by Tim Heath
For the moment, they would be happy with making this one additional connection, the information going onto the shared file, which was the safest place for the small team to share information with each other. Nothing existed within the office, no paper trail that would lead anyone back to them should someone come looking. They intended to keep it that way.
Anissa was walking with Alex around the park, and they’d been going over everything for a few minutes, no one around them, the park noticeably empty for that time of day.
“So, we have a confirmed link to migration services in the UK. We must assume similar links exist within other countries, too. That enables these people to get a visa for Russia for whoever they want, presumably at short notice if needed. They must safeguard the application, in some way, meaning the normal checks and processes are not required, or they are just overlooked. We can’t underestimate the chance that maybe they have someone within the embassies, too, who is working with them.”
“I’ll connect with Sasha again, see what he’s managed to rustle up.”
They walked for a little longer, having the occasional word but they were each deep in thought, working over what they were involved in, looking for gaps––areas to explore. Other projects within MI6 were increasingly keeping them busy, their entire Russian operation solely remained in the shadows––deliberately off the radar––and therefore fitted in here and there as time allowed.
“One more thing,” Anissa added, catching Alex by the arm to stop him walking away. “I’ve made contact with the three Russian firms that we now have our eyes on, posing as a conference organiser looking to get motivational speakers to come and share at future events. I’m only dealing with the secretaries, so the Russians should never know about it.”
Alex wasn’t so sure that sounded wise. “Go on.”
“We now know what the Russians are targeting––unclaimed lottery tickets. By unclaimed, I mean ones that as far as we know, the winner has not come forward. In fact, the Russians might have already given them a cash prize in exchange for the ticket––how else would they get it? Anyway, that knowledge gives us some idea as to when a future event might take place.”
“By seeing what tickets are yet unclaimed and working out when they expire,” Alex said aloud, intrigued with where Anissa was going, though she hadn’t even got to her main point yet.
“Exactly. We don’t even have to work much out, all the websites for these various lotteries give this information freely. Of course, most of these tickets are simply lost. It’s only a few that interest the Russians––often high-value tickets––though there is no absolute pattern to prove that. Either way, we have an ever-increasing list of dates spanning up to six months ahead, any one of these being possible dates when this group of Russians will meet again in the future. Now, with the last event we know about, there were two from the UK with one each from Ireland and Spain. The date must get set around the time the two UK tickets were purchased. They both had a one hundred and eighty day limit on them. For Spain and Ireland, there were just ninety days.”
“So these tickets must have been purchased later?”
“Yes, much later, when a date was already known. Kind of like a bonus play when they became available.”
“So tracking UK draws is the key?”
“Yes, UK and Switzerland in fact both give the longest time, with Belgium at one hundred and forty. I’ve started to make notes regarding draws across the various lotteries available to British citizens, and where two or three possible tickets intersect, I circle that date. These are the dates I noted. We won’t know until three months in if any other draw around Europe will give up winning tickets, but with so many available, and winners announced all the time, it isn’t hard to add tickets to any one event later on.”
“If you can get hold of them.”
“Of course, but they obviously do, so I don’t suppose it matters who they are dealing with, the set up is probably the same, their approach now no doubt finely tuned. Anyway, my main point in contacting these businesses is this: I’ve suggested conference dates for all our circled potential ones––we wait to see if the secretaries claim they’re already busy, and whichever ones they are free on we can cross off the list.”
“A bit like a game of battleships, you mean?”
“Sorry?” Anissa said, not understanding what her colleague meant at all.
“The dates you are suggesting are like the ships you place on your board when you play battleships.”
“I never did.”
“You’ve never played battleships, not even as a child?” Alex laughed, before clarifying; “Basically if one of your circled dates meets with the unavailability of any of these Russians, it’s like you’ve made a strike. We’re onto them.”
“Yes, and I heard back this morning. We have two dates that none of the three men can make.”
“That’s some coincidence.”
“Alex, that’s much more than a coincidence. We have their next two event dates, and now know three of the people involved. I’d say it’s a massive leap forward.”
20
It was the warmest day of the year so far, St Petersburg in its slower paced summer season––when tourists threatened to outnumber those Russians that hadn’t left for the countryside. School holidays had kicked in a month before, the long nights of summer fully underway, allowing those still walking the streets late to lose track of time altogether. There was a serene, melancholy feel to the atmosphere, people in less of a hurry, though that was the norm with the evening crowds. The streets, though less packed than the rest of the year, would still be full of cars come the morning.
At Temple Mount, the aptly named five-storey mansion owned by the Volkovs, the oligarchs had started to arrive. The mid-summer event was the second most significant gathering in the year, behind the massive New Year contest. Nothing outstripped these two occasions for all that they were and meant to those involved, and there was something so beautiful about being in St Petersburg in the summer.
