by Matthew Dunn
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.
The blow to his rib cage caused him to stagger back, his face screwed up in pain. A big man, identically dressed to the one he’d shot, was rushing toward him. The man swung his fist toward Will’s head. Will sidestepped, slapped him in the throat with sufficient force to cause the man to fall to his knees while clutching his injury, punched him full force on the side of his head, and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s stomach. Dropping to the ground, Will wrapped an
arm around the man’s throat and squeezed until his thrashing legs became motionless.
As Will moved onward, the ground gradually became steeper, the forest more dense. More automatic gunfire came from somewhere behind him, and rounds ripped chunks off the trees around him. He changed angles again, pulling on tree trunks and branches to help him move faster through the thick snow.
A man ran through trees ahead of him. One of the surveillance team. He hadn’t seen Will, but had a handgun held ready to shoot. Will stopped, held his breath, took aim a few inches in front of the man’s moving head, partially exhaled, and fired. The bullet struck the man in the temple, and he fell sideways, dead. As he did so, a boot struck Will’s kneecap, then his hip. Will dropped to the ground, his hand involuntarily releasing his gun. An operative was standing six feet away from him, silent, aiming his pistol at Will’s head, his finger pulling back on the trigger.
Will braced himself, knowing he was about to die.
A German shepherd police dog leapt through the air and landed on the man, forcing him to the ground. The big dog was trying to pin the man down and tear out his throat. Will got to his feet and retrieved his gun. The dog yelped. Holding the dog’s ear and jaw, the hostile had snapped its neck. Staring wide-eyed at Will, he pushed the dog off his body, grabbed his discarded handgun, and swung it toward Will. He dropped the weapon the moment Will’s round struck him in the forehead.
More barking, accompanied by shouts. The cops were gaining on him and clearly knew his approximate location. Will moved, limping at first from the blow to his knee but soon able to jog, then run as the pain abated. He was now on the steep slope, heading out of the valley.
A pistol round sliced alongside one arm, cutting his jacket and his skin. Another struck his backpack. He dived for cover behind a tree, got into a crouch, readied himself, and swung out. In an instant, he saw a surveillance operative twenty yards away, pointing his handgun directly at Will. Will fired a fraction of a second before the man fired. The operative’s bullet hit a part of the trunk two inches from Will’s head. Will’s bullet hit the man in the face. He ran to the prone body and fired two more shots into his head.
Ignoring scratches to his face and hands from the foliage around him, he frantically continued his ascent. His breathing was shallow, his body covered in sweat, but he dared not slow down. The edge of the forest was now visible. Beyond it he needed to cross forty yards of open ground before reaching the summit.
Two police officers rushed toward him from between trees to his left. Ahead of them was an unleashed dog, its teeth bared as it sprinted toward Will. Will spun to face them, in an instant decided the cops were trying to capture him alive, aimed his gun, shot the dog in the chest and the head, dashed toward the cops, who were now trying to raise their submachine guns, got between them, elbowed one in the eye, grabbed the other by the throat and slammed his body against a tree. Both men were writhing in pain on the ground.
Will left them there, turned, and was hit full force in the face by another surveillance operative. Staggering back, he saw a leg kick toward his stomach. He moved, trapped the leg between his forearms, gripped it tight and spun his whole body, causing the operative to flip onto his side. He stepped closer to the prone man, intending to stamp on the man’s groin, but before he could do so the operative used his free leg to kick Will’s chest and push him away.
After scrambling backward, the man got to his feet and charged toward Will. Will dropped low, moved left, and swung his fist upward at full force into the man’s gut. The man crashed to the ground, moaning, and started crawling away from Will. He was badly hurt, but Will couldn’t let him recover and get to a weapon. The two cops were still writhing on the ground, in pain. Will strode over to them and grabbed one of their discarded Vityaz submachine guns. He was about to use it on the surveillance operative, but five more police officers emerged out of the trees heading straight toward him. Will stood still, raised his gun, and sent a burst of fire into the ground in front of their feet. The cops froze. Will stayed still, pointing his weapon at them, then turned and sprinted farther up the slope.
Within seconds, he was out of the forest. Now he was exposed. And while he was sure the police had been trying to capture him alive, he wondered what orders they’d been given if it looked likely he was going to escape. Keeping his movements erratic, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, despite every intake of air causing pain in his lungs, his muscles screaming in agony from his exertions and the blows he’d received.
