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

by Tim Heath

Charlie had warned them about Russia, how the power flows, how the minds work. He had mentioned, and spoken well of Sasha, which pleased them both. They’d come to think the same of this unusually helpful FSB agent, though they couldn’t let on to the fact. Neither Alex nor Anissa wanted to involve any more people from their world at Six than they currently did, for everyone’s protection. They parted company, Charlie heading back out of the restaurant, the two partners chatting over coffee, working through their next options. Fitting everything around a busy working life was not always easy, and Alex could see that because Anissa had a family to think of as well, it was doubly difficult for her, juggling everything as she apparently needed to, but doing it in a way that just got on with it. He respected her highly for that and envied her enormously. She seemed to have everything he didn’t, but he didn’t begrudge her one bit of it, Alex admired her. It only brought into focus his shortcomings in that regard, his often childish behaviour that had driven women away, so that now all he had was his work.

  It was that same afternoon when the only other person that knew what they were up to, the same technician within MI6 who had shared the report from Andre with Alex in the first place, contacted Alex with news about Annabel’s bankruptcy.

  “My goodness,” Alex said, going on to tell Anissa what he had just heard.

  “That’s terrible, the poor lady. She has a young son, too.”

  “Do you think she’ll speak with us now? I mean, if this was not her doing, if she’s been cheated of this money by the Russians, maybe she’ll be happy to turn on them, to talk to us?”

  “To what purpose? There would be nothing in it for her; the money’s gone.”

  “It might be more than that for her, now. She’s lost everything.”

  “I don’t know. Let’s not do anything yet about that one until we’ve heard a little more. I don’t want her running to the police the minute we show up. We’ve worked hard to keep this from anyone who might be working for the Russians. We are no nearer to getting on the inside, but we are seeing more aspects of their activities all the time, more evidence of this organisation’s existence.”

  “If we can call it an organisation,” Alex added. “All we have is the name Igrii which they go by. We’ve seen that they obviously handpick the people they want to use within the process. We know nothing as to why or how they do this. We have a first name for one of these people; we presume––this from a man that has since not been heard of for over four months. We’ve been on the edges of an actual event, people finding winning lottery tickets somewhere around the city in St Petersburg, genuinely making a run for it, trying to get back in time to claim for them a small fortune. And now we’ve seen the apparent lengths that these oligarchs will go to get back their money if they have lost it.”

  “We have no proof that this was the case, though, Alex.”

  “No, but we’ll find it. No one burns €15 million in just two months and is then left with not a cent to their name. No one can be that naive to waste it all so quickly.”

  “You’re probably right; I just don’t want us seeing everything one way when it can’t all be them.”

  “Until we know what it all means, I’m going to assume the worst. You must feel that, too? It’s why we’ve not told anyone else about this whole investigation.”

  “That’ll have to change at some point, Alex.”

  “Why do you say that? We would risk everything if word got out, we’d be finished for sure.”

  “I don’t mean we bring everyone in, but as we are, we haven’t the resources or the information we need. We need to be using the database at HQ, for example, more than we can at the moment. We need to be using the skills within that whole department to make links that we haven’t been able to find. Join the dots that we’ve missed because we’ve been too close to it all. We’ll have to bring someone in, a team of people who can run data for us. Otherwise, we will always be following this from behind, aware of what’s going on only because it’s already happened––behind, never ahead of the events.”

  “I might have an idea that could help.”

  “Go on; I’m listening.”

  “You know how you are always saying we should be doing a little more to help out within the Service. Let’s volunteer to run security for the forthcoming business conference in London.”

  Anissa smiled as Alex said that, not least because he’d always hated doing the extra stuff, which was tedious at the best of times and fell, he always said, way outside the job description of a real agent of Her Majesty.

  “You mean the meeting of the owners of the UK’s top one hundred traded companies on the London stock exchange, a group that includes at least twenty Russian multi-millionaires, several of whose names appeared on Sasha’s information?” She knew exactly this was what Alex meant, who just smiled in a very smug way, the only answer he needed to give. “I think that would work very well. It would give us legitimate access to run our own background checks on all one hundred attendees. We can pull in additional resources to run those checks, going deeper on certain people. We could also then meet these people face to face at the event itself.”

  “Oh, Anissa, I think you just might be spot on with that last comment. Nothing like looking a man in the face, locking eyes together and delving into someone’s soul to understand who a person is. I’ll make the suggestion straight away. Might win me a few brownie points, too, in the process. You know my reputation about these sort of mundane jobs.”

  “You are famous for it, Alex, I can assure you.”

  They both laughed at that thought, Alex picking up his phone and calling the office. Five minutes later it was done. To be able to have two senior MI6 agents personally assessing the security angle for an upcoming conference of key business figures, was no small thing. While some were surprised to hear the news, few would voice anything but support for the idea. The conference was two weeks away, both agents heading to the office, a lot of work before them both.

