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

by Tim Heath

  He deserved it; Foma had struck out at him, but he would be the one to strike back with the genuinely fatal blow.

  As the evening came to an end––three of the Contestants were still on the run, including Wilma who was flying to Gatwick airport, south of London––the men were heading out for the evening. It remained to be seen whether they would, in fact, come back the following day.

  The imprisonment of one team of Trackers––something Svetlana was trying to get others to sort out––had been a sour note. The unfolding events between Eleven and Fifteen were something else entirely. When that result was called––the Contestant was yet to claim, but it was clear she would be doing just that––the event was effectively over. How could anything else compete with that? It was drama of the highest order, albeit not for the losing party––Aleksey Kuznetsov.

  As the oligarchs gathered their things together, finally leaving the Games Room after an exciting day, their own security personnel now joined them, and they descended the stairs. Kuznetsov was in the rear, mobile phone to his ear, keeping his distance.

  “He’s coming out of the building any second now, in the third group. Get ready,” he said, his security men around him unaware of what was about to happen.

  After Osip and Motya had left the building, their teams of men with them, it was Foma who then stepped out through the doors. He’d taken three steps when shots were heard––the sound of three, four high calibre bullets filling the night––Foma going down, his men instinctively on him, before they dragged him to the waiting car.

  Inside the mansion, the men stood frozen, the shots coming before any of the others had stepped out, their own security now kicking into gear, guns drawn, as were those of the men already on the street.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Svetlana said, hearing the shots and coming down the stairs at that moment.

  “It’s Foma,” Andre said, still in shock. “Someone has just taken a pop at him as he left the building,” and he was looking up at Kuznetsov, but then rested his eyes on Svetlana, who stood there with a hand to her mouth. If someone was watching her home, then others knew about the events going on in there, unless it was someone connected to the men she’d just been amongst. The fact the target was apparently Foma, made Kuznetsov the most obvious culprit.

  “If I find out that this has anything to do with you in any way at all, Fifteen, I’ll personally make sure you hang for this, do you understand?”

  “Svetlana, how could you suggest I had anything to do with this?”

  She left it at that. Her head of security came up to her at that point.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching us?” she said.

  “We have been. They accessed a property across the road from a rear entrance. We have men onto it at the moment.”

  “Any news on the target?” She wasn’t assuming anything at this point.

  “Foma and his entourage seem to have been the intended target. His men were surrounding him and got him into the vehicle before we could see what might have happened. We’ll have to await word from them before we confirm anything.”

  “And the shooter?”

  “We have men moving in now. The Russian Guards have been informed. They had two teams on their way. We’ve secured the exit from the building we know they’ve used.”

  “Good, keep me posted.”

  “Can we get out of here from another entrance, maybe?” Kaminski called up to Svetlana, not keen to be seen leaving through the front entrance now, even if the threat had gone. Foma and his men had been the third group out––he’d seen that first hand––so if they’d all been targets, then it would have been Osip who would have been fired upon first. He was confident the shooter was long gone, if indeed he had managed to escape. But police would be showing up shortly. A crowd, too, no doubt gathering on the pavements nearby. This wasn’t a situation into which a future President––President-elect, anyway––could be seen emerging.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, leading the remaining men to a rear door, one they’d never used before. It led to an underground parking area, big enough for three cars, of which one space was taken. A ramp led up to street level via a side courtyard––a shared entrance at that––so that it wasn’t obvious which building the driver had been coming out from. “You can get your drivers to pick you up from here. I’ll make sure the shutter is opened,” and she left them at that moment, the first car two minutes away, each one allowing enough time to load the car and depart before the next would pull into the courtyard and navigate its way into the basement parking area. Soon all the men were leaving, Kuznetsov himself the last to go. He’d not heard anything back from his man by that point––maybe he was already dead. Presuming he had in fact done his job––and killed Foma––the shooter was now nothing more than a loose end, anyway. If he had been taken out by the Russian Guards as he made his escape, or if that was about to happen, it would only tidy things up nicely for Kuznetsov.

  Foma had known nothing about what was about to happen to him. Matvey had seen the sniper being called to action. He had not been able to directly monitor Kuznetsov’s call, but the result of the call was only too evident. Matvey’s men saw the sniper heading towards the centre––to the mansion––confirming what he’d been ordered to do. Having tracked the man to the building opposite the Volkov mansion, Matvey’s men had reported in, their boss then confirming they storm the building and take out the shooter. He was killed therefore twenty minutes before Foma even stepped out onto the street.

  A photo lying on the floor beneath the high calibre weapon––Kuznetsov’s sniper was a pro––confirmed Foma was the target. Matvey’s men deposited shell casing from the same gun on the floor, four empty cartridges, before removing the bullets from the weapon and replacing them with four blanks. The attack still needed to take place, but Matvey would ultimately just manipulate the outcome.

