“I do, I do,” the old white-bearded man said, smiling as he quickly slipped the payment under a stained ink blotter. “His name is Grigory Ivanovich. A farmer. He lives in this village. His house is nearby, the only one with a red roof. You cannot miss it. Are you hungry? His wife, Rica, is a very good cook. Goulash. She’s Hungarian, you see.”

“I am hungry. Well. Thank you for all your help. Spasibo.”

“Spasibo,” the man grunted, not looking up, too busy counting his fistful of rubles.

Hawke found the farmhouse but not without some difficulty. The tiny houses that composed the village, slumped against each other shoulder to shoulder, were all smothered in two or three feet of fresh snow and he had to clear away portions of a number of rooftops jutting out into the muddy road. Nearing the end of the short road, he found a red one. He rapped on the weathered wooden door. There came a happy exclamation in Russian from within. And also a wonderful aroma of stewed beef that stirred his latent hunger.

An hour later, a renewed Alex Hawke found himself with a full stomach, some black bread, a full liter of good country vodka with a cork stopper to keep the cold at bay, and a good horse beneath him, a great bay mare. He spurred her onward through the snow, anxious to arrive at the KGB facility before nightfall. His plan was to surveil it carefully before deciding on his approach.

Indian country, he thought to himself, looking around at the vast forests and plains. It had begun to snow again, heavily. Great feathery flakes brushed his cheeks with the weight of dust. Old Petra plowed ahead through the heavy snow, jets of steam puffing from her nostrils.

For better or worse, he was fully committed now.

Three

When he finally emerged from the forest, he saw that the snow and wind had heightened in intensity, and ice crystals stung his face and hands. He looked up, squinting through the foggy snow at a barrage of bright klieg lights lighting up the sky, now faintly visible in the distance. He could see the lake and the massive palace rising along its shores. The compound was maybe a mile distant and since he’d gotten this far without being shot at, he was slowly gaining confidence that getting off Petra and approaching alone and on foot had been a good strategy.

His leg muscles afire, he marched on, planting one boot in front of the other for what seemed a hellish eternity. Another mile took him an hour to complete and brought him to the river. The river made no sound; it was running too fast and smooth. He sat down on a log to smoke a cigarette. Maybe it would stave off his hunger.

Rested, he flicked the cigarette away and got to his feet to ford the river. The swiftly flowing water was knee-deep and frigid, but not too wide. Climbing the bank on the far side, he saw that the principal road leading into the KGB compound had been recently plowed. There were tank-tread tracks in both directions, the new Russian T-95 judging by the depth and width of the tread dimensions. He gratefully walked the last few hundred yards or so with ease, steadily marching toward the waiting and watchful sentries near the main gate, wondering if he’d hear a shot ring out.

Russian Army soldiers standing in small groups were smoking and eyeing the intruder. Behind them, he could now make out a massive wall of steel and concertina wire some thirty feet high. Every fifty yards along the perimeter, a watchtower stood atop the wall, a slowly revolving searchlight mounted on each rooftop.

Two guards were visible behind the windows at each tower, both armed with automatic weapons. This new enclosure surely encircled much of the vast acreage of the old palace grounds. What had once been a dreamlike vision fit for a tsar, this majestic architectural masterpiece, given to the Korsakov family by Peter the Great, now had a new sinister aspect that was quite unsettling.

Six gate sentries appeared out of the mist, marching in loose formation, all with automatic weapons leveled at him. He pulled off his snow-encrusted sable hat and raised his arms into the air. He was smiling as a heavyset Russian Army officer, a captain, approached him, pulling his massive sidearm from the leather holster inside his full-length fur coat. Holding the gun loosely at his side, the man began shouting in Russian as he neared. Over the years Hawke had picked up enough native lingo to know the man was threatening to shoot him on the spot.

“I mean no harm,” Hawke said in halting Russian, “but I am armed.” It was the sentence he’d decided upon some time ago, riding his steed through the wood. Now he’d find out how smart he really was.

He planted his boots in the snow, kept both hands reaching for the sky, and waited. The captain quickly summoned five more guards who completely surrounded the intruder. Only then did the officer have Hawke open his heavy coat and allow the captain to reach inside and remove his weapon. The smell of vodka on the grizzled old soldier’s breath was powerful. He had a square face, a prominent chin, stubble on his head, and slits for eyes.

He growled, “Speak English; your Russian is shit.”

“Delighted. May I present my papers?”

The man nodded. Slowly, Hawke withdrew his most current version of proper identification, impeccable documents courtesy of the lads in Cryptology at Six. Once the soldier had the intruder’s weapon and had hastily inspected his papers, he whipped out a small handheld radio and keyed the transmit button.

“Intruder at the gate, sir,” he said to some higher-up, while another soldier patted Hawke down thoroughly, finding nothing.

Hawke heard a loud and angry shout through the tinny speaker of the captain’s radio. The officer’s displeasure was understandable. Intruders were probably quite infrequent out here. The captain held the radio away from his ear, frowning at the tirade issuing forth. He scowled at Hawke, the man who had appeared without warning to completely ruin his evening.

And then the captain said, “I’ve no idea how he got here—hold on.” Then, covering the mouthpiece and scowling at the Englishman, the burly officer said to Hawke, “How the fuck did you get here? You look like a goddamn frozen bear.” Hawke, shivering uncontrollably with cold and swiping at the icicles on his face, mumbled an answer in his pidgin Russian, before he remembered the captain’s request to speak English.

“I w-walked.”

“He walked. You walked?” He looked up and down at Hawke, who nodded his head in the affirmative. Speaking again into the radio, the captain said, “You heard right, Colonel Spasky. He says he walked. I have no goddamn idea, sir. Da, da, I know it’s impossible. What can I say? He’s got a United Kingdom passport. His name? Alexander Hawke, Hawke Industries, London.”

“Chairman and CEO,” Hawke said helpfully, adding a smile. “Tell your superior officer I’m here to see General Kuragin, will you? I’m not expected, you understand, I was just passing through. In the neighborhood, as it were. Decided to pop in.”

The captain looked at him with an incredulous snort and spat bloody phlegm in the snow before once more raising the radio to speak. “So? Now what, Colonel? Shoot him?”

“Better not shoot me, Captain,” Hawke said. “The general might shoot you. The great Kuragin and I are old friends, you see. Tight. White on rice. Thicker than thieves, closer than two coats of—”

Hawke, seeing the drunken captain’s eyes shift and flick, sensed sudden, aggressive movement behind him. Before he could whirl to confront his attacker, he was struck full force in the back of the head with a rifle butt. He sank to his knees in the snow and pitched forward facedown, unmoving. The captain spat again and kicked Hawke in the ribs with his heavy boot, smiling at the satisfying crack.