The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  “Excuse me,” Rad said to the woman behind the desk as he approached, his accented English more pronounced at that moment to make him sound of Russian origin, “can you call up to Mr Polzin to ask if he needs the car this morning? It’s running low on fuel, and I wanted to top it up, but didn’t know if he was about to leave.” The woman eyed Rad cautiously for a moment, but reached for the handset. Rad leaned in, catching the extension she was dialling and therefore the room number.

  “On second thoughts,” Rad immediately interjected, before the woman had put the handset to her ear, her finger already hovering over the cancellation button. Rad had pulled out his own mobile. “I’ll call up myself and check with him now,” and as if ringing the number, Rad spoke into his switched off mobile, pressing it against his ear.

  “Mr Polzin,” he started, switching to Russian immediately, which would only be natural. He made sure they could hear him saying he was taking the car to the garage, in case the receptionist could understand Russian but Rad was soon out of earshot and ended the charade.

  He looked at the building plan. Given the room number, Foma’s suite was on the front of the building, and the numbering suggested it was one of the central rooms. That meant Rad would not have a clear line of sight from his own hotel room, one option he could now cross off.

  Rad left the hotel. He saw Foma’s car and driver––distinctively Russian, even if Filipov hadn’t sent Rad the license plate information with everything else––and Rad walked over to the driver. He took a chance.

  “Mr Polzin says to fill up the tank to full, he might need to make a longer trip later.” Rad had spoken Russian, spoken fast and just hoped the car was anything but full. He shouldn’t have worried. Someone with the job of a driver for a man like Foma would follow any order. The ploy worked. If the reception were to comment to Foma, the story would now check out. Rad walked away smiling to himself. He needed to get into the building across the road, a public library, though not open for another half an hour. From the top floor––assuming it was all accessible to the public––he might have a better view into the Polzin suite, though he would only know for sure once he was in place.

  Rad continued down the road as Foma’s driver passed him in the black Mercedes, undoubtedly on his way to the petrol station. Rad, however, was heading for the Bank. That the receptionist had been prepared to call Foma, the fact the car was still at the hotel, all pointed to the conclusion that the oligarch was yet to leave the hotel. It was possible that those connected to the Bank would meet with Foma at the hotel, but that was unlikely. Rad wanted to check out the Bank’s building itself, and thanks to Filipov, now had its location. Rad joined a very select, tiny list of people who knew where the establishment was.

  Ten minutes later Rad was at the location. From street level, it was impossible to tell that billions in gold and other investments were located not one hundred metres from him. The street looked residential, the building itself designed to be ignored, forgotten. And mostly, it had been. If some had heard the stories, they at best thought the place existed only in legend or had once been there but those days were long gone. The modern way of open banking, regulations and the like wouldn’t easily allow such a bank to exist nowadays, or so the talk would go. How wrong they all were.

  Rad would not go in. His purpose wasn’t to penetrate the Bank, but to stop Foma from doing so. The area around the Bank was residential, the street just like so many others of similar charm. Carrying out a hit there would not be ideal, it was too exposed.

  Rad didn’t need that location, nor was it clear if Foma would go there. Besides, Rad as a trained assassin had already noticed an ideal spot. Everything about it immediately told the Russian it was what he was looking for.

  At the bottom of the hill from the road that ran down in front of the hotel, sat a tall building under repair. It was closed off and didn’t appear to be currently occupied with workmen. They had covered the entire front of the building in white plastic, presumably protective material for whatever was happening to the brickwork. The roof was flat. Rad couldn’t see it from where he was but could tell it was like many buildings of similar construction. If he were tucked away on the roof, he would have a clear line of sight for at least thirty-seconds of Foma’s car as he came towards that part of the city. It helped hugely that the road in front of the hotel was a one-way street. They would have to go that way at some point. For Rad, it made the perfect spot. Isolated enough to hopefully not be disturbed, a natural line of sight, and a fast getaway possible without too many watching eyes.

  Rad inspected the building but would risk nothing by attempting a break-in before he was equipped. It was clear the once large hotel was empty, and there were no workers around. The doors were undoubtedly secured, but he was sure the higher floors, protected by the sheeting and accessible by the scaffolding, would give him an access point somewhere. He turned and walked back up towards his hotel. He needed his weapon, and he would make himself ready. Foma was in town to deal, so would surely be on the move before too long.

  16

  Oxford

  Phelan had gone out for a jog though he’d stopped running not long after leaving home. He needed to find a telephone; he needed to get in touch with MI6 again.

  Phelan had last spoken to Anissa in the days before the election. Now Filipov had won, and the early plays by the new Russian President had told Phelan all he needed to know. Outspoken oligarchs were going missing. It could only have been by order of the President.

  Phelan didn’t feel safe.

  He’d never really felt safe around Filipov, as he was still in the weaker position with his big secret to hide, the threat never removed. He could lose his family at any moment if he were to step out of line. Filipov would have revealed his identity to the British if Phelan had not become Sokoloff’s Contestant in the Games. The Russian would have told Phelan’s wife all about the affair if Phelan had not agreed to get Maggie to call in the loan.

