Arkady Gurov waited until Tzorekov was asleep before stepping outside the cabin and closing the door softly behind him. The old man had barely said a word for the past three hours, other than to talk about how things were changing too fast and complaining about the food, which was tinned stew and potatoes, heated on the small stove. It was unlike him to find fault, but then, the situation they had put themselves in was hardly what they were accustomed to.
This entire journey was far from ideal for a man of Tzorekov’s years, Gurov knew. They had known from the beginning that this was going to be a difficult mission and might end in disaster, and Gurov had tried more than once to counsel his boss to seek another way of performing the impossible. But, dogged as ever in the way that had made him such a success in the KGB and later, in business, Tzorekov had insisted that the outcome would be for the good of them all.
Gurov wasn’t so sure, but he trusted his boss with his life. And that trust, he figured, was probably going to be tested to the limit sooner or later.
He’d first picked up the distant murmur of an engine while making a quick recce around the outside of the cabin shortly after their arrival. A truck on the main road, perhaps, but the trees played tricks with sound. More likely a hunter out late in the woods.
Tzorekov was inside, heating up the food, and appeared not to have noticed. At first Gurov wasn’t concerned; there were several military facilities in the region, and any night-time movement could be a vehicle on a training exercise or a navigation test. But instinct had made him go back outside a few minutes later on the pretext of getting something from the car, and he’d recognized the sound for what it was: a helicopter. He’d judged it to be about five kilometres away and getting closer.
He stepped lightly along the jetty, carefully balanced on the balls of his feet. The boards were weather-worn and uneven, some shifting alarmingly in places, and he doubted the owners of this place put much effort into maintenance or repairs. He reached the end of the wooden walkway and stood still, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark and to pick out the lighter tones of the stretch of water before him.
With stillness came the soft sounds of night creatures; a fish plopped out on the lake and an owl called some distance away in the trees, echoed by another. A ripple of water was echoed by the hiss of wind in the trees. They were lonely sounds, isolated and natural. But that was all. No engine noise.
He turned and walked back to the cabin, a sense of unease settling on his shoulders. He was city born and bred, but that made him all the more suspicious of environments he didn’t know, and therefore doubly cautious. He had no reason for suspecting that their presence in the country had become known already, but he was experienced enough to accept that nothing stayed secret for very long, especially when it concerned a man like Tzorekov.
Before re-entering the cabin he scanned the perimeter one last time, then checked the safety on the semi-automatic. With the benefit of hindsight it seemed pitifully inadequate now; he should have acquired some heavier firepower, although he knew Tzorekov would never have allowed it. He’d had a hard enough time keeping the pistol. But the old man was always open to persuasion, if a good case was made. He hadn’t argued strongly enough and was now stuck with little more than a pea-shooter against … whoever the hell was out there.
‘What is it?’ Tzorekov was awake and huddled under a blanket. He looked tired and drained of energy, but still had a glint in his eyes. He’d clearly noticed whatever restless energy Gurov was giving off.
‘Nothing,’ said Gurov. ‘The night, mostly, and fish and this shitty weather. How are you feeling?’
‘Nothing? For nothing and a bunch of fish you take that gun? Come on, Arkasha, don’t try kidding an old man. You heard something.’
Gurov felt embarrassed. It wasn’t often that Tzorekov used the diminutive form of his name; usually when they were alone or in family situations. But this was different. This carried a tone of mild reproof.
‘I think it was a helicopter,’ he said finally. ‘Sorry. But it’s gone now.’
‘Gone? Or you merely stopped hearing it?’
‘OK, I stopped hearing it.’ He smiled at the old man’s perceptiveness. At the same time he felt some relief; at least now there would be no point hiding anything. ‘It could be nothing; this area’s full of training camps. Probably some junior pilot on a night-flying exercise, poor sod.’
‘Bullshit.’ Tzorekov sat up. ‘They’re out there and we both know it. The bastards know we’re coming – probably know why, too. They’ll do anything to stop us, anything to preserve the status quo.’
‘True. But who are “they”?’
‘Fuck, who cares? The Siloviki … the Ozero Cooperative … the imbeciles who want to take us right back to the days of the Soviet … or the jumped-up dictators who think they can run this bloody country and the surrounding states better than Putin or anybody else. We’re hardly short of candidates.’ He stared at the stove as Gurov made tea. ‘Personally, I put my money on a mix of all the above.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s a new group I’ve been hearing about; formed by breakaways unhappy with the pace of things. They’re made up of politicos, military and intelligence people and call themselves the Wise Men. Can you believe that? As if they alone hold the only valid answers. What arrogant pricks!’
‘Do you know any of them?’ Gurov asked. He had never broached this topic with Tzorekov before, if only because it wasn’t on his radar and because there was precious little he could do about it. As long as they both stayed outside Russia, outlaws in all but name, they were disconnected, involved only by association and history, like so many others who had put themselves out of reach.
‘I know one of them.’ Tzorekov nodded abruptly, and slapped a heavily-veined hand on the bed. ‘Victor Simoyan, the tub of lard. He’s got ambition and he’s greedy. I’ve been studying him from a distance.’ He looked up as Gurov handed him a mug of tea. ‘You know what a kingmaker is, Arkasha?’
‘Of course. Not that we have them here in Russia.’
‘You’re wrong, my friend. We do – and Simoyan is one of them. He won’t try to run anything himself because he hasn’t the talent and he knows he’d get fucked eventually by his so-called friends. But he knows people who want to do it and that’s our big problem: people like him don’t stop to consider the wider implications – what the Americans are fond of calling the bigger picture. Simoyan and his type will blunder us into a new age of warfare because they’re too greedy, too stupid and lack the vision to see where it will lead us.’ He sipped his tea. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost saddened. ‘That is why, my friend, we must do this thing. We have to try to make a difference. This planet cannot withstand another big war.’
Gurov said nothing. But it wasn’t Tzorekov’s words that silenced him. In the momentary silence as the old man drank his tea, he thought he’d heard the sound of an engine. He walked over to the small window looking out over the lake. He couldn’t see anything out there in the dark, but he didn’t need to. They were there; he could sense it.
‘Did you really,’ he said casually, ‘tell the British what we were doing? Or the Americans?’
Tzorekov seemed surprised by the question. ‘I had to. It was important that they knew – that somebody knew, in case …’
‘In case what – we disappear?’
‘Yes. What we are doing, I’ve said it before, is vitally important. Somebody has to try this. I’ve achieved much in my life, Arkasha, but it will be meaningless if it all comes down to knowing what is happening but standing by and doing nothing. There are too many who stand by and do nothing and … I don’t want to be one of them.’
‘Did you expect them to help us? Is that why you told them?’
‘How would they? Anything they do would be seen as an act of aggression and used against us. It would be worse than useless. No, we’re in this alone. The best the Americans or British can do is stand on the sidelines and watch. And pray.’
‘Well, let’s hope they’ve got a direct line for the praying bit, then,’ Gurov said easily. ‘Talking of lines, when do we expect to hear from Valentin?’
‘Who knows? Soon, I hope. He knows we’re here and waiting – and he knows how important this is.’
Gurov nodded. The sooner the better in his opinion. If his instincts were right, it wasn’t a big war that might be their first and only problem, but a much smaller one landing right here on their doorstep.
Later, as he put his head down and waited for sleep, Gurov wondered if they should be moving from here. If Tzorekov was right and a team was already searching, they could be in the gravest danger. But was that realistic in an area as remote as this? And was running too soon and at night any less dangerous than staying until daylight?