by Tim Heath
“We’re listening,” the lead guy said, his English surprisingly good, though with a noticeable American bias.
“Can we go someplace a little more private?”
“Sure.” The other Russian came over to Martin, frisking him suddenly, Martin just letting the man confirm he wasn’t carrying a weapon and wasn’t a threat.
“You alone? Anyone watching us now?”
“No, God no, I swear. It’s just me.”
“You sure?” It was already dark, though it was only three in the afternoon. That was not unusual in St Petersburg at the beginning of January.
“Absolutely!” Martin said. He was telling the truth, for his part. He had no idea a team of Trackers were watching him at that moment, had been on him for the entire day, in fact. They were always watching.
“And no one else knows you are here?”
“No, no one. I’m travelling alone.” They were walking now, heading for a small alleyway that took them away from the road where Martin had first approached them. When they were standing under a little lamp which was attached at the second-floor level to the side of one of the buildings––though there were no windows down this alley––the two Russians stopped.
“So, tell me what this proposition is.”
Martin took a moment but just started explaining what he’d been working on in his mind. He didn’t know how much to tell them, what to keep secret, but did enough to get them interested. He knew there was a chance that once they had the ticket, he wouldn’t see any of the money. He was out of options, which was why he’d approached them in the first place. He’d take his chances.
“Interesting,” the lead guy interjected, as Martin came to a pause. He said something in fast, unintelligible Russian to the man standing next to him, the guy pulling out his mobile phone and making a call. They were probably trying to check whether the ticket was real or not. He’d done the same thing that morning when he’d first laid hands on it. It all still felt such a blur. The guy on the phone said something back to the lead Russian.
“Let me see the ticket,” he said to Martin, the Englishman hesitant, but he handed over the ticket anyway. He had come to them for help, after all. More words were spoken in Russian, the lead guy reading off the numbers, in turn, the other Russian on the telephone then relaying them to whoever they’d called. There was a brief pause. It wouldn’t take long for them to confirm what he’d found out himself that morning over breakfast––it was valid, and about to expire.
Both Russians smiled.
“Very good, it appears what you have been telling us has all been one hundred per cent accurate.”
“I’ve nothing to hide from you; I just wanted to work with you.”
“To work with us?”
“Yes.”
“And no one knows you are here. You are certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you know to find us here?”
“I’ve been staying in a nearby hotel. I saw your Jeeps racing around the streets the last two nights. It doesn’t take a genius to know who you are.”
“A valid point.”
“So are we good?”
There was a noticeable shift in both Russians at this point.
“I’ll tell you what I am going to do for you. You said it was worth £3 million for us to help you, but the way I see it now is that we have a lot more than that in our hands currently from where I’m standing. Do you get my drift?”
“Hold on. I came to you!”
“And I’m very grateful that you did. Mikalai,” he said, turning to his companion, the order clear. Mikalai pulled out his gun from an inside pocket, two bullets ripping through Martin’s body before he could move from the spot. His body hit the frost covered ground. “Get this cleaned up,” he said, moving back across to the Jeep, ticket in hand, vital funds for his organisation soon to be made available.
Inside the Games Room, the murder, enacted in front of them all on the giant screens that broadcasted to them all the activities of all three Contestants, brought little shock. The moment Twelve’s man had gone to the Mafia, they knew what the outcome would be. These men wouldn’t share something like this. His Hunt was over.
It’d happened once before, as well. The big question that remained now for Arseni Markovic was whether he went after those currently in possession of his ticket, or left them to it. He’d invested the £11 million six months ago in acquiring it in the first place. Losing this particular Hunt would now cost him more. Would he allow the Mafia to cash in on something that had cost him so much already? Those watching the screen were keeping one eye on their fellow T20 member.
It had been a relatively quiet day up until that point for the ten men who made up the T20. The only ticket left in play had been that of the Englishman’s, which now technically still was, albeit in Mafia hands. Eighteen and Twenty had also been hosting Contestants this time around, their would-be female millionaires both captured at the airport, each within thirty minutes of the other, by different teams. These tickets were now back in possession of men working for the Russian oligarch that had purchased them––Motya’s ticket worth the most at nearly €15 million, Osip’s the least of the three at €11 million.
It was only Arseni, therefore, who potentially stood to lose a little from the day––he hadn’t managed to stop his Contestant, and also didn’t now have the ticket himself. At Twelve, however, and worth $2.2 billion, he could easily afford it.
The truth was, and Svetlana had seen it happening more and more over the last few Hunts, the Russians were all getting too good at controlling events to dictate what happened. Ever since the previous year’s New Year event––a contest that left two Contestants dead, not to mention the murder of another civilian––the edge had been taken off these smaller, more traditional gatherings. A fresh start was called for.
