by Tim Heath
On the floor, the men could feel the highly charged atmosphere. Foma’s presence––he’d only been allowed in the previous year––had shifted things. He was too strong, too big for them. They all saw he had Andre Filipov on side, as well.
Dmitry Kaminski, who was only too aware of their threat, had his own mini alliance going on, something which gave him at least a fighting chance in the room. He was sure that others could well have thought the same as he did––where those alliances might be, he couldn’t tell, besides Andre and Foma. They were seen talking closely with one another often. They never looked over to Dmitry once, but he was sure they were discussing him.
It was Kuznetsov, however, who formed the content of most of their dialogue, as Andre once again stood alongside Foma, both of their Contestants in a state of waiting. They too were waiting to see where each escape would be attempted from. They had one eye always on Wilma Baines––the first Contestant into the Hunt––and the one representing Kuznetsov. They were both working on the double mission of winning their own Hunt, while setting up such a giant ambush––with equally large betting––against Wilma, that it would threaten to destabilise her Host. They hadn’t yet found the right opportunity, nor was he seemingly prepared to go head-to-head against them. He’d matched a few bets so far––something in the region of eighty million on the table––but nothing substantial; he’d placed the lowest value in stakes so far of them all.
He’d also not met any of the bets Foma or Andre had proposed. They apparently had to entice him with something he couldn’t resist––the poisoned chalice––something all Hosts dreamed of making.
It was precisely what Kuznetsov had unknowingly walked into with Sokoloff when Phelan McDermott had been in play. Both men had known sure victory––Kuznetsov actually acting recklessly at the time––a trait they hoped to exploit in him once more today.
Kuznetsov should have pulled out of that encounter when he had the chance. That’s why Sokoloff had tasted blood and had moved in for the kill. Kuznetsov had been weak, he’d taken it personally and gone in way over his head. It was only because of the outside actions of Matvey––who controlled Phelan in that Hunt––that Kuznetsov had then come out on top, and massively so. That apparently left him thinking more of himself than was merited. If they could catch him in a similar mood again, they would have him for real this time.
So far, he was cautious.
Maybe it had been an error for Foma to threaten him before the event. Perhaps he was wary of being their target now? Only the next two days would ultimately tell. As it stood, little damage would be done to either man––Kuznetsov or Kaminski––which wouldn’t please Matvey at all.
For the other Hosts, Foma was a fascinating target. You put someone into the mix worth nearly four times anyone else’s worth, and of course, they all wanted a piece of the action. If three or four of them could take a billion or two from him, it would cut him down to size, and they would all be able to leapfrog him as a result.
His mere presence brought that focus––of course, it also offered great danger too. You didn’t get as wealthy as Foma without having connections all over the place. The fact he’d dropped down from the T10 to join their group as the new Eleven only added to the risk. In the T10 were much wealthier men who might have an alliance with Foma who he could pull in favours with.
12
That same morning, at Vauxhall House, an MI6 briefing was starting, the meeting focused on the official visit of President Putin which was due to happen in the autumn. Alex and Anissa had been called in to be a part of this team––asked to oversee it, in fact, something of a complete shift by their DDG when it came to them and all things Russia. Maybe the fact it was a visit to London––and therefore kept them firmly rooted on British soil––was the primary incentive for their involvement?
Anissa was due in Russia the following week as it was––signed off on by her employers, the DDG not happy about it at all but agreeing to it anyway––and neither was in jovial spirits as the meeting got underway. Anissa was particularly downcast following the discovery of Maggie’s body the day before.
“Alex, I want to hand the floor over to you now, so that you can take things on from here regarding what needs to be in place,” the DDG said, stepping to one side as Alex came forward. He didn't actually then stay around himself but just walked straight out the door and left them all to it.
