Seven kilometres. Less than five miles. It wasn’t a big enough gap; the Land Cruiser was solid enough but way past its prime when it came to speed. The Lancer could overhaul us easily within minutes and the UAZ wouldn’t be far behind.
Travis got the message quickly. ‘It’s them, isn’t it? How did they find us?’ He turned and studied the road behind us but it was clear for maybe half a mile before dropping off the horizon.
‘They figured out which way we were headed from Pavlohrad and covered the ground. It’s not as though we had too many options.’ The amount of traffic had dropped dramatically in the past few hours as tension spread across the country, so any vehicles with two men in would have been easy to spot. My guess was the man at the used car lot had been too eager to shift the Isuzu and it had somehow come up on the radar. He wouldn’t have resisted more than two minutes when faced with questions about where he’d got it, and the next stage of the hunt would have been to track down the Land Cruiser we’d taken in exchange.
I said to Lindsay, ‘I need a way off this road. What have you got?’
A few moments of static, then, ‘Two miles ahead of your location there’s a small lake with an access track and what looks like dead ground behind it. Apart from that we’re talking maybe fifteen miles of open country and zero cover.’
‘Copy that.’ I checked the odometer and noted the figures, then put my foot down. Any way off this road was worth a try. It would give me some control over the situation and was better than staying in their line of sight when they could take us out any time they felt like it.
‘Check our firepower’s ready,’ I said to Travis.
He didn’t need telling twice. He hit the button to throw the seat back down, then slid into the rear and got busy. I heard him ejecting magazines and re-loading, and when he was finished he caught my eye in the mirror. ‘You never said where these came from.’
‘You never asked. I did some foraging. I like to improvize.’
He slid back into the front seat, grunting with pain and clasping his ribs. Now he had nothing to focus on, the discomfort was making itself obvious. I handed him a blister pack of painkillers and told him to take two, and watched while he did it. If things got scary I was going to need him ready for action, not rolling around unable to move.
The turning came up on the button. It was little more than a break in the grass verge, almost invisible at speed. I was counting on it staying that way to the two cars behind us. We bumped over some ruts before hitting a section of long grass, which made a hoarse swishing noise as we went down a long slope. At the bottom lay a lake, mirror-still and dark as night, surrounded by reeds and some scrappy bushes. I was praying nobody had decided to come fishing today; they’d be in for a surprise.
I drove round the other side and up a short slope to higher ground. After four hundred yards the ground dipped again past a granite outcrop. It was a dead end. I pulled to a stop and jumped out.
We were in a good position for now, screened from the road, and all we could do was wait it out. I walked back to the brow of the slope and lay down with the binoculars, where I had a good view of the road going back at least a mile, maybe more. It was empty.
‘Are we safe here? Those marks in the grass look pretty obvious.’
He was right. I checked the ground where we’d come off the road. The verge looked fine, where the grass was scrubby and compacted. But where we’d hit the longer growth it was easy to see where the wheels had left twin tracks behind, a clear signature to anybody using their eyes. I couldn’t tell if they looked as obvious from the road, but there was only one way to find out.
I had about fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer. Any more and we’d be in trouble.
I handed Travis the binoculars. ‘Stay here and keep watch. I’m going back to wipe out the tracks.’
‘There’s no time. You heard Lindsay. They’re right behind us.’
‘That’s why I need you to stay here. Keep an eye on the road and whistle if you see them coming.’
I didn’t waste time arguing, but went back to the Land Cruiser and took out the Ero. If I had to risk facing the opposition I’d be better off with some close-up heavy metal.
I ran back round the lake, scaring up a trio of wild ducks from the reeds. They curved away in perfect formation, protesting loudly, and headed west, which I took as a good omen. At any other time it would have been a nice place to stop for a while and admire the scenery. But right now that was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I stopped before heading up the final slope to break off a branch from a bush by the water’s edge, then ran up to the road. My thighs began burning as I reached the top and I reflected that if I hadn’t been getting enough exercise lately, that was probably about to change.
Nothing in sight. I checked the verge and spotted a couple of marks in the stubby grass where we’d come off the metalled surface, so I brushed them with the branch until the stems sprang more or less upright. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best I could do.
I worked my way backwards down the slope, stroking the longer grass back into place, and had just reached the bottom when I heard a long warning whistle from Travis.
I was out of time.
FIFTY-ONE
Brian Callahan’s attention was torn away from the screen showing Watchman’s location and the two vehicles tracking him by the arrival of an internal messenger. The man was holding a sealed envelope. He handed it over, got a signature and disappeared back the way he had come.
Callahan opened the envelope, one eye on the screen. A single sheet of paper inside detailed the results of research into the private investigator, Greb Voloshyn. It gave his home address, workplace and some facts about BJ Group, his employers. Callahan was about to put it to one side for reading later when he noticed a familiar acronym further down the page.
FSO.
He felt a jolt go through him. The FSO was the Russian Federal Protective Service, responsible among other things for the security of the Russian president and other high-ranking ministers. They were bodyguards of the highest order, similar to the US president’s Secret Service detail. To most western observers, the FSO was simply another branch of the once all-powerful KGB, now the FSB.
And Greb Voloshyn was listed as a former officer of that organization.
‘Can you handle this?’ he said to Lindsay. ‘Something’s come up.’ He held up his pager. ‘Call me if anything happens — I won’t be far away.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
Callahan hated leaving her at such an important juncture, but there was something he had to deal with that couldn’t wait. He hurried along the corridor and took the elevator to the research section where the report on Voloshyn had been compiled. He checked the researcher’s name listed at the bottom of the form, followed by a signature. David Andrews. He was one of the team of IT and intelligence geeks who trawled the internet’s darkest corners and instigated investigations into whatever officers like Callahan required. It was an intensive job and demanded absolute focus and accuracy. Andrews’s particular strength was his knowledge of the current Russian security and intelligence apparatus and its history.
He found Andrews and took him to one side. ‘I don’t have to ask if you’re sure of your facts,’ he said, ‘but do we have any way of telling if Voloshyn is still connected to the FSO?’
Andrews gave a knowing smile. He was short and chunky in build with a wispy moustache and the complexion of a man who spent too much time below ground out of the sunlight. Like a groundhog, Callahan thought not unkindly. Only a particularly smart one.