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right, in the dark, by Illuminati. About the e-Book TITLE: Wolves Eat Dogs AUTHOR: Smith, Martin
Cruz ABEB Version: 3.0 Hog Edition WOLVES
EAT DOGS BY Martin Cruz Smith
Dedication
for Em Acknowledgments
Many people
generously offered knowledge and insight during the writing of this book. In the Knox
Burger and Kitty Sprague, Luisa Cruz Smith and Ellen Branco read draft after
draft. Nevertheless, there will be errors and for them I claim sole credit. Chapter One
Senior
Investigator Arkady Renko leaned out a window the better to see Ivanov on the
pavement ten floors below. Ivanov was dead but not particularly bloody, arms
and legs at odd angles. Two black Mercedeses were at the curb, Ivanov's car and
an SUV for his bodyguards. It sometimes seemed to Arkady that every successful
businessman and Mafia hood in Ivanov
had arrived at 9:28 p.m., gone directly up to the safest apartment in Behind
Arkady, Prosecutor Zurin had brought drinks from the wet bar to a NoviRus
senior vice president named Timofeyev and a young blonde in the living room.
Zurin was as fussy as a maоtre d'; he had survived six Kremlin regimes by
recognizing his best customers and smoothing out their problems. Timofeyev had
the shakes and the girl was drunk. Arkady thought the gathering was a little
like a party where the host had suddenly and inexplicably dived through the
window. After the shock the guests carried on. The
odd man out was Bobby Hoffman, Ivanov's American assistant. Although he was
worth millions of dollars, his loafers were split, his fingers were smudged
with ink and his suede jacket was worn to a shine. Arkady wondered how much
more time Hoffman had at NoviRus. An assistant to a dead man? That didn't sound
promising. Hoffman
joined Arkady at the window. "Why are there plastic bags around Pasha's
hands?" "I
was looking for signs of resistance, maybe cuts on the fingers." "Resistance?
Like a fight?" Prosecutor
Zurin rocked forward on the sofa. "There is no investigation. We do not
investigate suicides. There are no signs of violence in the apartment. Ivanov
came up alone. He left alone. That, my friends, is a suicide in spades." The
girl lifted a dazed expression. Arkady had learned from the file he had on
Pasha Ivanov that Rina Shevchenko was his personal interior designer, a
twenty-year-old in a red leather pantsuit and high-heeled boots. Timofeyev
was known as a robust sportsman, but he could have been his father, he had
shrunk so much within his suit. "Suicides are a personal tragedy. It's
enough to suffer the death of a friend. Colonel Ozhogin – the head of NoviRus
Security – is already flying back." He added to Arkady, "Ozhogin
wants nothing done until he arrives." Arkady
said, "We don't leave a body on the sidewalk like a rug, even for the
colonel." "Pay
no attention to Investigator Renko," Zurin said. "He's the office
fanatic. He's like a narcotics dog; he sniffs every bag." There
won't be much left to sniff here, Arkady thought. Just out of curiosity, he
wondered if he could protect the bloody prints on the windowsill. Timofeyev
pressed a handkerchief against his nose. Arkady saw spots of red. "Nosebleed?"
asked Zurin. "Summer
cold," said Timofeyev. Opposite
Ivanov's apartment was a dark office building. A man walked out of the lobby,
waved to Arkady and gave a thumbs-down. "One
of your men?" Hoffman asked. "A
detective, in case someone over there was working late and might have witnessed
something." "But
you're not investigating." "I
do whatever the prosecutor says." "So
you think it was suicide." "We
prefer suicides. Suicides don't demand work or drive up the crime rate."
It also occurred to Arkady that suicides didn't expose the incompetence of
investigators and militia who were better at sorting out dead drunks from the
living than solving murders committed with any amount of forethought. Zurin
said, "You will excuse Renko, he thinks all of In
which case, better the suicide of an unbalanced financier than assassination,
Arkady thought. Timofeyev might lament the suicide of his friend, but a murder investigation
could place the entire NoviRus company under a cloud, especially from the
perspective of foreign partners and investors who already felt that doing
business in "Who
had access to this apartment?" Arkady asked. "Pasha
was the only one allowed on this level. The security was the best in the
world," Zurin said. "Best
in the world," Timofeyev agreed. Zurin
said, "The entire building is covered by surveillance cameras, inside and
out, with monitors that are watched not only at the reception desk here but, as
a safeguard, also by technicians at the headquarters of NoviRus Security. The
other apartments have keys. Ivanov had a keypad with a code known only to him.
He also had a lock-out button by the elevator, to keep out the world when he
was in. He had all the security a man could wish for." Arkady
had been in the lobby and seen the monitors tucked into a round rosewood desk.
Each small screen was split in four. The receptionist also had a white phone
with two outside lines and a red phone with a line direct to NoviRus. "The
building staff doesn't have Ivanov's code?" Arkady asked. "No.
Only the central office at NoviRus." "Who
had access to the code there?" "No
one. It was sealed, until tonight." According
to the prosecutor, Ivanov had ordered that no one enter the apartment but him –
not staff, not a housecleaner, not a plumber. Anyone who tried would appear on
monitors and on tape, and the staff had seen nothing. Ivanov did his own
cleaning. Gave the elevator man the trash, laundry, dry cleaning, lists for
food or whatever, which would be waiting in the lobby when Ivanov returned.
Zurin made it sound like many talents. "Eccentric,"
Arkady said. "He
could afford to be eccentric. Churchill wandered around his castle naked." "Pasha
wasn't crazy," Rina said. "What
was he?" Arkady rephrased the question. "How would you describe
him?" "He
had lost weight. He said he had an infection. Maybe he had a bad reaction to
medication." Timofeyev
said, "I wish Ozhogin were here." Arkady
had seen a glossy magazine cover with a confident Lev Timofeyev sailing a yacht
in the An
ambulance rolled discreetly to the curb. The detective crossed the street with
a camera and shot flash pictures of Ivanov being rolled into the body bag and
of the stain on the pavement. Something had been concealed under Ivanov's body.
From Arkady's distance it looked like a drinking glass. The detective took a
picture of that, too. Hoffman
watched Arkady as much as the scene below. "Is
it true, you treat "Force
of habit." The
living room would have been a forensic technician's dream: white leather sofa
and chairs, limestone floor and linen walls, glass ashtray and coffee table,
all excellent backgrounds for hair, lipstick, fingerprints, the scuff marks of
life. It would have been easy to dust and search before Zurin genially invited
in a crowd and tainted the goods. Because with a jumper, there were two
questions: was he alone, and was he pushed? Timofeyev
said to no one in particular, "Pasha and I go far back. We studied and did
research together at the institute when the country suffered its economic
collapse. Imagine, the greatest physics laboratory in Arkady
was taken aback. He certainly hadn't known. Rina
took Timofeyev's glass to the bar, where she paused by a gallery of photographs
in which Pasha Ivanov was not dead. Ivanov was not a handsome individual, but a
big man full of grand gestures. In different pictures he rappelled off cliffs,
trekked the Urals, kayaked through white water. He embraced Yeltsin and Clinton
and the senior Bush. He beamed at Putin, who, as usual, seemed to suck on a
spur tooth. He cradled a miniature dachshund like a baby. Ivanov partied with
opera tenors and rock stars, and even when he bowed to the Orthodox patriarch,
a brash confidence shone through. Other New Russians fell by the wayside: shot,
bankrupted or exiled by the state. Pasha not only flourished, he was known as a
public-spirited man, and when construction funds for the Church of the Redeemer
ran low, Ivanov provided the gold foil for the dome. When Arkady first opened a
file on Ivanov, he was told that if Ivanov was charged with breaking the law,
he could call the senate on his mobile phone and have the law rewritten. Trying
to indict Ivanov was like trying to hold on to a snake that kept shedding skin
after skin and grew legs in the meantime. In other words, Pasha Ivanov was both
a man of his time and a stage in evolution. Arkady
noticed a barely perceptible glitter on the windowsill, scattered grains of
crystals so familiar he could not resist pressing his forefinger to pick them
up and taste them. Salt. "I'm
going to look around," he said. "But
you're not investigating," Hoffman said. "Absolutely
not." "A
word alone," Zurin said. He led Arkady into the hall. "Renko, we had
an investigation into Ivanov and NoviRus, but a case against a suicide doesn't
smell good in anybody's nostrils." "You
initiated the investigation." "And
I'm ending it. The last thing I want is for people to get the idea that we
hounded Pasha Ivanov to death, and still went after him even when he was in the
grave. It makes us look vindictive, like fanatics, which we aren't." The
prosecutor searched Arkady's eyes. "When you've had your little look
around here, go to your office and collect all the Ivanov and NoviRus files and
leave them by my office. Do it tonight. And stop using the phrase 'New Russian'
when you refer to crime. We're all New Russians, aren't we?" "I'm
trying." Ivanov's
apartment took up the entire tenth floor. There weren't many rooms, but they
were spacious and commanded a wraparound view of the city that gave the
illusion of walking on air. Arkady began at a bedroom upholstered in linen wall
panels, laid with a Persian rug. The photographs here were more personal:
Ivanov skiing with Rina, sailing with Rina, in scuba-diving gear with Rina. She
had huge eyes and a Slavic shelf of cheekbones. In each picture a breeze lifted
her golden hair; she was the kind who could summon a breeze. Considering their
difference in ages, for Ivanov their relationship must have been a bit like
making a mistress of a leggy girl, a Lolita. That was who she reminded Arkady
of – Lolita was a Russian creation, after all! There was a nearly paternal humor
in Pasha's expression and a candy-sweet flavor to Rina's smile. A
rosy nude, a Modigliani, hung on the wall. On the night table were an ashtray
of Lalique glass and a Hermиs alarm clock; in the drawer was a 9mm pistol, a
Viking with a fat clip of seventeen rounds, but not a whiff of ever having been
fired. An attachй case on the bed held a single Bally shoe sack and a
mobile-phone charger cord. On the bookshelf was a decorator's selection of worn
leather-bound collections of Pushkin, Rilke and Chekhov, and a box that held a
trio of Patek, Carrier and Rolex watches and gently agitated them to keep them
running, a definite necessity for the dead. The only off note was dirty laundry
piled in a corner. He
moved into a bathroom with a limestone floor, gold-plated fixtures on a step-in
spa, heated bars for robes large enough for polar bears and the convenience of
a toilet phone. A shaving mirror magnified the lines of Arkady's face. A
medicine cabinet held – besides the usual toiletries – bottles of Viagra, sleeping
pills, Prozac. Arkady noted a Dr. Novotny's name on each prescription. He
didn't see any antibiotics for infection. The
kitchen looked both new and forgotten, with gleaming steel appliances, enameled
pots without a single smudge and burners with not one spot of crusted sauce. A
silvery rack held dusty, expensive wines, no doubt selected by an expert. Yet
the dishwasher was stacked with unwashed dishes, just as the bed had been
loosely made and the bathroom towels hung awry, the signs of a man caring for himself.
A restaurant-size refrigerator was a cold vault, empty except for bottles of
mineral water, odds and ends of cheese, crackers and half a loaf of sliced
bread. Vodka sat in the freezer. Pasha was a busy man, off to business dinners
every day. He was, until recently, a famously sociable man, not a wealthy
recluse with long hair and fingernails. He would have wanted to show his
friends a shining up-to-date kitchen and offer them a decent At
the twist of a rheostat, the next room turned into a home theater with a flat
screen a good two meters wide, speakers in matte black and eight swivel chairs
in red velvet with individual gooseneck lamps. All New Russians had home
theaters, as if they were auteurs on the side. Arkady flipped through a video
library ranging from Eisenstein to Jackie Chan. There was no tape in the tape
player, and nothing in the mini-fridge but splits of Moлt. An
exercise room had floor-to-ceiling windows, a padded floor, free weights and an
exercise machine that looked like a catapult. A television hung over a
stationary bike. The
prize was Ivanov's apartment office, a futuristic cockpit of glass and
stainless steel. Everything was close at hand, a monitor and printer on the
desk, and a computer stack with a CD tray open beneath, next to an empty
wastebasket. On a table lay copies of The Wall Street Journal and The
Financial Times, folded as neatly as pressed sheets. CNN was on the
monitor screen, market quotes streaming under a man who muttered half a world
away. Arkady suspected the subdued sound was the sign of a lonely man, the need
for another voice in the apartment, even while he banned his lover and nearest
associates. It also struck Arkady that this was the closest anyone in the
prosecutor's office had ever come to penetrating NoviRus. It was a shame that
the man to do so was him. Arkady's life had come to this: his highest skill lay
in ferreting out which man had bludgeoned another. The subtleties of corporate
theft were new to him, and he stood in front of the screen like an ape
encountering fire. Virtually within reach might be the answers he had been
searching for: the names of silent partners in the ministries who promoted and
protected Ivanov and their account numbers in offshore banks. He wouldn't find
car trunks stuffed with dollar bills. It didn't work that way anymore. There
was no paper. Money flew through the air and was gone. Victor,
the detective from the street, finally made it up. He was a sleep-deprived man
in a sweater that reeked of cigarettes. He held up a sandwich bag containing a
saltshaker. "This was on the pavement under Ivanov. Maybe it was there
already. Why would anyone jump out a window with a saltshaker?" Bobby
Hoffman squeezed by Victor. "Renko, the best hackers in the world are
Russian. I've encrypted and programmed Pasha's hard drive to self-destruct at
the first sign of a breach. In other words, don't touch a fucking thing." "You
were Pasha's computer wizard as well as a business adviser?" Arkady said. "I
did what Pasha asked." Arkady
tapped the CD tray. It slid open, revealing a silvery disk. Hoffman tapped the
tray and it slid shut. He
said, "I should also tell you that the computer and any disks are NoviRus
property. You are a millimeter from trespassing. You ought to know the laws
here." "Mr.
Hoffman, don't tell me about Russian law. You were a thief in "No,
I'm a consultant. I'm the guy who told Pasha not to worry about you. You have
an advanced degree in business?" "No." "Law?" "No." "Accounting?" "No." "Then
lots of luck. The Americans came after me with a staff of eager-beaver lawyers
right out of Harvard. I can see Pasha had a lot to be afraid of." This was
more the hostile attitude that Arkady had expected, but Hoffman ran out of
steam. "Why don't you think it's suicide? What's wrong?" "I
didn't say that anything was." "Something
bothers you." Arkady
considered. "Recently your friend wasn't the Pasha Ivanov of old, was
he?" "That
could have been depression." "He
moved twice in the last three months. Depressed people don't have the energy to
move; they sit still." Depression happened to be a subject that Arkady
knew something about. "It sounds like fear to me." "Fear
of what?" "You
were close to him, you'd know better than I. Does anything here seem out of place?" "I
wouldn't know. Pasha wouldn't let us in here. Rina and I haven't been inside
this apartment for a month. If you were investigating, what would you be
looking for?" "I
have no idea." Victor
felt at the sleeve of Hoffman's jacket. "Nice suede. Must have cost a
fortune." "It
was Pasha's. I admired it once when he was wearing it, and he forced it on me.
It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty more, but he was generous." "How
many more jackets?" Arkady asked. "Twenty,
at least." "And
suits and shoes and tennis whites?" "Of
course." "I
saw clothes in the corner of the bedroom. I didn't see a closet." "I'll
show you," Rina said. How long she had been standing behind Victor, Arkady
didn't know. "I designed this apartment, you know." "It's
a very nice apartment," Arkady said. Rina
studied him for signs of condescension, before she turned and, unsteadily, hand
against the wall, led the way to Ivanov's bedroom. Arkady saw nothing different
until Rina pushed a wall panel that clicked and swung open to a walk-in closet
bathed in lights. Suits hung on the left, pants and jackets on the right, some
new and still in store bags with elaborate Italian names. Ties hung on a brass
carousel. Built-in bureaus held shirts, underclothes and racks for shoes. The
clothes ranged from plush cashmere to casual linen, and everything in the
closet was immaculate, except a tall dressing mirror that was cracked but
intact, and a bed of sparkling crystals that covered the floor. Prosecutor
Zurin arrived. "What is it now?" Arkady
licked a finger to pick up a grain and put it to his tongue. "Salt. Table
salt." At least fifty kilos' worth of salt had been poured on the floor.
The bed was softly rounded, dimpled with two faint impressions. "A
sign of derangement," Zurin announced. "There's no sane explanation
for this. It's the work of a man in suicidal despair. Anything else,
Renko?" "There
was salt on the windowsill." "More
salt? Poor man. God knows what was going through his mind. "What
do you think?" Hoffman asked Arkady. "Suicide,"
Timofeyev said from the hall, his voice muffled by his handkerchief. Victor
spoke up. "As long as Ivanov is dead. My mother put all her money in one
of his funds. He promised a hundred percent profit in a hundred days. She lost everything,
and he was voted New Russian of the Year. If he was here now and alive, I would
strangle him with his own steaming guts." That
would settle the issue, Arkady thought.
By the time
Arkady had delivered a hand truck of NoviRus files to the prosecutor's office
and driven home, it was two in the morning. His
apartment was not a glass tower shimmering on the skyline but a pile of rocks
off the Garden Ring. Various Soviet architects seemed to have worked with
blinders on to design a building with flying buttresses, Roman columns and
Moorish windows. Sections of the facade had fallen off, and parts had been
colonized by grasses and saplings sowed by the wind, but inside, the apartments
offered high ceilings and casement windows. Arkady's view was not of sleek
Mercedeses gliding by but of a backyard row of metal garages, each secured by a
padlock covered by the cutoff bottom of a plastic soda bottle. No
matter the hour, Mr. and Mrs. Rajapakse, his neighbors from across the hall,
came over with biscuits, hard-boiled eggs and tea. They were university
professors from "It
is no bother," Rajapakse said. "You are our best friend in Mrs.
Rajapakse wore a sari. She flew around the apartment like a butterfly to catch
a fly and put it out the window. "She
harms nothing," her husband said. "The violence here in After
Arkady chased them home, he had half a glass of vodka and toasted. To a New
Russian. He
was trying. Chapter TwoEvgeny
Lysenko, nickname Zhenya, age eleven, looked like an old man waiting at a bus
stop. He was in the thick plaid jacket and matching cap that he'd been wearing
when he was brought by militia to the children's shelter the winter before. The
sleeves were shrinking, but whenever the boy went on an outing with Arkady, he
wore the same outfit and carried the same chess set and book of fairy tales
that had been left with him. If Zhenya didn't get out every other week, he
would run away. How he had become Arkady's obligation was a mystery. To begin
with, Arkady had accompanied a well-intentioned friend, a television
journalist, a nice woman looking for a child to mother and save. When Arkady
arrived at the shelter for the next outing, his mobile phone rang. It was the
journalist calling to say she was sorry, but she wasn't coming; one afternoon
with Zhenya was enough for her. By then Zhenya was almost at the car, and
Arkady's choice was to either leap behind the wheel and drive away, or take the
boy himself. Anyway,
here was Zhenya once again, dressed for winter on a warm spring day, clutching
his fairy tales, while Olga Andreevna, the head of the shelter, fussed over
him. "Cheer Zhenya up," she told Arkady. "It's Sunday. All the
other children have one kind of visitor or another. Zhenya should have
something. Tell him some jokes. Be a jolly soul. Make him laugh." "I'll
try to think of some jokes." "Go
to a movie, maybe kick a ball back and forth. The boy needs to get out more, to
socialize. We offer psychiatric evaluation, proper diet, music classes, a
regular school nearby. Most children thrive. Zhenya is not thriving." The
shelter appeared to be a healthful setting, a two-story structure painted like
a child's drawing with birds, butterflies, rainbow and sun, and a real
vegetable garden bordered by marigolds. The shelter was a model, an oasis in a
city where thousands of children went without homes and worked pushing outdoor
market carts or worse. Arkady saw a circle of girls in a playground serving tea
to their dolls. They seemed happy. Zhenya
climbed into the car, put on his seat belt and held his book and chess set
tight. He stared straight ahead like a soldier. "So,
what will you do, then?" Olga Andreevna asked Arkady. "Well,
we're such jolly souls, we're capable of anything." "Does
he talk to you?" "He
reads his book." "But
does he talk to you?" "No." "Then
how do you two communicate?" "To
be honest, I don't know."
Arkady had a
Zhiguli 9, a goat of a car, not prepossessing but built for Russian roads. They
drove along the river wall, past fishermen casting for urban aquatic life.
Considering the black cloud of truck exhaust and the sluggish green of the Meanwhile,
Zhenya read aloud his favorite fairy tale, about a girl abandoned by her father
and sent by her stepmother into the deep woods to be killed and eaten by a
witch, Baba Yaga. "
'Baba Yaga had a long blue nose and steel teeth, and she lived in a hut that
stood on chicken legs. The hut could walk through the woods and sit wherever
Baba Yaga ordered. Around the hut was a fence festooned with skulls. Most
victims died just at the sight of Baba Yaga. The strongest men, the wealthiest
lords, it didn't matter. She boiled the meat off their bones and when she had
eaten every last bite she added their skulls to her hideous fence. A few
prisoners lived long enough to try to escape, but Baba Yaga flew after them on
a magic mortar and pestle.' " However, page by page, through kindness and
courage, the girl did escape and made her way back to her father, who sent away
the evil stepmother. When Zhenya was done reading he gave Arkady a quick glance
and settled back in his seat, a ritual completed. At
Sparrow Hill, Arkady swung the car in sight of "Did
you have some fun this week?" Arkady asked. Zhenya
said nothing. Nevertheless, Arkady tried a smile. After all, many children from
the shelter had suffered negligence and abuse. They couldn't be expected to be
rays of sunshine. Some children were adopted out of the shelter. Zhenya, with
his sharp nose and vow of silence, wasn't a likely candidate. Arkady
himself would have been harder to please, he thought, if he'd had a higher
opinion of himself as a child. As he remembered, he had been an unlovable
stick, devoid of social skills and isolated by the aura of fear around his
father, an army officer who was perfectly willing to humiliate adults, let
alone a boy. When Arkady came home to their apartment, he would know whether
the general was in just by the stillness in the air. The very foyer seemed to
hold its breath. So Arkady had little personal experience to draw on. His
father had never taken him for outings. Sometimes Sergeant Belov, his father's
aide, would go with Arkady to the park. Winters were the best, when the
sergeant, tramping and puffing like a horse, pulled Arkady on a sled through
the snow. Otherwise, Arkady walked with his mother, and she tended to walk
ahead, a slim woman with a dark braid of hair, lost in her own world. Zhenya
always insisted on going to "Let's
go shoot something," Arkady said. That generally cheered boys up. Five
rubles bought five shots with an air rifle at a row of Coke cans. Arkady
remembered when the targets had been American bombers dangling on strings,
something worth blazing away at. From there they went into a fun house, where
they followed a dark walkway between weary moans and swaying bats. Next came a
real space shuttle that had truly orbited the earth and was tricked out with
chairs that lurched from side to side to simulate a bumpy descent. Arkady
asked, "What do you think, Captain? Should we return to earth?" Zhenya
got out of his chair and marched off without a glance. It
was a little like accompanying a sleepwalker. Arkady was along but invisible,
and Zhenya moved as if on a track. They stopped, as they had on every other
trip, to watch bungee jumping. The jumpers were teenagers, taking turns soaring
off the platform, flapping, screaming with fear, only to be snapped back the
moment before they hit the ground. The girls were dramatic, the way their hair
rippled on the way down and snapped as the plunge was arrested. Arkady couldn't
help but think of Ivanov and the difference between the fun of near death and
the real thing, the profound difference between giggling as you bounced to your
feet, and staying embedded in the pavement. For his part, Zhenya didn't appear
to care whether the jumpers died or survived. He always stood in the same spot
and glanced cagily around. Then he took off for the roller coaster. He
took the same rides in the same order: a roller coaster, a giant swing and a
ride in a pontoon boat around a little man-made lake. He and Arkady sat back
and pedaled, the same as every time, while white swans and black swans cruised
by in turn. Although it was Sunday, the park maintained an uncrowded lassitude.
Rollerbladers slid by with long, easy strides. The Beatles drifted from
loudspeakers: "Yesterday." Zhenya looked hot in his cap and jacket,
but Arkady knew better than to suggest the boy remove them. The
sight of silver birches by the water made Arkady ask, "Have you ever been
here in the winter?" Zhenya
might as well have been deaf. "Do
you ice-skate?" Arkady asked. Zhenya
looked straight ahead. "Ice
skating here in the wintertime is beautiful," Arkady said. "Maybe we
should do that." Zhenya
didn't blink. Arkady
said, "I'm sorry that I'm not better at this. I was never good at jokes. I
just can't remember them. In Soviet times, when things were hopeless, we had
great jokes." Since
the children's shelter fed Zhenya good nutritious food, Arkady plied him with candy
bars and soda. They ate at an outdoor table while playing chess with pieces
that were worn from use, on a board that had been taped together more than
once. Zhenya didn't speak even to say "Mate!" He simply knocked over
Arkady's king at the appropriate time and set the pieces up again. "Have
you ever tried football?" Arkady asked. "Stamp collecting? Do you
have a butterfly net?" Zhenya
concentrated on the board. The head of the shelter had told Arkady how Zhenya
did solitary chess problems every night until lights-out. Arkady
said, "You may wonder how it is that a senior investigator like myself is
free on such a glorious day. The reason is that the prosecutor, my chief, feels
that I need reassignment. It's plain that I need reassignment, because I don't
know a suicide when I see one. An investigator who doesn't know a suicide when
he sees one is a man who needs to be reassigned." Arkady's
move, the retreat of a knight to a useless position on the side of the board,
made Zhenya look up, as if to detect a trap. Not to worry, Arkady thought. "Are
you familiar with the name Pavel Ilyich Ivanov?" Arkady asked. "No?
How about Pasha Ivanov? That's a more interesting name. Pavel is old-fashioned,
stiff. Pasha is Eastern, Oriental, with a turban and a sword. Much better than
Pavel." Zhenya
stood to see the board from another angle. Arkady would have surrendered, but
he knew how Zhenya relished a thoroughly crushing victory. Arkady
said, "It's curious how, if you study anyone long enough, if you devote
enough effort to understanding him, he can become part of your life. Not a
friend but a kind of acquaintance. To put it another way, a shadow has to
become close, right? I thought I was beginning to understand Pasha, and then I
found salt." Arkady looked for a reaction, in vain. "And well you
should be surprised. There was a lot of salt in the apartment. That's not a
crime, although it might be a sign. Some people say that's what you'd expect
from a man about to take his life, a closet full of salt. They could be right.
Or not. We don't investigate suicides, but how do you know it's a suicide
unless you investigate? That is the question." Zhenya
scooped up the knight, revealing a pin on Arkady's bishop. Arkady moved his
king. At once, the bishop disappeared into Zhenya's grasp, and Arkady advanced
another sacrificial lamb. "But
the prosecutor doesn't want complications, especially from a difficult
investigator, a holdover from the Soviet era, a man on the skids. Some men
march confidently from one historical era to the next; others skid. I've been
told to enjoy a rest while matters are sorted out, and that is why I can spend
the day with you." Zhenya pushed a juggernaut of a rook the length of the
board, tipped over Arkady's king and swept all of the pieces into the box. He
hadn't heard a word. The
last regular event was a ride on the Ferris wheel, which kept turning as Arkady
and Zhenya handed over their tickets, scrambled into an open-air gondola and
latched themselves in. A complete revolution of the fifty-meter wheel took five
minutes. As the gondola rose, it afforded a view first of the amusement park,
then of geese lifting from the lake and Rollerbladers gliding on the trails
and, finally, at its apogee, through a floating scrim of poplar fluff, a
panorama of gray daytime Moscow, flashes of gold from church to church and the
distant groans of traffic and construction. All the way, Zhenya stretched his
neck to look in one direction and then the other, as if he could encompass the
city's entire population. Arkady
had tried to find Zhenya's father, even though the boy refused to supply the
first name or help a sketch artist from the militia. Nevertheless, Arkady had
gone through When
Zhenya and Arkady were at the very top of the wheel, it stopped. The attendant
on the ground gave a thin shout and waved. Nothing to worry about. Zhenya was
happy with more time to scan the city, while Arkady contemplated the virtues of
early retirement: the chance to learn new languages, new dances, travel to
exotic places. His stock with the prosecutor was definitely falling. Once you'd
been to the top of the Ferris wheel of life, so to speak, anything else was
lower. So here he was, literally suspended. Poplar fluff sailed by like the
scum of a river. The
wheel started to turn again, and Arkady smiled, to prove his attention hadn't
wandered. "Any luck? You know, in Zhenya
acknowledged not a word, which was a statement in itself, that Arkady was
merely transportation, a means to an end. When the gondola reached the ground,
the boy stepped out, ready to return to the shelter, and Arkady let him march
ahead. The
trick, Arkady thought, was not to expect more. Obviously Zhenya had come to the
park with his father, and by this point, Arkady knew exactly how they had spent
the day. A child's logic was that if his father had come here before, he would
come again, and he might even be magically evoked through a re-creation of that
day. Zhenya was a grim little soldier defending a last outpost of
memory, and any word he passed with Arkady would mute and dim his father that
much more. A smile would be as bad as traffic with the enemy. On
the way out of the park, Arkady's mobile phone rang. It was Prosecutor Zurin. "Renko,
what did you tell Hoffman last night?" "About
what?" "You
know what. Where are you?" "The
"Relaxing?" "I'd
like to think so." "Because
you were so wound up last night, so full of... speculation, weren't you?
Hoffman wants to see you." "Why?" "You
said something to him last night. Something out of my earshot, because nothing
I heard from you made any sense at all. I have never seen a clearer case of
suicide." "Then
you have officially determined that Ivanov killed himself." "Why
not?" Arkady
didn't answer directly. "If you're satisfied, then I don't see what there
is for me to do." "Don't
be coy, Renko. You're the one who opened this can of worms. You'll be the one
who shuts it. Hoffman wants you to clean up the loose ends. I don't see why he doesn't
just go home." "As
I remember, he's a fugitive from "Well,
as a courtesy to him, and just to settle things, he wants a few more questions
answered. Ivanov was Jewish, wasn't he? I mean his mother was." So? "I'm
just saying, he and Hoffman were a pair." Arkady
waited for more, but Zurin seemed to think he had made his point. "I take
my orders from you, Prosecutor Zurin. What are your orders?" Arkady wanted
this to be clear. "What
time is it?" "It's
four in the afternoon." "First
get Hoffman out of the apartment. Then get to work tomorrow morning." "Why
not tonight?" "In
the morning." "If
I get Hoffman out of the apartment, how will I get back in?" "The
elevator operator knows the code now. He's old guard. Trustworthy." "And
just what do you expect me to do?" "Whatever
Hoffman asks. Just get this matter settled. Not complicated, not drawn out, but
settled." "Does
that mean over or resolved?" "You
know very well what I mean." "I
don't know, I'm fairly involved here." Zhenya was just finishing his
circuit of the fountain. "Get
over there now." "I'll
need a detective. I should have a pair, but I'll settle for Victor
Fedorov." "Why
him? He hates businessmen." "Perhaps
he'll be harder to buy." "Just
go." "Do
I get my files back?" "No." Zurin
hung up. The prosecutor might have shown a little more edge than usual, but,
everything considered, the conversation had been as pleasant as Arkady could
have wished.
Bobby Hoffman
let Arkady and Victor into the Ivanov apartment, moved to the sofa and dropped
into the deep impression already there. Despite air-conditioning, the room had
the funk of an all-night vigil. Hoffman's hair was matted, his eyes a blur, and
tear tracks ran into the reddish bristle on his jowls. His clothes looked
twisted around him, although the jacket given to him by Pasha was folded on the
coffee table beside a snifter and two empty bottles of brandy. He said, "I
don't have the code to the keypad, so I stayed." "Why?"
Arkady asked. "Just
to get things straight." "Straighten
us out, please." Hoffman
tilted his head and smiled. "Renko, as far as your investigation goes, I
want you to know that you wouldn't have touched Pasha or me in a thousand
years. The American Securities and Exchange Commission never hung anything on
me." "You
fled the country." "You
know what I always tell complainers? 'Read the fine print, asshole!' " "The
fine print is the important print?" "That's
why it's fine." "As
in 'You can be the wealthiest man in the world and live in a palace with a
beautiful woman, but one day you will fall out a tenth-floor window'?"
Arkady said. "As fine as that?" "Yeah."
The air went out of Hoffman, and it occurred to Arkady that for all the
American's bravado, without the protection of Pasha Ivanov, Bobby Hoffman was a
mollusk without its shell, a tender American morsel on the Russian ocean floor. "Why
don't you just leave "That's
what Timofeyev suggested, except his number was ten million." "That's
a lot." "Look,
the bank accounts Pasha and I opened offshore add up to about a hundred
million. Not all our money, of course, but that's a lot." A
hundred million? Arkady tried to add the zeroes. "I stand corrected." Victor
took a chair and set down his briefcase. He gave the apartment the cold glance
of a Bolshevik in the Hoffman
contemplated the empty bottles. "Staying here is like watching a movie,
running every possible scenario. Pasha jumping out the window, being dragged
and thrown out, over and over. Renko, you're the expert: was Pasha
killed?" "I
have no idea." "Thanks
a lot, that's helpful. Last night you sounded like you had suspicions." "I
thought the scene deserved more investigation." "Because
as soon as you started to poke around, you found a closet full of fucking salt.
What is that about?" "I
was hoping you could tell me. You never noticed that with Ivanov before, a
fixation on salt?" "No.
All I know is, everything wasn't as simple as the prosecutor and Timofeyev
said. You were right about Pasha changing. He locked us out of here. He'd wear
clothes once and throw them away. It wasn't like giving the jacket to me. He
threw out the clothes in garbage bags. Driving around, suddenly he'd change his
route, like he was on the run." "Like
you," Victor said. "Only
he didn't run far," Arkady said. "He stayed in Hoffman
said, "How could he go? Pasha always said, 'Business is personal. You show
fear and you're dead.' Anyway, you wanted more time to investigate. Okay, I
bought you some." "How
did you do that?" "Call
me Bobby." "How
did you do that, Bobby?" "NoviRus
has foreign partners. I told Timofeyev that unless you were on the case, I'd
tell them that the cause of Pasha's death wasn't totally resolved. Foreign
partners are nervous about Russian violence. I always tell them it's
exaggerated." "Of
course." "Nothing
can stop a major project – the Last Judgment wouldn't stop an oil deal – but I
can stall for a day or two until the company gets a clean bill of health." "The
detective and I will be the doctors who decide this billion-dollar state of
health? I'm flattered." "I'd
start you off with a bonus of a thousand dollars." "No,
thanks." "You
don't like money? What are you, communists?" Hoffman's smile stalled
halfway between insult and ingratiation. "The
problem is that I don't believe you. Americans won't take the word of either a
criminal like you or an investigator like me. NoviRus has its own security
force, including former detectives. Have them investigate. They're already
paid." "Paid
to protect the company," Hoffman said. "Yesterday that meant
protecting Pasha, today it's protecting Timofeyev. Anyway, Colonel Ozhogin is
in charge, and he hates me." "If
Ozhogin dislikes you, then I advise you to get on the next plane. I'm sure
Russian violence is exaggerated, but it serves no one's purpose for you to be
in "After
you ask some questions. You hounded Pasha and me for months. Now you can hound
someone else." "It's
not that simple, as you say." "A
few fucking questions is all I'm asking for." Arkady
gave way to Victor, who opened a ledger from his briefcase and said, "May
I call you Bobby?" He rolled the name like hard candy. "Bobby, there
would be more than one or two questions. We'd have to talk to everyone who saw
Pasha Ivanov last night, his driver and bodyguards, the building staff. Also,
we'd have to review the security tapes." "Ozhogin
won't like that." Arkady
shrugged. "If Ivanov didn't commit suicide, there was a breach in
security." Victor
said, "To do a complete job, we should also talk to his friends." "They
weren't here." "They
knew Ivanov. His friends and the women he was involved with, like the one who
was here last night." "Rina
is a great kid. Very artistic." Victor
gave Arkady a meaningful glance. The detective had once invented a theory
called 'Fuck the Widow', for determining a probable killer on the basis of who
lined up first to console a grieving spouse. "Also, enemies." "Everyone
has enemies. George Washington had enemies." "Not
as many as Pasha," said Arkady. "There were earlier attempts on
Pasha's life. We'd have to check who was involved and where they are. It's not
just a matter of one more day and a few more questions." Victor
dropped a butt in the soda can. "What the investigator wants to know is,
if we make progress, are you going to run and leave us with our pants down and
the moon out?" "If
so, the detective recommends you begin running now," Arkady said.
"Before we start." Bobby
hung on to the sofa. "I'm staying right here." "If
we do start, this is a possible crime scene, and the very first thing is to get
you out of here." "We
have to talk," Victor told Arkady. The
two men retreated to the white runway of the hall. Victor lit a cigarette and
sucked on it like oxygen. "I'm dying. I have heart problems, lung
problems, liver problems. The trouble is, I'm dying too slowly. Once my pension
meant something. Now I have to work until they push me into the grave. I ran
the other day. I thought I heard church bells. It was my chest. They're raising
the price of vodka and tobacco. I don't bother eating anymore. Fifteen brands
of Italian pasta, but who can afford it? So do I really want to spend my final
days playing bodyguard to a dog turd like Bobby Hoffman? Because that's all he
wants us for, bodyguards. And he'll disappear, he'll disappear as soon as he
shakes more money out of Timofeyev. He'll run when we need him most." "He
could have run already." "He's
just driving up the price." "You
said there are good prints on the glasses. Maybe there are some more." "Arkady,
these people are different. It's every man for himself. Ivanov is dead? Good
riddance." "So
you don't think it was suicide?" Arkady asked. "Who
knows? Who cares? Russians used to kill for women or power, real reasons. Now they
kill for money." "The
ruble wasn't really money," Arkady said. "But
we're leaving, right?" Bobby
Hoffman sank into the sofa as they returned. He could read the verdict in their
eyes. Arkady had intended to deliver the bad news and keep going, but he slowed
as bands of sunlight vibrated the length of the room. A person could argue
whether a white decor was timid or bold, Arkady thought, but there was no
denying that Rina had done a professional job. The entire room glowed, and the
chrome of the wet bar cast a shimmering reflection over the photographs of
Pasha Ivanov and his constellation of famous and powerful friends. Ivanov's
world was so far away from the average Russian's that the pictures could have
been taken by a telescope pointed to the stars. This was the closest Arkady had
gotten to NoviRus. He was, for the moment, inside the enemy camp. When
Arkady got to the sofa, Hoffman wrapped his pudgy hands around Arkady's.
"Okay, I took a disk with confidential data from Pasha's computer: shell
companies, bribes, payoffs, bank accounts. It was going to be my insurance, but
I'm spending it on you. I agreed to give it back when you're done. That's the
deal I made with Ozhogin and Zurin, the disk for a few days of your help. Don't
ask me where it is, it's safe. So you were right, I'm a venal slob. Big news.
Know why I'm doing this? I couldn't go back to my place. I didn't have the
strength, and I couldn't sleep, either, so I just sat here. In the middle of
the night, I heard this rubbing. I thought it was mice and got a flashlight and
walked around the apartment. No mice. But I still heard them. Finally I went
down to the lobby to ask the receptionist. He wasn't at his desk, though. He
was outside with the doorman, on their hands and knees with brushes and bleach,
scrubbing blood off the sidewalk. They did it, there's not a spot left. That's
what I'd been hearing from ten stories up, the scrubbing. I know it's
impossible, but that's what I heard. And I thought to myself, Renko: there's a
son of a bitch who'd hear the scrubbing. That's who I want." Chapter ThreeIn
the black-and-white videotape, the two Mercedeses rolled up to the street
security camera, and bodyguards – large men further inflated by the armored
vests they wore under their suits – deployed from the chase car to the building
canopy. Only then did the lead car's driver trot around to open the curbside
door. A
digital clock rolled in a corner of the tape. 2128. 2129. 2130. Finally Pasha
Ivanov unfolded from the rear seat. He looked more disheveled than the dynamic
Ivanov of the apartment photo gallery. Arkady had questioned the driver, who
had told him that Ivanov hadn't said a word all the way from the office to the
apartment, not even on a mobile phone. Something
amused Ivanov. Two dachshunds strained on their leashes to sniff his attachй
case. Although the tape was silent, Arkady read Ivanov's lips: Puppies?
he asked the owner. When the dogs had passed, Ivanov clutched the attachй to
his chest and went into the building. Arkady switched to the lobby tape. The
marble lobby was so brightly lit that everyone wore halos. The doorman and
receptionist wore jackets with braid over not too obvious holsters. Once the
doorman activated the call button with a key, he stayed at Ivanov's side while
Ivanov used a handkerchief, and when the elevator doors opened, Arkady went to
the elevator tape. He had already interviewed the operator, a former Kremlin
guard, white-haired but hard as a sandbag. Arkady
asked whether he and Ivanov had talked. The operator said, "I trained on
the Kremlin staircase. Big men don't make small talk." On
the tape, Ivanov punched a code into the keypad and, as the doors opened,
turned to the elevator camera. The camera's fish-bowl lens made his face disproportionately
huge, eyes drowning in shadow above the handkerchief he held against his nose.
Maybe he had Timofeyev's summer cold. Ivanov finally moved through the open
doors, and Arkady was reminded of an actor rushing to the stage, now
hesitating, now rushing again. The time on the tape was 2133. Arkady
switched tapes, back to the street camera, and forwarded to 2147. The pavement
was clear, the two cars were still at the curb, the lights of traffic filtering
by. At 2148 a blur from above slapped the pavement. The doors of the chase car
flew open, and the guards poured out to form a defensive circle on the pavement
around what could have been a heap of rags with legs. One man raced into the
building, another knelt to feel Ivanov's neck, while the driver of the sedan
ran around it to open a rear door. The man taking Ivanov's pulse, or lack of
it, shook his head while the doorman moved into view, arms wide in disbelief.
That was it, the Pasha Ivanov movie, a story with a beginning and an end but no
middle. Arkady
rewound and watched frame by frame. Ivanov's
upper body dropped from the top of the screen, shoulder hitched to take the
brunt of the fall. His
head folded from the force of the impact even as his legs entered the frame. Upper
and lower body collapsed into a ring of dust that exploded from the pavement. Pasha
Ivanov settled as the doors of the chase car swung open and, in slow motion,
the guards swam around his body. Arkady
watched to see whether any of the security team, while they were in the car and
before Ivanov came out of the sky, glanced up; then he watched for anything
like the saltshaker dropping with Ivanov or shaken loose by the force of the
fall. Nothing. And then he watched to see whether any of the guards picked up
anything afterward. No one did. They stood on the pavement, as useful as potted
plants.
The doorman on
duty kept looking up. He said, "I was in Special Forces, so I've seen
parachutes that didn't deploy and bodies you scraped off the ground, but
someone coming out of the sky here? And Ivanov, of all people. A good guy, I
have to say, a generous guy. But what if he'd hit the doorman, did he think
about that? Now a pigeon goes overhead and I duck." "Your
name?" Arkady asked. "Kuznetsov,
Grisha." Grisha still had the army stamp on him. Wary around officers. "You
were on duty two days ago?" "The
day shift. I wasn't here at night, when it happened, so I don't know what I can
tell you." "Just
walk me around, if you would." "Around
what?" "The
building, front to back." "For
a suicide? Why?" "Details." "Details,"
Grisha muttered as the traffic went by. He shrugged. "Okay." The
building was short-staffed on weekends, Grisha said, only him, the receptionist
and the passenger elevator man. Weekdays, there were two other men for repairs,
working the service door and service elevator, picking up trash. Housecleaners
on weekdays, too, if residents requested. Ivanov didn't. Everyone had been
vetted, of course. Security cameras covered the street, lobby, passenger
elevator and service alley. At the back of the lobby Grisha tapped in a code on
a keypad by a door with a sign that said staff only. The door eased open, and
Grisha led Arkady into an area that consisted of a changing room with lockers,
sink, microwave; toilet; mechanical room with furnace and hot-water heater;
repair shop where two older men Grisha identified as Fart A and Fart B were
intently threading a pipe; residents' storage area for rugs, skis and such,
ending in a truck bay. Every door had a keypad and a different code. Grisha
said, "You ought to go to NoviRus Security. Like an underground bunker.
They've got everything there: building layout, codes, the works." "Good
idea." NoviRus Security was the last place Arkady wanted to be. "Can
you open the bay?" Light
poured in as the gate rolled up, and Arkady found himself facing a service
alley wide enough to accommodate a moving van. Dumpsters stood along the brick
wall that was the back of shorter, older buildings facing the next street over.
There were, however, security cameras aimed at the alley from the bay where
Arkady and Grisha stood, and from the new buildings on either side. There was
also a green-and-black motorcycle standing under a No Parking sign. Something
about the way the doorman screwed up his face made Arkady ask,
"Yours?" "Parking
around here is a bitch. Sometimes I can find a place and sometimes I can't, but
the Farts won't let me use the bay. Excuse me." As they walked to the
bike, Arkady noticed a cardboard sign taped to the saddle: don't touch this
bike, I am watching you. Grisha borrowed a pen from Arkady and underlined
"watching." "That's better." "Quite
a machine." "A
Arkady
noticed a pedestrian door next to the bay. Each entry had a separate keypad.
"Do people park here?" "No,
the Farts are all over them, too." "Saturday,
when the mechanics weren't on duty?" "When
we're short-staffed? Well, we can't leave our post every time a car stops in
the alley. We give them ten minutes, and then we chase them out." "Did
that happen this Saturday?" "When
Ivanov jumped? I'm not on at night." "I
understand, but during your shift, did you or the receptionist notice anything
unusual in the alley?" Grisha
took a while to think. "No. Besides, the back is locked tight on
Saturdays. You'd need a bomb to get in." "Or
a code." "You'd
still be seen by the camera. We'd notice." "I'm
sure. You were in front?" "At
the canopy, yes." "People
were going in and out?" "Residents
and guests." "Anyone
carrying salt?" "How
much salt?" "Bags
and bags of salt." "No." "Ivanov
wasn't bringing home salt day after day? No salt leaking from his
briefcase?" "No." "I
have salt on the brain, don't I?" "Yeah."
