by Tim Heath
Kaminski would spend his first New Year in Moscow for a long time––the T20 events which usually took place in St Petersburg over that particular holiday were no longer happening. It would be the first time in the group’s twelve year history that they hadn’t gathered together at that time of year. It already seemed surreal. He felt a little disconnected.
He recognised that the group––the connections––had been good for him. Had it not been for his involvement in the Games over the last decade plus, he knew he wouldn’t be in the position he was now in, running for the Presidency. He’d been a nobody before––yes, a billionaire, but there were plenty of them in Russia back then.
Not quite as many of that original group of oligarchs now remained, but plenty of New Russians with their expensive lifestyles were trying, anyway, to fill the gaps.
In reality, the gap between the super rich and just the rich had been snowballing. They would never catch up, and for every oligarch that fell––Sokoloff, Krupin, Kuznetsov even––it only made the others richer.
Kaminski pondered that some would most probably also add his own name to that list as someone who had fallen. And it was partly true. He’d lost a lot––more than he should ever have allowed to happen––and he’d seen it coming. There had been little he could do about it once he’d put himself in a vulnerable situation.
Of course, someone would find out about it.
Still, once he was President, he could change all that. He knew that he couldn’t allow Matvey Filipov to win though he wondered how he would be viewed by the President if Putin remained in power, especially after some of the things he had said openly about Putin in the first debate.
Kaminski knew that the British had put a lot of faith––placed a lot of trust––in him, something that they were expecting a return on. He was sure they wouldn’t stay around for long if everything they’d been working on with him now collapsed.
Yet Putin knew.
His meeting with Price––on the day he was killed, Kaminski knowing there was no coincidence there––had really shaken him. How much did the President know about him now? Had he known all along?
With Price out of the way––he’d been the spokesman from the British side of things for many years as the UK courted Kaminski––it made that connection a little strained. Would there be someone else to liaise with? Price had always talked about there being support for him from within the government––had that just been spy talk, or was it true? Kaminski cursed himself for not having got a better understanding of where he stood. If he wasn’t successful––his first debate with Matvey hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, and the polls now suggested he’d dropped to third place––would he have a home in the UK anymore? With his business history there, would they not just think him no longer worthwhile?
Yet his downfall hadn’t been just carelessness; he’d been targeted and by Matvey himself. His uncle had let him know about that; Lev’s team had been unable to beat Matvey’s in that contest and therefore unable to protect Kaminski from losing his Union. Like a chess move to take out his Queen, it was a strike he couldn’t quickly recover from.
Matvey was back in Monaco. It was clear that he lived outside of Russia––something that he would be prepared to change only to take up residence in the Kremlin––so there was no apparent need for him to be seen around Moscow. Foma needed some company, after all, the man increasingly frustrated by his imposed isolation. Matvey’s son Andre, who was still in Russia, would join them both in a few days and they would celebrate New Year together as a three.
Sasha had been in early on the 25th and was finishing his third cup of strong coffee before nine o’clock. His computer was busy analysing the faces Alex had sent him for any possible matches. He was also running them through against the list of recent arrivals to the two cities––Moscow and St Petersburg––where most of the attacks had been reported.
As the week progressed, snow now falling quite heavily, especially further north, the reports continued to come in. These included a firebombing of a Christian Pentecostal gathering on Christmas Day––non-Orthodox Christmas Day that is. Again, Putin supporters claimed they were purging their country of false religions. Thankfully no one had been seriously hurt in that incident.
The Volkovs still travelled up to St Petersburg for their New Year celebrations––Sergej at various lecture circuit occasions as always, though mainly in a social context––Svetlana in their mansion. It had never felt so quiet to be there. She couldn’t help but think about the previous years, her home a hive of activity, of action and excitement.
Had she made the right decision?
And yet to have had two Hosts turn on one another––leading to one man ordering the shooting of another and this carried out right outside her home––was an appalling feeling. What if she’d been walking out at the same time? What if she’d been down by the door and a stray bullet had found its way into her home? What then? It had all got too much, she’d been right to call things off.
Now two of these men were running for her country’s Presidency.
She now fully understood all that Matvey had been attempting––she’d been the fool for having allowed him into the event after all his years of refusal. She should have known better, should have seen it coming. Matvey had used her group for his own gain. He’d set a trap for Kaminski by suggesting his Union be the target in his T10 Hunt––her event, she reminded herself, as she had always been the one to set the challenges. And yet she’d allowed him to get away with it, and to what purpose? So that he’d have one less challenger in his own personal race for the Presidency. And what would her country look like with Matvey in charge? Would it be a good change––or would it spell disaster for her? Would Matvey later look to expose her?
Could she really trust him?
