the world, though Alex and Anissa were primarily based in Europe.

  They’d flown to Monaco, the second successive year that Anissa had said goodbye to her husband and kids shortly after Christmas and expecting to be away for New Year once again. They were hoping to locate, and then speak with, Matvey or Andre, and had finally found an address from one of the many hotels when they saw the Russian’s limousine leaving, and made the chase in a taxi. The limo pulled in through the gates of the private airfield, waved through by the gun-carrying security personnel as if welcoming back old friends. Alex paid the cab driver, and they both got out, walking into the private terminal entrance, some private jets visible beyond.

  “Can I help you?” a man said in French, apparently part of the airport staff and sitting behind the only counter visible.

  “Yes,” Alex replied in English, “you can do two things,” and he produced a badge that suggested he was something to do with Interpol. “You can tell us where Matvey Filipov’s plane is heading for and you can hire us our own jet for immediate takeoff,” and he dropped a thick wedge of tightly bound Euros which he’d secured from MI6 funds. The man behind the desk examined the money.

  “I will see which pilots we have available, sir.” He made a quick call. “Your destination, sir?”

  “Where is Matvey Filipov going to?” The Frenchman paused for a moment, before typing away on his computer. Finding what he was looking for, he glanced back up at Alex. “St Petersburg.”

  “Then that’s where we need to fly to then, as well. Can you arrange it?” He went back to his call, speaking in faster French than Alex could manage to understand, though he could make out the reference to the Russian destination.

  “It’ll cost you ten thousand, but I can see that money isn’t an issue. The crew are on their way.”

  “Great.”

  “You can wait through that door over there. Can I process your passports and Russian visas in the meantime, please?”

  “Just the passport,” he said, dropping his British diplomatic passport on to the desk, Anissa then doing the same.

  “Very well. I’ll bring these through to you shortly.”

  The two British agents went through to a small but very comfortable waiting area. The car that had carried the Filipovs to their plane was now gone, and after a few minutes the plane moved off.

  Inside the plane, Matvey was on the telephone.

  “Two Interpol agents have enquired about you, sir.” He read him their names, which meant nothing to the Russian. They were probably fake.

  “Very well. Leave them to it. I’ll keep an eye out for them in St Petersburg,” he said, ending the call as they were about to take off. There was a favourable tailwind, meaning they would gain about half an hour on the total trip. They were due to land late afternoon on the last day of December.

  Alex was at the window when the man brought their passports back about five minutes later; the jet carrying Matvey Filipov and his son was already out of sight.

  “Your crew are refuelling the aircraft. You’ll be able to take off in about half an hour.”

  “Thank you, and we appreciate that.”

  They looked at their watches. “It’ll get us in some time before midnight, but we’ll miss them at the airport. We’ll need Sasha to get us through his usual channels.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  It had been some time since they’d spoken to Sasha, workload and fresh investigations the reason for the longer than usual silence.

  “Sasha, good to be speaking to you again,” Alex said, the Russian a little reluctant it seemed to say too much. After a few back and forths, Alex said, “We’re on our way to St Petersburg shortly. Following Filipov’s private jet, which left about fifteen minutes ago. We had planned to have met with him already, but we missed our chance at this end. He’ll be gone before we land––most certainly heading towards the Volkov mansion. It must be a bigger than usual gathering if it involves Matvey and his group as well.”

  “Look, I would be sticking my neck out if I did this for you again.”

  “You okay, my friend?”

  “I had a visit some months back. A man warned me to leave you both alone.”

  “FSB?”

  “No, but he’s got links to everyone here. It was a clear threat. He knows all about me helping you as well as Charlie and Zoe in Stockholm.”

  “Christ.” He relayed to Anissa what Sasha was saying.

  “We need this one last favour.”

  “I can’t, Alex. You have to understand.” The call went dead, though seconds later a text message came through, from another number, also Russian. It read: Will meet you as requested. Needed to make it sound otherwise. S

  “That’s our boy,” Anissa said, reading the message as Alex was, his momentary anxieties appeased.

  Twenty minutes later, they saw their crew members coming towards the hangar, two men, who turned out to be English. Greetings were exchanged, and they led them to the jet. Four seats were available in the small plane, Alex and Anissa sitting beside each other, Alex taking his shoes off and putting his feet up on the row facing him. The two pilots sat up front, and a small door was pulled shut behind them. Five minutes after first getting into the plane, the engines were now roaring, they were airborne, heading north.

  On the Filipov jet, half an hour from landing, Matvey was talking with his son, both men thinking about the next few days ahead of them. Both Andre and Polzin had avoided hosting one of the three Contestants put forward for the upcoming event. That honour, if you could call it that––sometimes it was the poisoned chalice––had gone to Arseni (Twelve), Motya (Eighteen) and Osip (Twenty). The only thing more ideal would have been for Dmitry Kaminski to have had to host his own Contestant that time as well.

