by Tim Heath
“Come, sit down,” Mr Grey said, the man coming forward, leather bound portfolio in hand, which he handed to his boss. Rurik took some moments to go through the few sheets that were included, the room in silence as he read, his guest saying nothing, sitting there and waiting for his employer to finish reading what he needed to learn.
“Very good. So, what makes this one, this Ms Patrícia Simones, my ideal Contestant, someone I could risk millions of euros on and sleep well at the end of it all?” It was a question he always asked, wanting to know more than just bare facts, as helpful as that was to him. He wanted to know what made this Portuguese lady tick, what made someone in her late twenties suitable enough to be considered in the first place, aside just the desire for money.
“Besides the criminal background, which we’ve detailed for you, there is a rugged determination about her, a feistiness that won’t let things go. She’s open to making a quick buck, like they mostly are, but will dig deeper if the reward is sufficient. We believe she has been behind some long cons that have plagued many in Porto over the last few years, and no one has ever been arrested for these crimes.”
Rurik stood up, pacing over to the window. He’d come across similar Contestants in the past, and other oligarchs had undoubtedly used former criminals in their portfolio, but he’d been less than sure. Someone with too many of the wrong connections could become a liability. Should they take the money, they were more likely to move it on or involve people that would make getting it all back that much messier. It was a risk, for sure. But as the Romans knew, the greater the fight, the greater the gladiator that was needed.
“Fine,” he said, turning from the window, his Spotter standing up as he was being addressed, “get stage one underway with her, and let me know what happens. If she proves worthwhile after that is done, I’ll consider taking her. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, turning and leaving the room.
Rurik downed the last of his coffee, going through another door, which took him into his private wing of the house, where he showered, dressed and prepared himself for the day ahead.
Motya Utkin’s private jet touched down in Geneva, Switzerland, just before noon that same day. His Spotter handed him a portfolio, and while officially in the Swiss city on business, Motya always made a point of personally watching the people his team were bringing to his attention. Roger Roche, a forty-year-old Swiss national with Italian/French parents, had lived in and around Geneva all his life, speaking three languages fluently and comfortable in another three as well. Motya had read with interest the information presented to him by his team, a group of people he valued highly, and they’d never let him down. He now rarely questioned their selections, his visits to see the Contestants in the flesh done for purely personal reasons.
For him, there was nothing like getting a feel for a person by watching them when they weren’t aware. That way he could begin to understand them, and if that were achieved, he would be better able to react to their actions in a real-time Hunt scenario, second-guessing their next move, to stay in control. He’d never lost a Hunt yet, and he knew that was mostly down to the selection of the right kind of Contestant, which was entirely the work of his team. He also knew that understanding their behaviour was vital and he felt he was better than most at being able to read a person just by observing them. He now always travelled to wherever was required to watch his future Contestant.
Motya’s money came from gambling and strip clubs. When Russia had made it illegal to have casinos just anywhere, a law he’d been central to help implement, it closed down most of the competition overnight and left his perfectly placed businesses to pick up the slack. Rich before that change in legislation was ever ratified in the Duma, the move doubled his net worth within three years, and his empire grew massively, moving into many other new avenues, too. He was worth just short of $1 billion and mixed with Russia’s elite as a result. His entry into the Games had only helped him elevate his influence to another level. He was a popular Host, with the only one hundred per cent record across either group. He wasn’t about to let that particular record end easily, in what would be his tenth event as a Host.
Motya Utkin, known within the Games circle directly as Seventeen, sat down in a restaurant, one of the most exclusive places in Geneva in the most expensive part of the city. The waiter who’d shown him to his table now came back with the menu and a bottle of wine, usual compliments of the restaurant.
“I am Roger Roche,” he said, in perfect English, “and I will be serving you today, sir. Let me know if there is anything you need me to do for you to make your lunch with us all it should be. May I recommend today’s specials, which are listed for you here,” and he pointed to the part of the menu which was updated daily. “I’ve personally sampled them all and can, therefore, attest to their quality.”
Twenty minutes later, the main course was just arriving, and Motya already had a good insight into the man he’d come to study, watching him always in his peripheral vision, catching every syllable, the way he greeted his guests, everything about the man Motya knew would make an excellent Contestant one day.
Just over four-hundred and fifty miles north-west of Geneva, two men were travelling through the Paris metro, watching Matthieu Dubois, a French national with Belgian heritage. He had recently been discharged from the army––reason unknown––and was currently jobless, a situation affecting many former members of the armed forces in his position, a massive influx of foreign nationals not helping the issue, nor the stability of a city on the brink of violence. A hard man throughout his life, the army had given him ample opportunity to exert that energy, while building in him the ability to focus those feelings, which in his early adult life, had been his downfall too often.
Once off the train, not realising he was being followed, Matthieu walked through a park in the centre of the city, the only part of Paris Parisians counted as meaning you lived in the capital. The two Russians made a video call to their employer, Stanislav Krupin, connecting almost immediately––he’d been waiting for the call.
