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

by Tim Heath

  “Has anyone got anything good to tell me?” Sokoloff demanded. They’d not seen him this worked up in a long time.

  “We’ve tracked the Irishman,” one man said, a mix of joy springing up in Sokoloff at the news, coupled with dismay that they’d been together for an hour already, but no one had bothered to tell him.

  “Well?” Sokoloff glared, frustrated that these people around him were so slow––like getting information out of a child.

  “He’s on the west coast of America. On an island off the coast near Seattle.”

  “How many men do you need to sort out the situation?”

  “We’re still assessing that. Maybe a dozen.”

  “Fine, take what you need. I want them dead. I’ll make half a million available to draw on for expenses, materials and such.”

  “We’ll get Phelan for you, sir, don’t you worry. What about the rest of the family with him?”

  “I said I wanted them all dead, didn’t I? Kill them all. They’ve all stolen from me. And no one can be allowed to get away with that. Report back to me as soon as its done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sokoloff stood, pacing around, happy at the thought of finally landing a bullet in the man who had conspired to outwit him the previous year, fleeing with a ticket worth millions, losing him that Hunt in the process, the catalyst that started this whole mess.

  Phelan had threatened his honour but his honour was so battered that it hardly mattered anymore, there was no way back. Aleksey Kuznetsov, though, the unwitting winner in that personal duel, had been the one to take over most of his business empire. A man he’d looked down on for many years already, not giving him the time of day––a lesser man. And yet that very man had stolen it all from him, somehow aware of his imminent defeat or just immensely lucky. Either way, he was getting a massive chunk of Sokoloff’s fortune, and that made Kuznetsov fair game for retribution. He wanted to strike back, to damage a man profiting so highly from his downfall.

  Foma Polzin––the newest member of the T20, coming in as top dog in position Eleven and making sure everyone knew about it––had also gone directly against him that New Year. By chance or through outside help he didn’t know nor care. Polzin’s man had come through that battle at the expense of his own, adding further disgrace to his current free-fall. Polzin had made it personal, and that, therefore, made him a target, too.

  Turning to his righthand man in the room––a man who’d got his hands bloodied on his boss’s behalf more times than he would care to recall––Sokoloff said; “I want teams put on Kuznetsov and Polzin. I don’t care if it costs me $10 million a person, if it takes all my money, I want them destroyed and their lives ended. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was twenty minutes later, conversations still going on inside Sokoloff’s one remaining house, when one of the men slipped out of the room, cigarette in hand, making for a rear door. He put the cigarette to his mouth, left it unlit and, turning on the spot casually to confirm he was alone, pulled out a mobile telephone and called the only number in the contacts.

  “It’s me. I’ve just come from a meeting Sokoloff’s had with his chief enforcers. He knows where Phelan is, knows about the island safe-house and has sanctioned their killing. Your name also came up––as did Kuznetsov’s. He wants you both destroyed and a bullet put through your skull.”

  “Thanks for the information, Pyotr, I’ll inform Matvey. Keep your head down and stay safe. Once more you’ve saved my neck.”

  “What do you want me to do about Sokoloff?”

  “Hold fire for the moment. If we take him out too soon, the administration might suspect something. We need him alive for a little while longer.”

  Foma Polzin put the phone down, pouring himself a drink, taking a moment to allow the whisky to swirl around his mouth, savouring the flavour before it burned down his throat. He put the glass, now empty, back onto his oak table and called Matvey Filipov.

  “Phelan’s location is known to Sokoloff’s men again. You need to inform them. They’re coming for him.”

  “Thank you for that information. I’ll get right onto it.”

  The call ended. Foma did not refer to the threat that had been made to his own life. He was more than capable of dealing with that himself. Sokoloff was no match for him, and especially now he knew he was after him.

  Phelan was out running along the rocky beach front when his phone rang. It was the call he’d been dreading, that once again their location was known, once more they would have to cram into their rental van and flee, like refugees, on to somewhere new.

  Matvey told them to head south, down as far as California. Sacramento was about twelve hours by car––Phelan had worked out that much before, mapping the seven hundred plus miles down the I5. Deep down Phelan had expected that day would come. From Sacramento, it was another four hours south to Bakersfield. Matvey had a connection there who would meet them and show them their options. Phelan said he would call Matvey once they’d made Bakersfield, and ended the call.

  Running back to the beach house, his wife knew before he’d said anything that something was wrong.

  “Pack up; we’ve got to move. Our location has become known once more.”

  They’d been there for some time––a few months already––previously having been in Montana. Sokoloff’s men had come after them that time, too, and they had escaped just hours before the would-be killers arrived on the ranch. Now it was happening again.

