by Matthew Dunn
The men nodded.
Checking that his Bushnell PowerView 20x50 surveillance binoculars were firmly in place within his jacket, Valerii added, “Do it exactly as we planned.”
Yesterday the men had reconnoitered the valley containing Yevtushenko’s isolated house. They’d chosen three locations that collectively would give the team complete coverage of the property’s exterior from distances ranging between four hundred and six hundred yards. And they’d chosen two backup locations for each angle of observation, in case they needed to move because Will Cochrane was approaching the house on a route that was too close to their positions. The men would be in two-man teams: one to watch the house, the other to watch their backs. All of them were armed with MP-443 handguns, the standard issue firearm carried by police officers in this part of Russia, though Valerii had instructed them that they were only to use them if it looked likely that Will would escape the police. But if it came to that, they’d know what to do. They were former Spetsnaz operatives—experts in concealment and surveillance, long-range marksmanship, endurance, and close-quarters combat. As their commanding officer, Valerii had led the men on numerous successful missions. Now he commanded them in far more dubious, illegal, and very profitable operations.
“It’s crucial he’s in the building before we call it in.”
One of the men asked, “What should we do if the cops open fire on us?”
Valerii pulled out his handgun, checked its workings, and shrugged. “Don’t do anything to them until Cochrane’s dead. After that, you can do what you like.”
Will stopped his vehicle in what was technically a farmstead, though it was rather more a junkyard. Around him were corrugated iron huts, three cars that were resting on bricks and had no wheels, a barn whose timber had completely rotted away down one side, a small house that retained sturdy walls but had no roof, bits of mangled and unrecognizable machinery, and a trailer. Beyond the farmstead was uninhabited forest. He got out of the car and stood on snow-covered ground.
A middle-aged man—medium height, ruffled jet black hair, a handlebar moustache, numerous old scars on his face—emerged from the trailer. He was wearing oil-stained blue overalls and was holding a double-barreled shotgun in one hand.
Will looked around before calling out in Russian, “Good to see you again, Arman.”
“You’re on your own?”
“I didn’t bother to check”—Will grinned and nodded toward the gun—“because I knew you’d shoot anything that tried to creep up on me from behind.”
“Nice car. Is it yours?”
“It’s a rental.”
“You’re lucky. If it was yours I could have put both barrels into you and sold the Mercedes for parts.”
Arman Shpalikov walked quickly toward him, despite the limp he’d had since serving as a Soviet captain in the war in Afghanistan. Shaking Will’s hand with an iron grip, he replied, “Good to see you too, Philip. You want tea, coffee, vodka?”
From previous experience, Will knew that none of the options were preferable. “Black coffee.”
“But vodka when you’ve done your work—right?”
“If I have time.”
He led Will to his trailer. Inside were a tiny bed, a single-ring gas stove, a sink that was overflowing with dirty dishes and cups, a torn leather seat that ran flush against three sides of the trailer, and a two-foot-square table.
Will sat. “How’ve you been?”
Arman placed his gun on the table, put a pan of water onto the stove, struck a match, and lit the gas. “You know. Every day’s a blessing.”
It was. A piece of shrapnel was lodged inside Arman’s body. One day it would reach his heart and kill him, but the stubborn old warrior refused to have an operation to remove it because he believed the shrapnel made him embrace every moment of being alive.
“How’s business?”
The Russian grabbed two mugs and began rinsing them. “It shifts with the times.”
Arman did many things: as a former tank commander, his forte was vehicle and machinery repair work, though when the work wasn’t there he also made money by hunting wildlife and selling the catches at the local market, felling trees and turning them into logs and planks, buying and selling scrap metal, washing floors at a nearby restaurant, collecting refuse, and providing logistical support for MI6 operations in Russia.
Will had recruited him six years earlier because the Russian was an expert at sourcing things—guns, vehicles, communications equipment, fake documents, men who’d not think twice about killing someone for cash—and had a network of contacts who could help MI6 personnel move covertly across Russia in trains, boats, trucks, and other modes of transport. Though Will paid him for his service, Arman’s motivation to work for him was grounded in his hatred for the Soviet Union and by extension his hatred for Russia, because in his view both countries had been run by the same set of psychopathic bastards.
