by Tim Heath
The Wolf left the staging area that sat near the centre of the room, the bank of screens directly behind, and exited the room. A few of the men stood around in groups, men sticking to their circles and wealth even in a group of such financially fat men.
The building, all five floors making the same house, had enough rooms on the top three floors to house all of the guests, which had become the practice from day one, everyone contained within the same four walls.
At that moment, as evening fell, the last of the four unwitting Contestants had arrived in St Petersburg, travelling to their hotel to rest for the night. Little did each know what tomorrow had in store for them.
5
Alex sat down in the business lounge at Heathrow airport later that day, Anissa parking her car, as per a conversation they’d just had moments before. The direct flight had already left for the day, but a flight connecting through Zurich then on to St Petersburg would still just about get them in before the day was out, though there wouldn’t be much time to spare.
He sipped a can of Coke he’d grabbed from the bar, around half a dozen other people, mainly men, scattered around the well-furnished lounge. From where he was sitting he could see the tarmac outside, planes of all sizes moving around or sitting at the various gates, presumably waiting for passengers to come, or go, before they would soon be flying out again, Heathrow being one of the busiest airports in the world. He could also see the entrance from where he was sitting, and he put down his tablet which he had been scanning for news as Anissa walked in through the door and then over to his position. A few heads had turned in the lounge, some male subconscious instinct acknowledging the presence of a younger woman, but they soon lost interest as she walked over and joined her colleague, who rose to greet her.
“Have any problem clearing things with home?” Alex said as they sat down again, passing her a can of drink that he’d bought for her earlier.
“Thanks for this. No, you know how he is, always concerned for my safety, but he warmed to the idea that you were going with me, clearly feeling I was safer with you, so there you go.”
“A good man, your husband, clearly,” Alex said, not knowing him at all. She understood the joke. The truth was, there had been a little friction at home in the early days, especially with how well they’d so naturally clicked, not helped by the fact Alex was a single guy. As the years had gone by, things had calmed down a lot on the home front, as her husband and children understood mum had a demanding job that required she travel a lot, though the last few years had been primarily based in the UK, much to their delight. It made the need to go at such short notice a little more comfortable. Her mother was coming to stay that weekend, to help out with the children and allow her husband to play football on Sunday morning, though the kids would go and watch him do that, as they always did. Anissa was a little sad to miss it this week, unsure exactly how long they’d be away but making arrangements regardless should the inevitable happen and she not be around for the family’s usual Sunday ritual. She opened her can of drink just as their flight was called for the first time.
“Looks like I’d better down this one quickly,” she said, taking a big gulp, which nearly made her choke, the fizz catching her nose, taking her a few seconds to regain her composure.
“Careful there,” Alex said, pushing her on the shoulder.
“Get over yourself,” she said as they stood up, collecting their bags together and heading for the door.
The flight was smooth the whole way, the transfer in Zurich just thirty-five minutes but easily enough time to make the connection, and they were touching down in St Petersburg just before eleven that evening, local time, having lost two hours with the journey east.
While in Switzerland, Alex had received confirmation via a text message that Sasha would be meeting them when they landed, and sure enough, this dark-haired Russian man was the first to spot them as they exited the aircraft, his eyes able to pick out other security service personnel as only a fellow agent could. They’d never formally met one another, though over the previous twelve months the Brits, especially Alex, had been made more aware of him, some of his colleagues meeting with Sasha in Stockholm the past year.
“Come this way,” he said, having been introduced to Anissa and shaking their hands. He led them through a side door, away from the crowds who were working their way through the lines of immigration that, even given the late hour, were already starting to build up. They passed no other personnel as Sasha opened and closed doors, taking them through a series of four inter-connected rooms before emerging, just three minutes later, out through a final door that lay between the arrivals and departure halls of the terminal’s main buildings. His car, a black Mercedes with tinted windows, sat not more than twenty metres from the door. They were in the car in less than ten seconds, Sasha opening the rear door for Anissa, both British agents getting into the back seat before Sasha ran around to the driver’s side and pulled away.
Given the hour, traffic was a lot lighter than it might have been. Sasha drove fast along mostly three-lane roads until he reached the edges of the city, vast tower blocks appearing to crowd in from every side, as many still being built it seemed as were standing. Now the traffic slowed a little as the roads became two-lane and then one in places. Anissa looked from the back seat, and little said as the car sped along the tarmac, an alien world to her English eyes racing past her. Neither agent had ever been to Russia before, and they didn’t speak a word of Russian either.
“This must be quite urgent,” Sasha said, his English good and clear, even if it had a distinctive accent to it, “if you’ve come at such short notice and need me to sneak you into the city. What’s up?” he asked, eyes darting between the rear view mirror where he had been mainly addressing Alex, though he eyed them both, uncertain of who was leading the investigation, while also keeping an eye on the road in front of him.
“It’s complicated,” Alex started, giving him a rundown over a few minutes on what the last three months had entailed, finishing with him saying that they would give him more details when they got settled in the hotel.
