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

by Tim Heath

  The tickets ranged in value considerably––the lowest at €11 million, the most at £22 million. Five of the tickets were from the UK, and therefore in pound sterling. The other five were all Euro Loto tickets––two claimable in France, the others in Spain, Portugal and Ireland. All but one of the tickets were claimable up until the following day, so that gave thirty-six hours from that moment. It was one of the two French tickets that had an 8pm deadline that same day, which was the best the Russian could come up with. It was worth €16 million should someone manage it.

  “I think we had better get things underway,” she said. “As always, we have a large number of teams on the ground to keep a live feed on anything and everything that happens,” and the screens jumped to life at that moment, three different camera feeds coming through.

  The images displayed changed every five seconds, as it worked through the ten teams broadcasting at that moment. Of course, until there was a Contestant, the images showed very little, just the busy streets of the city as people went about their day. A city of granite that once again would unsuspectingly play host to the Games. Such extravagance and waste when you considered the fact that the cumulative total of the ten as yet unclaimed tickets was more than £167 million. If successful––and no Russian there would want to be a loser––these tickets would remain unclaimed, the money untouched. It was what made them feel so strong. To be so reckless.

  As well as the teams of Trackers that Svetlana provided––people who were neutral, just there to report the action like a sports crew would––each Host had teams of their own people working for them. Their first job was to find a suitable Contestant, limited this time to the pool of people who were already in the city. That made their job much harder. If they chose someone who had no chance of getting away––nationality didn’t matter––there would be no contest. If there was no Hunt there was no risk and therefore no reward. None of the other oligarchs would bet against them. Thus there would be nothing to win, nothing to play for. If, on the other hand, the Contestant was too prepared––maybe they were travelling alone, from the country where the ticket was from, and flying back that day anyway, it would be too easy, too risky for the Host. In that case, all the other Hosts would bet against them, and if the Contestant was able to claim the prize, the losses could be substantial. Not to mention the kick to their pride and honour––which would hurt more than money ever could.

  Creating a dilemma was undoubtedly the way to go––finding someone who had the means to travel, in that they had a valid passport or visa to go elsewhere in Europe––but also had dependents, people they were visiting the city with. That made for an exciting prospect. Would they leave those they’d travelled with stranded and go for the money? Would they try and flee with them? Would they try and get help? These would be the best bets, the kind of Contestants who could divide the room. If a Host found someone along those lines––if there were a whole room of men with such Contestants––it would make for one fantastic contest and an exciting Hunt.

  Following Svetlana’s confirmation to get things up and running, each of the ten Hosts was busy speaking on their mobile phones to their various teams––some men preferring to use multiple teams, others with a trusted few.

  The Games Room fell into a hum of hushed conversations, men busy on phones like you would see on a stock market trading floor, but the noise was noticeably less. These were conversations they didn’t want the others to hear.

  It was Aleksey Kuznetsov––Fifteen at this event––who found the first Contestant, definite bragging rights going his way, though catching the first nibble on the end of a line was far different from actually reeling it in. Just ask any fisherman.

  Wilma Baines was originally from the UK but lived in Poland. Fifteen’s team had spotted her in a cafe. She was eating with a friend, both staying in the same hotel. Her Facebook profile had her down as single. However, once the men had made a check at the hotel––something all teams would be doing, no doubt, for all potential Contestants––they found she was not only staying in the same room as her friend but had explicitly got them to change the room from a twin to double. Clearly, this girl didn’t want certain people to know her actual status.

  With live Contestants like this––as opposed to the pre-screened ones, where information was usually passed under their hotel room doors on the morning of the event alerting them to the location of the ticket––the Hosts had to be far more blatant. These people, unlike the usual Contestants who had been flown to the city especially, weren’t expecting anything unusual to happen. The Russians had to make it clear that what was being offered was possible––was real, and not a fake. Either the Contestant bought into the idea immediately, or the team moved on and found someone else.

  That was the pattern they had settled into in the early days––when Contestants were found similarly––blank cheques on offer in those Hunts, just begging to be signed and cashed into an account before the six months were up. The cheques were always dated so that the day of the Hunt was the final day. That phase had grown stale, and they’d moved onto lottery tickets instead, which promised so much more opportunity and fun. And so it had proved. Like any drug addict would say, however, each high was never as good as the last one. They needed more.

  The New Year warehouse event had been that for them––nothing since had proved anywhere near as appealing. They knew it, and Svetlana knew it, which was why she’d proposed this latest change. They were getting bored. She hoped, for her sake as much as her Hosts, this time around there would be that hit they were all longing for again.

  Confronting Wilma as she left the cafe––her partner, girlfriend, lover, whatever she called her still at the table––the team working for Fifteen made their move. The Trackers homed in on the unfolding situation, keen to record what might be about to happen.

