Ellisandre
Ellisandre shook hands with the gruff man who owned the hunting shack.
He was happy to accept packages and store them in the shelter in preparation for Ellisandre's upcoming “two-month escape”.
The rent they’d offered was generous and probably more than welcomed by the retired geezer.
It helped that he had to squint even with his glasses to read anything and almost certainly wouldn’t be able to recognize Ellisandre in a lineup, specifically not in their casual, city man presentation.
He’d easily believed them that they were Iranian, looking to have a getaway hole for after the craziness of a business launch.
The best part was that all they had to do was climb a hundred meters to the top of the hill and look down to see the Yadro. Which is what they did as soon as the elderly man got into his rusty car and rattled away down the dirt track that couldn’t be called a road.
Sevastyan was there, somewhere in that sprawling complex on the edge of a ravine. They settled in, staying low to the ground next to the evergreens, their plain green jacket and brown pants blending into the landscape.
The Yadro complex looked like a rich person’s winter resort with a view. There was an airstrip on the flat plateau between Ellisandre and the complex itself with enough room left over for horseback riding, a game of polo, and sheds for the storage of everything from planes to people.
They itched to get closer. What sort of planes were in the larger storage sheds? What sorts of weapons? How many basements had been blasted into the bedrock beneath what looked like an expensive resort?
They settled in with their binoculars. If they were ever here again, the information would be useful.
As would the first aid, food, car, and other supplies they were leaving behind.
If they could smuggle in a helicopter, they would try, but something like that would be noticed.
It would also noticeably drain their personal wealth. Drones would have to suffice.