The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  “He wants to make an example out of you, to force the others into line, Yefrem.” The oligarch turned to look Svetlana square in the face.

  “Then let the bastard try,” he said, storming back towards the door. “I’m not backing him if it’s the last thing I do.” Svetlana couldn’t help but think that would be precisely what it would be. She let him leave. Filipov had warned her that Fyodorov would be the hardest to bring onside. The others would be less hostile, but they would take nothing for granted. Moments later, Roman walked back into the room.

  “That seemed to have gone well for you,” he joked, Fyodorov having said something, if it had not been his storming out in the first place that had told those waiting he wasn’t about to join forces with their new President.

  “And do you share his stance?” Svetlana wanted to gauge right away if Fyodorov had turned the group against her; against their President in fact.

  “Fyodorov is a joke. His little outburst outside will do nothing to damage your chances with the rest of the men, I can assure you.”

  “And with you?” Filipov had already lost the previous number one in the Games, Mark Orlov. Having the next wealthiest man on board would be a huge bonus, not that Filipov was courting him for his money. Filipov had other plans along the finance front. It was influence and contacts that were the more significant assets these men could offer to Filipov. Nobody got that wealthy in life without having vast networks of their own. Roman Ivanov’s network was one of the most influential. One thing that Filipov had been most concerned about as he prepared to announce his running for President was that another such man of equal standing––Dmitry Kaminski, though an oligarch, had never counted as an equal––would also stand. Roman Ivanov had been the man Filipov most feared due to his grip on Moscow.

  “I’m undecided,” he admitted after thinking it over for a moment. It was a starting point. He wasn’t overtly against Filipov as Fyodorov had just been. Svetlana would take that for sure.

  “Did you vote for him to win, Roman?” It was a personal question, but Svetlana knew Roman was a straight-down-the-line guy. He didn’t mind awkward questions.

  “Not in the first vote, no. I backed Kaminski though I didn’t throw my full support to have made any great difference to him. He wasn’t perfect. I believed in a change.”

  “So you backed Matvey in the second vote.”

  “I did, yes.” Svetlana couldn’t help but let out a smile. Inside, she was mightily relieved to have heard that.

  “I’ll arrange a time for you to meet with Matvey. It’ll be good for the two of you to speak together. I think you’ll like what he has to say,” Svetlana said. She’d reached her limit with Roman. He wasn’t against Filipov, and for those on the fence––especially a high-value ticket like Roman––the instruction had been explicit that she was to arrange a visit.

  “Don’t leave it too long,” Roman said, walking over to the door. Getting alongside the new President would be undoubtedly good for business, he could see that much for sure. Roman probably should have backed Filipov earlier, though he had always recognised a particular danger in the man, a threat that Roman had never seen in Kaminski. Roman left the door open, Viktor Gavrilyuk the next man to walk in.

  Half an hour later, the last man, Motya Utkin, was leaving. Svetlana had seen the time as a huge success. Only Fyodorov had been overtly opposed. Filipov would make an example of him though she didn’t yet know what that meant or what it would look like. Motya, Timur Budny and Dima Petrov––the three worth a combined $23.2 billion––were all in. Roman had been convincible, and only Viktor was undecided. After Roman, Viktor was the next wealthiest man she’d met with that day, the oligarch worth $12.4 billion. She’d not extended an invitation for him to meet with Filipov yet, as she would report back first and see what the President wanted to do.

  9

  Vauxhall House, MI6––London, England

  The days after the election result had been somewhat a blur––there were plenty of other things keeping the three agents occupied. But unquestionably, at least for their frequent conversations over coffee in the staff canteen, for Alex, Anissa and Sasha, the echoes from what had just taken place in Russia were still being processed. Matvey Filipov had won the Russian election, and he was as crooked as the rest of them––maybe because of his deep reach into the United Kingdom, coupled with his long thought-out plan, more dangerous than the man he’d just beaten. The West was still praising the result from Russia, an outgoing President who no one really understood, and too few trusted. The fact Putin had been beaten in an open election, proof that finally, Russia was ready to join the leading players in seeking a harmonised world order.

  Yet the three agents now knew one of Filipov’s best-kept secrets. The Russian oligarch had owned the exclusive London club Duke’s for decades––a hangout for politicians, officials and high-level diplomats in the heart of the capital. A venue with a waiting list so long, the guest list kept short on purpose, that they could cherry pick precisely who was allowed into the place. It was the venue of choice, therefore, for so many in that privileged position, because they knew there were no journalists around, no one eavesdropping in on their private little chats.

  Yet the Russian owned it, had possessed it, for many years. He’d been listening in on the conversations and secret meetings all that time.

  The MI6 agents realised it was how Filipov had found out about their former Deputy Director General and his connection to Dmitry Kaminski. The British wanted a change in Russia and saw that as possible through the British-friendly, and Presidential-hopeful, Kaminski.

