The Machine (The Hunt series Book 4): Bad Men Fear Those Who Lurk In Shadows

by Tim Heath

  They headed across the square and were soon walking through cobbled streets telling them they were now in the Old Town proper. An ice rink had been set up near a church on their left––it was unlikely to be a year-round feature, as it was outside, though it did seem somewhat permanent to them at that moment.

  They were killing time. In just under an hour, the team were due to meet the next contact––a day of meetings had been lined up, as they talked with various people––mainly underworld connections, though some were just innocently involved, as had been the case with the town planner that morning. The female team member had posed as a reporter, saying her article on the event was coming from the angle of how Tallinn prepared for such festivities. She had all the appropriate documentation to back up her image of being a western journalist. And the world was undoubtedly starting to focus on Estonia.

  How that focus would be increased over the coming days was anyone’s guess. The three of them would be long gone by then.

  By lunch, which was taken in a medieval style Estonian eatery just a small walk from Town Hall Square, that formed the heart of the Old Town, they had concluded three meetings already. They’d met with one fertiliser importer for the Baltic region, one printing house, and a black market weapons contact who would source them a wide range of weaponry.

  Right now, they let the food do the talking, the atmosphere more Middle Ages than the middle of a modern city, and they savoured the soup and bread and the main course when it came, settling up the bill before leaving just after two o’clock. One man went off in search of a café, where he could find a quiet corner and base himself for the afternoon, making good use of the free wifi that was obviously citywide. He was due to update Mark Orlov with their morning’s progress, as well as get from him a list of further connections who might be worth following up.

  The other man and woman continued to pose as tourists––in keeping with their cover. In the rare event that they were being watched, it would go someway to avert too much attention. The truth was, they weren’t being watched, and from what they knew, the Estonian Security Service was small and short staffed. The ESS would no doubt be thoroughly stretched already with plans for the centennial, not aided by the fact that so many European dignitaries were due to attend the event in person. The first of these were expected to start arriving in just over four days’ time. Most would land on the day itself, flying back out that same evening on specially chartered aircraft.

  The couple traced the route the military parade would take, starting with where they would enter the Old Town––all this information sourced from either the Internet or from the female’s meeting with the city planner that morning, who confirmed the same route they had always used would be used again.

  They walked the first kilometre of the route the vehicles would make once they had left Freedom Square, crossing over the underground car park and out onto the pavement alongside the road that would take the convoy west and away from the centre. They stopped after ten minutes, as they’d seen what they needed. If everything went to plan, the convoy of vehicles would not be making it that far.

  Pulling out a map, they climbed a steepish hill which led them back over towards Freedom Square, and they could soon see the war memorial, some way below them. They’d completed their loop. The man pulled out his phone, calling their other colleague to see where he was, before checking the map and making their way to him ten minutes later. They then returned to the hotel, each with their own room––they had thought about one pair being a couple but had decided against that because they were a three. They had the afternoon off, making use of the swimming pool and saunas, the woman also opting for a massage in the spa, the men for a beer at the bar, watching a game being played out on the television screens around them.

  Vauxhall House, London

  Anissa had been working through things in the office––a space that felt both bigger and less inviting now that she was there alone. She’d not touched her wall of evidence, hidden behind two cork boards that hung side by side. The truth was, she felt further behind the Russians than at any other point. She didn’t need to see all the information hidden on the wall beside her to know each and every face, each and every story behind the photo. She was daily reminded of all those who still deserved justice. She had not been able to stop thinking about Josée for months. It had been her death that had troubled her most during the whole business. Their investigation had started years before and yet, still they had so little to show for it. Anissa was banned from travelling to Russia and Alex was suspended. Some pair they made.

  What chances did they have of ever landing a criminal blow that might go some way at hitting back at these men who had already done so much harm?

  A call on the internal phone brought her back to reality. The phone was not an outside line, it was used mainly for passing messages around the office, or for transferring calls that had come into the main switchboard.

  “I have a call for you, asked for you by name,” the receptionist said.

  “Who is it?”

  “He said his name is Phelan. Does that mean anything to you?” Phelan McDermott, it had to be. Anissa couldn’t help but experience a burst of energy rise inside her. Anissa had come across his name before, it hung on the wall linked to a photo of Maggie Thompson. Maggie had committed suicide the previous year, another woman in whose death Anissa felt personally involved. Phelan had been the reason Maggie had taken her own life. “Are you still there?” the receptionist said.

  “Yes, of course. Please, put him through.” There was a short pause, the call transferred a few seconds later, a rich Irish-accent coming through.

  “Is that Ms Edison?”

  “Yes, and this is Phelan McDermott, I take it.”

  “The one and only,” he chirped back. He had some nerve. “I take it you know who I am?”

  “And I take it this isn’t a social call? How’d you find my name?” There had been no public investigation into Phelan, no newspaper article linking Anissa with the Irishman, no obvious way for him to know she was involved in any type of enquiry.

