The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  Rad woke just after seven, dazed and a little disorientated. He took a moment to remember he wasn’t in Hong Kong. His internal clock was all over the place, but breakfast called. He made his way down to the restaurant area. If they knew of his presence on the Caribbean island, they had done nothing about it. Rad assumed they didn’t think he was there. Maybe they’d lost him in Hong Kong, perhaps they thought he was still there? He hoped they did.

  Rad ate well. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before he could grab lunch as he planned to stake out Orlov’s property for the rest of the morning. Rad picked up a local island map from reception, and after taking a shower in his room, studied the map for a while to gain his bearings and plan his next move. Orlov’s residence was about five miles from the hotel. Taking a taxi that way was a risk. Rad didn’t know if the taxi firms were in the oligarch’s pocket. Maybe someone would say something? Rad would not take that chance. He would hire a car, and drive to the national park about one mile from where Orlov’s home was being rebuilt. He would walk the rest of the way.

  Rad found the hire company easily enough, directions obtained from the girl on reception at the hotel. Rad produced his documentation––a different alias used from the one he’d provided to get into Hong Kong––and after making a prepayment on a credit card, they showed him to the car. It was a simple enough vehicle; he needed nothing flashy.

  Rad checked the map once again, the detailing suggesting the route was relatively straightforward. He would not use the car’s own navigation software, for the same reason that he’d avoided the taxis. Maybe someone would check it later? Rad doubted anyone would go that far, but he’d long since learned to take nothing for granted and to suspect everything. He was still alive.

  Twenty minutes later Rad had parked his car under a shady tree on the edge of the nature reserve. He guessed he had a little over a mile to trek along the cliff-top path before he reached the developments amongst which lay Orlov’s property. Rad grabbed his bag, added two bottles of water he had just purchased, and set off on foot. Thankfully, the early morning sunshine wasn’t too fierce.

  Ten minutes later, Rad was approaching the area. A wall stopped anyone from going any further, though Rad would not be hampered by something that he climbed and then vaulted over in less than three-seconds. Now on the other side, he crouched down, but he hadn’t apparently alerted any security to where he was. The wall itself was most likely just an outer perimeter. At least he was now inside the target zone.

  Keeping low, the Russian made it to a clump of trees. He reached for his ever-available scope and surveyed the scene before him from his secluded position. Sure enough, as detailed, one property had extensive scaffolding in place, most of the walls hidden behind white sheets of some protective material hanging down the outside of the scaffolding. He could see workmen around the site. Rad counted at least seven. There was no visible security. That implied there was no one of value inside. Rad cursed his luck but didn’t expect it to be that easy. He was just glad to be out of Hong Kong. His current surroundings––hidden in some trees surrounded by nature––was far more his scene than a city of millions, where every face was a potential threat to him. He’d much rather take his chances where he now was.

  Except, Mark Orlov was gone. He hadn’t been to St Lucia since hearing the news that Filipov had blown up not only his Caribbean getaway but his principal Moscow residence, in what was apparently a little retribution for what happened in Paris.

  Rad would spend a few days going back and forth, but soon he had got the same message. No one was expecting any trouble in St Lucia, which only told him that his target was not there. That left Siberia as Orlov’s one final hideout. Filipov had mentioned that Orlov was recorded by his team referring to the region though Filipov had found no clue why. Orlov had no business connections in the area.

  Rad suspected it could only be where the Machine was based. He was now at the airport waiting for a jet to take him home.

  After her brief visit to see Vladimir on the Black Sea coast, Svetlana was heading to London, in what would be an under-the-radar meeting with the UK based Russians who were once a part of her Games.

  Svetlana was in London to see Valery Holub and Osip Yakovlev, meeting each oligarch separately. First up, and by far the wealthier of the two, was Valery.

  Valued now at an even $10 billion, Valery was the wealthiest former Host left who lived in the UK, and therefore his value to Filipov was his clear connections within the United Kingdom. As with Popov, whom Svetlana had just left, and Fyodorov, whom she’d started with over a week before, Valery had also been a part of Filipov’s winning team in that now infamous T10 event. And just as with those other two men, Filipov had the dirt on Valery that could expose him. Only Mark Orlov––the fifth member of that five-man team––had pulled off his part of the process without Filipov’s help, Orlov’s greater wealth and influence meaning he’d conducted matters his way.

  Given that Valery was based in the UK, Filipov had fewer ways to threaten or control him but Svetlana need not have worried; Valery was on board. Like an avalanche gaining force, the more oligarchs, especially the former Games Hosts, who joined forces with Filipov, the harder it became for anyone else to object. They were just too weak on their own against men with such resources, influence and dirt on each other, to last for long. Valery had heard from four of the former T10 Hosts that they were on board, the one glaring exception already starting his sentence in prison.

  Besides, the UK was growing increasingly cold toward its Russian friends who had made their home there over the last few decades. Valery was wondering if it numbered his days in the British capital. Having an inside track to the Kremlin would be a smart move. He’d told Svetlana halfway through her rehearsed speech he was in. She needn’t try to convince him any more.

