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

by Tim Heath

  One of the apparent locations she had detailed was the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, where for the last few weeks––and noticeably more so in the previous few days––crowds of protestors had regularly been gathering. They’d primarily been law-abiding––but there was always an element of social disorder that went along with such protests––and the embassy staff themselves had been complaining for days already about the situation. They wanted the British authorities to do something about it. Apparently, they didn’t like the idea of the British right to protest. It wouldn’t have been allowed to go on for so long if it was Moscow they were standing in, not London.

  The activity right along Kensington Palace Gardens made that area––and the embassy at large––a less likely possibility for a visit, bearing in mind the President’s plan to hold several meetings across the city, with an as yet unknown number of dignitaries. Such an exposed and already volatile location as the Russian Embassy surely made it now off limits. She noted down her thoughts, regardless.

  Alex had yet to hear anything from the Russians himself––he wasn’t really expecting to, either, despite putting out multiple pleas for assistance from Moscow’s end. Like the Americans had done before Obama touched down, everything was very much on a need to know basis, and Military Intelligence, it seemed, was not on that list. He would make do as best he could.

  He had several military sniper units ready and on-call. They would cover most of the routes––once these were known––from rooftop locations. Teams of police with sniffer dogs would comb the streets before the Putin convoy was expected, to detect any explosive devices that might otherwise be in operation. The Kremlin convoy––as it had been with the White House vehicles––were bomb proof and largely bullet proof, but it paid to be diligent, regardless. Nothing could be allowed to happen on their watch. The Director of MI6 himself had made that very clear. Any type of incident while Vladimir Putin was on British soil could lead to a very major diplomatic incident.

  Three divisions of army personnel were ready to be on the ground––a palpable presence. While the police would be involved, the whole operation was deemed to put too much of a strain on the Metropolitan Police force, so they instead would assist where they could, the strong army numbers taking most of the strain.

  Alex had asked Gordon to check every soldier and policeman and armed response officer against the MI6 database. If anything was flagged up, that member of staff––from whatever division they served in––would not be allowed to be present on the day. He was taking no chances.

  All week on the BBC, special programmes were being shown in connection with the first Russian official visit for over five years, at a time when relations between the two nations could do with a vast improvement. The series of shows had been mainly looking at Russians who were connected to the UK––various famous names had been portrayed so far: football club owners, business leaders––men all based in London for many years already. Most were household names now, often appearing in references across many UK publications. Very much the public face of Russian wealth on UK streets.

  Anissa had come across the series after its sixth part was released, which had focused on Dmitry Kaminski. It looked at his involvement in the Meridian Capital fiasco––a phrase coined some months ago, the full situation still not totally clear to the general public. The programme tried a little to explore what was happening to the previously large UK institution, now fallen on hard times, as well as a bit of the man himself. She was fascinated by it, and it portrayed Kaminski in quite a different light. She wondered how much the oligarch’s own PR team had been behind that particular effort.

  As that part of the series came to a close, they were already advertising the next episode. The words Where is Foma Polzin? flashing across the screen. Anissa focused on what it said––which was very little, as it was just a trailer––regarding the next show. She made a note of the time of the broadcast, which was to be shown the following lunchtime on the BBC News channel. She’d have to record it. Putin himself would have touched down by then, and she would be fully involved in that particular Russian visitor, though she would watch the recording with Alex as soon as she could, knowing the connections Foma had, knowing his involvement in the Games. She was fascinated to see what angle the BBC would be coming from.

  In June 2003, when Putin had visited the UK with his wife, it had been a significant State visit. Met by Prince Charles at Heathrow, addressed by the Queen at Horse Guards Parade, troops of British Royal Guards saluting the Russian President before a band of guardsmen and women played both the Russian and British national anthems. That had been a four-day visit––by far his most extended visit to the UK in a decade––at a time when relations were better.

  His last visit––over five years ago for a brief day––was at the beginning of the 2012 Olympic games. Much of the fanfare of those nine years before had gone. He’d met with the then British Prime Minister, David Cameron, and the two men had talked publicly afterwards about their strong connection, how trade between the two nations had increased dramatically, and how they looked forward to that continuing.

  Putin then watched some of the judo competition––a personal favourite for him––before leaving. Half a decade later, it was clear how much distance their apparently growing relationship now had.

  Touching down at London’s Stansted airport––which was actually some distance north of London but one of the quieter airports, and the most suitable for the Russian President’s large aircraft to land at––it was just gone nine in the morning when the convoy set out.

  At Vauxhall House, Alex was notified by air traffic control––five minutes before the Russians themselves let him know––that the President’s plane had landed. Stansted had been one of the most obvious choices, used by Barak Obama on his last visit, and therefore proven to be able to handle that kind of situation. Its location to London also meant several options could be taken. These routes were now coming through, Alex working with his team to monitor their progress. A no-fly zone was in place across that part of the city, besides the two police helicopters that patrolled the skies, following the convoy as it headed south.