“Man, that’s got to be the craziest thing I’ve heard all year. Mind you, what I’ve come to find in this line of work is that you never know what level of madness is around the next corner, so I’ll hear you both out for sure. You must know, this is highly irregular, and I’d be finished if my bosses knew what I was doing. Even talking to you like this is dangerous.”
“We know. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us so far, especially last year in Sweden.” Sasha couldn’t help get the feeling that the British felt like they owned him now, and it bothered him much. If they were to reveal to the FSB that he’d leaked them information as he had in the past, he’d be finished. Dead, most likely. So it worried him that once again MI6 had come calling, wanting another favour, expecting him just to drop everything. There had been no threat, and it had been his nature to go and help them, a rare breed in his circles. But he couldn’t escape the sense that the threat was there, bubbling under the surface, ready to pounce any moment he refused to do what they asked.
The fact he didn’t know either of these two agents also concerned him a little, his interactions with Charlie Boon and his female colleague Zoe last year a frosty one to start but something that had served both their purposes well. Why he was now dealing with two new agents, he wasn’t sure. A sense of wanting to do the right thing prevailed once again, given the little information he’d been told about their purpose for dropping into his city that night.
Just under forty-five minutes after leaving the airport, Sasha pulled up alongside an expensive looking hotel in the centre of the city, named after the October revolution. The central railway station, which connected the city with Moscow and then beyond, faced the south side of the hotel. Sasha helped them into the foyer of the hotel.
“You’ll be okay from here. They speak your language, and the last thing you need is me hanging around you, making you s
tand out more than you need to. I’ve booked you into a double room suite, in keeping with the cover story, but the beds come apart, and there is plenty of space to have some privacy, so don’t worry about it. Here’s my card with my details on it,” he said, handing them a small business card that he used for such times as this. He certainly didn’t want calls coming for him at the office.
“Thanks,” Anissa said, taking the card and shaking his hand, which he returned, a firm but gentle grip.
“I’ll come for you tomorrow morning, out front at the same spot. Be ready for ten, and I’ll just pull over, and you can jump in. I doubt there’ll be the space to park as there is at the moment.” Despite the time, there had been only two free spaces outside on the crowded street, and given the impression they had received of St Petersburg being a busy city, they understood tomorrow the roads would most likely be crawling with cars.
Sasha left them, returning to his car and driving the twenty minutes north of the river, that it took him to get home. Thankfully the bridges were not yet opening overnight, something reserved for the summer months which effectively cut the city in two, with no way across until the giant bridges closed again, allowing what waiting traffic there was to pass once more.
Alex grabbed the room key, returning with it as they both walked towards the one lift they spotted, which was entirely glass, apart from the base. They went up to the fourth floor. Clean, green carpets welcomed them as they found their suite, which once inside proved bigger than Anissa expected. It opened up on two sides, being a corner room with views across a nearby park from one of the windows.
“This is a nice room,” Alex commented, already getting to work on moving the beds apart, having placed the one small travel bag he’d brought with him on a small sofa that sat against one wall. Each half of the bed had its own duvet and sheets, as was common practice in such hotels, and he dragged the mattress with ease around the L-shaped corner into what was some lounge area, though they could easily rearrange the sofas later.
Ten minutes later, the beds were at either end of the room, leaving each occupant out of sight of the other. A lavish bathroom led off from the main door, a free-standing bath and stand-alone shower just some of the features. It was already gone midnight as Anissa started to unpack the few items she had with her, which included enough changes of clothing for about four days, a little more underwear too, in case the stay got prolonged. They had the suite for three nights, including that night, and beyond that, she didn’t know what was needed.
Alex turned the TV on as Anissa went to freshen up a little in the bathroom and prepare for some sleep. An ice hockey game was playing on the channel as the set came to life with the match deep into the third period already, though the score between the two teams, which he presumed were Russian, was showing as level. He sat down, only half interested in the match, but happy for the background noise, and connected his tablet to the hotel’s Wifi network once he got it all working. Several emails downloaded and he took the next twenty minutes scanning through them, replying to a few. There were very few work emails––they thought he was on holiday, anyway, so that certainly helped. Anissa had emerged from the bathroom, and while saying she would read for a bit, had now switched off her lamp. Alex said goodnight and he too started to prepare for some sleep. It was just before one.
Across the city, Annabel Herbertson and Twila Dalton were both already sound asleep. Annabel had landed in the afternoon, so had been able to explore a little, the tiredness and sheer differentness of the city and country she was suddenly in, catching up with her fast and she’d lain down just after eleven.
Teo Vela had only just landed, his flight a little delayed on the way in, and he went to his room as soon as he had the key. He worked his way through the minibar while watching some Spanish football which he was happy to find on one of the many channels he seemed to have available. Sleep would come, as the alcohol overcame him, at around three in the morning.