Said slowly. "I
should do something about that."
The Arbat was a
promenade of outdoor musicians, sketch artists and souvenir stalls that sold
strands of amber, nesting dolls of peasant women, retro posters of Stalin. Dr.
Novotny's office was above a cybercafe. She told Arkady that she was about to
retire on the money she would make selling to developers who planned to put in
a Greek restaurant. Arkady liked the office as it was, a drowsy room with
overstuffed chairs and Kandinsky prints, bright splashes of color that could
have been windmills, bluebirds, cows. Novotny was a brisk seventy, her face a
mask of lines around bright dark eyes. "I
first saw Pasha Ivanov a little more than a year ago, the first week in May. He
seemed typical of our new entrepreneurs. Aggressive, intelligent, adaptable;
the last sort to seek psychotherapy. They are happy to send in their wives or
mistresses; it's popular for the women, like feng shui, but the men rarely come
in themselves. In fact, he missed his last four sessions, although he insisted
on paying for them." "Why
did he choose you?" "Because
I'm good." "Oh."
Arkady liked a woman who came straight to the point. "Ivanov
said he had trouble sleeping, which is always the way they start. They say they
want a pill to help them sleep, but what they want me to prescribe is a mood
elevator, which I am willing to do only as part of a broader therapy. We met
once a week. He was entertaining, highly articulate, possessed of enormous
self-confidence. At the same time, he was very secretive in certain areas, his
business dealings for one, and, unfortunately, whatever was the cause of
his..." "Depression
or fear?" Arkady asked. "Both,
if you need to put it that way. He was depressed, and he was afraid." "Did
he mention enemies?" "Not
by name. He said that ghosts were after him." Novotny opened a box of
cigars, took one, peeled off the cellophane and slipped the cigar band over her
finger. "I'm not saying that he believed in ghosts." "Aren't
you?" "No.
What I'm saying is that he had a past. A man like him gets to where he is by
doing many remarkable things, some of which he might later regret." Arkady
described the scene at Ivanov's apartment. The doctor said that the broken
mirror certainly could have been an expression of self-loathing, and jumping
from a window was a man's way out. ''However, the two most usual motives of
suicide for men are financial and emotional, often evidenced as atrophied
libido. Ivanov had wealth and a healthy sexual relationship with his friend
Rina." "He
used Viagra." "Rina
is much younger." "And
his physical health?" "For
a man his age, good." "He
didn't mention an infection or a cold?" "No." "Did
the subject of salt ever come up?" "No." "The
floor of his closet was covered with salt." "That
is interesting." "But
you say he recently missed some sessions." "A
month's worth, and sporadically before then." "Did
he mention any attempts on his life?" Novotny
turned the cigar band around her finger. "Not in so many words. He said he
had to stay a step ahead." "A
step ahead of ghosts, or someone real?" "Ghosts
can be very real. In Ivanov's case, however, I think he was pursued by both
ghosts and someone real." "Do
you think he was suicidal?" "Yes.
At the same time, he was a survivor." "Do
you think, considering everything, he killed himself?" "He
could have. Did he? You're the investigator." Her face shifted into a
sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help you more. Would you
like a cigar? It's Cuban." "No,
thank you. Do you smoke?" "When
I was a girl, all the modern, interesting women smoked cigars. You'd look good
with a cigar. One more thing, Investigator. I got the impression that there was
a cyclical nature to Ivanov's bouts of depression. Always in the spring, always
early in May. In fact, right after May Day. But I must confess, May Day always
deeply depressed me, too."
It wasn't easy
to find an unfashionable restaurant among the Irish pubs and sushi bars in the
center of Victor
said, "Dr. Toptunova said she didn't autopsy suicides. I asked her, 'What
about your curiosity, your professional pride? What about poisons or
psychotropic drugs?' She said they'd have to do biopsies, tests, waste the
precious resources of the state. We agreed on fifty dollars. I figure Hoffman
is good for that." "Toptunova
is a butcher." Arkady really didn't want to look at the pictures. "You
don't find Louis Pasteur doing autopsies for the militia. Thank God she
operates on the dead. Anyway, she says Ivanov broke his neck. Fuck your mother,
I could have told them that. And if it hadn't been his neck, it would have been
his skull. Drugwise, he was clean, although she thought he had ulcers from the
condition of his stomach. There was one odd thing. In his stomach? Bread and
salt." "Salt?" "A
lot of salt and just enough bread to get it down." "She
didn't mention anything about his complexion?" "What
was to mention? It was mainly one big bruise. I questioned the doorman and
lobby receptionist again. They have the same story: no problems, no breach.
Then some guy with dachshunds tried to pick me up. I showed him my ID to shake
him up, you know, and he says, 'Oh, are they having another security check?'
Saturday the building staff shut down the elevator and went to every apartment
to check who was in. The guy was still upset. His dachshunds couldn't wait and
had a little accident." "Which
means there was a breach. When did they do this check?" Victor
consulted his notebook. "Eleven-ten in the morning at his place. He's on
the ninth floor, and I think they worked their way down." "Good
work." Arkady couldn't imagine who would want to pick up Victor, but
applause was indicated. "A
different subject." Victor laid down a picture of two buckets and mops.
"These I found in the lobby of the building across from Ivanov's.
Abandoned, but the name of the cleaning service was on them, and I found who
left them. Vietnamese. They didn't see Ivanov dive; they ran when they saw
militia cars, because they're illegals." Menial
tasks that Russians wouldn't do, Vietnamese would. They came as "guest
workers" and went into hiding when their visas expired. Their wardrobe was
the clothes on their back, their accommodations a workers' hostel, their family
connection the money they sent home once a month. Arkady could understand
laborers who slipped into the golden tent of "There's
more." Victor picked macaroni off his chest. The detective had changed his
gray sweater for one of caterpillar orange. He licked his fingers clean,
gathered the photos and replaced them with a file that said in red: not to be
removed from this office. "Dossiers
on the four attempts on Ivanov's life. This is rich. First attempt was a
doorway shooting here in "Second
attempt is hearsay, but everyone swears it's true. Ivanov rigged an auction for
some ships in "Third:
Ivanov took the train to "Fourth,
and this is the best: Ivanov is in the South of France with friends. They're
all zipping back and forth on Jet Skis, the way rich people carry on. Hoffman
gets on Ivanov's Jet Ski, and it sinks. It flips upside down, and guess what's
stuck to the bottom, a little limpet of plastique ready to explode. The French
police had to clear the harbor. See, that's what gives Russian tourists a bad
name." "Who
were Ivanov's friends?" Arkady asked. "Leonid
Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch, his very best friends. And one of them probably
tried to kill him." "Was
there an investigation?" "Are
you joking? You know our chances of even saying hello to any of these
gentlemen? Anyway, that was three years ago, and nothing has happened
since." "Fingerprints?" "Worst
for last. We got prints off all the drinking glasses. Just Ivanov's,
Timofeyev's, Zurin's and the girl's." "What
about Pasha's mobile phone? He always had a mobile phone." "We're
not positive." "Find
the mobile phone. Ivanov's driver said he had one." "While
you're doing what?" "Colonel
Ozhogin has arrived." "The
Colonel Ozhogin?" "That's
right." Victor
saw things in a different light. "I'll look for the mobile phone." "The
head of NoviRus Security wants to consult." "He
wants to consult your balls on a toothpick. If Ivanov was pushed, how does that
make the head of security look? Did you ever see Ozhogin wrestle? I saw him in
an all-republic tournament – he broke his opponent's arm. You could hear it
snap across the hall. You know, even if we did find a mobile phone, Ozhogin
would take it away. He answers to Timofeyev now. The king is dead, long live
the king." Victor lit a cigarette as a digestif. "The thing about
capitalism, it seems to me, is, a business partner has the perfect combination
of motive and opportunity for murder. Oh hey, I got something for you."
Victor came up with a plastic phone card. "What's
this for? A free call?" Arkady knew that Victor had strange ways of
sharing a bill. "No.
Well, I don't know, but what it's great for..." Victor jimmied the card
between two fingers. "Locks. Not dead bolts, but you'd be amazed. I got
one, and I got one for you, too. Put it in your wallet." "Almost
like money." Two
young men settled at the next table with bowls of ravioli. They wore the
jackets and stringy ties of office workers. They also had the shaved skulls and
scabby knuckles of skinheads, which meant they might be office drudges during
the day, but at night they led an intoxicating life of violence patterned on
Nazi storm troopers and British hooligans. One
gave Arkady a glare and said, "What are you looking at? What are you, a
pervert?" Victor
brightened. "Hit him, Arkady. Go ahead, hit the punk, I'll back you
up." "No,
thanks," Arkady said. "A
little fisticuffs, a little dustup," Victor said. "Go on, you can't
let him talk like that. We're a block from headquarters, you'll let the whole
side down." "If
he doesn't, he's a queer," the skinhead said. "If
you won't, I will." Victor started to rise. Arkady
pulled him back by his sleeve. "Let it go." "You've
gone soft, Arkady, you've changed." "I
hope so."
Ozhogin's office
was minimalist: a glass desk, steel chairs, gray
tones. A full-size model of a samurai in black lacquered armor, mask and horns
stood in a corner. The colonel himself, although he was packaged in a tailored
shirt and silk tie, still had the heavy shoulders and small waist of a
wrestler. After having Arkady sit, Ozhogin let the tension percolate. Colonel
Ozhogin actually had two pedigrees. First, he was a wrestler from The
colonel slid a form and clipboard across the desk. "What's
this?" Arkady asked. "Take
a look." The
form was a NoviRus employment application, with spaces for name, age, sex,
marriage status, address, military service, education, advanced degrees.
Applying for: banking, investment fund, brokerage, gas, oil, media, marine,
forest resources, minerals, security, translation and interpreting. The group was
especially interested in applicants fluent in English, MS Office, Excel;
familiar with Reuters, Bloomberg, RTS; IT literate; with advanced degrees in
sciences, accounting, interpreting/translation, law or combat skills; under
thirty-five a plus. Arkady had to admit, he wouldn't have hired himself. He
pushed the form back. "No, thanks." "You
don't want to fill it out? That's disappointing." "Why?" "Because
there are two possible reasons for you being here. A good reason would be that
you've finally decided to join the private sector. A bad reason would be that
you won't leave Pasha Ivanov's death alone. Why are you trying to turn a
suicide into a homicide?" "I'm
not. Prosecutor Zurin asked me to look into this for Hoffman, the
American." "Who
got the idea from you that there was something to find." Ozhogin paused,
obviously working up to a delicate subject. "How do you think it makes
NoviRus Security look if people get the idea we can't protect the head of our
own company?" "If
he took his own life, you can hardly be blamed." "Unless
there are questions." "I
would like to talk to Timofeyev." "That's
out of the question." Besides
an open laptop, the sole item on the desk was a metal disk levitating over
another disk in a box. Magnets. The floating disk trembled with every forceful
word. Arkady
began, "Zurin –" "Prosecutor
Zurin? Do you know how all this began, what your investigation of NoviRus was
all about? It was a shakedown. Zurin just wanted to be enough of a nuisance to be
paid off, and not even in money. He wanted to get on the board of directors.
And I'm sure he'll be an excellent director. But it was extortion, and you were
part of it. What would people think of the honest Investigator Renko if they
heard how you had helped your chief? What would happen to your precious
reputation then?" "I
didn't know I had one." "Of
a sort. You should fill out the application. Do you know that over fifty
thousand KGB and militia officers have joined private security firms? Who's
left in the militia? The dregs. I had your friend Victor researched. It's in
his file that on one stakeout he was so drunk, he went to sleep and pissed in
his pants. Maybe you'll end up like that." Arkady
glanced out the window. They were on the fifteenth floor of the NoviRus
building, with a view of office towers under construction; the skyline of the
future. "Look
behind you," Ozhogin said. Arkady turned to take in the samurai armor and
helmet with mask and horns. "What does that look like to you?" "A
giant beetle?" "A
samurai warrior. When "Not
this morning, no. Missed it." "There
was a considerable obituary for Pasha Ivanov. The Post called Pasha a
'linchpin figure' in Russian business. Have you considered the effect a rumor
of homicide would have? It would not only harm NoviRus, it would damage every
Russian company and bank that has struggled to escape "No." "I
didn't think so. And as for your financial investigation of NoviRus, didn't the
fact that Zurin chose you as investigator suggest to you that he wasn't
serious?" "It
crossed my mind." "It's
laughable. A pair of worn-out criminal detectives against an army of financial
wizards." "It
doesn't sound fair." "Now
that Pasha is dead, it's time to let go. Call it a draw if you want. Pasha
Ivanov came to a sorry end. Why? I don't know. It's a great loss. However, he
never asked for any increase in security. I interviewed the building staff.
There was no breach." Ozhogin leaned closer, a hammer taking aim on a
nail, Arkady thought. "If there was no breach in security, then there's
nothing to investigate. Is that clear enough for you?" "There
was salt –" "I
heard about the salt. What sort of attack is that? The salt is an indication of
a mental breakdown, pure and simple." "Unless
there was a breach." "I
just told you there wasn't." "That's
what investigations are for." "Are
you saying there was a breach?" "It's
possible. Ivanov died under strange circumstances." Ozhogin
edged closer. "Are you suggesting that NoviRus Security was, to any
degree, responsible for Ivanov's death?" Arkady
picked his words carefully. "Building security wasn't all that
sophisticated. No card swipes or voice or palm ID, just codes, nothing like the
security at the offices here. And a skeleton crew on weekends." "Because
Ivanov moved into an apartment meant for his friend Rina. She designed it. He
didn't want any changes. Nevertheless, we staffed the building with our men,
put in unobtrusive keypads, fed the surveillance cameras to our own monitors
here at NoviRus Security and, any hour he was home, parked a security team in
front. There was nothing more we could do. Besides, Pasha never mentioned a
threat." "That's
what we'll investigate." Ozhogin
brought his brows together, perplexed. He had pushed his opponent's head
through the wrestling mat, but the match went on. "You're stopping
now." "It's
up to Hoffman to call it off." "He'll
do what you say. Tell him that you're satisfied." "There's
something missing." "What?" "I
don't know." "You
don't know, you don't know." Ozhogin reached out and tapped the disk so it
fluttered in the air. "Who's the boy?" "What
boy?" "You
took a boy to the park." "You're
watching me." Ozhogin
seemed saddened by such naivetй in a Russian. He said, "Pack it in, Renko.
Tell your fat American friend that Pasha Ivanov committed suicide. Then why
don't you come back and fill out the form?"
Arkady found
Rina curled up in a bathrobe in Ivanov's screening room, a vodka bottle hanging
from one hand and a cigarette from the other. Her hair was wet and clung to her
head, making her appear even more childlike than usual. On the screen Pasha
rose in the elevator, floor by floor, briefcase clasped to his chest,
handkerchief to his face. He seemed exhausted, as if he had climbed a hundred
stories. When the doors parted, he looked back at the camera. The system had a
zoom capacity. Rina froze and magnified Pasha's face so that it filled the
screen, his hair lank, his cheeks almost powdery white, his black eyes sending
their obscure message. "That
was for me. That was his good-bye." Rina shot Arkady a glance. "You
don't believe me. You think it's romantic bullshit." "At
least half of what I believe is romantic bullshit, so I'm not one to criticize.
Anything else?" "He
was sick. I don't know with what. He wouldn't see a doctor." Rina put down
her cigarette and pulled the robe tight. "The elevator operator let me in.
Your detective was going out as I came in, looking pleased with himself." "A
gruesome image." "I
heard Bobby hired you." "He
offered to. I didn't know the market price for an investigator." "You're
no Pasha, He would have known." "I
tried to reach Timofeyev. He's not available. I suppose he's picking up the
reins of the company, taking charge." "He's
no Pasha, either. You know, business in Arkady
took the seat beside her and relieved her of the vodka. "You designed this
apartment for him?" "I
designed it for both of us, but all of a sudden, Pasha said I shouldn't
stay." "You
never moved in?" "Lately
Pasha wouldn't even let me in the door. At first I thought there was another
woman. But he didn't want anyone here. Not Bobby, no one." Rina wiped her
eyes. "He became paranoid. I'm sorry I'm so stupid." "Not
a bit." The
robe fell open again, and she pushed herself back in. "I like you,
Investigator. You don't look. You have manners." Arkady
had manners, but he was also aware of how loosely tied the robe was. "Did
you know of any recent business setback? Anything financial that could have
been on his mind?" "Pasha
was always making deals. And he didn't mind losing money now and then. He said
it was the price of education." "Anything
else medical? Depression?" "We
didn't have sex for the last month, if that counts. I don't know why. He just
stopped." She stubbed out one cigarette and started another off Arkady's.
"You're probably wondering how a nobody like me and someone as rich and
famous as Pasha could meet. How would you guess?" "You're
an interior designer. I suppose you designed something for him besides this
apartment." "Don't
be silly. I was a prostitute. Design student and prostitute, a person of many
talents. I was in the bar at the Savoy Hotel. It's a fancy place, and you have
to fit in, you can't just sit there like any whore. I was pretending to carry
on a mobile-phone conversation when Pasha came over and asked for my number so
I could talk to someone real. Then, from across the bar, he called. I thought,
What a big ugly Jew. He was, you know. But he had so much energy, so much
charm. He knew everybody, he knew things. He asked about my interests – the
usual stuff, you know, but he really listened, and he even knew about design.
Then he asked how much I owed my roof – you know, my pimp – because Pasha said
he would pay him off, set me up in an apartment and pay for design school. He
was serious. I asked him why, and he said because he could see I was a good
person. Would you do that? Would you bet on someone like that?" "I
don't think so." "Well,
that was Pasha." She took a long draw on her cigarette. "How
old are you now?" "Twenty." "And
you met Pasha..." "Three
years ago. When we were talking on the phone at the bar, I asked if he
preferred a redhead, because I could be that, too. He said life was too short,
I should be whatever I was." The
longer Arkady stared at the screen, at Pashas hesitation on the threshold of
his apartment, the less he looked like a man afraid of a black mood. He seemed
to dread something more substantial waiting for him. "Did
Pasha have enemies?" "Naturally.
Maybe hundreds, but nothing serious." "Death
threats?" "Not
from anyone worth worrying about." "There
were attempts in the past." "That's
what Colonel Ozhogin is for. Pasha did say one thing. He said he had once done
something long ago that was really bad and that I wouldn't love him if I knew.
That was the drunkest I ever saw him. He wouldn't tell me what and he never
mentioned it again." "Who
did know?" "I
think Lev Timofeyev knew. He said no, but I could tell. It was their
secret." "How
they stripped investors of their money?" "No."
Her voice tightened. "Something awful. He was always worse around May Day.
I mean, who cares about May Day anymore?" She wiped her eyes with her
sleeve. "Why don't you think he killed himself?" "I
don't think one way or the other; I just haven't come across a good enough
reason for him to. Ivanov was clearly not a man who frightened easily." "See,
even you admired him." "Do
you know Leonid Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch?" "Of
course. They're two of our best friends. We have good times together." "They're
busy men, I'm sure, but can you think of any way I could talk to them? I could
try official channels, but to be honest, they know more officials than I
do." "No
problem. Come to the party." "What
party?" "Every
year Pasha threw a party out at the dacha. It's tomorrow. Everyone will be
there." "Pasha
is dead and you're still having the party?" "Pasha
founded the Blue Sky Charity for children. It depends financially on the party,
so everyone knows that Pasha would want the party to go on." Arkady
had come across Blue Sky during the investigation. Its operating expenses were
minute compared to other Ivanov ventures, and he had assumed it was a fraud.
"How does this party raise money?" "You'll
see. I'll put you on the list, and tomorrow you'll see everyone who's anyone in
"I
don't look like a millionaire?" She
shifted, the better to see him. "No, you definitely look like an
investigator. I can't have you stalking around, not good for a party mood. But
many people will bring their children. Can you bring a child? You must know a
child." "I
might." Arkady
turned on the chair's light for her to write directions in. She did it
studiously, pressing hard, and, as soon as she was done, turned off the light. "I
think I'll stay here by myself for a while. What's your name again?" "Renko." "No,
I mean your name." "Arkady." She
repeated it, seeming to try it out and find it acceptable. As he rose to go,
she brushed his hand with hers. "Arkady, I take it back. You do remind me
of Pasha a tiny bit." "Thank
you," said Arkady. He didn't ask whether she was referring to the
brilliant, gregarious Pasha or the Pasha facedown on the street. Arkady
and Victor had a late dinner at a car-wash cafй on the highway. Arkady liked
the place because it looked like a space station of chrome and glass, with
headlights flying by like comets. The food was fast, the beer was German and
something worthwhile was being attempted: Victor's car was being washed. Victor
drove a forty-year-old Lada with loose wiring underfoot and a radio wired to
the dash, but he could repair it himself with spare parts available in any
junkyard, and no self-respecting person would steal it. There was something
smug and miserly about Victor when he drove, as if he had figured out one
bare-bones sexual position. Among the ranks of Mercedeses, Porsches and BMWs
being hosed and buffed, Victor's Lada was singular. Victor
drank Armenian brandy to maintain his blood sugar. He liked the cafй because it
was popular with the different Mafias. They were Victor's acquaintances, if not
his friends, and he liked to keep track of their comings and goings. "I've
arrested three generations of the same family. Grandfather, father, son. I feel
like Uncle Victor." Two
identical black Pathfinders showed up and disgorged similar sets of beefy
passengers in jogging suits. They glared at each other long enough to maintain
dignity before sauntering into the cafй. Victor
said, "It's neutral ground because nobody wants his car scratched. That's
their mentality. Your mentality, on the other hand, is even more warped. Making
work out of an open-and-shut suicide? I don't know. Investigators are supposed
to just sit on their ass and leave real work to their detectives. They last
longer, too." "I've
lasted too long." "Apparently.
Well, cheer up, I have a little gift for you, something I found under Ivanov's
bed." Victor placed a mobile phone, a Japanese clamshell model, on the
table. "Why
were you under the bed?" "You
have to think like a detective. People place things on the edge of the bed all
the time. They drop, and people kick them under the bed and never notice, especially
if they're in a hurry or in a sweat." "How
did Ozhogin's crew miss this?" "Because
everything they wanted was in the office." Arkady
suspected that Victor just liked to look under beds. "Thank you. Have you
looked at it yet?" "I
took a peek. Go ahead, open it up." Victor sat back as if he'd brought
bonbons. The
mobile phone's introductory chime drew no attention from other tables; in a
space-age cafй, a mobile phone was as normal as a knife or fork. Arkady went
through the call history to Saturday evenings outgoing calls to Rina and Bobby
Hoffman; the incoming calls were from Hoffman, Rina and Timofeyev. A
little phone, and yet so much information: a wireless message concerning an
Ivanov tanker foundering off Victor
copied the names into a notepad. "What a world these people live in.
Here's a number that gives you the weather in Arkady
punched "Messages." There
was one at 9:33 p.m. from a "A
man of few words. Familiar?" Arkady handed the phone to Victor. The
detective listened and shook his head. "A tough guy. From the South, you
can hear the soft O's. But I can't hear well enough. All the people talking
here. Glasses tinkling." "If
anyone can do it..." Victor
listened again, the mobile phone pressed tight to his ear, until he smiled like
a man who had identified one wine from a million. "Anton. Anton
Obodovsky." Arkady
knew Anton. He could imagine Anton throwing someone out a window. The
tension was too great for Victor. "Got to pee." Arkady
sat alone, nursing his beer. Another crew in jogging suits pushed into the
cafй, as if the roads were full of surly sportsmen. Arkady's gaze kept
returning to the mobile phone. It would be interesting to know whether the
phone Anton had called from was within fifteen minutes of Ivanov's apartment.
It was a landline number. He knew he should wait for Victor, but the detective
could take half an hour just to avoid the bill. Arkady
picked up the mobile phone and pushed "Reply to Message." Ten
rings. "Guards
room." Arkady
sat up. "Guards' room? Where?" "Butyrka.
Who is this?"
By the time
Victor returned, Arkady was outside in the Lada, which proved unredeemed by
soap. A wind bent the advertising banners along the highway and snapped the
canvas. Each car that buzzed past rocked the Lada. Victor
got behind the wheel. "I'll drive you back to your car. You paid the whole
thing? What a friend!" "You
know, with the money you've saved eating with me, you could buy a new
car." "Come
on, I'm worth it, getting the mobile phone and sharing my repository of
knowledge. My head is a veritable Lenin Library." Mice
and all, Arkady thought. As Victor pulled onto the highway, Arkady told him
about the return call to Anton, which amused the detective immensely. "Butyrka!
Now, there's an alibi." Chapter FourThe
address on Butyrka Street was a five-story building of aluminum windows, busted
shades and dead geraniums, ordinary in every way except for the line that
snaked along the sidewalk: Gypsies in brilliant scarves, Chechens in black and
Russians in thin leather jackets, mutually hostile as groups but alike in their
forlorn bearing and the parcels that, one by one, they dutifully submitted at a
steel door for the thousands of souls hidden on the other side. Arkady
showed his ID at the door and passed through a barred gate to the
underbelly of the building, a tunnel where guards in military fatigues lounged
with their dogs, Alsatians that constantly referred to their handlers for
orders. Let this one pass. Take this one down. The far end opened onto the
morning light and – totally hidden from the street – a fairy-tale fortress with
red walls and towers surrounded by a whitewashed courtyard; all that was
missing was a moat. Not quite a fairy tale, more a nightmare. Butyrka Prison
had been built by Catherine the Great, and for over two hundred years since,
every ruler of Since
Butyrka was a pretrial prison, investigators were a common sight. Arkady
followed a guard through a receiving hall where new arrivals, boys as pale as
plucked chickens, were stripped and thrown their prison clothes. Wide eyes
fixed on the hall's ancient coffin cells, barely deep enough to sit in, a good
place for a monk's mortification and an excellent way to introduce the horror
of being buried alive. Arkady
climbed marble stairs swaybacked from wear. Nets stretched between railings to
discourage jumping and passing notes. On the second floor, light crept from low
windows and gave the impression of sinking, or eyelids shutting. The guard led
Arkady along a row of ancient black doors with iron patchwork, each with a
panel for food and a peephole for observation. "I'm
new here. I think it's this one," the guard said. "I think." Arkady
swung a peephole tag out of the way. On the other side of the door were fifty
men in a cell designed for twenty. They were sniffers, lifters, petty thieves.
They slept in shifts in the murk of a caged lightbulb and a barred window.
There was no circulation, no fresh air, only the stench of sweat, pearl
porridge, cigarettes and shit in the single toilet. In the heat they generated,
everyone stripped to the waist, young ones virginally white, veterans blue with
tattoos. A tubercular cough and a whisper hung in the air. A few heads turned
to the blink of the peephole, but most simply waited. A man could wait nine
months in Butyrka before he saw a judge. "No?
This one?" The guard motioned Arkady to the next door. Arkady
peeked into the cell. It was the same size as the other but held a single
occupant, a bodybuilder with short bleached-blond hair and a taut black
T-shirt. He was exercising with elastic bands that were attached to a bunk bed
bolted to the wall, and every time he curled a bicep, the bed groaned. "This
is it," Arkady said.
Anton Obodovsky
was a Mafia success story. He had been a Master of Sport, a so-so boxer in the "It's
the bankers who are the real thieves. People bring the money to you, you fuck
them and no one lays a hand on you. I make a hundred thousand dollars, but
bankers and politicians make millions. I'm a worm compared to them." "You're
doing pretty well," Arkady said. The cell had a television, tape player,
CDs. A Pizza Hut box lay under the bottom bunk. The top bunk was stacked with
car magazines, travel brochures, motivational tapes. "How long have you
been here?" "Three
nights. I wish we had satellite. The walls of this place are so thick, the
reception is shit." "Life
is tough." Anton
looked Arkady up and down. "Look at your raincoat. Have you been polishing
your car with that? You should hit the stores with me sometime. It makes me
feel bad that I'm better dressed inside prison than you are out." "I
can't afford to shop with you." "On
me. I can be a generous guy. Everything you see here, I pay for. Everything is legal.
They allow you anything but alcohol, cigarettes or mobile phones." Anton
had a restless, sharklike quality that made him pace. A man could get a stiff
neck just having a conversation with him, Arkady thought. "What's
the worst deprivation?" "I
don't drink or smoke, so for me it's phones." No one consumed phones like
the Mafia; they used stolen mobile phones to avoid being tapped, and a careful
man like Anton changed phones once a week. "You get dependent. It's kind
of a curse." "It's
led to the demise of the written word. You look in the pink." "I
work out. No drugs, no steroids, no hormones." "Cigarette?" "No,
thanks. I just told you, I keep myself strong and pure. I am a slave to
nothing. It's pitiful to see a man like you smoke." "I'm
weak." "Renko,
you've got to take care of yourself. Or other people. Think of the secondary
smoke." "All
right." Arkady put away the pack. He hated to see Anton get worked up.
There were actually three Antons. There was the violent Anton, who would snap
your neck as easily as shake your hand; there was Anton the rational
businessman; and there was the Anton whose eyes took an evasive course when
anything personal was discussed. Most of all, Arkady didn't like to see the
first Anton get excited. Anton
said, "I just think at your age, you shouldn't abuse your body." "At
my age?" "Look,
go fuck yourself, for all I care." "That's
more like it." A
smile crept onto Anton's lips. "See, I can talk to you. We
communicate." Arkady
and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton's prize cell was
available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka's ancient chamber
of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that
such a cell would obviously go to the highest bidder. Both also understood that
while the Mafia ruled the streets, a subcaste of tattooed, geriatric criminals
still ruled the prison yards. If Anton were stuck in an ordinary cell, he would
be a shark in a tank with a thousand piranhas. Anton
couldn't sit still without twitching a pec here, a deltoid there. "You're
a good guy, Renko. We may not see eye to eye, but you always treat a person
with respect. You speak English?" "Yes." Anton
picked up a copy of
Architectural Digest from the bunk and flipped to a picture of a western lodge
set against a mountain range. " "Can
you ride a horse?" "Is
that necessary?" "I
think so." "I
can learn. I'll give you the money. Cash. You go and negotiate, pay whatever
you think is fair. It could be a beautiful partnership. You have an honest
face." "I
appreciate the offer. Did you hear that Pasha Ivanov is dead?" "I
saw the news on television. He jumped, right? Ten stories, what a way to
go." "Did
you know him?" "Me
know Ivanov? That's like knowing God." "You
left a message on his mobile phone three nights ago about cutting off his dick.
That sounds like you knew him fairly well. It might even sound like a
threat." "I'm
not allowed a phone here, so how could I call?" "You
bribed a guard and called from the guards' room." Anton
got to his feet and threw punches as if hitting a heavy bag. "Well, like
they say, there's a crow in every flock." He stopped and shook out his
arms. "Anyway, if I called Pasha Ivanov, what about?" "Business.
Somebody has been jacking NoviRus Oil trucks and draining the tanks. It's
happening in your part of Anton
circled again, throwing jabs, crosses, uppercuts. He backed, covered up, seemed
to dodge a punch and then moved forward, rolling his shoulders and snapping
jabs while the cell got smaller and smaller. Anton may not have been a
champion, but when he was in motion, he took up a lot of room. Finally he dropped
his fists and blew air. "He has this prick in charge of security, a former
colonel from the KGB. They caught one of my boys with one of their trucks and
broke his legs. That's overreaction. It put me in a difficult situation. If I
didn't retaliate, my boys would break my legs. But I don't want a war. I'm sick
of that. Instead, I wanted to go straight to the top, and also make a point
about the colonel's bullshit security by calling Ivanov on his personal phone.
I said what I said. It was an opening line; maybe a little crude, but it was
meant to begin a dialogue. I have body shops, tanning salons, a restaurant. I'm
a respectable businessman. I would have loved to work with Pasha Ivanov, to
learn at his knee." "What
was the favor? What did you have to offer him?" "Protection." "Naturally." "Anyway,
I never got through and never saw him face-to-face. It seems to me, when Pasha
died I was right here, and that phone call proves it." "Pretty
lucky." "I
live right." Anton was modest. "What
did they pick you up for?" "Possession
of firearms." "That's
all?" A
firearms charge was nothing. Since Anton always had a lawyer, judge and bail
money standing by, there was no good reason for him to spend an hour in jail,
unless he was waiting for some bumbling investigator to come along and
officially mark how innocent Anton Obodovsky was. Arkady didn't want to provoke
the dangerous side of Anton, but he also didn't like being used. Anton
grabbed some travel brochures off the bunk. "Hey, as soon as I'm out, I'm
going on holiday. Where would you suggest? "You
want creature comforts? Quiet? Gourmet food?" "Yeah." "A
staff that caters to your every whim?" "Right!" "Why
not stay in Butyrka?"
• • •
Zhenya stared
like a manacled prisoner at what most people would have called an escape to the
country. The population of Arkady
wasn't clear on what good cause benefited from Pasha Ivanov's Blue Sky Charity picnic,
but he did not want to miss the millionaires Nikolai Kuzmitch and Leonid
Maximov. Such dear friends were sure to appear. After all, they had vacationed
with Pasha in "Maybe
there'll be swimming. I brought you a swimsuit just in case," Arkady said,
indicating a gift-wrapped box at the boy's feet. Up till now Zhenya had ignored
it. Now he began crushing it with his heels. Arkady usually kept a pistol in
the glove compartment. He'd had the foresight to remove the magazine; he patted
himself on the back for that. "Or maybe you're a dry-land kind of
man." Even
with cars weaving over the median and the shoulder of the road, traffic
advanced at a snail's pace. "It used to be worse," Arkady said.
"There used to be cars broken down by the side of the road all the way. No
driver left home without a screwdriver and hammer. We didn't know about cars,
but we knew about hammers." Zhenya delivered a last savage kick to the
box. "Also, windshields had so many cracks, you had to hold your head out
the window like a dog to see. What's your favorite car? Maserati?
Moskvich?" A long pause. "My father used to take me down this same
road in a big Zil. There were only two lanes then, and hardly any traffic. We
played chess as we went, although I was never as good as you. Mostly I did
puzzles." A Arkady
hoped the boy might mention a car that could somehow be traced, but Zhenya sank
into his jacket and pulled his cap low. On the side of the road stretched a
memorial of tank traps in the form of giant jacks, marking the closest advance
of the Germans into "There'll
be other kids," Arkady promised. "Games, music, food." Every
card Arkady played was trumped by scorn. He had seen parents in this sort of
quagmire – where every suggestion was a sign of idiocy and no question in the
Russian language merited response – and Arkady, for all the sympathy he
mustered, had always delivered a sigh of relief that he was not the adult on
the cross. So he wasn't quite sure why, now, an unmarried specimen like himself
should have to suffer such contempt. Sociologists were concerned about "It'll
be fun," Arkady said.
Finally Arkady
reached a suburb of fitness clubs, espresso bars, tanning salons. The dachas
here were not traditional cabins with weepy roofs and ramshackle gardens but
prefabricated mansions with Greek columns and swimming pools and security
cameras. Where the road narrowed to a country lane, Ivanov's security guards
waved him to the shoulder behind a line of hulking SUVs. Arkady had on the same
shabby raincoat, and Zhenya looked like a hostage, but the guards found their
names on a list. So as infiltrators, Arkady and Zhenya went through an iron
gate to a dead man's lawn party. The
theme was Outer Space. Pink ponies and blue llamas carried small children
around a ring. A juggler juggled moons. A magician twisted balloons into
Martian dogs. Artists decorated children's faces with sparkle and paint, while
a Venusian, elongated by his planet's weak gravity, strode by on stilts.
Toddlers played under an inflated spaceman tethered to the ground by ropes, and
larger children lined up for tennis and badminton or low-gravity swings on
bungee cables. The guest list was spectacular: broad-shouldered Olympic
swimmers, film stars with carefully disarranged hair, television actors with
dazzling teeth, rock musicians behind dark glasses, famous writers with
wine-sack bellies overhanging their jeans. Arkady's own heart skipped a beat
when he recognized former cosmonauts, heroes of his youth, obviously hired for
the day just for show. Yet the dominating spirit was Pasha Ivanov. A photograph
was set near the entrance gate and hung with a meadow garland of sweet peas and
daisies. It was of a buoyant Ivanov mugging between two circus clowns, and it
as good as gave his guests orders to play, not grieve. The photograph couldn't
have been taken too long before his death, but its subject was so much more
impish and alive than the recent man that it served as a warning to enjoy
life's every moment. The guards at the gate must have phoned ahead, because
Arkady felt a ripple of attention follow his progress through the partygoers,
and the repositioning of men with wires in their ears. Children sticky from
cotton candy raced back and forth. Men collected at grills that served shashlik
of sturgeon and beef in front of Ivanov's dacha, ten times the normal size but
at least a Russian design, not a hijacked Parthenon. A DJ played Russian bubble
gum on one stage, while karaoke ruled a second. Separate bars served champagne,
Johnnie Walker, Courvoisier. The wives were tall, slim women in Italian
fashions and cowboy boots of alligator and ostrich. They positioned themselves
at tables where they could watch both their children and their husbands and
anxiously track a younger generation of even taller, slimmer women filtering
through the crowd. Timofeyev was in a food line with Prosecutor Zurin, who
expectantly scanned the crowd like a periscope. It was not a positive sign that
he looked everywhere but at Arkady. Timofeyev appeared pale and sweaty for a
man about to inherit the reins of the entire NoviRus company. Farther on, Bobby
Hoffman, already yesterday's American, stood alone and nibbled a plate
overheaped with food. An outdoor casino had been set up, and even from a
distance Arkady recognized Nikolai Kuzmitch and Leonid Maximov. They were
youngish men in modest jeans, no Mafia black, no ostentatious gold. The
croupiers appeared real, and so did the chips, but Kuzmitch and Maximov hunched
over the baize like boys at play. Arkady
had to admit that what often distinguished New Russians was youth and brains.
An unusual number of them had been the protйgйs and darlings of prestigious
academies that had gone suddenly bankrupt, and rather than starve among the
ruins, they rebuilt the world with themselves as millionaires, each a biography
of genius and pluck. They saw themselves as the robber barons of the American
Wild West, and didn't someone say that every great fortune started with a
crime? Kuzmitch,
as a student at the The
best example of all had been Pasha Ivanov, a physicist, the pet of the This
was the closest Arkady had ever come to the magic circle of the super-rich, and
he was fascinated in spite of himself. However, Zhenya was miserable. When
Arkady looked at the party through Zhenya's eyes, all color drained. Every
other child was wealthier in parents and self-assurance; a shelter boy was, by
definition, abandoned. The masquerade Arkady had planned was revealing itself
as a cruel and stupid trial. No matter how spiteful or uncommunicative Zhenya
was, he didn't deserve this. "Going
already?" Timofeyev asked. "My
friend isn't feeling well." Arkady nodded at Zhenya. "What
a shame, to be so young and not to enjoy good health." Timofeyev made a
weak effort at a smile. He sniffed and clutched a handkerchief at the ready.
Arkady noticed brown spots on his shirt. "I should have started a charity
like this. I should have done more. Did you know that Pasha and I grew up
together? We went to the same schools, the same scientific institute.
But our tastes were entirely different. I was never the ladies' man. More into
sports. For example, Pasha had a dachshund, and I had wolfhounds." "You
don't anymore?" "Unfortunately,
no, I couldn't. I... What I told the investigation was that we did the best we
could, given the information we had." "What
investigation?" Not Arkady's. "Pasha
said that it wasn't a matter of guilt or innocence, that sometimes a man's life
was simply a chain reaction." "Guilt
for what?" Arkady liked specifics. "Do
I look like a monster to you?" "No."
Arkady thought that Lev Timofeyev may have helped build a financial giant
through corruption and theft, but he was not necessarily a monster. What
Timofeyev looked like was a once hale sportsman who seemed to be shrinking in
his own clothes. Perhaps it was grief over the death of his best friend, but
his pallor and sunken cheeks suggested to Arkady the bloom of disease and,
maybe, fear. Pasha had always been the swashbuckler of the two, although Arkady
remembered that Rina had mentioned some secret crime in the past. "Does
this involve Pasha?" "We
were trying to help. Anyone with the same information would have drawn an
identical conclusion." "Which
was?" "Matters
were in hand, things were under control. We sincerely thought they were." "What
matters?" Arkady was at a loss. Timofeyev seemed to have switched to an
entirely different track. "The
letter said apologize personally, face-to-face. Who would that be?" "Do
you have it?" Rina
called out from the casino. She shone in a silver jumpsuit in the spirit of the
day. "Arkady, are you missing someone?" Zhenya
had vanished from Arkady's side only to reappear at the gaming tables. There
were tables for poker and blackjack, but Rina's friends had opted for classic
roulette, and there Zhenya stood, clutching his book and dourly assessing each
bet as it was placed. Arkady excused himself to Timofeyev with a promise to
return. "I
want you to meet my friends, Nikolai and Leo," Rina whispered. "They
are so much fun, and they're losing so much money. At least they were until
your little friend arrived." Nikolai
Kuzmitch, who had cornered the nickel market, was a short, rapid-fire type who
placed straight-up and corner bets all over the baize. Leonid Maximov, the
vodka king, was heavyset, with a cigar. He was more deliberate – a
mathematician, after all – and played the simple progression system that had
ruined Dostoyevsky: doubling and redoubling on red, red, red, red, red. If the
two men lost ten or twenty thousand dollars on a bounce of the roulette ball,
it was for charity and only gained respect. In fact, as the chips were raked
in, losing itself became feverishly competitive, a sign of panache – that is,
until Zhenya had taken a post between the two millionaires. With every
flamboyant bet, Zhenya gave Kuzmitch the sort of pitying glance one would
bestow upon an idiot, and every unimaginative double on red by Maximov drew
from Zhenya a sigh of disdain. Maximov moved his chips to black, and Zhenya
smirked at his inconstancy; Maximov repositioned them on black, and Zhenya,
with no change in expression, seemed to roll his eyes. "Unnerving
little boy, isn't he?" Rina said. "He's almost brought the game to a
standstill." "He
has that power," Arkady admitted. He noticed that, in the meantime,
Timofeyev had slipped into the crowd. Kuzmitch
and Maximov quit the table in disgust, but they put on matching smiles for Rina
and a welcome for Arkady that said they had nothing to fear from an
investigator; they had been buying and selling investigators for years. Kuzmitch
said, "Rina tells us that you're helping tie up the loose ends about
Pasha. That's good. We want people reassured. Russian business is into a whole
new phase. The rough stuff is out." Maximov agreed. Arkady was put in mind
of carnivores swearing off red meat. Not that they were Mafia. A man was
expected to know how to defend himself and own a private army if need be. But
it was a phase, and now that they had their fortunes, they firmly advocated law
and order. Arkady
asked whether Ivanov had mentioned any anxieties or threats or new names,
avoided anyone, referred to his health. No, the two said, except that Ivanov
had not been himself lately. "Did
he mention salt?" "No." Maximov
unplugged his cigar to say, "When I heard about Pasha, I was devastated.
We were competitors, but we respected and liked each other." Kuzmitch
said, "Ask Rina. Pasha and I would fight over business all day and then
party like best friends all night." "We
even vacationed together," Maximov said. "Like
They
winced as if he had added something unpleasant to the punch. Arkady noticed Colonel
Ozhogin arrive and whisper into Prosecutor Zurin's ear. Guards started to move
in the direction of the roulette table, and Arkady sensed that his time among
the elite was limited. Kuzmitch said that he was piloting his plane to "They're
like a boys' club," she told Arkady. "Greedy little boys." "And
Pasha?" "President
of the club." "Rina
straightened him out," Kuzmitch said. "If
I could meet a woman like Rina, I would settle down, too," said Maximov.
"As it is, all this wine, women and song could be fatal." "Where
were you when you heard about Pasha's death?" Arkady asked. "I
was playing squash. My trainer will tell you. I sat down on the floor of the
court and cried." Kuzmitch
said, "I was in "All
these questions. It was suicide, wasn't it?" Maximov said. "Tragically,
yes." Zurin slipped up to the table. He held Zhenya firmly by the
shoulder. "My office looked into matters, but there was no reason for an
investigation. Just a tragic event." "Then
why..." Kuzmitch glanced at Arkady. "Thoroughness.
But I think I can assure you, there will no more questions now. Could you
excuse us, please? I need a word with my investigator." " "Give
this man a day off," Maximov told Zurin. "He's working too
hard." The
prosecutor steered Arkady away. "Having a good time? How did you get
in?" "I
was invited, me and my friend." Arkady took Zhenya… "To
ask questions and spread rumors?" "You
know what rumor I heard?" "What
would that be?" Zurin kept Arkady and Zhenya moving. "I
heard they made you a company director. They found you a chair in the
boardroom, and now you're earning your keep." Zurin
steered Arkady a little faster. "Now you've done it. Now you've gone too
far." Ozhogin
caught up and gripped Arkady's shoulder with a wrestler's thumb that pressed to
the bone. "Renko, you'll have to learn manners if you ever want to work
for NoviRus Security." The colonel patted Zhenya on the head, and Zhenya clenched
Arkady's hand in a hard little knot. "How
dare you come here?" Zurin demanded. "You
told me to ask questions." "Not
at a charity event." "You
know the disk that Hoffman was holding out on us?" Ozhogin let Arkady peek
at a shiny CD. "Ah,
that must be it," Arkady said. "Are you breaking arms today, or
legs?" "Your
investigation is over," Zurin said. "To sneak into a party and drag
in some homeless boy is inexcusable." "Does
this mean I will be reassigned?" "This
means disciplinary action," Zurin said wearily, as if setting down a heavy
stone. "This means you're done." Arkady
felt done. He also felt he might have gone a little too far with Zurin. Even
sellouts had their pride. Back
he and Zhenya went, away from the circle of important men, past the cosmonauts,
cotton candy and smoky grills, the telegenic faces and blue llamas and aliens
on stilts. A rocket shot up from the tennis court, rose high into the blue sky
and exploded into a shower of paper flowers. By the time the last of the petals
had drifted down, Arkady and Zhenya were out the gate. Meanwhile, Bobby Hoffman
was waiting at Arkady's car, stuffing a bloody nose with a handkerchief, head
tilted back to protect the jacket bequeathed him by Ivanov.
