The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset

by Tim Heath

  She wouldn’t get that far, however, as the Host of her Hunt was a man with tremendous connections within the migration services, and he had put a flag out with the border guard at the crossing she was heading to. She was to be taken off the bus and held for questioning. A six-hour delay was all it would take to end her chances of ever getting across to the UK in time to claim. He’d make her sit it out, the holding cell no doubt feeding back CCTV footage of a woman pacing around, angry and agitated, annoyed that the money was slipping through her fingers. Sometimes they’d try and pay a bribe to get moving again, and officials not within the tight control of an oligarch or two would often take the bribe. Occasionally, and strictly against the rules, an oligarch who had influence would use it to favour a particular Contestant whom they might otherwise have bet on to succeed a little longer. It was indeed a two-way street. This time, she would be out of options. The other oligarchs had worked out what the Host would do, knowing his connections within the region, owning at least half the city of Vyborg, which was the last major stop off before you hit Finland, very popular with Russian aristocracy down through the ages.

  Teo Vela had eventually been made aware of the ticket, though it was already afternoon. He headed straight to the airport once he realised how much he stood to win. It could have been an easy victory for the Host, a man who’d spent a lot of time and money setting that particular Hunt up, but given the time of day, there were no easy flights that would get him back to Spain anytime soon. The oligarch took the bold move to make no effort to stop him boarding a plane, two Trackers also on the afternoon flight out of Pulkovo 2, meaning the Hunt took on a new edge––there was still an element of risk. If needed, he could delay the Contestant when he finally reached Spain, either getting to him in Madrid via a delay to the onward flight, or some other way once he’d landed at his small regional airport. Doing the maths, the Host thought there was no significant danger of losing, and the added risk certainly brought something to the room. It meant there were three Contestants in the Hunt, and after Annabel’s location had been discovered, two of these people were now out of Russia, which added a lot to the occasion.

  The fourth and final Contestant, who hadn’t appeared from his room until after two that afternoon, was the very hungover Irishman who’d picked up the piece of paper and just laughed at what he saw as an obvious joke. The fact that he still held on his person a valid lottery ticket for just over €3 million wasn’t a thought his Host wanted to dwell on. Most losing Contestants gave up their ticket in some way, only rarely did the Buyers need to pay them for it. As Dubhán left the hotel and headed back to the one place he’d been so far in the city––the Irish pub––two teams of men followed him. One, the Trackers, the other a group of hard and ruthless men organised by the Contestant’s Host, a man already angry that all his efforts had come to nothing. He had underestimated how much of a stupid drunk the man was, assuming he’d be smart enough to understand what he was in possession of and at least make some attempt to claim the money. As he sat in the bar, another pint in front of him, spending money he couldn’t afford, he was joined by the men sent to follow him from his Host. They would wait and see what he did. If he went to the toilet, they would get him then. One way or the other, they would teach him a lesson he wouldn’t see coming, and get back the ticket he had not deemed valuable enough even to try and pursue.

  11

  Alex, Anissa and Sasha had been working through things when Sasha’s phone sounded. The Russian took the call, occasionally glancing at his British counterparts, before ending abruptly.

  “News?” Anissa said.

  “We’ve got movement, Annabel crossed the border into Estonia one hour ago. The Spaniard also flew from the airport this afternoon.”

  “So it’s happening today, it must be. These people are actually taking part in one of these events.”

  “So it would seem,” the Russian said, for the first time convinced that the whole thing was as they’d been telling him.

  “And no news on the other two?”

  “Nothing, but they have the details, so if anything comes up, I’ll be informed.”

  “What’s in Estonia for Annabel?” Alex asked.

  “She’ll be heading for the capital Tallinn, about two hours from the border. There are direct flights to England from there.”

  Anissa looked at her watch.