“A few of you were involved the last time Putin was in town, back in 2012. You’ll know he has his own team, and we won’t be told his itinerary until the morning of his flight.” It was the same with the Americans––maybe even worse in their case––as with similar high profile figures. “Gordon, as always, I’d like you to put aside a few technicians to watch for any cyber chatter based on his visit over these next months,” he said, which was now standard practice. Much intelligence information had been gathered that way, saving vast amounts of time later on, when threats might otherwise arise. Most online comments never led to anything. But they would be watching.
“Anissa, I want you to head up a group of people who’ll work out his most likely points of contact. The Russian Embassy, the Prime Minister and such. Build a likely list of who Putin will see, and the related security implications these visits would involve. I’ll work with the guys who’ll actually man the ground during his day in the city. We’ll liaise with his own security people when the time comes, working with them as best we can. But you know how it is.” They all did. It was often challenging to work alongside such teams, who had their own way of doing things, their own people they trusted––which usually was only the members of their own group anyway.
Alex dismissed the meeting, Anissa coming over to him. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“I know you don’t really want any added responsibility at the moment, but I felt it was important you were seen to be heading up a section. You can delegate everything to the team. I just want you leading them.”
“Thanks,” she said. With everything on her mind for the upcoming trip to St Petersburg––never mind what had happened with Maggie, which she couldn’t forget, and not having slept a wink the night before––she didn’t really want anything else landing on her plate. After Russia, she wasn’t sure how secure her role would be within the Service. She could see Alex was only trying to include her, and she was, in fact, the best-qualified person to be doing that, anyway. It was kind of him.
“You okay?” he said.
“Just tired.”
“Didn’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” she said, with a smile. “Not right now, anyway.”
“Fair enough. I’m here whenever you need to.”
“I know. Thanks.”
As the afternoon pressed on, Foma had been able to set what he thought was the perfect trap, calling Matvey who waited on the outside to help implement things. If Svetlana found out, or if any Host reported what he was now doing, he would be out. They didn’t care about that, however, nor would she be allowed to find out.
Wilma Baines had not been making much of a move––and this had given them their chance. Her girlfriend had been left in the cafe and despite going back to the hotel, had been unable to find her lover. Matvey had managed to set it up that at two in the afternoon, someone approached her, saying she’d seen Wilma being grabbed––kidnapped––from outside the hotel.
She called the police immediately. The hotel helped her make the required report. Matvey then simultaneously reported in the details to the FSB––a report of a kidnap coming in from the police, following the girl friend’s call, as well as from him, would get the required attention Matvey needed on the situation. Matvey sent the FSB video footage Foma had had his team snatch from the Games Room broadcast of Kuznetsov’s men watching their Contestant. Watching, but not kidnapping anyone, not that the FSB needed to know that. Matvey reported it as an ongoing kidnap situation of a foreig
n national. A team was dispatched. Once done, Matvey confirmed it to Foma, who made his move.
Kuznetsov had been playing long enough, and it was time to call it a day. There was no way he was letting Wilma escape with his ticket––with his team watching her closely, she was about to fall into his hands. Kuznetsov stated to the Games Room there was no contest, the Hunt was over––he was boastful and all assuming. Foma made a bet––which Kuznetsov couldn’t meet as things stood, his team about to grab the English woman––that Wilma would be caught before four. Foma stated it was obviously a foregone conclusion; Well done Kuznetsov, but I bet she couldn’t make it any longer. Seeing a chance for money, Kuznetsov would have to keep things running a little longer. All he needed to do was to call off his men, for the time being, giving Wilma the time to make it past four, now with his team’s protection. He would make sure Wilma was safe, at least until the time was up. Kuznetsov jumped at the chance to get one over on Foma. He matched Foma’s bet. Andre also wanted in on some of the action. It wasn’t much by either man, but it was a start.
