by Tim Heath
All nineteen current participants within the Games were together in the same place once again. Svetlana Volkov, instrumental in both groups, was hosting this otherwise all-male affair, and yet she held real influence within that group. Even if the combined wealth of her and her husband wasn’t a match for some of the men present––their control indeed was.
The cover to their gathering, as always, was the World Economic Forum, and business did get discussed––as it ever was when men with a combined net worth more significant than most nations’ GDP got together.
These occasions, as well as the Games themselves, offered each man an unrivalled opportunity to meet, especially for the smaller fish in that particular ocean.
Sokoloff––conspicuous by his absence––had been a relatively small fish, especially since losing at last summer’s event. New Year had been the final tipping point. His collapse was a firsthand example of what could befall any of them if they became foolish.
In the afternoon, the two groups of men separated––those within the T10 going upstairs, as they always did, the others remaining down. Svetlana stayed for the moment with the T20, needing to address the subject of a replacement for Sokoloff.
“Gentlemen, as you know we have a space inside the T20––Sokoloff having vacated his role as Twenty––which he’d taken over from Krupin, who was relegated last year. Naturally, Krupin has already been in touch with me since the news broke about Sokoloff, and amongst those eligible…” by which she meant the super rich, a billionaire being a qualifying requirement, as much as being trustworthy enough to keep what they were doing a secret. A former Host fitted that bill. “…I see that he has a strong case.”
“If I may add something to this discussion,” Foma Polzin spoke up, a long-term member of the T10 and top dog within the T20 since Matvey Filipov had decided to enter the arena.
“Please do.”
“I would like to use my right and nominate someone more suitable.”
“Go on.”
“Andre Filipov has been running some of my businesses for years,” which was a complete fabrication. “He is worth $1.5 billion in his own right, all his own money,” again another lie unless Polzin had suddenly turned his loan into a gift, which would have been more than generous. “He knows about our gatherings as you might imagine and wants in. I think he would be a great addition.”
There was no question as to why Andre would know about everything they did. His father had joined the year before after nearly a decade of rejecting their approaches to be part of their exclusive group. Matvey’s involvement, at last, had been a big boost for them all.
“And this is your recommendation, not his father’s?” The accusation stung, a little.
“Andre is his own man. Ask him yourself.” It hadn’t been as much a direct answer to the question as a side step. This wasn’t the first time there had been men who were related both taking part in the events. Dmitry Kaminski was standing right there amongst them all, his uncle currently upstairs with the big fish. Having a second interest brought closer unity within the group, giving some Hosts more to lose than others, more reason to, therefore, keep the knowledge of what was going on a well-kept secret.
“Very well, I’ll speak with the room and give you an answer shortly. If you would please step outside for a moment.” Polzin was already moving; he knew the protocol by now. It would be for the group to decide. They always voted before a new member was added––they all had their own necks on the line.
The conversation was brief, Kaminski himself quite vocal. He didn’t want Krupin––a man with connections to Putin––back into their group. Seeing both of the President’s moneymen taken out of that valuable world would serve him significantly when the time came, and he was ready to announce his challenge to Putin for the Russian Presidency publicly.
The room was quickly in agreement that Andre Filipov––if his value checked out––should be allowed a place within the T20, taking the number Eighteen that his net worth would dictate.
Polzin was called for again, the relatively short time he’d been waiting telling him all he needed to know. He greeted the news that Andre would be allowed into the mix to fill Sokoloff’s place with a broad smile. There could have been unforeseen opposition, nothing ever a guarantee when it came down to voting in new members, the slots becoming available exceptionally rarely. Now Polzin and his little alliance had three men on the inside, across the two groups. That was a potentially game-changing influence, and Polzin knew the next part of the plan was already beginning to take shape nicely.
“That brings me to the summer event,” Svetlana said, Andre’s involvement agreed and she wanted to move onto their next Hunt. “We’ve not had time to meet before, but we will host a summer event as always for midsummer this year.” Midsummer fell towards the end of June, the event usually held on the closest weekend to the date. “I feel it would be fitting to give the new boy a chance to prove himself, so Foma, do please let him know. As well as him, I would like to offer the chance for Akim and Rurik to show off what they can do.” Akim Kozlov’s man was the one who was pushed in front of a train in St Petersburg, ending that Hunt before it had got going. Rurik Sewick––Mr Grey from Ukraine––had had his German Contestant arrested while he was trying to get into St Isaac's.
Neither man necessarily wanted to be back in the spotlight so soon, but it was how things had always worked––Svetlana called the shots. They would each select a Contestant who offered their opponents the chance of beating their Host, an opponent being any oligarch who would bet against them during the Hunt. They would purchase a lottery ticket big enough to make the gamble worthwhile, and come that next event, their fellow oligarchs would make wagers with each other, as to who might succeed––who might fail first––anything really that made a bet viable. Money was rarely used, and in the light of Sokoloff’s collapse, they were all freshly reminded about the dangers of going too big.
