He adjusted the compass bezel once more and set off in the new direction, counting his paces and constantly reconfirming his direction. At 135 paces he stopped, placed the second stick in the ground beside his toe and looked up to see the stick with his scarf attached two metres away to his left. One more pace and he would have crossed the path from the milestone. He considered taking the distance and bearing from the third marker, but decided it would not be necessary since the first two sticks were quite close together. He could always use the third marker if he had trouble finding the exact spot.
He put the compass away, reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a slender, telescopic length of steel thirty centimetres long. Gripping the ends, he extended it to its maximum length of a metre, then a quick twist and the device was locked into position. One end tapered to a sharp point and Zhilev proceeded to insert it into the ground between the two sticks, pushing it firmly down two-thirds of its length without meeting resistance. He withdrew it, moved the point a few centimetres and repeated the procedure.
The third insertion a little further away met resistance after a third of the rod was in the ground, but it was shallower than he was expecting and he removed it, moved a few more centimetres away and pushed it into the soil again. This time it continued down unimpeded, suggesting the previous obstacle was a stone or a root.
Zhilev continued to work methodically in a line until he had passed the stick with the scarf, then changed direction to head back to the other stick at an angle. After a dozen more insertions the rod met solid resistance about halfway down its length. Zhilev moved it up and down a few times to confirm it was there then inserted it further along again and met the same resistance. A ripple of anticipation shimmied through him and he dropped to his knees, cleared the area of small firs, selected two small sticks and stuck them in the ground at the first two points of resistance. Now he changed direction, probing around to locate the edges of whatever was under the ground. Each time he identified an edge he placed a small stick in the hole. Ten minutes later he got to his feet and looked down at the fruit of his efforts. A dozen twigs formed a near-perfect circle a metre in diameter.
Distant lights indicated another car was approaching. Zhilev watched the beams flicker through the trees until they passed out of sight then removed his coat in preparation for some manual labour and hung it on a nearby tree. He got back down on his hands and knees and began to scrape away the topsoil of pine needles, placing them in a pile outside of the circle of twigs. He went back to his coat and took a military-style folding spade from an inside pocket. Zhilev unfolded it, screwed down the locking device that gave it rigidity, inserted the tip into the soil and, with a heavy boot, plunged it into the earth.
Fifteen minutes later Zhilev struck something hard with a solid clunk that suggested the object was large and metallic. The noise was loud enough to make him pause, his ears searching in every direction. He had not decided what he would do if someone appeared out of the darkness and discovered him. His mission procedure of old was to terminate any intruder and dispose of the body or bodies. He did not expect to meet anyone but he knew he had to have a definite plan in case he did. Up until when the spade struck the metal object beneath the soil, the mission was all so much speculation. But now things were beginning to look as if they might become reality, it was all suddenly deadly serious. If he wanted to proceed, he would have to kill. He did not honestly know what he would do were he to be discovered right at that moment, and he would only know if the situation arose. He decided to leave it at that and let things happen organically, but he felt in his heart that if this phase of the mission was successful, he would proceed as if he was here on behalf of his country.
Satisfied he was alone, Zhilev got on to his knees and reached down into the hole. He scraped around, pulling out handfuls of soil until he exposed what appeared to be a thick iron wheel a little smaller than a steering wheel. He lay on his stomach and, gripping the wheel with both hands, tried to turn it. It would not budge. He tried again, applying every ounce of effort, but the wheel was stuck solid.
He took a moment to rest and wondered when it had last been serviced, or if indeed it had been at all in the last few years. He remembered clearly from his original briefing that the caches were checked at least once a year by an agent whose sole job it was to maintain them and the equipment inside. Any sign of such a maintenance schedule would be an encouraging indication of the cache’s operational status. If not it meant the option had been abandoned by the FSB some time after the end of the Cold War and, depending on how long ago that last service was, it would be a decisive factor as to whether or not his plan could continue to the next phase or end there and then.
Zhilev remained optimistic. He took the shovel, jammed it in the rings of the wheel and pulled with all his might. As his head began to shake with the strain, the wheel suddenly moved a little. With renewed vigour he readjusted the spade and took another pull at it. The wheel moved again, this time a little further. He repositioned it again, gave it another firm yank and the wheel turned half a revolution and the friction eased off. He could now turn it with his hands. It moved easily and after several revolutions practically spun, rising as it did so, then stopped suddenly as it reached the end of its thread. Zhilev felt around the threaded shaft beneath the wheel. It was greasy. His expectations rose once again.
He gripped the wheel and this time pulled it upwards. It moved slightly, with a grinding sound. He repositioned his body, gave it another tug, and a heavy, steel, submarine-like hatch opened sideways on a hinge aided by powerful springs designed to counter its weight. A thick, musky smell rose out of the dark hole like damp, rotten clothing. The hatch was half the diameter of the hole Zhilev had dug and wide enough for a full-grown man to climb down through.
Zhilev stood to take a breather and admire his work, and to ensure once again that there was no sign of human life anywhere nearby. Another car appeared and followed the road through the wood before carrying on out of sight.
Zhilev pulled on his coat, removed his scarf from the stick and wrapped it around his neck, then sat on the edge of the hole to search inside with his foot for the ladder he knew was there. He found the first rung, stood upright on it, and lowered himself down through the hatch. As he reached the bottom he took hold of the hatch’s inside handle and pulled it down on top of him. What light there had been from the moon and stars disappeared as he closed and secured it with a half turn of the handle.
Seconds later, his granite face was bathed in the light from a small torch. He moved the narrow beam around the chamber and it swept over various objects, many he recognised, and he was relieved as well as excited to find the place pretty much as he remembered it. His hopes of finding what he had come for soared but he held himself from searching for it right away and ordered himself to be patient and to do this in an orderly and clinical fashion.
The first thing he needed to do was find the main power connection. His light scanned the far end of the chamber searching the steel wall but there was no sign of the leads he was expecting to see. Either he had forgotten where it was or it had since been relocated. As he stepped forward to begin a more thorough search, the gods decided to play with him and his torch grew suddenly dim as the battery power faded.
He cursed and slapped the torch in his palm in a futile effort to revitalise it. Cheap Chinese batteries he mumbled, searching his pockets for spares, then remembered he had left them in the car. He cursed his own lack of professionalism. It was a warning that he was not as proficient as he used to be and that he was going to have to start being doubly cautious and more attentive to detail. He chastised himself. Spetsnaz, the finest Special Forces in the world, and he couldn’t even organise a working torch. Had one of his subordinates done as much he might have punched him to the ground for being so incompetent.