On the drive,
Zhenya regarded Arkady with a narrow gaze. Arkady had gone with dizzying speed
from the heights of New Russia to a boot out the door. This descent was swift
enough to get even Zhenya's attention. "What's
going to happen?" Hoffman asked. "Who
knows? A new career. I studied law at "Ha!"
Hoffman thought for a second. "It's funny, but there's one thing about you
that reminds me of Pasha. You're not as smart, God knows, but you share a
quality. You couldn't tell whether he found things funny or sad. More like he
felt, What the hell? Especially toward the end." Arkady
asked Zhenya, "Is that good, to share qualities with a dead man?"
Zhenya pursed his lips. "It depends? I agree." Zhenya
hadn't eaten. They pulled in at a pirozhki stand and found, on the far side of
the stand, an inflated fun house of a homely cabin standing on chicken legs. An
inflated fence of bones and skulls surrounded the hut, and on the roof stood
the witch, Baba Yaga, with the mortar and pestle on which she flew. In Zhenya's
fairy tales, Baba Yaga ate children who wandered to her cabin. This cabin was
full of children jumping on a trampoline floor covered with balls of colored
foam. Boys and girls slid out one door and ran in another while the mechanical
witch cackled hideously above. Zhenya left his chess set and walked into the
witch's cabin, spellbound. Hoffman
said, "Thanks for the ride. I don't drive in "I
wouldn't know. How is the nose?" "Ozhogin
pinched it. Wasn't even a punch. Showed me the disk, reached up and popped a
blood vessel, just for the humiliation." "It's
a day for bloody noses. Timofeyev had one, too." Now that Arkady thought
about it, on the videotapes, Ivanov had held a handkerchief the same way. Hoffman
hunched forward. "Did I mention he likes you just as much as me?" "I
don't know why." The prospect of running into Ozhogin again made Arkady
want to lift weights and work out regularly. He lit a cigarette. "Where
did you hide the disk?" "I
knew Ozhogin would look in my apartment, so I put it in my gym locker. I
actually taped it upside down. It was invisible. I don't know how he found
it." "How
often do you go to the gym, Bobby?" "Once
a..." Hoffman shrugged. "There
you are." "Oh,
and now that they have the disk, the offer is 'Leave the country or go to
jail.' I pissed them off. Fuck them, I'll be back." "And
Rina?" "Let
me tell you about Rina." Bobby picked pirozhki crumbs off his jacket.
"She is a lovely kid, and Pasha left her well set up, and within a year
the most important thing in her life will be fashion shows. And she'll run
Pasha's foundation, that'll keep her busy. Everyone wins except you and me. And
I'll bounce back." "Which
leaves me." "At
the bottom of the food chain. I'll tell you this much: the company's
dead." "NoviRus?" "Kaput.
All that held it together was Pasha." Bobby gently touched his nose.
"Maybe Timofeyev was a good scientist once upon a time, but in business he
is a total dud. No nerve, no imagination. I never understood why Pasha kept him
on. Not to mention that Timofeyev is falling apart in front of everyone's eyes.
Six months, you know who'll run the show at NoviRus? Ozhogin. He's a cop. Only
you can't run a complicated business entity like a cop, you have to be a
general. Kuzmitch and Maximov can't wait. When they're done with Ozhogin, you
won't be able to find his bones. It's the food chain, Renko. Figure out the
food chain, and you figure out the world." Arkady
watched Zhenya bounce in and out of sight. He asked Hoffman, "What do you
know about Anton Obodovsky?" "Obodovsky?"
Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Tough guy, local Mafia, jacked some of our
trucks and drained some oil tanks. He has balls, I'll give him that. Ozhogin
pointed him out on the street once. Obodovsky made the colonel nervous. I liked
that." When
Zhenya finally emerged from the fun house, they started home. Hoffman and
Zhenya played chess without a board, calling out their moves, the boy piping
"e4" from the backseat, followed quickly by Hoffman's confident
"c5" up front. Arkady could follow through the first ten moves, and
then it was like listening to a conversation between robots, so he concentrated
more on his own diminishing prospects. It
was virtually impossible to be dismissed for incompetence. Incompetence had
become the norm under the old law, when prosecutors faced no courtroom
challenges from upstart lawyers, and convenient evidence and confessions were
always close at hand. Drinking was indulged: a drunken investigator who curled
up in the back of a car was treated as gently as an ailing grandmother.
Corruption, however, was tricky. While corruption was the lubrication of
Russian life, an investigator accused of corruption always drew public outrage.
There was a painting called The Sleigh Ride, of a troika driver
throwing a horrified girl to a pursuing wolf pack. Zurin was like that driver.
He compiled files on his own investigators, and whenever the press got close to
him, he tossed them a victim. Arkady had no reason to be horrified or
surprised. He
asked Hoffman, "Does Timofeyev have a cold or a bloody nose?" "He
says he has a cold." "There
were spots on his shirt that looked like dried blood." "Which
could have come from blowing his nose." "Did
Pasha have a bloody nose?" "Sometimes,"
Hoffman said. He was still engaged in the chess game. "Did
he have a cold?" "No." "An
allergy?" "No.
Rook takes b3." Zhenya
said, "Queen to d8, check." "Did
he see a doctor?" Arkady asked. "He
wouldn't go." "He
was paranoid?" "I
don't know. I never looked at it that way. It wasn't that obvious, because he
was still on top of the business end. King to h7." "Queen
to e7," said Zhenya. "Queen
to d5." "Checkmate." Hoffman
threw his hands up as if upsetting a board. "Fuck!" "He's
good," Arkady said. "Who
knows, with these distractions?" Zhenya
won two more games before they got to the children's shelter. Arkady walked him
to the door, and Zhenya marched through without a backward look, which was both
more and less than disdain. Hoffman was closing his mobile phone when Arkady
returned to the car. "He's
Jewish," Hoffman said. "His
last name is Lysenko. That's not Jewish." "I
just played chess with him. He's Jewish. Can you let me off at the Mayakovsky
metro station? Thanks." "You
like Mayakovsky?" "The
poet? Sure. 'Look at me, world, and envy me. I have a Soviet passport!' Then he
blew his brains out. What's not to like?" As
Arkady drove, he glanced at Hoffman, who was not the sobbing wreck he had been
the day before. That Hoffman could not have played chess with anyone. This
Hoffman went from poetry to boasting lightly, without incriminating detail,
about a variety of business scams – front companies and secret auctions – that
he and Ivanov had perpetrated together. "How
are you feeling?" Arkady asked. "Pretty
disappointed." "You've
been humiliated and fired. You should be furious." "I
am." "And
you lost the disk." "That
was the ace up my sleeve." "You're
bearing up well, considering." "I
can't get over that kid. You probably don't appreciate it, Renko, but that was
chess at a really high level." "It
certainly sounded like it. Keeping the disk, hiding the disk, using me and my pitiful
investigation to make the disk seem important, and finally letting Ozhogin find
it at your gym, of all places. What did you put on it? What's going to happen
at NoviRus when that disk goes to work?" "I
have no idea what you're talking about." "You're
a computer expert. The disk is poison." The
sky darkened behind illuminated billboards that used to declaim: The Party Is
the Vanguard of the Workers! and now advertised cognac aged in the barrel, as
if a madman raving on a corner had been smoothly replaced by a salesman. Neon
coins rolled across the marquee of a casino and lit a rank of Mercedeses and
SUVs. "How
would you know?" Hoffman twisted in his seat. "I'm getting out. Right
here is good." "We're
not at the station." "Hey,
asshole, I said this corner was good." Arkady
pulled over, and Bobby heaved himself out of the car. Arkady leaned across the
seat and rolled down the window. "Is that your good-bye?" "Renko,
will you fuck off? You wouldn't understand." "I
understand that you made a mess for me." "You
don't get it." Drivers
trapped behind Arkady shouted for him to move. Horns were rarely used when
threats would do. A wind chased bits of paper around the street. "What
don't I get?" Arkady asked. "They
killed Pasha." "Who?" "I
don't know." "They
pushed him?" "I
don't know. What does it matter? You were going to quit." "There's
nothing to quit. There's no investigation." "Know
what Pasha said? 'Everything is buried, but nothing is buried long enough.'
" "Meaning
what?" "Meaning
here's the hot news. Rina is a whore, I'm a shit and you're a loser. That's as
much chance as we had. This whole place is fucked. I used you, so what?
Everybody uses everybody. That's what Pasha called a chain reaction. What do
you expect from me?" "Help." "Like
you're still on the case?" Bobby looked up at the heavy sky, at the gold
coins of the casino, at the split toes of his shoes. "They killed Pasha,
that's all I know." "Who
did?" Bobby
whispered, "Keep your fucking country." "How
–" Arkady began, but the lead Mercedes in line slid forward and popped
open its rear door. Bobby Hoffman ducked in and shut it, closing himself off
behind steel and tinted glass, although not before Arkady saw a suitcase on the
seat. So the car hadn't been idly sitting by, it had been arranged. At once the
sedan eased away, while Arkady followed in the Zhiguli. In tandem, the two cars
passed Mayakovsky Station and continued on Leningrad Prospect, headed north.
What was worth heading to? It was too dark for a sunlit stroll on the beach at
Serebryaniy Bor, and too late for races at the Hippodrome. But there was the
airport. Evening flights from Sheremetyevo headed in all directions, and
Hoffman had been in and out of the airport often enough to grease half the
staff there. He would have a ticket to Not
that Arkady had any authority to stop Hoffman. He simply wanted to ask him what
was buried. And what he had meant when he said that Pasha had somehow been
killed? Was Pasha Ivanov pushed or not? Hoffman's driver reached up to place a
blue light on the car roof and plowed ahead in the express lane. Arkady slapped
on his own official light and swung from lane to lane to stay close. No one
slowed. Russian drivers took an oath at birth to never slow, Arkady thought,
just as Russian pilots took off no matter what the weather. But
traffic did brake and squeeze around a bonfire in the middle of the road.
Arkady thought it was an accident until he saw figures dancing around the fire,
executing Hitler salutes and smashing the windshields and headlights of passing
cars with rocks and steel rods. As he drew closer, he saw not wood but a
blackened car shifting in the flames and spewing the acrid smoke of burning
plastic. Fifty or more figures rocked a bus. A woman jumped from the bus door
and went down screaming. A three-wheeled Zaporozhets hardly larger than a
motorcycle cut in front of Arkady and rammed his fender. Inside were a man and
woman, perhaps Arabs. Four men with shaved heads and a red-and-white banner
swarmed the car. The largest lifted the car so that its front wheel spun in the
air, while another stove in the passenger window with the banner pole. Arkady
lifted his eyes to the light towers of Dynamo Stadium blazing ahead and
understood what was happening. Dynamo
was playing Spartak. The Dynamo soccer club was sponsored by the militia, and
Spartak was the favorite of skinhead groups like the Mad Butchers and the
Clockwork Oranges. Skinheads supported their team by stomping any Dynamo fans
they found on the street. Sometimes they went a little further. The skinhead
holding the front of the Zaporozhets had ripped off his shirt to show a broad
chest tattooed with a wolf's head, and arms ringed with swastikas. His friend
with the pole beat in the last of the windshield and dragged the woman out by
her hair, shouting, "Get your black ass out of that Russian car!" She
emerged with her cheek cut and her hair and sari sparkling with safety glass.
Arkady recognized Mrs. Rajapakse. The other two skinheads beat in Mr.
Rajapakse's window with steel rods. Arkady
was not aware of getting out of the Zhiguli. He found himself holding a gun to
the head of the skinhead clutching the bumper. "Let go of the car." "You
love niggers?" The strongman spat on Arkady's raincoat. Arkady
kicked the man's knee from the side. He didn't know whether it broke, but it
gave way with a satisfying snap. As the man hit the ground and howled, Arkady
moved to the Spartak supporter who was pinning Mrs. Rajapakse to the hood.
Since skinheads filled the street and the clip of Arkady's pistol held only
thirteen rounds, he chose a middle course. "If you –" the man had
begun when Arkady clubbed him with the gun. As
Arkady moved around the car, the skinheads with the rods gave themselves some
swinging room. They were tall lads with construction boots and bloody knuckles.
One said, "You may get one of us, but you won't get both." Arkady
noticed something. There was no clip in his gun at all. He'd removed it for the
drive with Zhenya. And he never kept a round in the breech. "Then
which one will it be?" he asked and aimed first at one man and then the
other. "Which one doesn't have a mother?" Sometimes mothers were
monsters, but usually they cared whether their sons died on the street. And
sons knew this fact. After a long pause, the two boys' grip on the bars went
slack. They were disgusted with Arkady for such a low tactic, but they backed
off and dragged away their wounded comrades. Meanwhile,
the general melee spread. Militia piled out of vans, and skinheads smashed
bus-stop displays as they ran. The Rajapakses brushed glass from their seats.
Arkady offered to drive them to a hospital, but they nearly ran over him in
their haste to make a U-turn and leave the scene. Rajapakse
shouted out his broken window, "Thank you, now go away, please. You are a
crazy man, as crazy as they are." Holding
his ID high, Arkady walked up to the burning car. Victims of the skinheads
sprawled on the road and sidewalk, sobbing amid broken side mirrors, torn
shirts, shoes. He went as far as a line of militia barricades being rapidly,
belatedly erected at the stadium grounds. Hoffman was nowhere in sight, but
everywhere was shining glass, in coarse grains and small.
The elevator
operator was the former Kremlin guard Arkady had interviewed before. As the
floors passed, he looked Arkady up and down. "You need a code." "I
have you. You know the code." Arkady pulled on latex gloves. The
operator shifted, exhibiting the training of an old watchdog. At the tenth floor,
he was still uncertain enough to take a mobile phone from his pocket. "I
have to call Colonel Ozhogin first." "When
you call, tell the colonel about the breakdown in building security the day
Ivanov died, how you shut down the elevator at eleven in the morning and
checked each apartment floor by floor. Explain why you didn't report the
breakdown then." The
elevator whined softly and came to a stop at the tenth floor. The operator
swayed unhappily. Finally he said, "In Soviet days we had guards on every
floor. Now we have cameras. It's not the same." "Did
you check the Ivanov apartment?" "I
didn't have the code then." "And
you didn't want to call NoviRus Security and tell them why you needed it." "We
checked the rest of the building. I don't know why the receptionist was
worried. He thought maybe he'd seen a shadow, something. I told him if he
missed anything, the man watching the screen at NoviRus would catch it. In my
opinion, nothing happened. There was no breakdown." "Well,
you know the code now. After you let me in, you can do whatever you want." The
elevator doors slid open, and Arkady stepped into Ivanov's apartment for the
fourth time. As soon as the doors closed, he pressed the lock-out button on the
foyer panel. Now the operator could call anyone, because the apartment was, as
Zurin had said, sealed from the rest of the world. With
its white walls and marble floors, the apartment was a beautiful shell. Arkady
removed his shoes rather than track dirt across the foyer. He turned on the
lights room by room and saw that other visitors had preceded him. Someone had
cleaned up the evidence of Hoffman's vigil on the sofa; the snifter was washed
and the cushions were plumped. The photo gallery of Pasha Ivanov still graced
the living room wall, although now it seemed sadly beside the point. The only
missing photographs were the ones of Rina with Pasha from the bedroom
nightstand. And no doubt Ozhogin had been to the scene, because the office was
stripped clean of anything that, encrypted or not, possibly held any NoviRus
data: computer, Zip drive, books, CDs, files, phone and message machine. All
the videotapes and disks were gone from the screening room. The medicine
cabinet was empty. Arkady appreciated professional thoroughness. He
didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but this was the last chance he
would have to look at all. He remembered the Icelandic fairy, the imp with
nothing but a head and foot, who could be seen only out the corner of the eye.
Look directly, and he disappeared. Since all the obvious items had been
removed, Arkady had to settle for glimpsed revelations. Or the lingering shadow
of something removed. Of
course, the home of a New Russian should be shadow-free. No history, no
questions, no awkward legalities, just a clear shot to the future. Arkady
opened the window that Ivanov had fallen from. The curtains rushed out.
Arkady's eyes watered from the briskness of the air. Colonel
Ozhogin had removed everything related to business; but what Arkady had seen of
Pasha Ivanov's last night among the living had nothing to do with business.
NoviRus was hardly on the point of collapse. It might be soon, with Timofeyev
at the helm, but up to Ivanov's last breath, NoviRus was a thriving, ravenous
entity, gobbling up companies at an undiminished rate and defending itself from
giant competitors and small-time predators alike. Perhaps a ninja had climbed
down the roof like a spider, or Anton had slipped through the bars at Butyrka;
either was a professional homicide that Arkady had little realistic hope of
solving. But Arkady had the sense that Pasha Ivanov was running from something
more personal. He had banned virtually everyone, including Rina, from the
apartment. Arkady remembered how Ivanov had arrived at the apartment, one hand
holding a handkerchief and the other clutching an attachй case that seemed
light in his hand, not laden with financial reports. What was in the case when
Arkady saw it on the bed? A shoe sack and a mobile phone recharger. Ivanov
might have headed to the apartment office and learned about some disastrous
investment? In that case, Arkady pictured a maudlin Ivanov assuaging himself
with a Scotch or two before working up the nerve to open the window. What
Arkady recalled from the videotape was an Ivanov who emerged reluctantly from
his car, entered the building in a rush, bantered with another tenant about
dogs, rode the elevator with grim determination and added a valedictory glance
at the security camera as he stepped out the door. Was he rushing to meet
someone? In his attachй case, why a single shoe sack? Because it wasn't being
used for shoes. Ivanov had gone to the bathroom, maybe, but he hadn't swilled
pills in any suicidal amount. He was the decisive type, not the sort to wait
passively for a sedative's effect. He had talked to Dr. Novotny enough to
concern her, then skipped his last four sessions. All Arkady really knew about
Ivanov's last night was that he had entered his apartment by the door and left
by the window and that the floor of his closet was covered with salt. And there
had been salt in Pasha's stomach. Pasha had eaten salt. The
bedroom phone rang. It was Colonel Ozhogin. "Renko,
I'm driving over. I want you to leave the Ivanov apartment now and go down to
the lobby. I'll meet you there." "Why?
I don't work for you." "Zurin
dismissed you." "So?" "Renko,
I –" Arkady
hung up. Ivanov
had gone to the bedroom and laid his attachй case on the bed. Set his mobile
phone on the edge of the bed. Opened the attachй case, so intent on the
contents that he did not notice having knocked the phone onto the carpet or
kicked it under the bed, for Victor to find later. What did Ivanov slip from
the shoe sack: a brick, a gun, a bar of gold? Arkady walked through every move,
trying to align himself on an invisible track. Pasha had opened the walk-in
closet and found the floor covered in salt. Did he know about a coming
worldwide shortage of salt? Good men were the salt of the earth. Smart men
salted away money. Pasha had rushed home to eat salt, and all he took with him
on his ten-story exit was a shaker of salt. Arkady inverted the shoe sack. No
salt. This
thing from the sack, was it still in the apartment? Ivanov had not
taken it with him. As Arkady remembered, everyone focused on company matters,
and a shoe sack was the wrong size and shape for either computer disks or a
spreadsheet. The
phone rang again. Ozhogin
said, "Renko, don't hang –" Arkady
hung up and left the receiver off the hook. The colonel's problem was that he
had no leverage. Had Arkady been a man with a promising career, threats might
have worked. But since he was dismissed from the prosecutor's office, he felt
liberated. Back
a step. Sometimes a person thought too much. Arkady returned to the bed, mimed opening
the attachй case, slipping something from the shoe sack and moving to the
closet. As the closet opened, its lights lent a milky glow to the bed of salt
still covering the floor. The top of the mound showed the same signs of
activity that Arkady had seen before: a scooping here, a setting something down
there. Arkady saw confirmation in a brown dot of blood tunneled through the
salt, from Ivanov leaning over. Ivanov had removed the thing from the
shoe sack, set it on the salt and then... what? The saltshaker might have fit
nicely into the depression in the middle of the salt. Arkady pulled open a
drawer of monogrammed long-sleeved shirts in a range of pastels. He flipped
through them and felt nothing, shut the drawer and heard something shift. Arkady
opened the drawer again and, in the back, beneath the shirts, found a bloody
handkerchief wrapped around a radiation dosimeter the size of a calculator.
Salt was embedded in the seam of its red plastic shell. Arkady held the
dosimeter by the corners to avoid latent fingerprints, turned it on and watched
the numbers of the digital display fly to 10,000 counts per minute. Arkady
remembered from army drills that an average reading of background radioactivity
was around 100. The closer he held the meter to the salt, the higher the
reading. At 50,000 cpm the display froze. Arkady
backed out of the closet. His skin was prickly, his mouth was dry. He
remembered Ivanov hugging the attachй case in the elevator, and his backward
glance to the elevator camera. Arkady understood that hesitation now. Pasha was
bracing himself at the threshold. Arkady turned the meter off and on, off and
on, until it reset. He made a circuit of Pasha's beautiful white apartment. The
numbers dramatically shuffled and reshuffled with every step as he picked his
way like a blind man with a cane around flames he sensed only through the
meter. The bedroom burned, the office burned, the living room burned, and at
the open window, curtains dragged by the night wind desperately whipped and
snapped to point the fastest way out of an invisible fire. Chapter FivePripyat
had been a city of science built on straight lines for technicians, and it
shimmered in the light of a rising moon. From the top floor of the municipal
office, Arkady overlooked a central plaza wide enough to hold the city's entire
population on May Day, Revolution Day, International Women's Day. There would
have been speeches, national songs and dances, flowers in cellophane presented
by neatly pressed children. Around the plaza were the broad horizontals of a
hotel, restaurant and theater. Tree-lined boulevards spread to apartment
blocks, wooded parks, schools and, a mere three kilometers away, the constant
red beacon of the reactor. Arkady
sank back into the shadows of the office. He had never thought his night vision
was particularly good, but he saw calendars and papers strewn on the floor,
fluorescent tubes crushed, file cabinets facedown around a nest of blankets and
the glint of empty vodka bottles. A poster on the wall proclaimed something
lost in faded letters: confident of the future was all Arkady could make out.
In camouflage fatigues, he himself was fairly hard to see. The pinprick of a
match being struck drew him closer to the window. He'd missed where. The
buildings were blank, streetlamps broken. The forests pressed increasingly
closer, and when the wind died, the city was utterly still, without a single
light, without the progress of a car or the sound of a footstep. Around the
city there was not one human intrusion until the orange bud of a cigarette
stirred directly across the plaza in the dark mass of the hotel. Arkady
had to use a flashlight in the stairway because of the debris – bookcases,
chairs, drapes and bottles, always bottles, and everything covered by a chalky
residue of disintegrating plaster that formed a cavern's worth of stalactites
and stalagmites. Even if there had been power, the elevators were rusted shut.
From outside, a building might seem intact. Inside, this one resembled a target
of artillery, with walls exploded, pipes ruptured and floors heaved by ice. On
the ground floor, Arkady turned off the light and went at a lope around the
plaza. The hotel entrance doors were chained together. No matter; he walked
through missing panes of glass, turned on the flashlight, crossed the lobby and
maneuvered as silently as possible around service trolleys piled on the steps.
On the fourth floor, the doors were open. Beds and bureaus materialized. In one
room, the wallpaper had curled off in enormous scrolls; in another, the ivory
torso of a toilet lay on the carpet. By now he smelled the sourness of a doused
fire. In a third room, the window was covered by a blanket that Arkady pulled
aside to let moonlight creep in. A box spring had been stripped to the coils and
set over a hubcap as a makeshift grill and pan that was filled with coals and
water and a ghostly hint of smoke. An open suitcase showed a toothbrush,
cigarettes, fishing line, a can of beef and a plastic bottle of mineral water,
a plumber's pipe cutter and a wrench wrapped in rags. If their owner had been
able to resist a peek out of the blanket, Arkady never would have seen him. He
spotted him now, moving at the edge of the plaza. Arkady
went down the stairs two at a time, sliding over an overturned desk, stumbling
on the crushed maroon of hotel drapes. Sometimes he felt like a diver plunging
through the depths of a sunken ship, his vision and hearing magnified in such
faint light. As he hit the ground, he heard a screen door slap shut at the far
end of the plaza. The school. Between
the school's two front doors was a blackboard that read APRIL 29, 1986. Arkady
ran through a cloakroom painted with a princess and a hippo sailing a ship. The
lower rooms were for early grades, with blackboard examples of penmanship,
bright prints of farm children with happy cows that smiled amid blown-in
windows and desks overturned like barricades. Footsteps pounded the floor
above. As Arkady climbed the stairs, a display of children's art fluttered in
his wake. Pictures of students sitting neatly in a music room led to a music
room with a shattered piano and half-size chairs around broken drums and
marimbas. Dust exploded with every step; Arkady swallowed a fine powder with
every breath. In a nap room, bed frames stood at odd angles, as if caught in a
wild dance. Picture books lay open: Uncle Ilyich visiting a snowy village, Although
it was wrong to think "nothing" when the place was so alive with
cesium, strontium, plutonium or pixies of a hundred different isotopes no
larger than a microdot hiding here and there. A hot spot was just that: a spot.
Very close, very dangerous. One step back made a great difference. The problem
with, say, cesium was that it was microscopic – a flyspeck – and it was
water-soluble and adhered to anything, especially the soles of shoes. Grass
that grew chest-high from seams in the road earned another tick from the
dosimeter. At the opposite end of the plaza from the school was a small
amusement park, with crazy chairs, a rink of bumper cars and a Ferris wheel
that stood against the night like a rotting decoration. The reading at the rink
shot the needle off the dial and made the dosimeter sing. Arkady
made his way back to the hotel, to the room with the box-spring grill. He
weighted, with the can of beef, a note with his mobile-phone number and the
universal sign for dollars.
Arkady had left
a motorcycle in a stand of alders. He wasn't a skilled rider, but a Uralmoto
bike, unlike some fancier makes, relished punishment. He fishtailed to the
highway and, headlights off, rode out of the city. This
quarter of the Death
had been so generous here that there was a graveyard even for vehicles. Arkady
coasted to a halt at a fence of wooden stakes and barbed wire and a loosely
tied gate with the warnings extreme danger and remove nothing from this site.
He untied the rope and rode in. Trucks
were lined up by the thousands. Heavy trucks, tankers, tow trucks, flatbeds,
decontamination trucks, fire engines, mess trucks, buses, caravans, bulldozers,
earthmovers, cement trucks and row after row of army trucks and personnel
carriers. The yard was as long as an Egyptian necropolis, although it was for
the remains of machinery, not men. In the headlight of the motorcycle, they
were a labyrinth of metal cadavers. A giant spread its arms overhead, and
Arkady realized that he had passed under the rotors of a crane helicopter.
There were more helicopters, each marked in paint with its individual level of
radiation. It was here, tucked in the center of this yard, that Timofeyev's
BMW, covered with the dust of the long trip from A
fountain of sparks led Arkady to a pair of scavengers cutting up an armored car
with an arc welder. Radioactive parts from the yard were sold illegally in car
shops in By
this point the eye was always pulled to the reactors. Chain link and razor wire
surrounded what had been a massive enterprise of cooling towers, water tanks,
fuel storage, cooling ponds, the messenger ranks of transmission towers. Here
four reactors had produced half the power of the Ten
kilometers from the plant was a checkpoint, its gate a crude bar
counterweighted by a cinder block. As Arkady was Russian and the guards were
Ukrainian, they walked the bar out of his way at half speed. Past
the checkpoint were a dozen "black villages" and fields where
scarecrows had been replaced by diamond-shaped warning signs on tall stakes.
Arkady swung the bike onto the crusted ruts of a dirt road and rode a
jaw-shaking hundred meters around a tangle of scrub and trees into a gathering
of one-story houses. All the houses were supposed to be evacuated, and most
looked collapsed from sheer emptiness, but others, even in the moonlight,
betrayed a certain briskness: a mended picket fence, a sledge for gathering
firewood, a haze of chimney smoke. A scarf and candle turned a window red or
blue. Arkady
rode through the village and up a footpath through the trees another hundred
meters to a clearing surrounded by a low fence. He swung his headlamp, and up
jumped a score of grave markers fashioned from iron tubing painted white and
decorated with plastic flowers, improbable roses and orchids. No burials had
been allowed since the accident; the soil was too radioactive to be disturbed.
It was at the cemetery gate that Lev Timofeyev – one week after the suicide of
Pasha Ivanov – had been found dead. The
initial militia report was minimal: no papers, no money, no wristwatch on a
body discovered by a local squatter otherwise unidentified, cause of death
listed as cardiac arrest. Days later, the cause of death was revised to "a
five-centimeter slice across the neck with a sharp unserrated blade, opening
the windpipe and jugular vein." The militia later explained the confusion
with a note that said the body had been disturbed by wolves. Arkady wondered
whether the excuse had wandered in from a previous century. He
lifted his ear to the muffled flight of an owl and the soft explosion that marked
the likely demise of a mouse. Leaves swirled around the bike. All of
One way to look
at Checkpoints
blocked the roads at ten and thirty kilometers, and though the houses of A
researcher named Alex brought Arkady a brandy. "Cheers! How long have you
been with us, Renko?" "Thanks."
Arkady downed the glass in a swallow and didn't breathe for fear of detonation. "That's
it. People around you are trying to get drunk. Don't be a prig. How long?" "Three
weeks." "Three
weeks and you're so unfriendly. It's Eva's birthday, and you have yet to give
her so much as a kiss." Eva
Kazka was a young woman with black hair that put Arkady in mind of a wet cat.
Even she was in camos. "I've
met Dr. Kazka. We shook hands." "She
was unfriendly? That's because your colleagues from "Am
I?" "By
acclamation. You have to pull your head out of your investigation and enjoy
life. Wherever you are, that's where you are, as they say in "Except
that they're in "Good
point. Check out Captain Marchenko. With his mustache and uniform, he looks
like an actor abandoned in a provincial theater. The rest of the troupe has
moved on and left him nothing but the costumes. And the corporals, the Woropay
brothers, Dymtrus and Taras, I see them as the boys most likely to have sexual
congress with barnyard animals." Arkady
had to agree that the captain had a classic profile. The Woropays had pasty
faces speckled with a late bloom of acne, and their shoulders were broad as
barrels. They turned away from Arkady to share a laugh with the captain. "Why
does Marchenko spend his time with them?" Arkady asked. "The
sport here is hockey. Captain Marchenko fields a team, and the Woropays are two
of his stars. Get used to it. You're a sitting duck. People say you've been
exiled and your boss in "It
would help if I solved the case." "But
you won't. Wait, I want to hear this." The
other table started serenading Eva Kazka, and she let her face go blissfully
stupid. Researchers were variously described to Arkady as the scientific crиme
de la crиme or washouts, but always as fools because they were volunteers; they
didn't have to be here. Alex returned to his friends briefly to bay like a wolf
and steal a bottle of brandy before returning to Arkady. "Because
people think you're crazy," Alex said. "You go to Pripyat. Nobody
gives a damn about Pripyat anymore. You ride through the woods on a bike that
glows in the dark. Do you know anything about radioactivity?" "I
went over the bike with a dosimeter. It's clean, and it doesn't glow." "No
one is going to steal it, let me put it that way. So, Investigator Renko, on
this most blighted part of the planet, what are you looking for?" "I'm
looking for squatters. In particular, the squatter who found Timofeyev. Since I
don't have a name, I'm questioning all the squatters I can find." "You're
not serious. You are serious? You're crazy. Over the course of a year, we get
all sorts: poachers, scavengers, squatters." "The
police report said the body was found by a local squatter. That suggests a sort
of permanency, someone the militia officer had seen before." "What
kind of officers can you get at "No."
Arkady thought fleetingly of Zhenya, but the boy could hardly have been called
family. For Zhenya, Arkady had been nothing but transportation to the park.
Besides, Victor was looking in on the boy. "So,
you've given yourself an impossible task in a radioactive wasteland. You're
either a compulsive-obsessive or a dedicated investigator." "Right
the first time." "We'll
drink to that." Alex refilled their glasses. "Do you know that
alcohol protects against radiation? It removes oxygen that might be ionized. Of
course, deprivation of oxygen is even worse, but then every Ukrainian knows
that alcohol is good for you. Red wine is best, then brandy, vodka, et
cetera." "But
you're Russian." Alex
put his finger to his lips. "Shhh. I am provisionally accepted as a
madman. Besides, Russians also drink precautionary vodka. The real question is,
are you a madman, too? My friends and I serve science. There are interesting
things to be learned here about the effects of radiation on nature, but I don't
think the death of some Arkady
had told himself as much many times over the days he'd spent searching the
apartments of Pripyat or farmhouses hidden in the woods. He didn't have an
answer. He had other questions. "Whose is?" he asked. "What
do you mean?" "Whose
death is worth it? Only good people? Only saints? How do we decide whose murder
is worth investigating? How do we decide which murderers to let go?" "You're
going to catch every killer?" "No.
Hardly any, as a matter of fact." Alex
regarded Arkady with mournful eyes. "You are totally lunatic. I am awed. I
don't say that lightly." "Alex,
are you going to dance with me or not?" Eva Kazka pulled him by his arm.
"For old times' sake." Arkady
envied them. There was a desperate quality to the scene. In general, the troops
were not getting healthier for having been posted to Kazka
laid her head on Alex's shoulder for a slow dance. Although Ukrainian women
were said to be beautiful in a soulful, doe-eyed way, Kazka looked like she
would bite the head off anyone who flattered her. She was too pale, too dark,
too sharp. The way she and Alex moved suggested a past involvement, a momentary
truce in a war. Arkady was surprised at himself for even speculating, which he
took to be a result of his own social isolation. Why
was he at Timofeyev's
prerevolutionary palace was the same. He hadn't barred visitors because he
didn't have Pasha's strength of character, but the halls and rooms of his
gilded abode were a radioactive warren. No wonder about the man's nervousness
and loss of weight. After waltzing with dosimeters through Timofeyev's palace,
Arkady and Victor took the precaution of visiting the militia doctor, who gave
them iodine tablets and assured them that they had suffered no more exposure to
radiation than an airline passenger flying from St. Petersburg to San
Francisco, although they might want to shower, dispose of their clothes and
look out for nausea, loss of hair and, especially, nosebleeds, because cesium
affected bone marrow where platelets were formed. Victor asked what to do about
nosebleeds. The doctor said to carry a handkerchief. Ivanov
and Timofeyev had lived with this sort of anxiety? Why hadn't either reported
to the militia that someone was trying to kill them? Why hadn't they alerted
NoviRus Security? Finally, why had Timofeyev driven a thousand kilometers from The
investigation of Timofeyev's body, once it was found at the village cemetery,
had been a farce. The cemetery grounds were radioactive – family members were
supposed to visit grave sites only one day a year – and the first thing the
lads from the militia did was drag Timofeyev a safe distance away to turn him
this way and that. Since the dead man's billfold and wristwatch were missing,
they had no idea of his identity or importance. Because of the rain, they
wanted to toss the body in a van and go. Their surmise was that a businessman
with, say, an uncle or auntie buried in the cemetery had made a clandestine
visit, had a heart attack and dropped. No one asked where his car was or
whether his shoes were muddy from walking. There
was a great flurry from With
his pallor and stringy hair, Vanko looked more like a crazed monk than an
ecologist. "Are you gay?" he asked Arkady. "I don't dance with
gays. A straight man is permissible under the circumstances." "It's
okay." "You're
not so bad. Everyone said you'd be gone in a week, like the others. You stuck
it out; I have to respect that. Do you want to lead?" "Whichever." "Doesn't
matter, I agree. Not here. This is the cafй at the end of the world. If you
want to know what the end of the world will be like, this is it. Not so
bad." Chapter SixCaptain
Marchenko steered with one finger and waved a radio microphone in his other
hand like a tank commander. "This is good. We will prove there is law and
order in the Zone. Even here! These vultures go into the village churches and
steal the church icons, or go into the houses of simple people and take the
icons there. Well, we have him now. The fields are too boggy to cross, and
there isn't much traffic on this road. Aha, there he is! The vulture is in
sight!" A
dot on the horizon was developing into a motorcycle and sidecar, not a powerful
bike, more what a farmer might use to transport chickens. Gray sky swept by.
Red firs lined the road, and markers showed where houses and barns too hot to
truck away or burn were buried. Captain
Marchenko had swung by in a militia car and invited Arkady to help pursue a
thief who had escaped a checkpoint with an icon in the sidecar of his
motorcycle. From exchanges on the radio, Arkady gathered that another car was
posted ahead. It was clear that it gave the captain pleasure to turn an
investigator from "I'm
sure that "Ch'o'rnobyl.
The Ukrainian pronunciation is Ch'o'rnobyl." Much
of the topsoil had been buried under sand; up to the woods the ground was
bulldozed flat, a chute for a headwind that made the motorcycle skitter from
one side of the road to the other, not over a hundred meters ahead, and
although the rider hunched down, the car was gaining. Arkady could see that the
bike was small, maybe 75cc, blue, the license plate taped over. "They're
criminals, Renko. This is the way you have to treat them, not like you do,
making friends, leaving food and money like it's everybody's birthday. You
think you're going to find informants? You think that one dead Russian is more
important than regular policing? Maybe he was a big man in To
locate the local squatter, Arkady had, over three weeks, created a registry of
Zone illegals: old folks, squatters, scavengers, poachers and thieves. The old
people were hidden but stationary. Scavengers operated out of cars and trucks.
Poachers were usually restaurant employees from Arkady
said, "Then why was Timofeyev here? What was the connection between him
and Chornobyl? What was the connection between him and Ivanov and Chornobyl?
How many murders do you have here?" "None.
Only your Timofeyev, only a Russian. I would have a perfect record otherwise. I
might be out of here with a clean record. How do we know he was killed by
someone from here? How do we know he was even here before in his life?" "We
ask. We find local people and ask, although I'll grant you, it isn't easy when
officially no one is here." "That's
the Zone." Sometimes
Arkady thought of the Zone as an amusement-park mirror. Things were different
in the Zone. He said, "I still wonder about the body. An Officer Katamay
turned in the first report. I haven't been able to interview him, because he
quit the militia. Do you have any idea where Katamay is?" "Try
the Woropay brothers. He was close to them." "The
Woropays were not responsive." The brothers Woropay knew that Arkady had
no authority. They had been both dull and sly, smirking to each other, going
heavy-lidded and silent. "I'd like to find Katamay, and I'd like to know
who led him to the body." "What
does it matter? The body was a mess." "How
so?" "Wolves." "Specifically
what did the wolves do?" "They
ate his eye." "Ate
his eye?" No one had mentioned that before. "The
left eye." "Wolves
do that?" "Why
not? And they tugged on his face a bit. That's why we missed the knife wound on
the throat." "He
was dead when the wolves arrived. He wouldn't have bled that much." "There
wasn't that much blood. That's one reason we thought heart attack. Except for
his eye and his nose, his face was clean." "What
was in his nose?" "Blood." "And
his clothes?" "Pretty
clean, considering how the rain and how the wolves messed up the scene." Hardly
more than the militia, Arkady thought, but bit his tongue. "Who examined
the body the second time? Who noticed that his throat was cut? They left no
name or official report, only a one-line description of the neck wound.' "I'd
like to get my hands on them, too. If it hadn't been for someone mucking around
where they shouldn't have been, the Russian would still be a heart attack, you
wouldn't be here and my slate would be clean." "Now,
there's a new approach to militia work. If they don't have a pickax in the
head, call it cardiac arrest." Arkady had meant to sound lighthearted, but
Marchenko didn't seem to take it that way. Maybe it came out wrong, Arkady
thought. "Anyway, the second examiner knew what he was doing. I'd just
like to know who it was." "You
always want to know. The man from "I'd
also like to take another look at Timofeyev's car." "See
what I mean? I don't have the time or the manpower for a homicide
investigation. Especially of a dead Russian. Do you know what the official
attitude is? 'There's nothing in the Zone but spent uranium, dead reactors and
the suckers stationed there. Fuck them. Let them live on berries.' You saw
yourself how all those other investigators didn't want to stay around too long.
Nevertheless, we still carry out our functions, like now." Marchenko squinted
ahead. "Ah, here we come." Ahead,
where dead firs gave way to potato fields, a white militia Lada and a pair of
officers blocked the road. The fields were wet from the previous week's rain:
no escape there. No problem. The motorcycle rider slowed to size up the
blockade, sped up, leaned to his left and steered down and up the right
shoulder of the road as neatly as plucking a blade of grass. Marchenko
picked up the radio. "Get out of the way." The
officers desperately pushed the Lada onto the shoulder as Marchenko barreled
through. Arkady was glad he hadn't quit smoking. If he was going to die in the
Zone, why deny himself a simple pleasure? "Do
you work out?" Marchenko asked. Arkady
hung on to a strap. "Not really." "Middle
of "I
haven't seen much besides the Zone. "Ukrainian
girls?" "Very
beautiful." "The
most beautiful in the world, people say. Big eyes, big..." Marchenko
cupped his chest. "Jews come once a year. They talk Ukrainian girls into
going to "Really?"
There was a free-floating quality to the captain's anger that Arkady found
disturbing. "A
bus goes daily to "But
not to "No,
who would go to Arkady
unsnapped the guard and drew out a heavy blade with a blood groove and a
two-edged tip. "Like a sword." "For
wild boar. You can't do that in "Hunting
with a knife?" "If
you have the nerve." "I
am sure I do not have the nerve to catch a wild boar and stab it to
death." "Just
remember, it's essentially a pig." "And
then you eat them?" "No,
they're radioactive. It's sport. We'll try it sometime, you and I." The
motorcycle swerved onto a side road, but Marchenko would not be shaken. The
road dove down along a black mire of ragged cattails and then up by an apple
orchard carpeted with rotting fruit. Two hovels seemed to rise from the ground,
and the motorcycle went in between, followed by Marchenko, at the cost of a
wing mirror. Suddenly they were in the middle of a village that was a quagmire
of houses so cannibalized from the bottom up for firewood that every roof and
window was at a slant. Washtubs sat in the front yards, and chairs sat at the
street, as if there had been a final parade out of town and people to watch.
Arkady heard the dosimeter raise its voice. The motorcycle shot through a barn,
in the front and out the back. Marchenko followed only ten meters behind, close
enough for Arkady to see an icon and blanket stuffed in the sidecar. The road
dropped again toward a stand of sickly willows, a stream and, rising on the far
side, a field of grain tangled by wind and gone to seed. The road narrowed at
the willows, the perfect point to cut off the motorcycle – just like in the
movies, Arkady thought, when Marchenko swerved to a stop and the motorcycle
slipped into the trees and out of sight behind a screen of leaves. Arkady
said, "We can go on foot. A path like that, we'll catch up." The
captain shook his head and pointed to a radiation marker rusting among the
trees. "Too hot. This is as far as we can go." Arkady
got out. The trees didn't quite reach the creek, and although the grass was
high, the slope was downhill, and his boots were heavy with mud, Arkady managed
to push through. Marchenko shouted for Arkady to stop. He saw the thief emerge
from the trees. Despite the fact that the rider had gotten off to push, the
motorcycle stayed virtually in place, spewing smoke and spraying mud. The rider
was short, in a leather jacket and cap, with a scarf wrapped around his face.
The icon, a Madonna with a starry cowl, peered from the sidecar. Arkady nearly
had his hand on it when the bike gained traction and lurched forward on a road
so overgrown it was barely a fold in the grass. He was close enough to read the
logo on the engine cover. Suzuki. The bike bounced down from rut to rut, Arkady
a step behind and Marchenko a step behind him. Arkady tripped over a radiation
sign but was still almost within reach when the bike spurted across the
streambed, kicking back rocks. From one step to the next, he was about to reach
for the sidecar, but the climb from the stream on the other side was steeper,
the wheat sleeker, and the motorcycle had more space to maneuver. Arkady dove
for the rear fender and held it until a reflector snapped off in his hand and
the bike pulled away by one meter, then five, then ten. It drew off while
Arkady leaned on his knees and gave up. Blowing like a whale, Marchenko joined
him. The
hillside was a yellow knoll topped by a silhouette of bare trees dead where
they stood. The biker climbed to the trees, stopped and looked back. Marchenko
pulled out his gun, a Walther PP, and aimed. It would take a real marksman at
this range, Arkady thought. The pistol swayed with the captain's breathing. The
biker didn't move. Finally
Marchenko replaced the gun in its holster. "We're over the border. The
stream is the border. We're in Horseflies
spun around the two men as they trudged back to the car. For humiliation, the
day was already quite full, Arkady thought. Out of curiosity, he turned on his
dosimeter when they crossed the stream, then shut off the angry ticking as soon
as he heard it. "Can you take me back to The
captain slipped in the mud. As he rose, he bellowed, "It's Chornobyl. In
Ukrainian, it's Chornobyl!"
Arkady's room in
The
team of investigators from Who
was connected to Not
Colonel Georgi Jovanovich Ozhogin, the head of NoviRus Security. His file was
stuffed with encomiums to his first career as a Master of Sport, and adulatory
references to his second career as a "selfless agent of the Committee for
State Security." The authors of the report did not detail what this
selflessness involved beyond citing his efforts for "international amity
and athletic competition in The
investigators hadn't known what to make of Rina Shevchenko. Pasha Ivanov had
given his lover excellent but thoroughly fictitious papers: birth certificate,
school record, union card and residency permit. At the same time, it was clear
from police reports that an underage Rina had run away from a cooperative farm
outside The
investigators loathed Robert Aaron Hoffman. Age: thirty-seven. Nationality: On
the other hand, in June of the previous year, Hoffman had taken a NoviRus jet
from Who
else had the investigators turned their attention to? The
muscleman Anton Obodovsky proved a disappointment. He may have threatened
Ivanov, but he was in Butyrka Prison the night of Pasha's suicide and very
publicly in The
elevator operator at Pasha's building, the Kremlin veteran, had access to the
tenth floor, but not to Ivanov's two previous homes or Timofeyev's. A sweep of
his wardrobe and apartment showed not a trace of radioactivity. Timofeyev's
household staff was under treatment for exposure to radioactive materials. They
had no information to offer, and their loss of hair seemed sincere. Day
by day
Although the Alex
stood and played host. "We welcome all our British Friends and, in
particular, Professor Ian Campbell, who will be staying on with us for a
week." He indicated a bearded, ginger-haired man who looked like he had
drawn the short straw. "Professor, perhaps you'd like to say a few
words?" "Is
the food locally grown?" "Is
the food locally grown?" Alex repeated. He savored the question like the
blue smoke of his cigarette. "Although we are not quite ready to label it
'Product of Chernobyl,' yes, much of the food was grown and harvested in the
neighboring environs." He took an extravagant inhale. " Another
question passed the length of the table before Alex could sit. "Ah,
is the food radioactive? The answer to that depends on how hungry you are. For
example, this copious meal makes up in part for the low pay of the staff. They
are paid in calories as well as cash. The waitresses are overage but extremely
coquettish, practically a floor show in and of themselves. The food? Milk is
dangerous; cheese is not, because radionuclides stay in the water and albumin.