  “Your name came up, that’s all. And here I am.”

  “Here you are? What does that mean?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Well, go on, you’ve got my attention.”

  “We can’t talk on the phone. You know how it is.” She did, but they were speaking now, and she would opt for that over a face-to-face any day. She didn’t trust herself.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Meet me outside the park that’s around the corner from your office. I’ll be there in ten minutes. You know where I mean?” She did, which she acknowledged. She often went to walk and talk there with Alex when they needed some space––a little distance from the office––though she hadn’t been since Alex had gone on leave. The place had too many memories to warrant her going there by herself. The call ended.

  She stood up immediately, grabbing her coat, and left. There was no one to say anything to––Alex’s absence very much noticeable. This was the kind of meeting they would have done together.

  She’d been standing at the gates to the park for a few minutes––its location made it convenient from the office she worked at––when a shiny new Mercedes convertible pulled over, though the roof was up on the car that day. The passenger door flew open.

  “Jump in,” Phelan called, that same Irish accent distinctive from their conversation minutes before.

  Anissa climbed into the front seat, taking Phelan’s proffered hand.

  “I’m Phelan, nice to meet you, Anissa,” he said, and she closed the door, Phelan not saying anything else as he pulled away at some speed down the road.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we could have a chat as we drive around if that’s okay?”

  “Why me?” It was a good question. She couldn’t help but think it could only have something to do with her investigation into the Games.

 
; “I know you’ve been trying to piece together everything these Russians have been getting up to. You need my help to go any deeper, though.”

  She looked over at him at that, taken aback by his brash assumption. Everything about the man spoke of wealth––she’d forgotten until he’d pulled over moments before that he was himself a millionaire, having walked away with a huge lottery payout.

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one, I’m here on my own. It’s just me.” She wasn’t going to take that as fact.

  “So why are we talking?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said and paused, navigating a busy road junction, though it seemed as if he equally needed to navigate what to say next. He spoke again after about one minute, the road clear ahead of them once more. “I didn’t know if I should speak to anyone, what with everything that had happened. But seeing him constantly on television––he’s everywhere I turn––I knew I had to do something.”

  “Who?” She couldn’t figure out who Phelan was talking about.

  “Filipov. Matvey Filipov, the guy who wants to become President. I’m coming to you because you can’t allow that to happen. He’s a very dangerous man!”

  Half an hour later, they were parked up. The conversation had got such that Phelan needed to pull over, to focus on her questions, to explain himself somewhat. He’d shared all about his involvement in the Games, being worked into the life of Dmitry Sokoloff so that he could then be recruited as Sokoloff’s Contestant. Phelan shared about Matvey’s meticulous planning throughout, getting them all out after Phelan had claimed the ticket––he mentioned his family for the first time at that point––and safely hiding them in America. He talked about the blackmail, being used to get Maggie to change her mind about calling in the loan. He’d been adamant that he had nothing to do with her death. He’d been shocked in fact, sickened. Phelan talked about how guilty he felt about it all, how trapped he had been and so easily manipulated by Filipov to have done his bidding as he had. He finished with how much he loved his family, how he’d only ever done this for them, to give them all a better future.

  “That’s why I had to find someone––find you––because if that man is allowed into power, I believe his ambitions are even greater still.”

  Anissa sat there somewhat stunned. The car had grown cold, the windows misting. Phelan started the engine and turned the fans onto full power. She still didn’t know what to say.

  “Why now? I mean, if you’ve felt like this before, why did you go through with it all? Why did you continue?”

  “I had to. Filipov had me. I had no choice.”

  “You had a choice with Maggie.” Anissa had visited Maggie once after Phelan had walked out of her life for the second time, and before her suicide. Anissa had been told by Maggie all about what Phelan had done to her.

  “I didn’t, though. I wanted to walk away from it all, and I’d told Filipov I was going to do just that, that I’d had enough. I couldn’t continue. Do you know what he sent me?” Tears welling up in his eyes.

  “No,” Anissa said, gripped in the moment.

  “A photo of my wife and sons, each with a sniper’s scope target crudely marked over each head. He was going to kill them if I didn’t continue.”

  Anissa breathed out heavily. She knew what it was to have a partner that she loved and sons she adored. One of her own nightmares often included a threat being made to her family, making her do something horrible to save them. She touched his arm out of reflex.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Phelan. It does explain a lot,” is all she said. She gave him a moment to compose himself––that vibrant, smooth exterior had gone. She saw the real Irishman’s soft centre.

  “Once I started seeing all the press coverage––the BBC is suggesting he actually has a chance of winning the Russian election––I had to start finding a way of making contact with someone. It was a report that Matvey had sent me which listed your name.” So the Russian had been watching them. What else did Matvey have on her?

