by Tim Heath
“Who knows?” Phelan hadn’t picked up on the signs Alex was now seeing, the increased police presence, all directed at vehicles heading towards St Petersburg. No northbound cars or lorries were being searched.
“Filipov. He knows we are here.”
Phelan swore.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Pull over. We need to assess the situation.” Phelan, who’d been driving that stretch for the last two hours, pulled over and stopped on the grass verge. Vehicles continued to race past them at speed. Alex wished he had his phone with him, but making a call from the area might only alert the Russians to his position. He could have done with the help from outside, however. Where he was, he felt blind.
“There,” Alex said, pointing out through the windscreen, having spotted a farm track set back from the road. It continued past the farm in question and seemed to run parallel with the main road. “We passed the entrance to the farm about a mile back. Swing round, I think if we find that track, it’ll take us south. It might be the old road before they built this motorway.”
Phelan glanced in his mirrors carefully, before swinging the car around in front of a north-bound lorry that sounded its horn, but Phelan soon got up to full speed.
“I see it,” Phelan said, having spotted where Alex was pointing as they approached the farm entrance. There was thankfully a break in the traffic, as Phelan made the turn, and no further issues. He slowed his speed as they drove up the dirt track.
Once at the farm, it was clear Alex’s idea had merit. The road continued past the farm itself, and while not tarmac––it was dirt and stones––the weather had been dry, the track in good enough condition. They continued moving south, knowing the reduced speed had now added time to their journey, but there were no roadblocks or policemen to be seen at all.
In the Volkov mansion, Filipov had arrived with Svetlana earlier that day. Svetlana had confirmation from Rad that he was not far away himself. He would break off radio contact from then on until he was done.
The hunter was after his prey.
“Is there anything from the police?” Filipov asked. That nothing had been reported was a little alarming. He had assumed some sort of encounter would have happened––he had not expected the police to detain the two, far from it. He knew Phelan would never give himself up that easily. There would have been a gun battle or an explosion. It would probably kill the police officers. But the incident would act as a focal point. The Russians would know what they were up against and where they were.
Silence told Filipov nothing.
“No, it’s too quiet,” Svetlana said, confirming she’d been having the same thoughts.
“Is he in place?”
“Yes,” she said. It wouldn’t help to say Rad was still on the way, but given what they knew of the threat, the Russians were already ahead of the curve on this one. Rad would be in place well before anyone arrived to ruin things. She just didn’t know where anyone would select to strike. She trusted it wouldn’t be her home. That fear had been partly why she’d included on the itinerary visits to other places. The town of Pushkin was first up on that list. Sitting south of the city, the side where the roads from the north were most likely to engage the outer-city networks, it was highly likely Rad would see this as the best place for his ambush.
At that moment one man from the security team came into the room. Both Svetlana and the President looked up.
“We have them. They took the old road south. Must have seen the police presence.”
Filipov had feared the overly heavy presence might have forced such a move and was annoyed that there hadn’t been enough men to cover that route. However, at least they knew where they were.
“Where are they now?”
“Approaching Pushkin.”
So, that confirmed it. They were aiming for Catherine’s Palace, the baroque eighteenth-century palace built by Peter the Great, set in beautiful grounds which included golden fountains. It had been a summer getaway for Russian royal families of previous centuries. Filipov was due to spend the whole of the next day there with all the regional leaders, from business to law enforcement. He did not understand how the British knew about it. MI6 wasn’t the only organisation with leaks, it seemed.
They thanked the man, Svetlana wanting to be updated as soon as they knew more, and he left the room.
“Have Rad notified immediately.” Svetlana put that order into place.
Rad was already heading towards the palace. As it was further south, and the first venue on the agenda, it made sense to start there. If there were no signs of a threat, he would move on to the next place.
Rad was cleared through security quickly––they knew of him only from hearsay––the location already in unofficial lockdown ahead of the President’s visit the following day. The many tourists turned away that week were not given a reason. The boats had stopped coming from the centre of St Petersburg since the morning.
Having Rad on site only added more focus to the rest of the men standing guard. Nothing was mentioned about any threat, or why such a sniper as Rad was involved at that moment.
Rad got to work by himself as always––it was basically the only way he worked; indeed, the only way he set up. He took a walk around the grounds. To catch a killer, he had to think like one. Work out what they would do, how they would try their attack, where they would be. Once Rad had worked out these probable locations, he could map his own options. Which one gave him the best line of sight? Which one offered the best cover?