Shellfish are bad, and mushrooms are very, very bad. Did they serve mushrooms
today?" While
the Friends glumly regarded their lunch, Alex sat and vigorously carved his
meat. Vanko put a soup bowl next to Arkady and sat down. The researcher looked
like he had been following an earthworm down a hole. "Did
you understand any of that?" he asked Arkady. "Enough.
Is Alex trying to be dismissed?" "They
wouldn't dare." Vanko ladled the soup slowly. "This is my
grandmother's remedy for a hangover. You don't even have to chew." "Why
wouldn't they?" "He's
too famous." "Oh."
Arkady felt suddenly ignorant. "He
is Alex Gerasimov, son of Felix Gerasimov, the academician. With Alex, the
Russians will fund the study; without him, they won't." "Why
doesn't he just leave?" "The
work is too interesting. He says he'd rather leave with his head off than on.
Last night was fun. You shouldn't have left." "They
closed the cafй." "The
party continued. It was a birthday. You know who can really drink?" "Who
can really drink?" Coming from Vanko, this sounded like high praise. "Dr.
Kazka. She's tough. She was in "You
mentioned something last night about poachers," Arkady said. "No,
you mentioned poachers," Vanko said. "I thought you were
looking for the squatter who found that millionaire from "Maybe.
The note said squatter, but squatters tend to stay in Pripyat. They like
apartments. I get the impression that black villages are more for old
folks." A
salad swimming in oil replaced Vanko's soup. He didn't raise his head again
until he had wiped the last piece of lettuce from his chin. "Depends on
the squatter." "I
don't think squatters spend much time at cemeteries. There's nowhere to sleep
and nothing to steal." "Are
you going to eat your potatoes? They're locally grown." "Help
yourself." Arkady pushed his plate over. "Tell me about
poachers." Vanko
talked between mouthfuls. The good poachers were local. They had to know their
way around, or they could walk into some very hot spots. They might be adding
some meat to their diet, or they might be called by a restaurant so a chef
could put game on the menu. "A
restaurant in "Maybe
"I'll
keep that in mind. You study wild boar?" "Boar,
elk, mice, kestrels, catfish and shellfish, tomatoes and wheat, to name a
few." "You
must know some poachers," Arkady said. "Why
me?" "You
set traps." "Of
course." "Poachers
set traps. Maybe they even rob your traps from time to time." "Yeah."
Vanko's eating slowed to a ruminative pace. "I
don't want to arrest anyone. I only want to ask about Timofeyev, exactly when
he was found, his position and condition, whether his car was ever
nearby." "I
thought his car was found in Bela's yard. A BMW." "Timofeyev
got there somehow." "The
path to the village cemetery is too narrow for a car." "See,
that's exactly the kind of information I need." Meanwhile,
Alex got to his feet again. "To vodka, the first line of radiation
defense." Everyone
drank to that.
Pripyat was
worse in the light of day, when a breeze stirred the trees and lent a semblance
of animation. Arkady could almost see the long lines of people and the way they
must have looked over their shoulders at their apartments and all their
possessions, their clothes, televisions, Oriental rugs, the cat at the window.
Families must have pulled the reluctant young and pushed the confused elderly
and shielded babies from the sun. Ears had to close to the question
"Why?" Patience must have been an asset as the doctors handed iodine
tablets to every child, too late. Too late because, at the beginning, although
everyone saw the fire at Reactor Four, only two kilometers away, the official
word was that the radioactive core was undamaged. Children went to school,
though they were drawn to the spectacle of helicopters circling the black tower
of smoke and fascinated by the green foam covering the streets. Adults
recognized the foam as the plant's protection against an accidental release of
radioactive materials. Children waded though the foam, kicked it, packed it
into balls. The more suspicious parents called friends outside Pripyat for news
that might have been withheld, but no, they were told that May Day preparations
were in full swing in So
any stir of the trees or tall grass created a false sense of resurrection,
until Arkady noticed the stillness at doors and windows and recognized that the
sound traveling from block to block was the moving echo of his motorcycle.
Sometimes he imagined Pripyat not so much as a city under siege but as a
no-man's-land between two armies, an arena for snipers and patrols. From the
central plaza he rode up one avenue to the town stadium and back on another,
amid headless streetlamps, over a black crust of roads undergoing a slow
upheaval. Outdoor murals of Science, Labor and the Future peeled off office
fronts. A
movement at a corner window made Arkady swing the motorcycle to an apartment
block, park and climb the stairs to the third floor, a living room with
tapestries on the wall, a reclining chair, a collection of decanters. A bedroom
was heaped with clothes. A little girl's room had a pink theme, school awards
and a pair of ice skates hanging from the wall. In a boy's room an intricate
skeleton curled in a glass tank under posters of Ferraris and Mercedeses.
Photographs were everywhere, color pictures of the family caravanning in He
rode back to the main plaza and to the office where he had spotted the
scavenger the night before. The suitcase and makeshift grill were gone. So was
the note with Arkady's mobile-phone number and the dollar sign. He didn't know
whether he was hunting or fishing, but he was doing what he could, and that, he
had to admit, was where Zurin was so brilliant. The prosecutor knew that where
another, more balanced individual would say that if the Chernobyl nuclear
accident had caused forty or four million deaths – depending on who was
counting – who would care what had happened to a single man? So what if Arkady
found a connection between Timofeyev and The
The
captain wore clean camos and bitter satisfaction. "You wanted to take
another look? Too late. Bela took it to "No,
you were right, I should say Chornobyl." "Let
me give you some advice. Say, 'Farewell, Chornobyl.' " "But
something occurred to me." "Something
always occurs to you." "When
you originally found Timofeyevs car in the truck graveyard, it had no
keys?" "No
keys." "You
towed it here from the truck graveyard?" "Yes.
We went over this." "Remind
me, please." "Before
we towed the car here, we looked for keys, looked for blood on the car seats,
forced open the trunk to look for blood or any other evidence. We didn't find
anything." "Nothing
to suggest that Timofeyev had been killed somewhere else and taken in the car
to the cemetery?" "No." "Did
you take casts of any tire treads at the cemetery?" "No.
Anyway, our cars rolled over any tracks there." Right. "It's
a black village. Radioactive. Everyone moved fast. And it rained on and off,
don't forget." "And
there were wolf tracks?" Arkady still found that hard to believe. "Big
as a plate." "Who
did the towing?" "We
did." "Who
drove?" "Officer
Katamay." "Katamay
is the officer who found Timofeyevs body and then disappeared?" "Yes." "He
does a lot around here." "He
knows his way around. He's a local boy." "And
he's still missing?" "Yes.
It's not necessarily a crime. If he quits, he quits. Though we would like the
uniform and gun." "I
looked at his file. He had disciplinary problems. Did you ask him about
Timofeyev's wallet and watch?" "Naturally.
He denied it, and the matter was dropped. You have to meet his grandfather to
understand." "Is
he from around here?" "From
a Pripyat family. Look, Renko, we're not detectives, and this is not the normal
world. This is the Zone. We are as forgotten as any police can be. The country
is collapsing, so we work for half pay, and everyone steals to make ends meet.
What's missing? What's not missing? Medicine, morphine, a tank of oxygen, gone.
We were given night-vision goggles from the army? Disappeared. I was with Bela
when we discovered Timofeyev's BMW, and I remember his look, as if he would
kill me for that car. If that's the truck graveyard manager, what kind of
officers do you think I'm going to have? I know what he's doing, I see the
sparks at night. Everyone else is suffering, and he's making his fortune, but
I'm not allowed to conduct the sort of raid I would like, because he has a
'roof,' understand, he's protected from above." "I
didn't mean to criticize." "Fire
away. Like my wife says, anyone intelligent steals. The thieves understand.
Most of the time they just pay off the guards at the checkpoints; this morning
was an exception. Usually they slip from one black village to the next, and if
we get too close, they just dive into a hot spot we can't go into. I'm not
going to risk the lives of my men, even the worst of them, and there are maybe
a thousand hot spots, a thousand black holes for thieves to dive into and come
out who knows where. If you know anyone else who is willing to come here, ask
them." While they talked, the afternoon had turned to dusk. Marchenko lit
a cigarette and smiled like the happy captain of a sinking ship. "Invite
all your friends to Chornobyl."
Since the
ecologists and British Friends had been absent from the cafeteria, Arkady had
eaten a quiet dinner and gone to bed with case notes when a phone call came
from Olga Andreevna at the children's shelter in Moscow. "I am sorry to
report that we have had problems with Zhenya since you left. Behavioral problems
and refusal to eat or communicate with other children or with staff. Twice we
caught him leaving the shelter at night – so dangerous for a boy his age. I
cannot help but associate this increase in social dysfunction with your
absence, and I must ask when you plan to return." "I
wish I could say. I don't know." Arkady reached automatically for a
cigarette to help him think. "Some
estimate would be helpful. The situation here is deteriorating." "Has
my friend Victor visited Zhenya?" "Apparently
they went to a beer garden. Your friend Victor fell asleep, and the militia
returned Zhenya to the shelter. When are you coming back?" "I
am working. I am not on vacation." "Can
you come next weekend?" "No." "The
weekend after?" "No.
I'm not around the corner, and I'm not his father or an uncle. I am not
responsible for Zhenya." "Talk
to him. Wait." There
was silence on the other end of the line. Arkady asked, "Zhenya, are you
there? Is anyone there?" Olga
Andreevna came on. "Go ahead, he's here." "Talk
about what?" "Your
work. What it's like where you are. Whatever comes to mind." All
that came to Arkady's mind was an image of Zhenya grimly clutching his chess
set and book of fairy tales. "Zhenya,
this is Investigator Renko. This is Arkady. I hope you are well." This
sounds like a form letter, Arkady thought. "It seems you've been giving
the good people at the shelter problems. Please don't do that. Have you been
playing chess?" Silence. "The
man you played chess with in the car said you were very good." Maybe
there was a boy at the other end, Arkady thought. Maybe the telephone was
dangling down a well. "I'm
in the Talk
about what else, a man with his throat cut? Arkady searched. "It's like Chapter SevenChernobyl
Ecological Station Three was a run-down garden nursery. A filmy light
penetrated a plastic roof that had been torn and patched and torn again. Rows
of potted plants sat on tables, suffering the music of a radio hanging on a
post. Ukrainian hip-hop. Bent over a microscope, Vanko shifted with the beat. Alex
explained to Arkady, "Actually, the most important instrument for an
ecologist is a shovel. Vanko is very good with a shovel." "What
are you digging for?" "The
usual villains: cesium, plutonium, strontium. We sample soil and groundwater,
test which mushroom soaks up more radionuclides, check the DNA of mammals. We
study the mutation rate of Clethrionomys glareolus, whom you'll meet,
and sample the dose rates of cesium and strontium from a variety of mammals. We
kill as few as possible, but you have to be 'Merciless for the Common Good,' as
my father used to say." Alex led Arkady outside. "This, however, is
our Garden of Eden."
Alex
had a gardener's pride. "The old topsoil had to be scraped away. This new
soil is sandy, but I think it's doing well." "Is
that the old soil?" Arkady pointed to an isolated bin of dark earth fifty
meters off. The bin was half covered by a tarpaulin and surrounded by warning
signs. "Our
particularly dirty dirt. It's worse than finding a needle in a haystack. A
speck of cesium is too small to see without a microscope, so we dig everything
up. Ah, another visitor." One
of the orange crates had fallen. As Alex lifted the trap, a ball of quills
tipped in white rolled out, a pointed nose appeared and two beady eyes squinted
up. "Hedgehogs
are serious sleepers, Renko. Even trapped, they don't like to be awakened quite
so rudely." The
hedgehog got to its feet, twitched its nose and, with sudden attention, dug up
a worm. An elastic tug-of-war ended in a compromise; the hedgehog ate half the
worm while half escaped. More alert, the hedgehog considered going one way,
then another. "All
he can think of is a new nest with soft, cool rotting leaves. Let me show you
something." Alex reached down with a gloved hand, picked up the hedgehog
and set it in front of Arkady. "I'm
in his way." "That's
the idea." The
hedgehog marched forward until it encountered Arkady. It butted his foot two,
three, four times until Arkady let it through, spines bristling, the exit of a
hero. "He
wasn't afraid." "He's
not. There have been generations of hedgehogs since the accident, and they're
not afraid of people anymore." Alex pulled off his gloves to light a
cigarette. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to work with animals
that aren't afraid. This is paradise." Some
paradise, Arkady thought. All that separated the plot from the reactor was four
kilometers of red forest. Even at that distance, the sarcophagus of Reactor
Four and the red-and-white-striped chimney loomed above the trees. Arkady had
assumed the garden was only a test site, but no, Alex said, Vanko sold the
produce. "People will eat it, it's nearly impossible to stop them. I used
to have a big dog, a rottweiler, to guard the place. One night I was working
late, and he was outside barking in the snow. He wouldn't stop. Then he
stopped. I went out ten minutes later with a lamp, and there was a ring of wolves
eating my dog." "What
happened then?" "Nothing.
I chased them and fired a couple of shots." A
Moskvich with a bad muffler went by on the way to Pripyat. Eva Kazka shot
Arkady and Alex a glance without slowing down. "Mother
Teresa," Alex said. "Patron saint of useless good works. She's off to
the villages to tend the lame and the halt, who shouldn't be here in the first
place." Black smoke poured out the tailpipe of the Moskvich like a bad
temper. "She
likes you," Alex said. "Really?
I couldn't tell." "Very
much. You're the poetic type. So was I once. Cigarette?" Alex unwrapped a
pack. "Thank
you." "I
had stopped smoking before I came to the Zone. The Zone puts everything in
perspective." "But
the radioactivity is fading." "Some.
Cesium is the biggest worry now. It's a bone seeker; it heads to the marrow and
stops the production of platelets. And you've got a radiation-sensitive lining
in your intestines that cesium just fries. That's if everything goes well and
the reactor doesn't blow again." "It
might?" "Could.
No one really knows what's going on inside the sarcophagus, except that we
believe there's over a hundred tons of uranium fuel keeping itself very
warm." "But
the sarcophagus will protect any new explosion?" "No,
the sarcophagus is a rust bucket, a sieve. Every time it rains the sarcophagus
leaks and more radioactive water joins the ground-water, which joins the "Not
usually this early in the day." "Well,
this is the Zone." Alex unscrewed the caps and threw them away.
"Cheers!" Arkady
hesitated, but etiquette was etiquette, so he took the bottle and tossed it
down in a swallow. Alex
was pleased. "I find that a cigarette and a little vodka lends a
perspective to a day in the Zone."
Although Alex
said, "The general rule for moving around the Zone is to stay on the
asphalt," he seemed to despise the road. His preferred route was across
the mounds and hollows of a buried village in a light truck, a "Turn
off your dosimeter." "What?"
That was the last thing Arkady had in mind. "If
you want the tour, you'll get the tour, but on my terms. Turn off the
dosimeter. I'm not going to listen to that chattering all day." Alex
grinned. "Go ahead, you have questions. What are they?" "You
were a physicist," Arkady said. "The
first time I came to "I
don't know enough to suspect anyone." "That's
what I told Vanko. Oh, I should add, favorite writer: Shakespeare." "Why
Shakespeare?" Arkady held on as the truck climbed a slope of chimney
bricks. "He
has my favorite character, Yorick." "The
skull in Hamlet?" "Exactly.
No lines but a wonderful role. 'Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well... a man of
infinite jest...' Isn't that the best you can say about anyone? I wouldn't mind
being dug up every hundred years so someone could say, Alas, poor Alexander
Gerasimov, I knew him well." "A
man of infinite jest?" "I
do the best I can." Alex accelerated as if crossing a minefield. "But
Vanko and I don't know much about poachers. We're only ecologists. We check our
traps, tag this animal or that, take blood samples, scrape some cells for DNA.
We rarely kill an animal, at least a mammal, and we don't have barbecues in the
woods. I can't even tell you the last time I ran into a poacher or a
squatter." "You
trap in the Zone, and poachers hunt in the Zone. You might have run into each
other." "I
honestly don't remember." "I
talked to a poacher who was caught with his crossbow. He said another man whom
he took to be a hunter had put a rifle to his head and warned him off. He
described the man as about two meters tall; lean; gray eyes; short dark
hair." That pretty much described Alex Gerasimov. Arkady leaned back for a
better view of the rifle bouncing in the van's rear seat. "He said the
rifle was a Protecta twelve-millimeter with a barrel clip." "A
good all-purpose rifle. These characters use crossbows so they can hunt without
making a lot of noise, but they're hardly the marksmen they imagine they are.
Usually they botch the job, the animal escapes and takes days of agony to bleed
to death. To put the barrel of a rifle to someone's head, though – that is a
little extreme. This poacher, will he prosecute?" "How
can he, without admitting he was breaking the law himself?" "A
real dilemma. You know, Renko, I'm beginning to see why Vanko is afraid of
you." "Not
at all. I appreciate the ride. Sometimes activity prompts a memory. You might
empty a trap today and remember that you ran into such-and-such a man right
there." "I
might?" "Or
perhaps a person came to you with a moose he accidentally hit with his car, to
ask whether it was safe to eat, the moose already being dead and food a shame
to waste." "You
think so? There wouldn't be much car left after hitting a moose." "Just
a possibility." "And
I wouldn't advise going in those woods at all." A
wall of rusting pines stretched as far as Arkady could see, from left to right.
Being dead, the branches held no cones and no squirrels; except for the flit of
a bird, the trees were as still as posts. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him
well. Arkady could picture a skull on each post. Something ghostly did a
pirouette in front of the trees. It fluttered like a handkerchief and darted
away. "A
white swallow," Alex said. "You won't see many of those outside of "Do
poachers come here?" "No,
they know better." "Do
we?" "Yes,
but it's irresistible, and we do it anyway. In the wintertime you should see
it, the ground covered with snow, like a belly dimpled with mysterious scars,
and the trees bright as blood. People call it the red forest or the magic forest.
Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it? And not to worry – as the authorities
always say, Appropriate measures will be taken, and the situation is under
control.' " They
moved along the face of the red forest to an area replanted with new pine
trees, where Alex hopped out of the truck and brought back the end of a bough. "See
how stunted and deformed the tip is. It will never grow into a tree, only
scrub. But it's a step in the right direction. The administration is pleased
with our new pines." Alex spread his arms and announced, "In two
hundred and fifty years, all this will be clean. Except for the plutonium; that
will take twenty-five thousand years." "Something
to hope for." "I
believe so." Still,
Arkady found himself breathing easier when the red pines gave way to a mix of
ash and birch. At the base of a tree, Alex brushed back high grass to reveal a
tunnel leading to a cage of what looked to Arkady like squirming field mice. "Clethrionomys
glareolus," said Alex. "Voles. Or maybe super voles. The rate of
mutation among our little friends here has accelerated by a factor of thirty.
Maybe they'll be doing calculus next year. One reason voles have such a fast
rate of mutation is that they reproduce so quickly, and radiation affects
organisms when they are growing much more than it does when they're adult. A
cocoon is affected by radiation, a butterfly is not. So the question is, How
does radiation affect this fellow?" Alex opened the top of the cage to
lift out a vole by its tail. "The answer is that he does not worry about
radionuclides. He worries about owls, foxes, hawks. He worries about finding
food and a warm nest. He thinks that radiation is by far the smallest factor in
his survival, and he's right." "And
you, what is the largest factor in your survival?" Arkady asked. "Let
me tell you a story. My father was a physicist. He worked at one of those
secret installations in the Urals where spent nuclear fuel was stored. Spent
fuel is still hot. Insufficient attention was paid, and the fuel exploded, not a
nuclear explosion but very dirty and hot. Everything was done secretly, even
the cleanup, which was fast and messy. Thousands of soldiers, firemen,
technicians waded through debris, including physicists led by my father. After
the accident here, I called my father and said, 'Papa, I want you to tell me
the truth. Your colleagues from the Urals accident, how are they?' My father
took a moment to answer. He said, 'They're all dead, son, every one. Of vodka.'
" "So
you drink and smoke and ride around a radioactive forest." Alex
let the vole drop into the cage and switched the full cage with an empty.
"Statistically, I admit that none of these are healthy occupations.
Individually, statistics mean nothing at all. I think I will probably be hit by
a hawk of some kind. And I think, Renko, that you're a lot like me. I think you
are waiting for your own hawk." "Maybe
a hedgehog." "No,
trust me on this, definitely a hawk. From here we walk a little."
Alex carried the
rifle, and Arkady carried a cage that had a one-way gate baited with greens.
Step by step, the woods around them changed from stunted trees to taller,
sturdier beeches and oaks that produced a dappling of birdcalls and light. Arkady
asked, "Did you ever meet Pasha Ivanov or Nikolai Timofeyev?" "You
know, Renko, some people leave their problems behind them when they go into the
woods. They commune with nature. No, I never met either man." "You
were a physicist. You all went to the "They
were older, ahead of me. Why this focus on physicists?" "This
case is more interesting than the usual domestic quarrel. Cesium chloride is
not a carving knife." "You
can get cesium chloride at a number of labs. Considering the economic health of
the country, you can probably persuade a scientist to siphon off a little extra
for either terrorism or murder. People steal warheads, don't they?" "To
transport cesium chloride would take professional skill, wouldn't it?" "Any
decent technician could do that. The power plant still employs hundreds of
technicians for maintenance. Far too many for you to question." "If
the person who used cesium in "To
those hundreds of technicians." "Not
really. The technicians live an hour away. They commute by train to the plant,
work their shift and go directly home. They don't wander around the Zone. No,
the person who cut Timofeyev's throat is part of the security staff, or a
squatter or poacher." "Or
a scientist living in the Zone?" Alex said. "That's
a possibility, too." There weren't many of those, Arkady thought. There
was no scientific glory work being done at "Cesium
is a complicated way to kill someone or drive them crazy." "I
agree," said Arkady. "And hardly worth the effort, unless you're
sending a message. The fact that neither Ivanov nor Timofeyev complained to the
militia or their own security, in spite of a threat to their lives, suggests
that some sort of message was understood." "Timofeyev
had his throat cut. Where's the subtle message in that?" "Maybe
it was in where he was found – at the threshold of a village cemetery. Either
he drove all the way from "I
suppose someone who went into the freezer. I can tell you that people were very
unhappy there was a body inside. They had to clean everything else out." "Then
why go into the freezer except to look at the body?" "Renko,
I had never appreciated before how much detection work was groundless
speculation." "Well,
now you know." Trees
continued to grow taller, shadows deeper, roots more ancient and interlaced.
Arkady waded through fronds of bracken and had the illusion of spiders,
salamanders, snakes scurrying ahead, a subtle ripple of life. Finally Alex
stopped Arkady at the edge of blinding light, an arching meadow of wide-open
daisies and, here and there, the red flags of poppies. Alex motioned him to
crouch and be quiet, then pointed to the top of the meadow, where two deer
stared back with dark liquid eyes. Arkady had never been so close to deer in
the wild. One was a doe; the other had a wide rack of antlers, a hunter's
prize. The tension in their gaze was different from the placid observation of
zoo deer. Alex
whispered, "They are fat from grazing at the orchards." "Are
we still in the Zone?" Arkady found it hard to believe. "Yes.
What you can see from the road is a horror show – Pripyat, the buried villages,
the red woods – but much of the Zone is like this. Now slowly stand." Both
deer went still as Arkady rose. They balanced more particularly but held their
ground. Alex
said, "Like the hedgehog, they're losing their fear." "Are
they radioactive?" "Of
course they're radioactive, everything here is. Everything on earth is. This
field is about as radioactive as a beach in For
a minute Arkady heard nothing more than the mass drone of field life or his
hand slapping a bug on his neck. By concentrating on the deer, however, he
started to pick up their thoughtful chewing, the individual transit of
dragonflies amid a sunlit cross fire of insects, and in the background, a
squirrel scolding from a tree. Alex
said, "The Zone has deer, bison, eagles, swans. The Chernobyl Zone of
Exclusion is the best wild-animal refuge in Arkady
turned his head as slowly as possible and saw a row of yellow eyes behind the
trees. The air grew heavy. Insects slowed in their spirals. Sweat ringed
Arkady's neck and ran down his chest and spine. The next moment the deer bolted
in an explosion of dust and flower heads, took the measure of the field in two
bounds and crashed into the woods on the far side. Arkady looked back at the
birches. The wolves had gone so silently that he thought he might have imagined
them. Alex
unslung his rifle and ran to the birches. From a lower branch, he freed a tuft
of gray fur that he carefully placed inside a plastic bag. When he had put the
bag in a pocket and given the pocket a loving pat, he tore a strip of bark off
the birch, placed the strip between his palms and blew a long, piercing
whistle. "Yes!" he said. "Life is good!"
Eva Kazka had
set up a card table and folding chairs in the middle of the village's only
paved road. Her white coat said she was a doctor; otherwise, her manner
suggested a weary mechanic, and she didn't tame her black hair back as much as
subdue it. On
either side of this outdoor office, the village slumped in resignation. Window
trim hung loose around broken panes, the memory of blue and green walls faded
under the black advance of mildew. The yards were full of bikes, sawhorses and
tubs pillowed in tall grass and bordered by picket fences that leaned in an
infinitely slow collapse. All the same, set farther back from the main street
were, here and there, repainted houses with windows and intricate trim intact,
with a haze of wood smoke around the chimney and a goat cropping the yard. A
benchful of elderly women in versions of shawl- and- coat- and- rubber- boots
waited while Eva looked down the throat of a round little woman with steel
teeth. "Alex
Gerasimov is crazy, this is a well-known fact," Eva said as an aside to
Arkady. "Him and his precious nature. He's a perfectionist. He is a man
who would drive a car into a pole again and again until it was a perfect wreck.
Close." The
old woman closed her jaw firmly to signify nothing less then complete
cooperation. Arkady doubted that, from the shawl tied tight around her head to
her boots hanging clear of the ground, she was over a meter and a half tall.
Her eyes were bright and dazzling, a true Ukrainian blue. "Maria
Fedorovna, you have the blood pressure and heart rate of a woman twenty years
younger. However, I am concerned about the polyp in your throat. I would like
to take it out." "I
will discuss it with Roman." "Yes,
where is Roman Romanovich? I expected to see your husband, too." Maria
lifted her eyes to the top of the lane, where a gate swung open for a bent man
in a cap and sweater, leading a black-and-white cow by a rope. Arkady didn't
know which looked more exhausted. "He's
airing the cow," Maria said. The
cow trudged dutifully behind. A milk cow was an asset precious enough to be
displayed for visitors, Arkady thought. All attention was fixed on the animal's
plodding circuit up and down the street. Its hooves made a sucking sound in the
wet earth. Eva's
fingers played with a scarf tucked into the collar of her lab coat. She wasn't
pretty in an orthodox way; the contrast of such white skin and black hair was
too exotic and her eyes had, at least for Arkady, an unforgiving gaze. "There's
no house here you could use for more privacy?" Arkady asked. "Privacy?
This is their entertainment, their television, and this way they can all
discuss their medical problems like experts. These people are in their
seventies and eighties. I'm not going to operate on them except for something
like a broken leg. The state doesn't have the money, instruments or clean blood
to waste on people their age. I'm not even supposed to be making calls, and
Maria would never go to a city, for fear they wouldn't let her return
here." Arkady
said, "She's not supposed to be here anyway. This is the Zone." Eva
turned toward the ladies on the bench. "Only someone from Maria
said, "At our age, you go into the hospital, you don't come out." Eva
asked Arkady, "You've seen those television shows with the bathing
beauties dropped off on a tropical island to see if they can survive?" She
nodded to Maria and to her friends on the bench. "These are the real
survivors." The
doctor introduced them: Olga had a corrugated face and filmy glasses; Nina
leaned on a crutch; Klara had the angular features of a Viking, braids and all.
Their leader was Maria. "An
investigator of what?" Maria asked. Arkady
said, "A body of a man was found at the entrance of your village cemetery
in the middle of May. I was hoping that one of you might have seen or heard
someone, or noticed something odd or maybe a car." "May
was rainy," Maria said. "Was
it at night?" Olga asked. "If it was at night and it was raining, who
would even go outside?" "Do
any of you have dogs?" "No
dogs," Klara said. "Wolves
eat dogs," said Nina. "So
I hear. Do you know a family called Katamay? The son was in the militia
here." The
women shook their heads. "Is
the name Timofeyev familiar to you?" Arkady asked. "I
don't believe you," Eva said. "You act like a real detective, like
you're in "Is
the name Pasha Ivanov familiar to you?" Arkady asked the women. Eva
said, "You're worse than Alex. He values animals above people, but you're
worse. You're just a bureaucrat with a list of questions. These women have had
their whole world taken away. Their children and grandchildren are allowed to
visit one day a year. The Russians promised money, medicine, doctors. What do
we get? Alex Gerasimov and you. At least he's doing research. Why did "To
get rid of me." "I
can see why. And what have you found?" "Not
much." "How
can that be? The death rate here is twice normal. How many people died from the
accident? Some say eighty, some say eight thousand, some say half a million.
Did you know that the cancer rate around Chornobyl is sixty-five times normal?
Oh, you don't want to hear this. This is so tedious and depressing." Was
he in a staring contest with her? This had to be like a falconer's dilemma,
holding a not completely trained bird of prey on the wrist. "I
did want to ask you a few questions, maybe someplace else." "No,
Maria and the other women can use a little amusement. We will all concentrate
on one Russian stiff." Eva opened a pack of cigarettes and shared them
with her patients. "Go on." "You
do have drugs?" Arkady asked. "Yes,
we do have some medicine, not much, but some." "Some
has to be refrigerated?" "Yes." "And
some frozen?" "One
or two." "Where?" Eva
Kazka took a deep draw on her cigarette. "In a freezer, obviously." "Do
you have one, or do you use the freezer at the cafeteria?" "I
have to admit, you have a single-mindedness that must be very useful in your
profession." "Do
you store medicine in the cafeteria freezer?" "Yes." "You
saw the body in the freezer?" "I
see a lot of bodies. We have more deaths than live births. Why not ask about
that?" "You
saw the body of Lev Timofeyev." "What
if I did? I certainly didn't know who he was." "And
you left a note that he hadn't died of a heart attack." Maria
and the women on the bench looked to Eva, Arkady and back as if a tennis match
had come to the village. Olga removed her glasses and wiped them.
"Details." Eva
said, "There was a body dressed in a suit and wrapped in plastic. I'd
never seen him before. That's all." "People
told you that he had had a heart attack?" "I
don't remember." Arkady
said nothing. Sometimes it was better to wait, especially with such an eager
audience as Maria and her friends. "I
suppose the kitchen staff said he had a heart attack," Eva said. "Who
signed the death certificate?" "Nobody.
No one knew who he was or how he died or how long he had been dead." "But
you're fairly expert in that. I hear you spent time in Eva's
eyes lit. "You have it backward. I was with a group of doctors documenting
Russian atrocities against the Chechen population." "Like
slit throats?" "Exactly.
The body in the freezer had its throat cut with one stroke of a long sharp
knife from behind. From the angle of the cut, his head was pulled back, and he
was kneeling or seated, or the killer was at least two meters tall. Since his
windpipe was cut, he couldn't have uttered a sound before dying, and if he was
killed at the cemetery here, no one would have heard a thing." "The
description said he had been 'disturbed by wolves.' Meaning his face?" "It
happens. It's the Zone. Anyway, I do not want to be involved in your
investigation." "So
he was lying on his back?" "I
don't know." "Wouldn't
someone whose throat was cut from behind be more likely to fall forward?" "I
suppose so. All I saw was the body in the freezer. This is like talking to a
monomaniac. All you can focus on in this enormous tragedy, where hundreds of
thousands died and continue to suffer, is one dead Russian." The
old man turned the cow in the direction of the card table. Despite the heat,
Roman Romanovich was buttoned into not one but two sweaters. His pink, well-fed
face and white bristles and the anxious smile he cast at Maria as he approached
suggested a man who had long ago learned that a good wife was worth obeying. Eva
asked Arkady, "Do you know how Roman
tugged on Arkady's sleeve. "Milk?" "He
wants to know if you would like to buy some milk," Eva said. She twisted
her scarf with her fingers. "Would you like some milk from Roman's
cow?" "This
cow?" "Yes.
Absolutely fresh." "After
you." Eva
smiled. To Roman she said, "Investigator Renko thanks you but must
decline. He's allergic to milk." "Thank
you," Arkady said. "Think
nothing of it," said Eva. "He
must come to dinner," Maria said. "We'll give him decent food, not
like they serve at the cafeteria. He seems a nice man." "No,
I'm afraid the investigator is going back to Chapter EightEach
commuter on the six p.m. train from the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station began
his trip by standing in the booth of a radiation detector and placing his feet
and hands on metal plates until a green light signaled that he could continue
to the platform. The train itself was an express that passed through
Byelorussian territory without stopping, bypassing border checks. It was a cozy
ride through pine forests on a summer evening. Men
rode at one end, women at the other. Men played cards, drank tea from thermoses
or napped in rumpled clothes, whereas the women held conversations or knit
sweaters and were painstakingly well dressed, with not a gray hair among them,
not while henna grew on earth. Halfway,
the car became more subdued. Halfway, eyes wandered to the window, more and
more a mirror. Halfway, thoughts turned to home, to coping with dinner,
children, private lives. Arkady,
too, nodded from the rhythm of the train. One thought dissolved into another. He
gave Eva Kazka credit for bringing medical service, however minimal, to people
in villages no one else dared visit. But she had played him like a thief before
a jury in front of the old women. Eva had that knack of making a person draw
too little air or speak too loud. In front of such an individual, a man could
become so aware his weight was on his left foot that he might fall over on his
right, and the village women had practically cackled while watching the show.
She had called them survivors. What kind of appearance did he present, an
intrepid investigator following clues to the end of the earth, or a man lost by
the wayside? At a dead end, at least. A signal flashed by the window, and
Arkady thought of Pasha Ivanov flying through the air. Arkady didn't approve or
disapprove. The problem was that once people landed, other people had to clean
up the mess. And what had he learned on his excursion with Alex? Not much. On
the other hand, he'd seen at least three wolves behind the white trunks of the
birches, eyes shining like pans of gold, weighing the deer, he and Alex and the
deer much the same. He remembered how the hairs had stiffened down the back of
his neck. The word "predator" meant more when you were potential
prey. He laughed at himself, imagining that he was on his motorcycle being
chased by wolves.
Slavutych had
been built for people evacuated from Pripyat. It was a successor city, with
spacious squares and white municipal buildings that looked like a child's
building blocks – arches, cubes, columns – on a giant scale. It was a city with
modern amenities. A sunken football field was serviced by espresso bars. The Oleksander
Katamay lived on the fifth floor of an "Uzbeki" building. A young
woman in a jogging suit and top-heavy blond hair let Arkady in and immediately
left him in a living room arranged around a taxidermy worktable with lamps and
a stand-up magnifying glass aimed at a badger skin rolled up with the head
inside. Another badger, farther along, bathed in a bucket of degreaser. Shelves
held plastic sacks of clay and papier-mвchй and a menagerie of stuffed and
mounted animals: a lynx with bared fangs, an owl looking over its shoulder, a
slinking fox. A pair of hunting rifles resided in a glass cabinet with a Soviet
flag: small-bore, single-shot, bolt-action rifles polished as lovingly as a
brace of violins. Hung on the walls had to be twenty framed photos of men in
hard hats studying plans, setting pilings or working the levers of a crane, and
in the middle or taking the lead in each was the same tall vigorous figure of
Oleksander Katamay. Arkady was studying a photograph of workers in front of a
power plant and realized that it was the first photo he had seen of the intact
Chernobyl Reactor Four, a massive white wall next to its twin, Reactor Three.
The men in the picture were as relaxed and confident as if they stood on the
prow of a mighty ship. A
deep voice called, "Is that the investigator? I'm coming." While
Arkady waited, he noticed a framed plaque that displayed civilian medals,
including Veteran of Labor, Winner of Socialist Competition and Honored Builder
of the U.S.S.R., plus rows of military ribbons. Arkady was standing by them
when Oleksander Katamay rolled into the room in a wheelchair. Though a
pensioner in his late seventies, he still had a laborer's chest and shoulders,
with a broad, pushed-in face and a mane of white hair. He gripped Arkady's hand
firmly enough to squeeze the blood out. "From
"That's
right." "But
Renko is a good Ukrainian name." Katamay leaned close, as if to peer into Arkady's
soul, then abruptly spun and shouted, "Oksana!" He brought his gaze
back to Arkady and the taxidermy in progress. "You were admiring my hobby?
Did you see the ribbons?" Katamay rolled to the plaque of medals and
pointed out one with writing in Arabic. " 'Friendship of the Afghan
People.' The friendship of niggers, I guess that's worth my son's life.
Oksana!" The
woman who had let Arkady into the apartment brought a tray of vodka and
pickles, which she set on a coffee table. Although there was something
negligent about her, her hair was a golden beehive. She sat on the floor by
Katamay's wheelchair while he drew close a stand-up ashtray on the other side.
Arkady settled on an ottoman and had the sense of being in a scene both posed
and askew. It was the table with the two badgers, one in the stew, one out. It
was Oksana. Her stiff hair was a wig. But it was more than that. Katamay
pointed to the stuffed animals and asked Arkady, "Which do you like
most?" "Oh.
They're all lifelike." Which was the best Arkady could come up with,
considering his first instinct had been to say, There's a dead cat on your
shelf. "The
trick is suppleness." "Suppleness?" "Getting
off all the flesh and then shaving the inside of the skin until it's blue.
Timing, temperature, the right glue are all important, too." "I
wanted to ask about your grandson, Karel." "Karel
is a good boy. Oksana, am I right?" Oksana
said nothing. Katamay
half-filled the glasses with vodka and passed one to Arkady. "To
Karel," Katamay said. "Wherever he is." The old man put his head
back, took the vodka in one continuous swallow and watched out of the corner of
his eye to make sure Arkady and Oksana did the same. Maybe he was in a
wheelchair, but he was still the man in charge. Arkady wondered what it was
like to have been chief of construction of such a huge enterprise and now to be
restricted to such a small arena. Katamay refilled the glasses. "Renko,
you came to the right part of the Arkady
said, "I'd like to ask some questions first." "To
fucking Russians," Katamay said and downed his glass. Arkady
opened the file he carried and passed around a photograph of a young man with
half-finished, impatient features: a pinched nose, a thin mouth, a gaze that
challenged the camera. Oksana
said, "That's my brother." "Karel
Oleksandrovich Katamay, twenty-six, born Pripyat, "He
can shoot and leave something worth stuffing, if that's a marksman,"
Katamay said. "Twice
demoted for physical abuse of newer recruits." "That's
hazing. It's a tradition in the army." True
enough, Arkady thought. Some kids were hazed enough that they hanged
themselves. Karel must have stood out among the tormentors. "Disciplinary
action once for theft." "Suspicion
of theft. If they had been able to prove anything, they would have put him in
the brig. He has a wild side, but he's a good boy. He couldn't have joined the
militia here without a clean record." "In
the militia, Karel was frequently late or absent from his post." "Sometimes
he was hunting for me. We always got things straightened out with his
chief." "That
would be Captain Marchenko?" "Yes." "Hunting
for what? Another fox or lynx? A wolf?" "A
wolf would be the best." Katamay rubbed his hands at the thought. "Do
you know how much money a properly mounted wolf would bring?" "Karel's
father died in "I
did. That was when I still had functioning legs." "Karel's
mother?" "Who
knows? She believed all that propaganda about the accident. I've talked to the
top scientists. The problem at Chornobyl isn't radiation, it's fear of
radiation. There's a word for it: radio-phobia. Karel's mother was radiophobic.
So she left. The fact of the matter is, these people are lucky. The state built
them Pripyat and then Slavutych, gave them the best salary, the best living
conditions, schools and medicine, but the Ukrainian people are all radiophobic.
Anyway, Karel's mother disappeared years ago. I raised him." "Dressed
him, fed him, sent him to school?" "School
was a waste of time. He was meant to be a hunter; he was wasted indoors." "When
did you lose the use of your legs?" "Two
years ago, but it was a result of the explosion. I was operating a crane for
the firemen when a piece of the roof came down. It came down like a meteor and
crushed my back. The vertebra finally gave in. There's a citation on the wall;
you can read all about it." "Had
Karel ever been to "He'd
been to "You
haven't seen him since he found that body in the Zone?" "No." "Heard
from him?" Arkady
noticed Oksana's glance at yet another hide lolling in a bucket of degreaser in
a corner. For a man who hadn't seen or spoken to his marksman grandson in
months, Katamay seemed to have no lack of fresh material for his craft. Katamay
said, "Nothing, not a word." "You
don't seem worried." "It's
not like he did anything wrong. He resigned from the militia – so what? Karel's
a big boy. He can take care of himself." "Did
you ever hear of two physicists named Pasha Ivanov or Lev Timofeyev?" "No." "They
never visited "How
would I know?" Arkady
asked for the names of family or friends whom Karel might have visited or
contacted, and Katamay dispatched Oksana to make up a list. While they waited,
Katamay's gaze drifted back to the photographs on the wall. One had probably
been taken on International Women's Day, because a younger version of Katamay
was surrounded by women in hard hats. In another photograph he strode ahead of
technicians in lab coats, who struggled to keep up. "That
must have been a great responsibility, being head of construction," Arkady
said. Katamay
said nothing while Oksana rustled through papers in the other room. Then he
refilled his glass. "It's all political, you know, shutting down the other
reactors. Totally unnecessary. The other three could have run for another
twenty years, and we could have built Five and Six, Seven and Eight. Chornobyl
was and is the best power-plant site anywhere. The charities got in and blew up
statistics. What's easier, to milk foreign aid or run a power plant?
So we went from a world power to a third-class nation. Do you know how many
died because of Chornobyl, the real figures? Forty-one. Not millions, not
hundreds of thousands. Forty-one. The wonderful thing we have discovered is
that the human organism can live with much higher levels of radiation than we
once thought. But radiophobia has taken over. Forty-one. You have that many
dying of lung cancer in the hospitals of Katamay
energetically swung his chair around and propelled himself into the next room,
a study where his granddaughter had been gathering names and phone numbers at a
desk. The desk and all the furniture had been pushed against the wall to make
space for a draftsman's table holding an architectural model of the
Arkady was aware
of being followed by Oksana from the apartment. She was in her jogging suit but
had replaced her wig with a knit cap and darted like a mouse from doorway to
doorway. Arkady had an hour until the next train. He stopped at a cafй called
Colombino and took two coffees to an outside table where he had a view of the
shallow pools of light cast by the plaza lamps. The structures of civilization
– city hall, football stadium, cinema, supermarket – were apparent, just not
the activity. He watched Oksana buy an apple from a farmer outside the
supermarket, then start to eat the apple as she crossed the plaza and act
surprised to find him. "You
were expecting someone?" She looked at the second cup. "As
a matter of fact, you." She
looked cautiously around. Her cheeks were flushed. Now that she was close, it
was obvious that under her cap, Oksana's head was shaved. She tucked in her
ears. "I must seem pretty ridiculous to you." "Not
a bit. I was hoping you would join me." She
inched into the chair without taking her eyes off Arkady. He waited until she
was settled before pushing the second cup in her direction. They sat for a
minute quietly. Shoppers weighted with bags came out of the supermarket and
lurched from side to side under archways decorated with symbols of a peaceful
atom. Oksana
sipped her coffee. "It's cold." "I
m sorry." "No,
I like coffee cold. I usually have it cold after serving my grandfather." "He
is a strong personality." "He's
the boss." "He's
close to Karel?" "Yes." "Are
you?" "Karel
is my little brother." "Have
you seen him or talked to him?" Oksana
turned a wide smile toward Arkady. "Did you really like my grandfather's
stuffed animals?" "I'm
not a great fan of taxidermy." Perhaps because of my line of work, he
thought. "I
could tell. 'Lifelike.' Like us at Slavutych." "Do
you work at the station?" "Yes." "Why
is that amusing?" "The
pay was good, a fifty percent bonus to live here and work at Chornobyl. We
called it coffin money. My grandfather gets an added pension for his
disability. But there's a catch." "Because
you're just cleaning up "At
the rate we're going? It will take a hundred. That's not the catch." "What
is the catch?" "They
cut our pay seventy-five percent. After rent and utilities and school, we end
up paying to work at Chornobyl. But it's a job, and that's saying something in
the "What
is the catch?" Oksana
adjusted her cap so her ears showed. "Quiet, isn't it?" "Yes."
Arkady saw a customer leaving the illumination of the market? a couple of
schoolgirls with backpacks, a man with a cigarette stuck in a weathered face,
no more than ten people, in all, along the square and its promenades. "Everyone
is leaving. They built the town for fifty thousand people, and there are fewer
than twenty thousand now. Over half the town is empty. The catch is, they built
on contaminated land. Cesium from Chornobyl was waiting for us here. Pripyat to
Slavutych, we didn't escape at all." Oksana smiled, as at a joke that
never grew stale, and she rolled her cap down. "I wear the wig because it
makes women here unhappy to see me shaved. I feel a little like a stuffed
animal with it on, though. What do you think?" "The
shaved look is very popular." "Want
to see?" She pulled off the cap, revealing an almost perfectly round skull
with blue tones. The nakedness made her eyes seem large and luminous. "You
can feel." She took his hand and moved it around her head, which felt
almost polished. "Now what do you think?" "Smooth." "Yes."
As she pulled the cap back on, she wore the smile of someone who had divulged a
secret. "You
miss Pripyat." "Yes."
