“No, Asiyah. It’s out of the question,” Sokolov said bitterly. The chance to find Constantine had disappeared together with Weinstock, cut off by the arrival of the OMON. He could not risk going forward any more. It was time to retreat. “I need to get you someplace safe. There has to be a way out.”
“Weinstock is the way out! I’m sure he planned for every contingency. He has an emergency route out of here.” Asiyah threw up her hands. “We have no choice, Gene. Nowhere to run, and no place to hide. The OMON have sealed off every exit, and they may start sweeping this grove any minute now. Whichever way you look at it, we must follow Weinstock’s trail. You know that as well as I do.”
“You’re right,” Sokolov admitted. “I think I know why he’s moving towards the river. Weinstock wants to reach the fishing boats.”
Asiyah shook her head. “He’s one cunning bastard.”
Sokolov gathered his bearings.
“Let’s take a shortcut.”
10
Sokolov led Asiyah through the woods, recalling in his memory the layout of the Rainbow Country Club that he had seen on the website. They would surely not beat Weinstock to reaching the boat jetty, but they could cut the gap in time before he escaped. Topped up, a typical twenty-foot bowrider had a range of around three hundred kilometers — enough to reach the expanse of the Volga. If it blasted away even at 30 mph, any chance of catching Weinstock would dissolve together with the spray setting in its wake.
The grove had thickened into a mix of birch, pine and asp. Sokolov strained to listen to the sounds around him. A squirrel scampered up the trunk of a birch and disappeared in the canopy. Birds chirped a short exchange that faded in the air. Sokolov kept his guard for other sounds — of things lurking in the shadows. He was much less worried about being attacked by wild boar than ambushed by the OMON. The animals were locked up in their pens somewhere, waiting to be drugged for slaughter by rifle-wielding tourists. In reality, the forest was as fake as the medieval castle, an arena for exotic amusement, too carefully planned and laid out. Ugly stumps jutted where trees had been sawed down, nature sacrificed for perceived symmetry. The footpaths were too straight, the landscape too accurate in geometry. It was not the untamed forest of Sokolov’s childhood, and that made it even more dangerous. A human environment designed for amateur hunters to trap their game. Even Asiyah, a city girl, stepped noiselessly over the twigs and roots as she waded along. Sokolov felt he would struggle to detect an adversary from afar, which could just as well work in their favor, making them invisible. He was grateful when the passage ended.
They reached a clearing, fifty meters ahead of the riverbank. The slow current of the Moskva, riffles on its surface, washed the artificial slope of a sandy beach.
They did not find the motor boats, or the jetty. The river’s edge was barren.
But they found Weinstock.
Sokolov ran up to him, forgetting all caution.
Then Weinstock did something that Sokolov least expected.
He started laughing.
A snickering that grew into a booming cackle.
“Sokolov, you’re an idiot. I have you now. You ran away from my little masquerade with the OMON, but you walked in right where I wanted you. There troops will be here soon. You’re surrounded.”
Weinstock leered at him with contempt.
Sokolov raised his hand to strike, but if he unleashed his full fury, he knew he’d kill Weinstock. Instead, Sokolov unclenched his fist. In a knife-hand chop, he slashed across Weinstock’s face with the ridge of his open palm, drawing blood. Weinstock lurched back. Blood oozed from the gash on his lower lip. And again, he laughed. A full, throaty laugh, sinister in its absurdity, Weinstock’s teeth colored red with blood.
“Where’s Constantine?”
“Look! Over there!” Asiyah called, and he turned to see her gesturing towards the river.
Squinting from the sunlight, Sokolov peered at the opposite shore. Gliding through the water, a yacht materialized from afar. As she approached, Sokolov could make out the yacht’s name. The New Star.
He would have marveled at the beauty of her hundred-foot black hull, or the sleek white superstructure — if not for what he saw happening on board. Sokolov stood paralyzed in numb shock.
On the deck, a man was returning his gaze. Sokolov could discern enough of his features to recognize him as Saveliy Frolov, the Director of the FSB. There was a seond man standing at Frolov’s side, and Sokolov did not need a second look to know who the man was right away. Sokolov’s heart knew the answer only from his posture, the breadth of his shoulders, the color of his hair. But he also saw his older brother’s face. Constantine’s face, fair-skinned, youthful, the handsome features rigid with mute bitterness.
And he could clearly see that Director Frolov was holding a gun to Constantine’s head.
It was all over. The world inside him turned upside down. He had found his brother, but he had never wished it to be this way.
Asiyah screamed.
Sokolov pivoted to witness an OMON trooper grab Asiyah from behind.
His mind went berserk, but Sokolov didn’t have a chance to move a muscle.
The blue flash of a taser held by Weinstock was the last thing Sokolov remembered.
11
Sokolov returned to consciousness. He bolted upright to see that he was inside a chamber. Brilliant lights from the ceiling and bedside lamps stabbed his eyes, reflecting off the polished surface of wooden paneling around him. He sprang to his feet, getting off the springy mattress of the king-sized bed. A seascape painting took up the wall above the bed. On the opposite wall was a flat display matching in size and symmetry but showing dead blackness. The carpeting felt wooly — his feet were bare. He was still wearing his street clothes. The mirrors hanging on the walls visibly increased the size of the confines. As he cast his glance around the room, a hot wave of despair filled his chest.
He was aboard the yacht. The New Star. He pressed to the single window to his right. The water surface was glassy, with ripples rolling on it. On the shore, the distant rooftops of village homes glistened in the sun, disappearing together with the birches lining the riverfront as the view glided past.
Sokolov charged at the door, twisting the knob violently, ramming with his shoulder, kicking. No use — he was trapped.
He faced the window again. Ever since losing his Breitling in the fire, he’d felt a vital part of his wrist was missing. The sun’s position had shifted past zenith now, so he could tell that the yacht had been traveling away from the Rainbow Country Club for at least an hour. Anxiety flayed his nerves raw. Was Constantine aboard the New Star? Or was Eugene being taken away from his brother, shut off in this cabin while Constantine was being spirited away to a new location? And Asiyah. Dear God, where was Asiyah — was she alive?
He turned from the window sharply, his eyes darting around the room, his mind seeking a way out. His fury against the surroundings turned into bitter rage at himself, if not disgust. Even a man trapped under wreckage would claw at the debris until his hands were caked in blood and lost all feeling. But there was nothing Sokolov could do. He felt utterly worthless, and he considered his futility as betrayal of Asiyah and Constantine.
They were important. They needed him. He channeled his emotions, preparing for a fresh start. He had to make the most out of his defeat, but he had to accept it first. From there, he had a chance to turn things around and get the upper hand. Giving up was the easy way out. For some reason, he was held captive on the yacht, alive. It was his only advantage, and he was determined to use it — and save Asiyah and Constantine. The FSB wanted something from him. Even if he had no idea what it was, he could not waste his chance to claw his way out.