by Tim Heath
“So, that’s the connection. They are both Putin’s money men––interesting,” Alex said, processing what they were looking through. He’d been doing some sums of his own. Forbes listed Sokoloff, at the close of last year, as being worth $2.2 billion, and Krupin was also listed amongst the billionaires, his worth stated at $1.1 billion.
He didn’t know the names of the other people within this group of ten men, but Andre had said that Dmitry was ranked at twelve, and Krupin had been at number twenty. Alex wrote the numbers eleven to twenty on his paper, jotting next to the twelve the numbers two point two, and at the bottom of the list the number one point one against the last entry. Starting with writing two point one against number thirteen, he counted down the rest of the list, making the numbers up as he went, but knowing the range had to fit within the values they knew about.
He went back to the notes Anissa had made after their conversation. Andre had said that it’d take five oligarchs’ combined wealth to make it into the top ten. Considering what was a rough average amount as he looked at his list in front of him––one point seven––he quickly did the sum, multiplying it by five, writing in large digits $8.5 billion on the page, circling it three then four times. Going back to the Forbes rich list, there were only thirteen names listed with a net worth of equal to, or higher than, eight point five billion dollars.
Andre had said that it wouldn’t be too hard to work out who these other oligarchs were. Alex copied all thirteen names out––though these were just Russians. It might be possible that there were different nationalities involved too, he couldn’t rule that one out, but undoubtedly a good proportion of these very names he was now writing down were in this top group––this T10 that Andre had mentioned.
31
It was a chilly September day in Luxembourg, as the Chair walked out onto the stage, a select gathering of men in front. This had been an extra day tagged on for those already present, the conference on the previous two days a similar event that happened every year.
The conference had been much like Davos where the powers gathered from the business and political worlds. This meeting, however, went deliberately under the radar. The Russians now present were there because, as always, details were to be given regarding the New Year event. This was the highlight of the year for this group of men who always liked to out-do their achievements of the year before, end one year and bring in the next with a real bang. The coming New Year would mark their tenth anniversary as a secretive, select group of men, and it was intended to be the biggest one yet.
The two changes in the room at that moment were noticeable. Stanislav Krupin was no longer with them, though Sokoloff still was. How long that would be the case was eagerly anticipated by some present, and most men were interested to hear what the Chair had to say about him.
It was the appearance of a stranger to this setting that caused most interest, however, as Foma Polzin was welcomed into the group.
They knew who he was, of course, a Russian with enormous wealth, that Forbes reported being $8.7 billion. That made him nearly four times wealthier than Sokoloff had been when he’d held the twelfth position. His emergence told them one thing––he was the new Eleven and had, therefore, dropped down from the T10.
It had been only the third such transition in the decade they’d been together, and it left everyone feeling a little uncertain. Polzin's financial power alone made him a hard person to compete with, but the potential to win influence with him was tremendous.
“Gentlemen,” the Chair said from the stage, with an authority that was always unquestioned in that context. “I’d like to welcome Foma into this special group of men personally,” and something was resembling brief applause––but the atmosphere was a little cautious, to say the least. They also didn’t know what it all meant, nor what was planned for them at the end of the year.
It was only in this context––amongst equals––that these men ever showed any sign of vulnerability. The natural advantage they had in the real world now removed, a genuine level playing field, though the thought was already there––had Foma Polzin’s appearance changed all that to solely Foma’s advantage?
“As you are all aware, Mr Krupin is no longer a part of this league––unless he is somehow able to claw his way back into contention,” and there was a round of laughter with that. However, Sokoloff knew it was only too dangerous, his own position undoubtedly under threat unless he could see a miracle happen at the New Year event.
He’d lined up a Contestant who didn’t stand a chance of beating him this time. The loss of his men in America, the knowledge of which he’d kept to himself, was a blow. He couldn’t let on how hard he was trying to find Phelan, though the longer the Irishman held his money, the less those in that very room would think of him. He’d once been the top man in that setting––regardless of his twelve ranking. No one had carried as much influence as he did––now they were almost mocking him.
“Arseni Markovic,” the Chair continued, “you’ve held Eleven quite a long time, many years in fact, but now become Twelve, from now on. Everyone else will remain the same, as Dmitry Sokoloff will sit through the next event––most certainly his last––as Twenty.” All eyes looked his way. How could it be said this was undoubtedly his last event? It made him more determined than ever to prove them all wrong, these vermin who were so apparently revelling in his downfall––Aleksey Kuznetsov the worst of the lot.
Aleksey had privately protested about the fact Sokoloff was even allowed back in, his bet still not settled up to that point. It was stated that he would always be allowed to save his honour, that this had been in the rules from the outset of their gatherings, but he would not be allowed to fail to settle what had been wagered.