She recited her old address there: street, block and flat. "We had the
best view, right on the water. In the fall we would watch the ducks follow the
river south, and in the spring follow the river north." "Oksana,
have you seen your brother?" "Who?" "Have
you seen Karel?" Arkady's
mobile phone rang. He tried to ignore it, but Oksana seized the interruption to
bolt down the rest of her coffee and get up from her chair. "I have to go.
I have to cook for my grandfather." "Please.
This will just take a second." A local number on the caller ID. Arkady
answered, "Hello." A
man said, "This is your friend from the Pripyat Hotel." The
scavenger with the plumber's tools and bedspring grill whom Arkady had chased
through the school. A Ukrainian speaking Russian, so he knew who Arkady was. A
penetrating voice husky from years of smoking. No identifiable background
noise. A landline, no breaking up. Arkady looked at Oksana, who was disengaging
step by step. "Yes,"
Arkady said into the phone. "You
wanted to talk, and you're willing to pay money?" "That's
right." As
Oksana slipped away onto the plaza, she whispered, "You're very nice, very
nice. Just... don't stay too long." "What
about?" "The
body of a "Can
you pay in American dollars?" "Yes." "Then
you're a lucky man, because I can help you." "What
do you know?" "More
than you do, I bet, because you've been here a month, and you don't know
anything." The
longer they spoke, the more Arkady heard a sibilant S and the scratchiness of
an unshaved chin. Arkady gave him a name: the Plumber. "Like
what?" "Like
your businessman was really rich, so there's a lot of money involved." "Maybe.
What do you know?" Arkady
saw Oksana run past the supermarket and vanish around a corner. "Oh
no, not over the phone," the Plumber said. "We
should meet," Arkady said. "But you have to give me some idea of what
you know so that I'll know how much money to bring." "Everything." "That
sounds like nothing." And that was Arkady's impression of the Plumber. A
blowhard. "A
hundred dollars." "For
what?" The
Plumber hurried. "I'll call you in the morning and tell you how we'll
meet." "Do
that," Arkady said, although the Plumber had already hung up.
On the ride
back, the train carried the smaller crew of the night shift, all men and most
napping, chins on their chests. What was there to see? The moon was obscured by
clouds, and the coach moved in a black terrain of evacuated farms and villages,
only a rattling of the rails to indicate forward motion. Then a signal light
would plunge by like a face at the window, and Arkady would be thoroughly
awake. Pasha's
death was complicated because he had been dying already. He had a dosimeter. He
knew that he was dying and what he was dying from. That was part of the ordeal.
Arkady tried to imagine the first time Pasha became aware of what was
happening. He had been a social animal, the sort who took off his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves, as Rina put it, to have a good time. How did it start?
In the blurred confusion of a party, had someone slipped a salt-shaker and a
dosimeter into his jacket pocket? The meter's sound would have been turned off.
Arkady pictured Pasha's face when he read the meter, and the fast, tactful exit
away from everyone else. The dose wouldn't have been too high, more like the
first probe of artillery. "We flushed the radioactive water right into the
And
it would go on. Timofeyev was also under attack. So, by sheer proximity, was
Rina. Ivanov and Timofeyev had both had cesium pallor. Their bloody noses were
signs of platelet failure. They couldn't eat or drink. Each day they were
weaker and more isolated. And in the sanctuary of Ivanov's apartment, in the
closet of his bedroom was this shining floor of salt. With a saltshaker. It
hadn't matched any pepper shaker in the apartment, and Arkady guessed that it
had sat on top of the pile like a tiny lighthouse, pulsating gamma rays.
Suicides had a pattern, first fatigue and then a manic energy. Here's the
chair, where's the rope? Here's the razor, where's the bath? How to dispose of
radioactive salt? Eat it. Eat it with wads of bread. Choke it down with
sparkling water. The dosimeter screams? Turn it off. The nosebleeds? Wipe it
off, wrap the handkerchief around the meter and place them in the shirt drawer.
Neatness counts, but hurry. Momentum is important. The stomach wants to
throw back what you've fed it. Open the window. Now grasp the saltshaker, climb
high above the world, curtains flapping, and fix your eye on the bright
horizon. It's easier to die if you're already dead. Chapter NineMorning
rain fell on the Chernobyl Yacht Club, a gap-toothed dock on the Vanko
said, "That's all you've got? No bait?" "No
bait." "A
light rain like this can be good fishing." Arkady
changed the subject. "There really used to be a yacht club here?" "Sailboats.
They sailed away after the accident. Now they're all sold to rich people on the
Vapors
drifted around a fleet of commercial and excursion boats scuttled or run
aground, rusting from white to red. An explosion seemed to have lifted ferries,
dredgers and scows, coal barges and river freighters out of the water and set
them haphazardly along the river's edge. The dock's end was guarded by a
padlocked gate and signs that read high radiation! and no swimming and no
diving. Taken together, the signs were, it seemed to Arkady, redundant. "Eva
lives up there in a cabin." Vanko pointed across the bridge toward a brick
apartment block. "Way back. You'd never find it." "I'll
take your word for it." Vanko
had a key for the boat's padlock and helped Arkady portage the boat over a
floodgate and bridge to the north arm of the river. Arkady had noticed before
that Vanko, with his stolid manner and calflike fringe of hair, seemed to have
keys to everything, as if he were the town custodian. "Chornobyl was a
busy port once. A lot of business went up and down the river when we had
Jews." Arkady
thought that conversations with Vanko sometimes skipped a groove. "So you
haven't had Jews here since the war? Since the Germans?" They
scrambled down to the water. Vanko slid the rowboat in and gripped it by the
stern. "Something like that." As
Arkady got in with the oars, he gave a last glance at the posted warnings.
"How radioactive is the river?" Vanko
shrugged. "Water accumulates radiation a thousand times more than
soil." "Oh." "But
it settles to the bottom." "Ah." "So
avoid the shellfish." Vanko still held the boat. "That reminds me.
You're invited to the old folks' tonight for dinner. Remember Roman and Maria
from the village?" "Yes."
The old woman with the bright blue eyes and the old man with the cow. "Can
you come?" "Of
course." Dinner in a black village. Who could pass that up? Vanko
was pleased. He gave a push. Arkady slipped the oars into the oarlocks and
pulled a first long stroke, then another, and the boat eased into the sluggish
current of the Pripyat. He
was here because the Plumber had kept his promise and called in the morning
with instructions: Arkady was to come alone in a rowboat to the middle of the
cooling pond behind the Arkady's
camos and cap were reasonably water-resistant, and as he settled into even
strokes, he soon had the rowboat clear of shipwrecks and decaying piers. He
dipped his hand in. The water was glassy, brown from peat bogs far upstream and
dimpled with light rain. The land ahead was low-lying, riddled by the myriad
channels of an ancient river and softened by pines and willows. It was four
kilometers against the current from the yacht-club dock to even reach the
cooling pond. Arkady checked his watch. He had two hours to cover the full
distance, and if he was a little late, he figured the Plumber would probably
wait for a hundred dollars. Arkady
didn't have the money, but he couldn't miss the chance to make contact. In
fact, he thought his lack of money might be his safe passage out if the
Plumber's only interest was robbery. Mist
steamed from the riverbanks, snagged on birches, drifted free. Frogs plopped
for cover. Arkady found that the discipline of rowing led to a trancelike state
that left whirlpools of oar strokes behind. A swan cruised by, a white
apparition that deigned to turn its head in Arkady's direction. There were, as
Vanko might have said, worse ways to spend a day. Sometimes
the river silted and broadened, sometimes narrowed to a tunnel of trees, and
much of the time Arkady wondered what he was doing. He wasn't in An
hour later, Arkady had fallen into such a rhythm that it took him a moment to
react to a crowd of radiation signs on a sandy beach. His target. He gathered
speed, drove the boat onto the beach and jumped out, dragging the boat over the
sand and up to the crown of a causeway that separated the river from the
man-made reservoir of the cooling pond. The pond was twelve kilometers long and
three wide; it took a lot of water to cool four nuclear reactors. When the
plant had been active – when A
causeway road was blocked by a chain-link fence, bent on one side as if to say,
"Come this way." Saplings had uprooted the cement slabs that were the
walls of the pond; at one point a red shirt tied to a tree marked where slabs
had shifted and, in their disrepair, become stairs down to the water. Arkady
checked his meter, which ticked with increasing interest; then he lowered the
rowboat onto the surface and pushed off as he stepped in. In
fair weather, the cooling pond might have been a clever rendezvous. With
binoculars, the Plumber could have made sure Arkady was alone, in a rowboat and
far from help. No doubt the Plumber would have the advantage of an outboard
engine. Whatever the plan, Arkady didn't like approaching with his back turned,
bent over oars. And it was raining harder; visibility was down to a hundred
meters and closing in. People made mistakes when they couldn't see clearly.
They misconstrued what they did see, or saw what wasn't there. What did he know
about the Plumber? The brief phone conversation suggested that he was hardly an
experienced professional, more a slovenly middle-aged Ukrainian male with bad
dental work. He had probably lived in Pripyat and, to judge from his choice of
rendezvous, had probably worked at the power plant. A scavenger rather than a
poacher, a man likely to carry a hammer rather than a gun, if that was a
comfort. Arkady
stayed in sight of the causeway to keep his bearings and checked his watch to
determine how far he had come. For a moment he thought he'd caught the throb of
an outboard engine ahead in the rain, but he couldn't honestly say which way it
came from, or whether he'd really heard it. All he heard for certain was his
own oars ladling water. He
had rowed for half an hour along the causeway when he glimpsed, over his
shoulder, two red-and-white chimneys hanging in the fog. Mist closed in, but
not before he had a new bearing, directly toward the reactor stacks. He rowed
and coasted until he got a new sighting, rowed and coasted again. Perhaps it
was going to work out after all. The Plumber would putt-putt into view, and
they would talk. Arkady
rowed to what he guessed was halfway across the pond and waited, turning the
boat every minute or two for a different view. He was aware of boats far off on
the periphery, but not a single one approached. Ten minutes passed. Twenty.
Thirty. By then he wished he had a cigarette, damp or otherwise. He
was about to quit when he heard a metallic rattle and an empty boat drifted
sideways out of the rain. It was an aluminum tub like his, with a small
outboard engine clamped to the stern and a chain swinging at the bow. The
engine was off. An empty vodka bottle rolled forward as Arkady stopped the
boat. Nothing else was in it, not a cigarette butt, not a fishing rod, not a
paddle. Arkady
tied the empty boat to the back of his and started rowing to another boat he
saw on the reactor side of the pond. He couldn't imagine why anyone besides the
Plumber or Vanko would be out in such weather, but maybe the other boat's
occupant had seen someone or knew whose boat this was. Towing the boat was
awkward; with every pull, it snapped against Arkady's boat and produced the
sound of a bass drum lightly kicked, the perfect acclaim for a day wasted. There
were two men in the boat, fifty meters off, and every ten meters the rain got
worse, veiling the boat even as Arkady approached. The Woropays. Dymtrus stood
and
Arkady
had stopped rowing. The woman was gone, replaced by a catfish weighing at least
sixty kilos, a slippery, scaleless monster that thrashed this way and that and
turned its blunt face and jelly eyes to Arkady. Oriental whiskers spread from
its lips, and what looked like sopping embroidery fell into the water. "You
netted it?" Arkady asked. "They're
too heavy to pull up otherwise," said Dymtrus. "Chornobyl
giants," said "Then
don't catch them." Arkady noticed that the Woropays had sidearms. He
supposed he was lucky they weren't fishing with grenades. "Let it
go." Dymtrus
opened his arms. The fish dropped with a great splash into the water, swirled
to the surface and then sank ponderously out of sight. "Relax, it's just
for fun. There are bigger fish down there."
The
brothers wore slack, calculating smiles. "We
wouldn't eat one," Dymtrus said. "They're loaded with all sorts of
radioactive shit." "We're
not crazy." Arkady
felt his heart rate start to slow. He pointed to the empty boat. "I'm
looking for the man who came in that." The
Woropays shrugged and asked how Arkady knew there had been someone in it.
People hid boats around the cooling pond. The wind could have blown the boat
in. And since when did they take orders from fucking Russians? And maybe they
could use a fucking outboard engine of their own. They made the last comment
too late, after Arkady had switched boats and retied the lines and was towing
Vanko's boat away, under power, into the face of a squall that drenched any
idea of pursuit. Arkady
switched boats again at the causeway to take Vanko's back downstream. At least
this time he would have the current working with him. A stork with a red beak
as sharp as a bayonet and white wings trimmed in black sailed by and passed
over another stork that waded in slow motion along the edge of the river,
painstakingly stalking a victim. The streets of As
he began to row, however, the mist cleared enough for the apartment blocks of
Pripyat to loom like giant headstones. Hadn't Oksana Katamay described her
block in Pripyat as overlooking the river? He swung the boat around.
The Katamay
apartment wasn't difficult to find. Oksana had given him the address, and
although the flat was on the eighth floor, the stairs were clear of the usual
debris. The door was open and the view from the living room took in the power
station, the river, the dark wormholes of former river tracks and banks of
steamy mist. Arkady could imagine Oleksander Katamay, Chief of Construction,
standing like a colossus before such a panorama. The
family must have returned on the sly to remove items they hadn't been able to
carry with them at the evacuation. This bare wall had been covered by a
tapestry. Those empty shelves had held books or a stuffed menagerie. Overall,
however, the family had been selective and Arkady had the impression that
squatters and scavengers knew to give the Katamay flat a pass. Sofa and chairs
still sat in the parlor; wiring and plumbing still seemed intact. Someone had
cleaned out the refrigerator, taped a broken window, made the beds, scrubbed
the tub. The place was practically in move-in condition, disregarding
radiation. One
bedroom was, Arkady guessed, the grandfather's; it was stripped clean but for a
few pails of taxidermy degreaser and crusted glue. A second bedroom was
decorated with Happy Faces, pictures of pop stars and posters of girl gymnasts
tumbling with manic energy on a mat. Names swam back from the past: Abba,
Korbut, Comaneci. Stuffed toys sat on the bed. Arkady ran a dosimeter over a
lion and produced a little roar. Karel's
room was at the end of the hall. He must have been about eight at the time of
the accident, but he was already a marksman. Paper targets punched in the
middle were taped to the wall, along with a boy's selection of posters of heavy
metal musicians with painted faces. The shelves were lined with Red Army tanks,
fighter planes, shark's teeth and dinosaurs. A broken ski leaned in a corner. A
bedpost was hung with ribbons and medals for a variety of sports: hockey,
soccer, swimming. Taped over the bed was a photograph of Karel at a fun fair
with his big sister Oksana; she was no more than thirteen, with straight dark
hair that hung to her waist. Also pictures of Karel fishing with his
grandfather and posing with a soccer ball and two surly teammates, the
proto-Woropays. Squares of peeled paint were left where tape had peeled off.
Under the bed Arkady found pictures that had fallen: a team picture of the Kiev
Dynamo soccer team, the ice hockey great Fetisov, Muhammad Ali and, finally, a
snapshot of Karel posed with his fists up with a boxer. Karel was in trunks
just like a real fighter. The boxer wore trunks and gloves. He was maybe
eighteen, a skinny, slope-shouldered boy as white as soap, and his autograph
was scrawled across the photograph: "To My Good Friend Karel. May we
always be pals. Anton Obodovsky."
Roman introduced
Arkady to a pig that rubbed with exquisite pleasure against the slats of its
sty as Roman poured in slops. "Oink,
oink," said Roman, "oink, oink," his cheeks apple red from the
rays of the setting sun and pride of ownership. It was possible that Roman had
had a nip before Arkady arrived. Alex and Vanko followed in Arkady's footsteps;
the rain had stopped but left the farmyard ankle-deep in mud. The scene
reminded Arkady of the official inspections that had once been Soviet fare:
"Party Secretary Visits Collective Farm and Vows More Fertilizer."
"Oink, oink," said Roman, the soul of wit. He seemed delighted to be
leading the tour without his wife's assistance. "Russians raise pigs for
meat, we raise pigs for fat. But we're saving Sumo. Aren't we, Sumo?" "For
what?" asked Arkady. Roman
placed a finger to his lips and winked. A secret. Which struck Arkady as
appropriate for an illegal resident of the Zone. Roman led the way to a chicken
coop. In the cool after the rain, Arkady felt the heat of the sitting hens. The
old man showed Arkady how he tied the bar of the door shut with a twist of
wire. "Foxes are very clever." "Perhaps
you should have a dog," Arkady suggested. "Wolves
eat dogs." That did seem to be the consensus of the village, Arkady
thought. Roman shook his head as if he'd given the matter a lot of
consideration. "Wolves hate dogs. Wolves hunt down dogs because they
regard them as traitors. If you think about it, dogs are dogs only because of
humans; otherwise they'd all be wolves, right? And where will we be when all
the dogs are gone? It will be the end of civilization." He opened a barn
with an array of shovels and hoes, rakes and scythes, a grindstone, a pulley
hanging from a crossbeam and bins of potatoes and beets. "Did you meet "The
cow? Yes, thank you." A
pair of huge eyes in the depths of a stall beseeched the tour to leave her
alone to masticate her hay. Which reminded Arkady of Captain Marchenko when
Arkady alerted him to the possibility of a body floating in the cooling pond.
The captain had suggested that a loose boat was not sufficient reason to leave
a dry office, and the pond was a large body of water to go pounding around in
the rain or the dark. The empty vodka bottle aside, had there been blood in the
boat? Signs of struggle? Professional to professional, didn't this sound like a
wild goose chase? Roman
led his guests out by a half-shed packed so tight with firewood that not
another piece could have been inserted. Arkady suspected that when Roman was
too drunk to stand, he could still stack wood with lapidary care. Roman waved
to an orchard and identified cherries, pears, plums and apples. Arkady
asked Alex, "Have you gone around the yard with a dosimeter?" "What's
the use? This is a couple in their eighties, and their own food tastes better
to them than starving in the city. This is heaven." Maybe,
Arkady thought. Roman and Maria's house was a weathered blue, windows trimmed
with carving, one corner resting country-style on a tree stump. It shone amid
abandoned houses that were as black as if they'd been burned, with tumbledown
barns and fruit trees wrapped in brambles. One dirt path led from the house to
the village center; another climbed toward the wrought-iron fence and crosses
of the cemetery, within a few steps a compass of peasant life and death.
The interior was
a single room: a combination kitchen, bedroom and parlor centered around a whitewashed brick stove that heated the house, cooked
the food, baked the bread and – peasant genius! – on especially cold nights
provided a second sleeping bench directly over the oven. Lamps and candles lit
walls covered with embroidered cloths, tapestries with forest scenes, family
photos and picture calendars collected from various years. Photos framed a
younger Roman and Maria, he in a rubber apron, she holding an enormous braid of
garlic, together with an urbanized group that must have been their son and his
family, a timorous wife and a skinny girl about four years of age. A separate
picture of the girl showed her maybe a year older, in a sun hat by a
rust-pocked sign that said Maria
glowed so, she could have been polished for the occasion. She wore an
embroidered shirt and apron, a tasseled shawl and, of course, her brilliant
blue eyes and steel smile. Despite the crowded quarters, she was everywhere at
once, setting out bowls of cucumbers, pickled mushrooms, pickles in honey, thin
and fat sausages, apple salad, cabbage in sour cream, dark bread and
home-churned butter and a center plate of salted fat with an alabaster glow. "Don't
even think about your dosimeter," Alex whispered to Arkady. "How
often do you eat here?" "When
I feel lucky." The
rattle of a car muffler drew up outside, and a moment later, Eva Kazka appeared
with flowers. She also wore a scarf. It seemed to be her style. "Renko,
I didn't know you were going to be here," Eva said. "Is this part of
your investigation?" "No.
Purely social." "Social
is as social does." Roman arranged a row of small glasses around a bottle
of vodka. The party had gone a long time without vodka, Arkady thought; Vanko
looked as if he had crawled on his knees to a water hole. The host poured every
glass to the trembling brim, and Maria watched proudly as he distributed each
without the loss of a drop. "Wait!" Roman magisterially struck a
match and lit his glassful like a candle, a yellow flame dancing on the surface
of the liquid. "Good. It's ready." He blew out the flame and raised
his glass. "To Arkady
took a swallow and gasped, "Not vodka." "Samogon."
Alex wiped his eyes. "Moonshine from fermented sugar, yeast and maybe a
potato. It doesn't get much purer than that." "How
pure?" "Maybe
eighty percent." The
samogon had its effect: Eva looked more dangerous, Vanko more dignified,
Roman's ears went red and Maria glistened. There was a solemn dipping into the
food while Roman poured another round. Arkady found the pickles crisp and sour,
with perhaps a hint of strontium. Roman asked him, "You went fishing in
Vanko's boat? Did you catch anything?" "No,
although I did see a very large fish. A Eva
said, "The catfish? It's Alex's joke." "A
catfish is a catfish," Vanko said. "Not
quite," said Alex. "People here are accustomed to channel catfish
that grow to a paltry meter or two. Someone – I couldn't say who – seems to
have imported "It's
a sick joke," Eva said. "Alex would like a plague to sweep across "Present
company excluded, of course," Alex said. Maria smiled. The party seemed to
be off to a nice start. "What
shall we drink to?" Roman asked. "Oblivion,"
Alex suggested. Arkady
was better prepared for his second samogon, but he still had to step back from
the impact. Eva declared herself warm. She loosened her scarf but didn't remove
it. Maria
advised Arkady to eat a slice of fat. "It will grease the stomach." "Actually,
I'm feeling fairly well greased. This picture of the girl by the Havana Club
sign was taken in "Their
granddaughter," Vanko said. "Maria,
after me," Maria said. Alex
said, "Every year Arkady
was aware of having introduced an element of unease. Roman cleared his throat
and said, "We're not sitting. This is irregular. We should be
sitting." In
such a small cabin, there were only two chairs and room for only two on the
bench. Alex pulled Eva down on his lap, and Arkady stood. "Truly,
how is the investigation going?" Alex asked. Arkady
said, "It's not going anywhere. I've never made less progress." "You
told me that you weren't a good investigator," Eva said. "So
when I tell you that I've never made less progress, that's saying
something." "And
we hope you never make any progress," said Alex. "That way you can
stay with us forever." "I'll
drink to that," Vanko said hopefully. Eva
said, "None of us makes progress, that's the nature of this place. I will
never cure people who live in radioactive houses. I will never cure children
whose tumors appear ten years after exposure. This is not a medical program,
this is an experiment." "Well,
that's a downer," Alex said. "Let's go back to the dead
Russian." "Of
course," said Eva, and she filled her own glass. Alex
said, "I can understand why a Russian business tycoon would have his
throat slit. I just don't understand why he would come all the way to this
little village to have it done." "I've
wondered the same thing," Arkady said. "There
must have been plenty of people in "I'm
sure there were." "He
was protected by bodyguards, which means he had to escape his own security to
be killed. He must have been coming here for protection. From whom? But death
was inevitable. It was like an appointment in "Alex,
you should be an actor," Vanko said. Eva
said, "He is an actor." "You
were a physicist before you became an ecologist," Arkady said to Alex.
"Why did you change?" "What
a dull question. Vanko is a singer." Alex poured for everyone. "This
is the entertainment section of the evening. We are on a night train, samogon
is our fuel and Vanko is our engineer. Vanko, the floor is yours." Vanko
sang a long song about a Cossack off to the wars, his chaste wife and the hawk
that carried their letters back and forth until it was shot down by an envious
nobleman. When Vanko was done, everyone applauded so hard they sweated. "I
found the story absolutely believable," Alex said. "Especially the
part about how love can turn to suspicion, suspicion to jealousy and jealousy
to hate." "Sometimes
love can go right to hate," said Eva. "Investigator Renko, are you married?" "No." "Been
married?" "Yes." "But
no more. We often hear how difficult it is for investigators and militia
detectives to maintain a successful marriage. The men supposedly become
emotionally cold and silent. Was that your problem, that you were cold and
silent?" "No,
my wife was allergic to penicillin. A nurse gave her the wrong injection, and
she died of anaphylactic shock." "Eva,"
Alex whispered. "Eva, that was a bad mistake." "I'm
sorry," she told Arkady. "So
am I," said Arkady. He
left the party for a while. Physically he was present and smiled at the
appropriate times, but his mind was elsewhere. The first time he'd met Irina
was at the Mosfilm studio, during an outdoor shoot. She was a wardrobe
mistress, not an actress, and yet once the sun lit her huge deep-set eyes,
everyone else seemed made of cardboard. It was not a placid relationship, but
it was not cold. He could not be cold around Irina; that was like trying to be
cold beside a bonfire. When he saw her on the gurney, dead, her eyes so blank,
he thought his life had ended, too, yet here he was years later, in the Zone of
Exclusion, lost and stumbling but alive. He looked around the room to clear his
head and happened to light on the icons high in their corner, Christ on the
left wall, the Madonna on the right, the two framed by richly embroidered
cloths and lit by votive candles on a shelf. The Christ was actually a
postcard, but the Mother was the genuine article, a Byzantine painting on wood
of the Madonna in an unusual blue cowl with gold stars, her fingertips lightly
pressed together in prayer. She looked like the stolen icon he had seen in the
motorcycle sidecar. That icon had been taken over the border to Vanko
said, "The Jews are here." "Where?"
Arkady asked. "In
Alex
said, "Thank you, Vanko, we've been warned." He added to Arkady,
"Hasidic Jews. There's a famous rabbi buried here. They visit and pray.
Maria's turn." After
the formalities of modesty and protest, Maria sat up in her chair, closed her
eyes and broke into a song that transformed her from an old woman into a girl
looking for her lover at a midnight tryst, and singing in a register so high
the windowpanes seemed to vibrate like crystals. When Maria finished, she
opened her eyes, spread a smile of steel teeth and swung her feet with
pleasure. Roman tried to follow with selections on a violin, but a string
broke, and he went hors de combat. "Arkady?"
Alex asked. "Sorry,
I'm low in entertainment skills." "Then
it's your turn," Alex told Eva. "All right." She ran her hands through her hair as
if that combed it, fixed her eyes on Alex and began:
We're all drunkards here and
harlots: How wretched we are together...
The
poetry was coarse and blunt, Akhmatova's words, familiar to Arkady, familiar to
any literate man or woman over the age of thirty, before the new poetry of
"Billions Served" and "Snickers for Energy!"
I have put on a narrow skirt
to show my lines are trim. The windows are tightly sealed,
What brews? Thunder or sleet?
How well I know your look, Your eyes like a cautious cat.
She
swung her own gaze from Alex to Arkady and hesitated so long that Alex took
over the last line:
O heavy heart, how long before the tolling bell? But that one dancing there, will
surely rot in hell!
Alex
pulled Eva's face to his and collected a deep kiss until she pulled away and
slapped him hard enough to make even Arkady smart. She stood and plunged out
the door. It was like a Russian party, Arkady thought. People got drunk,
recklessly confessed their love, spilled their festering dislike, had
hysterics, marched out, were dragged back in and revived with brandy. It wasn't
a French salon. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. It was Olga Andreevna, from the children's shelter in "Investigator
Renko, you have to come back." "A
second, please." Arkady gestured apologies to Maria and went outside. Eva
was nowhere in sight, although her car hadn't left. Olga
Andreevna asked, "Investigator, what are you still doing in the "I
am assigned here. I am working on a case." "You
should be here. Zhenya needs you." "I
don't think so. I can't think of anyone he needs less." "He
goes and stands by the street, waiting for you and looking for your car." "Maybe
he's waiting for the bus." "Last
week he was gone for two days. We found him sleeping in the park. Talk to
him." She
put Zhenya on the line before Arkady could get off. At least he assumed Zhenya
was on; all Arkady heard at his end was silence. "Hello,
Zhenya. How are you doing? I hear you've been causing people at the shelter
some anxiety. Please don't do that." Arkady paused in case Zhenya wanted
to offer any response. "So I suppose that's all, Zhenya." He
was in no mood and no condition to have another one-sided conversation with the
garden gnome. He leaned back to take a breath of cool air and watched clouds
cover the moon, slipping the house in and out of shadow. He heard the cow
shuffle in her stall and a twig snap and wondered whether it was a night for
wolves to be abroad. "Still
there?" Arkady asked. There was no answer; there never was an answer.
"I met Baba Yaga. In fact, I'm outside her house right now. I can't say
whether her fence is made of bones, but she definitely has steel teeth."
Arkady heard, or thought he heard, a focusing of attention at the other end.
"I haven't seen her dog or cat yet, but she does have an invisible cow,
who has to be invisible because of the wolves. Maybe the wolves wandered in from
a different story, but they're here. And a sea serpent. In her pond she has a
sea serpent as big as a whale, with long whiskers. I saw the sea serpent
swallow a man whole." There was unmistakable rustling on the other end
now. Arkady tried to remember other details of the fairy tale. "The house
is very strange. It is absolutely on chicken legs. Right now the house is
slowly turning. I'll lower my voice in case it hears me. I didn't see her magic
comb, the one that can turn into a forest, but I did see an orchard of
poisonous fruit. All the houses around are burned and full of ghosts. I will
call in two more days. In the meantime, it's important that you stay at the
shelter and study and maybe make a friend in case we need help. I have to go
now, before they see that I'm missing. Let me say a word to the director." There
was a passing of the phone, and Olga Andreevna came back on. "What did you
tell him? He seems much better." "I
told him that he is a citizen of a proud new "I'm
sure. Well, whatever you said, it worked. Are you coming to "Not
quite yet. I'll call in two days." "The
"Good
night, Olga Andreevna." As
Arkady put the mobile phone away, Eva stepped out of the orchard, silently
applauding. "Your son?" she asked. "No." "A
nephew?" "No,
just a boy." She
shifted like a cat getting comfortable. "Baba Yaga! Quite a story. You are
an entertainer after all." "I
thought you were going." "Not
quite yet. So you're not with anybody now? A woman?" "No.
And you, are you and Alex married, separated or divorced?" "Divorced.
It's that obvious?" "I
thought I detected something." "The
residue of an ancient disaster, the crater of a bomb, is what you detect."
The window light on her was watery, the stamp of linen making her eyes darker.
"I still love him. Not the way you loved your wife. I can tell you had one
of those great faithful romances. We didn't. We were more... melodramatic,
let's say. Neither of us was undamaged goods. You can't be in the Zone without
a little damage. How much longer do you plan to stay?" "I
have no idea. I think the prosecutor would like to leave me here forever." "Until
you're damaged?" "At
least." What
was disturbing about Eva Kazka was her combination of ferocity and, as she
said, damage. She had been to The
door opened. Alex leaned out to say, "My turn."
"Our new
friend Arkady may not know all the facts. Facts are important. Facts should not
be swept aside." "You're
drunk," Eva said. "It
goes without saying. Arkady, do you enjoy comedy?" "If
it's funny." "Guaranteed.
This is Russian stand-up comedy," Alex said. "Comedy with
samogon." Maria
opened a new bottle, releasing the sickeningly sweet smell of fermented sugar,
and toddled from guest to guest refilling glasses. "April
twenty-sixth, 1986. The setting: the control room of Reactor Four. The actors:
a night shift of fifteen technicians and engineers conducting an experiment –
to see whether the reactor can restart itself if all external power for the
machinery is cut off. The experiment has been performed before with safety
systems on. This time they want to be more realistic. To defeat the safety
system of a nuclear reactor, however, is no simple matter. It involves application.
You have to disconnect the emergency core cooling system and close and lock the
gate valves." Alex walked rapidly back and forth, attending to imaginary
switches. "Turn off the automatic control, block the steam control,
disable the pre-sets, switch off design protection and neutralize the emergency
generators. Then start pulling graphite rods from the core by remote control.
This is like riding a tiger, this is fun. There are a hundred and twenty rods
in all, a minimum of thirty to be inserted at all times, because this was a
Soviet reactor, a military model that was a little unstable at low efficiency,
a fact that was, unfortunately, a state secret. Alas, the power plunged." "When
does this start to become funny?" Eva asked. "It's
already funny. It just gets funnier. Imagine the confusion of the technicians.
The reactor efficiency is dropping through the floor, and the core is flooding
with radioactive xenon and iodine and combustible hydrogen. And somehow they
have lost count – they have lost count! – and pulled all but eighteen control
rods from the core, twelve below the limit. All the same, there is one last
disastrous step to take. They can replace the rods, turn on the safety systems
and shut down the reactor. They have not yet turned off the turbine valves and
started the actual experiment. They have not pushed the final button." Alex
mimicked hesitation. "Let's
pause and consider what is at stake. There is a monthly bonus. There is a May
Day bonus. If they run the test successfully they will likely win promotions
and awards. On the other hand, if they shut down the reactor, there would
certainly be embarrassing questions asked and consequences felt. There it is,
bonuses versus disaster. So, like good Soviets, they marched forward, hands
over their balls." Alex
pushed the button. "In
a second the reactor coolant began to boil. The reactor hall started to pound.
An engineer hit the panic switch for the control rods, but the rod channels in
the reactor melted, the rods jammed, and superheated hydrogen blew off the
roof, carrying reactor core, graphite and burning tar into the sky. A black
fireball stood over the building, and a blue beam of ionized light shot from
the open core. Fifty tons of radioactive fuel flew up, equal to fifty Alex
picked up his glass of samogon. "And
what did our heroes say when Roman
and Maria sat numb and deflated, feet hanging free of the floor. Vanko looked
away. Eva pressed her fist to her mouth, then stood and applied the fist to
Alex, not slapping him as she had before but hitting him solidly in the chest
until Arkady pulled her away. For a moment no one moved, like marionettes gone
limp, until Eva bolted again for the door. This time Arkady heard her car
start. Alex's
glass spilled. He refilled and raised it a second time. "Well, it seemed
hilarious to me." Chapter TenAs
a rule, fresh bodies hang facedown underwater, with their arms and legs
dangling in a shallow dive. This one was suspended against the bars of the
inlet that fed water from the cooling pond to the smaller holding ponds of the
station. Emergency water was still needed; the reactors were full of fuel, and
in some ways they weren't so much dead as in hibernation. Two
men with gaffs were trying to pull the body closer without falling in themselves.
Captain Marchenko watched from the wall of the pond with a group of useless but
curious militia officers, the Woropay brothers in front. Eva Kazka stood by her
car, as far from the proceedings as possible. Arkady noticed that she looked,
if possible, wilder and more unkempt than usual. Probably she had just gone
home and dropped, in a samogon stupor. She seemed to be drawing the same
conclusion about him. As
Marchenko joined Arkady, a shadow broke the surface of the water to display a
slick gray head with rubbery lips, then slid back toward the bottom to stir
with even larger catfish in the murk. The
captain said, "Taking into account the bad weather yesterday and the
dimensions of the cooling pond, I think you'll agree that it was wise to wait
before looking for a body. The way the ponds circulate, everything ends up here
at the inlet. Now it's right in our hands." "And
now it's ten in the morning a day later." "A
fisherman falls off his boat and drowns, it really doesn't matter whether you
find him one day or the next." "Like
the tree that falls in the forest, does it make a noise?" "Lots
of trees fall in the forest. They're called accidental deaths." Arkady
asked, "Is Dr. Kazka the only doctor available?" "We
can't pull the station doctors. All Dr. Kazka has to do is sign a death
certificate." "You
couldn't call for a pathologist?" "They
say Kazka was in Eva
Kazka tapped out a cigarette. Arkady had never seen such a nervous individual. "By
the way, I meant to ask you, Captain, did you ever find out whose icon we saw
stolen the other day?" "Yes.
It belonged to an old couple named Panasenko. Returnees. The militia keeps a
record. I understand it was a beautiful icon." "Yes." So
a thief on a motorcycle had stolen the icon of Roman and Maria Panasenko's, a
crime officially recorded, and yet the icon had returned to its corner perch in
the Panasenko cabin. Which was, to Arkady, the opposite of a tree falling
without a sound. From
the inlet Arkady had a view of half-completed cooling towers that resembled,
with the brush that flourished under and around them, temples half-built. The
towers had been meant for the planned Reactors Five and Six. Now power went the
other direction, at a trickle, to keep lightbulbs and gauges alive. An
ironic cheer went up when the body was finally grappled. As it was lifted,
water drained from its pants and sleeves. "Don't
you have a tarp or plastic to lay the body on?" Arkady asked Marchenko. "This
is not a murder investigation in The
captain's men moved truculently out of Arkady's way; the Woropays snickered at
the recorder in Arkady's hand. "Speak
up," Marchenko said. "We can all learn." "Pulled
from the water at the inlet of Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant at 1015 hours on
July 15, a male apparently in his sixties, two meters tall, dressed in a
leather jacket, blue work pants and construction boots." An ugly man, in
fact, his thick features bleached by immersion, brown teeth badly sorted,
clothes sodden as a wet sheet. "Extremities are rigid, exhibiting rigor
mortis. No wedding ring." Arms and legs yearned for the sky, fingers open.
"Hair brown." Arkady peeled an eyelid back. "Eyes brown. Left
eye dilated. Fully clothed, the body presents no tattoos, moles or other
identifying marks. No immediately evident abrasions or contusions. We'll
continue at the autopsy." "No
autopsy," Marchenko said. "We
know him," Dymtrus Woropay said.
"Do
you have latex gloves?" Arkady asked. Marchenko
said, "Afraid of getting your hands wet?" At
a nod from the captain, the Woropays unzipped the dead man's jacket and dug out
his booklet of identification papers. Marchenko
read them: "Boris Petrovich Hulak, born 1949, residence "We'll
check his lungs for water," Arkady said. "He
was fishing." "Where's
the rod?" "He
caught a catfish. He had consumed an entire bottle of vodka, he was standing in
his boat, a catfish bigger than him pulled the rod out of his hands, and he
lost his balance and fell in. No autopsy." "Maybe
the bottle was empty to begin with. We can't assume he was drunk." "Yes,
we can. He was a well-known drunk, he was alone, he fished, he fell in."
From his tunic Marchenko pulled the hunting knife he had shown Arkady before,
the boar knife. "You want an autopsy? Here's your autopsy." He drove
the knife into Boris Hulak's stomach, spewing the sweet gas of digested
alcohol. The samogon in Arkady's own stomach rose to his throat. "That's
drunk." Even
the Woropays took a step back from the hanging mist. Marchenko wiped his blade
on the dead man's jacket. Arkady
said between shallow breaths, "There's still the eye." "What
eye?" the captain asked, his satisfaction interrupted. "The
right eye is normal, but the left eye is fully dilated, which indicates a blow
to the head." "He's
decomposing. The muscles relax. His eyes could go different directions. Hulak
hit his head on the boat as he went over, what does it matter?" "He's
not a pig. We have to see." "The
investigator is right," Eva Kazka said. She had wandered over from her
car. "If you want me to sign a death certificate, there should be a cause
of death." "You
need an autopsy for that?" "Before
you stick the body again, I think so," Eva said.
She wasn't
talkative. Boris Hulak was laid out naked on a steel table with his head propped
against a wooden block, and he said about as much as Eva did while she opened
his body, first with an incision from his collar to his groin and then in
handfuls, moving organs into separate bedpans, all with the brisk dispatch of
someone washing dishes. The room was meanly furnished, with little more than
the essentials of scales and pails, and she had already spent an hour washing
the body and examining it for bruises, tattoos and needle tracks. Arkady had
checked Hulak's clothes at a sink, finding nothing more remarkable in the dead
man's pockets than a purse of loose change and a door key, and nothing in his
billfold except a damp twenty-hryvnia note, a photo-booth picture of a boy
about six years old and an expired video-club card. Arkady had cut off Hulak's
boots and found hidden under the sole almost two hundred American dollars – not
bad for a scavenger of radioactive electrical wiring. While Eva Kazka worked on
one side of the table, Arkady worked on the other, drying out fingers wrinkled
by immersion and then plumping them with injections of saline to lift the
ridges and produce usable prints to compare with those he had lifted from the
bottle found in the boat. Fluorescent
lights turned cadavers green, and Boris Hulak was greener than most, a fleshy
body wrapped in fat through the middle, hard through the legs and shoulders,
exuding a bouquet of ethanol. Eva wore her lab coat, cap and professional
demeanor, and she and Arkady smoked as they worked to mask the smell. There
were few enough benefits to smoking; this was one. "Ever
wish you hadn't asked for something?" Eva said. She saw through him, which
didn't make him feel any better. She consulted her autopsy chart. "All I
can tell you so far is that between cirrhosis of the liver and necrosis of the
kidney, Boris had perhaps two more years to live. Otherwise, he was a hardy
specimen. And no, there was virtually no water in the lungs." "I
think I chased Hulak through Pripyat a few nights ago." "Did
you catch him?" "No." "And
you never would have. Scavengers know the Zone like a magician knows his
trapdoors and top hats and radioactive bunnies." She tapped the scalpel on
the table. "Captain Marchenko doesn't like you. I thought you were great
friends." "No.
I've ruined his perfect record. A militia station commander wants no problems,
no homicides and, most of all, no unsolved homicides. He certainly doesn't want
two of them." "The
captain is a bitter man. The story is that he got in trouble in "From
the vodka bottle I found in the boat." "And?" "They're
all Hulak's." "Wouldn't
you say that was fairly strong evidence Hulak was alone? Have you ever known a
Russian or a Ukrainian to not share a bottle? He didn't drown, but I have to
tell you that apart from being posthumously stabbed by the captain, I see no
signs of recent violence. Maybe he did hook a big fish and hit his head on the
boat as he went over. Either way, you made the wrong enemy in Captain Marchenko.
It might make him happy if we stopped right here." Arkady
leaned over the body. Boris Hulak had a pugnacious head with heavy brows, a
broad nose mapped in erupted veins, brown hair thick as otter fur and cheeks
covered in stubble, no bruising or swelling, no ligature marks around the neck,
no defensive wounds on the hands, not a scratch in the scalp. However, there
was that dilated iris of the left eye, as open as the stuck shutter of a
camera. Also, Arkady had worked his way out of his samogon stupor. Arkady
said, "Then it will make the captain even happier if we prove I'm
wrong." Most
doctors never encountered a cadaver after anatomy class, and forgot the reeking
totality of death. But Eva coolly repositioned the block farther down under
Hulak's neck. He
said, "You've seen men shot in the head before." "Shot
in the head with a pistol and shot in the back with a rifle, supposedly in the
middle of combat. Either way, there's usually an entry wound, which your man
appears to lack. Last chance to stop." "You're
probably right, but let's see." Eva
sliced the back of Hulak's scalp from ear to ear. She folded the flap of skin
and hair forward over the eyes to work with a circular saw. A power saw was
always heavy and, what with the cloud of white dust it produced, hard to manage
in delicate work. She popped the top of his skull with a chisel, reached in
with a scalpel to free the brain from the spinal cord and laid the soft pink
mass in its glistening sac beside the empty head. "The
captain is not going to like this," Eva said. A
red line ran across the top, the trail of a bullet that had traversed the brain
and then, bouncing off angles, scoured the cranium. Hulak must have gone down
instantly. "Small-caliber?"
Eva asked. "I
think so." She
turned the brain in every direction before choosing one pomegranate-red clot to
attack. She cut the sac, sliced into gray matter and squeezed out a bullet like
a pip. It pinged as it dropped onto the table. She wasn't done. She shone a
penlight around the inside of the skull until a beam came out the left ear. "Who
is this good a shot?" she asked. "A
sniper, a sable hunter, a taxidermist. I would guess the bullet is
five-point-six-millimeter, which is what marksmen use in competitive
shooting." "From
a boat?" "The
water was still." "And
the sound?" "A
silencer, maybe. A small-caliber doesn't make that much noise to begin
with." "So,
now, two murders. Congratulations, Chornobyl has killed a million people, and
you have added two more. I would say that at death, you're very good." While
she was impressed Arkady asked, "What about the first body, the one from
the cemetery? Besides the nature of the wound on the throat, was there anything
else you could have added to your note?" "I
didn't examine him. I simply saw the wound and wrote something. Wolves tear and
yank, they don't slice." "How
bloody was his shirt?" "From
what I saw, very little." "Hair?" "Clean.
His nose was bloody." "He
suffered from nosebleeds," Arkady said. "This
would have been quite a nosebleed. It was packed." "How
do you explain that?" "I
don't. You're the magician – only you pull up the dead instead of
rabbits." Arkady
was wondering how to respond when there was a knock at the door and Vanko stuck
in his head. "The
Jews are here!" "What
Jews?" Arkady asked. "Where?" "In
the middle of town, and they're asking for you!"
The afternoon
sun detailed "Bobby
Hoffman." Hoffman
looked over his shoulder. "I knew I'd find you if I just kept walking.
This is the second day I've been marching up and down." "You
should have asked people where I was." "Jews
do not ask Ukrainian cannibals. I asked one, and he disappeared." "He
said the Jews were coming. It's just you?" "Just
me. Did I scare them? I wish I could fry the whole fucking lot of them. Let's
keep walking. My advice to Jews in the "You've
been here before." "Last
year. Pasha wanted me to look into the spent-fuel situation." "There's
a profit in spent radioactive fuel?" "It's
the coming thing." The
car was a mud-spattered Nissan, a comedown from the Mercedes Arkady had last
seen Hoffman in. Hoffman's clothes, too, were a change. "Is
this a new you?" "The
Hasidic gear? Hasidim are the only Jews they see around here. The idea is, this
way I draw less attention." Hoffman looked at Arkady's camos. "Join
the army?" "Standard
wear for a citizen of the Zone. Does Colonel Ozhogin know you're here?" "Not
yet. You remember that disk the colonel was so proud of finding? It was more
than just a list of foreign accounts. It was an order to reroute them to a
little bank of my own. I could have stayed in "So
you should be on the run. Why are you here?" "You
need help. Renko, you've been here over a month. I talked to your detective Victor." "You
talked to Victor?" "Victor
does e-mail." "He
hasn't communicated with me. I call and he's out of the office, I call his
mobile phone and there's no answer at all." "Caller
ID. You're not paying him, and I am. And Victor says you didn't send any
reports to "No." "No
progress at all?" "Nothing." "You're
drowning here. You're on dream time." They
had walked past the cafй to a neighborhood of acacias and two-story wooden
houses where once lived "How
are you going to help?" Arkady asked. "We'll
help each other." Hoffman
motioned for the car to draw forward and pushed Arkady inside. The driver offered
a glance of indifference. He had sunken eyes and a skullcap pinned to a wisp of
hair. He rested busted knuckles on the steering wheel. Hoffman
said, "Don't worry about Yakov. I selected him because he's the oldest Jew
in the "Thanks." "I'm
just saying you need a little assistance. For example, you had an idea about
collecting surveillance videotapes not only from Pasha's apartment building but
also from the buildings on either side. In fact, Victor did what you told him.
