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

by Tim Heath

  In Madrid, the British authorities were working with their Spanish counterparts as Leona Chase sat in a police holding cell, kept away from other prisoners. Her substantial assets had been held, the court order and arrest warrants giving the authorities enough power to freeze whatever assets they could connect to Leona. If the money had not rightfully been hers, they were coming for it.

  Leona had just said goodbye to her British lawyer, who’d flown down the moment the arrest was announced. She was due to fly to St Petersburg the following week to walk through every piece of evidence they had against her client. She also needed to work out who the witness was.

  Leona sat in her cell, now alone, a prisoner and with a very dirty conscience. Had it all been worth it? Did what she had gained justify what she’d done to get it? How stupid she felt, now it was all catching up with her, now that her illusion of wealth––the mirage of success––had finally been shattered. They were onto her, and she knew there was no real escape. But who was it that was against her? Was it the Russians themselves? If that were the case, she’d hold nothing back. If they’d done this to her, she would give them up to lessen her guilt, lighten her sentence, if that was at all possible. She trusted her lawyer would be able to dismantle the whole ordeal before it ever came to anything. She hoped that she would soon be free and never have to set foot in Russia again.

  Dmitry Kaminski lived on the road next to Buckingham Palace dubbed Billionaires’ Row for obvious reasons. He’d been based in the UK for some time, though he was contemplating a move back to Russia in the near future––if his political aspirations led him there. The British, or at least a select few inside some of the key positions of power within the government and Security Services, certainly hoped he might win against Putin in the next year’s elections.

  Dmitry was leaving his residence for the day, on the way to the bank he owned and spent most of his time at, when his mobile phone rang, a number very few people knew or had access to. He looked at the caller ID, showing him that a fellow oligarch––and fellow member of the T20 in fact––was calling him. He answered the phone in the privacy of his rear seat, as his driver navigated their way through the busy roads.

  “Arseni, to what do I owe the pleasure,” he said, answering the call. Arseni Markovic––known as Twelve within the Games––was a man whose $2.2 billion fortune had primarily come from metals of all shapes and sizes. Unlike Dmitry, he was still based in Russia.

  “I’ve just heard about the arrest of Leona Chase.”

  “Who?” Names meant little to him at the best of times, unless they were wealthy, powerful, influential or better still a combination of all three. Leona Chase sounded like none of those.

  “My Contestant from last year’s big event.” He was talking about the New Year, which meant this Leona had been up against his Contestant that particular time, a Frenchwoman he’d thought was up to the task named Josée Allard. She’d failed, Leona pocketing the €30 million prize on offer in that particular Hunt.

  “What about her?” Arseni, indeed all men of his standing––Kaminski included––didn’t make calls for the sake of making calls. It apparently involved Dmitry somehow, and he was starting to feel concerned about what might be said next.

  “She’s been arrested in Spain, charged with murder after what happened in Peter,” he said, the implications already slotting into place, before the reference to Peter––what Russians affectionately called St Petersburg––had even been said. Arseni continued; “The case hangs on the credibility of the evidence supplied by the main witness––your girl, Josée.”

  “How far have they got?”

  “It’s being heard at a pre-trial hearing in Peter before one judge next month. It could get nasty. You need to get your girl to stand down.”

  “She’s not my girl anymore. She lost me that Hunt, remember. And I had no direct involvement with her; she doesn’t have a link back to me. I’m not getting involved now.” He couldn’t risk the bad publicity.

  “You have to!” spat Arseni, who had more at stake if people dug deep enough. “It could expose everything we are involved in––everything we’ve ever done.”

  “How? Who’s going to tell them that, in some isolated murder case? I’m certainly not going to say anything. Are you?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Kaminski. I know you are thinking more about your public image than you are about the welfare of those within the Games.” There it was, evidence that word was getting out, and while he might not be getting Arseni’s vote for President, it was clear the idea of him running was beginning to be widely accepted––anticipated even, no doubt. “That would be a mistake. You need us all just as much as we need you to help silence this situation.”

  It wouldn’t have been the first time that such actions were taken to shut down something that might otherwise rise to bite them, to expose what was going on amongst the very wealthiest people Russia had to offer.

  “Arseni, your Contestant took the law into her own hands the moment she decided to kill someone for that money. Yes, it’s why we love the entertainment––the thrill and wonder at what these simple people will do when offered the chance to get rich. But she chose to kill. She slit his throat, and while that situation is ugly––certainly many would see it as wrong––we are not the ones who made that happen. We have nothing to fear.” He sure hoped that was the case. “Besides, we have enough influence in all the right places to make this one go away quietly, no?”

  “I’m not sure.” Arseni wasn’t well connected in St Petersburg, especially amongst the judicial system. And it all depended on how hard they dug. If it were just handled as a crime––if there were no deeper motive for bringing this to trial––then most likely their role behind the scenes in it all would never get a mention. But what if that was the very reason it was being brought before a judge? What then?

