Lost - Michael Robotham [146]
For the past twenty-four hours we have tracked Aleksei Kuznet across Western Europe. After reaching Oostende, he stayed overnight and then caught a train from Brussels to Berlin on Monday morning. He then transferred onto an overnight train to Warsaw, crossing into Poland in the early hours of Tuesday.
That’s where we almost lost him. If Aleksei continued by rail the most direct route to Moscow was via Brest and Minsk, but according to border guards who stopped the train in Belarus, he wasn’t on board. He might have bought a car in Warsaw, but Russian authorities make it difficult to bring vehicles into the country, forcing delays of up to two days. Aleksei couldn’t afford to wait. His other options were to either take a bus or a different train, through Lithuania and Latvia.
“New Boy” Dave came through for me. He found the cell-phone records for the stolen handset. Aleksei made dozens of international calls that month but on August 14—Mickey’s birthday—he telephoned a dacha southwest of Moscow and talked for more than an hour.
Dmitri turns in his seat. “And you have no idea who is living in this house?” He speaks English with an American accent.
“Nothing firm.”
“Are you even sure this girl is in Russia?”
“No.”
“So this is a theory.” He nods apologetically to Rachel.
Turning back to the track, he holds on to his hat as we hit another bump. The shadows are impenetrable spaces between the trees.
“And you think you will recognize this girl if she is your daughter?”
Rachel nods.
“After more than three years! Children forget. Maybe she is happy here. Maybe you should leave her alone.”
The forest relents for a moment, opening out into a clearing dotted with prefabricated houses, rusting cars and power cables slung from poles. Crows lift off from the ground like scraps of ash swirling from a fire.
Soon the trees blur the side of the track again and the car slides in and out of the ruts. Crossing a narrow bridge over a murky tributary, we come to an open gate across the road. A lake emerges on our left, the dark water broken by a makeshift pier that leans at an angle. Tied to one of the pylons are inner tubes, marooned in thickening ice.
Overnight snow has settled on the newly formed crust, so thin I can see the darkness of the lake beneath it, thick like blood. A shiver runs through me and I imagine Luke’s face, pressing up against the ice from below.
The house, screened by ash trees, emerges at the end of a driveway paved with loose gravel. Most of the windows are shuttered and outdoor tables and chairs rest upside down on a paved area within a rose garden.
The driveway runs out at a large rectangular courtyard. A silver Mercedes, streaked with mud, is parked near the doors to a stable. The driver’s door is open and Aleksei is sitting on the ground, propped against the wheel. A fine rain is falling, collecting on the shoulders of his overcoat and clinging to his hair. His face is completely white except for a neat black hole in his forehead. He looks surprised, as though he slipped on the ice and is gathering his thoughts before he gets up again.
The black Gallants pull up on the far side of the courtyard. The doors open and guns are pointed across hoods or bonnets or whatever the Russians call them.
A man steps from the door of the house carrying a rifle in the crook of his arm. He is younger than Aleksei but has the same narrow nose and high forehead. His heavy trousers are tucked into lace-up boots and a knife hangs from a sheath on his belt.
Stepping out from behind the car, I walk toward him. He raises the rifle and rests it across his shoulder like a boy soldier.
“Hello, Sacha.”
He nods and doesn’t answer. Glancing at Aleksei he shows a flicker of remorse in the lowering of his eyelids.
“Everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“The old Sacha is dead. You von’t find him here.”
He has lost almost all trace of his English accent. Unlike Aleksei, Sacha didn’t ever try to hide his Russian accent or his roots.
Rachel steps out of the car. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Aleksei. It is as if she imagines he