  “Wilma Baines, this is a take it or leave it moment,” the dark-haired Russian female had said, standing across her path, blocking Wilma’s progress should she have wanted to keep walking and ignore the interruption. Instead, she eyed the Russian up and down carefully. She’d been warned about homophobic elements in Russia, though had assumed St Petersburg was a little more Europeanised.

  “What?” she finally said, the standoff longer than she was happy with. She wasn’t a fighter, but by the look of the girl in front of her, neither was she.

  “This lottery ticket is worth £12 million. It expires tomorrow. If you want to claim it, it’s yours––on two conditions. One, you don’t ask any questions, and two, you leave right away, immediately, as you have to find a way of getting to London before tomorrow evening. On these conditions and as I stand before you, are you in or out?”

  Those watching in the Games Room were now silent, the audio ringing through clearly, each man––and that especially true for Fifteen––craning forward just a little closer to the screens.

  On the street, Wilma remained silent for a moment, checking around her, before looking squarely into the face of the Russian in front of her.

  “Find a way of getting back to London,” the English woman echoed, the Russian raising an eyebrow, before Wilma said, “That wasn’t a question, I just find it funny you suggest it’s hard for me to get to London. I’m in.” She took the ticket when it was handed to her, almost expecting it not to have been. This had to be some kind of joke––a prank somehow––though the Russian had known her name. That meant this wasn’t a freak coincidence.

  “Make your lover proud,” the Russian said with a wink. The realisation they knew about her love life, her reason for being in St Petersburg, hit hard. She felt exposed. Before she could say anything––she stopped a question forming on her lips at that moment as she remembered the first condition––the female was gone, turning and disappearing into the crowd almost as quickly as she’d appeared. After a few seconds, Wilma could no longer see her.

  “Stand by,” came the voice from the Trackers, the sight of a Contestant with ticket in hand
, not an uncommon one. They knew what would happen next if they were genuinely hooked––it was always the same.

  Wilma grabbed her phone. She looked back towards the cafe which she’d just come out from, as if thinking about going back, maybe to tell her partner. Instead, Wilma turned back to her phone, using the internet to search the National Lottery website, finding the history of previous draws. She got to the date listed on the ticket, and it confirmed it for her––£12 million still unclaimed, the option to cash in the prize expiring tomorrow evening, at six. Wilma swore, then swore again, this time louder, a smile on her face.

  “Game on!” came the response from the Trackers, and inside the Games Room, Fifteen stood there proudly. He had a Contestant in play. Her details were now being updated on another screen, the first odds appearing within two minutes. How long would she last, how far would she get? Might she even cross the border? Could she possibly claim the prize? As the first Contestant in the Hunt, she had an advantage of time over all the others––especially over whoever got Eighteen’s ticket, which had to be claimed that day.

  Wilma’s initiation into the Games prompted a flurry of others to follow shortly after. Within half an hour––by half past ten that morning––all ten Contestants were now in play, the tactics employed in each of those encounters similar to what had been proposed with Wilma: take the ticket and run now, without asking questions, or walk away and carry on as if nothing had happened.

  All ten took the ticket.

  No one turned down the potential of millions for the chance that what they were being told was actually true, as improbable as it always sounded initially. As unlikely as it was that a stranger would hand you a lottery ticket worth millions and just let you walk away with it, then disappear, no suggestion that they wanted anything in return.

  What no one asked themselves––if they had, they would probably have walked away immediately––was why someone would do this? What was in it for them?

  Twelve––Arseni Markovic––had managed to get a British woman and the only single person in the ten, but she had travelled to St Petersburg by car after touring around Finland. She’d never flown anywhere before, an apparent fear of flying picked up in her background check. That made claiming her possible €16 million prize in Paris somewhat of a challenge. It made her an interesting prospect for all the men in the Games Room.

  Thirteen––Rurick Sewick and the only non-Russian in the two groups, being Ukrainian––got the next Contestant, a Swede. His men handed her a UK ticket for £15 million. She was the first family person involved––she was on holiday with her husband and three kids––which made her involvement in the Hunt equally fascinating.

  The run of females being selected continued with a Scot, for whom men working for Sixteen––Akim Kozlov––handed her the prospect and a ticket for €12 million, claimable in Spain. She lived in Edinburgh with her Scottish husband, and they were in Russia with their one-year-old for a long weekend.

  At the same time that she was taking the ticket, the first male Contestant was also declared to be officially in the Hunt. A German man from Munich was handed Nineteen’s ticket––chemist Pavlov––worth £13 million, one of the five UK tickets in that day’s Hunt. The German man was visiting a lady he’d met online––a Russian girl, beautiful and desperate to start a family––and it was once again fascinating as they watched the man just take the ticket. He showed no apparent regard for who he was leaving behind, maybe blindly assuming he would get to explain it all later. Not everyone got that chance, as history had shown.

  The last five Contestants to enter the Hunt were all found within a few minutes of each other, as the screens went epic, mirrored with the activity now happening in the Games Room, as the Russians who already had a Contestant in the Hunt were working out their plan of attack.

