two miles inland, sitting between them and Lake Frolikha. Again, Fisher found himself wondering where in the middle of thick, almost impassible Siberian forest did someone find a suitable spot for the auction. They would soon know.
He looked at each of the team members and got nods and thumbs-up signs in return.
In a staggered single file, they set off into the darkness.
What none of them knew, and none of their maps showed, was that the area between Lake Frolikha and Ayaya Bay was part of the Great Baikal Trail. According to the sign they found higher up the beach, the non-profit, volunteer-driven project hoped to create a series on interconnected trails that circumnavigated the entire lake. Six years into the task, the trail was halfway done.
This again raised the issue of why this area had been chosen for the auction site. Admittedly the area was remote and the hiking season had not yet fully begun, but to go as far as holding the auction in Siberia only to place it astride the Great Baikal Trail… Something didn’t add up. Even so, Fisher knew better than to overanalyze the gift. The trail would not only save them hours but also the effort of blazing their own path.
Taking fifteen-minute turns walking point, they made quick progress, covering a half mile in twenty minutes despite frequent stops to look and listen for signs of guards. By 3:00 A.M. they had closed to within a quarter mile of the Ajax signal. Fisher resumed point and led them forward until the trees began to thin and they found themselves at the edge of an oval-shaped meadow. In the moonlight stalks of brown grass and weeds jutted through the foot-thick blanket of snow. On the north side of the meadow sat a square, cinder-block hut with a rusted sheet-metal roof.
Fisher called Hansen up and whispered, “Take Gillespie and circle around to the east side of the meadow. Check for signs of foot traffic, sensors — anything out of place.”
“Got it.” Hansen collected Gillespie and they disappeared back down the trail. Noboru and Valentina moved up beside Fisher. He gestured to them to scan, and all three started panning their binoculars across the meadow. Twenty minutes passed, and then Hansen’s voice came over Fisher’s headset: “In position. No off-trail foot traffic, no sensors, no guards. There’s something interesting at your eleven o’clock, though, in the center of the meadow.”
“What is it?”
“I know what it looks like to me, but you better check for yourself.”
Fisher adjusted his binoculars to the appropriate area and zoomed in. “Got it,” he confirmed. He’d missed it the first time, but now the parallel ruts in the snow were unmistakable. Helicopter landing skids. “Our missing Sikorsky,” he said.
“My thought as well. We’re right on top of the touchdown coordinates.”
The Ajax hadn’t left the meadow. There was only one place they could be.
“Move back to the hut,” Fisher told Hansen.
When both teams were in position, Fisher took a final look through the night-vision goggles, then whispered, “Move in.”
In unison Hansen and Gillespie and Fisher and his two cohorts stepped from the trees and started toward the hut, their Grozas held low at the ready. As arranged, Hansen circled behind the hut, Fisher in front, where they joined up. A faded metal sign with red Cyrillic letters read METEOROLOGICAL STATION 29. The hut had only one entrance, a heavy steel door set into the cinder block; like the roof, it was pitted with rust. Fisher crept up to the door, then turned, signaled Hansen forward, and pointed at the door’s padlock.
It was brand-new.
37
Fisher knelt down before the lock and realized it was more than brand-new. It was a Sargent & Greenleaf 833 military-grade padlock — six-pin Medeco biaxial core, anticutting and grinding ceramic inserts, liquid nitrogen resistant.
“This must be one special meteorological station,” Hansen whispered. “Can we pick the lock?”
“If we had a few hours, maybe. Semtex would do the trick, too, but we’d probably have company before the smoke cleared. Fisher stood up and backed away from the hut. “Not big enough,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s not big enough to hold the 738 Arsenal.”
“Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe it’s not here.”
Fisher shook his head. “Why did the Sikorsky land here? And why the lock? If the arsenal isn’t here, then it’s just Qaderi’s laptop and phone sitting inside this hut.”
“That may be, but we’re not getting past that door.”
“Let’s find another one, then.”
They retreated to the trees and crouched down in a circle. Fisher briefly explained what they were looking for, then assigned each of them a search area. “One hour. If we don’t find anything, we regroup here.”
Forty minutes later, Valentina called, “Got something. Three-quarters of a mile north of the hut. Placing a marker on the OPSAT now.”
They converged on her position: a narrow, six-foot-deep ravine bordered by scrub pines. Fisher whispered to her,
“Where?”
“Dead ahead, about twenty yards. See that rock outcrop sticking up beside the stump?”
Fisher followed her outstretched arm with his eyes. It took him a moment to see it — a nearly perfect circle of melted snow around the outcrop. Fisher signaled for the group to wait, then donned the night vision goggles and crept ahead. He was still six feet away from the outcrop when he felt the warm breeze. He continued forward, extended his hand, and stuck it into a niche in the rocks. His hand touched something metal.
It took minutes of painstakingly quiet work to move the rocks away from the air vent. It was roughly the size of a manhole cover and consisted of steel crossbars. Fisher stuck his fingers through the gaps and felt around the edge. He found neither a locking mechanism nor alarm wires. He pointed to Noboru and together they squatted over the cover, gripped the bars, and lifted. It came free. They crab-walked it a few feet away and gently set it down. Fisher put his NV goggles back on and leaned into shaft. Beyond ten feet he saw nothing but darkness.
Gillespie already had her rope coil detached from her pack. Hand over hand, she lowered the end into the shaft. She stopped and reeled in the rope, counting turns on her arm as she went. She held up three fingers, then five fingers.
Fisher gave her the nod.
Once they had the rope tied off to the trunk and measured out thirty-five feet, plus another five for safety’s sake, Gillespie severed the remainder and tied the rope to a Swiss seat rappelling harness. After a few adjustments, she secured herself in the seat, gave the group a nod and a smile, and lowered herself into the shaft.
A minute later her voice came over their headsets. “Down and clear.”
Fisher went next, followed by Valentina, Noboru, and then Hansen. Having already cleared the space with her night vision, Gillespie had set one of her LED flashlights upright on the concrete floor, casting a pale cone of light on the ceiling.
The room was ten feet long and roughly triangular, with the ceiling angling away from the overhead shaft to a half wall into which was set a doorway. Running down the middle of the floor was more vent grating. Warm air gusted past them and rushed out the shaft above. Somewhere below they could hear the faint pumping of machinery. Fisher turned on his headlamp and walked through the other door. He emerged thirty seconds later.
“It’s a utility room. There’s another door. I checked the circuit panel. Some of the lights are on
