by Tim Heath
There was an air of expectancy, of interest, floating around the Games Room as the various technical staff made the final adjustments––it was quite an endeavour to assemble everything and then break it all down for each event. The room got returned to what it usually was, a large conference facility that neither Svetlana nor husband Sergej, otherwise used.
As always drinks flowed freely, made available before any of the Hosts arrived, in a building where secrecy and anonymity ruled. The men talked amongst each other, the atmosphere surprisingly carefree and buoyant. It was the calm before the storm. Tomorrow they would be competing against one another again.
The Odds Maker sat in his usual position, the men giving him some idea as to the size of ticket they had on offer. The higher the ticket value––and thus the higher reward available––the better the odds, not that losing even an enormous sum for a lottery ticket payment was anything for men so wealthy. But there was a noted pride in being able to put forward a ticket worth thirty, forty or even upwards of fifty million. It all mattered.
Foma circled around in the background, not entering into any particular conversation, eyeing up the men like a champion fighter does when facing a worthy opponent. Kaminski and Kuznetsov were deep in their own conversation. Andre entered the room at that moment, presumably back from the bathroom, and came straight over to Foma.
“So, do you feel confident, young man?”
“I feel ready, anyway. Confidence comes with progress.”
“That it does.” Foma knew Andre was a bright lad. As sole heir of the Filipov estate, he would one day have more than Foma had now, if he didn’t reach that point within his father’s lifetime––the rate he was going. In some way, he was entirely unlike his father––in appearance, his approach with people––but Foma had been around both men long enough to see that same streak that existed in father had indeed been passed on to his son.
At that moment, Kuznetsov came over towards the two men––they were standing next to where the drinks were anyway, so that helped––and Foma grabbed the shoulder of Twelve before he could get to the table.
“You seem to be dragging an element of dead wood along with you lately. You know that’ll only slow you down.” Foma had nodded with his head towards Kaminski as he’d spoken, though it was clear enough what he was implying.
“And what is that to you, Comrade?” The use of the old Soviet-Russian phrase having more impact on Foma than he’d care to admit.
“It’s just that when his losses become your losses, it’ll swallow you whole.”
“His losses are his losses. I’m just here to secure his next twelve months.” That would be enough time to get Kaminski through the election, and if successful, to become President. Then the losses wouldn’t matter. There were a million ways a new President could recoup anything he owed. It was clear that had been the deal Kuznetsov––or Kaminski––must have struck with JP Morgan Chase. A couple of billion as collateral held in good faith for something much more significant to come.
“Just make sure he doesn’t drag you down with him now, Comrade,” and Foma tightened his grip momentarily on Kuznetsov’s shoulder, before releasing the man, and letting him go on his way. The exchange had taken barely twenty seconds, though Kaminski had watched it all from his position across the floor. Foma looked across at him at that point, patting the returning Kuznetsov on the back as he passed him again, Twelve shoving off the gesture as best he could, though he had two champagne flutes in his hand at the time.
“What was that about?” Kaminski asked, taking the drink which was offered to him, Kuznetsov downing his in one go.
“He was warning me about you.”
“It doesn’t surprise me.”
“Are you worried?” Foma was by far the biggest fish in the T20 pond. Combined with Andre––their wealth totalling $9.6 billion at the last update––they were easily four times the net worth of any other player, making any Hunt where it was one oligarch against another an unfair battle. They knew they couldn’t really take on directly a man as powerful as Foma without a lot of help––and help in those circles was hard to come by. Though direct confrontation was not allowed, the Games Room had always been that type of arena. A conflict was inevitable and given a chance––despite what Svetlana Volkov might say––it was a dog eat dog world, especially amongst the super-rich.
“What worries me most is that boy’s father,” Kaminski said, his eyes glancing briefly to Andre. “I think we know those two men standing over there are just puppets for Matvey.”
“Can we do anything about them?”
“Not much, especially now. Get me to the Kremlin, and I promise you then I’ll be able to really strike them. You’re my wingman, I told you. You look out for me over these next nine months, and I’ll make sure your place at the very top table is a great one.”
They toasted to that, Kuznetsov having grabbed another drink as it was offered to him by Nineteen.
“See, they aren’t all out to get us,” Kuznetsov said, once Pavlov had moved on.
Neither Alex nor Anissa were in St Petersburg for the summer event. In the past their information had always come from Andre Philips––Andre Filipov as he’d turned out to be, a man now part of the event himself––so without that steady, sometimes infrequent, source of information, they were a little out in the cold as to what was happening when.
That still bothered them both, Anissa more so than Alex. To have built such a picture, to have learnt so much and yet always mostly be on the outside was frustrating. It was like being two-hundred pieces into a thousand piece puzzle, but to have only covered the edge. There was no centre, nothing to really link these men––and woman in Svetlana Volkov’s case, at least––to anything criminal. Anything that would hold up before an uncorrupted judge, an untainted jury––assuming they even got that far.
