The Hunt series Boxset 2 Read online

  In the fourth debate, Kaminski himself stood before one of these newcomers. He’d come away from that discussion a further three points better off in the polls, taking him back into second position, behind Putin. Despite the negative publicity, Putin remained on top. Maybe the footage of these beatings was something of which his supporters approved?

  Matvey was up next––he had gone against another newcomer before standing facing Putin himself on the last show that week.

  That final show proved to be a fiery sixty minutes and produced the highest viewed debate of that year’s election campaign. Matvey had gone in hard––he accused Putin of rigging elections, of being too close to the Americans and Trump in particular then he called it time for a change in the nation. Putin wasn’t going to roll over, however. He rubbished the accusations and came back equally strongly himself. Putin denied having anything to do with the reported acts of violence, going some way to suggest it all seemed to serve Matvey’s efforts more than anything, though cleverly without actually accusing him of libel. Apparently, he hadn’t had the evidence to really back it up.

  He ended, however, with the most significant blow of the lot––how Matvey was a man who could so quickly turn on even his own friends––the name Foma Polzin bringing an instant chill to Matvey, which was picked up around the auditorium.

  “You talk like a man of integrity and loyalty––but what loyalty did you show to Foma, Filipov? Do you care to talk about this one-time friend you left for dead?”

  It was the first mention of Foma since the rumours had been circulating which said that the Russian had been shot dead in St Petersburg. It was public knowledge that Matvey’s son Andre had taken over Foma’s entire empire.

  “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the murder of a senior British MI6 agent, Putin, when you were last in London?” Matvey shot back. Two could play that game.

  “No, quite the opposite in fact, though you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Filipov!”

  “You surprise me,” Matvey said, though the confidence was surprisingly weak. He knew the British would be watching––the whole world was watching––and he had just been tainted with the killing of a senior British agent. “I’d have thought you would be the last person able to accuse another of some heinous, unfounded crime given your record since you’ve been in office.” It was a soundbite that would work in the West, though for Russians––who’d only seen Putin working for their best interests, and in the interests of Russians suffering in other places such as the Crimea––it would make no impact.

  “But how could you have turned on Foma––a man you state that your own son calls an uncle?”

  “I don’t know what you think you know, but I assure you, I grieve more than anyone at the savage murder of my dear friend, and will see that justice is done.”

  “Murder? You make it sound as if your friend is dead? I didn’t say anything about him being dead, now, did I?”

  Matvey stood there silent. What was Putin playing at? The cameras rolled on, yet the debate had run its hour––it was a mother of a cliffhanger to end things on.

  The studio lights went off for a few seconds as the television audience were finishing that night’s broadcast, and once off-air, the lights switched back on again. The audience was being shown out of their seating, and Putin was already standing right in front of Filipov.

  “Foma was your one big mistake, Filipov, and I’ll make sure it costs you everything!” he spat at Matvey, before being ushered away by a team of his security men, Matvey’s own men coming to stand around their boss, seeing the altercation but being a few seconds behind.

  Matvey started to leave, a television screen on the side wall showing the final credits going up as the show was coming to an end on Russia’s main television channel––and suddenly Foma was displayed on the screen, speaking to the camera.

  “My name is Foma Polzin, and I’m backing Putin for another term as President of the Russian Federation,” he said, much to Matvey’s dumbfounded astonishment.

  Paris, France

  Andre had caught the train up to Paris, his father having taken the family jet to Moscow ahead of the debates that would be airing over the coming week. Besides, his visit to the French capital wasn’t something he wanted to bother his father with at that moment.

  It was cloudy and cold––noticeably more chilly than Monaco had been that morning––but Andre wasn’t there for the weather. He caught a cab from the central train station and took in some of the sights––he was early, usually had little opportunity to sightsee and was therefore happy to take the scenic route.

  As the cab driver made yet another swing past the Eiffel Tower, Andre got the call he’d been waiting for. Seconds after ending the call, an address was texted across to him, Andre showing his phone to the driver.

  “You know this address?” he said in English, the driver––who was of Middle Eastern origin––nodded and started to pull away. It was nearly forty minutes later when they pulled up outside a disused meat market. The man he was meeting was in town to source some properties that he wanted to purchase. The meat market had just come available to buy.

  “Andre, good to see you again,” Mark Orlov said, though they’d only met once before. The two men shook hands, Andre looking around the place. “What do you think?” Mark added.

  “Huge potential,” Andre said, though it wasn’t the kind of site he would ever personally consider. The men with Mark left them both at that point so that it was just Andre and Mark.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” Mark said, unsure why the son of an oligarch––a wealthy man in his own right now that he’d been seemingly given control of his own small empire––was coming to see him in this way.

  “You worked closely with my father on the last T10 Hunt, correct?” Mark had been paired with Matvey by Svetlana alongside three other men, though it had all been Matvey’s suggestion.

