by Tim Heath
He was on the morning flight out, and following one change in Chicago, would reach LAX sometime late that night, probably needing to stay in Los Angeles itself before seeing his family again the following morning. He thought he would make his return a surprise, which might go a long way to lessen the cross-examination that would inevitably come. He just hoped he was ready for that.
The Cannes Film Festival, now celebrating its seventieth year, ran for twelve days in the second half of May. Svetlana Volkov, two of her films being featured at the festival, was one of the big draws, especially for such an important anniversary event.
As always, the gathering saw many of the world’s social elite––and the wealthy––congregate for what was a crucial fixture on the social calendar. Svetlana had invited all the members of the Games to join her at that year’s event, most being regular attendees themselves for decades. It gave Svetlana the chance to touch base with the men, as she did at similar events throughout the regular business calendar, and set forward the details about what was coming up. The summer event for the T20 was top of her agenda for that particular group. The results in the T10, if not yet quite final, were undoubtedly nearly ready to be called. That in itself was extraordinary, something if she’d been told just over six months before she wouldn’t have believed to have been possible.
By the second day of the festival, all the men had arrived, the Russians mainly disappearing into the crowd, where the world’s press had come to catch a glimpse of some of the biggest names in the film industry, both on screen and behind the camera.
During the afternoon of that day, Svetlana gathered the ten men in the T20 at a small private venue a little outside of Cannes itself––this was a meeting she didn’t want to be photographed at.
“Gentlemen, it’s good to see you all in this context once again,” she said, the room silent before her, her statement white fur coat hanging as it always did so well on her. A low cut black dress was elegantly visible underneath, despite the warm temperature, too warm undoubtedly for the need of such a coat, though it was one of her most iconic statements. She was the Russian bombshell in the white fur.
“As you all know, next month we gather in St Petersburg for our annual mid-summer event. And having been assessing the last few events, and the fact you are all getting too good at defending your tickets,” a little murmur of amusement went around the room at that, before quieting as their Chair continued, “I thought we’d go a little old school with this summer’s Hunt.” That phrase brought some trepidation for those men who’d been involved since the beginning, blank looks from those who had only known it in its current format. What they’d all done at the ten-year celebration a year and a half ago, had been an entirely new thing––a one-off they believed, and hoped.
“As some of you who’ve been around long enough will remember, before the time of the many lotteries we now have, and before the days of selecting your own Contestants even, we used to pick random people––usually Russians in fact––and offer them a blank cheque. The challenge was always could they get it cashed in time.” That was in an era, even though it wasn’t that many years ago when the average Russian didn’t have their own bank account. Many still didn’t. Russia very much remained a cash culture. “When banking went online, more people had the option of an account, and cheques started to go out of fashion. Now, no banks in Russia will accept them. So we switched to lottery tickets and changed the focus to foreigners. The modern era of the Games was born,” and she spoke like a mother would about one of her babies.
“I thought it would be fun for us”––fun was always a very subjective word when it came to this group of people. Fun was also always at someone else’s expense––“if while still supplying a lottery ticket, the Contestants for this summer’s Hunt would be randomly selected from general tourists who are in the city at the time. People travelling in groups, and especially families, would offer the most captivating Contestant. Would they leave and abandon their kids and spouse to pocket some millions? I think you can see the interest.” She didn’t need to state the obvious, the idea was cruel yet intriguing, and where that occurred, the rest always followed. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to pre-screen or pre-select anybody who is going to be in St Petersburg during these dates. Each Contestant––and I want you all involved again this time, so you’ll each need to provide a ticket––has to be a genuine tourist, and your first challenge will be to lure them into the trap, get them interested enough to make a run for it. I know that is not as easy as when it’s a pre-selected Contestant, but I’m certain it’ll make for a more extraordinary event. I think it’s about time we injected a little of the unknown back into our events, don’t you?”
There was a general agreement, though no one voice could be heard above the others, it was as if they were each content for once to just be one of the crowd, to not raise their own head above the parapet. But there was a consensus.
“Very well, we’ll go ahead with that in mind. I think it promises to be a truly fantastic time, one that is likely to bring much laughter, and I hope not too much heartache, as you each once again bet against your fellow Hosts, hoping to be the one to come out on top. May the best of you do just that.”
She moved away from the front of the room––it was clear what she had to say was over––and headed towards the door. A few of the men thought about saying something, but it was always best to keep a little distance in the room, an invisible barrier between them and her.
Foma Polzin, Eleven within that context, eyed the room like any dominant male lion would. He caught sight of Dmitry Kaminski, who stood quietly––it was far from public knowledge regarding his own personal financial peril––though Foma wondered if most men in that room, if not all, would already have some sense of what awaited their fellow oligarch. Would Kaminski even have anything to bet come the June event?––would he be there at all? Picking off these men had become as much an event for Foma as it was to be involved in the Games as a whole. He was enjoying both immensely, taking genuine delight in the downfalls achieved so far, even if he wasn’t able to share that publicly with anyone else in the room, besides Andre Filipov––who was, like him, a co-conspirator.