  She was pleased. Valery’s name had been one that had been discussed and a question mark connected to it. She was looking forward to confirming her success with yet another oligarch. She was on a roll.

  Svetlana met with Osip––a construction magnate based in the UK for over two decades––at one of the many restaurants that his firm had helped to build in the capital. Valued at $1.4 billion––extremely wealthy by most people’s standards––he was deemed a non-player by Filipov who, with a growing number of former Hosts already on board, it mattered little which way the man went.

  Osip said he wasn’t in. Svetlana did her best to not look overly deflated by his rejection. Unknown to her, Osip had been in conversation with Dmitry Kaminski, one of the few men Kaminski was speaking to in fact, and the former presidential candidate had shared all he knew about Filipov, which wasn’t flattering. Osip had watched the news about Fyodorov––he didn’t know the man, but knew he had once been a part of the T10––and Osip could read a million things into it all. However, Osip wasn’t afraid of Filipov. Osip knew he was small fry to a man like Filipov, and Svetlana’s lack of follow up threat was evidence enough that either they’d already expected his rejection––and his fate was therefore sealed––or they didn’t see him as a key player. While the latter was a little disrespectful in his mind, he knew his place. The men who had stepped into line behind Filipov already––and word travelled fast amongst oligarchs––were far more influential, not to mention wealthy, than he was.

  “I won’t openly go against him, you hear me,” he said as Svetlana was leaving. “Just because I’m not in, doesn’t mean I’m against him. You make sure he knows that.” Svetlana had heard Filipov say the exact opposite––anyone not for him was against him, but Osip was not a key player. Filipov would most probably just leave Osip alone.

  “I’ll pass that along, for sure,” she smiled, taking his proffered hand, and wishing him goodbye. She got back into her waiting car. She’d met with nine of the possible fourteen men already, and only two had resisted. She’d also now covered the entire T10 collective she could meet with. The remaining men were relatively small fry, though she would schedul
e time in to see them, anyway. They might come in useful at some point.

  Besides, she used each meeting to hint at what she was hoping, in time, to do. To gather them all in much the same way as she’d done previously, though she gave no clue what that would look like yet. That was because she didn’t know. When she’d asked Filipov once about what he’d meant, he’d been short with her and had dismissed the matter. Svetlana had let it drop, for now, but she wouldn’t give up on it entirely. If there was to be a context––different from the Games but something she controlled––then she would make sure it was possible one day. It wouldn’t be able to happen in Russia, she was confident about that. Such an event might draw the wrong attention. She didn’t want it reflecting poorly on Filipov. But the idea of once again running the Games was already growing inside her.

  12

  London

  Osip was quick to call Dmitry Kaminski not long after Svetlana had left him. He brought his fellow oligarch up to date on what she had proposed.

  “So, Filipov’s making a move for the key players. Any idea who’s left?”

  “From what I hear she’s already met with the biggest fish. Most are in. We know about Fyodorov.”

  “Yes, and I think Filipov used him as the obvious fall guy. Make an example of one and the rest know what to expect if they fail to step into line.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the rest of the T20?”

  “I don‘t think she’s got to them yet. They cornered Motya in Moscow. He’s with Filipov, which is no great surprise.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Not heard anything. I think Volkov’s yet to meet them.”

  “Then let’s get there first. We might need their support.”

  “To what end?” Osip couldn’t help but see his friend didn’t have much skin in the game anymore. Kaminski had shunned the public spotlight since finishing third in the first round of the vote. His wife was also another matter. He’d not heard from her since arriving back in London. The papers had published the fact she was having an affair with a member of the British Security Service. Kaminski had yet to find out who the man was.

  “They are worth $12 billion between them, not including you and me. That is some influence.”

  “Filipov’s worth that himself, even before the result. These top three players, now on board with him from the T10, are each easily worth that as well themselves. What difference will we make?” Osip was making a good point, but for Kaminski, to not try would be to give these men no other alternative. By reaching out, at least these others would know there was an option.

  “We still need to try. Six years can go quickly. I might have another chance.”

  “You would put yourself back in contention?” If Kaminski was prepared to run that would give Osip something to hang things around when he spoke to the others.

  “It’s one idea. But for it to be possible, I would need support. Do I have your word you’ll try?”

  “I will,” Osip said. They finished the call.

  Osip spent the next couple of days trying to get to the remaining T20 former Hosts yet to meet with Svetlana. Osip spoke with four of the men before Svetlana was to find out all about the little counter-conspiracy.

  Moscow

  “We have the Presidential convoy, sir,” came the call to Filipov from the technician sitting behind a screen monitoring the satellite feed from above the conflict zone in Syria. It was the following morning, and they had dropped missiles on the two remaining air bases in the area. There was no way Putin was escaping via a plane.

  The compound they had bombed the night before Assad had fled already. Filipov believed Putin had to be with him. Finding the convoy eventually, brought a sense of relief. Troops would not get into the area for a few days, and probably only to confirm it was all over. Filipov hoped that would be the case. If he could win this battle from the air, snuffing out Assad––the only outcome that the West cared about––while silencing Putin, he was determined to keep bombing.