  “However you are able, both you and Foma need to bet hard against Dmitry. Anything to challenge him, stretch him, make him think. Do your best to make sure you win. There’s no knowing which way it’ll go if left up to the Contestants.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll do our bit. How are you all set?”

  “From what I hear, we’re in place. Everyone will confirm that I trust when we meet up later today. We’ll implement the strategy first thing in the morning, a happy New Year for some, for sure.” He was heavily ironic. Thousands of people would soon be told they were being made redundant.

  Half an hour later they were exiting their plane, the jet to be kept in its own private hangar at the airport, crew to remain on standby, though the expectation was that the Filipovs would be in the city together for at least three days. It was four hours before midnight, and the night was still young.

  They headed straight for the Volkov mansion.

  Sasha arrived only after Matvey and Andre had left, not seeing any sign of them, which he didn’t mind. They’d had no reason to cross paths before, and he wasn’t sure they knew who he was, but Polzin knew, and he might make the connection.

  It was twenty minutes before Alex’s flight touched down in Russia, and he and Anissa stepped down the few steps onto t
he tarmac, thanking their crew as they disembarked. Sasha was standing by a side door, not twenty metres from them, and they smiled at their friend, walking across to him, the air cold, though snow had yet to fall in the city properly. They greeted each other like long-lost siblings.

  Sasha navigated them through the small set of corridors, but landing at the private terminal, unlike the main terminal they had used before, there were far fewer people around, and they were out to his car in no time, speeding back toward the city.

  Sasha filled them in on everything Foma Polzin had said to him.

  Svetlana Volkov looked immaculate, as she always did. Behind the public image, their marriage had gone through some difficult months, following the words from Putin at the Kremlin Theatre, Sergej for the first time demanding to know what his wife was doing.

  She’d said very little––said it was some harmless fun with a crowd of very influential people. She stated she never interfered in his world––which was true––and he should offer her the same freedom, so he reluctantly agreed not to discuss the matter further. He was in the city once more seeing to another series of corporate events, while she was ready to host an unusually large gathering of oligarchs, the third floor adapted to accommodate the men from the T10, who usually didn’t come to the New Year event. She would split her time between the two.

  Not everyone could be accommodated in their own rooms this time, though the wealthiest group all decided they would arrange private accommodation, some owning their own properties in the city. In St Petersburg money went further than in Moscow, allowing them to have homes that were larger and more flamboyant.

  “Gentlemen,” she started, addressing the usual ten in the Games Room on the second floor, the group of men forming the T20. “It’s my honour to welcome you here once more tonight. As always make yourselves at home. Tomorrow we’ll all be witnessing a fine spectacle, I trust, when Twelve, Eighteen and Twenty reveal to us who they’ve put forward for this year’s event. It promises to be a truly wonderful time.” She was more theatrical than she had been before, or that was merited. She excused herself, the group knowing that the other men were upstairs, though the two crowds were not meant to mix.

  Polzin came over to Andre. “So, the show is about to begin.”

  “I’ll drink a toast to that––and to the outworking of Vlast this coming year.”

  “To Vlast,” Polzin replied––to authority, to rule, to control, to power.

  When Svetlana walked into the room on the third floor, where there were no screens and no one recording–– an office of the ten men who formed the T10––a silence fell on the proceedings, the conversations muted.

  “And so, we are together to see in the New Year and then see where we all stand as regards to the challenges set before you, which we will discuss a little tomorrow. After hearing both teams give me an update on where you are up to, I’ll report back to you which team, by my understanding, is in the lead. In the meantime, enjoy the drinks, feel welcome to stay, and S Novem Godom!” Happy New Year. The echo reverberated around the room; though it was still a little time before midnight, it was the formal ending to their evening gathering. The men would scatter, going their separate ways over the next few minutes, Lev Kaminski keeping a careful watch on Matvey Filipov, who seemed too relaxed given the stakes in play.

  Outside, Alex and Anissa, having been dropped off by Sasha sometime earlier, sat watching the men as they started to leave the property, each man escorted by teams of their own bodyguards.

  A little before midnight, Matvey, Andre and Polzin emerged onto the street, at least a dozen men in dark suits surrounding them, keeping watch for any sign of trouble.

  As the three Russians watched the first of the fireworks going off across the Neva, they knew a big year awaited them, a year that would change the course of their country’s future. A year of radical change, where strength would be used against anything that got in their way. A year to dismantle the Games and everything that group of men represented. A year of a different Russia emerging as it headed for Presidential elections a few weeks over fourteen months away. A year for clear leadership to appear once again, in a nation that felt starved of global significance.

  For many lives, a search, a hunt for something continued as the calendar clicked onto another year. For Phelan, it was a hunt for release, a quest for freedom and a chance to move on with his life and get away from his current predicament. As for Maggie Thompson, she thought she had found what she was hunting for; love. For his family in America, they were longing for his return.