It was half-past four in the morning, Anissa fumbling for her still ringing mobile, as she tapped her alarm clock to both confirm the time and give her a little light to see into her bag. Thankfully the sound had been muffled somewhat by the contents of her handbag––why she’d placed it next to her bed last night she was still at a loss to remember––so it did not wake her husband, who was sleeping soundly next to her. He’d sleep through a hurricane and not stir. She was the opposite, something that went with the territory of being a mother––though her job had also trained her to sleep lightly.
“Hello?” Anissa said once answering the unrecognised number displayed on the handset. It was a UK number, anyway, a London one, too.
“Anissa, it’s Maggie. Maggie Thompson.” She repeated her name with her surname as if the first name alone was not enough, but Anissa understood the moment she heard the name, despite it being some time––a few weeks in fact already––since they’d paid her a visit. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said to me when you stopped by. Everything you asked me, especially what you said as you were leaving. It’s been with me ever since.” That had been the intention, though truth be told Anissa had assumed as the days pressed, Maggie wasn’t taking the bait. Yet here she now was––Anissa standing in their en-suite bathroom so as not to make too much noise––speaking with her again.
“I was a total mess when you visited––still am, actually. I’ve not been back to work since. Couldn’t face it all. The doctor says its a combination of stress and depression. The meds didn’t help me to focus, but I’ve taken myself off them now––can’t sleep––and need to talk to you finally. Need to tell you the truth.”
She paused. Anissa, tired but alert to this conversation, still didn’t want to waste time. “G
o on,” she said.
“I had heard of Matvey Filipov––it was him who got me to the front of the line in the interviews and then basically made sure they spoke to no one else about the job.” She knew it. Alex had looked into the recruitment process with Maggie’s firm, but records were not precise. It detailed the interviews, her results for each one, everything from the company side, but there was nothing––on paper, anyway––that suggested Matvey had delivered her to them. That conversation would have taken place behind closed doors somewhere, one man possibly doing a favour for another or some other deal.
“Why you? What was your connection to him before the appointment?” They’d looked for any cross reference but hadn’t found anything.
“I worked with his group here in the UK. We’d never met personally, but then the whole thing with Phelan happened. I don’t think he knew at first, but when it all exploded––when the affair became public knowledge, and his wife found out––I had to move on. I changed my surname,” which explained why they hadn’t come up with anything, “and Matvey allowed me to reenter life in another of his firms, before opening the opportunity at JP Morgan Chase.”
“Did he suggest back then anything about getting involved with Meridian Capital?”
“No, but it was what I already did, within his firm I mean, on a much smaller scale. The new job was for that role. I just landed the client through a promotion, signed off on the $100 billion loan, and kept moving forward from then on.”
“Has Matvey Filipov been in touch with you in the last six months?” There was a noticeable pause at that second as if Maggie was taking one final moment to decide how much she was going to say.
“Yes, at the end of last year––I’m not sure exactly when––but he called me, and said he’d soon need me to call in the loan.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that was absolutely out of the question.” Interesting, seeing as six months later she seemed to do exactly that after a few words from Phelan.
“How did Matvey react to that?”
“He was angry. Threatened me, but then seemed to go away. I didn’t, I haven’t heard from him again. It was only during your visit, since what you said, that I recalled it was Matvey who first suggested the idea to me. Once you said Phelan was working for Matvey, it all made sense. He’d sent Phelan to do what I’d refused to do before. My entire world was a sham.”
Anissa let the emotions clearly flooding Maggie at that moment subside for a bit.
“You had no way of knowing this was being done to you, Maggie.”
“I should have seen it coming. Phelan never talked about what had happened. I just ignorantly wanted to believe she’d kicked him out, that he was a free man, and that what we had––what I thought we had––was real. But none of it was, was it?”
“I can’t imagine how that feels, Maggie, I really can’t.”
“I know you’re not Scotland Yard, by the way.”
“Sorry?”
“I planned to make this conversation in person and went to Scotland Yard myself yesterday. The front desk said you didn’t work there. They didn’t know your name but said you were a government official––whatever that means––and then I remembered you gave me a business card. At least the number is real. So who are you?”
“I’m a friend, who can help you, Maggie. That’s all I can say.”
“I think that says enough, then.” Anissa could hear a long intake of breath from the other end of the line, as if she was trying to control her breathing, trying to calm herself. “Will you promise me one thing, Anissa?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Find a way of getting back at Matvey, will you? Bring him down.”
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do or who you think I am.”
