The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  In London, the early morning shows were giving a particular focus to the Russian elections happening that day. The BBC news channel had a constant watch on proceedings, directing viewers to their webpage where exclusive coverage was being broadcast live from Moscow all day as the results started to come in.

  In America, it would be a few hours before the country awoke, and they would therefore already have an idea about the course of the election. The White House was continually watching Moscow, a full briefing to President Trump planned for six that morning, local time.

  In the Far East, trading had opened a little down, especially for Russian stocks and those owned exclusively by two of the leading contenders. Prices picked up as the day unfolded, the speculators amongst the brokers gambling on what it would do to either oligarch if they were to win. One thing was sure: it would be good for business. Unlike in the USA, where Trump handed over the reins of his business empire during his years in office, no such promises existed. It was widely speculated that any Russian-based businesses controlled by the victor would prosper––the opposite was feared for the losing candidate’s interests. The share price that day reflected the polls and predictions.

  At noon in Moscow, the first results were coming through, the announcement of a Vladivostok result always anticipated, even if it didn’t signify anything. There were likely to be over eighty-six million votes cast in something like ninety-five thousand polling stations. The first result came from a count of merely seven hundred votes.

  “Putin, United Russia,” came the presenters voice from the main television station live from the central venue where all votes were verified and recorded. Two webcams in each of the polling stations right across the country were live streaming events that were taking place, in the country’s effort to show they were doing everything within their power to produce a fair result. “Two hundred and twenty-four votes. Filipov, Independent, two hundred and sixteen votes. Kaminski, Independent, two hundred votes.” The voice carried on, the remaining dozen or so candidates barely registering. The result was called, Putin winning by one per cent, though the numbers were insignificant by that stage. Also, so far east, where the connection to Moscow was at its weakest, it was hard to read too much into the numbers.

  The next four results also came through not long after. Putin grabbed one, Filipov two and Kaminski the final one. That placed Putin and Filipov level, with Kaminski in a clear third. It was soon apparent that none of the other candidates had a look in, apart from the votes in each of the candidate’s home areas. If the local candidate could break into that top three––a few would win their local ballot entirely––it could be enough to swing the overall vote.

  By the time Moscow and St Petersburg had voted, the day was already long, though at none of the locations of the three remaining candidates was there much sign of shutting down as they waited on the result. Putin held a small lead before the final time zone's result came through––the President’s strength had always been the rural vote; the cities had voted against Putin in previous elections. Sitting at thirty-four per cent of the vote, Putin looked in a good position. Filipov was at thirty per cent and Kaminski on twenty-seven. Still, twenty-five per cent of the entire voter base were yet to be counted. A significant swing either way was enough to push any of the three into the second ballot, an eventuality already confirmed as a certainty. It just wasn’t clear which two candidates would be involved. The second round was going to happen in three weeks, the date already set for the first week of April, when there would only be two options to choose from.

  When St Petersburg was announced––several million fewer votes to count than Moscow––it was Kaminski who had just edged Filipov into second, Putin himself languishing with only twenty per cent of the vote. Those living in the cultural capital of Russia intended there to be a change at the top.

  Moscow was to go Filipov’s way––the financial heart of Russia too nervous of backing Kaminski, a man who’d lost so spectacularly in that regard himself. The result was ready to be called. The odd number of little results still to come through would have little significance in proceedings.

  Kaminski had thirty per cent of the entire vote, Filipov––due to his stronger backing in Moscow––had thirty-three per cent, and Putin took second with thirty-one per cent. It was going to be Putin up against Filipov in the second round.

  The day after the Russian vote and the world was still watching, the dust yet to settle. Of course, there was yet to be a final result, but they now all knew the two competitors.

  Right across Russia people took to the streets, this time not marching against corruption, or even from anger. It was a nation taking a massive breath of fresh air. The election ran more transparently than they’d ever seen before, and the result––the fact Putin hadn’t won and had come through only in second place––was proof nobody had tampered with the ballots. There was a general call for democracy to be allowed to run its course, and for everything to be concluded in the same spirit that had prevailed so far.

  Matvey now began to get the global coverage he’d not quite managed before––his only meeting with the US President by far the most common footage of the Russian––the man who could hard shoulder the Americans. Was he now about to become the next Russian President?

  That was the question on British and American lips as the week unfolded. Few knew what to make of the billionaire oligarch who’d seemingly come from nowhere in the last eighteen months to suddenly be in the Presidential runoff against Putin himself.

  Sources close to either camp refrained from making an initial statement, besides stating they were delighted with the outcome so far and wanted to focus on getting their message clearly across to those undecided votes. That group totalled nearly forty per cent of the population, far more than either man got in the first round. Victory rested on winning over these voters.

  Most critics knew the fight was now on for that Russian middle ground. Would those who had opted for third-placed Kaminski stick with their anti-establishment vote and now back Filipov, thereby confirming his appointment? Or had those votes been backing Kaminski only to keep Filipov out? Were they instead about to keep the current President in power?

