The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  “How much time do we have in Syria before they'll know about the money?”

  It was a good question, and one Orlov could only guess at himself.

  “Whatever it is, it’s hardly going to be long enough, but we have to try. We must get word to them, we have to get Putin either out of Syria or so well hidden and away from danger that Filipov will never find him.”

  “I’ll go and see if I can drum up some more cash. I’ll speak to my lawyer,” Sergej said. Orlov was well aware of the divorce settlements, the papers not yet final, but starting to go through the system. Fighting the amount now would only confirm to Svetlana––and therefore Filipov––that they knew about their own losses and were trying to save whatever they could. Orlov loathed the President even more, though he never referred to Filipov by that title. Putin was his President, as much as anything. Filipov was merely an imposter, someone thrown into position by yet another populist vote, someone not actually qualified for the job, but deemed qualified because of his wealth and business success. Orlov resented the fact his own country had gone the same way America had. Two nations, for so many years bitter enemies, yet now sharing the same fate. Unlike America, however, Russia did not have a history of assassinating their President. Mark was determined to change that statistic. His own future now depended on it.

  Oxford, England

  Anissa had come alone to Oxford, an address she had on file for Phelan, now that MI6 had discovered who he had once really been.

  She was there to talk to his wife, whose husband was now in the same situation as Alex. Missing. Anissa would leave off the presumed dead part, but the writing was on the wall. It was only fair that the mother, and therefore the children, knew the truth. Daddy probably wasn’t ever coming home.

  Anissa rang on the doorbell, the sound of feet heard pounding down the stairs, the door opened in a hurry, the look of disappointment clear on the woman’s face as she opened the front door to find only Anissa standing there. Anissa saw at that moment the desperate longing that they were apparently going through, each knock on the door offering the potential of their returning loved one.

  Anissa was really going to disappoint them now but she didn’t dwell on that thought.

  “Yes?” Debbie said, unsure of who Anissa was or why she was calling on her at that moment.

  “Debbie McDermott?” Anissa asked, though she was confident that the woman now standing in front of her was indeed Debbie.

  “Yes,” she said, both expectantly and with dread, in equal measure. A stranger turning up on the doorstep was never going to be good news.

  “Can I come in? It’s about Phelan.” The mere mention of his name took all the colour from Debbie’s face, a sudden panic threatening to take over before she managed to steady herself and she stepped away from the door, allowing space for Anissa.

  “Please, come in,” she said, Anissa slipping off her shoes and following the barefooted Debbie into the lavishly carpeted lounge. Anissa had hardly taken in how grand the house was, and once more was reminded they had come into millions.

  Anissa took a seat on the sofa, Debbie distractedly cleared away some items that hardly seemed out of place. While this carried on, Anissa spoke anyway. Debbie wasn’t about to sit down, she was apparently at the end of her emotions. Frayed, pent-up, with no outlet, no news, nothing to base her growing fears on. Anissa knew how she felt.

  “Your husband is missing,” Anissa said; the statement was obvious, but Debbie looked over with a clear understanding on her face. He was missing. Not absent, not run away, but involved in something––business or pleasure, legal or not, she had no idea––a now confirmed mission.

  “Is he dead?” Debbie asked, looking Anissa directly in the eye all of a sudden, the shift from the tidying of the room enough to catch Anissa off guard. Anissa froze, not knowing what to say, her failing to keep eye contact and then silence as she studied the carpet speaking more to the grieving wife than any answer might have done.

  “I don’t know,” Anissa said and both understood the genuineness of the reply.

  “Can I ask who you are?”

  “My name's Anissa.” She didn’t say any more.

  “Was he working for you?”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was on his own.” Anissa didn’t know what more to say, and couldn't make reference to or a link to Alex in any of it, couldn’t mention MI6 and their plot, nor did Anissa want to say anything about Phelan’s hidden past. It had been all over the news, though only the legend. There was no name behind the terrorist, no revealing of who he was.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “We know,” Anissa said, her tone leaving no room for false hope. It was best that Anissa was totally clear on this, that Debbie was put out of her misery. She had to prepare for the worst.

  “Where?”

  “In Russia,” Anissa said, though she didn’t know why; she couldn’t think of anything better to say.

  “Is Matvey Filipov involved?” There was anger on Debbie’s face now. It was clear that she knew all about her husband’s connection to Matvey, though probably not everything. Anissa was sure there was plenty Debbie wasn't aware of, but the MI6 agent wasn’t there to spill those secrets. Anissa was there to reach out to someone who otherwise had no one looking out for her.

  “It’s highly likely,” Anissa confirmed, as much as she was prepared to say.

  Debbie shook her head as if coming back to some prior thought. “I always knew it would end like this. Ever since the lottery, ever since Phelan went to work for that man, I always said he was dangerous. Filipov I mean. It never ended with him. There was always something more that poor Phelan had to do. Even when we had the money, even after we were apparently free and safe in the USA, Phelan was called away to work for Filipov once more. We thought it was over. Phelan had told me he’d been given the all-clear. We were free to live our lives. Do you know, I spent the last few months in the USA on my own with the kids?”