Though as a couple they were not under Putin’s thumb in any way––they didn’t have much of a relationship with him, and she knew her husband had his own reservations––yet Putin hadn’t done badly for their nation, always putting Russia first and foremost in his thinking and planning.
Should an oligarch even be allowed to run the country? Didn’t their own wealth disqualify them from really knowing what real Russians needed? But wealth was such a powerful voice in their country––and she would know––how could it ever be anything different?
Svetlana realised immediately she couldn’t just stay in the mansion, so she left, going to find her husband. He thought she was used to being alone and happy by herself as she had never wanted to join him for the past decade, so he was surprised when she showed up as were all the other guests. Having Svetlana alongside him was always very good for Sergej. It made the evening much more pleasant.
In Florida, Phelan was celebrating a wonderful Christmas with his family. Now it was just him, his wife and the boys. After months on the road––and seeing that all was not well between their children––the grandparents had left during the summer, both returning to where they had lived before, though because of a very generous gift, were able to buy much more beautiful homes in better areas. Time to start a new life––again.
Phelan had wanted to finish their time in America on the east coast. They’d travelled south over the last two months––their relationship improving the more time they spent together. They would see out the New Year period in sunny Florida before heading back to the UK. It was high time they started life again, and the boys needed proper schooling; his wife without the help of her parents was finding it all too much to do by herself.
Phelan hadn’t really said much about what he’d been doing in England. When Matvey was announced as a runner in the Russian Presidential elections––his wife recognising the name––they had talked about it a little.
Nothing about Maggie––he would never mention her name again––but it did go some way to restoring what had been missing between them both. She understood that his work was aiding the man to become President. It added some justificatio
n to their months of separation.
In a small way––a stupid way––it was as if knowing that helped her to stop fearing the worst; she could cope if he had been away from them but doing something important. He’d assured them it was all over. The longer they were together, the more she could finally believe it.
Getting to Florida––the sun shining, though Christmas Day was upon them––those thoughts were largely forgotten. It had been a challenging year for them in America, especially with Phelan gone for so much of it.
The following year promised new opportunities, the chance to finally settle down, though they knew they would always be able to travel more in the future––shorter periods of time, for sure, and just holidays––but the world was very much their oyster.
As New Year approached, Phelan couldn’t help but be reminded of the previous year––he’d been standing in Maggie’s garden, during a party, calling his wife who knew nothing about what he was doing and wishing her a happy New Year.
He just needed to forget about all that, and he would be free.
The coming months would offer that––a change of scenery, a new life somewhere, anywhere was possible now––but more importantly the chance to just settle, to put some roots down. The boys had no friends, besides each other. Moving around wasn’t right for them. They’d taken as much as they could. He was looking forward to seeing them growing up and making new friends wherever they ended up.
Wondering if Matvey Filipov might one day be President, was a perplexing thought. Just the mention of him brought back a whole mix of feelings and emotions. To think that this Russian might become the leader of one of the most influential nations on the planet––a nation that had troubles with the UK––was also worrying. Did Matvey mean it when he said he was done with Phelan? Was a man like that ever done? Could Phelan ever truly relax, ever truly be free with such an explosive secret kept locked away deep within––a lock that he didn’t possess a key for, it being instead a President-elect who owned that key, and many others too, no doubt. Would he ever be free?
Aleksey Kuznetsov had gone into hiding. He feared those within the Games––especially Matvey himself––exposing him, coming for him. His sniper was dead; that made no sense. He had repeatedly tried to contact him, to pay the balance he owed him for having successfully completed the mission, only to get no reply. After finally learning the truth, it all remained a mystery.
Then Svetlana had closed them all down––he’d heard the rumour, so had stayed away. He wasn’t going to be there when she stood before them all and no doubt cursed him before them all. He wasn’t sure what more help he could be to Kaminski, though his own wealth was relatively untouched.
He’d got away with a considerable loss.
With Foma removed from the picture––with the Games dead as well––he had got away with it. They were leaving him to it. Once Kaminski was President, Aleksey would rise again, his standing in the new order of things promised to be even better than it was before. He would no longer have to hide. Others would need to hide from him, but he would be free.
It was getting late on the 30th December, as Sasha cut his way through the razor wire that was meant to keep people out of the private airfield in St Petersburg. In front of him––in relative darkness despite the airport’s lighting––a group of men were waiting to board a plane.
Sasha had been on their trail for a couple of days. His search on the FSB database had managed to put a few names to the faces, and through known associates, a more comprehensive group could be named. It wasn’t clear if all these names––there were men and women listed––were all involved in the incidents which were growing more violent by the day, but apparently some were.
Standing in the shadows, he was keeping as far away as he could. Too far to be able to clearly make out who was who. He didn’t want to be following the wrong group––mind you, there were not many private jets at the airport at that moment.