  They had killed Thomas Price, the DDG, because of that connection. And now they knew Filipov was ultimately behind that attack.

  In the days leading up to the foiled––or failed, though really they knew it hadn’t failed––attack in Tallinn from two months before, Filipov had been in direct contact with Alex. The Russian had assured the MI6 agent that Putin had been behind the assassination in London. The British press at the time had also led with a story of their own saying the same thing. All facts pointed to Putin. It had to be him. It all made sense.

  Until it didn’t.

  Now they knew. Now it was too late. Filipov was in power, and from what Sasha had gleaned from his own research, Putin was on the run.

  Anissa put the coffees down on the table in their little, shared working area, having been out to buy something of better quality than could be procured in the staff canteen. They did that a little more frequently now, the fresh air that each trip required giving space for thought. The office was getting too crowded, too close.

  Part of that issue was the three of them working together in an area designed for two. It was one thing Anissa wanted to solve though to do so might threaten to break them all up. Sasha had been working with the pair since arriving in London, having been assisting them for a few years already. He wasn’t an official name on the door, not yet anyway. Sasha was an agent but under the radar. It was best the Russians, especially his former employers at the FSB, didn’t know he was there at all. If Anissa was to ask for another office big enough for them all to fit into, one solution might just be to take Sasha, or worse still, Alex from the mix. Problem solved. Except, she liked working with them both too much to want to risk breaking up the trio.

  She also had a wall full of evidence, hidden behind the cork boards. She’d been gathering what she could for a few years already, connecting names to crimes, names to other names, and piecing together all they knew hoping one day, should the chance arise, they could nail these people.

  The arrival of coffee caused a pause to Sasha’s flow with Alex.

  “Any luck?” Anissa asked with a smile, hopefully. She’d left to give the two a chance to thrash out a way forward. She was up for Sasha’s idea to take what they knew about Duke’s to the Director General himself, though Alex wasn’t as convinced. He was also unsure about jumping above the DDG, who was female and new to the job. She would u
sually have been the contact person, the typical chain of command, but they all knew she’d only just taken the post. They didn’t know her well enough yet. They knew the Director General.

  Sasha shook his head.

  “I think we have to take it cautiously. We know Filipov has been planning this for years, and we now know he’s been invested in the club for decades. There is no knowing what he has on anyone, and that scares me.”

  “Scares you how?” Anissa said though they’d been over that before she went to get the coffee, for all the good it had apparently done since.

  “Information is power. We don’t know who else Filipov has in his pocket, or who else he can manipulate with what he’s been able to glean from conversations which, people presumed, had taken place in secret for twenty years. We take this further up the chain, we hit the wrong person, and we tell Filipov we know.”

  “We aren’t talking about taking it up the chain. We are suggesting going directly to the top. You don’t for one minute think Filipov has anything on the Director General, do you?” That would be an alarming thought, and from what they knew, was most unlikely. The DG, unlike the previous Deputy of MI6, did not go to Duke’s. It was probably why the DDG went there himself so often to be alone and have his secretive conversations, very much the middleman between more powerful people, though the three agents knew that suited Thomas Price to the core. He always had a cruel attraction to power and probably saw the move as a way of making sure he became the future Director General when the incumbent finally rolled over and died, or could otherwise be removed. It was a little-known secret that the two had never fully seen eye to eye.

  “No, I’m not saying that, but we need more. We need to know who works there, what they know, what connection anyone has to Filipov. We need to find that barman.”

  The other two knew precisely who Alex was referring to, a man without a name, aside from his occupation, and the one who had identified Price’s body to two uniformed officers on the day the assassination had happened. They had never traced that man, but with all they now knew, he had to have worked at Duke’s, and it was possible he was now the way in for the agents. He might also tell them how Filipov got the information, who passed it on, and what the Russian knew. There was no database online, as far as the MI6 technicians could find, that listed anywhere the sacred members on the acceptable list for Duke’s. Someone knew who was in or out.

  “If we don’t take this to others, how can we possibly get the manpower needed to mount a surveillance operation?” Anissa asked. Alex knew she had a point; he’d come to the same conclusion himself.

  “We both know we won’t be given anyone without this being an official case––which would be hard to make, anyway––which is why we must do it ourselves.”

  “The three of us? Stake out the club like we are newbies in the Met?” Anissa wasn’t at all impressed with Alex’s suggestion but knew right away if they were to go deeper, it was probably the only way.

  “I’m suggesting we collect our things and go mobile for a while. We can say we need more space to work, which is true. We will have to address this at some point. It’ll give us the time away from here. We can station ourselves in sight of both entrances. We can record who comes and goes, and we can find this barman.”

  “If he still works there,” Sasha pointed out, something that neither of the other two had stated until that point.

  “That’s true, though my gut says with someone like that, working in a position he has been, you don’t let him go easily. I bet he’s still there. He knows too much.”