  A Dutchman and father of two got Eleven––Foma Polzin’s––day going. The Irish ticket was worth €17 million. Then it was an English wife with four kids––she having the largest family of those competing in the event––taking Seventeen’s ticket––Dmitry Kaminski having shelled out £22 million for the day’s highest value prize. Nothing like trying to impress his fellow Hosts.

  That was immediately followed by the lowest value ticket of the day––€11 million claimable in Portugal, which Twenty––Osip Yakolev––had put forward. An Irish woman––the couple didn’t have children with them in Russia––was his Contestant.

  The final two Contestants were basically announced at the same time; a Frenchman who had travelled to St Petersburg with his wife and two daughters at the start of a week’s holiday––or so he thought––taking the £19 million UK ticket when offered and apparently prepared to not look back. That brought Fourteen––Andre Filipov––into the Hunt, pipped to the post for the last position, by Eighteen––Motya Utkin’s Contestant, an Englishman from London who was travelling with his partner and their one child. He had the most laborious task, having just that same day to get his €16 million ticket back to France before the opportunity to claim was over.

  By eleven, the atmosphere in the Games Room resembled that of a trading floor––which to some degree, it was. Certainly down the years there had been times when in frantic minutes of action in that room inside the Volkov mansion, more money had been put on the table than might have been spent in a week of trading on the London LIFFE floor. In examples like Sokoloff––a man who wasn’t missed around their closely guarded circles––whole empires had been destroyed. Billions lost.

  Svetlana loved events like those currently happening before her eyes more than anything. She loved to stand back––from her elevated and sideline position––and just watch the men. Watch them in their silence as well as their action. Catch the glances they always gave towards other Hosts, which only hinted at what they were thinking, who they were watching, where they were hoping to make their next killing––or maybe, and this she loved to observe most, where they saw the most significant threat coming from. Who these men feared.

  Fear was such a rare thing for men in such circles as theirs that she found it fascinating to dance around the edges of it all. It was what thrilled her most about it. The danger, the power, the risk.

  It was almost sexual, this drive inside, the energy it created, the thrill it gave her.

  To watch men she knew to be strong and fearless, protected by their billions, for the first time maybe face the fact they might lose. It was drama she couldn’t have acted out herself. It was priceless.

  And there was a noticeable charge in the atmosphere that morning. Svetlana had sensed it the moment she walked into their presence. There was more on the line than just finance––there always was––but now, if anything, it seemed even more than that. She watched the room’s wealthiest Host––Foma, who was unchallenged at Eleven––walk around, dropping in and out of conversations, continuously in connection with his team via his headset. He looked towards her occasionally––more so than most of the others––and he looked involved, as involved in it all as she’d ever seen anyone. She knew it wasn’t just about winning his own particular Hunt, she could see by the actions of the man––he was after blood.

  She watched Andre––riding high at Fourteen now––the newest member of the group. He was young––the youngest by far––but it seemed as if that fact made him work twice as hard. He was driven, focused, characteristics he shared with his father, though to look at them, the way they carried themselves, the way they dressed, they couldn’t have been more different. She found that fascinating.

  Andre had conducted himself well so far––he’d won the only Hunt he’d been put forward for. Today might challenge that perfect record.

  She looked over to her Odds Maker. The role had been held by a few different people down the years, though the current man had held it for the previous five. He was well adjusted to the demands of this particular arena. She could see bets were being made––they were piling up in fact––each bet confirm
ation listed on its own dedicated screen, as if the men in that room needed reminding precisely what they’d laid on the line. Maybe they did? Billions were already invested so far that day. It was not always in cash––rarely did that come into play––but business agreements, regions, rights. Anything that could be quantified was included, and the monetary value estimated by the Odds Maker. What he said went, and no one now bothered to ever question his judgement.

  She looked back at the screens, which displayed a rolling feed of the ten on-going Hunts, all of which were in their very early stages, the exciting part where it still wasn’t clear which way each would go, the nets of their Hosts still far enough away for escape to seem possible.

  It was usually the actions of the Contestant that closed the net around themselves.

  Where they chose to try and leave the country from, often played into the hands of the Host. If it was the airport and that particular oligarch had strong connections that way––be it the border guard, the airport security or maybe he even owned the airline the Contestant was trying to use––they would instruct that particular contact to shut the Hunt down. Therefore all the fellow Hosts always kept an eye out for what the other Contestants were doing––because it worked both ways. If another Contestant happened to come into an area they were strong in, the bets could be placed, and that competing oligarch would then use his own connections to help that Contestant on. Winning came in many forms.

  Hosts therefore not only had to lay their own traps––something that their fellow Hosts couldn’t see coming, and so would keep betting against them right up until the point it was too late––but also had to stop their Contestants getting into any of the hundreds of areas where another Host might be stronger than they were. It was a multi-layered multi-faceted puzzle––something that kept them all coming back year after year, and something Svetlana loved to watch happening right under her own roof.