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

by Tim Heath

  Teo Vela had been delayed as he’d made his transfer in Vienna, his Host having been told that they would not get the people in place in enough time in Madrid to stop him later on. The delay had been enough for the irritated Spaniard to miss his connecting flight, much to the cheers within the Games Room, the Contestant’s reaction captured in real time by the team of two Trackers that had followed him that far.

  Images from the airport’s own CCTV were also being fed into the Games Room, as Teo was taken to one side, his profile apparently randomly selected for a new high-level security operation exercise now being run across the major airline carriers around Europe. His luggage was pulled from the outbound flight, meaning any chance of him being on a plane to Spain that evening were now finally over.

  Teo, a colourful character known to friends as having a short fuse at the best of times, had vented his anger at more than one of the officials that were carrying out his search. It meant nothing that they were saying it was for his overall safety that such things were being implemented, and despite his many protests and their offers to be as quick as they could, there was little they could say to appease the man their system had flagged as the random search subject.

  His name coming up, of course, was far from random. Teo’s Host, referred to within the Games Room as Fourteen, was a man of intricate planning and with an extensive network of contacts and connections. He had been the one to get Teo’s name put forward for the search, the delay ending that particular Hunt when he had already got so far. It had been a good showing, and Fourteen had come off well in it all, several oligarchs trading contracts he would now get to pick up. They hadn’t known his connection to the infrastructure at that particular airport in Austria, one of his many companies being the firm behind the complete revamp the terminal had gone through the previous decade. Payments were still being made on that project, the construction company, therefore, taking out a stake in the newly formed business, giving Fourteen the connections there to be able to access, and influence, what went on within the airport. It had been the second time he’d used that particular link to win a Hunt within the last two years, something of which he knew his fellow oligarchs would now become aware.

  No one missed a trick, constantly working to build an understanding of their fellow oligarchs, learning where their influences might lie, looking for ways in the future where they might be able to exploit them, holes in their connections that could leave them vulnerable to a defeat. With stakes so high, any weakness would be targeted by all the other oligarchs when it became that persons turn to Host an event.

  Annabel Herbertson touched down on the easyJet flight from Tallinn just before five that evening. The flight had been smooth, and she’d managed to sleep for a little over half an hour but the nearer they got to London’s Gatwick airport, the more aware she became of the task before her. It should have been simple but knowing the traffic in her capital as she did, she wasn’t too sure what might lie ahead.

  She had her phone open and was calling a taxi before the plane had come to a stop, but no one had reprimanded her. With just hand luggage she was one of the first off the plane, having purchased herself one of the few remaining tickets for the slightly more expensive seats at the front of the aircraft. She ran most of the way to passport control, going through the e-gate where the queues were shortest, and she was out through the front of the terminal just twenty minutes after the plane doors opened. The taxi was waiting for her as she got to the meeting point and she spotted the driver before he spotted her. She got in and closed the door, and they pulled away as she searched for the address she needed, telling the driver a few moments later.

  She’d given the man the address of the neighbouring building, a large office complex, stating she was in a hurry and would pay extra if he could get her there within about an hour. She didn’t see the need to give him the actual address; the cab driver would be likely to put two and two together and work out what she was doing. No, assuming she was just a businesswoman running late for an important meeting was all he needed to believe. He would be paid well for getting her there, anyway, so that would be enough to keep him focused. She had two hours before the offices of the Euro Loto would close.

  Traffic was what you might expect at that time, though the bulk of the flow was heading away from the city, only the short section of the London Orbital motorway, the M25, starting to slow a little, but after they turned off that a few junctions down, the roads were thankfully clear. He pulled up outside the office building just after six, which by anyone’s reckoning, was very good going. She paid the driver, giving him an extra twenty pounds, and turned towards the building in front of her, the car pulling away. Once he’d disappeared in the taxi––no doubt happy with his last client––she headed towards the offices of the Euro Loto located to the left of the office complex where they had stopped.

  Walking in through the main doors, she approached the clean and well presented reception area with confidence.

  “I’d like to claim a winning ticket, please,” she said quietly to the lady behind the desk, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention from the half dozen or so people that happened to be passing through the area at that moment. “It’s urgent,” she added, the receptionist telling her to take a seat, making a call immediately to the appropriate department, unfazed and used to that very situation. Two minutes later, a man and woman came across to greet Annabel, the woman speaking first; “I believe you have a claim to make. Please, come this way, madam.”

