Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia: Sunday 25 October
12:30 A.M. local time
Stefan Baklanov awoke in the grip of a blind terror. He felt his heart pound out one, two panicked beats before he realized the blackness that seemed to have swallowed him was merely the darkness of a cloud-shrouded night. It was another moment still before he remembered where he was.
He sat up, his arms wrapping around his bent knees, an ache pulling across his chest as he thought about Uncle Jasha and the others on the Yalena. There had been times during that long, seemingly endless swim to the shore when he’d come close to giving up and letting the sea take him. But he’d pushed on, even when his arms went numb and his legs felt so heavy he could barely move them. He still wasn’t sure how he managed to drag himself up on the rocky point, gasping for breath and shivering so hard he didn’t think he’d ever stop.
All he’d wanted to do was lie on the shore, close his eyes, and let exhaustion take him. But the throb of an outboard motor somewhere in the misty cove had driven him up and across a rutted, narrow road into the protective shelter of a copse of birch. His legs had felt as wobbly as a newborn calf’s and his teeth chattered so hard he kept biting his tongue, but he knew he had to move or die.
He figured he’d covered maybe nine or ten kilometers, sticking to the fields and woods, hiding at the sound of every voice or approaching car, before he came upon the abandoned old German farmhouse. Built a century or more ago of good red brick, it sat well back from the main road in the midst of an overgrown field. There were tens of thousands of such houses scattered across Kaliningrad Oblast—entire villages whose inhabitants had fled west ahead of the conquering Red Army, or had been shot, or had disappeared forever into the frozen wastelands of Siberia.
The farmhouse door had long since been battered in and broken, but the old tile roof was still fairly sound and the stout brick walls kept out the cold wind that cut cruelly through Stefan’s wet clothes. He thought about building a fire to warm himself, then realized that would be a mistake. Staggering up the stairs, he rummaged around until he found a tattered old blanket. Stripping off his icy clothes, he curled up in a leaf-littered corner and fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He’d had a vague idea of sleeping until nightfall and then pushing on under the cover of darkness. But when he now looked at his watch he realized it was already past midnight. He’d slept far longer than he’d intended.
He pushed to his feet. Hugging the motheaten blanket around his shoulders, he lurched to the nearby window and peered through the broken panes at the dark, silent yard below.
He stared in helpless frustration into the blackness of the night. He could vaguely make out the looming outline of a collapsed barn and the distant, darker smudge of a copse of trees. But there could be a hundred men out there hiding in the shadows and Stefan knew he’d never see them. A sudden noise and a flurry of movement made him jerk back, gasping with terror. Then he let out a weak laugh as a barn owl landed on the rotting window casing, its eyes wide and staring.
The painful rumbling of Stefan’s stomach reminded him that he’d eaten nothing all day except for a few scavenged wild berries he’d found in the woods. He couldn’t stay here. Groping for his still damp pants, he reluctantly drew them on and reached for his shirt and sweater. He considered for a moment finding the nearest village and turning himself in to the militia. Only, he had no identity papers. Plus, going to the militia, now, would require him to admit his role in an activity that was not only illegal but could easily provoke an international incident. And what if the officials were corrupt? What if they were out there even now, helping the Major look for him?
Stefan turned toward the stairs, stumbling in his exhaustion and fear. No, he would avoid the militia, he decided; avoid the villages, avoid anyone who might betray him to the men who’d murdered Uncle Jasha and the others.
If he kept away from the main roads and villages, it ought to take him four, maybe five days to reach home. Until he’d started working with Uncle Jasha, Stefan had lived with his mother on the outskirts of a small hamlet near Yasnaya Polyana.
He’d grown up there, in a house much like this one, an old German farmhouse with a sweet-smelling hay barn and a pond and a flock of snowy white geese that honked imperiously for their dinner. At the thought, a wave of homesickness swept over him, so intense it brought tears to his eyes. He brushed them away, ashamed of himself.
At Yasnaya Polyana, he’d be safe. He told himself that once he reached home, everything would be all right.
At a small private airstrip near Primorsk, the man Stefan Baklanov knew only as the Major glanced at his watch. The Gulfstream was nearly loaded. In another moment the jet would be on its way and the most important segment of their assignment would be completed. All that remained, now, was to clean up a few loose ends.
Headlights stabbed the darkness and the Major turned. A black Durango braked at the edge of the field. A Chechen named Borz Zakaev climbed out of the car. He was a solidly built man of medium height with the red hair and scattering of freckles one sometimes saw in Chechnya. They were old comrades, Borz and the Major. Years before, they’d fought together in Afghanistan, when the Major had worn the dish-dash and long beard of a mujahideen.
“Did you find the boy’s body?” asked the Major in his stilted Russian.
Borz blew out his breath in frustration and answered him in English. “No. We crisscrossed back and forth across the cove for hours. We searched the shoreline. We even searched the beaches to the west, in case the current carried him around the point. Nothing. The only thing I can figure is that the tide must have taken him out to sea.”
“Or he made it to shore.”
Borz shook his head. “That water can’t be more than fifty degrees. He didn’t make it to shore.”
“Did you check the fishing village just up the road?”
Borz nodded. “Nobody’s seen him. I tell you, he’s dead.”
“And if he’s not? I’m not taking any chances.” The Major reached into his pocket and drew out the identification papers he’d taken from the Yalena’s strongbox. “His name is Stefan Baklanov.”
“Baklanov?”
“That’s right. He’s Captain Baklanov’s nephew. According to the ship’s records, his mother lives in the southeast, near Yasnaya Polyana.” He flipped open the papers to the boy’s picture. In the photograph, Stefan Baklanov was just a skinny kid with big eyes and a shock of dark hair. He didn’t look hard to deal with. “Make copies of this. I want you and your men to cover every road out of the area. Offer a reward. Without his papers, he won’t get far.”
Borz glanced over at the Gulfstream, its cargo now safely stowed aboard. “Does the General know about the kid?”
“Yes.”
Borz swore under his breath.
The Major slapped the side of the jet and stepped back, “I want this kid eliminated and I don’t care what it takes. Either find him dead or make him dead. This operation goes down in a week. If you haven’t found him in forty-eight hours, go to Yasnaya Polyana and take his mother hostage.”
“Yasnaya Polyana? You think he’ll go home?”
“If he’s alive, he’ll go home. Where else can he go?”