Page 73 of The Oligarch's Daughter

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The helicopter appeared to be gone. Paul removed the Mylar blanket from under the tree branches, shook off the leaves, and jammed the blanket back into the go-bag.

He resumed walking through the dense woods until he came to a broad mountain stream. The water was flowing quickly, which meant it was safe to drink. He filled his water bottle and took a drink, then filled the bottle up again. Now he had to cross the stream. He looked for rocks to step onto to avoid the water, but there were few. He was forced to wade through the stream, which got his leather boots wet and cold.

On the other side, the terrain went steeply uphill. He consulted his map, wondered if he’d arrived at the southern base of South Hancock Mountain, and wasn’t sure. If he’d somehow gone north, to North and South Hancock Mountains, he saw that he was more than halfway to Lincoln. But there were no signs. Maybe there were signs on established trails, but he didn’t dare use them.

He skirted the peak of the mountain, avoiding the high land where he might be spotted. Then he found himself walking steeply downhill. He nearly slipped a few times on the loose soil and rocky debris.

A few hours later, he’d reached a valley between the two mountains. The area here was thick with pine trees and hobblebush. Soon, he came to another mountain stream. This one was rocky and surrounded by granite boulders. The rocks and boulders were moss-covered and, he found, slippery as ice. He moved carefully across the stream, hopping from rock to rock. When he had nearly reached the other side, he stepped onto a rock jutting out of the water, and the rock moved. He slipped and fell into the icy-cold water, twisting his left ankle painfully and crying out. Now, his pants soaked with water, he was at risk for hypothermia. He limped ahead slowly for a minute, wincing with the pain.

He would never make it to Lincoln this way.

46

Paul sat on a boulder, resting his ankle, and looked at his map. If he was right and he was somewhere near the Hancock Mountains, the town of Lincoln was a dozen miles or more away. And hobbling twelve miles with this injured ankle was simply out of the question. Yesterday, he had planned to hike through the forest and make his way to Lincoln, avoiding well-trafficked roads where he might be caught. Now he knew he had to get to a trafficked road as soon as possible, then hitchhike to Lincoln. It was a risk, but he had no choice. The nearest road was directly south: the NH 112, the Kancamagus Highway, or “the Kanc,” as locals called it. It was a heavily traveled two-lane road. At this time of year, it would be busy with leaf peepers.

The Kanc, he knew, was a dangerous area for his purposes: Berzin would probably expect him to take it. But it was the only viable choice. He could stagger on for another eight to twelve hours toward the Kanc, but twelve miles west to Lincoln would take him several days in his condition, and he wasn’t sure he’d make it. He was in great pain, needed some kind of painkiller—Tylenol or Advil. But he didn’t have any in his bag. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. He also needed something like a bandana to tie around his ankle, to stabilize it. But he didn’t have that, either.

So he’d have to hobble along and endure the pain.

Suddenly, he heard faint voices again. He scrambled to his feet, nearly fell when his ankle gave way, and spotted a dense copse and made for it. In a minute, he was concealed behind a thicket of trees. The voices grew steadily louder. A couple of people speaking in English. He stood there, his ankle throbbing, and waited.

If it was Berzin and his minion, what would he do?

Now two men came into the clearing, maybe a hundred feet away. Both were in their sixties, with long gray beards, long gray hair, and deeply creased faces, the faces of people who’d spent a lot of time outdoors. They wore raggedy jeans and backpacks and were carrying buckets. The two men stood at the bank of the river and filled their buckets. Were they hikers? Were they survivalists? Paul had no idea.

He wanted to ask them for help, for Tylenol and a bandana or something else to wrap his ankle with, but just as he was about to emerge from the woods and ask them, he stopped himself at the last second. He’d be taking a big risk, he realized. What if Berzin came upon these men and asked if they’d seen someone matching his description? He couldn’t take that chance. So he remained there, frozen in place, until the men were gone.

Then he pulled out his map, unfolded it carefully so it wouldn’t make a rustling sound, and tried to orient himself, though he wasn’t sure he was heading south; the sky was too cloudy to make out the sun. Still, he had to move, and he headed in the direction that he thought was south, to the Kanc.

Walking was now painful. His limp slowed him down considerably. He stopped and retied the laces of his left boot very tight, turning the boot itself into a splint of sorts. Taking out one of his burner phones, he switched it on. There was only one bar of signal strength, but it might be enough. He called Sarah on her burner phone, let it ring a long time.

No answer.

Where the hell was she? Had the Russians gotten to her? He switched off the phone, his chest tight.

And he kept going, at a glacial pace. An hour or so later, he came upon a crumbling brick foundation.

He froze. He’d seen that brick ruin before. A realization set in with a kind of cold terror.

He had gone in a large circle. He’d arrived at the exact same ghost town he’d seen yesterday.

He could almost hear his father berating him:You’re doing it wrong.

47

The rain had stopped, and the sun hung low in the sky, and he knew that way was west. Orienting himself, he proceeded south, mostly downhill. He was weak with hunger and parched and in pain, and when he heard distant voices, he nearly panicked. A woman’s whoop. The map told him he was near the Sawyer River Trail; maybe that was where the voices were coming from. He limped closer and saw, through the trees, a wide dirt trail with cyclists whizzing by and two or three women walking in the same direction.

Of course, he didn’t want to walk or, rather, shuffle along such a well-used trail. Far too visible. But after consulting his map, he saw that the trail ran south to the Kanc. If he hand-railed the trail—went parallel to it, but at a distance so that he wouldn’t be seen—it would lead him all the way to the 112.

Though, at the pace he was going, that would take hours.

He had reached a low, flat valley, where the going was much easier. He shuffled through the forest. It felt like his left ankle was swelling, his injury there exacerbated by the walking. He was only a few miles from the road, though he wasn’t sure exactly how many. He was cold, his pants and boots still wet from his splash in the stream. Whenever he took a break, he found himself shivering. When it became too dark to navigate through the dense woods, he briefly considered assembling a makeshift tent and resting overnight. But he felt urgency: he needed to get out of the woods and to Lincoln, no matter what time it was.

It wasn’t safe to continue through the woods in the dark, so he took another risk and moved over to the trail. He was cold, still shivering, and he knew that the cold and the stress and the exhaustion were compromising his decision-making process. He was driven by instinct: the need to get out of the woods and get to safety, if that was even possible anymore, the need for a hot shower, the need for sleep.

So he kept going along the now-deserted trail. The moon was covered by a scrim of clouds. He heard the distant hoot of an owl, the howl of a coyote somewhere. And the rustling of leaves. Was it deer? Foraging squirrels? Or just the wind? The shadows seemed to shift and move, as if alive with creatures. Tree branches reached out from the shadows like gnarled fingers.

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