Svetlana had confirmed that the threat wasn’t yet in place though Rad would take nothing for granted. If he could be in place before anyone arrived, he could track every newcomer through the scope of his trusty weapon. Being on friendly soil, he could be a lot closer than usual. There was no need for such a distance. He didn’t need to flee the area himself afterwards. He could work within one thousand metres. Anything too close, and he risked being caught in an explosion if the bomber had set up a failsafe booby trap device. Rad had heard of at least two Russian snipers caught out with that tactic in the past.
Given what they knew of Phelan, anything was possible.
It was early the following morning when Rad finally caught the two in his scope. They were on foot, approaching from a vehicle he’d seen pull up about an hour before, although no one had got out until then. He’d been on high alert ever since.
Rad had lowered himself into position. There wasn’t the time to confirm anything with Svetlana, nor was he going to lose focus by doing that, anyway. He was here to do a job. Rad could tell that no one else had spotted the two men on the perimeter. Rad wasn’t able to alert the other security, either.
The Russian got his range in, focusing in on the face of one man then the other man. It was undoubtedly Phelan, and the other was the MI6 agent Svetlana had handed him the information on. Rad scanned back and forth, moving left and right a fraction, watching each face in minute detail, the men approaching the area cautiously, presumably for an initial reconnaissance. Rad would not give them another chance.
The two men couldn’t have been more than three feet apart.
Rad moved his finger into place. He kept running his scope of the weapon from one face to the other, from the Irishman to the Englishman, the terrorist to the agent. Back and forth. Back and forth. Rad knew, however, his orders from Filipov, via Svetlana, were explicit.
They had both stopped, probably about twelve hundred metres away.
Rad’s trigger finger rested calmly, as he slowed his breathing, settling his scope into place on the man he was to kill. The sniper who never missed.
He pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed around the fountains and gardens, as the body fell to the floor, the other man already running. There would be no escape for him. The shot had alerted everybody. The soldiers already mobilised and on their way.
They would get him. He was theirs.
Rad lowered the weapon, smoke still coming from the barrel, his pe
rfect record intact.
The Meltdown
The Hunt series Book 6
Character Glossary
Who’s who in The Hunt series––as of the start of this book
MI6 - Alex Tolbert, Anissa Edison, Sasha Barkov, Gordon Peacock (head technician)
Matvey Filipov––The President of the Russian Federation.
Svetlana Volkov––The ex-wife of Sergej, now Presidential Filipov’s aide. World famous actress and founder of the Games.
The Machine Leadership––Mark Orlov, Sergej Volkov and Lev Kaminski.
Dmitry Kaminski––Losing Presidential candidate.
Anastasia Kaminski––wife to Dmitry, of Belarusian origin.
Radomir Pajari––elite Russian sniper.
1
Hampstead Cemetery, North London––England
February 2019
Rain mixed with sleet and hail cut through the grey cloud that hung over the whole of London, though for those present, their focus was far from the weather. Groups huddled under umbrellas, others ran for cover and into the building itself.
Two black hearses stood outside, empty now of their cargo, flowers yet to follow the coffins in, as mourners continued to fill up what space there might be left inside among the already crowded pews.
Sasha Barkov made his way into the church alone. His head low, he couldn’t look towards the front of the church where the three coffins lay––one large, two smaller––and instead tucked himself into a spare seat some rows back. He’d never been to a funeral before and hadn’t for one moment imagined he would be at the one he now was having to attend.
He wasn’t there officially. If anyone asked––and they wouldn’t, as it would transpire––he was just a friend of the family. He was certain no one would probe beyond usual British niceties at a funeral.
As far as Sasha could tell, he was the only one from MI6 in attendance. The Director General had wanted to be there––he’d met with Sasha personally to pass on his deepest condolences––but had been called into a critical government meeting at short notice. The absence of the Deputy Director General, Bethany May, was telling.
Anissa had shared her suspicions about Bethany with Sasha months ago, and now this.
A sudden hush came over the place, as the minister appeared at the front and seconds later the sound of organ music could be heard filling the entire building, floor to ceiling with the soulful music. The setting was beautiful, but the reason for being there was only sad.
Sasha glimpsed both sets of grandparents, he assumed they were, anyway, sitting on the front row, heads kept low, the women crying. To experience the loss of one parent to your grandkids was one thing, but to lose both grandchildren at the same time must be on an altogether different level.
Sasha didn’t have a family, didn’t have children, wasn’t aware of anyone who might mourn him if his number was up. He wondered who would even attend his funeral.
He’d been getting closer to someone over the last few months, a woman named Helen Cooper from the National Records Department, and they’d been on several dates. All seemed to be going well, and then the car bomb changed it all. Helen said Sasha was not the same person she knew, and while Sasha couldn’t understand her, he knew things were different now. Things had just become more real and raw. Helen couldn’t attend the funeral with Sasha, as she said they needed time to work things through, but Sasha knew she meant she wanted him to have time to process his priorities. Was Helen still a priority in his life, or had the bombing changed all that?