Stanislav, known as Twenty when it came to the group of people he was hanging onto the edges of, was worth $500 million, wealthy by most standards but the most impoverished Host in that wealthy group of friends. He was also the most connected to the street, his organisation of criminal gangs and mafia personnel efficiently policing most of the Moscow streets––his men moving into St Petersburg three years ago, a turf battle underway for control of that city, a dozen dead so far in an as yet undecided contest.
Stanislav liked his Contestants to be as he was; tough, hard and willing to do anything to escape. He viewed them as equals until he could prove them otherwise, delighting in finally breaking them, taking more enjoyment than most did, though he wouldn’t ever let that show. He intended on making real progress with his next Hunt, the chance to Host coming around not that often, and less so it seemed to him than others, this being his fifth time. In his last attempt, one of the Contestants had even managed to beat him. What he’d done to destroy the victor, which ended in two suicides, including that of the Contestant who’d managed to get the better of him in the original Hunt, had pulled Stanislav into conflict with the Chair. His place in proceedings was almost ended on the spot until another oligarch had come to his rescue. Stanislav didn’t understand the reasons for this move, unclear whether it had been a sign of weakness in a fellow oligarch, or if there was something else going on. Maybe they just needed to buy his silence, to keep him happy by not evicting him? If he were still involved in things, he would have nothing to say to anyone else. Eject him from proceedings, and maybe he would talk to the wrong people, sounding off his feelings, exposing to the world what these other, very secretive men in this regard, were otherwise doing.
Whatever their reasons, and Stanislav didn’t really give it too much thought, he was glad to still be involved, and had only cleaned up his act as much as the others could see. What went on behind the scenes was
up to him, and he used every piece of information he could to control, threaten and weaken his opponents, bringing in thugs to carry out retribution when it was needed.
They chatted on the phone for a few minutes, the video feed then trained on their man––on this disconnected Frenchman as he walked through a park in the city of his birth––with hardly a euro to his name, despite serving his country proudly for nearly six years.
“Perfect,” the Russian said after watching for a couple of minutes. “Start stage one and keep me informed. I don’t think you’ll have too many problems with this one, given what you’ve told me about him.” He ended the call, leaving his men in Paris to do their thing. That would result in this man––this Contestant––someday boarding a flight to St Petersburg voluntarily. By that point, he would already be convinced that he was walking into something special. How that was communicated varied––it was rarely the same thing twice. The ticket was almost never mentioned; the first any Contestant would know about it was the appearance of a note, usually slid underneath their hotel door once they were already in the city.
In his offices in Moscow, Stanislav knew he had another Contestant, another person ready for when the dice would get thrown once again, and where luck could work just as quickly in your favour as it did against you. In Matthieu Dubois, Stanislav knew he had a man who would use skills learned in combat to get himself out of a tight situation. He knew this was a man who had crossed the line many times, the gap between right and wrong blurred by years of moving between the two. Most of all, Stanislav knew he had a man just like him––therefore, a worthy opponent.
15
It was now April, and spring was in full blossom across much of the UK, only the most northern parts were holding onto the cold and occasional snows of winter. Alex and Anissa, working together on a range of unconnected cases for MI6, had been keeping a close eye on things in Russia while not being able to get anywhere concerning an apparent breakthrough. Keeping everything off the radar from those within their security service also didn’t help and risked wrecking their entire futures should it become known about what they were involved.
When they’d arrived back from that first trip to St Petersburg, there had been some hope. Anissa went straight into things in the office, and her absence was not questioned by anyone, to her delight––she was a terrible liar. Alex was still not due back from annual leave for another few days, so he’d taken that time, mainly resting, away from everyone. While his plans for seven nights in the middle of nowhere had been initially cut short, the chance of a few nights doing nothing, in particular, was probably not to be missed.
He managed just over twenty-four hours, the bloodhound in him opening up his laptop and using the free time he had left to read up as much as he could on the Russians Sasha had highlighted, as well as anything else he could find that was related to his investigation. Over the coming weeks, he would remain in contact with Sasha, albeit covertly, asking him to probe specific areas that otherwise might be off-limits for them at that moment.
Globally, the spotlight was moving away from Russia, and onto more critical issues, which meant over the weeks that followed, Alex and Anissa were pulled in multiple directions, though between them they kept a close eye on their Russian based sideshow.
The Irishman, Dubhán, had been flown back to Dublin a few days after he died, his family contacted, arrangements made between the various authorities, the death put down to a tragic accident, with excess alcohol consumption noted as a critical factor. There were no criminal investigations taking place in either country, the Russians happy with what they’d decided upon from the initial investigation, the Irish with no reason to suspect anything.