  “There or nowhere,” Sasha replied, though they knew that well enough. Too many people were now dead because of these Russians. Now that Filipov was in power, they had to hope it would all stop. They knew it was naïve thinking, however.

  “So we wait,” Anissa said, confirming she had a consensus in the room, before adding. “We stake out the place for a while, recording as much as we can, while keeping what we are doing from anyone else, apart from Gordon, maybe.”

  Gordon Peacock was the head technician at MI6 and had been doing jobs and favours for them for a few years already. They knew they could trust him.

  “Yes, keeping Gordon in the loop is a good idea. He’ll help us process the information we find. He knows his own team and who can handle that side of things, but I think having him with us will help.”

  They finished their coffees, opening an online map for the location of the club. They knew there were two entrances, the public one at the front that Alex and Anissa had used on their second visit––they’d been denied access without a warrant the first time––and a rear one, presumably used moments before the British agents got inside, as the place had been empty. Anyone working there would have to use either and probably did so via the rear. Watching the area while remaining undetected was their primary focus. They had to do this correctly. One slip up and they would put themselves on the personal radar of the new President of the Russian Federation.

  The White House, Washington DC––the USA

  The American President gathered with his staff in the Oval Office. It was their first chance to discuss the election result in Russia since Filipov had come to power a week ago. Trump was not at all impressed with the outcome.

  “I said he couldn’t be allowed to win.”

  “We were blind, sir.”

  “How is that possible?” he fumed, storming around the room, his team silent. They were used to the President’s constant outbursts, especially when something done in secret was found out, as had been happening more frequently since his appointment, or had failed. In the case of the Russian elections, it was the latter. Their link to things, made possible via a facility in Tallinn known as The Basement, had been compromised. They had only discovered this following the result in Moscow. Filipov should not have been able to win, and yet he had. Putin, for all his threat, was gone. Now the West was wondering if they’d done the right thing.

  For the American President, it was personal. Filipov had come to the USA in the build-up to the vote in a visit that had been announced to Trump rather than invited by Trump. The President had let it happen. If they could see him on speaking terms with the future President of the largest nation on the planet, distancing himself from his own links to Putin and the American’s rise to power, they deemed it a valuable opportunity.

  Yet it had failed.

  Not for Filipov, who’d risen highly in Russia––not to mention around the world––following what had happened on the lawn outside that same iconic American building. Filipov had arranged the whole thing to embarrass Trump, and it had worked. Trump, on some level, couldn’t help but admire the move, yet would never admit that to anyone. No bully ever liked to be bullied by another new kid on the block. And the new kid was even wealthier than he was; that was another concern.

  “What can we do?” Trump asked, his last question not being answered, as they all knew too well why they’d failed to have an influence in the Russian elections.

  “Sanctions have been in place against Russia for many years already, so we are a little limited on that front. And there’s no obvious way we can justify them, sir.” There was a collective intake of breath at that last sentence.

  “Justify? You want me to justify why? Did you not see what he did?” No one responded. Everyone had seen what Filipov had done, it had been world news. That was the problem.

  “Sir, we’ve called this a political stunt, played by a foreign leader who will do anything to succeed. Our nation has moved on, people aren’t talking about it anymore,” which wasn’t strictly true, though what they meant was effectively that. The narrow majority of his supporters had moved on. They could justify away just about anything their President could do as he well knew. Midterms were not that far off, and Trump was already thinking about his chances of losing power after his first term in office, an embarrassment rarely given to a sitting President, but one very much on the cards if he faced too many more situations like
the one Filipov had created.

  “Is there any word on Putin himself?”

  “No, sir. We have not seen him in public since the election result, which is understandable.”

  “Understandable?” Trump got most of his intelligence from Fox News, and they’d covered nothing about Russia since the election result.

  “Losing will have been an embarrassment, plus the new President will want to make sure it’s his face the nation sees, not the previous guy.”

  “We’re talking about Putin, here, not some has-been. You don’t step away from fourteen years in charge and go quietly.” There was a frosty silence as they let the President’s temper settle a little before one of the staff offered a response.

  “No, but now would not be his time to act, sir. The dust is yet to settle on the result. Time will reveal how prepared Filipov really is to run the country. Any sign of weakness, any sense he doesn’t know what he is doing with the country, and the people will make it known. It wouldn’t be the first time in living memory that there has been a revolution. It’s in their blood.”

  There was a murmur of consensus around the room though Trump wasn’t so sure. He would never allow a revolution to gain momentum in his own country and had been working hard to stop all negative publicity for years already. They were coming at him, but Trump was still standing. From what he’d seen of Filipov, as much as he didn’t like to admit it, Trump recognised the same determination and resolve. Trump even feared the new President though no billionaire would ever voice that. Besides, he had the world’s most significant military force at his disposal. If there was a chance to go at the Russians, he would, though he hadn’t raised that as an option yet.