  An hour later they were all sitting in the van, the three kids a little confused, nearly as concerned as the six adults. The men guarding them at home promised to go with them, travelling with them to the ferry and making sure they got off at the other end without any issues, following them until they were clear of Seattle and moving south. They had all grown to like the family very much. They would be missed.

  Three hours later, already well clear of Seattle and the rain clouds that the city seemed to wear like a hat, they made their first stop. Outside, darkness was beginning to fall.

  They would rotate drivers throughout the night, the three men each agreeing to take three-hour stints. With any luck, they would be in Sacramento by the following morning, Bakersfield before lunch.

  25

  Anissa was sitting in her office at MI6. It was the first week of March, and a junior technician dropped a copy of a Spanish newspaper article on her desk. The headline in Spanish included the amount €30 million. A translated version was placed beside it. She thanked the person and picked up the information once they’d left.

  The article talked about one of the winners from the January claim, a ticket that had been purchased at the beginning of October. The winner was English. The article even had a photo of Leona Chase, thirty-five, apparently posing for the cameras with her winning ticket.

  Anissa read the entire article a second time. She stood up and shut her office door, going over to her cork board, lowering it to the ground, revealing once more a wall of images and pieces of string, some pictures connecting to other faces. The face from the photo on the front cover of the paper didn’t match any they had, though having a name was possibly something new.

  She went over to her computer. The few video clips––including Arnold pushing Stafford to his death––were saved in a protected file on the desktop. She replayed the CCTV footage they had from the Fortress, pausing it at the moment the woman was seen approaching the door. The same woman she’d personally then chased––unsuccessfully––across part of the city. The two were a possible match, but it was impossible to know for sure. The video only showed the attacker from behind––when she’d fled, the quality of the recording device was not good enough to pick up anything, and she had had her head down anyway.

  Anissa called a friend of hers, someone who ran her own legal company, a lawyer herself for fifteen years. Her friend had set up a private legal practice––which employed three other lawyers––two years ago. They arranged to meet for a coffe
e. They did that occasionally, usually for something work related, and Anissa’s friend was always happy to help. Her friend did know in what world Anissa worked. She had had to divulge that information on one occasion, her friend then being sworn to secrecy.

  “Anissa, great to see you again,” she said, once the order had been made, and they were sitting down at their table that was on one wall of the café. “So what do you have for me this time?”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, before her friend mockingly repeated the phrase, “what would you suggest in a situation where someone who has gone public with winning a large amount of money and who might have obtained that ticket by committing a serious crime?”

  “How serious? Theft?”

  “Worse.”

  “Where?”

  “Not in the UK.” She didn’t want to mention Russia at that point.

  “And you know this how?”

  “An informant.” Again it was just easier to state it that way. Her friend never wanted the details anyway, and she’d told Anissa––it would put her in a tight legal spot should the fact she knew about this ever come out.

  “Did they witness the crime?”

  “They witnessed them entering the premises where the crime took place and are confident that they must be the person who committed it.”

  “And this person is the same person that, hypothetically, claimed a large prize?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it they were visiting that other country at the time?”

  “Yes, they are a British national, and this took place outside of the country, where we don’t have jurisdiction.”

  “I see. Any other witnesses besides the informant?”

  “No.”

  “Proof that this person was in that country?”

  “Hard to prove, but possible.”

  “And the informant could testify?” Anissa thought about that for a moment. She was never officially in Russia, nor would there be any real proof that she ever had been. To then admit being there even if it meant a case could be brought would also put others in danger––Alex and Sasha especially.

  “No, because of their position, that would not be possible.”

  “Look, it’s quite a straightforward case, as it stands. No one would bring it to court. Without a witness, other than the informant who can’t come forward for their security, without proof of travel, without a whole lot of other things, it would get thrown out before it ever reached a judge. It would probably open the accuser up for a libel suit, too. The fact the alleged perpetrator of this crime had come into what I assume to be a significant amount of money, actually goes in their favour.”

  Anissa couldn’t help but look a little disappointed, but she saw the point and was grateful for her friend’s straightforward approach to the situation.

  “Thanks, that’s helpful.”

  “Probably not what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  They drank up, talked about their families a little and were on their way back to their respective offices ready for the afternoon.

  Alex read through the in-flight magazine of his Norwegian Airline flight to Oslo. The call from Andre the other week had been a welcome connection, and he was pleased after such a long silence to be in relatively regular contact once more. Andre had called him about once a month since December, and their March meeting was to be face to face. It had been over two years since he’d met with Andre in person.

  Alex was booked into a hotel in the centre; a train connected the airport to the city, a distance of about sixty kilometres. On arrival, Alex ate an enjoyable lunch in the hotel restaurant, which was a clean, stylish and luxurious space, although the high price of his simple meal reflected what he’d been told about costs in the Norwegian capital. He was finishing a cup of coffee when Andre walked in, coming straight over to him. They hugged like old mates who’d been a long time apart.

