Leningrad Highway, 47 kilometers out.
When FSB agents stormed the villa, there was no one inside anymore.
In the study, on the desk lay a pistol—Makarov, nine millimeters. Beside it was a cellphone, its screen glowing with a missed call. The call number was encrypted, its origin untraceable. There was also a note, hastily scrawled in Russian, as if written in a trembling hand.
Korosov stood before the desk, staring at the note.
"To Grisha: Anna is in Chechnya, Shangji Village, the easternmost house behind the school. Find her, take her away. Don't let her know how I died."
He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
Dmitry stood behind him. "General, he's gone. Surveillance shows he drove south two hours ago. Destination—Chechnya."
Korosov nodded. "He knows he can't escape. He's going to meet someone."
Dmitry hesitated. "Who?"
