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

by Tim Heath

  He pulled out the information, which wasn’t all that much, but it was recent. At the very end of an encrypted email that had been printed off and placed into the folder, was the name he was after––Aleksey Kuznetsov. So it had been Kuznetsov who had ordered the killing, Foma clearly being the target.

  Sasha locked everything back up. He would maybe come back and try to work the lock on the safe another time––the garage was a gold mine of equipment, too––but for now it was better to keep it all hidden. He placed the folder with all the information there had been on Foma onto the front passenger’s seat and drove the car back to the city. It was possible that the police would eventually find a car key on the body––though that enquiry had already seemingly gone cold––and then come looking for the car themselves. He wasn’t going to take the chance that they wouldn’t be able to find it.

  Pulling up at almost the same spot where he had found the car earlier, Sasha spent ten minutes wiping everything down. He wasn’t going to leave any trace that he’d been in the car. Sasha then switched on the navigation, deleting his recent trip, as well as the garage location from the entire history and after giving everything one final wipe down, Sasha got out of the car, folder in hand. He locked it up again and went to find his own vehicle. It was nearly five, and the second day of the trial would be drawing to a close by then.

  Now heading back to the office in his own car, he called Anissa.

  “Sasha, it’s good to hear from you. Today was a complete disaster,” she said, not really the words he wanted to hear, as she went on to relay some of what had happened. They agreed to meet at nine that evening, Sasha needing to show his face a little in the office, tying off a few loose ends in the process, and she needed to shower and sleep. He would then meet her outside the hotel later.

  It was five past nine when he pulled over, Anissa out in the sunshine, oblivious now to the fact it was even getting late. She got in, and they sped away. She’d declined the offer to go out to his dacha––his other property that he owned some way out of the city––as it was already too late in the day to make it there and back before midnight. Instead, they opted for a bar on the other side of town. Both had already eaten, they just needed to chat and probably down a few too many stiff drinks. It’d been that type of day.

  “Sasha, I’m worried about what the Judge will say tomorrow. The whole thing’s been mishandled. I’m not sure how qualified our lawyer even was. It’s all now been turned firmly against Josée. I’m distraught for her.”

  “It can’t have been easy for you, standing there and having your own life––your own motives––questioned?”

  “That’s just the thing. She said she went to MI6. She didn’t, I just checked that with Alex. There was no official record of her ever speaking with them before the trial. She made all that up.”

  “And yet she still knew about it.”

  “Exactly, and she knew Alex’s name, asking me outright if he had come with me.”

  “Jesus,” Sasha said, taking a deep breath, “someone has given her everything on you.”

  “She was pushing for who my FSB connection was. That’s when I backed away. I was asked to stand down, didn’t even get to share what I’d seen. The Judge then closed the trial down––he’s making his decision, but ordered both women to be kept in custody overnight.”

  “She’ll be okay, you don’t need to worry.”

  “It’s not that. I made Josée come here and do all this. I needed her to do it so that I could prise open the whole secretive world of the Games. It seems that all I have managed to achieve, however, is to put Josée directly in the firing line. I mean, you should have heard them, Sasha; all the physical evidence now places only Josée in that room at the time of the crime.”

  “Then whoever is working behind the scenes is using this to get to someone.”

  “Get to who?”

  “Whoever put Josée forward in the first place. Has she ever said anything about that?”

  “No, she doesn’t know. I’ve asked her.”

  “Then I think we need to try and find that out. Might Andre know something?”

  “Possibly––but given who we now know he is, does that make anything he might tell us valid?”

  “True. We could always try and see, take whatever he says with a pinch of salt until we can be certain of it, or otherwise.”

  “I’ll speak to Alex, see what he can do.”

  “Good. Want another?” She’d worked through vodka shots––two so far that night––and accepted a third. Sasha, after doing the first one with her, was himself having a coffee, which he also re-ordered. He was driving later, anyway.

  It was eleven––the sun only now starting to show signs it was on the way down for the night––as they walked towards his car. Sasha said he’d drop her back at the hotel, Anissa a little too far gone with shots to otherwise be left to find her own way. She didn’t know the city well enough to even be able to do that had she still been sober.

  Ten minutes later, the streets much quieter at that time of night, they were outside her hotel.

  “Come in for a nightcap if you want,” she said from the passenger seat, Sasha with the engine still running, needing to get some sleep himself by that point.

  “I think you’ve had enough for one night,” he said, reaching over to open her door, Anissa kissing him hard on the lips as he reached in front of her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, both of them sitting upright again in their seats, “I don’t know what came over me,” and she got out of the car, walking immediately towards the hotel, not once turning around to glance back at him. He waited until she was out of sight, laughed to himself and pulled away.

  18

  Anissa woke at eight, her head pounding. It took her some time to work out why her head hurt so much. Then she recalled the drinks, the ride home––the kiss. She caught sight of her face in the mirror at that moment but looked away immediately. She had no idea now––in the harsh reality of morning––what had come over her. She’d been drunk, that much was obvious. It was what drunk people tended to do––stupid, unthinkably silly things.

