Lowering his binoculars, he stared at the large valley. If the FSB or SVR had a long-range surveillance team hidden somewhere in there, watching Yevtushenko’s house, it would take him up to a day to find them, and even then he’d only do so if he was lucky and the team was amateur. He’d never find a professional team. But he thought it highly unlikely that Russian intelligence would dedicate such resources. Yevtushenko’s house was low priority now that the Russian was out of the country and would never return.
He placed his sack onto his back and began moving along the ridge along one side of the valley.
Fifteen minutes later, he stopped, lowered himself to the ground, and crawled to the edge of the slope. Using his binoculars, he looked into the valley. The track was five hundred yards below him, and beyond it he could now see Yevtushenko’s cottage. Directly in front of the property was a police squad car; standing next to it were three uniformed young police officers, smoking, chatting to each other, stamping their feet to try to stay warm. Based on their location and disposition, it was clear the police were there simply to deter an opportunistic criminal from entering the empty house and stealing anything of value.
He moved back from the slope and ran along the ridge. After eight minutes he stopped and looked into the valley again. He was now three miles away from his bike and one mile from the house; below him he could see nothing but forest. Running fast, he moved down the valley slope and soon was traversing its base. All the time, he kept moving his head, searching for signs of life. But he saw no one and kept moving quickly as he started ascending the slope on the other side of the valley. When he reached its crest, he kept running until he was out of sight of the valley, then briefly stopped and bent forward with his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath. After throwing himself to the ground, he withdrew his pistol, crawled back to the top of the slope, and used his binoculars to examine the route he’d just taken. If there’d been police officers hidden in the forest, he hoped that the action he’d just taken would have flushed them out and sent them racing up the hill after him.
But he saw nothing.
He looked toward Yevtushenko’s house. It was once again hidden from view behind trees, but he knew that the rear of the house was five hundred yards away.
He spent twenty minutes examining the land in front of and either side of the cottage, put the binoculars away, ensured that his pack was tight on his back, and moved cautiously down the slope toward the cottage, his gun in both hands.
Reaching the valley base, he kept his gun at eye level, twitching it left and right. Snow was deeper within the forest; with each footfall his boots sank to ankle height, and lumps of it were falling from the trees around him. He tried to keep his breathing calm so that he could turn and accurately shoot anything that made a sound louder than the impact of snow on snow.
He heard noise. Distant, distorted, artificial. It grew louder as he moved forward, and soon he recognized the sound as a man’s voice speaking on a radio. The police. He wondered if they were patrolling around the house or whether the noise was coming from inside the property. Perhaps there were more cops guarding the place.
Switching his gun’s safety catch off, he silently continued. Fresh snowflakes were now falling from the sky. In less than one hour, it would be dark.
He saw glimpses of stone wall. Yevtushenko’s house was thirty yards away. Stopping, he crouched down and waited in case the armed police came into view. He stayed like this for fifteen minutes, but saw no one. Now leopard-crawling over the snow, he edged nearer to the house, stopping every few yards in case the police decided to make a walk around its perimeter. If they did and spotted him, he’d have no choice other than to put nonlethal shots into their bodies and smash their radio equipment save what was in the vehicle so that they would have a chance to crawl to it and seek help rather than freeze to death. By that time, he’d be long gone.
He reached the house, rose to a crouch, and stayed flush against its rear wall as he moved to the corner. Dropping low so that his head was against the snow, he peered around the corner for a fraction of a second. He saw nothing, though he could hear the police chatting over the sounds of their radios. Moving to the other corner, he repeated the same drill, but saw nothing except the road at the front of the house. The police were no doubt still standing outside the front of the building.
The rear wall contained two windows and a back door in the center. He tried the door—it was locked. Removing the lockpick set, he knelt before the keyhole, placed pins into the lock, and within seconds had it open. Gripping his gun in one hand, he slowly turned the handle, pushed the door open a few inches, waited, then moved inside.
A
t that moment, one of Valerii’s men sent his boss an SMS:
Confirmed sighting. He’s in. Make the call.
W
ill was in the kitchen. It was tiny—barely seven feet by five feet—and its surfaces were clear of anything save a metal kettle, a jar of coffee, and some mugs that contained traces of coffee in the bottom. He touched the kettle; it was lukewarm. The police had recently made themselves a drink. He wondered how long it would be before they wanted another one.
His heart beating fast, he held his gun ready to shoot and moved out of the room into a hallway. Halfway down was a fully laden coat rack. To either side of it were oil paintings; one of them was of a baby girl, the other was of a beautiful woman lying on her side next to a river while reading a book. Alina. At the bottom of each painting was the inscription
My darlings
.
Will heard more police radio chatter, but none of it was coming from inside the house. He walked upstairs and entered the bedroom. It looked functional, had no woman’s touch, and was clearly used by Yevtushenko only to sleep in. Ignoring the bathroom, he went back downstairs and approached the living room but stopped four feet from the entrance. When he’d last seen them, the cops had been facing away from the house, but if they’d adjusted position they would be able to see him easily if he entered the room with its three large windows. From where he was standing he only had a partial view into the living room. He saw a violin resting on a stand, more paintings, shelves that were crammed with books, a sofa, a small television, nothing else.
More police radio chatter. This time louder, though still from outside and incomprehensible.
He froze, wondering if the police were about to enter the house.
Ten seconds passed.
The police were no longer talking to each other, though their radios were still noisy.
Will moved back to the kitchen, his gun held high, expecting to see that the guards had moved to the rear of the house.
No one was there.