  Anissa knew that; also knew what Phelan had been doing while in London. Maggie’s hanging body from the upstairs bathroom window still haunted the MI6 agent from time to time, the woman's death the result of Phelan walking away from her a second time. He had already got what Filipov had demanded of him. Phelan had done it to keep his family safe, but Anissa couldn’t help think he must have enjoyed it, on some level. He must have been able to slip into an alternative life and be convincing enough to make Maggie do what she did; either that, or he was one hell of an actor.

  Anissa didn’t respond to Debbie’s last question, which both women took to mean Anissa was well aware of what had happened.

  “As soon as Phelan learnt Filipov was running for President, he reached out to various agencies. He wanted them to do something. He knew Filipov was dangerous.” Again, Anissa remained silent, confirming something Debbie had been suspecting. “I guess that’s where you came into the picture?”

  “Look, Debbie, I’m not here in an official capacity, as officially my office has no knowledge of Phelan, who he is or where he went. I’m here as a woman, a spouse myself, with kids––boys––just like you. I’m here as a wife who would want to know if something had happened to my husband.”

  “God, he’s not coming home, is he?” There were tears in Debbie’s eyes at that moment, and Anissa knew her own wouldn’t be far behind.

  “No, I don’t think he is.” Both took a few seconds to calm themselves, Debbie turning away and looking at the wall where various family photos were displayed. She touched a few as she processed the news that Anissa had just given her.

  “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to let you know,” Anissa said, after an appropriate amount of time for reflection. Debbie turned back to face Anissa, the tears stopped, but her eyes were red and strained. There would be plenty more tears later, Anissa knew that for sure.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” she said. “If you do hear anything more, you will be the one to let me know?” Anissa nodded.

  Five
minutes later, Anissa was back at the front door. She’d turned down the offer of a hot drink, and the two women had chatted a little, but Anissa didn’t want to say something she would regret, and the whole situation was hard enough for her as it was. She couldn’t imagine not knowing everything if she was in Debbie’s shoes, and Anissa wouldn’t know what she would do if her husband suddenly vanished.

  Anissa walked out through the front door, having left her number with Debbie should she need to speak to someone. It was the least Anissa felt she could do.

  She got back in her car and headed for London.

  6

  Kresty Prison, St Petersburg––Russia

  Alex had been in prison for three weeks. Left to himself mostly, he’d formed a daily routine. He already had a broken leg and punched up face. It seemed they had paused at that for the time being.

  He’d not seen anyone, not been charged with anything, but Alex had known from the moment he arrived, his imprisonment wasn’t anything to do with a pending trial.

  And he was guilty, after all.

  Alex just hoped his capture wasn’t putting anyone else in danger. He’d not said anything, anyway, though apart from the first punishment, they’d not really put him in a position where he might have given anything up. Alex had quickly learned that was because they didn’t need him for that. They already had someone at the top of MI6 who could get them anything they wanted to know. Alex pondered who else within the government might be in Filipov’s pocket.

  Alex was allowed an hour of fresh air a day, and this was taken in an eighteen-metre square courtyard with razor-wired walls so high that no other buildings in the city were even visible, nor anything else from the prison. Alex knew the river was not all that far from him, and he’d seen it frozen during winter on previous visits. Cold was already in the air, as the city raced towards another winter. Alex could only imagine how bitter the nights were going to get for him in the coming months. Would he still be there then? Would he still be alive even?

  Alex had determined to live each day, one at a time. All sense of dates and even the months rolled into one. Inside, these meant nothing. Meals were served, an hour in the day was allowed for recreation, but aside from that, all normal function and need for a specific date mattered very little. It was just about existence now, about survival. He knew his days were numbered. When Filipov got around to deciding what to do with him next, Alex was confident the end might be sudden. He was prepared for that.

  Alex saw no other prisoners. That was either because they were all kept from knowing who else was there, or because of not being Russian himself, the guards didn’t see the point of letting him mix. Alex didn’t speculate any more. He sat in the crisp air, the sky patchy with cloud and the occasional ray of sunshine, and breathed in as deeply as he could. However long he had left, he had to make each moment count. He refused to give up on whatever life there was, short as he knew it would be. His resolve was strong because he assumed before long he’d be put out of his misery. Only as the weeks turned into months, the weather growing increasingly cold, the snow making its first appearance, did Alex begin to wonder how long he could last in such a place.

  Moscow

  The meeting had taken some time to organise, but Svetlana was looking forward to the chance to once more stand in front of a room full of oligarchs, and once again share her plans for the Games. All ten men were waiting downstairs for her in her Moscow home.

  She’d opted for that place for a couple of reasons. Firstly, Moscow felt safer and since this was a new context for most of the guests, it didn’t matter to them where they met. Moscow was indeed more accessible for most to get to, seeing that half the group lived there already. Svetlana had initially wanted to host the meeting away from the capital, in her St Petersburg home. She had wondered what that might feel like, being there in the same capacity as before, and yet it all being so different. So new. Sergej, however, had changed all that the week before. His lawyers were now challenging their agreement over the settlement. The St Petersburg property was part of the argument. It was, therefore, a no-go for the foreseeable future.