It often felt like there was just too much against them to make it worth pursuing, that however far they got, whatever charges they thought they could make, when it came down to it––especially as they were dealing with Russia––it would all fall flat, for one reason or the other.
Someone would get paid off––or knocked off––and the case would collapse.
That felt wrong to Anissa––it was wrong––even as part of her knew it was probably all inevitable. And that really bothered her. She’d never felt like she knew so much about an organisation––they weren’t exactly that, but it’s what both agents had long been calling the Games, despite nothing official ever existing about them––and yet was so powerless all at the same time.
Their one other source, one other contact man, was Sasha, their FSB insider, a man who had got them in and out of Russia several times over the last few years, involving himself more in their investigation without really seeing it all coming. He was now as equally invested in it all as they were––more so if you considered what he had to lose should his assistance ever come to light with his employers or his government.
Anissa had had to warn Sasha a few times to back down from something, to hold off a little, fearing that her Russian friend was racing into situations that would put him at risk. He’d apparently made someone’s radar, being spoken to by Foma Polzin––warned off at that.
Yet it was Anissa who now risked exposure. She’d agreed to go with Josée to Russia for the trial that had finally been called together, holding the hand of the witness but most likely invited to take the stand herself. It would alert the authorities––who were sure to be watching, or at least taking notice at some point after the trial––that a British MI6 agent was operating without their knowledge, or authorisation, in St Petersburg. By bringing to light the murder of the janitor––something that Josée was an eyewitness to––it would also expose her presence. She was sure both the FSB and even MI6 would start asking questions. The latter might also conclude Alex would have to have been involved, something she hoped wouldn’t get him into trouble.
She was a week away from trave
lling––this time with authorised papers, through the usual channels––for the trial to commence the first week of July. Anissa had primarily been spending the last couple of days focusing on the criminal case––not really her speciality––but she understood more than ever, if she could get this one crime brought to justice, if she could get these two women on the stand, then from there she could start to expose what was really going on. She was sure that parts of Russia––important parts that still mattered, like the FSB, police and government––didn’t know what their oligarchs were up to. Of course, some would, but if she could raise the issue enough, expose what facts she knew, she was confident the Russians would then take the reins.
Alex calling on her mobile at that moment broke her train of thought.
“Anissa, you need to come. They’ve found Maggie’s body at her home.”
Nothing more was said.
Anissa jumped up from her desk, hurriedly collecting some of her personal things––this was the last thing she needed before her trip to Russia––but something in which she had to be involved. She’d been the one Maggie had called, she’d sounded broken, clearly––that much was obvious––when they’d last spoken a month before, but Anissa had been watching from the sidelines. Maggie had gone back to work the previous week. That was deemed a good thing.
Less than an hour after the call from Alex, she joined him at the address, where police had taped off the gate to the small front garden, with crime scene tape also on the front door in the shape of an X.
Neither said anything to the other, the two agents showing their details to the officer standing on duty, and they were allowed through. Opening the front door, they were met by another female police officer.
“She’s out the back,” she said and led them both through.
Maggie’s legs were visible as they entered the kitchen, still dangling where she’d been found. Maggie had hanged herself from the upstairs window, her body slumped against the outside of the kitchen wall, her legs level with the window. There were two muddy heel prints on the glass where her boots must have connected with the window as she jumped out from the upstairs bathroom.
“There’s a suicide note upstairs too. No sign of a struggle, no signs of an intruder. Forensics is doing a thorough sweep now, and once the photos are taken, the body will be examined by the pathologist,” the officer said. She left them to walk out of the back door, which they did, a crime scene photographer just finishing up, a three-person team standing behind him with a black body bag ready, waiting to cut Maggie down.
“You think it was a suicide?” Anissa said to Alex, looking away now from the body, having seen enough. Anissa was still in shock.
“Let’s not make that call until we have all the results in.”
“It can’t have been a suicide, Alex, come on. It’s them.”
“Who? They can’t be responsible for everything. Why kill Maggie now?”
“I don’t know.” She was angry, and couldn’t be there when they started to remove the body, which was obviously about to happen, so she went back inside. “One way or the other, Alex, they did this to her. They made her life a misery even if this does turn out to be an unassisted suicide. It’s ultimately his fault.”
“Whose? Phelan’s? Matvey Filipov’s?”
“The Russian, yes. The last thing Maggie urged me to do was to get Matvey. She knew more than she told me, I was sure. Maybe that’s what killed her.”
“We don’t know this was a murder, Anissa, let’s not jump the gun.”
“How can you be so bloody calm? So protective? After all we’ve been through, after all we’ve learnt? How can you stand there––another body being zipped into a bag––and think anyone else is responsible rather than these…these…these barbarians?” She pulled away from Alex before he could offer an answer, before he could say anything. Alex let her go. He knew she wasn’t angry at him, it wasn’t about what he thought. She was upset, deeply troubled by everything they’d been going through. Maybe it was getting too much? Perhaps they should have seen this coming, got in extra help, counselling maybe months ago when it might have been of better use.