  “You look well,” Alex said. This was only the fifth time they’d met in person, mostly communicating throughout their three year association via voice messages. There had not been any communication for nearly the entirety of the previous year. Alex had started to assume Andre had been discovered.

  “How’s the leg holding out?”

  So Andre knew about the shooting, which was immediately disconcerting in the way that it raised questions Alex wanted answers to but knew he wouldn’t get. Nor could he ask those questions. Andre had made that clear.

  “I’m doing much better, thanks. The doctor says I will be able to run longer distances once more in about four weeks. Were you in St Petersburg then, too?”

  “No, nothing to do with any of that. I guess you saw a lot of what was going on?”

  “Mostly the aftermath, except at the Fortress, where we got too close,” he said, with a smile. Getting shot as an active service agent was an occupational hazard. “So what have you got for me?” he said, looking at the information Andre had placed on the table. The Russian pushed it towards him.

  “Last time we spoke I gave you the names of the members of the T20––this is everything you need to know about those that make up the T10. These are the real big boys.”

  “Jesus!” Alex said, scanning through the list in front of him. He recognised some of the names from the information he and Anissa had been putting together so far. There were some businesses listed, some being well-known firms worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

  “They don’t play with lottery tickets in the T10 as the others do, they take it to another level. With them, it’s all about takeovers, the more hostile, the better. They compete to buy out businesses quicker than a competitor, often destroying companies in the process, thousands of jobs usually at risk.”

  “That’s what these companies are?” Alex said, referring to those listed in the information.

  “They’ve all been the subject of contests between members of the T10, yes. Some successful, some not so.”

  “And this happens where?”

  “Anywhere. The type of men involved travel regularly. They meet much less often than the others do––maybe once every year or two. Each man is assigned an opponent during each game sequence, any single contest lasting anywhere up to a few years. These companies aren’t purchased easily. It takes time, not to mention a whole host of other things. The winner is the one who manages to gain the controlling interest first. Usually, the other guy merely walks away at that moment, by which time the damage to the target company is often already done.

  “They go at these take-overs from every angle––the products, the management, the share price, the shareholders. Any angle that gives them a better chance.”

  “Why are you giving me this information? How did you get hold of it yourself?”

  “I’m closely connected, but you know that by now. Everything I’ve given you so far has been accurate, right?”

  “Are you working for one of these men?”

  “Does it matter either way? I’m sticking my neck out for you, risking everything so that I can give you this information.”

  Alex realised the questions racing through his mind at that moment were making him come across too suspicious, too accusing.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, you’ve once again done me a great service. It’s been a crazy few months for sure.”

  “And I guess there are no signs of it quietening down, given what I’ve just handed you.”

  “Too right there, mate.”

  “One more thing,” and he passed over the last piece of information he had, a single page. “You might want to look into this woman. I think she’ll be most helpful when you tell her what you know.” The sheet had the name Josée Allard on it and detailed a little of the whereabouts of the thirty-five-year-old Frenchwoman.

  “Thanks,” Alex said, taking Andre’s word for it and putting the sheet of paper with the rest of the information. “Are you staying in Oslo tonight?”

  “No, I have a plane waiting for me at the airpor
t which will fly me home tonight.”

  “Home? Where might that be?”

  “Not Oslo, anyway,” Andre said with a chuckle, getting up from his chair, shaking Alex’s hand once more.

  “Thanks very much for all this information. You’ll stay in touch, right?”

  “Yes, Alex, I’ll be in touch. Take care and don’t let that information out of your sight.”

  Alex watched him leave, the Russian vanishing as quickly as he’d arrived. He signalled the waiter for another drink––something much stronger called for––and then started to read carefully through all of the information in front of him. There were many pages to work through. It was thoroughly detailed.

  Oslo had been a pleasant experience, Alex taking the day he had there to do some walking, visiting a few of the places of interest, the spectacular opera house building a delightful discovery, but even that was merely passing the time. His leg soon stopped him walking as much as he might have wanted to––his body reminding him he wasn’t yet fully back in one piece––and he’d caught the early flight to London the following morning, back in the office before ten.

  Anissa was already working on her second cup of coffee as he walked into their shared office, closing the door behind him.

  “Good trip?” she said, and in the next two minutes he quickly brought her up to speed on what had happened, dropping the information in front of her.

  “Holy crap, this is a gold mine,” Anissa said, flicking through the first few pages of the information giving details of the various Russians who formed the T10.

  “One more thing, he gave me information on another woman he said we should check out, a previous Contestant I think.” He handed her the sheet of paper, the name didn't mean much to her, as it hadn’t to Alex, but Anissa had been the one giving attention to tracking down the various Contestants.