He increased the revs as he drove the bike uphill, gripping it firmly as it shuddered due to the uneven ground. Within ten minutes, he reached the crest of the hill, stopped, turned off the engine, lowered the bike to the ground, and looked around. He was on a large area of flatland; beyond it was a valley. Moving to the edge of the hilltop, he removed his sack, lay down, and extracted the binoculars. Based upon his careful study of maps prior to entering Russia, he knew the valley before him was five miles long and four hundred yards wide. Most of it was covered with forest, though a single-lane track was easily visible and stretched along the entire right-hand side of the valley. That would be the route that Yevtushenko would take when traveling to and from his cottage. The house was not visible, obscured by trees, though Will knew its approximate location. On either side of the valley were slopes that were three-quarters covered with trees and rose to the elevation where he stood.
After adjusting the binoculars, he examined the track and saw that there were vehicle markings in the snow-given that it had snowed heavily earlier in the day, they had to be only a few hours old.
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.
At that moment, one of Valerii’s men sent his boss an SMS: Confirmed sighting. He’s in. Make the call.
Will 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.