  Meeting in Moscow was also nearer to Filipov, and Svetlana didn’t know why, but that really concerned her. She wanted this to be her thing, yet he’d dictated who was to be involved. He’d been very clear on that. Since passing her the list, however, he’d been distant. She’d been left to get on with things, and had a clearer idea about what they might do together, but wasn’t yet decided on the final option. She would let the gathering determine that for her.

  Svetlana checked herself in the mirror one last time. She’d dressed to impress, and the impact was spectacular. She would turn heads at the worst of times, so when she went to the effort she had gone to that morning, the result was something else entirely. She was in character once more, a role she’d performed so well down the years, by far her favourite of all the ones she’d played, a position no magazine article ever written about her had mentioned because they never knew. Few did. That was what made it all the more emotional for her.

  She’d become a woman in Moscow, the part of town where she had first lived, first auditioned, not too far from where she now resided. That whole region, where she'd gone from girl to woman, had since been demolished, new high-rise apartments put in place about twenty years before, these already starting to date as well now. She’d never revisited that area. It represented a life she once lived––very humble beginnings, in a difficult time for her country. She would not have recognised the person she had now become back then.

  Svetlana had been abused and taken advantage of, as were so many vulnerable souls in her position. #MeToo had come decades too late to have saved her, but the experience had shaped her, had moulded her to who she now was. She didn’t like what had happened, but it gave her the drive she now had to make people pay for those sins, make them listen to her for once. The dress and the makeup was all a costume. She was back.

  Svetlana swept elegantly down the stairs. She could hear the quiet hum from behind the door already, of men in conversation, no doubt awaiting her arrival. She got to the door, pausing for a moment to take in a breath. This was her crowd, her room. She owned the place. They were here to listen to her. She was in charge, and this time, there would be no snakes in the grass, no one involved who she wasn’t entirely sure about. This was her domain.

  She opened the door, walking in, all heads turning, the flow of speech pausing, only to see Filipov himself at the front of them all, midway through his address.

  “Svetlana, wonderful that you can join me,” Filipov said, his eyes giving off all kinds of other signals. He’d obviously orchestrated the whole meeting for whatever purpose he had. Svetlana came towards him, but a raised hand from the President told her all she needed to know. You wait there. This is my show now.

  “I’m just explaining to these men why they are here,” Filipov said. Svetlana had thought that was obvious. They were there for her because she’d asked them. They were there to be involved in the new Games, a better version of what had once been, a more vibrant version for them all. Well, not all of them, all of the time. For anyone to win big, it meant one or more had to lose. That was always the fun of it, always Svetlana’s most enjoyable thing to watch. She had nothing on the line, no risk involved. She'd always found something fascinating about watching oligarchs go up against a fellow oligarch. Bets worth millions, betting for power, trading influence. The most fun was those rare battles where for one or both parties, what was on the line was more than the losing party could afford. She’d seen billionaires ruined overnight, men who’d been so blinded by winning, that the defeat had smacked them on the nose before they’d seen it coming.

  Oligarchs were now dead or bankrupt because they had once been involved in the Games.

  Filipov continued. “I gave Svetlana your names because I wanted you here today. Like she said, you will be making money, but you will not be doing so from each other.” Svetlana stepped forward as if
to interject, Filipov raising his hand as a parent might do to a rebellious child, putting her firmly in her place. “You are all here because you have one thing in common.”

  Svetlana had worked out that much. They all had a connection with the gas industry. It was the only thing that connected the men, although for some of them there were lots of other crossovers as was usual for men worth billions each.

  “I’m here because you are going to switch off the supply of gas to western Europe,” Filipov said, matter-of-factly, as if asking them to turn off the kitchen tap.

  “Sorry?” a few said, more a reflex reaction than open defiance. Switching off the gas, while not unprecedented, hurt them as much as it put pressure on Europe. When done in the past, calls were always made for European countries reliant on gas from Russia to start to look elsewhere. That had happened, but soon the cost and the ready supply from Russia had won over. Europe now relied on nearly fifty per cent of its gas supply coming from Russia. When Russian companies switched off, however, it threatened trust. A supply that was unreliable would soon become no supply at all. China was already discussing shipping in a liquefied substitute, and the complete shutdown from Russia would only push Europe in that direction.

  “Russia will be cutting off the supply to western Europe of all our gas.” Filipov was unmoved in the face of apparent disagreement with what he had just said.

  “For how long?” Millions were lost for every day that these Russian firms didn’t supply gas to Europe. It was one of their primary markets, prices as high as they’d been in a while. Business was booming. A switch off now could wipe billions off share prices in the firms represented by the ten oligarchs present.

  “Indefinitely,” Filipov confirmed. Most of the room swore loudly.