  16

  It was a wet day in London, the winds picking up from the west, the tail ends of a weather system that had been sweeping up from the Caribbean the week before. Phelan McDermott lived with his wife and three children, the oldest of whom was nearly ten.

  Born in Ireland, growing up on the edges of Cork, he’d travelled to the UK for university and after meeting the woman that was now his wife of eleven years, had never really gone back, besides the occasional Christmas and twice for a family wedding.

  They lived a modest life, their three bedroomed mid-terrace house often feeling a little squashed, especially when the family were visiting them, and indeed since the latest McDermott popped out, the pregnancy having been somewhat of a surprise at the time. They weren’t able to move, their home in negative equity. They got stung, badly, during the economic crisis from a few years before, and were slowly working to turn around their fortunes.

  Outside, in a blacked-out transit van, three men and one woman were sitting listening in, a series of bugs and a few miniature cameras fitted inside the Irishman’s home two weeks before. The team worked for Dmitry Sokoloff, a man known as Twelve within the secretive community that existed among the group of Russians that made up the Hosts for the Games. They’d sourced Phelan from some potential candidates, a very interesting potential Contestant, a man living well below his capabilities if the reports were to be believed.

  A graduate of Oxford, one of only a handful of Irishmen from his year who got into that prestigious university, where after three years of diligent study, he graduated with First-class honours, the highest scoring student in his subject. He married young, the wedding to a local girl and fellow student of Oxford happening just three weeks after he received his results. Phelan’s new wife was in the year below him, so she completed her final year and then they went travelling in their second year of marriage. Their first child was born at the end of that second year, the pregnancy occurring during their travels and shortening their trip by a few weeks. After months on
the road, which had concerned her parents, they were happy to settle back down into something of a normal life once more in the Oxford area.

  Five years passed, Phelan worked on a doctorate and impressed his supervisors so much that he was offered a post-doctoral research post, a rare opportunity. Meanwhile, during those five years back in Oxford, his wife took care of their child at home, a second boy being born two years after the first. Life was good for them.

  Then they suddenly moved away from Oxford, travelling a while before settling a little closer to London, in the home they still lived. He’d given up his academic post, taking an office job within a large firm in London, much to the surprise and concern of many at the time, though the pay was good. Over the years he’d been working there, he had made progress within the firm, travelling a little more with his team to manage and even his own secretary to organise his diary. It was a dramatic change from his research post he’d held in Oxford, a career that offered a high level of prestige compared to what he was now doing.

  His wife had never questioned what her husband wanted to do, as she loved him dearly and was happy to go along with whatever he wanted. She worked part-time with an online publication firm, putting her skills to good use, so as long as she had space for a desk to work from, she didn’t mind where she lived. Her parents, still living in Oxford weren’t too far away for them to come and visit them in their new home. She never passed on their concerns about why their son-in-law had seemingly made such a big step down when everyone else was seeing so much potential for his future.

  Breakfast times were always noisy, the youngest now going through potty training, a process that had proved stressful with the first two, and was showing the same this time, too.

  Outside, in the van, the four-person team lowered the volume a little, a video feed picking up a visual display from the dining room. There was another camera in the lounge, which just showed the family pet, a cat, sleeping on the rug in the middle of the room. As well as the audio mikes in the same two rooms, they had two others upstairs, including the main bedroom. There was also a mike in his office, though so far he’d never actually held a meeting within his own four walls of his working environment, instead meeting people around a canteen table or nearby café. He was an extremely sociable person, and for his part, seemed to be well liked and popular.

  The Russians had undoubtedly picked up a sense from the office crowd that a number of the female staff thought of him as a somewhat handsome fella––the talk often coarse and frank––when they thought no one else was listening.

  Phelan was in the hallway of his home when a text message came in, the kitchen doorway behind him, the family in full voice as was usual at that time of the day. The two oldest were running late for school, their mother pleading with them once more to finish up and brush their teeth.

  Phelan stepped out of the front door, briefly, phone now at his ear. The man in the driving seat of the van parked the other side of the street facing the Irishman, placed a directional microphone on the dashboard, turning up the receiver on the device to pick up what was being said.

  “Yes, I’ll be able to come and see you…no, of course, my wife doesn’t know, and we both know that has to stay that way…no, I’ve not changed my mind…yes, I’m still interested in you, of course, don’t worry, it’ll all be okay, you’ll see…okay, be in touch soon…yes, I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can get away…no it won’t be a problem, just leave it with me…look, I need to go; she’ll wonder where I’ve been…yes, don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon…just trust me…” and he ended the call, stepping back inside the door carefully, the door closing quietly behind him. Those in the van looked at each other, nothing said, the two men in the front seats just smiling amongst themselves.