  “Yes, I was,” he said. He needn’t have bothered answering, certain that Andre knew this already. “We’ve done well out of it––all five men have.” Most had gone in and picked off the rival companies which they had needed to shut down first, themselves then buying up what was left over. Mark had picked up two of the banks which had been in Kaminski’s Union, as well.

  “My father trusts you, which is why I wanted to come and see you.”

  “He sent you?” Mark said, still unsure which way this meeting was going to go.

  “No, he doesn’t know I’m here, yet. I’m just doing what I do best.”

  “Which is?” though he had a fair understanding of what that was.

  “Looking out for my father’s best interest. Tracking down any threats, making connections with people that share our goals.”

  “The goal of becoming the next President, you mean?” He hoped Andre hadn’t come to canvas Mark for his vote.

  “That, yes, and other things.”

  “Matvey wanted the Games destroyed all along, am I not correct?” Mark had never been entirely sure why it had all happened, but ever since Matvey had announced himself as a candidate for President, Mark was sure it had been Matvey’s target, the reason he’d joined the group in the first place.

  “Having any such group like that, working behind the scenes, doing their own thing, is a threat to our nation. It had to go. You must see that? Where do you otherwise draw the line? What if Volkov took things even further? What then? It couldn’t go on any longer. You must understand now, in the light of my father’s challenge?”

  “I see why your father would not want it to continue, especially if he were President. He could hardly continue to be involved in it––neither could you––if he was to win the election. It still doesn’t explain why you are here, however. The Games are already history.”

  “I’ve heard a whisper,” Andre said, looking over his shoulder as if to check it was still just them, “something I’ve not been able to find any reference to anywhere else. And you know what that usually m
eans.”

  “What rumour?” Mark said.

  “Does the group Mashina mean anything to you?”

  Mark didn’t flinch. As soon as Andre had started talking, he sensed he knew what was about to be said. Mark had echoed the words as Andre said the name of an organisation very few people knew about. How Andre knew, Mark would love to know.

  “No, what is it? Tell me what you know, and I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s just it, I know very little. But it came from a credible source.”

  “Where?” If someone involved was talking––that didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Merely someone who has been very helpful to me in the past. They didn’t mention it directly––I picked up something in passing, by mistake I think. It was calling everyone back in, said the Machine had to come together once more.”

  “And you’ve no idea where, if anywhere, it’s based?”

  “No––I assume it's ours,” Andre said, meaning Russian.

  “What did your father know about it?”

  “I’ve not asked him yet. I only just heard and he’d already left for Moscow. Besides, until I know a little more, I don’t see the point of mentioning anything to him. I thought you might have come across it. You’ve been around Russia more than we have. You’ve never heard of it, I take it?” Andre was a good reader of someone’s face––Mark had undoubtedly heard the name before, the eyes had given that much away, as far as he had tried to act uninformed on the matter.

  “Look, I’ll see what I can find,” he said, thinking through what needed to happen next.

  “Okay, thanks. Look,” Andre said, “I don’t want to take any more of your time, and I’m sure you’ve got things to do here,” he said, waving his arms around the empty building, which still smelt of meat. “Are you going to buy this place?”

  “Do you think I should?” he said, with a smile, Andre a few metres from him, as he slowly headed to the door.

  “I’m not one for properties, so hell if I know.” Andre took a few steps, but everything about the moment told him Mark would call after him.

  “This Machine business you mentioned,” Mark said, Andre swallowing hard, his heart rate picking up, “are you sure you haven’t mentioned it to anyone else?”

  “No, I haven’t, why?” Andre said, turning around, relieved to see Mark standing calmly on the same spot as before, his arms relaxed and hanging loosely by his sides. Andre let out a long breath. He tried to hide his relief from Mark, though Mark never missed a trick. Mark knew Andre could tell he had lied, he’d read the change in Andre’s expression, the beads of sweat forming on Andre’s forehead despite the chill, Andre’s jaw tightening and his breathing quickening.

  “And you told no one you were seeing me, Andre? It’s essential that I know.”

  “Of course not. I’m not stupid.”

  “And your father knows nothing of this meeting?” Andre had already told him that.

  “No, look…” he said, though Andre stopped speaking as Mark’s right arm jerked up, a gun held firmly between his fingers.

  “If I thought we could have worked with you, I think it would have been something special, Andre, I really do. But I’m sorry,” and the gun fired, two shots to the chest sending Andre to the floor. After a few seconds––the echo of the shots still bouncing around the vast building––a pool of blood appeared under the body.

  Two of Mark’s men came back into the warehouse at that point, as if waiting for the cue that they’d now received.

  “Bring the van back in, and get this mess cleared up. I want the body disposed of immediately and the floor cleaned. There can’t be any sign of what just happened, okay?”

  His men grunted their acknowledgement and got to work straight away.

  Mark pulled out his phone, once he was back outside the warehouse which was to be his next purchase––a luxury housing project was already planned, which just needed a final sign off. He called Foma Polzin, who was at that moment in Moscow.