“Gentlemen,” the Chair said once more, sensing the murmurs in the room growing and bringing everyone back into line like a head teacher could do in a primary school assembly.
“I want to share with you what will happen for our New Year gathering that is only a few months away. I will be supplying the actual tickets for the event this time,” the comment met with some surprise. It was always the job of the Host to put this forward––the size of the reward factoring into how much risk they were putting themselves under. “Each of you is to supply one Contestant for the competition.”
Now the reaction was audible, the Chair pausing for a moment, knowing this was the first time more than four Contestants had been required, the first time every oligarch would be hosting someone at the same time.
“Gentlemen, this New Year we’ll be doing things a little differently,” as if that wasn’t clear enough already, but the Chair continued, the room growing increasingly more shocked as the seconds went by. “There will only be five tickets made available, each one of significant enough value to make it a life-changing moment for some.
“For the first time in our shared history, you will want your Contestant to be one of the lucky five that manages to make a claim.” There was outright bewilderment at this, several oligarchs realising at once that the Contestants they had ready to use were now entirely useless to them, at least for this event.
“Game time will be seven days,” the Chair continued, bringing yet another change to normal practice, “starting in St Petersburg, as always. The lottery tickets will be from various countries––there will be no clue as to which countries before the event starts. Must I remind you that at no point is it in our sacred rules to physically attack a fellow Host or his Contestant? I refer to you as gentlemen, and I expect you to act like gentlemen at all times. At no point can you directly do anything to stop another Contestant. Only your own Contestant can do that, and whatever they do, they’ll have to live with the consequences. At no point can your own people interfere directly with another Contestant. If I get any confirmation, even a hint, that you have taken down another Contestant to allow your own Contestant to win, you’ll be eliminated from the competition, and your involvement in this select group of men will be perman
ently over. Have I made myself clear to you all?”
There was a chorus of agreement, and the meeting was over. Game plans would have to change, new Contestants found. Never before had a Host done everything in his power to see his Contestant win, but that was now what faced them all. Ten strangers put into a Hunt against each other, and only five tickets available.
The room emptied, the next few months were now crucial––their selection process needed to be refined, new characteristics sought out in a would-be Contestant, new tactics thought through.
As the increasingly autumnal weeks and months pushed on, Phelan and his family were getting into a comfortable rhythm with life at the Beach House. They’d even been fishing quite a bit on the water that lined their property––the bay named Useless––which still made them laugh no matter how many times they heard it said.
Security was tight, though because of the island’s mainly affluent residents, it was a close-knit group, and everyone had a vested interest in there being peace all around them. Strangers asking questions about fellow residents was indeed something that no one would have tolerated.
The truth was, Phelan and his family didn’t venture out much at all, sticking to the property––which offered lots of opportunities to explore––the land vast, and water so close. As November came round, swimming was no longer possible, even for the boys who’d braved it longer than most. They were growing a little bored with the same scenery, but liked where they were living, not knowing what problems it would cause if someone were to find out where they were again.
Phelan couldn’t help getting the impression that despite the money––or because of it––he was more a prisoner to his surroundings than ever before.
There had been a little phone contact with Matvey, but only a few calls. Phelan hadn’t been told about what happened in Savage––that the threat had been genuine––the men very close with just a few hours’ window for them to have escaped as they did. It had been too close for comfort, and Matvey knew there was no point in giving Phelan the details. Matvey needed to keep up the belief that he had them completely covered––safe.
Tucked away as they were on that island––on the edges of Washington State––the situation contained. He had men at the property, cameras watching the only bridge onto the island and eyes on the ferry for anyone who might come looking.
The game was won or lost long before that, though, his team continually monitoring the critical whereabouts of specific people within Sokoloff’s ranks. He’d had people watching them for months now already, this providing his most important information.
As yet, Sokoloff’s men had no clue they were so closely watched. Matvey planned to keep things that way then there would be no surprises to come further down the line.
Matvey had explained to Phelan during the last conversation they’d had that things should get a little more comfortable for them at some point in the following year. It was possible they could move on, if they wanted, as early as January.
It made the next month and a bit––knowing that after Christmas things might be able to change––all the more bearable. Just relax, view the time as a holiday, live the good life and see what the following year would bring, he’d told Phelan.
Phelan relayed these words to the adults one evening. It had been decided to keep the kids out of things as much as possible, too young to understand all that was going on, and also likely to say the wrong thing to an outsider if they were told.
Their mother, together with her parents, had got into a daily routine of homeschooling the three children.
