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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 .