  For Alex and Anissa, getting closer to what was going on, their hunt was about to take them to the very men they’d been searching for these last two years.

  And for Matvey, his hunt for ultimate power was only just stepping up a gear.

  Character Glossary

  Who’s who in The Hunt series––as of the start of this book

  MI6 - Alex Tolbert, Anissa Edison, Gordon Peacock (head technician), Thomas Price (DDG)

  FSB - Sasha Barkov

  T10 - Mark Orlov (Grey Eagle), Roman Ivanov, Lev Kaminski (Lion Man), Vladimir Popov (the Priest), Viktor Gavrilyuk, Dima Petrov, Yefrem Fyodorov, Valery Holub, Timur Budny (Iron Man), Foma Polzin

  T20 - Arseni Markovic, Dmitry Sokoloff, Rurik Sewick (Mr Grey), Akim Kozlov, Aleksey Kuznetsov, Dmitry Kaminski, Motya Utkin, Dmitry Pavlov, Osip Yakovlev, Stanislav Krupin

  Matvey Filipov––father of Andre Filipov, oligarch and Presidential hopeful.

  Andre Filipov––son of Matvey, in contact with Alex at MI6 under the name Andre Philip.

  Sergej Volkov (the Wolf)––Billionaire and husband of Svetlana, with huge influence within Russia, though otherwise unconnected to the Games.

  Svetlana Volkov (the Lamb)––Wife of Sergej, world famous actress and founder of the Games.

  New Year Hunt and Pairings

  Walther Bruhn (German, 47, weapons manufacturer) Vs Benita Rosales (Spanish, 36, chemist)

  Talbot Riley (British, 28, cage fighter) Vs Shane Brennan (Irish, 42, mercenary)

  Hilary Barber (British, 33, wrestler) Vs Ambra Esposito (Italian, 33, mafia wife)

  Stafford Davidson (British, 37, former car thief and disgraced cop) Vs Arnold Lucas (British, 41, engineer)

  Leona Chase (British, 35, ex-convict) Vs Josée Allard (French, 35, personal trainer)

  The Poison

  The Hunt series Book 3

  For Rachel––my cancer fighting ninja wife and biggest fan (cheering alongside Mia and Anya)

  ****

  A character glossary is located at the back of the book.

  1

  He’d seen them driving around in blacked-out Jeeps all over the south of the city. Martin Rennold had already been in St Petersburg for two days, three nights given the time he landed. On each of those nights, he’d been walking the streets, unable to sleep in unfamiliar surroundings. Besides, he’d always been a night owl since his teenage years, which seemed too long ago to remember––but were concluded only twelve years previously. It was while taking these now ritual night-time strolls that Martin started to discover the truth of things he’d always believed about Russia––that the Mafia ruled certain districts. Martin's hotel was located near one of these neighbourhoods.

  He was not a man to go looking for trouble, but trouble seemed to home in on him. It found him no matter what and this whirlwind visit to Russia was no exception.

  In his left hand he still held tight––his grip as robust as it had ever been––a lottery ticket worth over £11 million. He had one day to claim it and the return flight for which he had a ticket––a ticket the airline couldn’t switch––was not due out for another three days. He was broke. He couldn’t afford new tickets––despite the fact he might just be a millionaire before the week was out. His credit rating––if you could call it that––was abysmal. He had no option but to approach the Mafia.

  But the Mafia always found a way, his logic had slowly convinced him
over hours of heavy vodka drinking. They could fence stolen goods, launder dirty money and therefore surely he’d find a compromise, a way for them to also profit from the winning ticket.

  He had nothing else to try. He was out of his already very limited options. But the rush of optimism the last few hours had given him since getting his hands on the ticket was something else entirely. Energy still pumped through every vein in his body––as if the ticket itself was offering pure oxygen to his drowning body, so profoundly submerged in debt and despair. Now, though, he had hope––and a lifeline.

  “Hey, are you Russian Mafia?” he said, calling across to one of two men just climbing out of a Jeep. He’d thought about what to say, how to go about it. His approach wasn’t good––he realised that as the words were coming out of his mouth––but he didn’t have much choice. He also rarely thought things through enough, anyway.

  “Mafioso?” he repeated, a Russian accent put on this time as if that would help them understand him. He apparently wasn’t posing a threat, and they were smiling, their suits crisp, clean, expensive looking. There was no sign of weapons but Martin was sure they were there somewhere, concealed under layers of Armani, or Gucci––or whatever it was the Russian Mafia was now wearing.

  “Who are you? Police?” the man replied, in English.

  “No, I’m a friend. I have a business proposition for you and your men. It’ll be worth three million pounds to you. British sterling. But it has to be today. Can we talk?”

  Both men now standing in front of Martin towered over him, he realised, despite his relatively tall five feet eleven. Neither Russian said anything to the other, though their eye contact suggested they were communicating easily enough among themselves.