The problem was that you caved. You called Pasha's death a suicide." "It
was a suicide." "Driven
to killing himself is not what I call suicide. Don't get me started. Okay,
Pasha was called a suicide, and no more investigation, and Victor had read
somewhere about vodka protecting against radiation. He got real protected. By
the time he got sober, he had forgotten all about the tapes. Then Timofeyev got
his throat cut, and Prosecutor Zurin sent you here." Bobby looked out the
car window at the houses. "Eskimos are kinder: they just set you on a fucking
ice floe." "The
tapes?" "I
reached Victor. Know what his e-mail address is? You can buy it on the
Internet; it's illegal, but you can do it. Apparently, like all Russians, he
once had a dog named Laika. So I reached 'Laika 1223' and offered Victor a
reward for any notes or evidence left over. I caught him at a sober moment,
because he even transferred the tapes to a disk for me." "You
and Victor, what a pair." "Hey,
I feel bad about the way I left you in "The
service alley behind Pasha Ivanov's apartment house. But this is taken from the
apartment house on the right." "You
saw the tape from Pasha's building?" "It
was taped over; it was on a short loop. We saw Pasha arrive and fall, and we
saw about two hours before that, but nothing from before." "Watch,"
Hoffman said. The
camera froze images with a five-second lag to stretch tape time. Also, it was
on a motorized pivot that swung 180 degrees. The result was a curious collage:
a cat was caught in the act of entering from the street; seen next balanced on
the rim of a Dumpster; and then, in a sideways view, approaching the Dumpster
next door, at Ivanov's building. Hoffman
said, "According to Victor, you thought there was a security breach about
now." "We
know that the staff went up and down the building knocking on doors. There was
some sort of event." At
1045:15 the cat was caught in acrobatic midleap from the Dumpster as a white
van entered the left side of the alley. "When
you're right, you're right," Hoffman said. At
1045:30 the van had stopped beside Ivanov's Dumpster. At fifteen-second gaps,
the camera returned to the Dumpster, and the screen showed what were
essentially poor-quality black-and-white photographs of: The
van with the driver's door open and a dark figure at the wheel. The
van with the door shut and the driver's seat empty. The
same scene for one minute. A
bulky man in coveralls, gas mask and cowl that completely covered his head,
shouldering a tank and hose and rolling a suitcase on casters from the van to
Ivanov's building. The
van in the driveway. The
same scene for five minutes. An
encore by the cat. The
van. For
one more minute, the van. The
same man with the same gear returning to the rear of the van. The
van. A
figure in coveralls and mask climbing into the driver's seat. The
van moving away as the driver removed the mask, his face a blur. The
empty alley. The
cat. The
building's doorman, fists on his hips. The
empty alley. The
cat. Time
1056:30. Time elapsed, eleven minutes. Seven minutes of risk for the driver. "When
you interrogated the staff, they never mentioned an exterminator, did
they?" Hoffman said. "A fumigator? Bugs?" "No.
Can you enlarge the image of the man moving from the van to the building?" Hoffman
did. How he fit such fat fingers onto the keyboard, Arkady didn't know, but
Bobby was quick. "The
head?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
circled the head and magnified a gas mask with goggles and two shiny filters. "Can
you enlarge it more?" "I
can enlarge it all you want, but it's a grainy picture. All you'll get is
bigger grains. A fucking exterminator." "That's
not an exterminator's mask. That's radiation gear. Can you enlarge the
tank?" The
tank bore what appeared to be fumigation warnings. "The
suitcase?" The
suitcase was covered with cartoon decals of dead rats and roaches. On the way
in the suitcase was rolled. Arkady remembered that on the way out it had been
carried. "It's
a delivery. The suitcase arrived heavy, it left light." "How
heavy?" "I
would guess – fifty or sixty kilos of salt, a grain of cesium and lead-lined
suitcase – maybe seventy-five kilos in all. Quite a load." "See,
this is fun. Working together. This is a breakthrough, right?" "Can
you bring out the license plate?" It
was a "Victor
is on your payroll now?" "Hey,
I'm doing your work for you and paying for it. I'm giving you Maximov
on a platter. While you've been stumbling around here, there's been a war in "I
have been out of touch," Arkady granted. "They
both always wanted NoviRus." Arkady
remembered them at the roulette table. Kuzmitch was a risk taker who stacked
chips on a number; Maximov, a mathematician, was a methodical, cautious player. "The
Ivanov case is closed," Arkady said. "Ivanov jumped. If Kuzmitch
drove him to it, then Kuzmitch succeeded. I'm working on the Timofeyev case.
Someone cut his throat. That's murder. And the evidence has not been paid
for." "How
much do you want?" "Much
what?" "Money.
How much to drop Timofeyev and concentrate on Pasha? What's your number?" "I
don't have a number." Hoffman
closed the laptop. "Let me put it another way. If you won't help, Yakov
will kill you." Yakov
turned and aimed a gun at Arkady. The gun was an American Colt, an antique with
a silencer but nicely greased and cared for. "You'd
shoot me here?" "Nobody
would hear a thing. A little messy, that's why the old car. Yakov thinks of
everything. Are you in or are you out?" "I'd
have to think about it." "Fuck
thinking. Yes or no?" But
Arkady was distracted by the sight of Vanko's face pressed against Hoffman's
window. Hoffman recoiled. Up front, Yakov was swinging the gun toward Vanko
when Arkady raised his hands to reassure him and told Hoffman to open his
window. Bobby
demanded, "Who is this nut?" "It's
okay," Arkady said. As
the window slid down, Vanko shook a massive ring of keys. "We can start
now. I'll let you in."
Hoffman and
Arkady followed Vanko on foot back the way they had come as Yakov trailed
behind. Away from the car, he was a small man dressed like a librarian, in a
mended sweater and jacket, but his crushed brow and flattened nose gave him the
look of a man who had been run over by a steamroller and not totally
reassembled. "Yakov's
not afraid," Bobby said. "He was a partisan in the "A
walking history lesson." "So
where is our happy friend with the keys taking us?" "He
seems to think you know," Arkady said. Vanko
veered toward a solid building in municipal yellow that stood alone, and Arkady
wondered whether they were headed to some sort of historical archive. Short of
the building, Vanko stopped at a windowless bunker that Arkady had passed a
hundred times before and always assumed housed an electrical substation or
mechanics of some sort. Vanko unlocked a metal door with a flourish and ushered
Hoffman and Arkady in. The
bunker sheltered two open cement boxes, each about two meters long and one
wide. There was no electricity; the only light came through the open door, and
there was barely enough overhead clearance for Bobby's hat. There were no
chairs, no icon or pictures, instructions or decoration of any kind, although
the rims of the two boxes were lined with votive candles burned down to tin
cups, and the inside of each box was stuffed with papers and letters. "Who
is it?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
took so long to answer that Vanko, the tour guide, did. "Rabbi Nahum of
Chornobyl and his grandson." Hoffman
looked around. "Cold." Vanko
said, "Holy places are often cold." "A
religious expert here." Hoffman asked Arkady, "What am I supposed to
do now?" "You're
the Hasidic Jew. Do what a Hasidic Jew does." "I'm
just dressed like a Hasidic Jew. I don't do this stuff." Vanko
said, "One day a year the Jews all come in a bus. Not alone like
this." "What
stuff?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
picked up a couple of papers from a tomb and held them to the light to read
them. "In Hebrew. Prayers to the rabbi." "Oh,
yes." Vanko was emphatic. "Do
that many Jews live here?" Arkady asked. "Just
visitors," Vanko said. "All
the way from "They're
pilgrims," Arkady said. "I
get the idea. Now what?" "Do
something." Vanko
had been following the conversation more with his eyes than his ears. He dug
into his pockets and came up with a fresh votive candle. Hoffman
said, "You happen to have a tallith, too? Never mind. Thank you, thanks a
ton. What do I owe you?" "Ten
dollars." "For
a candle worth a dime? So the tomb is your concession?" Hoffman found the
money. "It's a business?" "Yes."
Vanko was eager for that to be understood. "Do you need paper or a pen to
write a prayer?" "At
ten dollars a page? No, thanks." "I'll
be right outside if you need anything. Food or a place to stay?" "I
bet." Hoffman watched Vanko escape. "This is beautiful. Left in a
crypt by a Ukrainian Igor." There
were hundreds of prayers in each box. Arkady showed two to Hoffman. "What
do these say?" "The
usual: cancer, divorce, suicide bombers. Let's get out of here." Arkady
nodded to the candle. "Do you have a match?" "I
told you, I don't do that stuff." Arkady
lit the candle and set it on the edge of the tomb. A flame hovered on the wick. Bobby
rubbed the back of his head as if it didn't fit right. "For ten dollars,
that's not much light." Arkady
found used candles with wax left and relit them until he had a dozen flames
that guttered and smoked but together were a floating ring of light that made
the papers seem to shift and glow. The light also made Arkady aware of Yakov
standing at the open door. He was thin enough for Arkady to think of a stick
that had been burned, whittled and burned again. "Is
something wrong?" Vanko asked from outside. Yakov
removed his shoes and stepped inside. He kissed the tomb, prayed in a whisper
as he rocked back and forth, kissed the tomb a second time and produced his own
piece of paper, which he laid on the others. Bobby
bolted out and waited for Arkady. "The visit to the rabbi is over.
Happy?" "It
was interesting." "Interesting?"
Bobby laughed. "Okay, here's the deal. The deaths of Pasha and Timofeyev
are related. It doesn't matter that one died in "Probably."
Arkady watched Yakov emerge from the tomb and Vanko lock it up. Bobby
said, "So, maybe you should concentrate on Timofeyev, and I'll concentrate
on Pasha. But we'll coordinate and share information." "Does
this mean that Yakov isn't going to shoot me?" Arkady asked. "Forget
about that. That's inoperative." "Does
Yakov know it's inoperative? He might be hard of hearing." "Don't
worry about that," Bobby said. "The point is, I'm not leaving, so
I'll either be in your way, or we'll work together." "How?
You're not a detective or an investigator." "The
tape we just looked at? It's yours." "I've
seen it." "What
are you offering in return? Nothing?" Vanko
had been hanging back out of earshot but reluctant to leave a scene where more
dollars might appear. Sensing a gap in the conversation, he sidled up to Arkady
and asked, as if helpfully suggesting another local attraction, "Did you
tell them about the new body?" Bobby's
head swiveled from Vanko to Arkady. "No, he hasn't. Investigator Renko,
tell us about the new body. Share." Yakov
rested his hand in his jacket. "Trade,"
Arkady said. "What?" "Give
me your mobile phone." Bobby
yielded the phone. Arkady turned it on, scrolled through stored numbers to the
one he wanted and hit "Dial." A
laconic voice answered, "Victor here." "Where?" There
was a long pause. Victor would be staring at the caller ID. "Arkady?" "Where
are you, Victor?" "In
"What
are you doing there?" Another
pause. "Is
it really you, Arkady?" "What
are you doing?" "I'm
on sick leave. Private business." "What
are you doing in A
sigh. "Okay, right now I'm sitting in "A
"If
you were here, you'd know why. You've got to see it to believe it." "Stay
with him. I'll call you when I get there." Arkady
turned off the mobile phone and returned it to Bobby, who clutched Arkady's arm
and said, "Before you go. A new body? That sounds like progress to
me." Chapter Eleven
As
soon as Arkady saw the gilded domes of Victor
was at a sidewalk cafй reading a newspaper. Arkady dropped into the chair
beside him and waved for a waiter. "Oh,
no," Victor said. "You can't afford the prices here. Be my
guest." Arkady
settled back and took in the square's leafy trees and sidewalk entertainers and
children chasing fountain water carried by the breeze. Soviet-classical
buildings framed the long sides of the square, but at its head the architecture
was white and airy and capped with colorful billboards. Victor
ordered two Turkish coffees and a cigar. Such largesse from him was unknown. "Look
at you," Arkady said. An Italian suit and silk tie softened Victor's
scarecrow aspect. "On
an expense account from Bobby. Look at you. Military camos. You look
like a commando. You look good. Radiation is good for you." The
coffees arrived. Victor took exquisite pleasure in lighting the cigar and
releasing its blue smoke and leathery scent. " "That
is the question, isn't it? Who are you working for?" "Arkady,
you're so black and white. Modern life is more complicated Prosecutor Zurin
told me that I wasn't supposed to communicate with you under any circumstances.
That it would insult the Ukrainians. Now the Ukrainians have a president who
was caught on tape ordering the murder of a newspaper reporter, but he's still
their president, so I don't know how you insult the Ukrainians. Such is modern
life." "You're
on sick leave?" "As
long as Bobby is willing to pay. Did I tell you that Lyuba and I got back
together?" "Who
is Lyuba?" "My
wife." Arkady
suspected that he had committed a gaffe. The struggle for Victor's soul was
like catching a greased pig, and any mistake could be costly. "Did you
ever mention her?" "Maybe
I didn't. It was thanks to you. I sort of screwed up with your little friend
Zhenya the Silent, and I ran into Lyuba when I was coming out of the drunk
tank, and I told her everything. It was wonderful. She saw a tenderness in me
that I thought I had lost years ago. We started up again, and I took stock. I
could carry on the same old life with the same crowd, mostly people I put in
jail, or start fresh with Lyuba, make some real money and have a home." "That
was when Bobby e-mailed you?" "At
that very moment." "At
Laika 1223." "Laika
was a great dog." "It's
a touching story." "See
what I mean? Always black and white." "And
you're dry now, too?" "Relatively.
A brandy now and then." "And
Anton?" "This
is an ethical dilemma." "Why?" "Because
you haven't paid. I'm not just thinking about me anymore, I have to consider
Lyuba. And remember, Zurin said no contact. Not to mention Colonel Ozhogin. He
said absolutely no contact with you. No one wants me to talk to you." "Did
Bobby Hoffman call you while I was coming here? What did he say?" "To
talk to you but keep my mouth shut." "How
are the new shoes?" Arkady caught sight of Victor's footwear. "Beginning
to pinch." From
time to time Arkady saw Victor glance two doors over at a building with an
Italian leather-goods shop on the ground floor and professional offices above.
Victor had an ice-cream sundae. Arkady picked at a crepe. Somehow, the Zone
dampened hunger. Afternoon faded into evening, and the square only became more
charming as spotlights turned fountains into spires of light. Victor pointed
out a floodlit theater on the hill above the square. "The opera house. For
a while the KGB used it, and they say you could hear the screams from here.
Ozhogin was stationed here for a while." "Tell
me about Anton." "He's
having dental work done, that's all I can say." "All
day? That's a lot of dental work." Arkady
got up and walked to the Italian leather store, admired the handbags and
jackets and read the plaques for the businesses upstairs: two cardiologists, a
lawyer, a jeweler. The top floor was shared by a Global Travel agency and a
dentist named R. L. Levinson, and Arkady remembered the vacation brochures on
Anton's bunk at Butyrka Prison. On the way back to Victor's table, Arkady
noticed a girl, about six years old, with dark hair and luminous eyes, dancing
to the music of a street fiddler dressed as a Gypsy. The girl wasn't part of
the act, just a spontaneous participant making up her own steps and spins. Arkady
sat. "How do you know he's visiting the dentist and not getting tickets to
go around the world?" "When
he arrived, all the offices but the dentist were shut for lunch. I'm a
detective." "Are
you?" "Fuck
you." "I've
heard that before." Victor
sank into a bitter smile. "Yeah, it's like old times." He loosened
his tie and stood to observe himself in the plate glass of the cafй window. He
sat and waved for a waiter. "Two more coffees, with just a touch of
vodka."
Anton Obodovsky,
as Victor told it, was a bonus. Victor had been flying to Victor
said, "Now that you and Bobby looked at the surveillance tapes, he's
convinced Obodovsky was the guy with the suitcase in the exterminator van.
Anton was strong enough, he'd threatened Ivanov on the phone and he wasn't put
in Butyrka until the afternoon. Motive, means and opportunity. Besides which,
he's a killer. There he is." Anton
stepped out of the door and felt his jaw as if to say that all the muscles in
the world were no protection from an abscessed tooth. As usual, he was in
Armani black and, with his bleached hair, not a difficult man to spot. He was
followed by a short, dark woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a trim, sensible
jacket. "The
dentist is a woman? She's so good, he comes all the way from "That's
not the whole package. Wait until you see this," Victor said. Last out of
the door was a tall woman in her twenties with swirls of honey-colored hair and
a brief outfit in denim and silver buttons. She took a firm grip on Anton's
arm. "The dental hygienist." After
the dentist had locked the door, she was joined by the dancing girl, who by
every feature was her daughter. The girl gestured toward a figure on stilts
farther up the square, where a public promenade of sorts had developed, drawing
sketch artists and street acts. She appealed to Anton, who shrugged expansively
and led the way, he and the hygienist striding ahead, the girl skipping around
her mother a step behind. Arkady and Victor fell in thirty meters back, relying
on that fact that Anton would not be looking for a Victor
said, "Bobby thinks that Anton was paid by Nikolai Kuzmitch. The van came
from a Kuzmitch company, so that much makes sense." "Kuzmitch
has an exterminator company? I thought he was into nickel and tin." "Also
fumigation, cable television and airlines. He buys a company a month. I think
the airline and fumigation came together, one of those Asian routes." "Well,
Anton is a carjacker. He doesn't need help getting a van." "You
think the Kuzmitch van was a setup?" "I
think it's unlikely a smart man would use a vehicle that could be easily traced
to him, and Kuzmitch is a very smart man.' The
stilt walker was flamboyant in a Cossack's red coat and conical hat; he blew up
balloons that he twisted into animals. Anton bought a tubular blue dog for the
girl. As soon as the gift was presented, the dentist gave Anton a polite
good-bye handshake and pulled her daughter away. Victor and Arkady watched from
a table selling CDs, and Arkady wondered whether it would be a lifelong trait of
the little girl to be attracted to dangerous men. The hygienist obviously was. "The
hygienist wears a diamond pin with her name, Galina," Victor said.
"She walked by with that bouncing pin and my erection nearly knocked over
the table." The
dentist and daughter turned toward the metro stop while Anton and Galina
continued into a brilliantly lit glass dome where an elevator carried
passengers down to an underground shopping mall, a borehole of boutiques
selling French fashion, Polish crystal, Spanish ceramics, Russian furs,
Japanese computer games, aromatherapy. Victor and Arkady followed on the
stairs. Victor
said, "Anytime I think A
bow wave of fear preceded Anton in each store, and mall guards greeted him with
such deference that Arkady considered the possibility that Anton might be a
silent partner in a store or two. The beautiful Galina traded in her denim top
for a mohair sweater. She and Anton slipped into the changing room at a
lingerie shop while Arkady and Victor watched from a rack of cookware in the
opposite store. The plate-glass transparency of the modern mall was a gift to
surveillance. "A
whole day in the dentist's chair, and all Obodovsky can think of is sex. You've
got to give him credit," Victor said. Arkady
thought that Anton's shopping spree had more the aspect of a public tour, a
prince of the streets demanding respect. Or a dog marking his old territory. "Anton
was originally Ukrainian. I need to know from where. Let me know if he stays
around. I'm going back to "Don't
do it, Arkady. Fuck Timofeyev, fuck Bobby, it's not worth it. Since I got
together with Lyuba again, I've been thinking: nobody misses Timofeyev. He was
a millionaire, so what? He was a stack of money that blew away. No family.
After Ivanov was dead, no friends. Really, I think what happened to him and
Ivanov must have been a curse."
The ride back
from "Your
friend Timofeyev was dead white. You ask so many questions I thought you'd like
to know." "Would
you like to come in?" Arkady asked. "No,
the hall is fine. You don't seem to have any neighbors." "One.
Maybe this is the low season for the Zone." "Maybe,"
she said. "It's after midnight, and you're not drunk." "I've
been busy," Arkady said. "You're
out of step. You have to keep up with the people of Chornobyl. Vanko was
looking for you at the cafй." They
were interrupted by Campbell, the British ecologist, who came out into the hall
in an undershirt and drawers. He swayed and scratched. Eva had stepped aside,
and he didn't appear to see her at all. "Tovarich!
Comrade!" "People
don't actually say that anymore," Arkady said. In fact, they rarely had.
"In any case, good evening. How are you feeling?" "Tip-top." "I
haven't seen you around." "And
you won't. I brought a lovely pair of nonradioactive balls here, and I will
leave with the same number. Stocked for the duration. Whiskey, mainly. Pop in
anytime, although I apologize in advance for the quality of Ukrainian
television. Will fix that soon enough. You do speak English?" "That's
what we're speaking." Although "You're
so right. The joke's on me. A standing invite, any hour. We're Scots, not
Brits, no formalities with us." "You're
very generous." "Seriously.
I'll be badly disappointed if you don't." Eva
let the air clear for a moment. "Your new friend? What did he say?" "I
think he said that whiskey was better than vodka for protection against
radioactivity." "You
can't help some people." "What
do you mean, he was white?" "It
was only an impression I had because Timofeyev was clothed and refrigerated.
Even so, he seemed bloodless, drained. I didn't think about it at the time.
I've seen wounds like his among the dead in "He
had nosebleeds." "This
would have been more than a nosebleed." "A
broken nose?" "There
was no bruising. Of course, the local wolf pack had tugged him this way and
that, so I couldn't be sure." "Throat
slit and an appearance of bloodlessness, but no bloodstains on the shirt or
hair, only in the nose. Everything is contradictory." "Yes.
Also, I should apologize again for the comment about your wife. That was stupid
of me. I'm afraid I've lost all sensitivity. It was unforgivable." "No,
her dying was unforgivable." "You
blame the doctors." "No." "I
see. You're the self-elected captain of the lifeboat; you think you're
responsible for everyone." She sighed. "I'm sorry, I must be drunk.
On one glass, even. I usually don't get obnoxious quite so fast." "I'm
afraid there's no one left in the lifeboat, so I didn't do a very good
job." "I
think I should be going." She didn't, though. "Who was the boy you
were talking to on the phone? Just a friend, you said?" "For
reasons beyond my comprehension, I seem to have become responsible for an
eleven-year-old boy named Zhenya who lives in a children's shelter in "It's
a normal relationship. I refused to speak to my parents from the age of eleven
on. Is he slow?" "No,
he's very bright. A chess player, and I suspect he might have a mathematical
mind. And courage." Arkady remembered the times Zhenya had run away. "Spoken
like a parent." "No.
His real father is out there, and that's who Zhenya needs." "You
like helping people." "Actually,
when people get to me, they're generally beyond help." "You're
laughing." "But
it's true." "No,
I think you help. In "What
does "Did
you?" "Yes." "That's
how I am with Alex, except that he hasn't died, he just changed." "How
did we get on this subject?" "We
were being honest. Now you ask a question." Arkady
gently tugged her scarf so that it hung free. The hallway light was poor but
when he raised her chin he saw a lateral scar like a minus sign at the base of
her neck. "What's that?" "My
Chornobyl souvenir." He
realized that his hand hadn't moved, that it lingered on the warmth of her
skin, and that she hadn't objected. The
door downstairs opened, and a voice called up, "Renko, is that you? I have
something for you. I'm coming up." "It's
Vanko." Eva retied her scarf in a rush. "I'll
show you." Vanko started up. "Wait,
I'm coming down," Arkady said. Eva
whispered, "I wasn't here."
The cafй was "Alex
says you attract murders the way a magnet attracts iron filings." "Alex
says the nicest things." "He'll
be by. He's looking for Eva." Arkady
did not say that he had just left her. Interesting, he thought. Our first collusion.
"You said you had something for me?" "For
the Jews." Vanko opened up a backpack and handed Arkady a videotape,
unlabeled except for a price of fifty dollars. "How
did you come up with that price?" "It's
a valuable keepsake. We could sell this to your American friend and share the
profit. What do you think?" "A
videotape of a tomb? This is the gravesite we saw yesterday? You really have
made a business out of it." "I
can be a guide, too. I know where everything is. I was here during the
accident, you know, just a boy." "Considering
the exposure you had then, isn't the Zone the last place you should be?" "The
Zone is the last place for anyone to be. Anyway, we rotate, as many days off as
on." "What
do people do in their free time?" "I
don't do much. Alex makes good money; he says he works in the belly of the
beast. That's what he calls Arkady
turned the cassette over. "A Jewish tomb? I haven't noticed many Jews
here." "Because
of the Germans and the war. Although many people suffered from the Germans
during the war, not just Jews. You always hear about the Jews." Arkady
nodded. "The genocide and all." "Yes." "But
you seem to be the unofficial welcoming party for visiting Jews." "I
try to help. I found accommodations for your friend and his driver in a
decontaminated house." "Sounds
charming." Arkady knew that this was against Zone regulations; he also
knew that dollars worked miracles. "So do you have a tape player? I can't
sell the tape to the American unless I know what's on it." "Mine
is broken. Some of the militia had personal machines in their rooms, but they
got stolen. But no problem, this can be organized. Hold on to the tape." "You
can count on Vanko." Alex pulled a chair up to the table. "He can
organize anything. And congratulations to you, Senior Investigator. Another
dead body, I understand. You bring out the murder in people. I suppose in your
line of endeavor that is a talent. Where is Eva?" Vanko
shrugged and Arkady said he didn't know, even as he asked himself why he had
now lied twice about her. "You're
sure you haven't seen her?" Alex asked Arkady. "I
just returned from "That's
right," Vanko said. "His bike was warm." "Maybe
we should issue a missing-persons bulletin for her," Alex said. "What
do you think, Renko?" "Why
are you worried?" "A
husband worries." "You're
divorced." "That
doesn't matter, not if you still care. Vanko, can you get us a round of
beers?" "Sure."
Vanko, happy to attend, pushed his way through dancers toward the crowd at the
counter. Arkady
didn't want to talk about Eva with Alex. He said, "So, your father was a
famous physicist, and you were a physicist. Why did you change to
ecology?" "You
keep asking." "It's
an interesting switch." "No,
what's interesting is that there are two hundred nuclear power plants and ten
thousand nuclear warheads around the world and all in the hands of
incompetents." "That's
a sweeping statement." "It
only takes one. I think we can count on it." Alex lowered his voice to a
confidential level. "The thing is, Renko, that Eva and I are not really
divorced. On paper, yes. However, in my heart, no. And of course it's so much
worse if you've been married. That kind of intimacy never ends." "A
former husband doesn't have claims." "Outside
the Zone, maybe. The Zone is different, more intimate. You're an educated man:
do you know what smell is?" "A
sense." "More
than that. Smell is the essence, the attachment of free molecules of the thing
itself. If we could really see each other, we would see clouds of loose
molecules and atoms. We're dripping with them. Every person you meet, you
exchange some with. That's why lovers reek of each other, because they've
joined so completely that they're virtually the same person. No court, no piece
of paper can ever separate you." Alex took Arkady's hand in his and began
to squeeze. Alex's hand was broad and strong from setting traps. "Who
knows how many thousands of molecules we're exchanging right now: "This
is something you learned in ecology?" Alex
squeezed harder; his hand was a vise with five fingers. "From nature.
Smell, taste, touch. You have pictures in your mind of her with another man.
You know every inch of her body, inside and out. Every single feature. The
combination of experience and imagination is what drives you crazy. Because
you've slept with her, you even know what gives her pleasure. You hear her. To
picture someone physically with her is too much. A wolf wouldn't put up with
it. Would you say you are a wolf or a dog?" Arkady
pulled his hand into a fist for self-protection. "I'd say I'm a
hedgehog." "See,
that's exactly the sort of answer Eva would enjoy. I know the kind of man she's
attracted to. I knew when she said she disliked you." "It
was that obvious?" "You
even look alike, the same dark hair and soulful pallor, like brother and
sister." "I
hadn't noticed." "I'm
just saying that even if the opportunity presents itself, for Eva's sake you
shouldn't take advantage. I ask as a friend, your first friend in the Zone, is
anything going on between you and Eva?" "No." "That's
good. We don't want to get territorial, do we?" "No." "Because
all you came to the Zone for was your investigation. Stay focused on
that." Alex let go. Arkady's hand looked like wadded clay, the blood
driven out, and he resisted the temptation to flex it to see what worked.
"Go ahead, did you have any questions?" "I
understand that for safety's sake, you only do research in the Zone every other
month. What do you do during your month in "That
kind of question: good." "What
do you do?" "I
visit various ecological institutes, pull together research I did here,
lecture, write." "Is
that lucrative?" "Obviously
you have never written for a scientific journal. It's for the honor." Alex
described amusingly a scientific conference on the tapeworm where hungry
scientists stayed near the canapйs, and he and Arkady went on talking in a
normal fashion about everyday subjects – films, money,
On his way back
to the dormitory, Arkady heard the muffled flight of a nightjar scooping up
moths. He had retreated from the cafй when he became aware that Alex was
watching for Eva's arrival and realized that Alex was waiting only to see how
she and Arkady would act, to look for social uneasiness, to discover the
telltale clues a former husband couldn't miss. The clinging molecules and
atoms. The streetlamp had gone out since Arkady had crossed under it with
Vanko. The only light at the dormitory was a weak bulb at the front step, and
where trees crowded out the moon, the street disappeared in the dark. Arkady
didn't mind darkness. The problem was that he didn't feel alone. Not another
bird or a cat slinking for cover but something else glided by him, first on one
side and then the other. When he stopped, it circled him. When he walked, it
kept pace. Then it stopped, and he felt ridiculous even as his neck grew cool. "Alex?
Vanko?" There
was no answer but the sifting of leaves overhead, until he heard a laugh in the
dark. Arkady clutched Vanko's videotape under his arm and started to trot. The
dormitory light was a mere fifty meters off. He wasn't afraid; he was just a
man taking midnight exercise. Something flew by, scooped up his leg in
midstride and planted him on his back. Something from the other side speared
him in the stomach and knocked the air out of him. Oxygen floated over him just
out of reach, and his chest made the sound of a dry pump. The best he could do
was roll to the side as a blade dug into the street by his ear, which earned
him a slap on the head from the other direction. The gliding sound went on.
Face on the pavement, he sucked his first breath and saw, silhouetted against
the distant light of the cafй, a figure in camos on inline skates and carrying
a hockey stick. It rolled forward, stick poised for a winning goal. Arkady
tried to get to his feet and immediately went down on a numb leg, his reward a
blow across the back. Facedown again, he noticed that what made them such
excellent shots were night-vision goggles strapped to their heads. Since he was
going nowhere, they circled, darting in and out, letting him twist one way and
then the other. When he kicked back, they slashed his legs. When he tried to
grab a stick, they feinted and hit him from the other side. The last thing he
was prepared for was a man stepping in between with a flashlight that he shone
directly into the eyes of the nearest skater. While the skater blindly
staggered back, the man put a large gun under the skater's chin and directed
the light on it so that the second skater could see the relationship of gun
barrel to head. A
voice croaked, "Fascists! I will shoot, and your friend will blow up like
a grapefruit. Get back, go home or I'll shoot both of you goyischer
boot shit. Go on, go!" It
was Yakov, and although he was half the size of the skater in his grasp, Yakov
gave him a kick to send him on his way to the other skater. They huddled for a
moment, but the click of the gun hammer being cocked discouraged them, and they
rolled off into the shadows on the far side of the street. Arkady
got to his feet and located, in order, his head, shins and the videotape. "If
you're standing, you're okay," Yakov said. "What
are you doing here?" "Following
you." "Thank
you." "Forget
it. Let me see again." Yakov played the flashlight beam around Arkady's
head. "You look fine." Yakov
is now the arbiter of damage? Arkady thought. This was trouble. Chapter TwelveYakov
set up a camp stove on the dock of the Chernobyl Yacht Club and made a
breakfast of smoked fish and black coffee for Hoffman and Arkady. The gunman
cooked in shirtsleeves, his shoulder holster showing, and he seemed to take
pleasure in the vista of rusted ships heaped against a gray sky. Hoffman
beat his chest like Tarzan. "This is like going down the "You're
not prejudiced?" Arkady asked. "Just
saying that the house your pal Vanko got us was as cold and dark as a cave.
Forget kosher kitchen." "Is
the house radioactive?" "Not
particularly. I know, I know, in Arkady
looked Hoffman over. The red stubble on the American's jowls was filling in.
"You stopped shaving?" "They
want Hasidim, I'll give them Hasidim. You, on the other hand, look like you've
been fucked by a bear." "Yakov
says I'll be fine." Arkady had checked himself when he woke. He was
crosshatched with bruises from his shins to his ribs, and his head throbbed
every time he turned it. Hoffman
was amused. "With Yakov, unless broken bones are sticking through the
skin, you're fine. Don't ask for any sympathy from him." "He's
fine," Yakov said. He picked crust off the pan to throw in the water. Fish
rose to take it in gulps. "He's a mensch." "Which
means?" Arkady asked. "Schmuck,"
Hoffman said. "Get close to people, help them, trust them, it just makes
you vulnerable. Do you know who jumped you? "I'm
pretty sure they were two brothers named Woropay. Militia. Yakov scared them
off." "Yakov
can do that." Yakov
squatted by the stove and – except for the cannon hanging from his shoulder –
resembled any pensioner at peace with the slow-moving water, the array of
wrecks going nowhere, the mounting thunderheads. Arkady couldn't tell how much
Yakov understood or cared to understand. Sometimes he responded in Ukrainian,
sometimes Hebrew, sometimes nothing, like an ancient radio with a varying
signal. Hoffman
said, "Yakov did the right thing by letting the creeps go. Ukrainians are
not going to take the word of a Russian and a Jew over two of their own police.
Besides, I don't want Yakov tied up. I'm paying him to protect me, not you. If
they really start digging around, they've got warrants out for Yakov that go
back to the Crimean War. You notice he wears a yarmulke. He puts the goyim on
notice enough." "Have
you been here before?" Arkady asked, but Yakov busied himself turning the
fish, which was smoked, grilled and charred. What more could be done to it?
Arkady wondered. "So
you saw our friend Victor in "Didn't
he look prosperous?" "Transformed." "Better,
let's leave it at that. The main thing is, the two of you saw that ape
Obodovsky with his dentist." "And
dental hygienist." "Dental
hygienist. Why don't you and Victor steal a page from the Woropay brothers and
take a couple of hockey sticks to Obodovsky? Get him to tell you where he was
when that van showed up in the alley behind Pasha's apartment house. If you
don't know how, Yakov can help you. This happens to fall into his field of
expertise. You must have questions." "I
do. You said you were here last year, on instructions from Pasha Ivanov, to
look into a commercial transaction involving spent nuclear fuel." "They're
stuffed to the gills here. No working reactor, but tons of dirty fuel.
Insane." "It
didn't make business sense?" "Right.
What does this have to do with Obodovsky?" "Who
did you talk to here? What officials?" Arkady asked. "I
don't know. I don't remember." "That
would have involved an investment of millions of dollars. You talked to the
plant manager, the engineers, the ministry in "People
like that, yes." "You
had to come disguised for that?" Hoffman's
eyes got smaller as he got angry. "What are these questions? You're
supposed to be on my side. The fuel deal never happened. It had nothing to do
with Pasha or Timofeyev dying. Or Obodovsky, for that matter." "Eat,
eat." Yakov handed out camp plates of grilled fish. Hoffman
asked, "How about Yakov and I just go back to "Coffee."
Yakov passed metal cups of something black and syrupy. "Before it
rains." The
fish had the texture of underwater cable. Arkady sipped the coffee and, now
that he had time, admired Yakov's American gun, a .45 with bluing worn to bare
steel. "Reliable?" "For
fifty years," Yakov said. "A
little slower than a modern gun." "Slow
can be good. Take your time and aim, is what I say." "Wise
words." "Why
not beat on Obodovsky?" Hoffman insisted. "Because
Anton Obodovsky is very much an outside person, and whoever arranged the
delivery of cesium chloride to Pasha's apartment was inside. They didn't break
in; they had the codes and somehow got around the cameras." "Colonel
Ozhogin?" "He
certainly is inside NoviRus Security." "I
can have him killed. He killed Timofeyev and Pasha." "Only,
Ozhogin has never been here. You are the one who has been, and you won't tell
me why. How long are you going to stay?" "I
don't know. We're enjoying ourselves, camping out, what's the rush?" There
didn't seem to be one for Hoffman. He sat on the car fender and picked his
teeth with a fish bone. He looked like a man with a sudden abundance of
patience. "Thank
you for the coffee." Arkady started off the dock. "My
father was here," Yakov said. "Oh?"
Arkady stopped. Yakov
felt in his shirt pocket and lit half of a cigarette he had saved. He spoke in
an offhand way, as if a detail had come to mind. " "Like
I told you," Hoffman told Arkady, "don't ask for any sympathy from
Yakov."
As soon as
Arkady rode to the street above the river he called Victor, who admitted that
he had lost Anton Obodovsky at a casino the night before. "You
have to buy a hundred-dollar membership before they let you in. And they really
liked sticking it to a Russian. Anton games all night while I'm jerking off in
front. He's up to something. I just feel sorry for Galina." "Galina?" "The
hygienist. Miss Universe? She seems like a sweet kid. Maybe a tad
materialistic." "How
was Anton's tooth?" Arkady asked. "He
seemed normal." "Where
are you now?" "Back
at the cafй, in case Anton returns. It's pouring here. You know what Europeans
do in the rain? They spend all day over a cup of coffee. It's very chic." "You
sound like you're having a wonderful vacation. Go to the travel agency across
from the dentist and see whether Anton bought tickets anywhere. Also, I know we
checked before to see what Ivanov and Timofeyev were doing during the accident
here at "We
already know. Nothing. They were two prodigies in "On
what, for whom?" "Ancient
history." "I'd
appreciate it if you would do it anyway." Through the trees Arkady could
make out Hoffman and Yakov on the dock. Yakov meditated by the water and
Hoffman was on a mobile phone. "How much of this information are you
passing to Bobby?" After
momentary embarrassment, Victor said, "Lyuba called. I explained the
situation to her, and then she explained the situation to me. As she says,
Hoffman is paying me." "You're
giving him everything?" "Pretty
much. But I'm giving the same to you, and I'm not charging you a kopek." "Bobby
is using me as a hunting dog. He's going to sit around and wait until I flush
something into the open." "You
do the work and he cashes in? I think that's called capitalism." "One
more thing. Vanko admires the way Alex Gerasimov makes money during his
off-time from "That's
what I was thinking." Arkady
caught a raindrop in his palm. "Start by calling "Magic
words."
• • •
Before the rain
hit, Arkady rode to the black village where Timofeyev had been found. He had
visited the site twenty times before, and each time he had tried to imagine how
a Russian millionaire could have arrived at the gate of a cemetery in the Zone.
Arkady also tried to picture how Timofeyev's body had been discovered by
Militia Officer Katamay and a local squatter. Did that description fit the
scavenger hauled from the cooling pond? Now all three were gone, Timofeyev and
Hulak dead and Katamay vanished. The facts made no sense. The atmospherics, on
the other hand, were perfect, a spatter of raindrops from an ominous sky and an
approaching fanfare of thunder, the same as Timofeyev's last day. Arkady
got off the bike in the clearing where Eva Kazka had held her outdoor medical
clinic. In a way, there were two cemeteries. One was the village itself, with
its punched-in windows and falling roofs. The other was the graveyard of simple
crosses of metal tubing painted blue or white, some with a plaque, some with a
photograph sealed in an oval frame, some decorated with bright bouquets of
plastic flowers. Keep your eternal flame, Arkady thought, bring me plastic
flowers. Maria
Panasenko popped up from a corner of the cemetery. Arkady was surprised,
because a diamond marker by the gate indicated that the cemetery was too hot to
trespass on, and visits were limited to one a year. Maria wore a heavy shawl in
case of rain; otherwise, she was the same ancient cherub who had provided the
drunken samogon party two nights before. Maria held a short scythe and, over
her shoulder, a burlap sack of brambles and weeds she refused to let Arkady
relieve her of. Her hands were small and tough, and her blue eyes shone even in
the shadows of heavy clouds. "Our
neighbors." She looked around the graveyard. "I'm sure they'd do the
same for us." "It's
nicely kept," Arkady said. A cozy anteroom to heaven, he thought. She
smiled and showed her steel teeth. "Roman and I were always afraid there
wouldn't be a good cemetery plot for us. Now we have our choice." "Yes."
The silver lining. She
cocked her head. "It's sad, all the same. A village dies, it's like the
end of a book. That's it, no more. Roman and I may be the last page." "Not
for many years." "It's
long enough already, but thank you." "I
was wondering, what are the militia like around here?" "Oh,
we don't see much of them." "Squatters?" "No." "There
don't happen to be any Obodovskys in the cemetery?" Maria
shook her head and said she knew all the families from the surrounding
villages. No Obodovskys. She glanced up at the sack. "Excuse me, I should
get these in before they get wet. You should stop for a drink." "No,
no, thank you." The very threat of samogon made him sweat. "You're
sure?" "Yes.
Another day, if I may." He
waited until she was gone before he brought his mind back to Lev Timofeyev's death.
Arkady was sure of so little: basically that the body had been found faceup in
the mud at the cemetery gate, his throat slit, his left eye a cavity, neither
his hair nor his shirt bloody but blood packed in his nose. Arkady was nowhere
near to asking why; it was all he could do to ask how. Had Timofeyev driven
himself to the village or been brought by someone else? Searched out the
cemetery or been led to it? Dragged to it dead or alive? If there had been a
competent detective at the scene, would he have found tire tracks, a trail of
blood, the twin shoe marks of a dragged body or mud inside the dead man's
shoes? Or at least footprints; the report cited wolf prints, why not shoes? If
it came to why, was Timofeyev the target of a conspiracy, or a plum that
happened to fall into the hands of Officer Katamay? Arkady
started again in the village clearing as the most likely place for a car to
stop. From there, the way to the cemetery narrowed to a footpath. A curtain
shifted at one of the few occupied houses, and before the curtain closed, he
caught a glimpse of Maria's neighbor Nina, on a crutch. How could anything have
occurred within eyesight of these wary survivors and not be spied? Yet they had
all sworn they'd seen nothing. Walking
up the path, Arkady stopped every few feet to brush aside leaves and look for
prints or signs of blood, as he had done a dozen times before and with no more
success. He paused at the cemetery gate and imagined Timofeyev standing,
kneeling, lying on his back. Photographs really would have been helpful. Or a
diagram or sketch. At this point Arkady was no better than a dog trying to
uncover a stale scent. Yet there was always something. Visitors to the rolling
hills of Arkady
opened the gate. The cemetery was a second village of plots and crosses
separated by wrought-iron fences. A few plots had barely enough room to stand
in, while one or two offered the comfort of a table and bench, but there were
no impressive crypts or stones; wealth played little part in the life or death
of such a community. Maria had industriously cleared around the crosses on one
entire side, and on their own, without crosses, stood four glass jars of
pansies, purple, blue and white, each at the head of a faintly discernible
mound. The light was so thin that Arkady couldn't be sure. He knelt and spread
his arms. Four child-size graves hidden by their lack of crosses. Illegal
graves. How great a crime was that? Eva
had said that Timofeyev was white, he seemed drained. Frozen bodies could fool,
but Arkady was willing to believe that she had seen more violence than most
physicians, and Timofeyev's one-eyed stare through a mask of hoarfrost must
have reminded her more of Unless
he was hung by his feet and, afterward, had his hair washed. Despite the
draining there still would have been some lividity of settled blood around the
head, but that could have been confused with freezer burn. Arkady
stood with his hand on the gate and for a moment caught the glint of something
revealed, something lying in front of him and then gone, chased by a patter of
raindrops, the light preparation of a hard rain.
The next black
village had no inhabitants at all, and its cemetery lay deep in the embrace of
brambles and weeds. Arkady had hoped the comparison would lead to some sort of
realization, but what he found as he dismounted from the motorcycle and walked
around was a deepening gloom of rotting cottages. A loamy toadstool smell vied
with the oversweet scent of decaying apples. Where wild boar had dug for
mushrooms, the dosimeter in Arkady's pocket spoke up. He heard something
shifting in the house ahead and asked himself which was faster to the
motorcycle, man or boar? Suddenly he wished he had Captain Marchenko's hunting
knife or, better, Yakov's cannon. The
house gave a single-cylinder whine, and a rider in a helmet and camos on a
small motorbike came out the front door. The rider pushed through the debris in
the yard and over a prostrate picket fence, where he momentarily came to a halt
to lower his helmet visor. The bike had no sidecar to stuff an icon in, and it
did have a license plate, but it was a blue Suzuki, and the reflector was
missing from the rear fender. Arkady had that reflector in his pocket. "Are
you looking for more icons to steal?" Arkady asked. The
thief returned Arkady's gaze as if to say, "You again?" and started
off. By the time Arkady had reached his own motorcycle, the thief was halfway
out of the village. Arkady
had the bigger, faster bike, but he simply wasn't as good a rider. The thief
left the village on a narrow trail made for gathering firewood. Where branches
had half-fallen, he ducked, and where the path was blocked, he deftly slipped
by. Arkady crashed through the smaller branches and was swept clean off his
saddle by the outstretched arm of an oak. The bike was all right, that was the
main thing. He climbed back on and listened for the voice of the Suzuki. Rain
pinged the leaves. Birches swayed in the arriving breeze. There was no hint of
the thief. Arkady
pushed ahead with his engine off and, at this more deliberate speed, found
motorbike tracks in the damp leaves underfoot; moisture made footprints and
tire treads easier to read. Where the path forked, he consciously took the
wrong trail for fifty meters before cutting through the woods to the right
trail, where he saw the thief waiting behind a glistening screen of firs. The
forest floor of damp needles was soft, and the thief's attention was fixed
entirely on the trail until the steel jaws of a trap sprang from the ground and
snapped shut next to Arkady's foot. The thief turned to regard the tableau of
Arkady, bike and trap, and in a second was riding back down the trail the way
he had come. The
thief kept ahead of Arkady but didn't completely lose him; as long as Arkady
kept the smaller bike in sight, he could anticipate obstacles. Also, Arkady
took chances he wouldn't have in a saner mood, following a far more expert
rider leap for leap, fishtailing on leaves to swing off the path and weave
through a stand of pines until they broke back into the village. On the far
side was a forestry road with chest-high seedlings of second-growth trees. The
thief took them like a slalom skier, leaning one way and then the other. Arkady
rode straight over the seedlings, gaining all the time. As
Arkady drew close, the thief veered off the forestry road into a line of
rust-colored pines, the outer reach of the As
the clouds unloaded, the lights of the town seemed to drown. Arkady rode in at
a limp, wet hair wrapped across his brow. He passed the inviting glow of the cafй
and heard the splash of people running for its door. The windows were steamed.