Phelan’s mother had been an artist for many years but had always had to fit it around a busy home life which meant she rarely painted at the best of times. She had taken to painting with a newfound passion, spending days on end sitting on the shore, painting the bay and water and wildlife. It was getting too cold to sit outside now, the wind also a factor––blowing over the easel one too many times.
Phelan’s father was the fisherman of the family, taking various of the others with him out onto Useless Bay. He was far from useless, a skilled fisherman in fact, and they often cooked fish over loose coals on the stony beach.
Many happy memories made as the men sat around a fire, Phelan with a guitar in hand, kids running around as night fell.
For Dmitry Sokoloff, the progress of autumn––with the increasingly darkening days––only mirrored his own decline all the more. He’d lost all trace of Phelan, no clue if he was even in America anymore––his own thought that they had almost certainly fled. He had teams looking in South America, but it was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Without something to narrow down their search, they were just reliant on luck––and as anyone in Dmitry's position would tell you––luck never went your way. You make your own luck.
He had managed to steady the decline of his business empire somewhat, still many millions short of making the payout, but had deals secured to see him through to at least the New Year. With a few favours and a lot of dealings behind the scenes, he hoped to come out of the event in a much better position, efficiently passing on his debts to others, winning back much of, if not all, he’d lost up to that point. He just had to set the bar at the optimum level to coax the right types of deals out of the other oligarchs.
Winning the event with a Contestant that he’d put forward was the first part of that puzzle.
Finding someone suitable enough had therefore been his constant search, knowing that the other oligarchs would surely be thinking the same as he was––that it would all come down to which Contestant was prepared to go furthest to win.
He wouldn’t settle for anyone less than a Contestant––male or female, and he didn’t care at that moment––who would be prepared to do anything to win, even kill.
At Vauxhall Cross, Alex and Anissa had been keen to be seen apparently moving on with other projects, while never taking their eyes entirely from any development that might be happening regarding the Games. Alex had debriefed everyone in the small team before sending them on their way, promising that they would be needed at some point in the future, but giving no further details as to when, or why.
The two agents then made sure they were both seen to be involved in other cases, mixing once more with fellow agents, taking hold of responsibility for various terror alerts that came up as December came around.
Alex had been able to expose three terrorist cells that had been operating in London––plots foiled that would have targeted the busy streets as Christmas shopping reached its climax.
There had been no further contact from Andre since his call via the couriered telephone to them at the restaurant. Neither agent had ever mentioned the fact they’d heard from him––they acted as if they were finally moving on.
The DDG had taken note of this change but hadn’t said anything to them personally about it, yet.
Like any of the plots they’d just thwarted, the Games too were something for which they’d have to bide their time. They knew a big day was approaching, and they knew things would heat up as the month progressed.
As yet they had no names, no clue of who was being selected this time to take part in the event––which human lab rats were going to be inserted into this very different world––a world which they didn’t fully understand themselves. A world Andre had warned them they knew even less about than they realised. If answers were to start to come, they would have to be patient a few more weeks.
Regardless of what else might be happening––by the New Year––they would be ready. Whatever was about to take place, they were determined to be right on top of it, right in the middle of the action this time––which meant they would have to return to Russia once more.
Experiencing New Year in St Petersburg would be a very different experience. They’d both heard Sasha talk with delight about it being his country’s most prominent holiday, the fireworks that were set off lighting the night sky for hours. They couldn’t wait.
32
It was December 29th, Christmas had come, time spent with families, the Security Service glad that none of the threats––a few credible ones foiled––had materialised on their watch.
The Deputy Director General was finishing up, a few days holiday due, the last of his papers cleared away from his desk. His secretary was instructed to hold all calls for him for the rest of the day, despite the fact that he was about to be uncontactable for days to come. He had one more meeting to attend, and for that, he would leave the office––too many listening ears.
He left just before four, the sky already dark, though street lights and Christmas illuminations continued to brighten the surroundings.
The post-Christmas sales had started, making the shops just as busy as they were before the holiday. The DDG was heading for a hotel, a meeting arranged for one of MI6’s most important visitors, and more than just a visitor––a benefactor.
Alex followed as the DDG passed through several streets. Anissa was already at the hotel, in an adjoining suite. They’d been planning this meeting for weeks now, Andre needing to give them a heads up in the first place that it was even taking place.
This was not an official MI6 get together, not anything that Alex’s level of clearance would have known about, anyway.
The DDG was doing what any long-time spy would––and doubled back a few times––an old habit no spy could ever break when going somewhere you didn’t want to be followed. Alex had left him at the first switch, not wanting to be discovered himself––besides, they knew without any doubt where he was heading. They had already set up their operation at the hotel the previous week, wires and a camera feed put in, giving them eyes and ears on whatever was about to unfold.