  The most significant question of all was this: was Kaminski himself going to come out and publicly endorse either of the two remaining candidates? He’d been somewhat outspoken against both candidates in the campaign and had had his fair share of mud thrown his way in return as the debates unfolded when campaigning moved into its final weeks. If, on the other hand, he did endorse someone, thereby potentially handing that candidate the Presidency, would that not cement his position in the new administration? Some thought it might be a shrewd move for a man now with little to lose and potentially a lot to gain. They deemed it put Kaminski in a strong position. That was assuming he backed the eventual winner, making a choice with which his voters agreed. There was no sign of Kaminski anywhere.

  That was because he had flown out during the night, the result still sinking in, heading to London, where he planned to keep a low profile for the time being. He didn’t feel like backing either man––why make it easy for them––nor did he think it would give him any future advantage. They’d played their cards, and they had both slammed him personally in the media. He would rather rot in hell than give his support to one of them now as if all was fair in love and war, as if he’d forgotten what they had done to him.

  At heart, he felt his country had landed at the same impossible place the UK and USA had done in the previous two years. A nation handed an impossible choice between two imperfect options. How he wished he was still in the running. His name was undoubtedly the most conservative ticket in the election––he offered neither the global uncertainty of Putin nor the potential madness of Matvey, a man with far more wealth than even the outspoken Trump. By Matvey’s actions when he made his visit to Washington, a man more than happy to show that side of himself.

  So far, and the most gut-wrenc
hing news of all, Anastasia had failed to return any of his messages. Kaminski had not seen her since returning to the UK.

  At Vauxhall House, they were watching proceedings with interest, especially the three-person unit of Alex, Anissa and new boy and fellow Russian, Sasha. As the week went on, they were continually talking through developments.

  Anissa had taken a call from Phelan two days after the result. She declined a physical meeting that time––there was too much else to get on with, and she didn’t deem he warranted it––but heard him out. Once more he asked them to do something, once more Anissa stating there was little they could do besides observe.

  “Might it not be a good thing to see the end of Putin, finally,” she said, though immediately regretted it as Phelan shot back a mouth full of expletives.

  “Given the choice between these two men,” he went on to say after he’d calmed down, “I would certainly take Putin. Man, how do you guys not see that?”

  “We do, Phelan, we do. It’s just not our election. We can’t get involved.”

  “Bollocks! Don’t tell me you haven’t got involved in things just like this over the years.”

  “We haven’t!” which was true for Anissa, though she had no clue about anyone else. Phelan didn’t believe her.

  “It’ll be al-Qaeda or Daesh all over again.”

  “Sorry?” She couldn’t quite see the link from Russian politics to Middle Eastern terrorists.

  “The West went into Iraq and cleared it out. Afghanistan, too. Job done, war over. All that did was allow another even more dangerous system to fill the gap. The same is about to happen in Russia if you let Filipov in.”

  “He’s not won yet, and I hardly see how these are the same. We aren’t involved in Russia. Who the people select for President is entirely their choice, just as the same is true here, in Europe and right around the world. A foreign government or Security Service cannot get involved and influence another election.” There was little more to be said, and they ended the call after a few more neutral closing words.

  Sasha was working on his own angle. As a Russian living in the UK, he still felt invested in what was happening in his homeland, even after giving up his vote by his actions that year. Sasha was working with someone at the national records department. If he could prove Putin himself had a connection to Duke’s, the venue where the meeting between the President and the DDG had undoubtedly taken place before Price got murdered, then Sasha would have something affirmative to bring to the media. Assuming he got the information within the next two weeks, it could go live before the second round.

  That was, of course, assuming he could get it into the right hands. He wasn’t going to give away his identity openly. As far as his previous employer was concerned, he was happy for the FSB to assume he was dead. It was less likely they would seek to neutralise him that way.

  Sasha had arranged a meeting with the woman from the records office in a few days. He’d started to hit it off with her. She was called Helen Cooper, and he’d managed to ask for her mobile number after their second visit. She’d practically thrown it at him. He’d not yet called her, though their next meeting in an official capacity was in the calendar. He would probably just ask her in person.

  Alex had been meeting with Anastasia. She was still camped out in the same hotel; again, he would navigate his way in to see her through a rear door, though the journalists were gone. They had better things to do than sit around waiting for her to show up. She was already yesterday’s news, and with Kaminski falling at the first hurdle, the story had lost much of its appeal. She was not going to be the wayward Presidential wife after all.

  “He’s called me about ten times already,” she said, Alex once more making himself comfortable as they cuddled in the large double bed. “The last few messages he’s started demanding your name. Alex, he wants to find you.”

  “Relax,” he said, though he’d been expecting Kaminski to try before too long. “Don’t concern yourself with that.”

