was hidden off road, beneath a net covered with leaves, branches and earth.
His diet consisted of nuts, chocolate and supplement pills. He wanted maximum calories and protein in a minimum of food to limit time spent with a plastic bag. He had brought a one-gallon water bottle, which was set up with a funnel to catch rainwater to top up as he drank. Water purification tablets would be mixed with his urine if it didn’t rain enough to keep him hydrated.
He flexed his muscles regularly and adjusted his prone position every hour to keep from getting too stiff and to help against the inevitable aches. As Kasakov was less likely to emerge through the back door during the night, this was when Victor slept. He had a small air cushion to lay his head on, but no sleeping bag or tent. Such things were great for keeping warm and dry but not for aiding fast movement if surprised. He slept for a few hours at a time, always to be awoken by some sound or cramp.
There had been no sign of Kasakov’s men patrolling the woods outside the dacha’s walls, but there was a lot of woodland and Spetsnaz guys knew how to keep a low profile. Victor wouldn’t expect to see them unless they were close by. He kept the MP7 within reach for just such an occasion.
It hadn’t rained this morning and the air was dry and relatively warm. The weather forecast he’d read before beginning his wait had predicted clear skies and hot temperatures, and from what he could see of the sky through the canopy, it looked blue and clear. If the forecast was accurate, hopefully it would be warm enough to go for a swim in the outside pool. Even if only Izolda liked to swim, her husband was more than likely to step outside to at least accompany her. Victor’s preference wasn’t to kill targets in front of loved ones, but this time it might be unavoidable. He had to take the first opportunity that came his way. Because there might not be a second.
Victor threw some nuts into his mouth and waited.
Nearby, a man watched. He was an American. He wore Universal Camouflage Pattern military fatigues, jungle boots and head sock. Over his jacket, he wore a hooded poncho customised to form a ghillie suit. Sewn and glued on to the poncho was a fine nylon net. Attached to the net were rough six-inch burlap flaps of varying shades of green and brown. Twigs and leaves were distributed among the flaps and held in place with dried mud. Burlap flaps were also glued to the arms and legs of his fatigues. A thick layer of camouflage grease covered his face and hands.
Four days before he had discovered a thin path of squashed detritus in the grounds of the dacha and knew exactly who had created the trail. It had led him to the hide he now watched.
The target, though unaware he was being observed, was alert and skilled. Even with the aid of the ghillie suit, which broke up the American’s silhouette in three dimensions and made him all but invisible, he kept low in the undergrowth and didn’t risk getting any closer.
The American was armed with a Heckler amp; Koch MP5SD-N1 camouflaged with green and brown paint and using leaves and branches as stencils to break up the weapon’s lines. The N1 variant of the submachine gun featured a retractable metal butt stock, three-round burst trigger group and a stainless-steel integrated suppressor made by Knight Armament Company. As close to silent as any firearm could hope to get, it was the perfect weapon for a close-quarters engagement. A single squeeze of the trigger could put three 9 mm Parabellums in the target, and although the stopping power of the 9 mm round was significantly reduced flying at subsonic speeds, the overlapping of the hydrostatic shock waves on internal organs due to three bullets hitting the target almost at the same time more than made up for it.
‘This is Cowboy Daddy,’ a gravelly voice said through his earpiece, ‘Cowboy Gamma, gimme a sitrep. Over.’
Another voice answered, ‘Cowboy Gamma. I’m ten metres south-east of the guesthouse. No sign of Mr and Mrs VIP yet. A gorilla is on patrol near the swimming pool. Over.’
‘Copy that, Cowboy Gamma,’ the gravelly voice replied. ‘Let me know when you have eyes on Mr and Mrs VIP. What’s the target’s status, Cowboy Bravo? Over.’
‘Cowboy Bravo. The target is awake and having himself some breakfast. He has absolutely no idea his ticket is gonna get punched. Over.’
CHAPTER 51
Kasakov stirred from his sleep and groaned. His face was buried in a big goose-down pillow. One of Izolda’s slender arms was draped across his waist. He lay still for a minute, enjoying the intimate feel of his wife’s limb, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her flesh. When Kasakov rolled on to his back, the movement roused a sleepy moan from his wife. He gently kissed her on the forehead, the tip of her little nose, and then finally on the lips. She smiled and kissed him back. He found her especially beautiful first thing in the morning when only he got to see her.
‘What time is it?’ she asked, eyes still closed.
‘Just before eight.’
‘Wow,’ she said with raised eyebrows, ‘and you’re still here in bed. I’m honoured.’
‘I’m on vacation, aren’t I?’
‘Does that mean you won’t answer the phone when Yuliya and Tomasz call?’
‘I’ll do my best. How does that sound?’
She grunted. They kissed again.
Kasakov sat up and yawned. ‘What would you like for breakfast, my love?’
She stroked his wide chest. ‘Hmm, your famous scrambled eggs, please. Plus orange juice and some melon. And coffee, lots of coffee.’
‘A veritable banquet.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘What might I receive in return for preparing such a feast?’
Izolda gave a cheeky grin. ‘You get the pleasure of making it and bringing it to your gorgeous wife.’
‘Ah,’ Kasakov said, ‘sustenance enough for any man.’
‘You had better believe it.’
He climbed out of bed and opened the drapes. The dacha’s master bedroom was at the front of the house and the window provided a breathtaking view of the Black Sea. Kasakov stretched as he stared outwards at gulls circling near the shoreline.
This was his favourite part of the country. Sochi had sandy beaches, the climate was as hot as it got in Russia, and the nearby Caucasus Mountains offered excellent skiing. Kasakov came with Izolda at least a couple of times a year, though he kept away from the tourist-heavy city itself, as well as the havens where Russia’s elite frivolously spent their wealth. He preferred the isolation his dacha provided. It had its own private beach, accessible via a path through the woods, where he could relax without the bother of other people, and especially their children.
He’d bought the house when the international efforts to bring him down started to pick up momentum. He hadn’t left the country for any purpose other than the most important business trips since then; the risks were so great that even those trips were growing less frequent, and only then to nations who wouldn’t go running to the UN.
‘What’s the weather like?’ Izolda asked.
‘Blue sky, sunshine,’ Kasakov answered. ‘It’s going to be nice for once.’
‘Great,’ Izolda said. ‘I think I might have a swim after breakfast.’
Victor glimpsed a blur passing by one of the mansion’s visible upstairs windows, which he recognised to be Kasakov’s wife by the slightness of the silhouette. Kasakov’s large frame followed a moment later, but again did so too fast to risk a shot, especially when the temperature was continuing to rise and the sky remained clear of rainclouds. Another ten degrees and it would be perfect weather to use the swimming pool.
The Dakota Longbow lay directly next to Victor, shielded from the elements by a waterproof sheet weighed down with small rocks. When the time came, it would take but a split second to whip the sheet away and prepare for the shot. The sight was already set for the distance. There was little wind at the moment. Maybe two and a half miles per hour.
Aside from the pleasant chirping of the birds above his head, there was no other sound. In other circumstances, Victor would have enjoyed camping in the forest. Maybe one day he would come back to Sochi and