  It was understood by ten that Putin would be meeting with the Prime Minister herself at Downing Street for lunch. The location, already highly secure, made it one of their lesser concerns that day.

  As suggested, there was no stop-off at the embassy scheduled––at least the Russians had taken MI6 advice on that––though Putin still wanted to meet the staff at some point. Details were sketchy as to when and where that would be. As far as the British knew, he was due to fly out that night.

  With the roads kept mostly clear, the convoy reached the edge of the city by ten. Flying over that part of London was not so easy as it had been following the convoy down a motorway, so the two helicopters backed away as Putin made his first stops, at homes of two wealthy Russians.

  Both of these addresses had been on Anissa’s watch list––low priority, granted––but at least scanned. Because of the Russians involved, who had their own security teams in place, the locations were a safe bet for the Russian President. The convoy was reported leaving just before twelve––he’d been in the country for nearly three hours and had only spent time with fellow Russians––now clearly setting out for Downing Street, and the meeting with Theresa May at Number 10. He had ample time to make the relatively short journey, and Anissa and Alex were working on the possible route.

  He’d taken none of them, however––in fact, they lost him entirely for twenty minutes––the team at MI6 getting a little frantic before communication was re-established, the convoy back on visual. They’d seemingly gone a slightly longer route––maybe being over cautious––and arrived at the gates of Downing Street five minutes before one, the front two cars of the convoy waved through, the other two vehicles speeding off to no doubt wait for Putin’s re-emergence later.

  Outside Number 10, Putin stepped from the
car and walked quickly in through the doors. The waiting press watching from the gates––no one had been allowed into Downing Street to report his visit––could only strain to get a tiny glimpse of the President.

  22

  Thomas Price left the hustle of Vauxhall House––the Putin visit in full flow––as he headed out, going on foot to Duke’s club, having agreed to meet again with Kaminski.

  It was twenty past twelve, and he was five minutes ahead of schedule for the lunchtime meeting, only to be surprised by the man on the door.

  “Your visitor is already inside, sir,” he said. Kaminski was apparently losing his nerve, though in truth, so was he. It had been a wretched week since their last meeting, and he had little more to offer the Russian than the same rhetoric he’d given him the previous time they’d met, that there was little he could really do. He’d thought about taking up the challenge he’d been set, though there were too many people he would have to get past, mostly in his own agency, to successfully pull off a hit on British soil.

  It couldn’t be done, or more to the point, they couldn’t get away with it.

  He wasn’t going to send someone on a suicide mission, that wasn’t his style. The idea, though, as a whole held some merit. He’d drafted something briefly about the chance of a hit being carried out somewhere else––certainly not in Russia––but there would be other official visits to regions far more unstable than where he currently was.

  Price came into the main room where the barman was already making a hot drink; the barman looked up, but as usual, he didn’t otherwise acknowledge his presence. Price strolled over to their typical booth––Kaminski clearly already there, his back to him so that he couldn’t see him coming––only for Price to get there, and realise it wasn’t Dmitry at all. It was Putin.

  “You seem surprised to see me, Mr Price.” Thomas stood there in silence with his mouth open slightly. They were the only ones in Duke’s at that moment. “Please, take a seat, I don’t have long.” Thomas sat down.

  “Why in hell are you here?”

  “Classic MI6, cutting right to the point.” It was strange hearing that come from a man he’d only seen on a television screen, a man he knew so much about but only from a distance. A President and former KGB agent. If anyone knew anything about spying, it was the man sitting right in front of Price at that moment. “I’ve come to warn you, Mr Price,” Putin said.

  “Warn me? About what?” but his voice was quavering, far from steady.

  “Someone in your position shouldn’t be getting involved in Russian politics. It’s not your domain.”

  “I don’t quite understand what you are saying, sir?” he managed, this a little more controlled. Putin glanced at his watch. It was nearly time to go.

  “Don’t get involved in what you don’t understand,” and with that he stood, his team of minders coming in, one with a telephone to his ear, calling in the convoy to come to collect them. Just like that, he was gone. Price sank back in his chair, motionless. The barman, seeing the DDG in a state, came over moments later with a stiff whisky.

  “Here, you look like you could do with this,” he said, Price downing it in one go.

  “I think I’ll have another,” he coughed, the alcohol burning down the back of his throat. The barman moved to prepare it. “How long had he been here?”

  “Arrived a couple of minutes before you, sir. Cleared the place out as he waited for you, though there were only two others here. They didn’t know who it was. Putin only entered when it was empty.” He handed Price the glass, which he sipped instead now, taking smaller gulps over the next twenty minutes. He was on his third one––and given his empty stomach, starting to feel it too––when Kaminski arrived.