“I would like to remind you all, gentlemen, that our rules strictly forbid direct intervention against a fellow Host--or any use of violence in any way. We meet to enjoy the company of one another, to risk a little, watching what other people will do for money, how ingenious they become to get rich. Ultimately we do it for the sheer fun of it. It cannot become personal––leading to the kind of accusations Sokoloff made––his vendetta that he seemed to set out on, assuming fellow Hosts and members of the T20 were conspiring against him. I sincerely hope that his wild accusations were without grounds.” No one said anything, not that she expected anyone to, either. “I look forward to welcoming you to my home once more this summer. For now, that’s our meeting concluded. If you’ll excuse me, Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your champagne,” and she left them at that moment, heading out of the door and upstairs to the other group of men.
“Congratulations on getting your man approved,” Arseni Markovic said, number Twelve within the group and therefore Polzin’s closest competitor concerning wealth, though that was only a quarter of what Polzin was himself worth. “I wasn’t aware that Andre had been working for you for so long,” he added, although it was clear he knew the opposite to be true.
“You can’t know everything, after all,” Polzin said.
“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” Arseni whispered into his ear, placing his hand firmly on Polzin’s shoulder, Polzin repelling it forcefully.
“You’ll have to find out,” he said, walking away from the man who didn’t take his eyes off him until he’d exited the room.
Upstairs, Svetlana had pulled the group of men together. She hadn’t said anything to Matvey about having allowed Andre to join the other group. She knew he would find out the moment he left if he didn’t already know. These men had a knack for obtaining up to the minute information.
“It’s been three years since we last met, and the competition since then has been fierce. Congratulations on making it the spectacle it has always turned out to be. You’ve kept our proud
tradition going. Some of your contests went right to the wire. My team will be working out suitably sized opponents for you all next time we meet in June,” which was when the Asian based version of the forum met, something they were already committed to attending.
Matvey, there for the first time in that context, marvelled at the way she talked about suitable competitors––as if she was eyeing up prize boxers, or champion racehorses. Not companies worth upward of three hundred million, employing thousands of people with hundreds of thousands relying on the shares they might have invested in the target firm. If he had his way, it would all be shut down. One of Matvey’s final obstacles was the man standing alongside him at that moment, the one they called the Lion. When the Lion’s nephew had privately announced that he would be running for President in the 2018 elections, it was immediately clear that Lev’s wide-ranging influence and power would be a key factor determining how far Kaminski’s bid got. Lev too, therefore, had to be taken out of the picture. Matvey had to find a way of exposing the man to the corruption he was up to his neck in before nominations were put forward for the 2018 elections. He had maybe one year before that would be the case. One year to blow it all wide open, at the very least to take Lev Kaminski out of the running within their elite group. It was asking a lot.
They’d been a few weeks on the island––their latest home from home––when Phelan Mcdermott took the call. Matvey rarely spoke directly with the Irishman himself, but this time he did. That either made the news very good, or extremely bad.
“It’s over,” is all the Russian opened with, his tone buoyant enough to invoke hope even if his words could still have been read either way.
“Over? As in, finished?”
“Yes, Phelan, the threat to you is over. You’re a free man once more,” the choice of words interesting when during their months of hiding, Matvey had never said they were captives. Now, only now, he was saying they were free. He let it ride.
“Really?” While it was good news, it had only been a matter of several months. When the plan was first suggested, he’d accepted it all knowing it could be eighteen months, maybe even two years before he would expect to have had that confirmation.
“I know what we said, but it’s all happened a lot quicker than even I expected.”
“But might he still not pursue us anyway, out of spite or some other form of empty revenge?”
“He’s dead, Phelan. Sokoloff is dead.”
It was clear Matvey was talking literally and not figuratively. Phelan knew the plan had been to bring down the Russian––his business empire and his influence––especially his influence in regards to the State Duma and Putin himself. That much was clear. What Matvey was saying made the end even more final than he had imagined.
“He’s dead? Something unexpected, I assume?”
“For him, yes,” Matvey said, giving the impression of choosing his words carefully. He added, as if as an afterthought but maybe perceiving what was going through Phelan’s mind at that precise moment, “but don’t concern yourself about that, don’t lose sleep over Sokoloff’s wellbeing––or lack of, as it turns out. He wasn’t concerned with yours. He wanted you dead, and you shouldn’t forget that.”
“I appreciate the call,” Phelan said, knowing enough not to express what was really in his heart, that he was glad Matvey had killed Sokoloff––if not personally, it was clear he was directly involved in his death. He had to have been. He was glad the monster chasing him and his family was no longer doing so. Happy the men searching would now turn back and give up if they had not already done so. Glad Matvey had allowed him to win millions of pounds on the UK lottery––a lottery he had never even played––and setting them all up financially for life in the process. He was glad for many things, none of which he would risk saying in a telephone conversation. He’d been trained well enough to know that there could be any number of people listening in.