  She called her husband and left a video message for him and the boys. Hanging up, she felt a little guilty. A shower should help with that.

  Twenty minutes later she was down for breakfast, ravenous that morning, and took a good half hour to savour most of the offerings, particularly liking the meats available.

  At nine, she was once again waiting outside the hotel––dressed smartly and presentable, the respectable MI6 agent––as Josée’s lawyer pulled up a few moments later, the car noticeably empty of her client. She opted for the front seat that morning.

  “Sleep well?” she asked the lawyer, the response being what she had imagined.

  “Hardly a wink. God, I don’t know what to expect at all today, but in the pit of my stomach, I feel sick.”

  “Yes, I know the feeling.” For Anissa, the alcohol from the night before probably added to that sensation a little.

  They were at the courthouse just after half past nine, the earliest they’d managed that week. Josée was already waiting for them, looking scared and upset. She apparently hadn’t slept much either.

  “How are you holding up?” Anissa said.

  “Probably had my worst night since this whole thing started.” That bad. She felt for her.

  At ten, the Judge came into the room, and once he was seated, everyone took their places. He had some notes in front of him, some obviously handwritten, some probably typed, though they couldn’t tell from where they were sitting.

  “As you all know,” he started, his tone fatherly, authoritarian too, “we’ve taken the last two days to hear the trial of Ms Leona Chase, accused of being in St Petersburg on January 2nd last year and committing the murder of Mikael Davydov. We have one witness, who doesn’t deny being at the scene of the crime when the incident happened, who has stated that she believes Ms Chase committed the said crime. I’
ve heard from experts who have failed to prove there was any trace of DNA left by anyone else at the scene of the crime––besides Ms Allard and Mr Davydov.

  “Indeed, the prosecution’s only other witness appears to be someone who wasn’t even in the country on the day in question. I was then presented with a video last night after I left this courtroom, which was given to me by Ms Allard’s lawyer, claiming to be footage from outside of the entrance to the Armoury at the time of the crime but the figures are too indistinct for it to be used as evidence.”

  Leona glanced up at her lawyer at that point, having not been told anything about the video. The lawyer subtly put her hand flat, leaving it there and saying nothing else. The Judge continued; “I have since contacted the security team in operation at the Fortress, and though the footage they store does not go back that far, they did confirm as suggested by Ms Chase’s lawyer, there had been planned maintenance during that week. None of the cameras would, in fact, have been operating on the day in question.” His voice rose noticeably at the end of that last sentence.

  “I can find no just reason for continuing, therefore, along this current course we are travelling. I, therefore, drop all charges raised against Ms Chase with immediate effect. You are free to go,” he said to her, the relief and delight instantly visible on the British woman’s face. He turned to the other table, his face still deadly serious.

  “As for you, I have filed my own complaint. Ms Allard, there is enough evidence to suggest you had more involvement in the murder than you have otherwise stated. You will now face trial yourself on these same charges.

  “And you, Mrs Edison,” he said, turning to Anissa as Josée was breaking down in tears beside her. “I find it puzzling as to why a member of the British Security Service would find it necessary to fabricate such involvement––which you’ve been given substantial opportunity to explain––in a crime which had nothing to do with you. I’d like to find you in contempt of court for having had the brazen disregard to even walk into my courtroom, but all I can now do is to deport you––effective immediately––from this nation, with a five-year ban coming into effect forbidding you from setting foot in Russia.”

  Anissa looked up at the Judge, disbelief written all over her face. “Take her out of my courtroom,” he added, not even looking up from the papers that he was collecting together. Two police officers came alongside Anissa––another two already securing handcuffs into place on Josée’s wrists––and the British agent was hurried out of the building.

  “Can I make a call?” she said as she was marched to a waiting car.

  “Only when you land. Our priority is to get you onto the next flight leaving St Petersburg. So no calls and no slowing us down.” His English was good, too good it seemed.

  She sat back in the rear seat, the windows protected with metal, a barrier separating her from the two men up front. Very much the prisoner. She thought about Josée, who was also on her way to a prison somewhere, or a holding facility anyway, until they decided what they were going to do with her. How had it come to all that? How had things got so out of control?

  Two hours later Anissa was sitting on the front row of the aircraft, a British Airways flight to Heathrow. The two officers stood at the doorway until the plane was fully boarded, only then handing back her mobile phone which had been switched off, exiting the aircraft at the moment it was ready for takeoff.

  “You okay?” the female stewardess asked Anissa, a drink of something alcoholic passed to her in a plastic cup.

  “I’ve had better days,” Anissa said, as she downed it in one go before putting her head back onto her seat, the aircraft already beginning to taxi into position.

  That afternoon, the first Alex knew of anything having gone wrong in St Petersburg was Anissa calling him from Heathrow airport. As she spoke to him she sounded much calmer––clearly happy to have made it back to the UK––and asked if he could come and collect her.