He took a few quick photos just as a cry went up––he’d been spotted by someone, and a dog started barking soon after. It was apparently the security patrol. Maybe they’d found the gap in the fence?
Sasha started running. The group that was boarding the plane had stopped. They saw the commotion, saw a dark figure running along the tree line. A few of the men turned and gave pursuit themselves.
Sasha worked his phone steadily in his hands, nearly tripping as he typed, adding a photo for good measure. The dogs were getting closer.
Look who I spotted, he said in the message, about to board a private jet with the faces––your man Andre Filipov.
He fumbled for the save function––he hadn’t found it––when a loud order of Freeze! was shouted from behind not more than metres away. A dog was growling very aggressively. As Sasha slowly turned, the dog being restrained just inches from him now, his own hands were behind his back––phone still in hand, trying to save the draft and close the phone––though it was all backwards and he had no idea if he was doing anything. He was in danger of deleting it entirely if he wasn’t careful.
Another security officer arrived, his dog too leading the way. Both had their guns trained on Sasha.
“On the ground, now!” the first man demanded. Just then, the four who were about to board the jet arrived at the scene, weapons visible, though they put them behind their backs as they approached the scene before them.
“Stand back, we have this under control,” commanded the second security guard, who covered their approach with his own weapon, not yet entirely sure what was going on. Both dogs continued to growl angrily just inches from Sasha’s face, as he lay on the cold, snow-covered ground.
“I’m unarmed,” Sasha said, showing his hands which had now dropped the phone. He was carrying a weapon, but he wasn’t holding it, which is what they needed to know.
The four from the jet were starting to move closer.
“Stand back!” the second security guard demanded, dragging his dog back and turning to face the four men, who were just ten feet from them all. They held one arm behind their backs.
“Who is he?” the leader of the four shouted, Sasha having recognised him from the video of the Muslims being beating up. When the two men had been attacked, he was the one who had punched the sister right in the face.
“We have this under control!” the security guard shouted back, the air filled with the sound of the aircraft starting up its engines. “Move away!”
“Who is he?” the lead man demanded again, all four men bringing their weapons out.
Then the shooting began.
Author Notes
Setting out in this series was something new for me. I’d written mainly stand-alone books before this (which people loved) but writing these first three books, so close together, was something else entirely! I hope you have felt that too.
I was always very excited about this idea and knew early on there was more to dig the further I got into the story. This part concludes the initial opening trilogy, but there is more to come (as you’ll see on the following page). The Machine will take the current story on (so don’t worry, things will get resolved) but will also reveal something far more profound, delving into some of the histories of the main characters, giving you a greater understanding about who they are, and why they do what they do. It also uncovers who runs the nation.
These first three books were written and timed to be a build up to and ready for the Russian Presidential elections. The Prey was therefore 2015; The Pride covered 2016 and The Poison, which you’ve just finished, covered 2017.
The Machine takes us to the election next March/April.
There are many ways to stay in touch and hear when my latest books have hit the shelves. You can follow me on any/all of these:
BookBub
Goodreads
Amazon
If you follow me on any of the above, each time a new book of mine is ready, they’ll email you and let you know. Try it; it works well.
T
he Importance of a Review
Now you know!
Reviews should be automatic. Think of it as a tip left for the waiting staff after a meal out. Except, the book you’ve just devoured wasn’t prepared in just the last twenty minutes––the author has possibly spent months agonising over it.
Sadly, very few people leave a review.
Reviews greatly help an author. They do not need to be wordy (but they can be), you do not need to talk about all aspects of the book (but you can if you wish), they just need to be there. Visual. They help other readers to choose a book, thereby increasing the author’s readership. They also affirm, encourage and assist the author in keeping going. There are days when you just want to quit.
So now you know. I make it a matter of principle always to review a book I’ve read––how about you?
Character Glossary
Who’s who in The Hunt series––as of the start of this book
MI6 - Alex Tolbert, Anissa Edison, Gordon Peacock (head technician), Thomas Price (DDG)
FSB - Sasha Barkov
T10 - Mark Orlov (Grey Eagle), Roman Ivanov, Lev Kaminski (Lion Man), Vladimir Popov (the Priest), Matvey Filipov, Viktor Gavrilyuk, Dima Petrov, Yefrem Fyodorov, Valery Holub, Timur Budny (Iron Man)
T20 - Foma Polzin, Arseni Markovic, Rurik Sewick (Mr Grey), Akim Kozlov, Aleksey Kuznetsov, Dmitry Kaminski, Motya Utkin, Andre Filipov, Dmitry Pavlov, Osip Yakovlev
Matvey Filipov––father of Andre Filipov, oligarch and Presidential hopeful.
Andre Filipov––son of Matvey, in contact with Alex at MI6 under the name Andre Philip.