“I suspect enough to know that you have probably been on his trail for some time. Phelan, I might be able to forgive––but Matvey, he’s betrayed every trust I ever placed in him. He can’t be allowed to get away with this. You have to hurt him.” There was urgency in her voice, hatred too. This was very personal for Maggie, that much was already apparent.
“I’ll do everything in my power to do just that,” Anissa said, deciding there was no point in trying to answer too vaguely. This was a woman who needed to know there would be a day of reckoning––even if Anissa had no idea if that were ever really possible.
“Good. Then our conversation is over,” and with that, the phone went dead, Anissa not able to add anything to what had been said, no words of encouragement. She was now too awakened by it all to attempt to get back into bed––she would have to get up in just under an hour’s time, anyway. She slipped back out and across the bedroom, therefore, her husband still sound asleep, though he had turned over since she’d left, and she went downstairs.
As the kettle boiled, she dropped Alex an email updating him on what she’d just heard from Maggie. It was yet more connections for her growing wall of evidence. Still, she didn’t have enough to truly nail Matvey. A man that powerful would take much more to bring down than what they had so far––would they ever get that shot?
10
As the seventieth Cannes Film Festival came to an end, Foma Polzin, who had stayed for the whole event, was concerned. He’d remained because Kaminski had stayed––a man potentially running away from his own nightmare headlines in England, yet increasingly confident as the event went on.
“He’s got a backer,” Foma said, speaking to Matvey on his mobile, as the celebrities and billionaires alike were making their final departure. Foma had expressed his concern a few days ago––in person––with Matvey before he’d left with his son for Monaco, suggesting Foma stay around and see what he could dig up.
“Who?” The fact Dmitry Kaminski wasn’t already dead and buried––figuratively speaking, though that literal eventuality wasn’t off the table, either––suggested someone else was in play.
The last two weeks, and especially the time during the actual festival, had seen the full collapse of the Meridian Capital Union, with legal suits pending. That should have been enough to sink Kaminski. JP Morgan Chase’s claim alone for whatever assets they could seize should have been enough to wipe the smile from his face. Yet, two weeks on, he was still standing.
Foma had followed Kaminski around closely. Though not apparent to anyone else––it took an oligarch to know the secret dealings of a fellow oligarch––it was clear that Aleksey Kuznetsov, Twelve within the Games, a position he had taken over from Sokoloff, was the man in question. Kuznetsov had been the big winner––fortuitously as it had happened––when Phelan had come out victorious in a Hunt Sokoloff assumed he had already won. That had been his first mistake. He’d never really recovered.
“It’s Kuznetsov.”
“The sewage guy?” There was disdain in Matvey’s voice. He didn’t like being held up by a man who dealt in piss.
“What are we looking at?” For these men, it was always about the numbers. How much wealthier––by that they implied more powerful––was one person over another?
“Two point two.” The combined wealth of the two men talking was over $20 billion, with plenty of change. He was small fry, in other words.
“Then he becomes another target we’ll just have to remove.” There were a lot of men who were just being shoved to one side, and for the first time, Foma felt that edge of caution rise in him, voicing it before he’d thought anything of it.
“Do we just keep crushing everyone that stands in your way?”
“Yes we do, Foma,” Matvey said, no trace of hesitation, no flinching in the face of conflict, “unless you’ve lost your nerve and in which case you’d cease to be of any use to me. Have you lost your nerve?”
“Of course I haven’t,” he said, angry that he’d opened himself up for that––angry that he was being talked down to.
“You have my son at hand within the T20 to work with at the next event.” Andre was only there because Foma had
loaned him a significant amount, on Matvey’s instruction, though it was true he’d already seen nearly forty per cent repaid. The boy knew what he was doing. “Make sure you take out Kuznetsov, and Kaminski won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“We’ll do what we’re best at, don’t you worry.”
“Oh, I don’t worry, Foma. I never worry.”
The call ended. Foma stood there in silence, his view of the sea before him tranquil––completely the opposite to how his stomach was now churning, yet another Russian oligarch in Matvey’s sight, yet another man to be destroyed. Without great sacrifice, came no victory.
After the New Year Hunt––it was the most significant holiday in Russia, as well as the most prominent event within the Games––the mid-summer Hunt was the next highlight. For the last few years, they’d reduced mainly to just those two events, though in the past had had up to six such gatherings a year.
It was looking like a hot summer. That was good for St Petersburg’s prospects, with tourists making trips to the cooler north, getting away from the close heat of cities like Moscow, and southern Europe too.
Air conditioning was not yet commonplace in St Petersburg, or in Russia as a whole, though for the wealthy it was old news, and the Volkov mansion was a refreshing retreat as the various guests arrived at the front entrance, leaving the hot granite pavements behind.
As always, they were gathering on the eve of the shortest night, with the actual event starting the following day. For the first time in many years, none of the Hosts knew who their Contestants were going to be––nor did these Contestants yet realise they were going to be involved, either––as all would unfold in real time the following morning.