Matvey gave the instruction to the FSB to hold back the unit that was, unknown to Kuznetsov’s team, watching the oligarch’s team as they tracked Wilma, the FSB waiting, poised to intervene. This was when Sasha, his own team on standby should the kidnapping escalate, became suspicious. He knew straight away this was Games related and went out in search of the unit that was sitting in an unmarked van, but apparently doing nothing. The fact Matvey had such influence with fellow agents was surprising––and highly alarming.
Four o’clock was allowed to come, and pass. Kuznetsov had won that bet––Wilma was still walking free. Foma and Andre looked suitably riled––Svetlana could recognise good acting when she saw it and found the spectacle highly amusing––and Foma came back with another stab at things. He doubled what he’d just lost and stated categorically that Fifteen’s worthless excuse of a Contestant didn’t have a chance of making it past five. Kuznetsov checked with his own men. They reported there was no one watching them, no one even close––they had her just where they needed her. Kuznetsov once again matched their bet.
Five o’clock came and went. This was becoming somewhat profitable for Kuznetsov. He loved the look on Foma’s face after taking one hundred and fifty million from him.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Foma said, though he was calm. “You’ve got men protecting her, haven’t you? She didn’t have a chance.”
“Better check your sources, Eleven, and don’t believe everything your own guys tell you. I’ve got this one––she’s mine. You think you can outmanoeuvre me on this? Name your price, asshole.”
Foma had him. He had him exactly where he wanted him.
“European operations.” Kuznetsov was the water treatment man, and while he ran businesses across the world, Europe was his hotbed, his most asset-rich area.
“And what could you possibly have to match that?”
“North America. Telecoms.” Both men looked to the Odds Maker. Foma’s North American operation was easily worth over $2 billion, significantly more than Kuznetsov’s European business network.
“I’d say the deal is clearly in your favour, Fifteen, if Eleven’s happy to offer that.” He clearly was. It was a basic rule that you couldn’t go back on a verbal offering. Once spoken, the bet was as good as made, unless the weaker party refused. Kuznetsov could double his value with this one trade. Win it, and he’d significantly expand his influence.
“What’s the bet?” They’d apparently agreed on the terms, now they needed to settle on the outcome.
“Your girl claims the ticket.”
“You’re switching, now? An hour ago you said she wouldn’t last until evening, now you think she’ll get out? Don’t you know that I control everything about her?” Again, being the stronger party, as soon as Foma had spoken the offer it was Kuznetsov’s privilege now to either accept or decline. There was nothing further Foma could do about it.
“Do we have a deal or not?”
“I just have to close down this Hunt immediately, and you hand me North America? It would be my pleasure!”
Deal done. Foma had just lured him into instant defeat. Nothing more was said, both men turning to attempt whatever trick they thought they had up their sleeve, Kuznetsov speaking to his men about stepping in and stopping Wilma, Foma confirming with Matvey that the trap could now be sprung.
It was less than a minute later––the call put through to the FSB unit waiting in the unmarked van––that the screens displayed the agents surrounding those working for Kuznetsov. Weapons were raised, orders barked out that each of the five men place their hands behind their heads and lie face down on the pavement. Wilma could be seen fleeing the area.
“Damn you, Eleven!” Kuznetsov shouted, but he was not going to give up that easily, he had too much on the line. He was frantically getting another team in place––teams in fact––as it didn’t matter what they did to her now, she was a stop on sight target. With $2 billion riding on the outcome of this Hunt––money Kuznetsov couldn’t afford to lose––a bullet through her skull wouldn’t be so far off the mark. She would do well to claim the money then.
He wasn’t allowed to leave the Games Room while any Hunt was still underway, that was another rule. While the Games were unfolding, they all had to control everything from within those four walls, in front of their fellow Hosts. Otherwise, he would have personally driven and shot her through the temple. He didn’t care what happened to her now––he wasn’t losing that money, he wasn’t going to lose to Foma.
Within the room, the other Hosts picked up on the life and death struggle in play between two of their fellow oligarchs, focus soon narrowed to that particular Hunt, some men altogether ignoring what their own Contestants might or might not be doing. They would get notifications from their teams if things became critical.
