The ground was sodden, even spongy, and so slick in places I nearly lost my footing. Low branches and thorn bushes whipped and scratched my face and neck. The land rose steeply and then plateaued until, standing atop a knoll, I spotted in a clearing in the distance a small building.
I peered through the binoculars and saw a large, windowless structure: a barn.
A few hundred yards beyond it, according to the aerial photo, was the farmhouse.
I came closer and finally saw the house. But it was dark. That wasn’t promising. Either this was the wrong place, or Zhukov had already left.
Meaning that Alexa was dead.
I drew closer, weaving through the forest, keeping to the shadows, until the barn was close enough to see with the naked eye. Then I circled around. From there I could see the long expanse of yard leading up to the house. The sky had begun to clear, and there was enough moonlight to make out a patchy lawn, with more bald spots than grass.
And midway between the barn and the darkened house a neat oblong had been cut into the sorry-looking lawn. A rectangle about ten feet long by three feet wide.
Like a freshly dug grave.
But instead of the sort of earthen heap you see in a new grave, the ground was flat, crisscrossed with tire tracks, as if someone had driven a car or a truck back and forth on top of it, and the rain had later softened the marks.
I felt a tingle of apprehension.
At one end of the rectangular patch of dirt a gray PVC pipe stuck up like the sawn-off trunk of a sapling.
I dropped the binoculars, let them dangle on their strap around my neck, and I approached the edge of the woods.
The house was an old brown tumbledown wreck, its clapboard weathered and cracked, several roof shingles missing.
Mounted to the roof of the house was a white satellite dish.
It looked new.
In the shadows behind the barn I began to discern the contours of a tall piece of equipment. It loomed like an enormous, geometric bird, a seagull, a whooping crane.
I looked closer and saw that it was a Caterpillar backhoe loader.
95.
Peering through the binoculars, I focused on the house. Two floors, a sharply canted roof, small windows. No light inside. On the low wooden porch was another piece of equipment. An air compressor?
Yes. That made sense. This was how he kept air flowing into her box, or crypt, or whatever it was.
This had to be the right place.
For a minute or two I watched carefully, looking for some kind of movement in the darkness, a glint of reflected moonlight. I estimated I was about three hundred yards from the house, beyond the range of accuracy of my pistol.
But if someone was inside with a rifle, three hundred yards was no problem.
The moment I stepped into the clearing, I was a target.
I got on the cell phone and called Diana. In a whisper, I said, “I think she’s here.”
“You’ve seen her?” Diana said.
“No, I’m looking at what may be a burial site. A vent pipe in the ground. Signs of recently excavated earth.”
“Zhukov?”
“House is dark. I can’t be sure if he’s there. Tell your bosses that there’s not much doubt this is the place. They need to get up here right away. And bring shovels.”
I hit END. Checked to make sure the ringer was off.
Then I took a few more steps, emerging from the shadows. Walked across the barren lawn toward what had to be the burial site.
Something caught the moonlight, something near my feet, and suddenly the entire yard lit up, and I was blinded by the blaze of spotlights from two directions.
96.
I flattened myself against the ground. I could smell the rich loamy odor of the dirt. Gripping the SIG, the safety off, I felt for the trigger, careful not to apply any pressure. The slightest squeeze would fire a round.
In one quick motion I rolled over so I was facing up. The lights came from two directions: from the barn on my left and from the house on my right. I inhaled slowly, over the thudding of my heart, and listened hard.
Nothing.
I knew what had happened. I’d hit an invisible tripwire at ankle level.
Zhukov had served with the Russian army in Chechnya, where he must have learned all the standard army techniques, like how to string tripwire to detonate a mine or detect the enemy’s approach. The stuff we’d used was