  Alex and Anissa had spent several hours working through data, as well as through various coffee shops that occupied that part of St Petersburg. They had stayed away from the main tourist attractions, taking Sasha’s warning about keeping a low profile while they were on their own. While walking around a large park area they were talking through what they had come across, only speaking to each other when there was no one around them, not wanting to draw attention to the fact they were not locals, should anyone be paying them more than regular care. Children played on a small playground at the far side; mothers huddled around in small groups, a few dogs on leads. There was a pond in the centre of the park, ducks and various birds, as well as a large number of pigeons, making their presence felt.

  A few of the benches were evidently occupied by the homeless, though these were away from all the other people, the two groups knowing to avoid one another. Alex stopped talking as they passed another sleeping man, an empty vodka bottle visible and lay on the ground underneath the bench. They had been drawing up conclusions on what they’d been able to uncover that afternoon.

  “These dates that Andre had left us,” Alex continued, now they were out of earshot of the bench. “They almost certainly relate to previous events, similar to what we’ve just witnessed, happening here in St Petersburg. Only two of them had any public claim happening within a day or so of the dates from the various lottery competitions I could find information on around Europe. But looking at a few more in detail, there are other undisclosed claimants all coming forward within a day or usually two of these dates, and each of these claims relates to––sometimes large––winning tickets that are about to expire.”

  “So that is why the dates that we had were so random, happening during the weekend or the week, and on various dates in the month, seemingly random. They were all based on when a ticket was about to expire?”

  “Exactly––and here’s the thing. These two tickets we know about today, the one in Spain and the one in the UK. Online it suggests that they have until tomorrow, in fact, to claim. They don’t expire today if the information is correct.”

  “But the events happened today and as far as we can tell, these people that we had the names for are the ones trying to claim the money––all doing so in a hurry today. That bit doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if you think it through this way,” Alex said, now starting down another line of thought. “These oligarchs, they aren’t stupid. They spend the time and money somehow get
ting hold of a winning lottery ticket. How they do that, we’ll have to try and work out, but for now, we can be safe in the knowledge that they can obtain valid winning tickets. The value of the ticket depends on whatever particular lottery has a rollover. I guess the prize has to be big enough to make someone take the bait. How they get these people involved, again, remains a mystery, one I’d love to find out. But we’ve seen it for ourselves, somehow they get these people here, and they set up an event. For the Russians––so the original rumours always went––they bet against each other in flamboyant shows of power and influence, mainly trading connections and business contracts, though money too, I expect, at times. Now, they do everything they can to stop the person, I’m sure. But even if they successfully stop them, the ticket is lost. That is unless they somehow alter the ticket, or something, or make the person believe they have one day to trade it in. Either way, there is a spare day, and I believe in most cases somehow these Russian men can claim the prize themselves, having no doubt paid out the face value of that ticket many months before. I think that’s why these events happen when they do.”

  “So the Russians get close enough to be able to get the ticket back?”

  “I assume they have these people closely watched. The fact is that after each of these ten dates Andre left us, along with the four names that now make a lot of sense, there was a significant claim made on one of the many lotteries available, most often by someone keeping their identity secret.”

  “Are we able to find out who the winners were?”

  “It would be difficult, even if this was an official MI6 operation. We have no authority outside of the UK, anyway, and the majority of the winners are based on the continent, the Euro Loto by far the most common tickets used, as they carry a minimum €15 million prize per draw. There has been a recent prize draw of €163 million, following eleven consecutive draws without a winning combination, won by a solo ticket in Portugal. That was claimed within a few weeks, so we have to assume the Russians had nothing to do with that. The largest unclaimed amount in the UK was for £63.8 million––from just over four years ago.”

  “Does that date coincide with any that Andre sent us?”

  “They don’t go back that far. All the dates Andre mentioned happened within the last two years.”

  “Ten events in two years, so they are quite regular then?” Anissa said, making that connection for the first time.

  “Yes, the longest gap being nearly three months. Therefore we can expect something similar to today to happen again here within a matter of weeks, maybe a couple of months. That’s potentially five more times this year. We have to assume, now we are aware of it, that sooner or later, probably this year, we’ll see something that gives us an entry point, a way of being on the inside, one step ahead of these men. Then we’ll be in a position to know what we’re up against, who is involved, and what that means for us all. We’ll hopefully know any link that leads back to MI6, and therefore who we can trust.”

  “That’s a long time for us to keep this under wraps.”

  They both kept silent for a little while, a few groups of parents and children now walking past them––the evening light fading fast around them––the children’s playground now virtually empty. Alex’s phone rang––it was Sasha.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m in the car on my way back from the border. I have Twila with me, will speak to you when I’m back in the city,” and with that, he ended the call.

