Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

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.

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.