The blacktop ends suddenly and we plunge into a monochrome forest on a track that snakes between the trees. There are tire marks in the mud. One set. There are no return tracks and no roads other than this one. Aleksei's car is somewhere up ahead.
Rachel has barely said a word since we arrived in Moscow. Sitting beside me in the backseat, she keeps her hands at her sides as though bracing herself for the potholes.
Our driver looks more like a military cadet than a policeman. There appears to be mildew sprouting from his top lip and his cheekbones are so sharp they could have been carved with a scalpel. Beside him is Major Dmitri Menshikov, a senior investigator with the Moscow police. The Major met us at Sheremetyevo Airport and ever since has provided a running commentary as though we're here on a guided tour.
For the past twenty-four hours we have tracked Aleksei Kuznet across Western Europe. After reaching Oostende, he stayed overnight and then caught a train from Brussels to Berlin on Monday morning. He then transferred onto an overnight train to Warsaw, crossing into Poland in the early hours of Tuesday.
That's where we almost lost him. If Aleksei continued by rail the most direct route to Moscow was via Brest and Minsk, but according to border guards who stopped the train in Belarus, he wasn't on board. He might have bought a car in Warsaw, but Russian authorities make it difficult to bring vehicles into the country, forcing delays of up to two days. Aleksei couldn't afford to wait. His other options were to either take a bus or a different train, through Lithuania and Latvia.
“New Boy” Dave came through for me. He found the cell-phone records for the stolen handset. Aleksei made dozens of international calls that month but on August 14—Mickey's birthday—he telephoned a dacha southwest of Moscow and talked for more than an hour.
Dmitri turns in his seat. “And you have no idea who is living in this house?” He speaks English with an American accent.
“Nothing firm.”
“Are you even sure this girl is in Russia?”
“No.”
“So this is a theory.” He nods apologetically to Rachel.
Turning back to the track, he holds on to his hat as we hit another bump. The shadows are impenetrable spaces between the trees.
“And you think you will recognize this girl if she is your daughter?”
Rachel nods.
“After more than three years! Children forget. Maybe she is happy here. Maybe you should leave her alone.”
The forest relents for a moment, opening out into a clearing dotted with prefabricated houses, rusting cars and power cables slung from poles. Crows lift off from the ground like scraps of ash swirling from a fire.
Soon the trees blur the side of the track again and the car slides in and out of the ruts. Crossing a narrow bridge over a murky tributary, we come to an open gate across the road. A lake emerges on our left, the dark water broken by a makeshift pier that leans at an angle. Tied to one of the pylons are inner tubes, marooned in thickening ice.
Overnight snow has settled on the newly formed crust, so thin I can see the darkness of the lake beneath it, thick like blood. A shiver runs through me and I imagine Luke's face, pressing up against the ice from below.
The house, screened by ash trees, emerges at the end of a driveway paved with loose gravel. Most of the windows are shuttered and outdoor tables and chairs rest upside down on a paved area within a rose garden.
The driveway runs out at a large rectangular courtyard. A silver Mercedes, streaked with mud, is parked near the doors to a stable. The driver's door is open and Aleksei is sitting on the ground, propped against the wheel. A fine rain is falling, collecting on the shoulders of his overcoat and clinging to his hair. His face is completely white except for a neat black hole in his forehead. He looks surprised, as though he slipped on the ice and is gathering his thoughts before he gets up again.
The black Gallants pull up on the far side of the courtyard. The doors open and guns are pointed across hoods or bonnets or whatever the Russians call them.
A man steps from the door of the house carrying a rifle in the crook of his arm. He is younger than Aleksei but has the same narrow nose and high forehead. His heavy trousers are tucked into lace-up boots and a knife hangs from a sheath on his belt.
Stepping out from behind the car, I walk toward him. He raises the rifle and rests it across his shoulder like a boy soldier.
“Hello, Sacha.”
He nods and doesn't answer. Glancing at Aleksei he shows a flicker of remorse in the lowering of his eyelids.
“Everyone thinks you're dead.”
“The old Sacha
He has lost almost all trace of his English accent. Unlike Aleksei, Sacha didn't ever try to hide his Russian accent or his roots.
Rachel steps out of the car. She hasn't taken her eyes off Aleksei. It is as if she imagines he is going to wipe the blood from his forehead and stand up, having rested long enough.
The rain has turned to sleet.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
He glances at his boots. “Things have gone too far. He should never have come. He took her away from one home and now he wanted to take her away again. He has caused enough trouble.”
A woman appears in the doorway behind him. A young girl is pressed against her.
“This is my wife, Elena,” says Sacha.
Her arm is wrapped around the girl's shoulders, shielding her from the sight of Aleksei's body.
“We have taken good care of her. She has never wanted for anything.” Sacha searches for the words. “She has been like a daughter . . .”
Rachel's hand flutters to her mouth as if trying to stop her breath escaping. She moves forward, past my shoulder, crossing the distance between them.
Mickey is wearing jodhpurs and a riding jacket. Her hair is plaited and rests across her shoulder. Elena has an identical plait.
Edging closer, Rachel drops to her knees. The toes of her boots barely move the frozen gravel.
Mickey says something to Elena in Russian.
“English now,” says Sacha. “You're going home.”
“But this is home.”
He smiles at her gently. “Not anymore. You are an English girl.”
“No!” She shakes her head angrily, beginning to cry.
“Listen to me.” Sacha rests the rifle against the wall of the house and crouches beside her. “Don't cry. I have taught you to be strong. Remember when we went ice fishing last winter? How cold it was? You never once complained. Nyet.”
She throws her arms around him, sobbing into his neck.
Rachel has watched with a mixture of trepidation and expectation. She takes a deep breath. “I've missed you, Mickey.”
Mickey lifts her face and smears a tear across her cheek with the palm of her hand.
“I've been waiting for you a long time. I stayed in the one place—hoping I might find you. I still have your room and all your toys.”
“I can ride a horse now,” announces Mickey.
“Really!”
“And I can ice-skate. I'm not scared of going outside anymore.”
“I can see that. You've grown so tall. I bet you can reach the top cupboard in the kitchen, near the window.”
“Where you keep the treats.”
“You remember.” Rachel's eyes are shining. She holds out her fingers. Mickey looks at her tentatively and stretches out her own hand. Rachel draws her close and breathes in the smell of her hair.