  The mobile on the floor had rung––it was Kuznetsov confirming Foma was about to step out of the building––and the team counted the first two groups out, their cars pulling up as the oligarchs got to the edge of the pavement, speeding off into the dark night soon after. Then Foma stepped out.

  One, two, three then a fourth bullet fired. When the shots rang out, and Foma had instinctively hit the ground, the impact of his team of four men on him––forceful arms and hands that might as well have been bullets––made it impossible for him to tell if he’d been hit or not. They bundled him into the Land Rover and sped away. If the bullets had not been blanks, Foma would have been a dead man. Certainly, Matvey would let it look that way, for the moment.

  He called Foma, who was shocked by what had just taken place, and told him what had happened. Lie low, for the time being, play dead.

  Matvey’s men quickly exited the room––going instead up to the top floor. They would hide out there until the police had discovered the sniper, and only then would they make their escape.

  Everything was then reported to Matvey, the operation had gone smoothly. He said he would make sure the police were out of the building as quickly as possible. He would later send one of his own cars to pick them all up, promising it wouldn’t be too late. They sat down, a bottle of vodka already open, a deck of cards being shuffled, and waited for everything to run its course.

  With Foma apparently murdered––at the hands of a fellow Host, all the evidence would suggest––the Games would have to be postponed, maybe even shut down altogether. That was Matvey’s ultimate plan. When he was in power, he didn’t want groups of influential people meeting together as they currently did. He wanted them out in the open, either for him or otherwise detained. He wouldn’t have allowed what was happening now to be taking place if he’d been President. And he soon would be, he knew it. No matter what Kaminski thought––a would-be pretender to the throne––or Putin himself, a man who’d got so secure in his role, it was as if he didn’t expect anyone to challenge him.

  But a challenge was comi
ng and from multiple angles. At the moment, Matvey had the element of surprise. While the challenge was unknown, it held greater fear for the current President. As soon as the names were announced, it would be a level playing field. Then it would be the last man standing who would come through. Lion on Lion.

  That moment was still a few months away. He would remain in the long grass to one side for the time being, which suited him well, picking off those that needed picking off, until the end was in sight.

  When that time came, all runners in the race would do everything in their power to win––there would be no rules then, no codes of conduct. It would be the survival of the fittest.

  13

  Sasha speaking,” the Russian said, the number not displayed on his handset.

  “It’s me,” Alex said, confirmation that he’d got the voicemail Sasha had left him a couple of hours before. “Where are you?”

  “Still following the crew. They escorted a female––British I think––to the Baltic Railway station where she boarded a train to Tallinn.” They’d watched someone on that route before, it offered a direct flight to Gatwick, once they reached the Estonian capital. “I returned to the city behind the FSB unit––my own unit in fact. I’ll reconnect with them soon, stating that I’d been looking for them and will find out where the orders came from. If I can trace it back to whichever Russian it was, we might have a bit more to go on.”

  “That’s great work, my friend.” They were keeping names as much as possible out of the call––barring his opening greeting, neither man referred to the other by name, as they didn’t know who might be listening.

  “One more thing. I was there when they first made the arrests, getting a good look at the teams following the Contestant. I have a better understanding now how it all works. When I get back into the office I’ll run my own checks, work out who the first team are associated with. I suspect with some digging it’ll give me the name of the man at the top of that particular tree,” he said, Alex understanding he meant the man within the Games. “There was a second group, too, which was interesting. They had broadcast quality cameras, directional sounds, the lot. Really well kitted out.”

  “Something to do with it all as well?”

  “I assume so, but probably connected to the event itself, as opposed to any one man. I’ll run their details too, see where it leads.”

  “That’s great. We’re still running things at this end. Pineapple is coming out next week,” which was their code name, slightly humorously suggested by Sasha for Anissa, because of the similarity of her name with that particular fruit in his own language. It worked well in this context, “and I don’t need to ask you to look out for…it,” Alex realising he didn’t want to give her a gender, which might otherwise connect Anissa to their investigation of the Games. True, she was in St Petersburg for the trial, and that implicated her enough. But anything to keep others guessing.

  “You have my word.” Alex would communicate later via their draft email process, something they’d continued to use well, ever since it had been suggested. He would share there about his involvement with the Putin security for his trip later in the year. Alex really wanted to know if Sasha might be involved in it from the Russian side, though he doubted that would happen. Putin probably had his own dedicated team, and even if he did use the FSB as well, it would be men who were based in Moscow. Why would they consider Sasha, based in St Petersburg with no apparent connection to the UK, to be a suitable candidate? The more Alex pondered, the more he hoped his friend would have nothing to do with it.

  They finished the call, nothing more said, therefore nothing more given away. Alex then called Anissa and filled her in on everything. She was a few days away from her trip but intrigued to hear the development.

  “Do let me know when he’s got back to you regarding the associates.”

  “Of course. He’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have mentioned that. He doesn’t need to be involved, it only implies Sasha knows more than he’s said if they see him taking an interest.”