Most guests used this event as the chance to grab three days away from the heat that gripped Moscow at that time of year. Nearly everyone would be staying at Temple Mount over the next two nights, the annual tradition that they spent one day together, the Games taking place the following day and the third day was just left free.
The summer event didn’t always fall exactly on the shortest night of the year––though it was happening that year. The dates were determined by the lottery tickets they were using to make ordinary people do crazy things.
With everyone inside the building, the Chair spent five minutes speaking to them all, holding their attention, every word was spoken with purpose and meaning––nothing said without reason.
The gathered crowd of ten wealthy oligarchs were reminded of the competition rules, told of the fact that though this was a contest and for many, there was a lot at stake, it was against the rules for any oligarch to directly interfere with or go against another Host. No oligarch was allowed to invest money to stop another Host succeeding; they could only watch and bet based on what happened before them all.
They all knew the rules, they didn’t for their part need to be reminded of them, but these unwritten laws now being voiced reminded them how often they ignored the very structure that was designed to keep them all working together.
The main thing that kept them there were the connections and influence it brought them, each man confident that though they’d experienced losses at times, their involvement in a league of such people had only had multiple benefits to their entire empire. Only one man, his losses so great––as he’d got drawn into a very public argument with another Host––had ever been asked to leave the group. That had happened three years before, his silence guaranteed by the information the others had on him. Another had taken his place, now a more prosperous man who accepted the invitation to join, becoming the new Seventeen, the previous holder of that number becoming Eighteen, and so on. The positions
hadn’t changed in the last three years.
That evening, food was provided in the house, a firm of catering staff offering a high-quality range of only the most exquisite cuisine. The identity of those present was kept from the caterers, the food prepared and staff long gone before the first oligarch entered the dining area––secrecy, as always, paramount.
The following day, the sun rising just a few hours after it set, the weather was clear––another warm day expected. Most Russian visitors to the city celebrated Mid-Summer by dropping in on friends and relatives or visiting one of the many sites that made St Petersburg such a grand city.
Sergej and Svetlana Volkov were hosting a number of their peers on their boat. They spent most of the morning until well after noon travelling along the main river, taking in some of the more sizeable canals, leaving the smaller ones alone. The conversation was flowing, Svetlana mixing well with everyone, her husband keeping a close watch on the others, but their comments to her were always respectful––he couldn’t fault them on that.
Lunch was served on a riverside pier, the boat docking at an arranged time, the guests tucking into all that was provided.
In London that same morning, Phelan McDermott set out from his home, a taxi waiting for him out front. He was travelling to the airport having suddenly announced his need to take a trip. Phelan didn’t like to leave in that manner, and he now regretted it. He wished he’d told her sooner, but it was too late now. He would have to piece things together once he returned home.
At Heathrow, he was checked in at the British Airways desk, his ticket in hand, as he looked through a few shops, considering the various chocolates, perfumes and then ladies’ underwear they had on offer. He resisted buying anything right then.
The call came through for his flight just before eleven, and he was one of the first to board. The excitement was growing inside him–– nervous energy––unsure of why he was doing this.
As the plane lifted off the tarmac in London, he knew there was no turning back. What awaited him was another world, a city unlike any he’d seen before.
He’d travelled quite a lot, and had been to many exciting places, but had never been to Russia. The mysterious nature of his trip was beginning to worry him. He ordered a glass of wine when the option came––insisting on just one to settle his nerves––which it only did a little.
He slept for a while, waking as the call came through for passengers to return to their seats, as the plane was coming in for landing in Moscow.
Svetlana walked with her husband, their minders never far away, almost daring someone to get too close to such a powerful couple. They were in deep conversation, walking past the front of the Summer Gardens across the river from Peter the Great’s fortress and what was now a summer beach. There were many boats along the river, tourists flocked across the various bridges, and a coach load arrived for the park as they passed.
No one gave the couple too much attention––it was what they liked about St Petersburg compared to Moscow––being able to walk around without being pestered by too many fans. Besides, most people around them at that moment were tourists, and despite Svetlana being an internationally known actress, her everyday appearance––whilst elegant always––was entirely different from her on-screen glamour; enough to make her seem just another woman, to the casual observer.
It was late as Phelan left a hotel in the centre of the city, having spent two hours inside the opulent building. He looked around as if someone would notice his exit as if his wife might see him––forgetting for a moment that he was thousands of miles from home.
Home, he thought. The kids would be busy around the dinner table. Her mother had come to stay, helping out at short notice––Phelan only springing the news on her of his need to take a trip two days before.
He’d said he was heading to Germany. He didn’t know why he had lied, but Phelan would sort it all out when he got back, he determined. He had to do this to get it out of his system, three days away from home, where anything could happen, before settling back into the normality of what his life had become. Maybe it would all be different from now on? Perhaps he’d finally found that excitement, that edge he’d been searching for his whole life? Moscow, it seemed, with its vast contrasts offered that very thing.
