The Hunter

CHAPTER 41

Meridien Forest, Russia

Sunday

07:43 MSK

The earth squelched underneath Victor’s feet. The forest floor was soaked from the winter downpours. He was fifteen miles west of Moscow, just north of Krasnogorsk, in the sprawling Meridien forest. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, average for the time of year.

Victor was dressed for the outdoors in thick cotton pants, boots, and a heavy coat over several layers. He had a black wool hat over his head and ears, insulated leather gloves over his hands. In his left fist he carried a shovel, in the right a pickaxe.

A mile to the east was one of Russia’s most-famed country clubs, a carbon copy of those found in the West. It was complete with saunas, restaurants, golf courses, swimming pool and tennis courts, and offered cross-country skiing and Russian banya.

Victor had driven into the complex and set off on one of the many forest trails, usually busy in the summer, but in the winter gloom thankfully empty. At this time of year the club received few visitors, and he had seen no one else around.

He enjoyed being in the forest, alone, away from other people. The air was damp, clean, and the smell of trees, of nature, sweet. He savoured his time away from the stress of civilization. He was cold, but he didn’t care.

A quarter of a century before, he had been crouched down among trees not unlike those that surrounded him now, rifle butt pressing into his shoulder, its weight making his arms tremble. Numb hands clutched the weapon. His index finger just touched the trigger.

‘Don’t be scared,’ his uncle had said.

But he was scared, had never been more afraid. He didn’t want to shoot the fox.

‘Steady now.’

The fox appeared out of the bushes, nose sniffing the ground. His uncle was still talking to him, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying, the thundering of his heartbeat drowned out all other sounds. The animal moved slowly, nose testing the air. Victor wasn’t sure if it could smell them or not. He thought what his uncle might do to him if he let the fox escape.

He fired.

There was a brief flash of red, and the fox disappeared from sight.

The whole world seemed to stop. Victor stared into the trees where the fox had been. He didn’t know how long he had been staring before his uncle let out a roar that made him drop the rifle.

‘WHAT A SHOT.’

His uncle’s voice seemed louder than the gunshot had been. ‘I can’t believe you hit it. Why didn’t you wait until the fox was closer?’ His uncle was on his feet, trying to see the kill. He was laughing. ‘Did I teach you to shoot like that? I did, didn’t I?’ His voice was full of pride.

Victor didn’t answer, couldn’t. His heart was beating so fast he thought it was going to explode. He felt the flat of a hand slap him between the shoulder blades. It was the first time his uncle had ever touched him like that.

He squinted his eyes and forced the memory out of his mind. Already he couldn’t remember the make of the rifle or what colour his gloves had been. Over the years details had diminished, one after the other. One day he hoped he would forget that horrible flash of red as well.

After twenty minutes walking he crossed a narrow footbridge, and from the most northerly post he walked exactly fifty paces due north into the trees. He found the fallen trunk without any difficulty and headed east ten paces from its stump. Victor was up to his waist in bracken. It was dark under the canopy, the meagre morning sun barely finding its way between the birches and pines. He started digging.

It was difficult work, but he was thankful of the rain that turned the earth, usually frozen hard at this time of year, into a workable mud. He used the pickaxe to loosen the hardened soil under the mud before digging with the shovel. About two feet down he dug carefully until he hit metal. He scraped the soil away until he could see blue canvas.

He found the edges and scraped the soil away until he cleared a rectangular area, two feet by three. The canvas sheet was tied together in the centre with nylon rope. Victor undid the knot and opened up the sheet. The brushed aluminium briefcase was still shiny, if a little marked from the digging.

No matter. Victor cared nothing for the case itself, only what it protected. He pulled it out of the hole and placed it to one side. He took a pocketknife and lighter from his coat and used the disposable lighter to heat up the knife. He then cut through the watertight wax seal that filled the small gap where the two halves of the case met.

Victor opened the case, relieved to find that no moisture had reached inside. The weapon was cold to the touch but could be assembled and fired at that very moment and work.

Encased in sculpted foam rubber was a Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova. Known in the West as the Dragunov SVD. A sniper rifle. The first Dragunov was formally adopted into the Red Army in 1963, and rumour had it that the Soviet special forces, the Spetsnaz, had tested the weapon on American servicemen during the Vietnam War. Just an old soldier’s tale, Victor had been sure. That was until he had met one of the snipers.

The rifle was disassembled into its component parts, with its stock, barrel, grip, and scope separate to allow it to fit inside a standard-sized briefcase. There was also a long suppressor. Victor’s was the latest variant of the SVD, with stock and hand guards made from high-density polymer to lighten the weight, instead of the original wood furniture.

Though not as sophisticated or accurate at long range as some Western sniper rifles, Victor had a fondness for the Dragunov because of its reliability in all conditions and its no-nonsense mechanics.

As a semi-automatic rifle, the Dragunov had a much better rate of fire than a typical bolt-action sniper rifle, though the greater number of moving parts that made the rifle semi-automatic also made it less accurate than a bolt-action. But as a semi-auto the SVD could also be used as an assault rifle and was fitted with conventional iron sights and bayonet mount for just such a use.

The Soviet philosophy on arms manufacture had been ease of use and reliability over accuracy, and Victor had found there to be a lot of merit in the ideal. Weapons that were world beaters on the range weren’t much use if they didn’t work under battlefield conditions.

There were two magazines for the Dragunov. Each held ten 7.62? 54mmR rounds that tended to make a considerable mess of anyone unlucky enough to be on its receiving end. Victor had two types of ammunition for the rifle: the first was the standard lead encased in a copper jacket, the second were API rounds.

The armour-piercing incendiary rounds were made of solid steel with a hollow core. Inside the core was a small phosphorous incendiary charge, which would ignite when the bullet hit its target — typically a vehicle’s fuel tank.

Victor closed the case and reached back into the hole for the large leather sports bag that had been underneath the rifle case. Gritting his teeth, Victor hauled it up and out of the hole.

Inside, tied up in a waterproof sack, was a range of supplies and equipment, most of which Victor ignored. He took out a Glock handgun, a suppressor, a three-inch-thick wad of American dollars, extra ammunition for both the rifle and the handgun, and a Russian passport. All went into the pockets of his jacket.

The waterproof sack was then retied, the sports bag closed and lowered back into the ground. He refilled the hole and patted it flat before scattering dead bracken over where he’d dug. Back in the country club’s parking lot he placed the metal briefcase in the trunk and slammed it shut.

He hoped he had wasted his time.