  “Foma, it’s me. It’s high time you came out of the dark, and you have just got control back of your empire. I hope you won’t let us down,” he said, ending the call before Foma could say anything in reply.

  Weeks before when Andre had discovered the damage to the yacht, the younger Russian had been annoyed by it, and in a conversation he’d had with Foma while catching up that evening, had made mention of the hole. Andre had often snuck in to speak to Foma––a man who was very much an uncle figure to him––without his father’s knowledge. So Foma knew all about the boat’s inability to sail.

  When Matvey had thrown Foma the keys to the yacht––having dramatically changed his mind and suddenly, it seemed, suggested he get the fresh air he had been craving––Foma knew he’d outlived his use to Matvey. The betrayal stung.

  Foma had parked up and taken the boat out––he set it on autopilot, before climbing into a small boat and following behind. A mile out, the yacht had sunk. That same day, back ashore but with nowhere to go, Foma had turned to Mark Orlov, asking for help. Mark had taken him into hiding, ready to reveal Foma on the night of Matvey’s debate with Putin.

  The Machine had deemed that Matvey Filipov couldn’t be trusted to run their country. Matvey was therefore now a clear threat and needed removing from contention. They hoped their first strike would be enough of a blow to end the fight before Matvey had a chance to respond.

  How little they knew.

  9

  1970s––London, England

  Pavel kissed his wife goodbye as she left the house to take their son to school. He’d gone with them both the day before––your boy only starts school once, after all––but business called and he couldn’t spare the time now.

  Pavel had escaped Russia over thirty years before, just a boy himself then, his parents taking him and his brother out while they had the chance. Postwar Russia––even for, or maybe especially for, the wealthy––wasn’t going to be safe. And their family had always had money.

  They’d managed to get their money out of Moscow. Most of it had already been in Zurich for many years, and as the family settled in London, it was the oldest son Pavel who took things forward. Following the death of both parents just twenty months apart––his mother of natural causes and his father in a motorbike accident––Pavel, aged only twenty-three, was handed everything his father had been running.

  The Leadership first approached Pavel in the spring of 1972. It was a sunny day in London, people crowding the streets and Pavel free to mingle and be himself.

  The Machine had been tracking him for some time. If they could get to him, he’d be a valuable member of their group, as he offered vital connections into the West, an area that the currently shortsighted Communist leaders of Russia had failed to value.

  “It’s really in your best interests––we are thinking of you and your family here––that we work together, Pavel,” a man who was then a part of the Leadership in the Machine had said as they cornered Pavel in a section of Hyde Park.

  “In my interest to work with you? What makes you say that?” Pavel wasn’t having any of it.

  “Think of your son.”

  “Dima? This has nothing to do with him, so keep him out of whatever it is you are involved in! Who are you people, anyway?”

  “We have the same concerns about the Motherland as you do,” he said. Pavel wasn’t so sure. He’d encountered the KGB in the past, and they hadn’t succeeded in scaring him, either.

  Ten miles from there, his wife had dropped their son at school. Two people––a man and a woman––were following her, employed by the Machine to keep a close watch on her, but not to intercept. Just observe.

  They tailed her as she worked her way through maze-like streets back from the school, but she was not heading home. She was going in the opposite direction, her destination soon to be apparent. Ten minutes later, she rang the doorbell of her husband’s brother, Lev, who answered it almost immediately. They greeted each other with a k
iss on each cheek, as was the custom, Lev glancing over her shoulder suspiciously, before closing the door behind her.

  It was as Lev drew the lounge curtains, the observers standing behind a tree on the other side of the road as he did so, that the two employees realised what was going on, as Lev was already removing his shirt, the wife of Pavel spotted in just her bra.

  Back near Hyde Park, Pavel had continued talking with the Russian, though they’d moved the conversation to a nearby Russian owned café. Pavel had been told a little more about the Machine, though only as much as to give him a hint about their capabilities. More would come once he had shown them true loyalty. The fact they were talking as much as they were was already a testament to the fact they knew he wasn’t a Soviet sympathiser. His family raising him in the UK only went to prove that point.

  By the end of the day––his wife now home and greeting Pavel as he walked in, both totally unaware of the day the other had just had––the Machine was no clearer about where Pavel stood and therefore where the Kaminski empire as a whole was heading. They’d agreed to give Pavel a week to think things through. Seven days and they would be back.

  Vauxhall House, MI6 HQ––London, England

  February 2018

  Anissa was the one who found the article online; the headline read Mystery behind two FSB agents. She went to see Alex after reading it.

  The article, published by a UK newspaper, though quoting Russian news as its source, went into detail of the recent––it didn’t specify a date, just stating it as earlier that year––mystery surrounding two active service agents in St Petersburg’s FSB headquarters. One man had been murdered––he was named and an image of the crime scene, body removed, was included in the article. It was the reference to the other man, noted as missing, that grabbed Anissa’s attention immediately. He was named as Alexander Barkov. Sasha.