No one saw him go by. He rode past the dormitory, the parking lot sizzling with
rain. He rode under bending branches. He pictured Victor sitting out the storm
at a cafй in He
turned at the road that led down to the river, where he had a panorama of the
storm. Steam rose from the water as rain fell, but Arkady could see that
Hoffman, Yakov and their car had deserted the yacht-club dock. Scuttled ships
levitated from fog with each lightning strike. The far bank was a hazy sketch
of aspens and reeds, but farther upstream the bridge led to the forlorn lights
of staff quarters still occupied. Arkady could see well enough by the lightning
to keep his own headlight off. He crossed the bridge and passed between the
solid brick buildings on spongy soil that came to an end, except for a car
track that led along what might once have been a sports field but had sunk
under cattails and ferns. Arkady
killed his engine and pushed, following the track around a shadowy stand of
trees to a garage fashioned from sheets of corrugated steel. The doors were
held shut with a loose padlock. They creaked as he swung them open, but with
thunder in every direction, he doubted anyone would hear less than a bomb.
Arkady scanned the interior with his penlight. The garage was crammed but
orderly: hardware in jars on shelves, hand tools in rows along the walls. In
the middle was Eva Kazka's white Moskvich. On one side of the car was a Suzuki
bike with the engine still warm; under a tarp on the other side, a disengaged
sidecar. From his pocket Arkady took the reflector he had snapped off the rear
fender of the icon thief's bike and mated it to the metal stub on Eva's fender.
They fit. Wood
smoke led to a cabin set among a blue mass of lilacs. A porch had been
converted to a parlor. Through a window Arkady glimpsed an upright piano and
bright chinks of fire in a woodstove. He rapped on the door, but thunder had
opened up like siege guns, flattening all other sounds. He opened the door as
lightning flashed behind him, strobe-lighting a glassed-in porch's assortment
of a rug, wicker table and chairs, bookshelves and paintings. The room sank
back into the dark. He had taken a step in when the sky above cracked open and
filled the room like a searchlight. Eva moved to the middle of the rug with a
gun. She was barefoot, in a robe. The gun was a 9mm, and she seemed familiar
with it. Eva
said, "Get out or I'll shoot." The
door slammed shut in the wind, and for a moment Arkady thought she had fired.
She gathered the robe together with her free hand. "It's
me," he said. "I
know who it is." In
a momentary dark he moved closer and pushed aside the collar of the robe to
kiss her neck on the same fine scar he had found before. She pressed the muzzle
of the pistol against his head as he slid open the robe. Her breasts were cold
as marble. He
heard a mechanism of the gun at work, easing the hammer down. He felt a tremor
run through her legs. She pressed the flat of the gun against his head, holding
him. Her
bed was in a room with its own woodstove, which whistled softly with heat. How
they had arrived there, he wasn't quite sure. Sometimes the body took over. Two
bodies, in this case. Eva rolled on top as he entered until her head rocked
back, sweat like kohl around her eyes, her body straining as if she were about
to leap, as if all the frenzy he had detected in her before had become a
voracious need. No different from him. They were two starving people feeding
from the same spoon.
• • •
Chaos turned to
steady rain. Eva and Arkady sat at opposite ends of the bed. The light of an
oil lamp brought out the black of her eyes, hair, curls at the base of her
stomach, the gun by her hand. "Are
you going to shoot me?" he asked. "No.
Punishment only encourages you." She gave his scratches and bruises a
professional glance. "Some
of these are thanks to you," he said. "You'll
live." "That's
what I thought." She
gestured vaguely to the bed, as if to a battlefield. "This didn't mean
anything." "It
meant a great deal to me." "You
took me by surprise." He
thought about it. "No. I took you by inevitability." "A
magnetic attraction?" "Something
like that." "Have
you ever seen little toy magnetic dogs? How they attract each other? That
doesn't mean they want to. It was a mistake." The
lamp threw as much shadow as light, but he could see an agreeable mess: an
overlap of pillows, books and rugs. A framed photo showing an older couple in
front of a different house; Arkady had to look twice to recognize the ruin
where Eva had hidden with her bike. A poster for a Stones concert in Arkady
nodded to the gun. "I could field-strip that for you. I could field-strip
it blindfolded by the age of six. It's about the only thing my father ever
taught me." "A
handy ability." "He
thought so." "You
and Alex have more in common than you imagine." One
item they had in common was obvious, but Arkady felt that Eva had meant more
than herself. "How is that?" Eva
shook her head. She dismissed that line of conversation. Instead, she said,
"Alex said this would happen." "Alex
is a smart man," Arkady said. "Alex
is a crazy man." "Did
you drive him crazy?" "By
sleeping with other men? Not that many. I desperately need a cigarette." Arkady
found two and an ashtray he put in no-man's-land at the center of the bed. Eva
said, "What do you know about suicide? Besides cutting down the bodies, I
mean?" "Oh,
I come from a long line of suicides. Mother and father. You'd think it would be
a short line, but no, they get their procreation done early, and then they kill
themselves." "Have
you..." "Not
successfully. Anyway, here we are in She
balked again, not ready to let him lead. "So how is your investigation
going?" "Moments
of clarity. Millionaires are generally murdered for money. I'm not sure that's
the case here." "Anything
else?" "Yes.
When I first came, I assumed that the deaths of Ivanov and Timofeyev were
connected. I still think so, but in a different way. Perhaps more
parallel." "Whatever
that means. What were you doing in the village today?" "I
was at the cemetery at Roman and Maria's, and I began wondering if any of the
official fatalities from the accident came from the villages in the Zone.
Whether I would recognize names on the crosses. I didn't, but I found four
unmarked graves of children." "Grandchildren.
Of different causes supposedly unrelated to Chornobyl. What happens is the family
breaks up, and no one is left to bury the dead but the grandparents, who take
them home. No one keeps track. There were forty-one official deaths from the
accident and half a million unofficial. An honest list would reach to the
moon." "Then
I went to the next village, where I found you. What were you doing on a
motorcycle in a house? Let me guess. You take icons so they can be reported as
stolen to the militia. That way scavengers and the corrupt officers they work
with have no reason to bother old folks like Roman and Maria. Then you return
the icons. But there were no occupied houses or icons in that village, so why
were you there? Whose house was it?" "No
one's." "I
recognized the bike by the broken reflector and recognized you by the scarf.
You should get rid of your scarves." He leaned across the bed to kiss her
neck. That she didn't shoot him he took as a good omen. Eva
said, "Every once in a while I remember this thirteen-year-old girl
parading on May Day with her idiotic smile. She's moved out of the village to
Kiev to live with her aunt and uncle so she can go to a special school for
dance; their standards are rigid, but she's been measured and weighed and has
the right build. She has been selected to hold a banner that says, 'Marching
into the Radiant Future!' She is so pleased the day is warm enough not to wear
a coat. The young body is a wonder of growth, the division of cells produces
virtually a new person. And on this day she will be a new person,
because a haze comes over the sun, a breeze from Chornobyl. And so ends her
days of dancing and begins her acquaintanceship with Soviet surgery." She
touched the scar. "First the thyroid and then the tumors. That's how you
know a true citizen of the Zone. We fuck without worries. I am a hollow woman;
you can beat me like a drum. Still, once in a while, I remember this fatuous
girl and am so ashamed of her stupidity that if I could go back in time with a
gun, I would shoot her myself. When this feeling overcomes me, I go to the
nearest hole or black house and hide. There are enough black houses that this
is never a problem. Otherwise I have nothing to fear. Were you ambitious as a
boy? What did you want to be?" "When
I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronomer and study the stars. Then someone
informed me that I wasn't seeing the actual stars, I was seeing starlight
generated thousands of years before. What I thought I was seeing was long since
over, which rendered the exercise rather pointless. Of course, the same can be
said about my profession now. I can't bring back the dead." "And
the injured?" "Everybody's
injured." "Is
that a promise?" "It's
the only thing I'm sure of." Chapter ThirteenIn
the morning the rain had passed and the cabin felt like a boat safely landed. Eva
was gone but had left him brown bread and jam on a cutting board. While Arkady
dressed he noticed more photographs: a ballet mistress, a tabby cat, friends
skiing, someone shielding their eyes on a beach. None of Alex, which, he
confessed, reassured him. As
he stepped out the screen door he couldn't help but notice how the willows,
like timid girls, stood with one foot in the water and that the river, swollen
with runoff, bore an earthy smell and a new full-throated voice. Arkady hadn't
slept with a woman for a while and he felt warm and alive. Blow on cold ashes,
he thought, you never know. "Hello."
Oksana Katamay slipped into view around the corner of the house. She was in her
blue jogging suit and knit cap; a wig, maybe, or lunch for her brother Karel
was in her backpack. She ducked her head with every step forward and pulled her
hands into her sleeves. "Is everyone up?" "Yes." "The
lilacs smell so sweet. This is the doctor's house?" "Yes.
What are you doing here?" "I
saw your motorbike. That's my friend's Vespa next to it. I borrowed it." "A
friends?" "Yes." Arkady
saw the bike and scooter in the yard but they were hardly visible from the
road. Oksana smiled and looked around in a goose-necked way. Arkady
asked, "Have you been here long?" "Awhile." "You're
very quiet." She
smiled and nodded. She must have rolled the scooter the last fifty meters with
the engine off to arrive so silently, and she obviously didn't find anything
odd about waiting for him outside another woman's door. "You're
not at work today?" Arkady asked. "I'm
home, sick." She pointed at her shaved head. "They let me take time
off whenever I want. There's not much to do, anyway." "Can
I give you some coffee, hot or cold?" "You
remembered. No, thank you." He
looked at the scooter. "You can travel around here? What about
checkpoints?" "Well,
I know where to go." "So
does your brother Karel. That's the problem." Oksana
shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted to see how you were. If you're with
the doctor, I suppose you're okay. I was worried because of Hulak." "You
knew Boris Hulak?" "He
and my grandfather would rant on the telephone for hours about traitors who
shut down the plant. But my grandfather would never really hurt anyone." "That's
good to know." Oksana
seemed relieved. If a man in a wheelchair a train ride away was not going to
attack him, Arkady was happy, too. "Look."
She pointed out a stork skimming over its mirror image on the surface of the
river. "Like
you. You simply come and go." She
shrugged and smiled. For inscrutability, the Mona Lisa had nothing on
Oksana Katamay. He
asked, "Do you remember Anton Obodovsky? A big man in his mid-thirties. He
used to box." Her
smile spread. Arkady
tried an easier question. "Where would I find the Woropays?"
Dymtrus Woropay
skated on a street of empty houses, gliding backward, sideways, forward,
handling a hockey stick and rubber ball around potholes and grass. His yellow
hair lifted and his eyes were intent on the rolling ball. He didn't notice
Arkady until they were a few steps apart, at which point Dymtrus pushed forward
and cocked his stick, and Arkady threw the trash-bin cover he had carried
behind his back. The cover cut off Dymtrus at the ankles. He went down on his
face, and Arkady put a foot on the back of his neck and kept him splayed. "I
want to talk to Katamay," Arkady said. "Maybe
you want a stick up your ass, too." Arkady
leaned. He was afraid of the burly Dymtrus Woropay, and sometimes fear could be
exorcised only one way. "Where is Katamay?" "Get
stuffed." "Do
you enjoy breathing?" Arkady dug his heel into Woropay. "Do
you have a gun?" Woropay twisted his eyes up to see. Arkady
unclipped Woropay's pistol, a Makarov, militia issue. "Now I do." "You
won't shoot." "Dymtrus,
look around. How many witnesses do you see?" "Fuck
off." "I
bet your brother is tired of being your brother. I think it's time he stood on
his own two feet." Arkady pushed off the pistol's safety and, to be
convincing, put the muzzle to Dymtrus's head. "Wait.
Fuck. Katamay who?" "Your
friend and teammate, your fellow militia officer Karel Katamay. He found the
Russian at the cemetery. I want to talk to him." "He's
missing." "Not
to everyone. I talked to his grandfather, and soon two thugs, you and your
brother, begin playing hockey with my head." "What
do you want to talk about?" "The
Russian, pure and simple." "Let
me up." "Give
me a reason." Arkady applied more weight to the decision making. "Okay!
I'll see." "I
want you to take me to him." "He'll
call you." "No,
face-to-face." "I
can't breathe." "Face-to-face.
Arrange it, or I will find you and shoot off your knee. Then we'll see how you
skate." Arkady applied one last squeeze before getting up. Dymtrus
sat up and rubbed his neck. He had a sloped face like a shovel and small eyes.
"Shit." Arkady
gave Dymtrus his mobile-phone number and, since he felt Dymtrus tensing for a
fight, threw in as an afterthought, "You're not a bad skater." "How
the fuck would you know?" "I
saw you practice. You prefer ice?" "So?" "I
bet you're wasted on the league down here." "So?" "Just
an observation." Dymtrus
pushed his hair back. "So what? What do you know about ice hockey?" "Not
much. I know people." "Like
who?" "Wayne
Gretzky." Arkady had heard of Wayne Gretzky. "You
know him? Fuck! Do you think he'd ever come down here?" "To
"He
could see me there?" "Maybe.
I don't know." "But
he might? I'm big and I'm fast and I'm willing to kill." "That's
an unbeatable combination." "So
he might?" "We'll
see." A
Dymtrus with a more positive frame of mind got to his feet. "Okay, we'll
see. Could I have my gun back?" "No.
That's my guarantee that I will meet Katamay. You get your gun back
after." "What
if I need it?" "Stay
out of trouble."
• • •
Feeling in a
better frame of mind himself, Arkady rode to the cafй, where he found Bobby
Hoffman and Yakov working on black coffee in the absence of a kosher kitchen. "I
figured it out," Bobby told Arkady. "If Yakov's father was here when
they sank the ferry full of Jews, and that was 1919, 1920, that makes Yakov
over eighty. I didn't know he was that old." "He
seems to know his business." "He
wrote the book. But you look at him and think, All this guy wants is to sit in
a beach chair in Tel Aviv, take a nap and quietly expire. How are you feeling,
Renko?" Yakov
raised a basilisk's gaze. "He's fine." "I'm
fine," Arkady said. Despite the accumulation of bruises, he was. Yakov
was tidy, like a pensioner dressed to feed the birds, but Bobby's face and
clothes were corrugated from lack of sleep, and his hand was swollen. "What
happened?" "Bees."
Bobby shrugged it off. "I don't mind bees. So what about Obodovsky, what's
he doing in "Anton
is doing what you'd expect someone of his stature to do when he's visiting his
hometown. He's showing off money and a girl." "The
dental hygienist?" "That's
right. We're not in Bobby
whispered, "I don't want him questioned, I want him dead. You can do that
anywhere. I'm out on a very long limb here. And nothing is happening. My two
Russian cops are taking tea, visiting the malls. I give you Kuzmitch, you don't
want him. You see Obodovsky, you can't touch him. This is why you don't get
paid, because you don't produce." "Coffee."
Yakov brought Arkady a cup. There was no waiter. "And
Yakov, here, he prays all night. Oils his gun and prays. You two are a
pair." Arkady
said, "Yesterday you were patient." "Today
I'm shitting a brick." "Then
tell me what you were doing here last year." "It's
none of your business." Bobby leaned to look out the window. "Rain,
radiation, leaky roofs. It's getting to me." A
militia car swung into the space beside Yakov's battered Nissan, and Captain
Marchenko emerged slowly, perhaps posing for a painting called The Cossack
at Dawn, Arkady thought. A lot of things had escaped Marchenko's notice –
a slit throat, tire treads and footprints at a murder scene – but the Zone's
two newest residents had caught the captain's eye. The captain entered the cafй
and affected friendly surprise at the sight of Bobby and company, like a man
who sees a lamb and the possibility of lamb chops. He came immediately to the
table. "Do
I see visitors? Renko, please introduce me to your friends." Arkady
looked at Bobby, asking in a silent way what name he would care to offer. Yakov
stepped in. "I am Yitschak Brodsky, and my colleague is Chaim Weitzman.
Please, Mr. Weitzman speaks only Hebrew and English." "No
Ukrainian? Not even Russian?" "I
interpret." "And
you, Renko, do you speak Hebrew or English?" "A
little English." "You
would," the captain said, as if it were a black mark. "Friends of
yours?" Arkady
improvised. "Weitzman is a friend of a friend. He knew I was here, but he
came to see the Jewish grave." "And
stayed overnight not one night but two, without informing the militia. I talked
to Vanko." Marchenko turned to Yakov. "May I see your passports,
please?" The captain studied them closely, to underline his authority. He
cleared his throat. "Excellent. You know, I often say we should make our
Jewish visitors especially welcome." "Are
there other visitors?" Arkady asked. There
was an answer – specialists in toxic sites – but Marchenko maintained a smile,
and when he handed back the passports he added a business card. "Mr.
Brodsky, please take my card, which has my office phone and fax. If you call me
first, I can organize much better accommodations, and perhaps a day visit for a
much larger group, strictly supervised because of radiation, naturally. Late
summer is good. Strawberry season." If the captain expected an effusive
response from Yakov, he didn't get it. "Anyway, let's hope the rain is
over. Let's hope we don't need Noah and his ark, right? Well, gentlemen, a
pleasure. Renko, you weren't going anywhere, were you?" "No." "I
didn't think so." As
the captain climbed into his car, Bobby waved and muttered,
"Asshole." Arkady
asked, "Bobby, how many passports do you have?" "Enough." "Good,
because the captain's brain is like a closet light that sometimes lights and
sometimes doesn't. This time it didn't; the next time it might, and he'll
connect Timofeyev and me and you. He'll check on your papers or call Ozhogin.
He has the colonel's number. It might be wise to go now." "We'll
wait. By the way, Noah was an asshole, too." "Why
Noah?" Arkady asked. This was a new indictment. "He
didn't argue." "Noah
should have argued?" Yakov
explained, "Abraham argues with God not to kill everyone in "Not
a word," said Bobby, "and saves the minimum. What a bastard."
Perhaps Eva had
gone to the Panasenkos' to give Roman a physical examination, but the cow had
gotten out during the storm and trampled the vegetable garden, and Maria and
Eva were in the middle of trying to resurrect what they could when Arkady
arrived and joined in. The air was hot and humid, the ground damp and baked and
oozing humors, and each step produced a sharp scent of crushed mint or
chamomile. The
old couple had laid out their garden in straight- as- a- string rows of beets,
potatoes, cabbage, onion, garlic and dill, the necessities of life; celery,
parsley, mustard and horseradish, the savor of life; buffalo grass for vodka
and poppies for bread, everything chopped by the cow into muck. The root
vegetables had to be rebedded and the greens salvaged. Where water pooled,
Roman shaped drainage with a hoe. Maria
wore a shawl around her head and around her waist a second shawl to hold what
she picked. Eva had laid aside her lab coat and shoes to work barefoot in a
T-shirt and shorts, no scarf. They
worked separate rows, digging their hands into the mud and freeing the greens
or replanting root vegetables tops up. The women were faster and more
efficient. Arkady hadn't worked in a garden since he was a boy, and that was
just at the dacha to keep him out of the way. The neighbors – Nina on her
crutch, Olga squinting through her glasses, Klara with Viking braids – came to
witness. From the general interest and the size of the lot, it became clear
that Roman and Maria fed the entire population of the village. Maria could have
pulled a small train behind her, the way she leaned in to the work and smiled
with satisfaction in it, except when she looked up from strangling red-veined
greens of beets to gaze on Roman. "You're
sure you latched the cow's stall? She could have been eaten by wolves. The wolves
could have gotten her." Roman
acted deaf, while Eva
had ignored him since his arrival, and the more he thought about it, the more
he realized that the night with her had been a mistake. He had gotten too
involved. He had lost his sacred objectivity. He was like one of those
telescopes launched into space with lenses so distorted it could be seeing
either headlights or the Milky Way. When
the garden was done, Maria brought cold water for Arkady and Eva and kvass for
Roman. Kvass was a beer made from fermented bread, and a summons to life for
Roman. Eva managed to keep one of the old couple between her and Arkady at all
times: a dance of avoidance. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. It was the director of the "Investigator
Renko, this is impossible. You must return at once. Zhenya waits every
day." "The
last time I saw Zhenya, he didn't as much as wave goodbye. I doubt very much
that he's upset." "He's
not demonstrative. Explain to Zhenya." Again
the void on the phone, from either the bottom of a waste bin or an
undemonstrative boy. "Zhenya?
Are you there? Zhenya?" Arkady
heard nothing, but he could feel the boy pressing a receiver close to his ear
and pursing his lips in a disagreeable way. "How
are you doing, Zhenya? Driving the director insane, it sounds like." Silence
and perhaps a nervous shift of the phone from one ear to the other. Arkady
said, "No news about Baba Yaga. Nothing to report." He
could see Zhenya gripping the phone tight with one hand and chewing the nails
of the other. Arkady tried to outwait him, which was impossible, because Zhenya
just hung on. "We
had a storm during the night. A dragon got loose and went on a rampage, tearing
up the fields and knocking over fences. Bones everywhere. We chased him over
the fields to the river, where he escaped because the bridge was guarded by a
monster that had to be defeated in a game of chess. None of us was good enough,
so the dragon got away. Next time we should take along a better chess player.
Other than that, nothing happened in the Arkady
folded the phone and discovered Roman and Maria regarding him with
astonishment. Eva seemed unamused. Nevertheless,
they carried scythes into the field behind the cow barn to cut grass and barley
bent by the rain. The scythes were long two-handled affairs with blades so sharp
they whistled. Eva and Maria bundled cut grass into sheaves with binding twine,
while Arkady and Roman waded ahead. Arkady had cut grass in the all-purpose Red
Army, and he remembered that the rhythm of scything was like swimming; the
smoother the motion, the longer the stroke. Straws flew and insects spiraled in
a golden dust. It was the most mindless labor he had performed for years and he
gave himself over to it completely. At the end of the field, he dropped the
scythe and lay down in high grass, in the warm stalks and cool ground, and
stared numbly at the sky slightly spinning above. How
could they do it? he wondered. Work this field so happily when a short walk up
the path, four grandchildren lay in unmarked graves. He imagined each funeral
and the rage. Could he have stood it? Yet Roman and Maria and the other women
seemed to approach every task as God's allotment. Work is holy, he remembered
one of Tolstoy's heroes saying. A
body dropped nearby, and though he couldn't see her, he heard Eva's breathing.
It was so normal, Arkady thought. Although it wasn't in the least normal. Did
he normally perform farm labor? Through closed eyes, he felt the dull pulsation
of the sun. What a relief to think of nothing, to be a rock in the field and
never move again. Even better, he thought: two rocks in the field. Unseen
behind the grass, Eva asked, "Why did you come here?" "Yesterday
Maria said you would be here." "But
why?" "To
see you." "Now
that you've seen me, why don't you go?" "I
want more." "Of
what?" "You." Directness
was not a language he generally spoke, and he expected her to leap to her feet
and walk away. There
was a stir, and Eva's hand grazed his. She
said, "Your friend Zhenya plays chess." "Yes." "And
he's very good?" "Apparently." He
heard a murmur of satisfaction in a guess confirmed. "You
didn't ask," Eva said. "Ask
what?" "Whether
the garden was radioactive. You're becoming a real citizen of the Zone." "Is
that good or bad?" "I
don't know." "For
you," he asked, "is it good or bad?" She
uncurled his fingers and laid her head on them. "Disaster. The
worst."
Arkady's mobile
phone rang as he coasted into town, and he turned onto the side street of beech
trees to take the call. It was Victor phoning from the state library in Arkady
leaned the motor bike on its stand. The sun danced through the trees, belying the
fact that the street was dead and the houses empty. "Something someone
said. Any connection to Sounds
of paper flipping. "Not much. A delegation six months after the accident.
I bet every scientist in "Anything
personal?" Eva
had told Arkady that he and Alex Gerasimov had more in common than he knew. He
had a suspicion of what, but he wanted to be sure. While he talked, he paced by
houses, each in its individual state of decay. At one window stood a doll, at
least the third or fourth he'd seen at windows in Victor
said, "These are scientific books and journals, not fan magazines. Lyuba
called last night. I told her about the lingerie shop here. She said to pick
out anything I wanted. My choice." "Look
for "Okay,
here's an article translated from the French about an explosion of nuclear
waste in Could
dump radioactive water into the "More
recent stuff," Victor said. "Newspaper clippings. A
family tradition of suicide, that was the connection between Alex and Arkady.
Eva had spotted the merry bond right away. "What is the date on the Izvestya
piece?" "May
second. He was found on May Day." Imagine,
Arkady thought. One day Felix Gerasimov is the respected and honored director
of a scientific institute well enough funded to have its own research reactor
in the middle of Moscow, a reactor he's earned not only through his
groundbreaking work in theoretical physics but also through his willingness to
engage in the down-to-earth problems of nuclear this and that (test-site
pollution and spontaneous explosions in the hinterland), all the signs of a
politically shrewd careerist. And then the political system collapses. The
Communist Party lies as gutted as Reactor Four. Bankrupt. The director and his
faculty (including Ivanov and Timofeyev) have to walk around the institute in
blankets and dump "hot water" on the sly. That did, indeed, seem like
twists enough for one career. "Arkady,
are you there?" "Yes.
Call Petrovka –" "In
"Yes.
Call headquarters and see if there's any record of a suicide attempt by the
son, Alexander." "What
makes you think there will be?" "Because
there will. Did you get anywhere with his off-time work in "Sorry.
I called, at Bobby's expense, every major hotel in "Yes,
that's why you're in "I
have my notes right here." There was a rush of papers falling. "Shit!
Fuck your mother! I have to call you back." Victor
really wasn't meant for the hushed confines of a library, Arkady decided. He
looked at the doll in the window. Her face was bleached off, but the contours
and a ponytail of golden filaments remained, and he glimpsed a shelf of more
dolls, as if the house had been entrusted to a second, smaller family. The
doorway lured him to the threshold. Close up, the doll's arms bore a gauze of
spider-webs that he untangled, and when his mobile phone rang, he almost saw
her flinch. Arkady
answered, "Hello, Victor, go ahead." A
raspy voice asked, "Who is Victor?" "A
friend," Arkady said. "I
bet you don't have many. I hear you got someone shot at the cooling pond." Arkady
started again. "Hello, Karel." It
was Katamay, the missing militia officer. Dust motes eddied around the doll as
if she were breathing. "I
want to talk to you about the Russian that you found. That's all, nothing
else," Arkady said and waited. The gaps were so long it was almost like
talking to Zhenya. "I
want you to leave my family alone." "I
will, but I have to talk to you." "We're
talking." "In
person. Just about the Russian, that's all I'm here for, and then I can go
home." "With
your friend Wayne Gretzky?" "Yes." A
seizure of coughing, followed by "When I heard that, I almost split my
side." "Then
I won't bother your grandfather and sister anymore, and Dymtrus can have his
gun back." A
long silence. "Pripyat,
the center of the main square, ten tonight. Alone." "Agreed,"
Arkady said, but to a dial tone. Victor
rang the next instant. "Okay, Anton was at a couple of casinos by the
river." "Why
is he spending so much time here?" "I
don't know. Galina wore this tight outfit." "Spare
me." Arkady was still trying to switch gears from the Katamay call. "Hey,
thank God for our little hygienist, or I'd never see Anton. He picks her up
after work every day. Goes up to the office like a real gentleman. Took her to
a Porsche showroom, churches and a graveyard." "A
graveyard?" "Very
prestigious. Poets, writers, composers all laid out. He put a pile of roses at
a gravestone. I looked at it later. Sure enough, the stone said 'Obodovsky'.
His mother died this year." "I'm
interested in where he was born. See if you find any record that he lived in
Pripyat." "Bobby
is going to be very interested in this." "Wonderful.
Is Anton doing any business?" "Not
that I can see." "Then
why is he hanging around "I
don't know, but you should see the Porsches."
• • •
Arkady rode down
an avenue not of Porsches but of fire engines on one side and army trucks on
the other. Few visitors came to the yard except dealers in auto parts. From row
to row, the variety changed from cars to armored personnel carriers, from tanks
to bulldozers, all too hot to bury but sinking in the mud. Arkady followed the
single power line to the trailer office of Bela, the manager. Bela
had few visitors and he was eager to roll up yard maps and share with Arkady
the living comforts engineered into his trailer: microwave, minibar,
flat-screen TV and videotape collection. A pornographic tape was already
playing, pneumatic sex with the sound down, like background music. Bela
picked a hair off his shoulder. In his dirty white suit he looked like a lily
beginning to rot. "I'm
seriously thinking of retiring. The demands of this job are too much." "What
demands?" "Demands.
Customers can't just drive into the Zone to shop for auto parts. This is not a
showroom. On the other hand, they want to see what they're buying. So I bring
them." "Bring
them here?" "In
the back of my van. I have an understanding with the boys at the checkpoint.
They have to eat, too. Everyone eats, that's the golden rule." "And
Captain Marchenko?" "A
mass of envy. However, the Zone administrators in their wisdom have given me
control of the yard with no interference from the captain because they
understand how unreliable the militia is. I am up before dawn every day to make
sure things run smoothly. I am, if nothing else, reliable. Hence, this
multitude of vehicles outside is all mine." Now
that Arkady thought about it, there was something Napoleonic in the pride Bela
took in his army of radioactive vehicles, in his splendid isolation. "And
with every car a free dosimeter?" "Don't
even joke about such things. You should enjoy life's more beautiful
things." The manager held up a box that said "Actually,
I brought one." Arkady handed over Vanko's tape. "No
label. Some amateur action? A little hanky-panky? Bathroom camera?" "I
somehow doubt it." "But
it could be?" Bela
eagerly switched tapes. As he watched Vanko's tape, the yard manager's face
expressed first surprise and then disappointment, as if sugar he had shoved
into his mouth proved to be salt. Chapter FourteenThe
steppe was soft. The steppe was a vast plain that shone with ponds and
corkscrew rivers and evoked a wistful sadness. The poetry was stentorian, to
rouse a patriotic fervor, but the bread was as plump as pillows, and bread
always won over poetry. Ukrainian beauty was the child of history: the luminous
doe eyes and fair skin of the Slav set on Tartar cheeks. At least that was the
ordinary beauty. Galina was probably like that, Arkady thought. Eva
was not soft. Her pale skin and black hair – black as a cormorant's, liquid to
the hand – set a theme of contradiction. Her eyes were dark mirrors. Her body
looked slight but was strong as a bow, and Arkady thought she would have made
an excellent imp in hell, goading slow and doughy sinners with a pitchfork. She
should have come from a landscape of flames and spewing lava. Then he
remembered that, in part, she did. They
had kicked the sheet off the bed and lay, skin on skin, enjoying the cool
evaporation of the sweat they had produced. Dusk hung outside the window. She
asked, "Why do you have to go?" "I
have to meet a missing man." "That
sounds like a children's rhyme, but it's not, is it? You're still
investigating." "From
time to time. I'll be back in a few hours." "That's
up to you." She turned her face to him. Her eyes were too dark to
distinguish an iris and they seemed huge. "If you do return, you should
know the risks." "Such
as?" She
moved his hand with hers to the scar on her neck. "Cancer of the thyroid,
but you knew that." To her breast. "Chornobyl heart, literally a hole
in the heart." She played his fingers along her ribs. "Leukemia in
the bone marrow." Below the ribs. "Cancer of the pancreas and
liver." Across a ruff of pubic hair. "Cancer of the reproductive
organs, not to mention tumors, mutations, missing limbs, anemia, rigidity. Not
that any of this necessarily matters. Alex says, in the future our main concern
will be predators." "What
kinds?" "All
kinds." "People
aren't like that." "You
don't know. When people in "Yes." She
sighed and stroked his cheek. "Well, you may come back or not, but you've
been warned."
• • •
In Pripyat light
slowed to a drifting mist. Arkady had arrived on his motorbike on time at ten,
and another twenty minutes passed while he heard the occasional whir or
glimpsed a moving shadow that meant the Woropay brothers were making sure he
had come alone. The
square was fronted by the city hall, hotel, restaurant, school, all shells. The
moon made figures out of streetlamps, turned the amusement park Ferris wheel
into a huge antenna. Other civilizations, when they vanished, at least left
awesome monuments. The buildings of Pripyat were, one after the other,
prefabricated ruins. Dymtrus
Woropay popped up like a large sprite at Arkady's side and said, "Leave
the bike. Follow me." Easier
said than done. The Woropays wore night-vision goggles and glided on inline
skates, clicking over cement and sweeping through the grass. On foot they might
be clumsy, but on wheels they swung in graceful arcs. Arkady walked briskly
while the brothers circled in and out of shadows to shepherd him along an
arcade to a footpath through what had once been a tended garden and now was a
maze of branches. Nothing stopped the Woropays; they splashed through standing
water and shouldered aside brush to a two-story building with stone columns
that supported a mural of organ pipes and atoms: Pripyat's cultural theater.
Taras, the younger brother, punched the doors open and whooped as he rolled
into a lobby. Dymtrus elbowed his way in and thrust his arms over his head as
if he'd scored a goal. By
the time Arkady entered, the Woropays were gone. He heard them, but in the dark
it was difficult to see which way they had gone, and the path was obstructed by
stage flats stacked in the lobby. What dramas had been left behind, to rest
cheek to cheek for eternity? "Uncle Vanya, meet Anna Karenina." Of
course, there would have been children's productions, too. "Mouse King,
meet Raskolnikov." A
crashing of piano keys came from deep inside the theater, and Arkady pushed
through the flats and the clatter of cloakroom racks into a passageway of
near-total darkness. He used his cigarette lighter to see along a wall defaced
with curses, threats and crude anatomy. He had been in the theater before, but
in the daytime. The dark gave no warning of the broken glass that slid
underfoot or of the ripped wires that dangled in the face. Finally
Arkady groped his way to a drawn curtain and ropes and the light of a kerosene
lamp. A piano with broken and missing keys was onstage, and Taras Woropay
played as he sang, " 'You can't always get what you want, but you get what
you need!' " while Dymtrus, night goggles flipped up, skated and danced
wildly from one side of the stage to the other. The
audience seats were tiers of red benches strewn with broken chairs and tables,
bottles and mattresses, like furniture thrown down the steps of a house, while
Dymtrus's shadow stamped around the walls. A couch had been dragged to the
other side of the piano, where Karel Katamay lay propped by pillows and covered
with shawls. Arkady barely recognized the virtual skinhead he had seen in
photographs at the grandfather's house. This Karel Katamay wore his hair long
and beaded around a chalky face with pink eyes. A hockey shirt – the Detroit Red
Wings – swam over him. Small, thoughtful pansies sat in jars of water around
the couch, and a liter of Evian was tucked between his legs. Arkady didn't know
what he had expected, but not this. He'd read descriptions of the court of
Queen Elizabeth. That was what Karel Katamay looked like, a powdered Virgin
Queen with two oafish courtiers. A satin pillow cushioned his head; a corner of
the pillow was embroidered "Je ne regrette rien." "I
regret nothing." When Karel smiled, tickled by the sight of Dymtrus whirling
like a dervish, he showed pulpy gums. "
'Get what you need! need! need!' "
Dymtrus
steadied himself and pointed in Arkady's direction. "Brought him." "A
chair." Katamay's voice was not much more than a whisper, but Dymtrus
immediately jumped off the stage to bring a chair from the benches and set it
in front of the couch so that Arkady and Karel Katamay would be at the same eye
level. Close up, Katamay looked crayoned by a child. Arkady
said, "You don't look well." "I'm
fucked." Katamay's
nose sprang a leak. He pressed a towel against the blood in an offhand, nearly
elegant way. The towel, to judge by its blotches of brown, had been used
before. "Summer
cold," Katamay said. "So you wanted to know about the dead Russian I
found?" "Yes." "There's
not much to say. Some old fart I found in a village." The
hoarseness of Katamay's voice brought the volume down to a level of intimacy,
as if they were theatrical types discussing a production to be presented on
this very stage. Katamay said he had never seen the Russian before, and
couldn't know the dead man was Russian, since his papers were missing. He was
found in the morning lying on his back, his head at the cemetery gate, bloody
but not too bloody, stiff from full rigor mortis, disorganized because of
wolves. Katamay found the body coincidentally with a squatter he had seen
before, a guy called Seva, about forty years old, missing a little finger on
his left hand. Arkady took notes in case the Woropays wanted to stomp on
anything afterward. Notes were a good target. But around Katamay, they were
like dogs under voice command, and he had obviously told them to be still. "Just
a few questions. How was the dead man dressed?" "He
was rich. Expensive gear." "Nice
shoes?" "Beautiful
shoes." "Well
cared for?" "Beautifully." "Not
muddy?" "No." "His
shirt was damp. Was it clean or dirty?" "A
few leaves, I think." "So
he had been turned over?" "What
do you mean?" "A
man who drops dead to the ground doesn't roll around much." "Maybe
he wasn't dead yet." "More
likely someone turned him over to relieve him of his money and threw away the
ID later. Did you find anything else on the body? Directions, matches,
keys?" "Nothing." "No
car keys? He left them in the car?" "I
don't know." "You
didn't notice that his throat had been cut?" "It
was under his collar, and there wasn't that much blood. Anyway, wolves had been
messing with him." "Moved
him? Torn him up?" "Didn't
move him. Yanked on his nose and face a bit, enough to get an eye." Lovely
picture, Arkady thought. "Do wolves go for eyes?" "They'll
eat anything." "You
saw their tracks?" "Huge." "Did
you see a car or any tire tracks?" "No." "Where
were the people in the village, the Panasenkos and their neighbors?" "I
don't know." "People
in black villages don't get a great deal of entertainment. They're pretty nosy
about visitors." "I
don't know." "Why
were you there that day?" Dymtrus
said, "That's enough. He's got a million questions." "It's
all right, Dyma," Katamay said. "On the captain's orders, we were
taking a count of villagers in the Zone, and items of value." "Like
icons?" "Yes." "Would
you like to stop for a minute and drink something?" "Yes."
Katamay sipped French water and laughed into his handkerchief. In case he spits
up blood, Arkady thought. "I still can't get over Wayne Gretzky. Tell the
truth, do you know Gretzky?" "No,"
Arkady whispered, "no more than you know a squatter named Seva missing a
little finger." "How
could you tell?" "The
bizarre detail. Keep lies simple." "Yeah?" "It's
always worked for me. Give me your hands." The
Woropays shifted anxiously, but Katamay put out his hands, palms up. Arkady
turned them over to look at purpled fingernails. He motioned Katamay to lean
forward, and held up the lantern to observe tendrils of bleeding capillaries in
the whites of Katamay's eyes. "So
tell me the truth," said Katamay. "Am I fucked or am I fucked?" "Cesium?" "Fucked
as they come." "Is
there a treatment?" "You
can take Prussian blue; it picks up cesium as it passes through the body. But
it has to be administered early. It wasn't. There's no point going to the
hospital now." "What
happened? How did you get exposed?" "Ah,
that's a different story." "Maybe
not. Three men suffered from cesium poisoning: your Russian, his business
partner and you. You don't think they're related?" "I
don't know. It depends how you look at it. History moves in funny ways, right?
We've gone through evolution, now we're going through de-evolution. Everything
is breaking down. No borders, no boundaries. No limits, no treaties. Suicide
bombers, kids with guns. AIDS, Ebola, mad cow. It's all breaking down, and I'm
breaking down with it. I'm bleeding internally. No platelets. No stomach
lining. Infected. The reason I agreed to see you was to say that my family had
nothing to do with this. Dymtrus and Taras had nothing to do with any of this,
either." Katamay stopped for a spasm of wet coughs. The Woropays were
solicitous as nurses, wiping blood from his lips. He raised his head and
smiled. "Much better than a hospital. I had my theater debut here in Peter
and the Wolf. I played the wolf. I thought I was a wolf until I met a real
one." "Who
is that?" "You'll
know when you know. Anyway, we stray. Just the Russian I found, we
agreed." "His
car. You towed it. Was there anything inside? Papers, maps, directions?" "No." Arkady
reviewed his notes. "His watch, you said it was a Rolex?" "Yes.
Oh, that was sneaky. You caught me." Katamay held up an arm to show a gold
Rolex like a bauble. Dymtrus
punched Arkady in the back of the head. He obviously did not appreciate
lиse-majestй. Katamay
said, "No, no, fair is fair. He caught me. It doesn't matter,
anyway." "It
doesn't, does it?" Arkady said. "Give
Dymtrus back his gun. He's embarrassed." "Sure." Arkady
returned the pistol to Dymtrus, who muttered, "Gretzky." "Okay,
there was a checkpoint pass and directions," Katamay said. "To
where, exactly?" "The
cemetery." "Where
are the directions now?" "I
don't know." "Typewritten?" "Hardly."
Katamay was amused. "But
the pass was signed by Captain Marchenko?" "Maybe." "It's
just a form that could be snatched off a desk?" "Pretty
much." "You
saw the pass and directions when you found the body or when you towed the
car?" "When
we found the body." You
said you found the body while you were canvassing houses about theft. The
cemetery gate is fifty meters from the nearest occupied house. Why were you at
the gate?" "I
don't remember." "That
was cute, towing the car and hiding it at Bela's yard." "Right
under Bela's nose and where Marchenko couldn't go. I hear Bela walks the whole
yard every day now." Karel's laugh turned into a cough; every word seemed
to cost him. "You
disappeared at the same time. Were you sick then?" "A
little." "But
you still wanted money from a stolen car?" "I
thought I could leave something... to someone." "Who?"
Arkady asked, but Katamay stopped for breath. "Leave me something. Who was
the 'squatter' who led you to the gate?" "Hulak,"
Katamay got out. "Boris
Hulak? The body pulled out of the cooling pond?" "That's
the only reason I'm telling you." Karel sank out of sight against the
cushions with a laugh no more than a sigh. "There's nothing you can do
about it anyway."
As Arkady rode
by the sarcophagus, he felt the monster shift within its steel plates and razor
wire. But the monster wasn't only there. It was riding a Ferris wheel here,
swirling though a bloodstream there, seeping into the river, rooting in a
million bones. What leitmotif for this kind of beast? An ominous cello. One
note. Sustained. For fifty thousand years. The
closer Arkady got to the turnoff to Eva's cabin, the more each passing
radiation marker sounded like the stroke of an ax. He didn't have to go back.
She wouldn't answer any questions. She was a complication. The truth was that,
after such close contact with Karel Katamay, part of Arkady craved nothing more
than a chance to burn his own clothes, to scrub himself with a stiff brush and
ride as far away as he could. By
itself, the motorbike seemed to turn her way. He rode over the rattle of the
bridge and along nodding catkins to the house among the birches, where he found
her sitting in bed in her bathrobe, smoking, cradling a glass and an ashtray
between her legs. She looked as if she had stared a hole through the door since
he'd left. Arkady
asked, "Are we drinking?" "We're
drinking." There
was a sharpness in the air that said it wasn't water. "Do
you think we drink too much?" "It
depends on the circumstances. I used to go over patient files in the evening,
but since you arrived, I have been trying to understand who you are. When I get
the answer, I may not want to be sober." "Ask
me." He tried to take the bottle, but she held on. "No,
no, you're the Question Man. Alex says most people get over asking why by the
age of ten, only you never did." "Was
Alex here?" "See?
The problem is, I hate questions and poking into other people's lives. I don't
see much of a future for us." He
pulled a chair up to the bed and sat. Being with her was like watching a bird
beat against a pane of glass. Anything he did could be disastrous. "Well,
I had a question." "No
questions." "What's
your opinion of Noah?" Arkady asked. "From
the Bible?" "The
Bible, the Flood, the ark." "You
are a strange man." He felt her tease around the question, searching for
his angle. Eva said, "My opinion of Noah is low, my opinion of God is
lower. Why on earth do you ask?" "I
was wondering 'Why Noah?' Was he a carpenter or a sailor?" "A
carpenter. All he had to do was float, and muck the stupid animals. It wasn't
as if he was going anywhere." "How
do you know?" "God
would have given him directions." "You're
right." If Timofeyev had driven from "Why
not? It's a nice place," Eva said. "Full of murdered Poles, Jews,
Reds and Whites, not to mention the victims starved to death by Stalin or hung
by the Germans, but still nice. The best milk, best apples, best pears. We used
to spend the summer on the river, in boats or on the beach. We fished. The
Pripyat was famous for pike in those days. I would lie down on a towel on the
beach and watch fluffy clouds and dream of dancing and traveling to foreign
countries where I would meet a famous pianist, a passionate genius, and marry
him and have six or seven children. We would live in "Is
this a trick question?" "Definitely
not. A trick question is, how long will you be here? When will you suddenly disappear?