That hatred had started when he was deployed with the Fortieth Army to Afghanistan to fight the mujahideen. He’d witnessed both sides commit numerous atrocities, but one in particular had left him mentally scarred. During a Soviet offensive into the Panjshir Valley, his tank became damaged and separated from the rest of his unit. He and the rest of his crew were captured by mujahideen guerillas who immediately used their knives to behead his soldiers. One of the guerrillas then plunged his knife into Arman’s leg and kept twisting it while asking him in broken Russian how many Soviet tanks were heading along the valley. The torture continued for thirty minutes, during which time Arman told them nothing. He too would have almost certainly been decapitated, but Soviet soldiers who’d been looking for their missing tank attacked the group. The mujahideen fled into the hills and escaped, much to the fury of the officer commanding the Soviet rescue unit, a fury that was intensified when the major saw that one of the decapitated heads belonged to his younger brother.
Unable to walk, and in agony, Arman was placed on a stretcher, and the unit carried him three miles to the nearest village. He’d thought that he’d been brought there to receive medical help, but it transpired that the major had other intentions. After Arman was lowered onto the ground, the major ordered his men to round up every Afghan villager and point their guns at them. Further orders were issued. Five women were pulled out from the group, their legs and arms were bound with rope, and they were forced to lie down on top of each other until they formed a pile. Gasoline was poured over them. Holding a lighter in his hand and speaking to them through a translator, the major asked the rest of the villagers if they knew the whereabouts of the mujahideen who’d attacked Arman’s tank crew. The villagers were terrified, screaming, and pleading with him that they knew nothing. Before Arman could say anything, the major ignited the lighter and tossed it onto the bound women. As the women burned to death, the major strode forward and grabbed a girl who looked about four years old. After tying her to a shovel, he stuck the barrels of two rifles deep into the ground either side of the burning corpses, got two of his soldiers to hold the shovel at each end so that both the tool and the girl attached to it were horizontal, ordered the men to hold the girl over the fire, and tied the shovel to the butt of each rifle. Watching helplessly as the girl roasted to death over the bodies, Arman screamed louder than he’d screamed when the mujahideen blade had been stuck in him.
That scream had stayed in his head ever since.
As Will watched the former tank commander open a can of instant coffee and spoon granules into cups, he wondered, not for the first time, if the real reason Arman had refused to have the shrapnel removed was because he was praying for it to reach his heart.
Arman pushed a mug toward Will. “I know it’ll taste like piss.” He smiled. “Good job you don’t come here for my cuisine.”
Will took a sip of his drink and tried not to wince. “Did you get everything I asked for?”
Arman nodded, opened a
cupboard, and placed a Makarov handgun on the table.
Will stripped it down. Though old, the weapon was in immaculate condition, and there was not a speck of dust within its workings. “Perfect.”
“Shame I can’t keep my dishes as clean, eh?”
“One of the advantages of being bachelors is that we don’t have to.”
“You still unmarried?”
Will nodded.
Arman looked confused. “I’ve got every excuse for being single because I look like the wrong end of an artillery strike. You don’t.”
Will shrugged. “I’ve not met anyone who’ll have me.”
Arman looked mischievous. “You have problems in the man department? If so I can get you some pills, much better than Viagra.”
“That’s very kind of you, Arman, but I’m fine in that department.” He thought about having another sip of coffee but decided not to. “Being unmarried suits me.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Thought not.” Arman took a gulp of his drink, grimaced in pain as he stood, and said, “The other stuff you need’s on the bed. I’ve got to prepare the vehicle. Help yourself to more coffee.”
After he’d left, Will removed his business attire, carefully placing his shirt, suit, and overcoat onto a hanger, and dressed in the clothes that Arman had gotten him. Within minutes he was wearing a white Windbreaker jacket, waterproof trousers, and boots. He looked inside the small knapsack that Arman had prepared for him: a crowbar, mallet, pair of binoculars, set of screwdrivers, military knife, lockpick set, and two spare magazines for the pistol. After putting the bag on his back, he walked out of the trailer.
Arman was on the other side of a clearing, standing next to a large off-road motorcycle, revving its engine while listening to the noise it was making. He took his hand off the throttle as Will approached him. “It looks like a heap of crap, but I’ve checked it thoroughly and have given it a tune-up. You’ll have no problems.”
Will sat on the bike. “I should be three hours. Much longer than that means something’s gone wrong.” He smiled while looking at his rental car. “And that means you can do whatever you like to the Mercedes.”
Will brought the bike to a halt on a deserted country lane and checked his map. He was four miles away from Yevtushenko’s cottage. Deciding that he could get to within two miles of the property before leaving the bike, he revved the throttle, kept control of the machine as its back wheel slid on ice, and drove off the lane onto open farmland. The land around him was featureless and frozen under a few inches of snow. No doubt in the warmer months the land would be plowed and crops would be planted in it, but now it looked inhospitable and lifeless.
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.