  Later that day when a fresh report had been sent in from his team of Spotters watching this promising and unusual Irishman, Dmitry Sokoloff sat in his penthouse apartment in Moscow, his guest sitting across from him. It was not uncommon for two oligarchs to meet each other outside of the setting of the Games, but usually, these were in regular public meetings, like they would face the following week when they were required to travel to London for a gathering of the one hundred most valuable companies in the UK.

  His guest, Aleksey Kuznetsov, known as Fifteen on Games day, was therefore ranked three below his own ranking of Twelve, a fact that meant the guest would always play second fiddle to the man he’d come to see, wealth and ranking amongst this group of very status conscious men meaning everything.

  “I think I have a Contestant who’ll be ideal for the big one this summer,” Dmitry said, keeping most of the details to himself. No other oligarch ever shared names with another man before the actual event. If they did, all the other oligarchs would be able to watch that individual, all able to work out themselves what the Contestant would do. The bets would be off, as there would be no real element of surprise. The Hosts valued the secrecy of their potential Contestants as much as they did any other part of their own security, protection and empire. “He’s an Irishman,” Dmitry let on, grinning at his guest, whose own Irishman in the previous Hunt had proved a complete waste of investment.

  “Well, let’s just hope I don’t have to do to your guy what was needed to mine.”

  “So you were involved, though I never doubted that for one moment.”

  “As if you haven’t done twice as much in your time! Why am I here exactly?”

  “You needed my help, you said. I run most of the services you need to expand into the rest of the country. Much more if you want to grow throughout Europe.”

  “And what is it you need from me?”

  “There is nothing I need from you other than your vote for me to get a slot at the summer event.” Aleksey knew what he meant precisely, his own influence and wealth in the business world was nothing compared to the man in front of him. He could do nothing for him in the outside world, but as an oligarch within the Games, his vote was worth as much as each of the other ten. Having just hosted a Hunt himself and failed, he was desperate to get back to the table and show what he could do and yet he didn’t have anyone to put forward as a Contestant. But, if it meant that much to the man now sitting in front of him, then Aleksey would gladly give him his vote. It would mean his own empire could multiply without even having to win a bet within the Games. He might also then be able to win more from him if Dmitry was to fail during that particular Hunt.

  “I’ll get the people on board. Twenty owes me a favour, and I think Eighteen could be persuaded. That would surely give you enough votes to be included in the summer event. I think they are considering multi-Contestants once more. It gives more interest than just a single Hunt. More chances of one of us failing, I guess.”

  “I don’t fail, and I thank you for your backing in this regard. I’ll get the contracts drawn up that will allow your business to expand. We will sign them the day after I’m voted into the summer event. Now get out of here, I have much more important things to get on with.”

  The meeting suddenly over, Aleksey stood and left without saying anything else, their relationship nothing more than a business one. Within the ten men, despite the fact they were all very wealthy, there remained very strict alliances and cliques, most often based on their rankings, the richest sticking together, the poorest too in their own grouping, as well as people that might have business connections that overlapped. It was therefore only in that regard that Aleksey had obtained ten minutes with a man worth an estimated $2.2 billion, despite being worth over $1.8 billion himself.

  With the vast resources of the MI6 and therefore MI5 database now entirely at their disposal, Alex and Anissa felt that for the first time in months they were making some progress. Within the Service, their voluntary involvement in this type of often avoided side-project was seen as an excellent example of experienced field agents getting involved where usually––Alex Tolbert being a prime example––such agents thought of themselves as too important to be tasked
with such a menial assignment.

  Due to the profile of those in attendance, the British Government always insisted upon MI5 and 6’s involvement––the task usually then just handed within the Service to the most junior agents available. To have Alex and Anissa both stepping forward was, therefore, a delight, and the Service also saw the value in these two agents brushing up on the technical side of things. The role mainly called for a careful study of cyber information, the internet often where first signs that anything sinister was planned for any particular meeting.

  The participants, the one hundred members of the FTSE100, changed a little, being a group of the top one hundred companies listed on the London Stock Exchange with the highest market capitalisation. The top seventy or eighty were mainstays and covered a wide range of industries and sectors––oil and gas, consumer goods, banking, tobacco, pharmaceuticals and so on. Those twenty or so firms making up the rest of the list might move around from one year to the next, sometimes in the top one hundred, sometimes not, depending on the state of the market at any one point. Attendance for the annual gathering was always fixed after first quarter results were published, from which a top hundred was established. What the actual share price was doing at the time of the conference was mostly secondary, sometimes the companies present were no longer listed on the Footsie, as it was best known.

  As it turned out, seventeen of the firms that would be present at the London gathering had links to Russia, their owners and often billionaire oligarchs would most certainly be attending one of the highest value networking events the UK put on. Security was paramount, a violation of any type––no matter how small––would have repercussions for years to come. London had been through enough; they couldn’t allow something to happen to these key people.

  The venue was kept a secret, though it mainly rotated around three locations. The event itself was kept from the press as a whole, the occasional reference mentioned in some of the financial papers as an afterthought, but anything that was shared publicly was always low key.