point and Zhilev proceeded to insert it into the ground between the two sticks, pushing it firmly down two-thirds of its length without meeting resistance. He withdrew it, moved the point a few centimetres and repeated the procedure.
The third insertion a little further away met resistance after a third of the rod was in the ground, but it was shallower than he was expecting and he removed it, moved a few more centimetres away and pushed it into the soil again. This time it continued down unimpeded, suggesting the previous obstacle was a stone or a root.
Zhilev continued to work methodically in a line until he had passed the stick with the scarf, then changed direction to head back to the other stick at an angle. After a dozen more insertions the rod met solid resistance about halfway down its length. Zhilev moved it up and down a few times to confirm it was there then inserted it further along again and met the same resistance. A ripple of anticipation shimmied through him and he dropped to his knees, cleared the area of small firs, selected two small sticks and stuck them in the ground at the first two points of resistance. Now he changed direction, probing around to locate the edges of whatever was under the ground. Each time he identified an edge he placed a small stick in the hole. Ten minutes later he got to his feet and looked down at the fruit of his efforts. A dozen twigs formed a near-perfect circle a metre in diameter.
Distant lights indicated another car was approaching. Zhilev watched the beams flicker through the trees until they passed out of sight then removed his coat in preparation for some manual labour and hung it on a nearby tree. He got back down on his hands and knees and began to scrape away the topsoil of pine needles, placing them in a pile outside of the circle of twigs. He went back to his coat and took a military-style folding spade from an inside pocket. Zhilev unfolded it, screwed down the locking device that gave it rigidity, inserted the tip into the soil and, with a heavy boot, plunged it into the earth.
Fifteen minutes later Zhilev struck something hard with a solid clunk that suggested the object was large and metallic. The noise was loud enough to make him pause, his ears searching in every direction. He had not decided what he would do if someone appeared out of the darkness and discovered him. His mission procedure of old was to terminate any intruder and dispose of the body or bodies. He did not expect to meet anyone but he knew he had to have a definite plan in case he did. Up until when the spade struck the metal object beneath the soil, the mission was all so much speculation. But now things were beginning to look as if they might become reality, it was all suddenly deadly serious. If he wanted to proceed, he would have to kill. He did not honestly know what he would do were he to be discovered right at that moment, and he would only know if the situation arose. He decided to leave it at that and let things happen organically, but he felt in his heart that if this phase of the mission was successful, he would proceed as if he was here on behalf of his country.
Satisfied he was alone, Zhilev got on to his knees and reached down into the hole. He scraped around, pulling out handfuls of soil until he exposed what appeared to be a thick iron wheel a little smaller than a steering wheel. He lay on his stomach and, gripping the wheel with both hands, tried to turn it. It would not budge. He tried again, applying every ounce of effort, but the wheel was stuck solid.
He took a moment to rest and wondered when it had last been serviced, or if indeed it had been at all in the last few years. He remembered clearly from his original briefing that the caches were checked at least once a year by an agent whose sole job it was to maintain them and the equipment inside. Any sign of such a maintenance schedule would be an encouraging indication of the cache’s operational status. If not it meant the option had been abandoned by the FSB some time after the end of the Cold War and, depending on how