“Gentlemen,” she said, with all her Hollywood grace that she carried around with her wherever she went, “it’s been another fascinating day.” It hadn’t been, not by a long shot. “We’ve not even got to four in the afternoon and all three Contestants have failed in their attempts to escape with your money.” One of these very Contestants was being dumped into the back of a van at that moment, the centre screen showing this happening for anyone watching. “So we are, therefore, concluded once again. As always, it’s been my pleasure to host you all here, and I will be in touch regarding our next gathering. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to another meeting. Don’t feel any of you has to rush off. Plenty of champagne still needs drinking up. Enjoy!”
A chorus of S Novom Godom rang out––Happy New Year––as Svetlana Volkov stepped down from the small staging area and headed for the exit. The men left her to it. They knew what group of men were awaiting her next.
2
In a fourth-floor apartment across the road and not quite directly opposite the Volkov mansion, Alex, Anissa and their FSB insider Sasha continued to sit as they had done for much of the afternoon. They knew in the next door building to them––the one that did sit directly opposite the target property––was at least one team of security. Another group was at street level in a van parked just a few doors down from the front entrance, an entrance that was heavily secured.
Temple Mount––the unofficial name given to the Volkov mansion––was easily the best-protected location Sasha knew about in St Petersburg. And with men––and at least one woman––inside with a combined net worth of over $100 billion, it was easy to understand why. Wealth had a way of protecting its position.
As evening drew in, Anissa had checked off the arrival of all twenty men they now knew made up the Games, the ten wealthiest being the last group to arrive, men making up the T10. The other group had been there for most of the day. They’d not seen anyone leave yet.
“What I’d give to have ears in that building! Are you certain there is no way to do that Sasha?”
“Absolutely not. The property is listed with my office.” Sasha had been with the
FSB for some years and worked from Big House, the home of the FSB in St Petersburg. He ran his own small team, which gave him an element of freedom. He’d used most of that freedom to help his two British friends over the last couple of years, having done something similar before that for another two agents. “Because it’s listed, it means we can’t carry out any type of invasive surveillance without it being cleared from on high––which it wouldn’t be––and we would have compromised our position in the process.” Both British agents knew that really meant he’d be compromised. They were not here on official MI6 business, far from it in fact. Their operation, already more than two years old, was very much under the radar. If their bosses understood what they were really up to, they would be closed down. Sasha, on the other hand, would most likely be dead. Keeping him alive was very much their top priority.
“From what we’ve seen so far,” Anissa said, the obvious point being they’d seen very little, yet, “I don’t recall all twenty men––both groups––meeting together like they are today. Could that be significant?”
There was no answer to that one. Alex said, anyway, “Anything they do en masse like this, all their gatherings, we have to assume are significant until we know otherwise. Sasha, any news on who they are using as Contestants this time?”
In the past they’d been given names––Andre Philips, as he had called himself until they realised he was Matvey Filipov’s only son––had detailed certain people from various nations. These had turned out to be Contestants who suddenly turned up in Russia. This time they didn’t have that kind of information. Sasha had no idea who to put a watch out for with the border guard.
“I’ve got a few guys watching the airport, but nothing at the moment,” Sasha said, his English noticeably improving, and his accent becoming far more British, over the last two years. Anissa wondered if anyone in his office had picked up on his vast improvement, but then she figured he wouldn’t have been speaking English there, anyway. “Without names, they don’t have much to go on. This is one of the busiest times of the year, after all.” Which was very accurate, New Year being Russia’s most prominent holiday, and that in itself enough to draw tourists from around the world, but especially Europe, those brave enough to take on the cold. The real cold was still a month away.
Alex checked his watch; it was seven thirty. They’d been sitting there, just watching the building across the street, for over five hours straight. Lunch seemed like a long time ago.
“I think I’ll run and get us something to eat,” Alex said. Sasha had shown them a convenience store just around the corner, open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Regardless of it being a national holiday, or not. Alex put on his coat and hat, something Sasha had lent him, helping him blend into the city a lot more naturally, able to disappear into the streets and go unnoticed, which was indeed needed in their current location.
Anissa looked through the pair of binoculars once more, her wedding ring catching the light a little.
“Tell me about your husband,” Sasha said. “You have a family, right, though if I can say it, you hardly seem old enough for that.” There was a smile on the Russian’s face.
“You’d be surprised. Yes, Paul is my husband, and our two boys are called Jack and Alistair. Jack is the oldest by twelve months, though you wouldn’t always know it. Jack’s nine, Alistair is eight. We’ve been married for twelve years next month.”
“Congratulations.”
“What on having two boys, or still being married for so long?” she joked, Sasha not picking up on the joke.
“On the soon to be anniversary.”
“I understood what you meant, sorry, English humour.”
“It can’t be easy balancing your two worlds?”
“My husband is super supportive. My mum lives nearby as well, so can often help with the boys. She’s retired now, which makes it a lot easier during the school holidays, as well as with the school run. It’s freed Paul up considerably. I’m not sure I could do what I do if they weren’t both around.”