  “Nonsense, it’s a trial in his city with a known British MI6 agent in attendance. I’d say that gives him more than enough reason already to be showing his face. The Motherland keeping their eye on a foreign spy.”

  “Less of that, will you. I’m trying to play down my visit, not turn it into some big political situation.”

  “Sorry. Do you feel prepared? Have you been in touch with the witness lately?”

  “I spoke with Josée yesterday. I’ll meet her in Paris, and we’ll fly out together with her lawyer.”

  “And Leona, where is she?” Alex had primarily left that whole situation––something that didn’t come within his working remit, anyway––to Anissa, only occasionally showing interest, like he was now, his concern solely for his colleague.

  “She flew out yesterday. They’ll hold her in custody until the trial, but under house arrest effectively. She’ll be allowed limited freedom, at least until the verdict.”

  “Any idea how long you’ll be away for?” He’d tried to get this info out of her for some time, though the answer was always the same.

  “Still don’t know for sure. Could be a day, or a week. I really don’t know. As long as it takes, Alex, as always. It’s important we push every angle on this one. It’s the first time anyone has got anywhere near a courthouse.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “You worry too much, Alex, especially about me.”

  “Well stop giving me reasons to worry, then, will you,” but he was laughing. A text message came through at that moment from Gordon Peacock, head of MI6 technical surveillance. “Hold on there Anissa,” Alex said, having scanned the message as the notification came through. “Gordon says there is news on the web about a shooting outside the Volkov mansion, unconfirmed reports linking it to a wealthy Russian being assassinated, though he’s said the mainstream media are silent on the story.”

  “Get in touch with Sasha, see if he can find out who is involved and if the story is genuine. The fact there is a media blackout would suggest there is something they don’t want us to know. Given the security in place at that address, it could well just have been someone trying to access somewhere they shouldn’t.”

  “But that would suggest others knew what was going on. Besides, he mentioned it was a wealthy Russian. That’s news speak for an oligarch. Someone has taken out a fellow member, is my suspicion.”

  “Let’s see what our friend finds out before we jump to conclusions. Keep me informed,” though it was true she was heading to St Petersburg herself in three days. If there were something still going on, she would most likely be close enough to find out what that was. During the day she would be involved in the trial, but outside of that––and assuming she had the energy––she could have a look around, see what more she might be able to find out. It was going to be strange being in St Petersburg without Alex this time. They’d made all their trips together––always under the radar thanks to Sasha––but this time she was flying solo, and very much exposed.

  Sasha was back inside his office at Big House. He’d just had a full debrief with his unit. They had received their instructions directly from Moscow, and in his absence, they had been authorised to go back to their regular duties when the situation had been resolved. Sasha left them to their other responsibilities, shutting his own office door so that he wouldn’t be disturbed, and accessed his system to find out where that particular command had come from.

  It wouldn’t tell him––which meant it was senior, only a few people at the very top of the FSB had that level of clearance that their intervention would not be displayed. It told him all he needed to know. He’d seen Matvey do something similar in the past. Someone had apparently made a call again, to someone in the senior ranks, and that person had then put the two teams into action. It had probably been the same person who had sent a team the previous year to intercept an Irishman named Shane––two agents ha
d been killed in that exchange with the Russian Guards––though it had been a grenade from the escaping Irishman, and not Russian fire, that had killed the FSB agents.

  Still, that call had come from someone senior. They had only been there because of the instruction of someone not even in the FSB. Money always had a way of gaining influence over people who could make a difference.

  Sasha then picked up the latest message from Alex, the news about a shooting in his city something he’d not been told about. If there had been a shooting––and if the target was one of the oligarchs, men who always had their own security around them––Sasha knew how to find out. Most of the guys that were employed to babysit his country’s wealthy were most often former FSB or police personnel––some doing both, in fact, working as bodyguards when they were not on duty. The pay was especially good to make the added workload, for those still juggling the two jobs, worthwhile. And because that was the case, he knew at least a few contacts in every team where he could start getting some answers.

  The confirmation came during his fourth batch of calls. No one was answering. He’d been calling the men responsible for the safety and protection of Foma Polzin. Sasha then cross-referenced Foma’s name with a highly sophisticated piece of technology which he ran through Yandex, the Russian version of Google. In a few seconds it threw out the handful of reports there were––none of them still live stories anymore––which suggested Foma had been shot, one actually naming him, another calling it an assassination.

  None of the main news channels were covering the story. That either suggested it was true and they were limiting the damage it would do to his empire, making sure everything was sufficiently secure before the news was released, or that it was fake, or that there was some truth in it all and it was being kept quiet for another reason. His own knowledge of the Games suggested the third option had weight, and while it was possible it had all been a fake, there were enough reports and comments to suggest otherwise. Besides, it was highly unlikely that all of Foma’s security personnel would be uncontactable at that precise moment if everything were in order. Clearly, something had happened.