Page 75 of Savage Warrior

Ethan slaps him on the back and hops into the driver’s seat. The rest of us pile in the other seats. It’s something of a squash in the back as Grigor is well over six feet tall and built to match.

We agree to take the route to Lida through Lithuania, although it is a little longer, four and a half hours rather than just four. Best to avoid enemy territory as far as possible. We enter Belarus from the north, about forty kilometres from Lida, and head straight into the city without a hitch.

The satnav on my phone guides us to the street where Arina lives or used to. I don’t know just what I was expecting, a run-down inner-city neighbourhood, certainly. But even so, I’m shocked by the obvious poverty. Litter and filth are strewn everywhere. Shops are boarded up, and those that survive seem to trade in tobacco, alcohol, fast food, or rotting fruit. A drunk stumbles in front of us as we cruise down the road. Ethan brakes but can’t avoid clipping him. The guy staggers to his feet, waves to us, and lurches off as though it’s an everyday occurrence. Maybe it is.

A group of children are playing in a side street, kicking a football about and yelling at each other. A fight breaks out, and one of the lads scarpers with a bloodied nose. The rest continue the game. I wonder if one of them is Yuryl but decide probably not. They look older, between about ten and fifteen. They might have information, though.

Ethan has the same idea. “You and I will go to the door. Tony, you and Grigor go over and talk to them. Aaron, you stay with the car. If we leave it unattended it’ll be on bricks by the time we get back. I don’t want to be explaining that to Marius.”

We clamber out to go about our assigned tasks.

Arina’s old apartment is on the second floor of the block. Needless to say, there’s no lift, so we hike up the stairs, sidestepping drunks and semi-comatose drug-users as we ascend. One of them grabs my leg when I try to step over him. I kick his hand away. A stream of Russian obscenity follows us up to the next landing. I consider going back and booting him down the stairs, but Ethan’s warning growl puts a stop to that.

“Unobtrusive,” he reminds me. “Stick to the plan.”

We arrive at the door, and I raise my fist to knock. No answer, so I try again. Harder. The flimsy door rattles on its hinges, but still no one comes to see who’s there. I look to Ethan, and he nods.

Together, we apply our boots. The door bursts inwards on the second attempt. I call out in Russian, just in case there might be a couple of terrified children cowering in there.

“We are here to help you. Don’t be afraid. Natalija? Yuryl?”

We enter, guns drawn, just in case.

The place consists of just one room. Kitchen, living space and bedroom are combined. There’s a sink, a stove, a few tatty cupboards, an empty fireplace, bare floorboards, and a table with one chair. At one end is obviously the space where the occupants would sleep. A double mattress is on the floor, and a blanket piled in a heap beside it. That’s it.

“Christ, what a mess,” Ethan mutters. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“I think we passed it at the bottom of the stairs.” I pull open a couple of cupboard doors to check for any sign of recent occupation. There’s nothing to encourage the notion that anyone lives here. No food. No personal belongings. The fireplace is cold.

“They’ve been gone a while,” I mutter. “Someone’s been in and cleared the place out.”

“Let’s talk to the neighbours.” Ethan is already heading for the door.

There’s one other door on this landing, so we hammer on that. An elderly man answers but declares he knows nothing. He does remember the Kovalyov family but doesn’t know where they went. Or how long ago.

We go up to the top floor and try again but with much the same outcome. This is not a neighbourhood where people look out for each other. No one seems concerned about two children left to fend for themselves.

We have better luck on the floor below Arina’s, though the news there is ominous. A woman answers our knock, a small toddler perched on her hip.

“Yes, I know Arina. She left, though. Weeks ago.”

“What about the others? Her sister and brother?”

The woman shakes her head. “I cannot say.”

She’s lying. I sense it and try again. “We know they were there.”

She tries to shut the door on us, but Ethan’s foot puts a stop to that. He produces a fifty-ruble note.

The woman catches sight of it and opens the door again. “They are gone. All of them, gone. It is no use…”

“Tell us,” I insist, while Ethan produces another fifty rubles.

She snatches at the money, but Ethan doesn’t relinquish it. He arches one eyebrow, his meaning clear in any language.

“Men came,” she blurts. “At night, one week ago. They clattered up the stairs, woke the baby. There was shouting. Screaming.”

“A week ago?” That would have been about the time Arina and I were holed up in the hotel in Inverness. The Sokolovs were looking for her then, and if my hunch is right, they obviously decided to go after her family at the same time. “What happened then?”

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