  “Svetlana wouldn’t allow anything to threaten the Games. She’ll put a stop to it. Have you spoken with her?”

  “Of course I haven’t!”

  “Well, may I suggest you do, assuming she hasn’t heard already.”

  “You sound so pathetic, you know that Kaminski, sitting there in your lofty position, not daring to get your hands dirty in case it ruins your image. You’ll need men like me on your side if you ever dream of running for Office. And believe me, if you don’t do something about this situation––if you don’t pull out all the stops to silence it once and for all––I’ll make sure that your involvement in this whole situation comes out if it ever gets to trial. How does that work for you?”

  “You’re a coward, Arseni, that’s all you are. Threatening me so that you don’t have to do what you were too scared to do yourself. You can’t threaten me. And when I’m President you’ll regret you ever tried.”

  “Without me, you’ll never be President. I can guarantee that!”

  “You? You can’t guarantee anything! Go to hell you…” but the line went dead before Kaminski could finish his string of expletives. He sat there fuming to himself, more riled than he had been for a while, annoyed to have been threatened personally, but the more he dwelt on it all, the more he took the threat to heart. He knew there was a lot of truth to the suggestion that he’d need men on his side if he were to run for President successfully. Though there were more influential people than Arseni, he would make a far better ally than he would an enemy. Kaminski didn’t need enemies. As the car continued its slow but steady journey through the rush-hour streets, Kaminski sat there pondering what he could do to help, how he could get involved without his presence in it all ever being noticed.

  Svetlana Volkov had been heading for the airport––a flight waiting to take her to America for one month of filming on her latest movie project––when Arseni called her. While the men in the two groups within the Games did have reason to connect with her––and her husband Sergej––outside of events, it was highly unusual to speak on the telephone.

  Replacing the handset––th
ankfully her husband was meeting her at the airport, so it was only her in the car when the call was received––she sat there for the last few minutes of her journey thinking through the implications. As the car pulled in through the gates of the private terminal, she could see her husband was already waiting for her. Putting on her smile as always, she greeted him, and they both boarded the jet, which was ready to go once they were comfortable.

  Husband and wife chatted freely, before Sergej reclined his chair, wanting some sleep, Svetlana pondering everything, wondering what––if anything––could be done to minimise their exposure.

  5

  Phelan had not gone home the night he’d stormed out of the Italian restaurant, Maggie no doubt finding it fast becoming the worst Valentine’s Day ever. He’d booked himself into a hotel, and was processing a way out of the hell-hole in which he’d now found himself. Though she hadn’t said anything, the fact Maggie had stopped taking the pill, the mere chance that she was pregnant––there was more than enough possibility that he had impregnated her since her birthday––brought it all crashing back to Earth for him. It had suddenly become more than he could handle.

  More than just a game––more than just an errand he had to run for a man he should never have got involved with––now it was far more severe than that.

  Phelan had begun to recognise the vans or vehicles Matvey’s men used to keep a watch over him. He’d found out they were watching him the first day he’d re-entered Maggie’s life. He’d spotted them occasionally since too and was sure they were there always, somewhere, even if he wasn’t aware.

  So when he left the hotel foyer that morning and saw the van just sitting there across the road, he went straight over to it, opened the passenger door and got in.

  “What are you doing?” the man behind the wheel demanded.

  “You shut your mouth, and you listen very carefully to everything I am about to say because I need you to repeat it word for word to your boss.” There was mute agreement, so Phelan just continued after the pause. “I’m done. That’s it, I’m not doing this anymore and if that costs me the money––hell, even if you dish the dirt on me with my family––I’ll come clean, and I’ll explain everything to them. But I’m not doing this anymore to that woman. It’s gone too far. You hear me? I’m done,” and he got back out of the van, shutting the door behind him before anyone could say another word. He’d made his point. Matvey would soon get the message, and that, he hoped, would be that.

  The message got relayed to Matvey; his men were told to wait for his response.

  That response came just after lunch, less than three hours after Phelan had climbed into the van, and before he’d done anything he might otherwise have regretted. The men found Phelan in a nearby pub––two empty pint glasses sat on his table, and they could only imagine there had been more––and they merely went up to him, dropped a brown envelope onto the table in front of him before walking away.

  Phelan looked up, a little surprised, and watched the men leave––one of the two being the same man he’d spoken earlier to in the van––before picking up the envelope. It was flat, and when he slid it open, there were just three photographs inside, the first two of his sons––taken, he assumed, reasonably recently, given the look of their location and the growth of his oldest boy––as well as a similar one of his wife. Except across the face of his wife, presumably arranged under direct instruction from Matvey himself, there was a target, as if looking through the lens of a rifle. His wife, the target.

  His mobile phone rang at that exact moment. It was Matvey.