Back in the hallway, he stared at the floor. A thick rug ran along its length. He started rolling it up, then stopped as he heard the police car’s ignition. Frowning, he wondered if the men were making preparations for a new shift to arrive. If that were the case, most likely one of the first things the new shift would do was come in to make themselves a hot drink. He quickly continued rolling up the rug, then stopped. A hatch cover was in the center of the floor; within indentations on either side of it were two small padlocks looped through fasteners that would normally be screwed into the floor but at some stage had been wrenched away from the wood.
When the property had been searched, they’d found the hatch.
Still, the cops were silent.
Beads of sweat ran down his back as he lifted the cover. Below, a set of steps descended into pitch black. For a moment, he wondered what to do. Go in there and be trapped? Or get out while he still had the chance to do so?
Perhaps the police were silent because they had nothing left to say to each other, their thoughts now only about getting home and having supper with their families. Or perhaps they were quiet because they knew something was wrong.
He made a decision and began climbing into the basement. When he reached the floor, he moved his hands around, searching for a light switch. One of them brushed against a cord. He gripped it and pulled downward. A single bulb illuminated the room. The place was no bigger than the kitchen. It was dank, smelled musty, and had pools of water on the floor. Shelves were on the walls and most of them contained tools. Urgently, he looked around.
There were three electrical outlets, positioned a few inches above the floor. Withdrawing his screwdrivers, he began unscrewing one of the metal plates. Wires were behind it. He did the same with the second plate, but it too was a functioning electricity supply. He crouched in front of the third plate and started removing each screw. As the last one came out, the plate dropped to the floor. Behind it was a ten-inch-deep hole. A plastic parcel was within the recess.
He removed the package and unwrapped the several layers of waterproof plastic. Inside there was no cash, only letters. More sweat poured down his back as he began scanning them. Most were correspondence from Alina—letters telling Yevtushenko that she dearly missed him since he’d left Belarus, that Maria was growing by the day, that their baby had just had her first full night’s sleep without waking or needing to be fed, that the university was considering giving Alina a pay raise, that she was saving money to come and visit him again soon. Having placed the letters in a pile to one side, Will looked at the last two envelopes in the bag. They looked different from each other and different from Alina’s letters.
He opened one of them. Inside was an SVR report marked
TOP SECRET
; beneath the header was the title
Director, First Deputy Director, Head Directorate S Only, Ref Deployment of Kronos
. The report was dated 1995 and stated that Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev had met Kurt Schreiber in Berlin as agreed, the papers had been signed, Kronos was the fail-safe.
The report said nothing else, though the name
Kurt Schreiber
had been circled in pencil.
Will stuffed the letter into his jacket, knowing that Yevtushenko would have breached security protocols by printing off the report and removing it from SVR headquarters.
He tore open the last letter. It was dated one month ago, addressed to Yevtushenko, and had been sent to a house in Minsk by a Brussels-based company called Gerlache
.
Dear Mr. Yevtushenko,
Our business interests are taking us in new directions, away from the former Soviet Union states and toward Asia and parts of central Africa. Regrettably we therefore do not need to continue to retain your consultancy services.
However, we have some excellent news. One of our Israeli clients maintains a significant interest in setting up business ventures in Russia and needs to understand the political and economic risks before doing so. He would like to engage your services directly. We have charged him an introductory fee and he has agreed to pay you your standard rate of ten thousand euros per consultancy report. Your contract will now be with him and we will play no part in any business dealings you have with him.
He has been a trusted client of Gerlache for eight years and we can thoroughly vouch for his credentials and integrity. He will call you, outside of business hours, at some point during the next few days.
It has been a pleasure doing business with you and we are in no doubt that you will have a profitable relationship with our client.
His name is Simon Rübner.
Yours faithfully,
François Gilliams
Managing Partner
Will put the letter back into the envelope and placed it in a pocket. He wondered if there was anything else of interest within the room, or elsewhere in the house, but he knew that he had to get out of there. After turning off the light, he climbed the stairs, entered the hallway, and stopped.
Vehicle noise, different from the sound of the idling police car.
He ran to the kitchen, looked through the windows, saw no one, and opened the rear door. The vehicle noise was getting louder. Moving to the edge of the house, he glanced toward the track, and his stomach wrenched.
A truck was pulling up next to the house. Two hundred yards behind it, another had stopped; at least a dozen police with submachine guns and attack dogs were jumping out of it and heading into the forest. Will ran to the other rear corner of the house. A third truck was stationary, and more armed cops and dogs were moving toward the trees. Both ends of the valley were blocked off. Within minutes the property would be surrounded. His heart started racing as he realized that his only possible escape route was via the slope beyond the rear of the cottage and then along high ground to reach his bike.
He sprinted, knowing that he’d been wrong: the SVR or FSB must have put a team into the valley to watch the property. It was probable they were armed, and quite possible that he was running blindly toward them. But it made no sense that they were here.
In the distance, he heard dogs barking. Dodging trees, he tried to move faster, though the thick snow impeded his efforts.
A volley of automatic gunfire came from somewhere to his right, and bullets pounded the snow three feet in front of him. He dived left, a moment before a pistol shot sounded from somewhere ahead. Standing, he saw rapid movement ahead. A glimpse of a man in white arctic clothing. Then the man was gone. Will ran onward, zigzagging to try to make his body a difficult target, leaping over mounds of snow, racing between trees, his gun held high. More movement—the man in white. Will twisted and slammed his body against a tree as the man raised his pistol and fired. The bullet missed him by inches.
Will fired two shots in rapid succession. Both hit the man in the chest, and he fell limp to the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, Will saw brief flashes of the cops’ reflective jackets. They were about seventy yards behind him, moving through the forest. He looked ahead. The base of the valley slope was fifty yards away. He had to get to that higher ground.