“Have you always worked for the Security Service?” Somehow, being in Russia, where he knew anyone could be listening in, he still couldn’t say MI6. Old habits.
“No, not as long as Alex has, anyway. I was in the army before, which in a round about way is how I met my husband.”
“He’s not army then, himself?”
“No, but it’s a long story. I was injured and had to get out of the army altogether. Thankfully Military Intelligence came calling, and here I am.”
“Alex doesn’t have a wife, no?” He was quite sure it would have come up already had there been someone waiting for him back in England. Sasha had often wondered about the dynamic of the two Brits working so tightly together, if there’d ever been any tensions, any sexual chemistry between the two, but didn’t feel he could ask that, yet.
“No, Alex doesn’t. You’ll have to ask him about that; I try not to get too involved.”
“And your husband knows about your trips with Alex?”
“Yes, Sasha, and he’s completely supportive,” she said, a little too forcefully for what was needed, bristling a little too. “I’m sorry,” she added, realising he wasn’t really stepping out of line.
“Don’t worry; I’m sure it’s not been the first time you’ve been asked that.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s just if I was married to someone like you, I know I’d be super jealous if my beautiful wife was often travelling alone with another male colleague.”
It had all got a little too heated, a little too focused on Anissa for her liking.
“And is there a lady somewhere, Sasha, someone you have hidden away from us all?” It was time to turn the spotlight onto her interrogator.
“No, there isn’t. There was someone I was very fond of. She died a few years back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Were you together?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t think she even knew how I felt, not really, anyway. It couldn’t have worked. Plus, I know she was still in love with someone else.”
Anissa knew about the history of Sasha and the British Security Service. She knew how he’d first helped another MI6 agent, Charlie Boon, after Anya Lobova had been killed by a bomb left in their hotel room in Zurich. She knew enough to assume this was the girl Sasha was talking about but liked him enough to keep that knowledge hidden.
“That must have been hard for you, Sasha, whoever it was. Can you see yourself one day getting married?”
“I’d like to think so. But I do think you did it the right way round, marrying first before joining our world. For men like Alex and myself, it’s a lot harder to find time for romance.”
“The fact you are talking about romance, and not just sex, Sasha, tells me there is much hope for you.”
“Really?” but their conversation was interrupted as Alex walked back in through the door.
He emptied the bag of shopping onto the table, a loaf of bread, some cheese as well as some pies––Alex had no idea what was inside any of them––and proceeded to switch on the kettle.
“Snowing a little now,” Alex said, as steam started to appear from the spout of the kettle.
“What’s in the pies?” Anissa said, taking one in her hand and giving it a sniff.
“Not got the slightest idea. Just eat it, and you’ll see.” They all laughed.
As the kettle came to a boil, Alex poured the drinks, Sasha still over by the window, Anissa already eating, Alex then joining her, putting both their mugs onto the table, before picking up a pie and taking Sasha’s green tea over to him.
“When do we expect movement again from across the road?” Alex said.
“It’s hard to say. I guess there’ll be some departures before nightfall––there are only so many guest rooms, even in a mansion that large. We know there are too many men inside to accommodate them all. I would expect to see a few men leave in the next hour or two.”
“A
nd then what?”
“Then, I have no idea.”
They ate in silence for a little while, the three taking it in turns to watch at the window while grabbing some of the food that Alex had just bought them.
Inside Temple Mount, Svetlana had left the group of men who made up the T20 within the Games and after a brief moment’s pause was on her way into her other group of guests, the ten men who made up the T10. The room contained some of the most influential and powerful––not to mention wealthy––men her nation had to offer. And she was the Chair. Amongst all her starring roles in some of the biggest grossing films of the last decade, this personal role was amongst her favourites. It was her world, her rules and her style.
A noted hush came over proceedings as she entered the room. There was a large conference table for them all, and five men sat along each side––and she at the head. There were no cameras or screens needed for now. This was for the eyes and ears of only those currently present.
“Gentlemen, it is wonderful to see you all together once more,” Svetlana said. It had been several months since they’d last met in her presence, and today was mainly a catch-up, hearing where each group was up to, seeing they were at least making progress. In their events, with the targets so much more significant, the time it all took so much longer, it was easy to bite off more than they could chew. This was why she kept a keen eye on proceedings.
And yet, this latest time, they were taking on targets multiple times bigger than she’d ever deemed viable before, Matvey Filipov having put forward the idea to her the last time they’d gathered. It had sounded utterly impossible at first––she’d nearly walked away from him, twice, in fact, dismissing it as such––but he had persisted. It had been that persistence and the knowledge that he’d then suggested he go up against the largest of the unions, and his own team being the weaker of the two, that she’d suddenly taken it all more seriously. If someone would disadvantage themselves so much and yet still want to be involved in the attempt, as impossible and unlikely as it was––clearly nothing had ever been attempted like that anywhere in the business world before––then she was game for it. The more she’d looked into things, the more fascinated she had become.