  “She’s cutting it mighty fine by my reckoning.” She pulled open her laptop that she’d been working on but had switched it off while they waited for anything further to develop. After a quick search, she found the website for Tallinn airport, the departing flights listed on the main screen. “Two flights are departing for England this afternoon, an easyJet to Gatwick at half four, and a Ryanair flight to Stansted at ten. We can discount the night flight as that would get in too late. What time did she cross the border? Can she even make that flight?”

  Sasha checked his computer, the information now updated from the migration police, her details coming through as he waited. “She cleared the Russian border guard at two this afternoon. Bearing in mind she then gained an hour, it’s then a two, two and a half hour journey to the main railway station in Tallinn, situated in the north of the city, but probably only twenty minutes from there to the airport by taxi. It’d be tight, but its possible.”

  “How long does it take to fly to the UK?”

  “It’s about two and a half hours.”

  “So she’d get in too late, then, surely? What time would she be able to claim a ticket with Lottery HQ until, anyway?”

  “I think it’s seven pm, and remembering that she gains two hours during the flight, she lands therefore at something like five, British time. More than enough time to get from the airport to where she needs to be.”

  “Bloody hell,” Alex said, for the first time marvelling at the whole thing.

  “How much does she stand to win?”

  “That’s an interesting one. Let’s see which tickets have not been claimed,” and Alex tapped away, several windows opening up. Two minutes later he seemed happy that he’d found the right one. “Here, this would appear to be the best fit, though it suggests there are still two days left to claim, not one. It’s a Euro Loto ticket worth €15 million. There was one winning ticket nearly six months ago, and it was never claimed.”

  “Man, it’s actually real,” Anissa said, giving away her feelings a little, convinced finally that the last few months had been worth the hassle.

  “Why is it taking place today, then, if they have the chance of claiming until tomorrow, too? That would mean they all could have made it without the frantic rush.”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure we’re going to find out.”

  “Look at this,” Alex said, coming away from his laptop once more and turning it to them. “Nearly three months back the Spanish lottery El Gordo had one winning ticket, for €8.3 million, never claimed. It was won in Tarragona. I bet that this is our man.”

  “Yes, that would make sense. We never made a connection with this name in the UK. Makes sense that they use people Europe wide.”

  “So what now?” Anissa said, sitting back in her chair.

  “These two are too far ahead of us for it to be worth chasing them. We have to monitor them from afar. We’re playing catch up, after all, but it’s a vital piece of the mosaic. Once the dust settles, we can drop in on them and get their side of the story. How they heard about it all, why they flew to St Petersburg on that particular day, what happened to them in the city. Did they actually meet anyone from the Russian side? Things like that. We can start to reconstruct the picture by working backwards.”

  “But that means they get away with it, again.”

  “Anissa, we have no real choice. They are too far ahead of us for there to have been any other outcome, this time. We arrived in the city on a whisper, nothing more really. We had no real leads, besides a few names, no connections, no avenues to explore. We just turned up to see what we could find out. Wi
th Sasha’s help, we’ve been able to begin to turn a few rocks over, and this has given us a few more clues. We’ve found evidence of it all taking place, right in front of us. We’ve seen the actions of those taking part. They now become our next link in the chain, more connected to the situation than anything we’ve come across so far. It all goes into the mixing pot. While we’ll keep digging and seeing what we can find ourselves, these people that are taking part in all this today might lead us right back to the people we are trying to find. So let’s watch what happens, keep a close eye on these two that we know are heading back to what they hope will be a prosperous future, and see what more we can learn. It’s all we can do.”

  “I see that. It just feels like we are always several steps behind. Discovering evidence of wrongdoing is not the same as having direct proof of their involvement and wrongdoing.”