  Filipov came over to the screen of the technician. They could see a three-vehicle convoy moving south, though they weren’t sure it belonged to Assad. Then the technician pulled up the registration plates, which made the identification clear to the President.

  “It is him!” he let out only at that point believing what they had told him. There was no way of seeing into the vehicle. That could only be confirmed once the troops reached the area. “Scramble the jets!” Filipov ordered them, the room silent, most in a state of disbelief, all of whom had been loyal to Putin in the past and had worked hard to protect Assad from what they were now about to do themselves. After a slightly awkward silence, they put the order through. It relieved Filipov that he didn’t have to summon the armed soldiers standing just outside the door to come in and shoot any of them for insubordination.

  Thirty minutes later, the targets were locked in. The convoy had continued unchallenged, moving at speed, though nowhere near fast enough to evade the inevitable. Filipov gave the final order, and they deployed the missiles. It took just five-seconds for the cars to explode, a bright flash all that was visible on the screens followed by a column of smoke.

  Specially Commissioned Unit––Central Syria

  It was the British who were the first to get to the wreckage, the Russians still watching on from the skies. The world governments––the initial attack was being kept from the news channels while they confirmed identification––taken aback by how quickly the Russians had attacked. They apparently knew where Assad had been hiding out.

  The twelve man British unit moved into the area on high alert though the roads were empty. There had not been a conflict in that zone for several months, apart from the three missiles from the Russian fighter jets that had just landed on the three vehicles. A few little fires still burned.

  The soldiers fanned out, weapons raised, as they quickly and expertly covered the ground. They captured the registration plate of Assad’s former official vehicle on camera and confirmed to be the right one by those watching back at Command. The soldiers reached the scene. What remained of the victims showed that only drivers had been in the vehicles. There had been no passengers.

  “It’s a negative. Assad is not here. Someone has sent the convoy out as a decoy.”

  The news broke that evening, a few channels even having footage from the ground of the burned out Mercedes once owned by Assad himself. The headline read: Not Killed As First Believed.

  The fact the Russians were now prepared to strike directly against Assad was clear to all, and some Western nations were asking for calm. The apparently failed attempt on an empty––but for the three drivers––convoy, not helping the Russian cause. Their bombing of Assad’s former compound the night before had already claimed the lives of at least ten civilians, the images and footage already much publicised. By lunchtime, what had been seen as a good move if the Russians had been successful, had turned into warnings and threats. Britain and America, especially, didn’t feel happy with Russia now taking the lead in bringing an end to the conflict. They called for restraint, and open dialogue.

  That dialogue could start with the Kremlin answering the calls repeatedly coming from London, though so far, the calls had remained unanswered. Filipov wasn’t yet ready to discuss anything with anyone.

  London

  1998

  O’Doherty had been using his real name in most places as nobody knew him in London. He was used to dressing up for his various disguises, however, and he’d taken on one of these aliases after going to ground. He was on his third date in as many days, a woman with whom he’d made up a name––he didn’t know why––the moment he had bumped into her coming out of a shop a few days ago. He’d been taken with her immediately.

  With his head still spinning from all that had just gone wrong back in Ireland, she was the perfect distraction. It was an opportunity to focus on something, the chance of which he had thought might have passed him by. Not old by most stan
dards, he had given up his childhood to fight for the cause, already a man long before his first kill at the age of only seventeen, he’d given himself to the Irish fight for the last decade and aged, in many regards, far beyond his years.

  She was the exact opposite. She was a heaven to his raging hell, a chance of happiness after all the misery, a clean slate for his damaged past and the prospect of a new life. Of course, O’Doherty was a wanted man right across Europe, and though he wasn’t known by name, it was clear from the research he was doing––always from a different internet cafe than the last time he checked––that there was no way he was being let off the hook. His name––the nickname, anyway––was one of the few who were not coming off the wanted list, peace process or not. His crimes had pushed things too far. Now the British knew he had used a chemical weapon though they kept that one from the media. He didn’t know how long it would remain secret but had made sure that everything he’d once used, including his old computer, was all now destroyed. If he intended to make a clean start, it all had to go.

  She offered him that clean start.

  Their third date had gone well. She had invited him back to her house for a coffee though he was hoping for a little more. She lived alone. If she only knew who she had invited back, he caught himself thinking. No, that wasn’t him anymore. He could change. He could push away the violence and death he’d caused and surrounded himself with for so long, and could start a new life.

  He thought about his sister. She was just fifteen when he’d organised men to shoot her. He was so young then––not even half a man––and yet had taken a selfish pleasure in butchering her English military boyfriend, a man who’d been a few years older than his sister. That had been his entry into the world he’d been a part of, the only world he knew. Violence, death, and terror. And he was good at it, some said the best. Was he even capable of love? And to an English woman? He’d killed his baby sister for the same crime, and now, for the first time in his life, he questioned everything he thought he knew. Had she been just the same as he now was? Had she felt love herself for the first time?