  “Phelan, I don’t know what more we can do. We’ve never officially been tasked with this investigation. I’m banned from Russia, and my colleague is currently on suspension. And it’s all because of our involvement in your world.”

  “It’s not my world,” he said, calmly this time. “It’s their world. All they ever do is suck us in and spit us out when we’ve served our purpose. I have a lot of dirt on Matvey Filipov. It would at worst knock his challenge, at best expose his whole organisation. He’s a man with fingers that go very deep, a network that spans the world. All these men are the same.”

  “I know that,” she said, still trying to process what she was being told, and what she could then do with it. Could she actually trust Phelan? Might this not just be another ruse? And yet he didn’t need to come and make contact, he’d already said a lot that exposed his own involvement in things, and yet he’d shared it willingly. Here was a man who wanted closure, to put right his wrongs––to some degree. There was no bringing back the dead, and people had died as a direct result of his actions, willing or otherwise.

  He drove away, heading back towards where he had picked her up, though traffic had built up and progress was slow. She asked him about his life now. He said how they lived near London, in a beautiful family home with his wife’s parents not far away. His own folks had returned to Ireland––their months on the road, often staying in some of the most opulent places most would be blessed to even visit, had shown them how much they ultimately missed home. They’d flown over to see the grandchildren twice already, the money they all now had setting both pairs of grandparents up for a very comfortable retirement. Life was good.

  That made what he was sharing with her all the more powerful––Phelan didn’t need to do this. He didn’t need anything, aside from the finally clear conscience he would get from helping her. She had figured there would always be a part of Phelan which would dread the truth ever coming out, a guilty secret that would live within him to the grave. He couldn’t do much about that––to confess to his wife would break her heart. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. But he also couldn’t let a man of Matvey Filipov’s temperament into the Kremlin––not with what he knew about the man, the man away from camera, the sociopath Phelan had come to fear.

  He pulled over outside the park, at the same spot he’d picked her up. He wasn’t going to be seen anywhere near Vauxhall House. He handed her a business card.

  “That’s a private number that very few people have, Anissa. If you are able to help me stop him, you can call me on that, and we can talk some more.” She didn’t know what to say, taking the card and carefully putting it into her bag. She gave him one of her cards too, meaning he could avoid the office switchboard should he need to contact her. They said their goodbyes, and he was gone, speeding off back down the road, Anissa walking briskly to the office, impatient to tell Alex all about it when she got back. He wasn’t there, of course.

  15

  Outskirts of Tallinn, Estonia

  The three-person team working directly under Mark Orlov––they weren’t explicitly connected to the Machine, though he’d often employed them indirectly for that purpose––had taken the van they’d hired to a warehouse twelve kilometres west of the city. All around them now trees dominated. In the distance, a road could be heard––it was the main road they’d just used, linking Tallinn to the former military city of Paldiski further around the coast to the west.

  The area was otherwise grassland––that which wasn’t covered in the nearly ever-present pine trees––yet the warehouse itself was well maintained, the road leading up to it through the trees stony yet passable. Snow covered most of the ground around the building.

  They were there to look at various explosives––all black market, all entirely illegal––and met with a Russian they’d been put in touch with, the man twice their age and himself instantly wary of their presence. After a frosty few minutes, where a game of cat and mouse was pla
yed––they were each working out if they could trust the other––the three were finally led into the warehouse.

  It was packed with mostly Second World War era military parts, though a small sectioned off area at the far end was used for more modern weaponry. It was there that the four stood speaking with each other in Russian.

  “And the triggers?” the team leader asked once they’d been shown what was on offer.

  “Various options. What do you require?”

  “Remote activation by mobile as well as pressure sensor devices.”

  The warehouseman pointed to a cabinet to one side.

  “We have them, take your pick.” The team leader went over and had a look. Someone else would collect it all nearer the time––everything was best left there until required, which reduced the risk of anything being discovered.

  They walked around the rest of the warehouse, talking a little––conversation was awkward, no one wanted to say too much. It was how it always went in such encounters, primarily when there was little history between either party.

  They thanked him and left, having handed over a sizeable amount of cash which acted as a deposit, the remaining balance due when they collected the goods. They didn’t bother to mention it would be another group who would do that, it didn’t matter to them. The less the supplier knew about their intentions, the better it was for all.

  Now back in the van, once they had made their way down the track, they pulled onto the main road and headed towards Tallinn. The team leader and the woman were due at a printer’s in an hour. The other man would wait for them at the hotel.

  “I’ll update Orlov when I get back to the hotel, see what else he has to share with us,” the man said. They were due to move hotels the following day––taking them opposite Freedom Square, able to then observe the start of preparations in the build-up to the big day. A few of the foreign leaders who were not staying at embassy houses were actually booked into the same hotel. Orlov had been clear––these were not the targets directly. What might happen to those present on the day in question, however, was anyone’s guess.