Could he be an MI6 agent and have a relationship with someone, especially someone outside his world? Could he put anyone else in danger?
Looking up at the two small coffins, and the two sets of weeping grandparents, he wasn’t sure he could.
The minister started his address, but Sasha switched off. He missed Alex, too. He felt alone for the first time in months, certainly for the first time since arriving in the UK having escaped Russia. Yet he had not escaped Russia entirely. It was all around him. He was sure it was the reason he was in that building at that moment, the reason three lives had been cut short, two little boys with no chance of growing up, of happiness.
Sasha wondered if he himself would ever be happy. Helen had said some hurtful things and had moved out two days ago. So Sasha sat alone, just another mourner, another part of the crowd. And the group inside the church was large.
The hail picked up as the minister pressed on with his words, rattling against the glass windows and hammering on the roof. Hammering as if it wanted in on the action as if it had something urgent to say as if there had been a mistake. As if death had been a mistake. Maybe they weren’t meant to die? Maybe there was a chance for them all? Sasha caught his thinking. They were dead. There was nothing more final than that.
The music started again, Sasha not noticing the fact that the minister had apparently stopped his discourse, and twelve men stepped forward to carry the three coffins back out of the church. Everyone stood. Sasha could hear, but no longer see, loud weeping coming from the front of the church. His own stomach clenched, his eyes were moist. But he would not cry. He was merely trying to keep his anger at bay. To get through this moment, to bury the dead, and then to work out what needed putting right. Who else required placing into the ground? Sasha already had a fair idea of whose names were on that list. He’d been adding to it during the service.
The first coffin passed, and Sasha was not able to look up. He knew the quality of the person inside that coffin, the loving parent to the two boys who were following seconds later. Sasha did glance at the last of those coffins, flowers spelling out the boy’s name sitting on top of the casket. The grandparents followed the procession from the church, men standing with umbrellas open waiting for them to arrive at the rear doors, as the guests started to follow behind, row by row starting from the front. Sasha would have to wait his turn, though as the pounding on the stained-glass continued, he didn’t mind waiting a little longer in the relative warmth.
Ten minutes later they were all around the three freshly dug graves, all side-by-side, covered in a large tent canopy that could only fit the immediate family relatives underneath, and maybe a few close friends. Sasha hung back in the crowd, under one of the many umbrellas. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t care. He already knew he didn’t like funerals.
The quiet sobbing increased as the coffins were lowered into the ground. Sasha could see it was one of the grandmothers, though on which side he did not know. He’d not spoken to anyone since arriving, his invitation coming through work––MI6 had paid for the entire funeral, including the twelve-strong team of men who had just carried the coffins outside.
The weather seemed to keep everything short. Most of the crowd were already wet, everyone was cold, as the soil was dropped onto the coffins, and people started to make their way back inside the church, where in an attached hall, drinks and cake were being served. Sasha could do with something hot in his hands and wasn’t disappointed when handed a cup of tea a few minutes later. The close relatives were still outside, maybe having a few private moments.
No press was allowed, that much had been put in place. Today was about grieving the losses, not selling newspapers, though the story had done plenty of that already. Sasha was sure that outside in the distance somewhere, reporters were lurking, long-range cameras looking their way. He wondered if his being there was such a good idea, though with all that had happened, he didn’t care anymore.
He was confident the Russians knew he was with MI6 now. Was he next? Would it be his own funeral that his bosses would be paying for one day?
Sasha came back into the moment, at the sound of the family members coming in from outside. Greetings and hugs were given, Sasha keeping his distance, as he had no part in any of that. He didn’t really belong, he didn’t have any real connection apart from work. And that felt so feeble now, given the circumstances, given the loss. Such waste. Such a waste of life.
Now close, Sasha saw Anissa’s mother and father. Despite their age, there was the apparent resemblance between mother and daughter. Sasha thought about speaking to them but he turned away and twenty minutes later he was outside. He knew he wouldn’t be one of those well-meaning people to go up to the grieving relatives and tell them it would be all right. It wasn’t okay. It was an absolute abomination. A travesty.
Thankfully, given his line of work and years of training, he had some chance to take action in response to the things that had gone so terribly wrong.
Only now, however, did he recall that he worked at Vauxhall House, the home of MI6, but would be doing so from an empty office. There was no Alex and no Anissa. He was alone.
2
Vauxhall House, London––England
September 2018
Anissa and Sasha sat around the computer, their information with too many gaps, their search for answers proving fruitless. They’d lost contact with Alex and hadn’t heard anything since.