“What will you do now?”
Phelan hadn’t thought about that. They’d only arrived on the island some weeks before––it was beautiful, but maybe a little too remote for them personally, especially the boys, who were growing more bored the longer they were there. His mind had been so fixed on the here and now that he hadn’t thought through the what next part. The call had caught him off guard, coming months, if not a year, before he thought they would be in such a position.
“I guess we’ll start making those plans now,” he said, after a few seconds of silence. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Is this the last time we’ll speak? I mean, now it’s all over, is this it?”
“I think it probably is, Phelan. You’ve served us well. Enjoy the rest of your life.” Those were the closing words from Matvey to a man whose life would be dramatically different from having come into contact with someone of the influence and wealth of Filipov.
“Thank you, sir. We will.”
The call ended, Phelan standing there in silence for a moment, not aware his wife was standing in the doorway behind him, having come in and expecting the worst, only to hear the last few sentences and instantly she understood it was all over. They could leave, they could return home, and they could begin the rest of their lives.
Phelan turned, and seeing his wife standing there––tears already forming in her eyes as a smile was breaking on her lips––he knew she understood. They embraced and stood there in silence, holding each other tightly, before kissing, a long, slow kiss that said everything they needed to communicate with each other at that moment.
Over lunch, Phelan broke the good news to the rest of the family, the boys seemingly delighted to leave that island even if they hadn’t fully understood all that was going on, both sets of grandparents seeming relieved it was all over, at last.
They started packing up, though they didn’t have a lot of things. The boat was loaded up, which would take them across to San Diego where they would tour around a little, heading further east for a few nights and crossing a mountain range before taking in the delights of Palm Springs and the neighbouring areas. They would then go to Los Angeles as the kids wanted to visit the many adventure parks available and the adults would enjoy being around other people again. The instinct to keep looking over their own shoulder for any sign of danger diminished after the first week, though it would take years to leave them entirely.
They had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Walking down Miami Beach one evening––Phelan and his wife arm in arm, the kids running in and out of the waves with their grandparents––they discussed what they should do next, where they should visit, what they should do. Mapping out the next few years would be fun––the years ahead offered endless amazing opportunities.
29
It was a busy midsummer’s week for Svetlana Volkov, as she welcomed the group of ten Russians who were a part of the T20 to her St Petersburg mansion, after which she would head south, a flight to Egypt leaving the day after the event finished. That would take her to the World Economic Forum happening in north-east Egypt, where she would also meet up with members of the T10, and map out the challenges set before them all.
“Gentlemen,” she said, opening up the latest round of their event in St Petersburg. “It’s great to have you all amongst us, and I would like to offer a personal welcome to our newest member of our group––Andre Filipov.” There was a muted clink of glasses––they’d all spoken with him already that morning, and for some, his involvement gave too much influence to individual members in the room––especially to Foma Polzin, the man at Eleven––who’d proposed Andre’s inclusion. Andre had come in at Eighteen and now raised his glass. Because of his father’s influence, he was comfortable in this environment despite being the youngest in the room, bar Svetlana.
It was the sole female in the room, as dominant in her role as Chair as she was beautiful, who continued to hold their attention. “Once more we have three Hosts––Thirteen, Fourteen and Eighteen. Once more they have selected for us an interesting and able gr
oup of Contestants, three people this morning waking to find news of a ticket, hidden for them in this great city. A ticket that offers them a new life––a better life––if only they can be smart enough to get back in time and claim it.” It was the phrase she said most often––almost the chorus of their gatherings, the opening ceremony speech as it were––and she had for many years been reciting it all from memory, every bit the great actress she was. After five minutes, she came to the end of her monologue, and the cheer went up. The Games were once again underway.
On the wall in front of them, the screens jumped into life, the invisible group of technicians working away quietly, making sure nothing got in the way of the show that was about to unfold. Rurik Sewick, Akim Kozlov and Andre Filipov––the three men in the spotlight today––stood together for a moment. It wasn’t so much them against each other, more them against anyone who betted against them. It was the Contestant’s Host who tried to stop them claiming the ticket in time by pulling favours and exerting authority. The Contestant had to look good enough to succeed, enticing others to bet against the Host.
It was a billionaire’s way of playing with fire––how close to defeat would you allow yourself to be before you secured victory? Some men had fallen over the edge in the process––losing last summer had been the catalyst for Sokoloff’s downfall. His absence was noticed, but he was not missed.
By the afternoon––the Games very much in full flow––there was the usual excitement and anticipation in the room, the lightheartedness of the Games Room floor returning. During the New Year event––the significant decade anniversary Hunt––that feeling had primarily deserted the room.
All three current Contestants were doing their best––it was a promising start, at least. Polzin walked over to Andre who was experiencing his first ever Games, the newcomer immediately thrown into the deep end. It was the custom to make a new member a Host in their first Hunt.