He’d been around many beautiful women all evening, their fragrance carrying with him as he got into the waiting taxi, the cab taking him to the central railway station in the city. Everything had been provided for him for his onward journey north, which he was very pleased about as he didn’t speak a word of the language he was hearing around him––not a single word made any sense.
He boarded the train at half-past eleven, an overnight sleeper that would deliver him to the centre of St Petersburg by nine the following morning. He found his compartment––in the first class section––which he had to himself. He settled on his tiny bed, determined to get a good night’s sleep, dropping off quickly, the journey north happening steadily throughout the night as he got some much-needed rest.
It was Games day at Temple Mount. The previous day’s more leisurely pace had done a lot to relax the men now standing scattered around the room. A few technicians worked on screens in the background, but they knew how it went by now––never speak, never let your presence be noticed, pretend you don’t exist.
They were just there to keep the displays running, like a television crew working behind the scenes to broadcast the next big event. They weren’t the focus; it was the ones appearing on the screens who mattered. The oligarchs were the focus, though it was mainly the Hosts who were in the spotlight. They were the ones who were supplying the Hunt, and they were the ones with the most on the line. Reputations could be made as well as broken within these four walls. It was never about the money; it was always about the Hunt for these men.
There were two Hosts for this latest event, one man failing to take up his option of becoming a third Host by not being able to come up with an appropriate ticket in time. That happened fairly regularly, which was why they now had multiple Hosts, though the first ticket was always secured before a date was set––ideally the first two.
Hosts for this Hunt were Twelve and Twenty.
Dmitry Sokoloff had indeed got his wish to Host during the summer event, and his Irishman was already one of the most keenly anticipated Contestants they’d had in a while.
“Gentleman,” the Chair announced, drawing the men together into a circle around the central staging area, “we are ready to start, so let the Hunt begin. Today we are in the hands of Twelve and Twenty. May your Hunts be successful.”
The usual reply was given.
The screens displayed where the two Contestants were, neither having yet taken a ticket, the Hunt only starting once a Contestant had fully understood what they were being offered.
To the side the Odds Maker had been calculating the bets, setting the odds for the outcome based on when a Contestant might get caught––though rarely was money ever used.
Today, however, the bets were starting stronger, three hundred million dollars laid down already, which while not unusual, was undoubtedly uncommon so early on in a contest.
Twelve walked around, speaking with the Odds Maker, taking in what was being bet against him––the idea that his peers within those four walls were banking on his downfall only spurred him on to succeed. He matched each bet, covering them for the other outcome: the Contestant caught before evening, no foot set outside of Russia.
Fifteen, who’d helped secure the Hunt for Twelve in exchange for some trade deals, was in buoyant spirits.
“I bet his European market that he’ll lose this one,” he stated, the Odds Maker speechless for a while, before calculating the value in his head. He was talking possibly nine hundred million dollars worth of business.
“And what do you have to wage against such a bet?” Twelve said, picking up on the fact such a rash bid had been placed against him.
“Mining rights throughout Si
beria, Kazakhstan and Mongolia.”
The Odds Maker took the reply in, Twelve turning to him as he wrote some things down, a nod of agreement meaning he saw the bet as viable.
“Very well, on your head be it,” Twelve said, turning away, more aware than ever he needed to be on top of his game today. It was the most significant exposure any Host had ever faced––though the opportunities it offered were already running through his mind. It would give his empire the natural resources he’d been negotiating hard for, so far without success, and put them under his control––it made global expansion possible.
Phelan left the train station just after nine, a team of Trackers on his trail as soon as he appeared. Outside the station and once he’d moved away from the three police vehicles that were sitting there––alongside several other cars as well, which he presumed were taxis––he saw a large roundabout with a massive column at its centre. Vehicles were packed around each exit point, blocking other roads entirely.
He stood there, taking in the sounds and sights, the drivers navigating their way through what looked utter chaos to his untrained eyes. Two different people approached him trying to sell him city sightseeing tours. He politely declined them both, recognising he apparently stood out as a tourist.
Across the other side of the roundabout there appeared to be some form of café, and as he approached he was happy to have his initial thought confirmed. From the pavement, in front of the building, he could see people inside sitting at the tables. He entered, looking both left and right––the café extended in both directions––before deciding to go right, as most of the food visible was in that direction, the other side solely offering extra seating should it be needed. It wasn't required as it was early and there were plenty of seats in the right-hand section. He found a table quickly, a tray of various pastries in front of him, no idea what exactly was in any of them. He figured if they were good enough to sell to Russians, then he would be able to stomach them as well. Besides, he was now feeling starving as he had not had any breakfast.