Dubhán Maguire was sitting in an Irish bar as the clock struck two, a pint of what appeared to be genuine Guinness but at a highly inflated price in front of him. By the fifth pint, his maths never too good, he’d almost forgotten how much the rubles were worth against the Euro and therefore just how expensive each one was. He would end up staying all night, a lad about town on his own time while being abroad, getting back around dawn to his hotel in which he had spent less than five minutes on arrival. As morning came round, he was fast asleep, breakfast long past being served by the time he finally awoke from his slumber.
Regardless of what time they woke, each of them found a piece of paper under their door in the morning, each with a photo attached and some directions leading them to what the photo displayed––in each photo, there was simply the image of a lottery ticket.
6
Annabel was the first one up the following day. She’d come across the piece of paper under her door as she left for breakfast. Her hotel was in the east of the city, halfway between the metro station Narvskaya and the Baltic railway station, which linked that part of Russia with the three Baltic states. The photo that was attached to the note didn’t show the actual numbers that were on the ticket, just the date. It was nearly six months ago, and as she sat down for breakfast, confused as to what it all meant, she was looking through her phone. It was a Euro Loto ticket, and a quick search from that date confirmed that there was one winning ticket worth €15 million, the minimum amount available for that particular draw. She sat up, a tremor running through her body.
Three tables down from her, monitoring everything she was now doing, two women sat quietly, their plates empty in front of them, though a glass of half-finished juice was still before them. Each had an earpiece in, hidden from view by their hair. They had noticed the sudden change in their subject, as she had studied the photo and then spent a few minutes on her phone. She’d apparently found what she was now looking for. All this was reported back to the Games Room, every change, every reaction reflecting new odds, new bets made by the oligarchs funding the whole operation. It was less than thirty minutes later, Annabel having abruptly left the breakfast hall and then the hotel, that the two Trackers were able to confirm what they were all waiting for back to the others.
“Game on,” they reported, and the Hunt had started.
Twila was thirty minutes further north of Annabel on the Petrogradsky island, just north of the river Neva. She too was up for breakfast as she came across the note, assuming it to be something to do with the hotel, leaving it in her room while she had a leisurely but healthy breakfast of mostly fruit and a little salad and sliced meat. In the breakfast hall, it was a team of one man, one woman that was closest at hand and watching her. The news that she didn’t have the sheet of paper with her went down a treat in the Games Room, the Host behind her choice taking a hit in front of his peers. It wasn’t uncommon for that to happen, sometimes multiple notes and messages were needed to get their Contestant to understand what was happening.
She was followed back to the room, where she took a shower after doing a series of exercises on the floor next to her bed, a long established habit that she did without much effort, her body the better for it even if it did nothing to reduce her gradual decline ultimately. Once dressed and out of the shower, she came across the note again, realising there was handwriting on it and a photo, not what she’d noticed before. She sat on the edge of her bed taking it in, looking for anything else it said before re-reading it and just holding the photo in front of her face for a minute, gazing at what she could see, which wasn’t a lot. It appeared to be taped to some silver metal piping, though she couldn’t make out what or where it was, though the attached note seemed to imply where to go. She was immediately cautious, wary of getting led into a situation that might be anything but safe. She picked up her coat and bag and left the room. The camera on the hotel’s system had been tapped into by the technicians so her exit from the room was noted and it was reported in real time that she was on the move. Three peop
le waited in the lobby of the hotel, with others already on the streets, guarding the location they were hoping she was heading for.
“We have visual,” one of the Trackers said, as Twila emerged from the stairwell into the reception area, heading for the desk, in fact, which was the other way from the doors. She spoke briefly to someone at the counter and was then handed a map, which she took to a table and chair to one side and opened out in front of her. She spent three minutes studying it before leaving.
“I think we have a nibble,” the Tracker reported, before they all followed her out, one after the other. Two went the opposite way, to not make it evident that they were keeping track of her, but there were plenty of people on the streets already, and besides, Twila was oblivious to anyone watching her at that moment.
Teo Vela had slept well and was awake before nine, but sat up reading in bed for a little before turning on the TV. He skipped breakfast altogether, which wasn’t provided in his budget hotel and went out to find a coffee shop, completely missing the note that had been slid underneath his door. This had been noticed quickly by the observers and arrangements were being put in place to get this information to Teo in another form before too long. Still, it meant inside the Games Room, his odds lengthened, making him an exciting bet for some. Just how far he’d go was yet to be seen. He was the outsider of the four, little really known about him compared to what they knew of the other three Contestants.
By midday, Dubhán had yet to emerge from his room, much to the mocking jeers of some of the oligarchs watching on in the Games Room. It made his Host work the phones eagerly, calling into action those that were part of his background team, seeing what they could do to rouse this lazy Irishman. He’d been a gamble from the start, which was also what made him such an exciting character to want to choose. It had undoubtedly won the Host some kudos from his peers when he had announced this Contestant but now looked to be backfiring. If they couldn’t get him to enter the Hunt soon, there’d be no real contest as far as he was concerned.