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 Rubner.
Yours faithfully,
Francois 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.