Alex climbed the stairs, joining the forensic guys who were focussing on both the bathroom and her bedroom, two people visible carefully taking samples from the bed. In the bathroom, the rope had been tied around the handle on the side of the bath, which sat along the wall under the large window. Alex peered out the window, the rope still hanging there though thankfully her body had been taken away already.
Nothing seemed out of place in the bathroom. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing broken, no blood anywhere. The items––two jars of soaps, bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and a lady’s razor––which he assumed would have usually been on the window sill, had been moved instead to the top of the closed toilet seat. She’d carefully moved them in the moments before committing suicide, so that she could climb out of the window a little easier. That seemed bizarre, that someone at the end of things––so desperate that they took the only escape they could find––yet still were rational enough to remove the clutter from the window.
Alex went into the bedroom, where the forensic team were still working on the bed. The note was on the dressing table, pen neatly lying next to the A5 scented notelet. Alex read the note, which was written in precise, crisp cursive:
I’m sorry you had to find me like this, I’m sorry if it comes as a shock. My life had become not worth living anymore, my work a place of ghosts––my home no longer a sanctuary. I tried to keep going, I decided to start again, but I couldn’t. My heart was tired of living, and so was I. I’m sorry. MT.
She couldn’t even bring herself to write Maggie. Alex left the note there, wanting to go and find Anissa. She didn’t need to see the upstairs––she could process all that, cover everything at some later point from the reports that would be made––right now she needed time to talk. That couldn’t be done there, not in Maggie’s home.
Anissa was outside on the street, standing next to the officer but neither was obviously saying anything. She looked up as Alex came out through the door, a smile on her face her way of saying sorry for the outburst. Alex smiled back; don’t mention it, you were in shock.
“Let’s go,” he said, walking past her, Anissa following. She didn’t want to be there anymore.
“Want to catch a coffee and talk about it?” Alex said.
“Not now, Alex. Some time, but not now. I have to get ready for Russia, I have to help Josée come through this. I have to be there for her, to make her see there is light at the end of the tunnel, there is hope where now she feels only brokenness.”
Alex didn’t say anything. He knew what she was saying––she wanted to make sure Josée didn’t become another Maggie.
11
It was Game day in St Petersburg, and more so than usual, there was an air of expectancy––of the unknown––floating throughout the room where ten men waited. Svetlana was yet to join them.
For only the second time, there would be ten Contestants, each oligarch present therefore a Host. This time, no one knew who would be their Contestant. These were currently unsuspecting people in the general public––which was normal––though that morning they were unsuspecting tourists, couples and families just enjoying the White Night’s season in beautiful St Petersburg, oblivious to anything that might be about to happen to them. For some lucky souls––it was the Hosts who would use that term, though being lucky by being included was anything but certain––they could get their hands on some serious money, millions in fact, if they could only escape with the ticket from Russia. Would they deem it necessary––vital even––to just abandon whoever it was they’d travelled with, and flee? Going to wherever it was that the ticket had to be claimed.
It was the same fundamental principle the Games had always been based on. There was entertainment to be had––and money to be won or lost when you pitted billionaire against billionaire––by merely putti
ng the prospect of unimaginable cash before otherwise ordinary people, people who weren’t wealthy, people sometimes struggling to make ends meet. The more significant that struggle was, the more the oligarchs enjoyed watching what they saw as a performance, a good show.
Indulgence of the most severe nature. Just a bit of fun for them. The fact people got hurt occasionally––whilst there had been deaths, it was still quite rare, if not a more frequent occurrence––it was a minor concern. These weren’t people the oligarchs knew or cared about. They were just playing pieces, like any number of their employees were. Dispensable.
On the dot of ten that morning, Svetlana glided in through the main doors, her entrance as dramatic as always. She had to be the centre of attention, this was her show, her home, her audience. Their involvement in her world had built its own level of loyalty towards her, which was a rare position for a woman to hold in modern day Russia. She felt invincible around such men. It was empowering. Of course, her husband’s presence in the background––she always turned to him when a financial hit was required––went a long way to gaining their loyalty initially.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, taking the stage straight away, addressing the group as a whole. She rarely did small talk, rarely spoke one-on-one, especially in that context. A little distance was always good, a little unfamiliarity kept people in line. “I think the next two days are going to be a wonderful time together once more. Let’s raise a toast to our Summer Solstice, and to an exciting Hunt!” The men raised their glasses and made the toast, repeating her phrase, before emptying the contents of their glass in one gulp.
“I can see from our Odds Maker that there is a good range of tickets out there today. May I congratulate you all once more, gentlemen, on your ability to source such rewarding prizes for our would-be victors,” though none of the men standing there wanted to contemplate losing. Someone usually did, however, especially when it was ten Hosts involved at the same time.