  “I know that; we all do. But it’s all we’ve got to go on. We’ve learnt a lot in the last twenty-four hours. Let’s face it, neither of us was convinced this time yesterday. As I set out for what would have been a week in the Lake District, part of me wondered if it was time to put the investigation to rest. Andre had been silent for over two months, the information he last gave us seemingly irrelevant. I was beginning to assume he might not be in the land of the living anymore, and that the information that was sent was in some way compromised. And then yesterday happened. It’s given us a fresh start, some new information after months of scraping around for crumbs. So we track these people. If we can find out what’s happening with the other two as well, that would be good. They’ve not yet crossed over the border; otherwise, Sasha would have been told, we have to assume they are still in this vast city somewhere, trying to find a way. Maybe we’ll be able to locate one of them?” He didn't sound too convinced, but it was enough for Anissa.

  “Yes, you are right. It has been a good day. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right? So I agree, it’s given us some much-needed hope that these last few months haven’t been a complete and utter waste of our time.”

  “Sasha,” Alex said, turning to his FSB counterpart once more, “can you draw together whatever you have on these people.” He handed the Russian a list of names, known to most Russians. Alex had pulled them all from the Russian Forbes rich list chart. “I know that not all these men are involved, I’m certain of that. Unlike most, Sasha, I don’t believe every Russian with a bit of power and influence is corrupt. But I do suspect a good number of these men are involved in what we are now witnessing. I’ve got some information on them all, anything the internet has openly available, which for a good number of these people, is very little. Maybe within the vaults of the FSB database, you might have a bit more––anything that suggests a link to the criminal underground, mafia––anything like that.”

  “These are powerful people, Alex, and you have to understand that. To use what you alluded to earlier, with these men you don’t know what we are going to find when we start turning over those stones. They have the power and influence to sting us.”

  “I know that, and we appreciate anything you can do for us. You’ve already been most helpful,” Alex said.

  “Yes, you have, Sasha,” Anissa added for good measure.

  “And I’d be hung out to dry if they knew what I’d been doing with two active British spies in this city today. I have a fair amount of freedom in my role, but I’m going to have to touch base for a while, show my face, be active in HQ once more so that they don’t come looking for me. So far, it would seem, your presence has been kept secret.”

  “You are sure that they aren’t watching us?”

  “Anissa, if they were, I’m positive you’d both be sitting inside the Kresty right now, and I’d be floating face down in the Neva.” The Kresty was a prison on the banks of the River Neva in the centre of the city.

  “I thought the Kresty closed down as an active prison some years back?” Alex said.

  “Yes, that’s what they wanted everyone to think. An inner core remains open for the most high-risk prisoners we have. The whole complex is now closed, the general public kept well away. But it’s more than just active, Alex.”

  “Okay, well let’s be careful then. Sasha, you do as you just suggested. Go, show your face, make a nuisance of yourself, whatever you need to do. We’ll hang around here, act like the tourists we always wanted to be, and touch base with you once more a little later. You can name the place, just send us directions via SMS, and we’ll do our best to find it.”

  “And be careful!”

  “You too, Sasha. Thanks once again.”

  They parted company, Sasha going to fetch his car that he’d parked a few streets away, the only free space he could find at the time, and driving back to Big House––the towering home of the FSB in St Petersburg. Alex and Anissa packed up the things they had, putting their laptop back into its bag, and set out on foot, preferring to walk as much as possible, not understanding or wanting to try using any form of public transport, even though it was so readily available. A little snow was falling as they made it onto the constantly busy pavements, made livelier by the proximity of one of the city’s many metro stations. Because of the depth of the river and the swampy ground, the St Petersburg metro was the world’s deepest underground network.

  Dubhán Maguire had spent three hours solid at the bar, downing at least five pints of beer before he moved, finally shuffling towards the toilets at the back of the pub. His two minders, who’d been watching him the whole time, also made their way to the toilets a few seconds after the Irishman had left his seat. This particular Hunt had been called off an hour ago, as evening was drawing in. There was no way that the Contestant would be able to make a go at claiming the money by then, the oligarchs cashing out any bets they might have had, though it was promises and especially pride that was most at stake. For the Host of the Contestant, he had spent money not only procuring the ticket in the first place but then investigating the right type of person to be a worthy opponent, arranging for his sudden trip to the city, clearing everything he might need. All for it to become worthless, as the man’s drinking problem had apparently been massively underestimated. There was no fight in the pathetic drunk, and the team of Trackers had left the pub an hour back when the news came through to them that this particular Hunt was over. As they went, aware that the Host’s men were also in the place watching their man, they must have known what was about to happen, despite it being against the rules––needless to say, also illegal.