  There were always threats, always blackmail, and Phelan still had so much to lose.

  No more. Phelan couldn’t stand by, watching the latest billionaire President do whatever he liked, getting away with it, unchallenged and unquestioned.

  Phelan reached the phone box, the street crowded as it always was. No one would listen in, the mix of those around being tourists, or students, or locals on their way home or to the shops.

  Phelan pulled out Anissa’s personal mobile number one more time. The last time they’d chatted it hadn’t ended too well. Then he had been angry at the lack of response. Now he hoped they knew more of the threat.

  Anissa answered after a few rings.

  “It’s me,” he said, his accent pronounced.

  “Phelan?” Anissa said, not taking many unknown numbers on that phone, but she had wondered if the Irishman might be back in touch before too long given the result in Moscow.

  “Look, I know we didn’t see things the same way in the past, but now he’s in power, you’ll see the real Filipov come out.”

  She already knew what Phelan meant. The silencing of outspoken voices, the arrest and imprisonment of a fellow oligarch; these were just the starting pistol, she was sure. Putin hadn’t been heard from in weeks, and arrests were already starting to happen right across Russia. Anyone standing in Filipov’s way, anyone not prepared to fall into line, and they were out. Filipov was clearing away every challenger, any perceived threat, real or otherwise.

  “Go on,” Anissa said, her tone inviting, but she would not steer the conversation herself. She was prepared, however, to hear him out.

  “What I have to talk about can’t be done over the phone.” He went silent.

  “Give me something,” she said, looking at her watch. She was due out for dinner with her husband in ten minutes.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You came to me, remember, not the other way around. If you have something I need to know, you must trust me. Who are you afraid of?”

&
nbsp; “Him. He has people everywhere. He has someone at Six.”

  “Here? That’s ridiculous.”

  “If you understood the lengths he goes to like I do, you’d soon realise nothing is out of the question with him, I can assure you.”

  “Why me?” she asked, wondering once more why Phelan had reached out to her.

  “Sorry?”

  “Why is it me you are speaking to?” She paused. “No, scratch that,” she said, her mind racing down a new chain of thought. “Why you? What does Filipov have on you that means you are in such a difficult position?”

  “Nothing,” he said, weakly. “Don’t say his name, they are listening. I’ll be in touch,” and before Anissa could ask who was listening, who would pick up the fact she’d mentioned Filipov’s name, Phelan hung up. She knew the British wouldn’t be snooping. The NSA, maybe, though she suspected Phelan assumed it would be the Russians, and Filipov’s circle itself. That would require a contact in the UK who was senior enough to get them into the system. She doubted that to be the actual case, however, putting it all down to Phelan’s paranoia, along with his reference to there being someone within MI6 who was cosy with Filipov.

  Anissa glanced at her watch. She was running late, and she’d not yet done her hair.

  “Damn you, Phelan,” she said under her breath, rushing into the bathroom with what little time she now had left.

  By four in the afternoon in Zurich, Rad had received his equipment via the courier service. He’d contacted Svetlana to confirm what he knew. Svetlana had passed on the message to Filipov. The President said he had access to an FSB unit in the area and would use them to flush out Foma before five.

  Rad wasted no time, jogging down the hill, his bag heavy but not overly so. Inside the bag, in smaller sections, he had his trusty weapon, a gun that had killed more people than he could remember, though he placed that figure at, roughly, sixty men. He’d never once shot a woman, had never been forced to either.

  The building Rad was aiming for had thankfully remained quiet. Whatever work was going on was apparently in a state of pause, and that worked in the Russian’s favour. He threw his bag onto the first level of scaffolding and climbed up after it. He did the same for the next five floors, no ladders in place, having to use his strength to pull himself up, though he was a man in excellent physical shape, and climbing was not an issue, even with his equipment slowing him down a little.

  As hoped, on the top floor, a window was out, a rubble shute going in through the gap for whoever was working on that top floor to be able to drop the debris straight outside. Rad climbed in through the hole himself. He looked around. There was nobody there as he had suspected.

  He took no time to find the fire exit; the door opening easily, Rad putting a brick in place to stop it closing behind him. He climbed the steps to get up onto the roof and was outside soon after. He went to the front of the building. Around the edge of the roof, as with most flat-roofed buildings, there was a three-foot brick wall to stop anyone falling off. Rad opened his bag. Along the front of the building––the road down from the hotel that Foma was staying at came directly towards that spot––there was a drainage hole. Rad removed the plastic piping, and his weapon could fit through the gap. That would allow him to lie on the roof, hidden behind the wall, his gun just inches from the rooftop, with a clear line of sight for a reasonable distance down the entire street.

  Rad quickly set everything up he needed. A sheet to put underneath him on which he would lie. His weapon, stand, silencer and scope, all expertly assembled and soon the gun was resting in place. Rad pulled out another blanket, this time a camouflage one, and after lying down, dropped it over his back. The last thing he needed was to be spotted from above.