Alex had noted, in a newspaper that had been published by Dublin’s Evening Herald, that the family had no idea why he was going to Russia, besides the fact he’d told them two days before leaving that he just needed some time away, and felt somewhere like Russia offered just that. The interview had been published three days after the funeral. Nothing more was said, or if it had been, Alex hadn’t been able to find any evidence of it.
Twila had returned to Leeds, getting on with her life, though she resigned from her job at the fitness centre precisely seven weeks after arriving home from Russia. No reason was given to her employers at the time, other than she had just wanted a fresh start. Anissa had visited herself, dropping into the gym while passing through the area on a family weekend away, her husband aware and supportive of her on-going investigation. They’d not been able to get anywhere directly with Twila herself. Alex had sent someone to inquire, and Twila had threatened to report them to the police should she see or hear from them ever again. Alex couldn’t risk anything going on the record about her, still unsure as to who or what might be watching her. They let it drop. If she were likely to have said anything, surely she would have done so right back in St Petersburg when Sasha had picked her up after her arrest at the border. The thought that she had said something during her time with the FSB agent, but Sasha had chosen not to tell them, for whatever reason, was something that crossed Alex’s mind at first. He dismissed the notion as unlikely, however, given the way Sasha had helped them so much in St Petersburg in the first place.
In Spain, with the limited connections Alex and Anissa had on their own, it seemed Teo Vela had mostly dropped off the radar. Little more was known about him. He’d been reported around his hometown in the days immediately after his arrival back from St Petersburg, but nothing had been seen or heard from him since then.
Annabel Herbertson, on the other hand, was another story entirely. She’d gone public and had been very much in the news since announcing her late win, but no definite answer given to the many questions that circled why she’d left it so late to claim. Why had Annabel been working two jobs at the time and living in rented-housing when she had millions of pounds waiting for her? She’d moved house twice, the first move within days of arriving back in London, pulling her son out of his school and taking a home, still rented, in a more expensive part of the city, while she worked through her next steps.
Once more the papers tracked her, letters then started arriving, pleading for some of her money, pulling at her heartstrings. The second move took her off the grid entirely, though Alex had been able to track that one, too, to a country house in Surrey. A court order had been secured to stop any newspaper publishing anything at all about her, or where she now lived if they ever tracked her down. Her face had been splashed across many front pages, and it had been a big story when it broke.
She knew it wouldn’t be long before people in her new setting started to work out who she was. In an area of wealthy people, mostly city workers on huge salaries, they would want to keep things as quiet as possible for their sakes, most probably resenting her arrival and any disruption it might bring. Plus, she was a working-class woman who’d come into more money than she knew what to do with. She was not a fit for the area she now called home, and they all knew it. She was left to herself.
By April it was all over for her. Payments she’d promised never made it to various parties, and the bailiffs were called in; stocks and investments––mainly in Russian companies expected to be the next big thing, or so she’d been advised––suddenly collapsed, overnight it seemed. Her financial advisor vanished into thin air. She was declared bankrupt just sixty-three days after arriving back on British soil with the lottery ticket. It was a new record within the Games, beating the previous best effort by well over five weeks.
Osip Yakovlev, known within the group as Nineteen, the Host and recruiter of Annabel in the first place, had come out top once more, saving face and what pride he had left. The manner of his victory might do more for him in the long run than if he had not lost in the first place. He’d been pulling strings since the moment she landed at Gatwick, aware then that she was most certainly going to claim his €15 million prize herself. He had a good idea what her next moves would be and had driven the press to her door, as well as
the money chasers, to keep her moving. He’d supplied her with the financial advisor, a man who’d made her several small gains initially, sucking her in so that she would entrust everything she had to him. He’d said she could be set up for life, and she’d believed him. She was desperate to give her son a future he could build on.
Her collapse, sudden and dramatic when it came, was something of a surprise even to Osip, a man who wouldn’t knowingly cross the line. The share money that had been invested was for shadow companies his group owned, the money buying back bad debt, so he was paid off and did well out of it. He entered the second week of April a very contented man, able to hold his head high among his peers the next time they were to meet, which was within a month. Their events always coincided closely with various national holidays. Victory Day, celebrated on May 9th in Russia, was very much one such day. The biggest was still New Year, the highlight and culmination of the year. To get the honour to Host a Hunt for that event was purely at the Chair’s invitation. It was possible that in May, the Hosts for that December event would be announced.
Alex and Anissa had grabbed lunch together during that week in April. Another MI6 agent joined them, and while they did not tell him exactly why they were asking him the questions, they were glad of his input.
Charlie Boon, the agent in question, had a long history with Russia and would usually have been the contact man for MI6 for anything Russia related. He spoke the language himself and had served in St Petersburg also, though entering Russia for him at the moment was not possible. The dust had not yet settled on a situation that left one female FSB agent dead and Charlie, her former boyfriend and currently a British agent, was still reeling. He was also under light surveillance within MI6, following his pursuit of those ultimately responsible for the murder.