The summit was fifteen yards away. He changed direction again just before a burst of gunfire raced through the air where he’d been a split second before. Clearly, the cops were not going to risk him escaping and were now shooting to kill.
Spinning around, he saw three officers running out of the tree line. Using the Vityaz’s telescopic sight, he took aim and put two rounds into one of the cop’s legs. The man crumpled to the ground, screaming; his colleagues looked panicked and dived for cover. Will turned, ran, reached the summit, changed direction, and started moving along it faster. The ground was flat here and the snow much thinner and more compacted. He looked into the valley. One of the trucks was moving along the distant track in the same direction he was headed; those cops and dogs that he could see in the forest were also paralleling his route. Moving out of sight of the valley, his only thought now was to cover the two miles to his bike quicker than the men pursuing him.
One hundred yards ahead of him, two dogs clambered onto the summit, their breath steaming in the icy air as they looked around, trying to find their quarry. One of them barked; both locked eyes on Will and raced toward him. He barely slowed as he raised his gun and put four-round bursts into each of them. Within seconds, he was jumping over their dead bodies.
More snow started to fall, and the light was beginning to fade. Will knew the police would do everything they could to capture him before nightfall—he hadn’t seen any of them carrying night-vision equipment, and German shepherd dogs were poor trackers in the dark.
He covered one mile, felt exhausted, and could feel that he was starting to slow down, though he thought that he was probably still moving more quickly than the cops in the valley basin. But the truck worried him. No doubt it was already at the end of the valley, stationary, waiting to receive updates on Will’s location.
Deciding he had to risk another glance into the valley, he moved left while maintaining his speed. Now he was visible to anyone in the valley who was looking in his direction. At least three people were, because sustained bursts of gunfire came from three different locations in the valley below. Will darted right and out of sight. The rounds had been wide of their mark; he was beyond the submachine guns’ accurate range. But he knew that he had to fight every physical instinct to further slow down, as his brief look into the valley had shown him that the police were still moving in force through the forest and that the truck was waiting ahead of him at the end of the track on the opposite side of the valley.
His head throbbing, he started counting each pace, reckoning that he’d reach his bike at the approximate count of fifteen hundred. Strong winds began to drive the snowfall toward him. He narrowed his eyes to try to avoid becoming disoriented by the white specks and had to work even harder to maintain his pace.
He reached a count of five hundred.
The taste of blood was in his mouth.
One thousand.
Every muscle in his body felt like it was being torn apart.
Twelve hundred.
He could see his bike on the high ground at the head of the valley.
Thirteen hundred.
He stumbled, nearly fell, knew that at any moment his legs would simply stop functioning.
Fourteen hundred.
He couldn’t count anymore. Or run. His breathing loud, his hair matted with sweat and snow, his face screwed up in pain, he staggered forward until he was standing by the bike.
Two hundred yards away, on lower ground and moving closer to him, was the truck. No doubt it was full of cops. In the forest, some of the police on foot had switched on the tactical flashlights attached to their submachine guns. Light was fading, but they were getting nearer. Tossing his gun away, he tried to lift the heavy bike. He got it off the ground a few inches before his oxygen-starved muscles gave up and the machine crashed back to the ground. Dogs barked. Someone in the forest shouted orders. Will knew that the police could see him; in a matter of seconds they would be in range to shoot him. He sucked in air, ignored the fact that his heart was pumping so fast he thought it could fail, gripped the handlebars, and moaned loudly as he tried again to haul the bike upright.
At least two dogs were now continuously barking and seemed to be drawing closer; no doubt they’d been unleashed. He leaned back, his teeth gritted, trying to use his body weight to raise the machine. The bike lifted a few more inches. His back was in agony, felt like it was burning. Gunfire. Most were off target, but one round struck the bike’s seat and ricocheted through the air close to his head. He knew that if he dropped the bike now he’d have no chance of escape, so he screamed, pulled back with every remaining bit of strength, thought that he was going to lose consciousness, got the bike upright, immediately swung a leg over it, and sat on the machine, his breathing rapid. More shouting; the dogs had to be very close now.
He tried to kick-start the bike. Nothing happened.
He tried again; the engine still didn’t engage.
Bullets struck the ground inches from the bike’s front tire.
He raised his body, then thrust down to add weight to the kick-start.
Still nothing.
The truck stopped, just one hundred yards away. Men jumped out of the back.
He stood again. The act sent bolts of pain through his legs and arms. He breathed in and thrust down.
