He followed the track around the corner. The river was now behind him and thick forest on either side. He waited until the others flanked him, sheltered on the edges of the forest. About three hundred metres down the track he found fresh bootprints in the snow. Vorobyeva’s: he was the only member of the group who wore Russian OMON boots. Buslenko crouched down and signalled for the others to follow him twenty metres behind, on either flank. He followed the bootprints into the forest and deeper snow. He could tell that Vorobyeva had swung across here to check something out. Buslenko felt his heart pound. He was only a few kilometres from his old home town, yet he knew he was at war. Clearly Vitrenko had decided not to wait until Buslenko travelled to Germany before finishing him off. He froze. About twenty metres ahead was a clearing in the forest, illuminated like a stage by the moonlight. He took aim at the figure kneeling at the edge of the clearing, not moving. He drew closer, trying to minimise the sound of his progress through the snow and the forest debris, always keeping his aim locked on the kneeling figure. He was ready to fire if any sound he made caused the man at the edge of the clearing to turn. Buslenko’s foot sunk into a snow-filled hollow, making a slow crunch that the kneeling man must have heard. But he didn’t move. Buslenko moved further forward; from this distance he could recognise the black parka, its hood pulled over the man’s head.

‘Vorobyeva!’ he hissed. ‘Vorobyeva … are you all right?’ Still no answer. He moved further forward. ‘Vorobyeva!’

He signalled for the others to join him. Stoyan and Belotserkovsky appeared like ghosts from the undergrowth.

‘Where are Tenishchev and Serduchka?’ Buslenko asked.

‘They were there a minute ago …’ said the Tatar.

Buslenko scoured the forest to their right. There was no sign of the other two Spetsnaz. No sound.

‘Cover me,’ said Buslenko. ‘We’ve definitely got hostiles.’

Buslenko crawled through the snow. He reached the kneeling figure.

‘Vorobyeva!’

For the last three minutes Buslenko had known what to expect. The snow in front of the kneeling Vorobyeva was stained dark. Buslenko touched the figure’s shoulder and Vorobyeva toppled backwards. His throat was gashed open and glistened a cold crimson-black in the moonlight.

‘Fuck!’ Buslenko turned his attention like a searchlight on the fringes of the clearing, scanning them for any sign of the enemy. He moved back to where he had left Stoyan and Belotserkovsky.

‘He’s dead. Vorobyeva was one of the best in the business. Whoever’s taken him by stealth must be even better. We’re in trouble.’

‘Vitrenko?’

‘God knows how he tracked us here, but that’s who’s behind this.’

‘What about Tenishchev and Serduchka?’ asked Belotserkovsky. ‘Them too?’

Buslenko suddenly remembered Olga Sarapenko. ‘We’ve got to get back to the lodge. Now!’

4.