For now, it was irresistible to watch the personal duel that was unfolding within their midst.
They could see the growing desperation on Kuznetsov’s face. He wore the same expression that Sokoloff had worn when he first realised his time was up. Yet it was about to happen again––and it was fascinating.
Like watching a lion devour its prey––this time another lion.
Part of you didn’t want to watch, as it was too horrible to look at, but for the most part, you couldn’t help but stare, transfixed by the last moments of a considerable force, a notable presence.
Foma couldn’t be seen directly interacting with another Host’s Contestant––so to just have the FSB pick her up and take her to the airport was not an option. It would forfeit his bet and allow Kuznetsov to get off the hook. So they had to be a lot smarter than that. They had to know when and where Kuznetsov and his men would attempt to stop her. A sniper taking her out wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, either. They’d have to be on their A-Game.
Like an invisible force working out of sight, the FSB unit continued to take out the men Kuznetsov and his heavies had been sending to apprehend Wilma. This was helped by Matvey having invested heavily in the past to map out Kuznetsov’s entire empire––and more importantly, the men he turned to in such a situation. That meant now, he had them all tracked. He knew who the men were that would be spoken to, long before Kuznetsov had even made the call.
It was through this knowledge that Matvey guided Wilma towards the train––Kuznetsov’s influence reduced dramatically, but he had guys working within the airport, as well as a team at Heathrow. If she could cross the border into Estonia or Finland––it didn’t really matter which one she chose––she could fly out from those airports and hit any number of other destinations.
Of course, that might still have alerted Kuznetsov’s men in the UK had the Trackers still been on her tail. They too had been grabbed by the FSB team investigating the attempted kidnapping. The fact that the Trackers had been watching Wilma with cameras, only added to their guilt in the eyes of the FSB. With the live video feed brought to an end, n
o one in the Games Room had any idea where she was. Only Matvey did, and therefore Foma. She was well on her way.
Sasha, however, was still on her trail. He’d been there when the arrests were made––first when they arrested the men working for Kuznetsov as they closed in on Wilma and then when they had captured the team of Trackers, their camera equipment visible. Sasha’s own unit, in his absence, had been called in to track Wilma, and Sasha was yet to rejoin them. Sasha knew this was a live, real-time Contestant, and he saw firsthand what was going on.
He called Alex––getting only his voicemail, where he left a short message anyway––and continued his pursuit.
As evening fell, confirmation came through that Wilma was on her way to the UK by plane. It didn’t say where she was heading. Kuznetsov’s men watching St Petersburg international airport, Pulkovo Two, had not reported her leaving from there, suggesting she wouldn’t be landing at Heathrow where he had another team stationed.
Kuznetsov knew his game was up, knew he’d been set up, his own stupid temperament causing him to walk into something he apparently didn’t know anything about. He’d trapped himself by his own rash presumption. It would cost him dearly.
He knew Foma had done this on purpose. It was personal, and according to the so-called sacred ethics of the Games, these things should not have happened. They were not meant to be tearing one another apart, yet over the last two years, that was what had started to happen. Sokoloff was destroyed, Krupin dumped from the event himself, and all to allow Foma, and then his side-kick Andre, into their group. Kaminski had been run dry––he didn’t know how that situation would work itself out now after the day he’d had––and they’d now come for him as well, too. It’d been all too personal.
Foma had to go. If he were out of the way, the bet would not have to be honoured. Kuznetsov made a call to one final man––the only one of his contacts not caught up in the now flawed pursuit––and had him take up residence in the building across the street from the Volkov mansion. It was actually the same apartment that MI6 and Sasha had used to spy on the Russians earlier that year. Now, the instructions were to take out Foma Polzin as he left the mansion that evening. A bullet through his skull would go a long way to removing what might otherwise be an impossible debt he owed to the fellow Host.