  Alex told Anissa what had been said, the two a little surprised by Sasha’s actions, but they assumed he knew what he was doing.

  The Games Room was now empty, the Chair following the oligarchs down the staircase, as everyone started to leave, some wanting to get back home that very night, others retiring to their guest accommodation upstairs. Usually, it was those oligarchs that came out on top that stayed around for another night, the drink readily available, the mood celebratory.

  Pulling the oligarch known as Fifteen to one side, the Chair had strong words to say:

  “Your Contestant was found dead in an Irish pub the Trackers had followed him into. Hit his head on a sink while taking a piss. I sure as hell hope you had nothing to do with that?”

  The oligarch, who detested being spoken to like that, following a day he’d rather forget about, remained silent, nonetheless. No one crossed the Wolf if they wanted to be invited back to future events.

  “Make sure this doesn’t come back to bite us. We can’t allow any Host to overstep the mark like this. If news got out what was going on, we would all be in a difficult position. Have I made myself clear, Dmitry!” Use of an actual name was forbidden, but with no one else close enough to hear, and this coming from the Chair directly, he just let it go.

  “Agreed!” was all he replied, making his exit as quickly as he could.

  The Chair also left, going to a nearby restaurant, where after having been busy for these last two days, husband and wife could be reunited. They ate dinner together that night, in one of the city’s most exclusive eateries. As they were finishing, Arseni Markovic, oligarch and Host during the day’s Hunt, a man known within the group as Eleven, walked out from another room in the restaurant, apparently finished for the night. He walked over to the couple, now back in the real world, where names meant a lot and being seen with the right people meant even more.

  “Arseni, good to see you. This is my wife, Svetlana––I believe you’ve met before.” Arseni took her hand, kissing it as was the right thing to do. Her husband, Sergej Volkov, was a very wealthy man, owning some oil wells in the centre of the country, as well as having connections into shipping and nuclear energy.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Svetlana,” Arseni said, leaving the two to finish their coffee, moving on and out of the restaurant.

  “A useful young man is Arseni Markovic,” Sergej said to his wife.

  They made a striking couple––he outspoken and a tough negotiator, she the essence of beauty and gentleness. Another example of the rich and wealthy mixing with the young and beautiful, a combination that went together surprisingly smoothly in the Mother Russia.

  13

  It was the following morning in St Petersburg, the city waking up to a little light drizzle mixed with sleet, the temperature a few degrees above zero. The two MI6 agents had enjoyed a decent breakfast eaten before most of the guests had emerged from their rooms, then packed away what items they had, returning the beds to where they had been during check-in. They didn’t want the room found as they had changed it, in case it raised questions about the English couple travelling together but obviously sleeping separately.

  The truth was, they were overcautious, and the longer they remained in the city, the more paranoid they were becoming. They knew, out there somewhere, this machine existed, this organisation of mighty and influential men who were able to spit out anyone they chose.

  They had decided late last night that the following day had better be their last in the city, though they planned to get as much time as possible with Sasha before boarding an evening flight to London. They would need the help of their FSB counterpart to make that departure safely.

  Sasha had driven to meet them just after eight, picking them up from their now usual place just outside the hotel. The two British agents were surprised to see somewhat quiet streets, expecting the traffic to be bad out front, Sasha explaining to them once they asked him, that rush hour was around ten in the city, eight still considered early morning. He was taking them about sixty minutes out of St Petersburg and to the east, which meant they were only then about a forty minute drive from the airport for their flight later.

  Sasha had a dacha, a small home in the forest that many Russians had, though his one was relatively new. Most people inherited the family dacha, passed on from generation to generation, often new sections added over the years. The wealthy owned grand dachas, with five or six bedrooms, opulent second homes built in the best locations, with land and a private lake. Most people,
however, shared access to a lake, and many dachas were derelict, the owners too poor to do much about it.

  Since most spent only the summers in the dacha, things like sound insulation against the severe cold of winter were something they could do without. Only about half of the dachas in that region had their own toilet within the actual property, the others relying on an outdoor shed at the end of the garden, often attached to a banya, the Russian style sauna.

  At only just over seventy kilometres from where he lived in St Petersburg, Sasha’s dacha would be classed as very near, and easily accessible. He’d purchased it five years previously, tearing down what had been there, the land plentiful and with good access to a lake, which he could walk to in just five minutes.

  An orphan, he had never known his parents, nor could he have inherited any family property through the generations, as they had lived in state-owned communal flats. He’d made a fresh start, therefore, and had grown into a very professional person. Unmarried, there had been a few women through the last ten years, but for various reasons none had ever worked out, often breaking down over work-related issues in the end.