  “I see you have received my package.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Language, Phelan, or maybe it’s just the alcohol in your blood speaking. Listen carefully. I don’t want anything to happen to your family, but believe me, if you deviate now from what I require of you, that is precisely what will happen to them. Am I clear?” He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, to acknowledge anything, to give Matvey that satisfaction. His silence would have to be enough. “Good, I’ll take that as an acceptance. You only need to play happy families with Miss Thompson for a couple more months, so stop having a paddy, and be the man she thinks you are.”

  “She wants a baby, goddam you. It isn’t a game to her; this is everything.”

  “Grow up, Phelan, and be the man. So she wants a baby? There are things you can do to prevent that.”

  “She’s already stopped taking the pill––stopped a month ago already so for all I know she is already pregnant. This wasn’t what I agreed to at all!”

  “You didn’t agree to anything; this is what I ordered you to do, and until the time comes that I no longer need to involve her, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing, am I clear? So what if she wants a baby––start suggesting baby names for all I bloody care! But step out of line on this once more or threaten what I’ve worked very hard for, for many years, in any way again and it’ll be your boys who’ll be without parents. Understand?”

  Phelan swallowed hard; “Understood. I’ll do it. You leave them alone, and I’ll do what you need me to do these next few months. Only, you get your men away from my family!”

  “Okay, Phelan, okay. I think we have an understanding. As it happens, it should only be another two months or so before I need Maggie Thompson to play the starring role. So in the meantime, talk about kids––maybe an engagement ring wouldn’t go amiss, either. Yes, that might work nicely. Offer her everything she has ever wanted over these next weeks, so much so that she’ll do anything to keep it––to keep you.”

  “You’ll rot in hell for this Filipov; you know that!”

  “Less of the drama, Phelan, please, and be civil. We’ve both done things we’ll one day regret––as you know only too well––but that day isn’t now. I’m too busy living to think about whatever might or might not be awaiting me.”

  The call ended. Phelan ordered another beer, his mind suddenly clear. Matvey had got him focused again, and in doing so, had suggested it was just a couple more months. He could do this for eight more weeks to finally be clear. Whatever it was that Matvey needed doing, he knew he could get Maggie to deliver. She was mad about him, and maybe that made it too easy. Perhaps that was why it all felt so wrong?

  He pushed those thoughts from his mind. Looking up a private clinic on his phone’s internet browser, he found something suitable and made a call.

  “Oh hello. I need to arrange to have a vasectomy––I’m paying cash and I’ll pay over the odds for an immediate appointment. Is this something you can arrange for me?”

  By the beginning of March, the third wave of takeovers was already well underway. Matvey had spoken with each of the other four men in his team, and they’d moved their attention onto the next targets, following the successful completion of the first wave of closures. Some of the companies were being absorbed into other businesses––usually rivals, or sometimes the Russians’ own empires––but most were just laid waste. It was like a child going on a rampage through a Lego city; pieces left everywhere, only destruction in their wake.

  They’d slashed their way through this forest. Now the banks in the centre––those previously hemmed in, secure banks––were visible. And more than that, they were vulnerable.

  The fourth wave, which would overlap the ongoing third wave and take out the final two firms that possessed the biggest danger to the Union, was undertaken a week later. In total eighteen businesses had been targeted, and once successfully destroyed––the takeover was aggressive by nature, slashing rather than pruning––only carnage remained. They weren’t doing this to keep the existing businesses healthy.

  With the eighteen firms out of the picture, it would represent a hugely significant hole in income for the banks––in Kaminski’s case, with his flagship bank, a ninety per cent hole––and then the final stage would be straightforward.

  The five men had been in regular contact––they would meet in person during the upcoming conf
erence in Davos as they always did when the world’s wealthiest people gathered annually––as well as over the telephone.

  With Matvey’s inside contacts––men and women he’d put in place sometimes years before to be right now where he needed them to be––the whole process over the last three months had been remarkably smooth. They had yet to hit a real glitch. Matvey had known where to hit and exactly how to do it. The businesses had fallen like dominoes.

  Crucially, no one had yet to connect the collapse of these eighteen businesses with the Union, and that was because Kaminski hadn’t advertised the fact they’d made these loans to bail out what had been critical national companies that the government had deemed vital at the time. Where was the government now when their help could have made a difference? A bailout was one thing––stopping an aggressive takeover was something the government rarely got involved in, however much it looked like that from the outside. It was just business. These things happen.

  It was only Kaminski, in the loop via his uncle as, who knew this was not just one of those things. This was specific targeting, and of a nature to get to him personally. They’d found his weak spot, and he could do nothing to stop them coming for him next.

  Dmitry Kaminski pulled up outside Duke’s club twenty minutes after his arranged time to see Thomas Price. The British MI6 Deputy Director General was no doubt already there––he usually was––and no doubt expecting the Russian’s tardiness.

  As Dmitry walked in through the security guarded main doors––men who knew him well enough and didn’t stop him, but men more than ready to prevent others from entering if needed––the in-house host on duty confirmed that his guest had indeed already arrived––no surprises there––and was waiting for Dmitry in their usual booth.