  He was there within the hour, Anissa having bought herself a drink and sitting in a coffee shop waiting for him when she saw Alex walk in through the doors.

  “So the wanderer returns,” he called to her across the coffee shop, going over and embracing his colleague. She looked terrible.

  They stayed there for half an hour, Alex getting himself a drink, as Anissa poured out from her heart all that had happened, all that had gone on, besides last night’s embarrassment with Sasha, which currently seemed the least of her problems. She realised she had been deported before she’d been able to see Sasha again. Now Anissa would have to wait for their next face-to-face––if ever that were possible––before she confronted that potentially awkward situation. She put that thought to one side.

  She told Alex everything Sasha had discovered––Alex having himself been kept in the loop somewhat as Sasha had been making regular contact through their shared draft email.

  “So Kuznetsov made the call to take out Foma, a fellow T20 member? Who is Kuznetsov again?” Alex said, deferring to Anissa’s better memory in that regard, having made it her job to study them all.

  “Largely water treatment, I think.”

  “Sewage?”

  “I think it includes that, but it’s the full range, especially across Europe, not to mention western Russia.”

  “And Foma is a man of all trades?”

  “Yes, like most in the T10, his wealth seemingly knows no bounds.”

  “But that wouldn’t make them natural competitors in the real world? I mean, to want to kill a man, you’d have to be pretty cheesed off.”

  “Exactly. Which means it’s Games originated. Something happened within that last event, that tipped Kuznetsov over the edge,” Anissa said, before adding, “Anything back from Sasha yet regarding what else he might have found out?” She’d been on the plane for much of the day and hadn’t been able to have any contact.

  “Yes, there was a little, and he said he’d keep adding stuff as he gets it. Let’s head into the office, and we can see if there’s anything new. Plus it’ll be good for you to show your face.”

  “If I’m still welcome, that is.”

  Alex gently punched her on the shoulder, Anissa breaking out into a smile, but only briefly. There was a concern there, worry too. Maybe he should have been more forceful with her about not going. He’d had his concerns, but had let them lie. He could see it was eating her up that Josée was still there, detained and awaiting her own trial date, something that made no sense. Anissa had scribbled a few notes down on the journey, thoughts to send to the lawyer––assuming she’d still be representing Josée anyway––things that just didn’t add up. For starters, why would a perpetrator of a crime, someone whom the Russians knew nothing about, openly come forward, accusing another person in the process, thereby forcing a trial to take place in St Petersburg––whilst herself masquerading as the star witness? How did that make any sense? And for what? To somehow make a claim for the other person’s money? Who would ever risk exposing themselves as the real killer just for some cash? She had been free, she was in Paris. Plus Anissa knew it was only the work of her and Alex with the team which had traced her back to France. She hadn’t even put herself forward. Josée was broken, in fact, a mess.

  It had been Anissa who’d coaxed her into making a statement, one thing leading to another––and then the trial.

  Yet that had backfired. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get to the bottom of it, the defence had managed to turn the spotlight not only onto the witness but onto Anissa personally as well. That had been enough to cast doubt over Leona’s involvement, enough, in fact, to acquit her entirely. Instead, it was Josée’s turn to now face the same accusation.

  Maybe she should have known? Perhaps Alex had been right––and she knew he had always been cautious about the whole thing, especially her personal involvement––but she’d silenced that warning, insisting it was their best chance of opening the entire thing up. Some good that had done. Now she was banished from Russi
a––that was no significant loss for her at that moment, though she would no doubt regret it if Alex got to make a future trip without her––and more crucially, she had almost certainly put herself on the FSB’s radar. That was not something she’d planned to do.

  Walking into the office, already past five o’clock, the main hustle of the place had started to dissipate. Both agents went straight into their shared room and shut the door. She locked it for good measure. Maybe what happened in St Petersburg really had affected her more than she was letting on. Alex let the thought go.

  Opening up the email program, they could see there had been some more information added. Alex clicked on the draft email, and both agents read it through.

  “I knew it,” Anissa said, having got a little further ahead than Alex, who reached the part where her finger was touching the screen. “An hour after the shooting, Matvey’s personal jet left St Petersburg heading to Monaco. That had to have had Foma on board. He’s alive.”

  “Why the mystery?”

  “I don’t know. Sasha has been remarkably thorough, though. Everything he’s given us is good information. Do we also need to know what’s in that safe?” Sasha had mentioned the garage he’d discovered, the key to which he had retained. No point leaving that in the BMW.

  “I think we can discover that in time. Right now we have a more immediate puzzle to solve. Sasha has told us that Foma’s jet is still sitting on the tarmac in St Petersburg. That is what caused some of the confusion. But he’s been able to confirm from one of Foma’s personal bodyguards that there was no hit. No one got shot. And Sasha already told us about what he found at the crime scene. There were no impact marks anywhere.”

  “So the shots fired weren’t real?”

  “No, I suspect they were blanks. Clearly whoever was really behind this––and it would appear to have Matvey Filipov’s hands all over it, wouldn’t you say?––wanted it to look like the original hit had been successful.”