  “Started without me, I see, but good to know you are in a celebratory mood, Thomas,” he said as he took his usual seat––the one Putin himself had been in minutes before. When Kaminski looked into the eyes of the man sitting opposite him, he didn’t see victory, only defeat. “What’s happened?” he said, his heart already sinking.

  Price told him what had just taken place, what Putin had said, how he’d been sitting there waiting for him.

  “He was waiting for me!” he said not for the first time. “He knew exactly where I’d be, at exactly what time. I mean, how could he know that?”

  “I don’t know,” Kaminski said again, getting a little paranoid himself. If Putin was to walk in right now––whilst there wasn’t a problem with a London-based Russian businessman meeting with an MI6 operative––both knew their meeting was anything but routine. And if Putin somehow knew about Price, he surely had to know about Kaminski also. But how?

  Price motioned to the barman for another drink.

  “I think you’ve had enough, Thomas,” Kaminski said.

  “It’s not for me, it’s for you. I can see you need it.” The Russian wasn’t sure what he needed. A week ago he’d suggested that the man now in front of him should put together a plan that involved assassinating his own President, and also that of another rival. Kaminski had himself arrived in jovial spirits, keen to hear what Price had in place, seeing the man drinking as a sure sign his competition was about to be removed. And yet Putin had shown up in person, and at a time only the two of them had known––at least, he thought just the two of them had known––and then given an unambiguous warning to Kaminski’s British connection. Don’t get involved in what you don’t understand. There was a lot the Russian didn’t understand at that moment.

  He took the drink, downing it in one go, the same fire burning his throat, though he held back from coughing.

  “I have to go,” Kaminski said, getting up right away and leaving Price on his own. Maybe the British end of things had run its course? Yet if his President knew about their meeting, knew the location––he, therefore, must have known about the content of their meetings. Kaminski no longer felt safe in London.

  The Russian delegation left Downing Street just after three. Over the previous two hours, he’d enjoyed lunch with the Prime Minister––his first encounter with yet another new PM––and some of her key cabinet ministers. They discussed Syria a little, without going too deep. Some of the words spoken over recent months in public by lesser voices––each still senior enough in their nation––had been attacking the other side for too long. Both leaders agreed that peace should be the ideal they worked towards in the troubled region and left things at that.

  From Downing Street he was due to meet with some business leaders––most of whom were connected in some way to Russia, if not, in fact, Russian themselves––and then was attending an evening reception at Roman Abramovich’s London mansion. The embassy staff were being invited to that dinner, as well, to be given the honour of touching base with their President.

  Routes were once again mapped out––this time the convoy seemingly sticking to the most obvious path through the maze of streets that made up central London––and the afternoon progressed well.

  By mid-afternoon, with Putin confirmed as being inside a conference centre speaking to a business crowd, Anissa went and grabbed Alex.

  “I want you to watch this,” she said when Alex was sitting down in front of the computer. She pressed play on the BBC iPlayer page, that morning’s case study into various Russian oligarchs playing straight away.

  Ten minutes later, they were done. The programme had raised the question as to the health––and current location––of Foma Polzin, the billionaire who hadn’t been seen for months, his companies running themselves in his absence.

  The show led with the early rumours––really downplaying them, in fairness––that had surfaced initially about the reported shooting. It focused mainly on those working for Foma now. The share price had continued to grow––Forbes was about to declare Foma to be worth around $8 billion––though he’d not been at any of the significant recent business events, forums at which he had been ever-present for the last few years.

  The programme ended with the s
hot of a private jet––last chartered by Foma and still sitting on the tarmac in St Petersburg. It questioned why it was still there before seemingly giving its own explanation. They confirmed the plane wasn’t actually owned by the Russian and that it was in fact owned by a completely unrelated company which had since run into economic trouble, which explained why the jet had not been flown for some months.

  To the average viewer, it all meant very little. A little smoke, a little suggestion but then the programme pretty much closed down most of the options, most of the conspiracy theories. The truth was, Foma just hadn’t been seen for a while, which could have been for any number of reasons.

  “Wow,” Alex said as Anissa closed down the browser. “Do you think he’s really dead?”

  “I think we know he probably isn’t. Maybe we should get them to investigate Monaco, see what they might dig up there?” she said with a smile. Alex knew she wasn’t serious.

  “It does go to show, we clearly aren’t the only people watching these guys.”

  “Anyway, let’s get back to the others. Until Putin has left British airspace, I don’t want us to miss a thing.”

  Price finished his fourth and final drink five minutes after Kaminski had left. He didn’t know where their special relationship had now landed them both. Was the game already up? He’d invested a vast number of hours into getting on the inside of a man who could one day become the President of Russia. It had been his own nudging that had pushed forward the plan to challenge Putin next time around, instead of waiting for the end of the second term. That would have been another six years, and relations between the two nations––between the West and Russia as a whole in fact––was getting more strained as the weeks went by.