  Dubhán swayed as he stood in front of the middle urinal of five. The two Russians entered the toilet area, a quick scan of the space confirming there were no other people present. One of the Russians stood by the door, blocking any further people that might try and come in.

  When the Irishman was finished, he turned, heading for the sink, barely acknowledging the two Russians that he had not heard enter the toilets. He turned on the tap as one of the men rushed him from behind, slamming his head against the wall above the taps, before slamming it into the edge of the sink, the Irishman already collapsing to the floor. There was a little blood showing on the side of the sink, Dubhán’s forehead giving evidence of its source, a steady stream of red flowing down his face and onto the floor, the man himself knocked out cold by the blow. The Russian leaned over his victim and pulled a syringe from the inside of his jacket pocket, a clear liquid inside, a small amount escaping the tip as a little pressure was applied. The Russian injected Dubhán in the side of the neck, the fluid taking about thirty seconds to enter the bloodstream, causing the heart to fail. Counting off sixty seconds, the Russian checked for a pulse on the left wrist of the fallen man. Not finding one, he reached into the Irishman’s back jeans pocket, extracting the lottery ticket before he stood, careful not to touch anything else, the needle returned to his jacket pocket, for disposal somewhere else. They left the building without having been disturbed by anyone, their exit recorded on no CCTV as that had already been dealt with by their boss.

  The bod
y would be discovered just five minutes later, and reported to the bar manager, who’d come in, recognising the fallen man as a guy he’d been serving drinks to all afternoon. It was apparent he’d fallen and hit his head. An accident which they’d do their best to keep that way, the barman knowing that he’d been well aware of his client's drunken state as he continued to replace his beers, though laws such as might appear in the UK were a little more open to interpretation where they lived. Besides, the man had merely slipped and hit his head, an unfortunate accident that could have happened to anyone. An ambulance was called, the gents toilet closed off until it arrived, the body left as it was. There was no need to get the police involved in what was apparently a terrible, unfortunate, regrettable accident.

  12

  Twila Dalton had been sitting in a detention room of the Russian border guard at the southernmost border with Finland for three hours already. She knew she’d missed the chance to catch a plane to England, the money she thought was hers for the taking long gone. She’d been told to empty her pockets on arrival, the paper ticket no doubt the last she’d see of it––mind you it had no value to anyone now, with time running out and the claim date expiring that same evening.

  Twila, an unusually upbeat person, as fitness fanatics tended to be, had resisted the urge to plead her case, or let on what she was doing, instead had become resigned to her fate after the first hour passed, knowing that nothing she could do or say would speed up an otherwise standard procedure. So it hadn’t worked out, never mind. She’d find another way to grow her future, another avenue to explore. She’d keep the details of the last twenty-four hours from anyone she knew. No need to let on how much she’d spent to arrange everything as she had at such short notice. She’d slip back into her old life, happy that she hadn’t done anything too drastic and burnt her bridges. No one would ever know about this, she told herself. She would put it down to an exciting life experience, would never allow herself to get tricked into something like this again, and vowed to move on. She had sensed it was all too good to be true before she agreed to venture out of her usual comfort zone, but she had needed a new challenge at the time, needed something new into which to get her teeth stuck. So this one hadn’t come to anything. There would be something new around the corner, she told herself, sitting in that room, left to her own thoughts as no one even bothered to ask her anything. She just assumed they were working on her paperwork somewhere, or maybe waiting for a translator to appear.