  “Don’t be concerned? Alex, I’m petrified that at any moment my husband is going to walk through that door, and worse still, you’ll be here when he does.”

  “Believe me, if he did that I’d want to be here!”

  “Why? He would kill you.” Alex let out a laugh.

  “Come on, Anastasia, we both know that’s not the likely outcome of a confrontation between the two of us.”

  “I’m serious. Of course, he wouldn’t attack you personally, but he knows people. They all do. He’ll send someone to stop you. We’d never be able to meet again.”

  “He can’t touch me,” Alex said again, trying to sound as calm as he could.

  “If you believe that, then you’re more of a hopeless fool than I ever realised,” and she threw a pillow at him, smiling. The pillow dropped to the floor. Alex let the silence fill the room for a moment, allowing them both to refocus.

  “Do you think about the future.”

  “You mean after Dmitry?”

  “I meant for the two of us, but yes, I guess that’s the same thing.”

  “Do we have a future?” Alex sat up at that. It wasn’t the response he’d expected.

  “I’d like to think we do, yes.”

  “Really? After all I’ve just said. How could we live like that?”

  “It wouldn’t always be like that.”

  “Then you’ve greatly underestimated my husband, Alex, and I’m sorry. He won’t let this pass. You’ve stolen me from him.”

  “I didn’t steal you.”

  “In his eyes, of course, you have.”

  Alex sensed a little awkwardness enter the room. He needed to change the subject, get the focus away from what Kaminski might or might not do to him if he ever found out his name.

  “Did he ever talk about his father?” Anastasia had read all about the allegations that had broken before the election, linking Lev to the murder and his own mother to an affair which predated the disappearance.

  “He said very little about all that. Certainly nothing like what got reported. He always spoke well of his uncle, though. Lev had been a rock in his life since his father vanished.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. There are many skeletons in the cupboard, so its all entirely possible.”

  Alex pondered those words the entire afternoon, the couple napping together following a lunch that she ordered from room service. He hadn’t slept. Everything Anastasia had said about Kaminski never giving up his search for Alex kept going around in circles in his mind. This was never going to go away. There would be no riding off into the sunset with a man like that lurking in the shadows. Alex had some thoughts on that.

  “The Met is looking into the claims raised in that article about Lev,” he started. Officially he shouldn’t be mentioning to her an ongoing investigation being carried out by the police. Lev hadn’t returned to the UK, where he was previously based, since the allegations first broke. There were rumours within the service that Interpol would be approached and an international arrest warrant issued. “If there is anything you have on your husband’s dealings which would expose a crime he’d committed, we could make that problem disappear.”

  She looked at Alex. “Grass on him, you mean?”

  “Just share what you know. You mentioned plenty of skeletons.”

  “Which I’d prefer to leave in the cupboard. I’m not informing on him, Alex. Let it drop.” But he couldn’t.

  “Why the hell not? If as you say he’ll put a bullet through my skull the first chance he gets, why not bring him down before he gets the bloody chance! If he’s broken the law here in the UK, we can charge him. If you get us access to emails and files, anything that links him to activities either here in the UK or back in Russia, I’ll make sure they arrest him. He bankrupted his own bank last year.”

  “Don’t I know it! It cost me everything!”

  “Then let’s fry him. Surely there is something on file that could nail
him? Thousands of people lost their savings, most as you know never got their pensions covered. However, he walked away scot-free, his wealth seemingly unaffected. How?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You don’t know? Don’t know what, exactly? Don’t know if you can help or…”

  “I don’t know anything about all that. He kept that side of things from me.”

  “But there must be somewhere he holds his information, somewhere at home possibly?” Alex had become intense.

  “Please stop this, Alex,” she pleaded. “I don’t want any part of that.”

  Alex threw his hands in the air, as if he couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t prepared to help, and he moved to the window. It was raining outside, having been sunny when he arrived that morning.

  “All right,” he said calmly, “I’ll drop it. Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

  She glanced up, her eyes full yet her face looking as delightful to him as he’d ever seen.

  “Okay.”

  Alex glanced at his watch, swearing under his breath. “I’ve got to go,” he said, grabbing his jacket, kissing her on the lips before moving to the door. The hallway clear outside, he was off. She sat back on the bed, picking up the pillow that had fallen to the floor, the room currently feeling like a cross between a prison and a haven. She didn’t want to face the outside world again.

  31

  London, England

  Sasha had just finished a lunch meeting with Helen Cooper from the National Records office. It had been the third time they’d taken lunch together over the last two weeks. This time had been social. Before leaving, they’d agreed to have dinner together on Friday night––the day the Russian results would be announced, though Sasha accepted the invitation without further thought. He liked her.

  Before she left, she did hand over the one piece of business that she needed to conclude with Sasha. After weeks of searching and digging into old legal reports, long since forgotten or maybe even intentionally buried, she had found it. The title deeds dating back two decades for Duke’s club in London.