  Then Rad waited.

  His watch said it was twenty to five. Filipov had promised an intervention at five, though he had not announced what that would be, not that it mattered. Rad was watching everything now through his scope, getting his eye in, measuring off the distance, scanning up and down the road, expecting everything. He felt natural in that position. His mind raced to similar locations in Georgia, Syria and Iran. Those offered the added danger of escaping a conflict zone after the hit, though he was always stationed with the Russian military for those hits, so had their support. These current type of hits, the now not uncommon ones he was doing for a President, were by nature more solo, though at least the locations were less hostile. The Swiss were not known for their aggressive quality, or their pursuit of terrorists, and in the Bank, had an even bigger secret to keep hidden. Rad felt comforted by what Svetlana had passed on from Filipov that the Swiss could be silenced and made to look the other way.

  In his suite on the fifth floor, Foma was preparing his information. Making a play for the money of hundreds of oligarchs was a bold move, and he had to get his story perfect.

  At five, three members of an FSB field unit entered the foyer of the same hotel. Someone had told them to go in, look around, sit in the restaurant for five minutes and then leave. They gave no further instructions. Knowing Foma had used the hotel several times before, Filipov was confident that Foma had an agreement with at least one person behind the reception desk.

  Seconds after the three FSB agents had left––their somewhat staged acting not going to win any awards, though they were meant to be as visible as possible––a call went up from reception to Foma’s room. The man alerted the oligarch to the clear presence of Russian agents, who had just left moments before his call. Foma thanked the man. It always paid well to keep the staff of such establishments onside, and once again, that tactic had proved invaluable.

  Foma immediately collected his things together. What the FSB were onto he wasn’t sure, but their presence there was not a welcome one. If they suspected him being there in the first place, he would not wait around for another visit. It was now or never with the Swiss. If Foma could pull this off––drastically limiting Filipov’s ability to continue his rampage––then Foma would have to act. He knew he had one chance at this.

  They summoned his car, the driver swinging by and stopping outside the front of the hotel only a minute later. In his suite, Foma dropped his belongings into his travel bag. He wouldn’t need to come back that night and would settle his account before leaving. He exited the room.

  Downstairs, Foma had a quick word with the man who had called him, though there was little more to add. If the FSB were still in the area, Foma would not wait around for them. Foma paid the bill and said goodbye to the team behind the desk. He would see them again soon, he promised.

  Outside, the driver was out and taking Foma’s bag from him, placing it into the boot before opening the side door for the Russian. Foma got in. The driver went around to the other side of the car, to his still open driver’s door, and got behind the wheel. Seconds later, he pulled away.

  The road was clear, Foma instructing the driver to take him to the location in question, though he had just given the address of the Bank, not its relevance. No one else needed to know why the billionaire was heading there.

  As the car picked up speed, it all happened so quickly. In the same split second, at what the driver assumed was a stone hitting the windscreen, a bullet cut a hole through the glass, pounding through the passenger seat headrest before taking off the face of Foma, the event in slow motion. Blood sprayed the back window, the driver turning at the realisation, seeing with horror the blood and Foma collapsing then turning his head back towards the way he was driving before a second bullet hit him in the forehead. The car mounted the kerb, the sudden braking enough to stall the engine, without any further damage being done. The driver had instinctively hit the brake at the first sense of danger.

  For Rad, less than a thousand metres in front, it had been the only thing to do. The driver was just unfortunate collateral damage, but killing him would undoubtedly allow Rad more time to escape. Rad was already packing away his gear, having been waiting for nearly twenty-five minutes. He had seen the FSB uni
t enter the hotel and had expected the black Mercedes pulling up moments later. He’d watched Foma leave the hotel––a shot had been possible then, it was in range––but it wasn’t such a clean exit. The hotel would be on alert, they would undoubtedly have immediately raised the alarm. Rad had decided that the vehicle had to be moving a little way from the building already, and while it made it a slightly harder shot, they were, in fact, getting closer to him all the time, and the line of sight was as good as he could have imagined. And as hoped, nobody was as yet rushing to the vehicle wondering what could have happened. They would soon, Rad knew, and he was already climbing back out onto the scaffolding. He was on the ground when the first sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone had apparently raised the alarm, but Rad knew he would be away from there long before they got close. He’d left the scene as cleanly as possible, though the rooftop would be the obvious location once they confirmed it was the work of a sniper. Rad was sure the work site would be finely combed. It would probably reveal something.

  Rad hoped he would be back in Russia before any of that started. He flagged down a taxi.

  “Airport please,” he said, getting into the back seat, bag next to him, as he typed a text message to Svetlana confirming he was ready to leave Switzerland. He said nothing else. It was clear the operation had been a success.

  News of the assassination in Switzerland hit the early evening news cycle. The fact it was Foma Polzin, the former friend of Filipov, killed within a week of the Russian winning the election only added more fuel to the fire. There were already calls of foul play.