People do that. They're here for a week or two, and poof, they're gone, taking
with them their fascinating tales of living with the exotic natives of the
Zone." "Let's
dance." Arkady took the glass. "Are
you a good dancer?" "Awful,
but I remember you dancing with Alex." "You
were dancing with Vanko, after all." "It
wasn't the same thing." "Slow?" "Please." "I
didn't think you were coming back." "But
I did." She
slipped out of bed over to a cassette player. "A waltz at midnight. This
is romantic. You're surprising. You can cut wheat like a farmer, you can
dance." "I
surprise myself." "A
midnight waltz in Chornobyl, that's kicking death in the teeth." "Exactly." He
took her in his arms and executed a practice dip. She was incredibly light for
being so much trouble. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. "Ignore
it," Eva said. "I'll
just see who it is." He
assumed the caller was Victor or Olga Andreevna, but it was Zurin the
prosecutor, calling from "Good
news, Renko. Sorry to ring you in the middle of the night. We're bringing you
home." It
took Arkady a moment to absorb the news. "What are you talking
about?" "You're
coming back to "I'm
not done." "It's
not a failure, not a bit. You've been working hard, I'm sure. However, we've
decided to wrap up things at Arkady
turned with the phone away from Eva. "There is no Ukrainian side to this
investigation." "So
be it. This matter should have been shouldered by the Ukrainians from the
start. They can't always depend on us to wipe up their spilled milk." "The
victim was Russian." "Killed
in the "Because
it is." "They
wanted to be independent, now they are. There's also a manpower issue. I can't
have a senior investigator staying indefinitely in "I
need more time," Arkady said. "Which
will become more time and more time. No, it's been decided. Get to the airport,
catch the early flight and I'll expect to see you in my office by noon
tomorrow." "What
about Timofeyev?" "Unfortunately,
he died at the wrong place." "And
Ivanov?" "Wrong
way. We're not reopening a suicide." "I'm
not finished." "One
last thing. Before you come into the office, take a shower and burn your
clothes," Zurin said and hung up. Eva
refilled two glasses like a good barmaid. "Marching orders? And where are
you going from here? You must be going someplace." "I
don't know." "Don't
look so sad. You can't be stuck here forever. Someone must be getting killed in
"I'm
sure." "How
long can you sleep with a radioactive woman? I'd say the odds against that are
not very good." "You're
not radioactive." "Don't
quibble with me, I'm the doctor. I simply need to understand the situation. The
prognosis. It sounds as if you're leaving soon." "That's
not up to me." "Oh,
it isn't? I had taken you for a different kind of man." "What
kind?" "Imaginary."
Eva delivered a smile. "I'm sorry, that's unfair. You were enjoying
yourself so much, and I was enjoying you. 'Never pop a bubble' is a good rule.
But you should be happy to go. Out of exile, back among the living." "That's
what I'm told." He felt his mind race in ten directions. "Secretly,
aren't you a wee bit happy, a little relieved to have the decision taken out of
your hands? I'm happy for you, if that helps." "It
doesn't." "Just
as well, because I don't think we really made the ideal couple. You obviously
hate histrionics, and I am completely histrionic. Not to mention damaged goods.
When, exactly, are you going?" "I
have to go now." "Oh."
Her smile began to sink. "That was fast. Hardly more than a one-night
stand." She drank half her glass in a swallow and set it down. "Not
samogon. We will always have our samogon party. Well, they say short farewells
are the best." "I
will be back in a day. Two at the most." "Don't
even –" She pulled her robe tight and picked up the gun when he
approached. Shining streaks ran down her face. "The Zone is an exclusive
club, a very exclusive club, and you have just been voted out. So get
out." Chapter FifteenArkady
found Bobby Hoffman sitting with a lantern in a backyard that was wild with
roses and thorny canes that reached into the dark. Someone had once put
beehives in the garden, and a colony still thrived; a dozen had been lured out
by Bobby's light, in spite of the hour. Bobby let a bee crawl over the back of
one hand to another and around his fingers like a coin trick. Other bees
wandered on his hat. "My
father kept hives on "We've
got to go," Arkady said. "The
old man was tight with the Irish. They thought he was Irish because he could
drink and sing and fight. Women? They were like bees. My mother would say, 'So
you've been with your shiksa ho'ahs?' She was very religious. The funny thing
is, he was just as strict about me going to a yeshiva. He'd say, 'Bobby, what
makes the Jews special is that we don't just worship God, we have a contract
with Him in writing. It's the Torah. Figure out the fine print in that, and you
can figure out the fine print in anything.' " "Tell
him again," Yakov said. He was watching the street. Arkady
said, "I got a call from Prosecutor Zurin ordering me back to "Remember
the nice police?" said Yakov. "Captain
Marchenko at the cafй?" Arkady reminded Bobby. "The one who wanted
your business? I think that little lightbulb in his head went on. I think he
called Ozhogin, and to judge by the urgency in Zurin's voice, Ozhogin is
commandeering a company jet to come and get you. Not to arrest you; they would
have kept me here for that." "He
wants to give Bobby a beating?" Yakov asked. "We could let him have
Bobby for ten minutes. A little pain..." Bobby
laughed gently, so as not to disturb the bees browsing on his hat. "He's
not flying in from Arkady
said, "It won't just be punishment – there's also the threat to NoviRus as
long as you're around." Bobby
shrugged, and it struck Arkady that, day by day, Bobby had been getting more
inert. "This
is just guesswork on your part," Bobby said. "You have no proof that
the colonel is coming." "Do
you want to wait and find out? If I'm wrong, you leave the Zone a day early. If
I'm right and you stay, you won't last the day." Bobby
shrugged. Arkady
asked, "What happened to the old elusive Bobby Hoffman? "He
got tired." Yakov
asked, "What happened to your father?" "Prison
killed him. The feds tossed him in just to make him name his associates. He was
a stand-up individual, and he named no one, so they kept handing him more
years. Six years in, he got diabetes and bad circulation. But decent medical
treatment? Not a chance. They started whittling him down, one leg and then the
other. They took a big man like my father and turned him into a dwarf. His last
words to me were 'Don't ever let them put you inside, or I will come back from
the grave to beat the living shit out of you.' When I think of him, I remember
how he was before they put him inside, and whenever I see a bee, I know what
the old man would be thinking: Where's this little guy going? To an apple
blossom? A pear tree? Or is he just buzzing around in the sun? "But
not just waiting to be stepped on," Arkady said. Bobby
blinked. "Touchй." "Time
to go, Bobby." "In
more ways than one?" A wan smile, but awake. "The
dormitory. It's a short walk and it's dark." "We're
not taking the car?" "No.
I don't think your car can get through a checkpoint now." "Why
are you doing this? What's in this for you?" "A
little help." "A
quid pro quo. Something for you, too." "That's
right. There's something I want you to see." Bobby
nodded. He gently blew the bee off his fingers, got to his feet and shook the
bees from his jacket, removed his hat and, with soft puffs, blew the bees off
the brim.
Arkady led Bobby
and Yakov to the room next to his, heard the vague tumult of a cheering stadium
and knocked. When
no one answered Arkady used the phone card Victor had given him and popped the
latch. Professor Campbell sat in a chair, his eyes shut and his head tucked
into his chest, as stiff as a mummy, an empty bottle at his feet. Empties on
the desk reflected the dim light of the television, where a soccer match surged
back and forth, and the home crowd swayed and sang its fight song. Arkady
listened to "Dead
or drunk?" Bobby asked. "He
looks fine," Yakov said. Bobby
settled into a chair next to "Got
any baseball?" Bobby asked. "I
have this." Arkady fed Vanko's tape into the player and pushed Play.
"This
was taped last year by Vanko," Arkady said. A
disorganized march – carrying a murmur in Hebrew and English – filled the road
and spilled over onto the sidewalk, trying not to get too far ahead of
patriarchs with beards that spread like unraveling silk. They had come from Arkady
asked himself whether any rabbi, dead or alive, could meet the expectations of
the people waiting their turn to enter. Many carried letters, and he knew what
they asked: health for the ill, ease for the dying, safety from the suicide
bomber. Arkady set the tape on slow motion to catch Bobby, about to take his
turn, dropping out of line. For everyone else, there was a curious relaxation,
as if they were all playing on grandfather's lap. Men sang and danced, hands on
the shoulders of the man in front, and snaked back and forth across the street.
Bobby stayed apart and moved only to shun the camera. When people unwrapped
sandwiches and ate, Bobby disappeared. Vanko cut to more dancing, continuous
visits to the tomb, then finally a prayer said by a long line of men facing the
river. As
Yakov sang along, his croak of a voice became sonorous: "Y'hay sh'may
raho m'vorah, l'olam ulolmay olmayo." He translated: "Blessed
and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be
the name of the Holy One, blessed be he." He added, "Kaddish, the
prayer for the dead." The
camera glimpsed Bobby with his lips sealed. Then the buses reloaded and formed
their convoy and started the drive back to "Why
did you come last year, Bobby?" Arkady asked. "You didn't visit the
grave or sing or dance or pray. You told me that you came to look into
processing reactor fuel, and you certainly didn't do that. You arrived on the
bus, and you left on the bus, but you didn't do anything, so why were you
here?" Bobby
looked up, his eyes hot and wet. "Pasha asked me." "To
visit the tomb?" Arkady said. "No.
All he wanted was that I prayed, that I said the Kaddish. I told him I didn't
do that stuff. Pasha said, 'Go, you'll do it.' He insisted so much I couldn't
say no. But I got here and it didn't matter. I couldn't." "Why
not?" "I
didn't pray for my father. He died in prison, but he wanted a Kaddish, from me
especially, only I was already on the run over some stock swap. Unimportant.
The thing is, I blew it. And what the hell kind of deal did God give my father,
anyway? Half his life in jail, a disease that took half his body, my mother for
a wife and me for a son. So I signed off on all this stuff. I just don't do
it." "What
did you tell Pasha when you got back to "I
lied. The only favor he ever asked of me, and I let him down. And he knew
it." "Why
did he choose you?" "Who
else would he? I was his guy. Besides, I told him once I was a yeshiva kid. Me,
Bobby Hoffman. Can you believe it?" Before
Bobby went completely down the emotional drain, Arkady wanted to get the facts
straight. "The men facing the river were saying Kaddish for Jews killed in
the pogrom eighty years ago?" A listless nod. "And that's what Pasha
Ivanov sent you from "It
had to be "To
say a prayer for victims of the pogrom here." That, at least, seemed
understood. Bobby
had to laugh. "You don't get it. Pasha wanted a Kaddish for "Why?" "He
wouldn't say. I asked. And after I went back to Well,
there had been a few signs of trouble brewing, Arkady thought. Isolation,
paranoia, nosebleeds. Bobby
said, "Somehow I can't help but believe that if I had only prayed when
Pasha asked, he and Timofeyev would be alive today." "Was
someone watching you?" Arkady asked. "Who
would watch?" "The
camera watched." "Do
you think it would have made any difference?" Bobby asked. "I
don't know."
Out of mercy,
Arkady switched tapes and stepped into the hall with Yakov. "Clever,"
Yakov said. The eye under the crushed brow shone in the light of the moon. "Not
really. I think Bobby has been trying to tell us this since he arrived. That's
probably why he came." "Now
that he has, do you have a way to take us out?" "I
have an individual in mind." "Trustworthy?" Arkady
weighed Bela's character. "Reliable but greedy. How much money do you
have?" "Whatever
he wants, if we get to "Not
much." "It's
what we have left." Not
enough, Arkady thought. "That will have to do, then. Keep Bobby as quiet
as possible and take off his shoes. And keep the television on; as long as the
housekeeper thinks the Englishman's here, she won't go in." "You
know Ozhogin?" "A
little. He'll watch your car and the house first. Then he'll strike into the
field. He's more a spy than military; he likes to operate alone. He might bring
two or three men. All he'll want from Marchenko is to keep the checkpoints closed.
When you leave, I'll follow you out." "No,
I operate alone, too." "You
don't know Colonel Ozhogin." "I've
known a hundred Ozhogins." Yakov took a deep breath. Outside, the taller
trees were starting to separate from the night. The first birdsong rang out.
"Such a day. Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption. He said
redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that's how
important redemption is. No one can take it away."
Arkady went into
his own room and packed, if for no other reason than to give the impression
that he was leaving and following orders. His life – case notes and clothing –
fit into a small suitcase and duffel bag with room to spare. There were flights
all day to He
noticed, at the top of his file, the employment application for NoviRus. He was
surprised to find he still had it. He scanned the opportunities. Banking?
Brokerage? Security or combat skills? It did nothing for his confidence to
realize he had not one marketable talent. Certainly not communication skills.
He wished he could start the night over again, beginning with Zurin's call, and
clarify to Eva what he was doing. Not going, only helping a criminal flee the
Zone. Was that better?
• • •
Bela was already
up, having a daybreak coffee in front of CNN, when Arkady arrived. "I
always like to hear the weather in "Not
Russian girls in boots?" "A
different picture altogether. Not necessarily a bad one. I judge no one. In
fact, I always liked those Soviet statues of women with powerful biceps and
tiny tits." "You've
been here too long, Bela." "I
take time off. I see the doctor. I walk around the whole yard every day. That's
a 10K walk." "Let's
walk," Arkady said. The
scale of the yard was best appreciated on foot. As it broke the horizon the sun
turned shadowy canyons into the neat ranks of a necropolis. The endless rows of
poisoned vehicles evoked the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who had dug,
bulldozed and loaded radioactive debris. The trucks were here. Where were the
men? Arkady wondered. No one had kept track. "Two
passengers," Arkady said. "You take them out like your usual
customers." "But
they're not regular customers. Things out of the ordinary make me
nervous." "Selling
radioactive auto parts is ordinary?" "Mildly
radioactive." "Get
out while you're ahead." "I
could. I should be reaping the benefits of my labor, not living in a graveyard.
The situation with Captain Marchenko has become intolerable, the bastard's
always trying to get me dismissed." "Does
he ever stop your van?" "He
wouldn't dare. I have more friends upstairs than he does, because I'm generous
and spread the money around. When you think about it, I have a good thing going
here. I'm the only one in the Zone with a good thing going. I'm sitting
pretty." "You're
sitting in the middle of a radioactive dump." Bela
shrugged. "Why should I jeopardize that for two men I don't know?" "For
five hundred dollars that you don't have to spread around." "Five
hundred? If you called a taxi from "What
are you moving today?" "An
engine block. I got a van specially outfitted, with jump seats for the
customers." "Then
they'll just be two customers riding along, as usual." "But
I sense desperation. Desperation means risk, and risk means money. A thousand
each." "Five
hundred for both. You're going anyway. The real question is why you would come
back." Bela
spread his arms. His chains and medals jingled. "Look around. I've got
thousands of auto parts to sell." "Because
you're losing your hair. Look in a mirror." Bela
touched his hairline. "What a joker. You had me for a second." Arkady
shrugged. "And the virility is normal?" "Yes!" "Five
hundred for transportation for two to "Immediately?
We're pulling the engine now, but it's not ready." Bela glanced in the
wing mirror of a car. "Any
dryness of the mouth?" "It's
the dust, the wind always kicking it up." "You'd
know better than I. It's just that everyone rotates time here except you. I
don't want to see you holding on to a sack of money with one hand and an IV
tube with the other." "Don't
lecture me. I was here for years before you showed up, my friend." Bela
slapped dust off his sleeves. "My
point exactly." "Change
of subject!" They
turned the corner onto an avenue of heavy trucks. Halfway down the row was a
shower of sparks. "Fifteen
hundred." Bela touched his hair again. "I
hate haggling," Arkady said. "Why don't we do this? Clean your
hairbrush and brush your hair. We'll start at five thousand. No, we'll start at
ten thousand, and for every new hair in the brush, we deduct a thousand." "I
wouldn't have any money left." "And
we haven't mentioned yet that you're illegally selling state goods." "They're
radioactive." "Bela,
that's not a mitigating factor." "What
do you care? They're Ukrainian goods. You're Russian." "I'll
shut you down." "I
trusted you." "Nothing
personal." "Five
hundred." "Done." To
prevent the removal of the hotter engines, the hoods of some trucks had been
welded shut. Bela's welder, in a mask and greasy coveralls, was cutting one
open with an acetylene torch. A lifting sling and a crane stood by to pull the
engine out; then the welder would seal the hood again. It was a perfect system.
Arkady checked his dosimeter. The count was twice normal. Well, what was normal?
Feeling high
from a successful negotiation and the euphoria of a sleepless night, Arkady
detoured. Instead of returning directly to the dormitory, he went to Eva's
cabin to explain to her that while he had to report to As
Arkady rode the motorcycle up to the cabin, he saw Alex's Arkady
moved to the bedroom window, and there, through the lilacs, he had a view of
Alex and Eva. They stood together. Her bathrobe was open, and he was pressing
her against a bureau, his pants down, his buttocks flexing in and out. She clung
limp as a rag doll, arms around his neck, as he pounded his flesh into hers,
covered her mouth with his. Was this the magical dance floor from the night
before? Arkady wondered. A change of partners, obviously. As Alex pulled Eva's
head back by her hair to kiss her she saw Arkady at the window. She freed a
hand to motion him to leave. The bureau, jostled, spilled brushes, pictures,
perfume bottles. Alex saw Arkady in the bureau mirror and more vigorously
lifted her with his strokes. As she rocked, Eva listlessly watched Arkady. He
waited for some signal from her, but she closed her eyes and laid her head on
Alex's shoulder. Arkady
backtracked to the bike, staggering as if he'd lost his sense of balance. It
was a little early in the day to cope with this. Apparently, Eva hadn't
expected him back. All the same, it was, he felt, a little sudden. And it
seemed to spell farewell. He felt a rage take over, although he wasn't sure at
whom. This was, he understood, why domestic quarrels ended so badly. Alex
came out of the cabin's screen door, tucking his shirt in, buckling his belt,
the man of the house encountering an unexpected visitor. "Alas, poor
Renko, I knew him well. Sorry you caught us like that. I know it's
painful." "I
didn't know you would be here." "I
thought you were gone. Anyway, why not? She's still my wife." "Did
you rape her?" "No." "Was
there resistance?" "No.
Since you ask." Alex looked back at the cabin as Eva appeared through the
haze of the screen door. "It was very good. Felt like home." Arkady
walked to the cabin door. As he reached the front step Eva bolted the screen
door and backed up to the middle of the little parlor clutching her robe tight.
"She'll get over it," Alex said. "Eva is tougher than she
looks." Arkady
rattled the door. He considered ripping it out, but she shook her head and said
in a hoarse voice, "This is none of your business." "You're
upsetting her," Alex said. "Are
you bruised?" Arkady asked. Eva
said, "No." "I
need to talk to you." "Go
away, please!" Eva said. "I
need to –" This
was exactly the sort of scene that police the world over hated. Two men
starting to wrestle on the ground, a motorcycle kicked over, a woman sobbing
inside the house. The gun in Alex's hand was the next escalation. He pushed it
against Arkady's temple and said, "We had an understanding, you and I. You
came here for an investigation. Fine, investigate. Any questions you want. But
leave Eva alone. I take care of Eva. She needs someone reliable who will be
here tomorrow and the day after. Go back to "I
was lonely," Eva said. She came to the screen. "I phoned Alex and
asked him over. It was my idea." "All
of it?" But
she retreated from sight. "Is
that good enough for you?" asked Alex. "So, you're finished here, right?
We can be friends again. We'll run into each other on the street in Alex
was first to his feet. He tucked the gun, a 9mm, into the back of his belt.
Arkady rose more slowly. "One
question." "The
investigator is back on the case. Excellent." "Who
did they call?" "Who
called who?" "At
the samogon party, you did a hilarious impersonation of the control-room technicians,
how they blew up the reactor and had to report to "You're
serious? What does it matter?" "Who?" "It
was a chain. The minister of energy, the director of power-plant construction,
the minister of health, Gorbachev, the Politburo." "And
who did they call? Someone respected, with firsthand experience in
nuclear disasters. I think they called Felix Gerasimov. They called your
father." "That's
a guess." "It
can be checked." Alex
seemed to consider a wide range of responses. With self-control, he picked up
Arkady's motorcycle and dusted off the saddle. "A good trip home, Renko.
Be careful." A
thought struck Arkady. "You said you had an understanding with me. Do you
have an understanding with Eva?" Alex
smiled, caught out. "I said I wouldn't hurt you." Chapter SixteenBela
tucked Bobby and Yakov into jump seats behind a washed and brushed Kamaz V8 in
a wooden cradle and security straps. "Not
hidden but not seen," Bela said. "It's going to go down like cream.
I've done this a hundred times. As soon as we get going, I'll turn on the air
conditioner. I guarantee a good time." Yakov
kept one hand on the gun inside his jacket and smiled like a grandpa. Bobby
held onto his laptop. Arkady
glanced at Bela's CDs. "Your Tom Jones collection?" "It's
a long drive." Bobby
rallied enough to say, "Renko, you remind me of a dog I once had. With one
eye, three legs, no tail. Answered to the name Lucky. That's you. You never
know when to stop." "Probably
not." Arkady wasn't sure it was a compliment. "Ozhogin
is really coming?" "I
think so." Yakov
nodded. Wonderful, Arkady thought, the paranoids agree. Bobby
said, "One thing, Renko. Tell me you're staying because you know who
killed Pasha. Tell me you're close." Arkady
let his fingers lie: he held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart and
slid the van door shut.
"Where are
you?" Zurin demanded. "I expected you here in this office an hour
ago." "I'm
sorry. That flight was overbooked," Arkady said. "To
"Yes." "Where
are you right now? I hear shouts." "On
the plane." Arkady was in "What
flight number?" the prosecutor asked. "When are you landing in "Can
Colonel Ozhogin meet me?" "No." "How
do you know? You haven't asked him." "I'm
sure he's busy. When are you landing?" "They're
telling us to turn off our mobile phones." "How
could you –" Arkady
ended the call. That was the problem with long leashes, he thought. You
couldn't tell whether the dog was at the other end or not. He
hoped he had done one thing right and gotten Bobby and Yakov safely out of He
cleared Campbell's desk enough to write a list of what he knew about Timofeyev:
the pivotal relationship with Pasha Ivanov, their paired careers, their similar
poor health and poisoning, the letter that Timofeyev had mentioned at Pasha's
charity party, the discovery of Timofeyev's body in the Zone by what Militia
Officer Karel Katamay had reported as a local squatter. Everything parallel to
Ivanov except his death; that was different. The only person as ill as they
were, in the same extraordinary fashion, was Karel Katamay. Katamay was the
key, and he was a wraith in the woods. Or hidden in Pripyat near the theater,
at least during the day, while the Woropay brothers were on duty. Arkady's
task was to avoid Ozhogin. The colonel would consider him the most likely lead
to Bobby, and Arkady suspected that he enjoyed gathering information. Arkady
had taken the precaution of hiding his motorbike in back of a woodpile behind
the dormitory. Of course, Ozhogin's arrival might be a figment of Arkady's
imagination, and the urgency in Zurin's commands merely revealed excitement at
having Arkady near. In
the meantime, Arkady hydrated the wilted Victor
called. "You were right about the travel office. Anton and Galina picked
up tickets for "For
when?" Arkady felt apologetic: he had completely forgotten about Anton. He
paced, negotiating empty bottles on the floor. On the television "Two
days. I caught the travel agent on the way down and bought her a coffee." "You
chatted up the agent?" The newly attired Victor must be much less
frightening than the old one, Arkady thought. "I
chatted up an agent. Did you know that it's often cheaper for two people to
travel than one?" "You're
getting very sophisticated." "But
there's more to it than that. We were having our coffees, the travel agent and
I, when Anton and Galina came out of the building. See, after the agent. So,
they must have gone into the dentist's office. That just struck me as odd.
Where was the dentist?" "Dr.
Levinson?" No inspiration in "That's
right. There was a phone number on her office sign. I called it and a voice
said she was going on a month's vacation starting tomorrow. It was a sweet
voice, but not a well-educated voice, and my bet is it was our lovely Galina. I
worry about the dentist." "Why?" "You
know where Anton went from there? A bank. I ask you, since when does Anton
Obodovsky use a legitimate bank? He launders money or he buys diamonds. He does
not stand in line like a normal person at an ordinary bank. Something is going
on." "What?" "I
don't know. Whatever it is, I have a feeling that when he and Galina take off
to "Where
is Anton now?" It was the end of the soccer match. Arkady could tell
because the British fans were ripping out grandstand railings and hurling them
at police. "The
last I saw, he and Galina were tearing along the river in a new Porsche
convertible. Real lovebirds." Klaxon
wailing, a bus pulled onto the field and disgorged Dutch police with helmets
and shields. Victor
said, "By the way, you may be right about Alex Gerasimov. He either fell
or jumped off a four-story building a week after his father blew his head off.
But the son lived. Is he crazy or strong?" "Good
question." "Where's
Bobby?" Victor asked. "His phone's off. What's going on up there? Do
I hear soccer?" Only
Victor would rightly interpret a riot as a soccer match, Arkady thought. "Kind
of. Get a home number for the dentist, just to hear her voice. And if Zurin
calls..." "Yes?" "You
haven't talked to me in weeks." "I
wish." Arkady
closed the mobile phone and rewound the video to the point where police buses
rolled into view. The phone rang. The caller ID showed a local number. "Arkady?"
It was Eva. There
was a pause while British fans threw seat cushions, bottles, coins. "Eva,
I think I misunderstood your relationship with Alex." "Arkady..." Thugs,
stripped to Union Jack tattoos, dragged down local fans and stomped them with
boots. Eva
said, "Alex said you went to "So?" Once
down, a victim could be kicked in any number of vital spots. Some hooligans, British
or Russian, were virtuosos with steel-toed boots. Meanwhile, the police ducked
from the rain of hard objects. "I
thought you'd left." "You
were wrong." A
crowd surged onto the field, broke through the police line and rocked a bus. "I
hear shouts. Where are you, Arkady?" "I
can't tell you." "You
don't trust me?" He
let the question stand. The bus driver had locked the doors but trapped himself
inside. The bus windows burst into crystal. Eva
asked, "What can I do?" Rioters
put their shoulders to the bus and rocked it from side to side. The lights were
on. Running back and forth, the driver looked like a moth in a swinging lamp. "If
you want to help," Arkady said, "you can tell me what Alex does in "Is
that what you want to talk about?" "Can
you help or not? What does a radioecologist do in Police
formed a wedge in an effort to rescue the bus. However, a number of hooligans
had appropriated helmets and batons and put up a stiff resistance. One
policeman, taken hostage, spun comically between blows. "Can
you help or not?" Arkady repeated. Oopah!
The bus went over with a cheer. Figures swarmed it, kicking in the windshield
and dragging the driver out. "Please
don't," she said. "Can
you help or not?" Too
late, a water cannon arrived to clear the field. As the jet drove the crowd
back, the stampede in the exits gained the strength of desperation. A second
wave of bodies rushed the camera and sucked it under. "No?
Too bad." Arkady ended the call. The
next images were taped later, of police picking over clothes on the field and
the empty stands, photographing the scene, maneuvering a tractor crane to lift
the toppled bus back on its wheels. An ambulance stood by in case anyone was
underneath. There was a special, mutual pain to the conversation, he thought.
Hurting her, of course. Also – by ending the call and demonstrating who was in
control – denying himself the chance to listen. This way he could enjoy the
deep satisfaction of twisting the knife in two people at the same time. It was
the sort of pain a man could suck on forever. The bus lurched onto its wheels.
No bodies. The final shot was of the score: 0 – 0. As if nothing had happened
at all. Great
minds compartmentalized. Arkady put on Vanko's tape and fast-forwarded, then
rewound. The question, he decided, was why the camera had found Bobby, among
all the Hasidim. On repeated viewings, it was a little more obvious, and not as
a matter of editing. If Vanko had edited, he would have excised the clumsy shot
of his run to the tomb. And the virtual close-up of Bobby at the prayer was not
hidden well enough. Toward the end of the tape, at the leave-taking of the
buses, Arkady could almost feel the camera search for Bobby. He went frame by
frame until he saw a reflection in the bus's folded glass door of Vanko handing
out business cards. If Vanko hadn't been taping, who had? When had the handover
taken place? Before the Kaddish? Or even earlier, before the visit to the tomb? Arkady
heard a car brake hard in the dormitory parking lot and bodies rush into the
downstairs hall. A rapid conversation included the bewildered tones of the
housekeeper. A moment later, heavy feet ran up the stairs and stopped next
door, at the room Arkady had occupied. A key jiggled and they were in. It
sounded like they tossed the mattress and drawers, then collected again in the
hall. Arkady
slid a chain bolt into the doorplate a moment before someone rapped on the
other side. "Renko?
Renko, if you're in there, open up." It was Ozhogin, which gave Arkady the
perverse satisfaction of knowing he had been right. At the same time, the door
seemed flimsy. Arkady moved back. He heard the housekeeper waddle up the hall
and mention the Scotsman, maybe adding a gesture of drinking. She scratched the
door and called "Renko,"
Ozhogin said, "you should have filled out the form. We would have found
some kind of job for you. Now it's come to this." The
housekeeper tried the wrong key and apologized. A key was a formality; Arkady
knew how simple it was to pop the lock. Anyway, she had the key; it was only a
matter of finding her glasses. "Here
we are," she said. Arkady
became aware of someone behind him. Arkady
didn't know how well Ozhogin spoke English but he seemed to get the message.
There was a long moment while the colonel decided whether to break in on the
drunken Scot. The moment passed. Arkady heard Ozhogin and his men retreat down
the hall, confer, then move with dispatch down the stairs and out to their car.
Doors slammed and they drove away.
• • •
Hours slipped
around the window shade. Arkady knew he should sleep; he also knew that as soon
as he closed his eyes he would be back on the ground outside Eva's cabin. Arkady
called the children's shelter and asked for Zhenya. Olga Andreevna came on the
line. "Are you finally here in "No." "You're
impossible. But at least you called him this time, and that's an
improvement. His group is in music class now, although Zhenya doesn't actually
sing. Wait." Arkady
sat with the phone for ten minutes. The
director came back on and said, "Here he is." Zhenya, naturally, said
nothing. "Do
you like music?" Arkady asked. "Any special group? Have you been
playing chess? Eating well?" Arkady remembered films of pioneers of
flight, the unsuccessful ones with man-made wings who ran and flapped, ran and
flapped, and never got off the ground. That was like trying to talk to Zhenya. "My
case here is winding up soon. I'll be back, and if you like, we can go to a
soccer game. Or There
was a perceptible quickening of the breath on the other end. "The
wolf lives in a red forest with his wife, a human who wants to escape. He
doesn't know whether he wants to eat her or keep her, but he does know he'll
eat anyone who tries to help her. In fact, the forest is littered with the
bones of those who have tried and failed. I wanted your advice on whether I
should try. What do you think? Take your time. Consider every possibility, like
a chess game. When you know, call me. In the meantime, be good." He
hung up. Liverpool
wore red uniforms, Vanko
had said Alex made lots of money. In the belly of the beast, Alex had said.
Exactly what beast? Arkady wondered. Arkady
opened his file. On the NoviRus employment application were an Internet site,
e-mail address, phone and fax numbers. Arkady
called the phone number, and a woman's musical voice said, "Welcome to
NoviRus. How may I direct your call?" "Interpreting
and translation." "Legal,
international or security?" "Security."
He never would have guessed. "Hold,
please." Arkady
held until a brusque male voice answered, "Security." "I'm
calling Alex Gerasimov." A
pause to punch in the name. "You want the accident section." "That's
right." "Hold." A
Liverpool forward scored on a breakaway, the gift of a bad pass that left the "Accident."
A second male voice was not nearly so military. "Alex
Gerasimov?" "No.
He's not on duty for another two weeks." "Doing
interpreting and translation?" "That's
right." "For
the accident section?" "Yes." "He
was going to explain everything to me." "Sorry,
Alex is not here. I'm Yegor." A
good sign; a man who offered his name invited conversation. "I
apologize for bothering you, Yegor, but Alex was going to tell me about the
job." Arkady
heard a rustle like a newspaper being put down. "You're
interested?" "Very." "You
talked to the people in Employment?" "Yes,
but you know how it is with them, they never give you an honest picture. Alex
was going to." "I
can do that." Yegor
explained that NoviRus offered physical security to Russian and foreign clients
in the usual form of bodyguards and cars. For foreign clients, they provided
standby interpreters who could go to the scene of a traffic accident or an
incident involving police or any emergency where their presence could alleviate
a dangerous or costly misunderstanding, often with prostitutes, for which there
was a discretionary fund. Interpreters were expected to be university-educated,
well dressed and fluent in two foreign languages. They worked a
twenty-four-hour shift every three days and were paid a handsome ten dollars an
hour, perfect for part-time work. What the people in Employment didn't tell
applicants was that the twenty-four-hour shift was spent either racing around
Moscow, from one scene of confusion to the next, or going nowhere at all, which
meant a day and a night in a basement room not much larger than a closet, with
three cots, a coatrack and a minibar. The interpreters had been promised real
quarters, but they were still stuck like an afterthought behind Surveillance,
which, by virtue of all the screens it monitored, had a quarter of the floor. "Alex
made it sound better than that," Arkady said. "Alex
has the run of the place. He's been here awhile. He knows everyone, and he's in
and out of everywhere." "Ten
dollars an hour?" Arkady figured this was about five times what a senior investigator
made. "That covers a lot of sins. Were you on duty the day Pasha Ivanov
died?" "No." "But
Alex was, wasn't he?" "Yeah.
Who did you say you were?" Arkady
hung up. The game was getting interesting. With a minute to go, "I
can't see it. I won't watch it one more time. It's agony aforesaid, the turning
of the thumbscrews, the inevitable lop. They can freeze for fookin' eternity
for all I care. Who cares? Do y'know what happens? Do y'know?" Exhausted, No,
Arkady thought, he didn't know. By now Bobby Hoffman could be halfway to Arkady's
mobile phone rang. Eva. He was about to answer when an image of her and Alex
came flooding back. The sight of Eva pressed against the bureau. The sound of
perfume bottles rolling to the floor. Arkady remembered her eyes, the look of a
drowning woman who embraces the whirlpool. He still couldn't answer. Another
call. From Bela. Arkady took this one because he could use good news, but Bela
said, "We're at the power station, at the sarcophagus. We were headed to
the checkpoint when the fat one changed his mind." "Why
did you go to the power station? Why did you agree?" Bela's
voice got small. "He offered so much money."
Arkady covered
the first few kilometers on dirt roads through black villages to see whether
anyone was following him before taking the motorcycle onto the highway. Ozhogin
would focus on the route south to A
Uralmoto motorcycle was not a quiet machine, and Arkady half expected to see a
flashlight's beam or hear the challenge of a guard. Buses he saw, but no cars
or vans. He crossed the parking lot to a row of what might have been
laboratories and saw enough radiation posters and advisory signs to persuade
him to turn on his headlight again. He U-turned at a dead end of dump bins
overflowing with bags marked toxic waste, ignored a sign that said authorized
personnel ONLY, as any Russian would anywhere, and followed a wire fence
crowned with razor wire. More fences and wire led him right and left up to a
sign that said DO NOT ENTER – REPORT TO GUARD BEFORE
PROCEEDING – ARE YOU WEARING YOUR RADIATION PIN? Arkady coasted through and
found a service road where Bela's van was parked at a gate, not a simple
counterweighted pole but a steel gate that was rolled shut. A sign in English
said stop. Bela was in the van. Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of
the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore
a yarmulke and a tasseled shawl. Arkady couldn't make out what they were
saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm. Beyond
the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the
sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security
lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the
sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. Connected to the
sarcophagus was the more presentable Reactor Two, which was invisible. The
sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive. Bela
crept out of the van. "This is as close as we could get." Arkady
didn't need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise. "It's
close enough. Why are you here?" "The
fat one insisted." "The
old guy didn't try to talk him out of it?" "Yakov?
He seemed to expect it. They just waited until dark so it was safer. They seem
to have a lot of names. You didn't tell me they were on the run." "Does
it matter?" "It
drives up the price." Arkady
looked around. "Where are the guards?" Bela
pointed to a pair of legs sticking out from the shadow of the gate. "Just
a watchman. I gave him some vodka." "You're
always prepared." "I
am." It
was the night shift, Arkady thought. There were no office or construction
workers. A skeleton crew could maintain the three reactors that were shut down,
and no one entered the sarcophagus. On the power grid, the The
chanting wasn't loud enough to carry far. Bobby's voice was whispery. Yakov's
was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead.
Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again. "How
long have they been doing this?" "Half
an hour, at least. When I called you." "The
rest of the time, what did you do all day?" "Drove
into the woods. I found them a hill with nice mobile-phone reception. The fat
one called and arranged things." "What
things?" "Belarus
is just a few kilometers north. Your friends have got visas and a car waiting.
They've got every move figured out." "Like
a game of chess." "Exactly
like chess." Except
if they were doing it for Pasha, it was too late, Arkady thought. Arkady was
aware of having been manipulated by Bobby and Yakov, but he didn't feel angry.
They were escape artists, what else would they do? "But
they let you call me?" "Yakov
suggested it." So
they should have been on the run to Minsk, gateway to the world, instead of
standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and
forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over, "Ose
sholom himromov hu yaase sholom." When they finished the prayer, they
simply began again. Arkady told himself he should have known this was coming.
Would Bobby have come all this way to repeat his failure? Wasn't this the
logical, inevitable outcome, whether Bobby knew it consciously or not? Or was
Yakov, like a black angel, forcibly keeping Bobby out of hell? Arkady
moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too,
as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to
face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say
not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that
Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard.
Maybe Bobby and Yakov had planned well and had some luck, but every minute
spent at the power plant was a chance taken, and the list looked long. Arkady
remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon. The thought of
his cold-blooded rejection of her made him wince. It occurred to him that when
she needed him most he had abandoned her, and that he had made an irretrievable
mistake. Chapter SeventeenThe
way to see Pripyat, like the Taj Mahal, was by moonlight. The broad avenues and
stately chestnuts. The confident plan of greenery, office towers and
residential blocks. The way the central plaza admired the Soviet wreath that
topped the city hall. Never mind the empty sockets of the windows or the grass
that grew between the pavers. Arkady
left his motorcycle in the plaza. He went to the theater where he had met Karel
Katamay, feeling his way again through the flats stacked in the lobby, shining
his flashlight on the stage, around the piano, up the tiers of benches. Karel
Katamay and the couch were gone, leaving only a few dried drops of blood in the
dust. Arkady
couldn't search a city built for fifty thousand people. However, a dying man and
his couch could not have gone far, even with the Woropay brothers bearing him
on a royal litter. His nosebleeds were small leaks. He was bleeding internally
from the lungs, intestinal tract, cerebellum. Faced with that prospect, Pasha
Ivanov had chosen the quicker alternative of a ten-story jump. Back
on the plaza, Arkady turned off the chatter of his dosimeter. He had a mental
map of the city now: the hot buildings, the alleys to be taken only on the run. Arkady
called out, "Karel! We should talk." While we can, he thought. Something
slipped through the grass and disappeared like smoke in the beam of Arkady's
flashlight. He swung the light around the front of offices. Where plate glass was
still intact, the beam winked back. He swung the light up but decided the
Woropay brothers wouldn't have tried to carry Katamay above the ground floor.
Anyway, why would Karel want to be in a dark room littered with plaster, sour
with squatter's piss, when outside in the balmy air he could touch the moon? Arkady
returned to the center of the plaza and kept going when he saw the amusement
park. It had three rides: a Ferris wheel, bumper cars and crazy chairs. In the
crazy chairs, children sat in a circle of flower petals that spun until the
children were dizzy or nauseated. Half the bumper cars were on their side; the
rest were still entangled in traffic. The Ferris wheel was big enough for forty
gondolas. Everything was edged and pitted with corrosion; the wheel looked like
it had rolled, stopped and rusted in place. Karel
Katamay lay on his couch in front of the crazy chairs. Arkady turned off his
flashlight; he didn't need it. Karel was in the same hockey shirt and propped
up with cushions, as before. His face was luminously pale, but his hair seemed
brushed and freshly beaded. On the ground in front of the couch were plastic
flowers, a plastic liter of Evian and a porcelain teacup, no doubt filched from
an apartment. Also, a tank of oxygen, a breathing tube and a harness. So the
Woropay brothers had made him as comfortable as possible. He did seem a prince
of the netherworld. However,
Karel was dead. The eyes, red as wounds, stared through Arkady. The hockey
shirt seemed voluminous, twice Karel's size. His hands lay with their palms up
on either side of the white satin pillow embroidered Je ne regrette rien.
One foot wore a Chinese slipper, the other was bare. There were worse ways to
die than peacefully outside on a summer night, Arkady thought. Arkady
found the other slipper two meters away on the other side of the crazy-chairs
fence and, honoring the professional rule of "touch nothing," left it
where it was. He returned to Katamay. Purple bruises consistent with tissue
breakdown and lack of clotting spotted Karel's skin. Blood smeared his chin and
rouged his cheeks. When had he died? He was still warm, but he had mentioned
infections, and a fever could burn in a body for an hour or more. He had
probably lived on nothing but water and morphine for weeks. Actually, Arkady
thought he might have lived a minute ago. Why
would a peacefully expiring man kick off a slipper? Katamay's mouth relaxed a
little and let the tongue peek out. The satin pillow between his hands was
spotless. Arkady broke his rule and turned the pillow over. The opposite side
was soaked with blood only starting to brown. Blood from two sources, it
seemed, mouth and nose, and what a brief struggle that must have been. Arkady
became aware of Dymtrus Woropay standing on the other side of the crazy chairs.
Woropay held a cardboard box that looked heavy with bottles and flowers and
trailed the sort of tinsel used to decorate at the holidays. Arkady also saw
what the scene looked like to Dymtrus: Arkady standing over Karel Katamay with
a bloody pillow. "What
the fuck are you doing?" "I
found him like this." "What
the fuck did you do?" Dymtrus
dropped the box and let the bottles explode. He swung himself directly over the
fence on the other side and bulled through the crazy seats. Arkady put the pillow
between Katamay's hands and moved away. Dymtrus
snapped the gate chain. He knelt by the couch, touched the dead man's face,
picked up the pillow. "No!
No!" He got to his feet and bellowed, "Taras!" His voice went
around the plaza. "Taras!" Arkady
ran. He
ran for his motorbike, but another figure closed fast from the side, parting
the grass with his arms, striding from paver to paver: Taras Woropay on skates.
Arkady jumped on the bike and started it. He told himself that if he reached
the highway, he would be safe. Dymtrus threw something shiny. A shopping cart.
Arkady outraced it and was back on the plaza, headed for the road, when his
rear tire popped and took Arkady to the ground. He rolled free and looked back
at Taras on one knee with a gun. A good shot. Arkady
was on foot. When he was a boy and his father took him hunting, the general
would shout, "Run, rabbit!," because shooting a standing rabbit was
so little fun. "Wave," he'd tell Arkady. "Damn it, wave."
Arkady would wave, the rabbit would bolt and the old man would drill it. Dymtrus
followed Arkady into the school, by the hanging chalkboard. Arkady tripped in
the dark over gas masks on the lobby floor. They flopped out of the crate like
rubber fish. He moved by memory as much as sight, heading for the kitchen in
the back of the building. White tiles lined the kitchen walls. A dough bowl the
size of a wheelbarrow stood on its legs. All the oven doors were open or broken
off. The back door, however, had been boarded up in the last week. We should have
rehearsed, the comic in him said. He looked out a window at chairs set on the
ground for staff to use while smoking. He considered breaking the window with a
loose oven door, until he saw Dymtrus waiting behind a birch. Arkady returned
to the lobby and looked out the front window. Skates off, Taras was stepping up
to the door. Arkady
went up the stairs two at a time, kicking bottles and debris aside. Taras was
inside, at the bottom of the stairwell. Arkady knocked a loose bookcase down
toward him. Copybooks fluttered down. Taras didn't have to shout to his brother
where Arkady was. Anyone could hear. Second
floor. The music room. A piano leaning like a drunk against a loose keyboard.
The tub-thumping sound of a drum accidentally kicked. All the notes a xylophone
could make when stumbled into. A one-man band. Heavier feet on the stairs.
Dymtrus. The next room was a flood of books, desks, children's benches. The
door frame next to Arkady's head split open before he heard the shot. He
javelined a bench down the hall and knew he had caught someone when he heard a
curse. The last room was a nap center of dolls asleep on white beds. Arkady
gathered a mattress around himself and dove through the glass of the window. He
landed on his back between seesaws, rolled to the trees and crawled under a
thorn bush, feeling a prick or two, also aware of blood running down the back
of his neck and into his camos, but there was no time to take inventory. In the
moonlight he saw the brothers scanning trees from the broken window. He thought
he might get away. He would have at least the time it would take them to go the
length of the hall, down the stairs and out the front while he went the
opposite direction. But they were athletes. Dymtrus stepped up on the sill and
jumped. He hit the mattress and rolled off. Taras followed suit, and they were
close enough for Arkady to hear their breathing. Close enough to smell a
mixture of vodka and cologne. They
signaled to each other and separated. Arkady couldn't see where to, although he
suspected they would go only a short distance and double back right to where he
was. If he did get to the far woods, he could head west to the wild Carpathian
Mountains or east to Moscow. The sky was the limit. The
woods were so loud. The electric shriek of crickets and cicadas. The invisible
luffing of trees in the breeze. A man could just sink into the sound. Dead, he
would. A
rock, a brick, something hit the wall of the school. Immediately, Taras, one
arm hung low, hurt, ran forward and around the side of the school. One on one,
Arkady took his chance. He emerged and moved to the quarter that Taras had
deserted. He
had been suckered. Dymtrus was waiting behind a big enough tree this time, but
Arkady tripped in brambles, and the shot that should have taken off his
shoulder was high. By the time Dymtrus had advanced to see, Arkady was on his
feet again, weaving downhill between trees. Arkady
had no plan. He wasn't headed to any particular road or checkpoint, he was only
running. Since the Zone was uninhabited, apart from the staff in Chernobyl and
the old folks in their black villages, he had a lot of running to do. He heard
Taras's shouts catching up. The brothers were behind him, one on either side.
One problem was that moonlight was not real light. Branches materialized to
slap his face. Roots insidiously spread. Radiation markers seemed to multiply. He
glimpsed a Woropay closer every time he dared look. How could they be so fast?
The ground pitched forward, and they were herding him through deeper and deeper
bracken. His feet grew heavy, clutched by mud, and he saw ahead a trail of
silver water. It
was a small swamp ringed by armless, rotting trees, reeds, the plop of frogs.
In the center, the hump of a beaver dam and, topping that, a diamond-shaped
marker. Arkady
moved back to firmer ground. He found no stones. A branch he picked up turned
to dust. Weaponless, he met the charge of Taras, threw him over his hip, and
stood to face Dymtrus. Dymtrus fought like an ice-hockey player: grab with one
hand and pound with the other. Arkady took the hand, twisted and locked it
behind Dymtrus's back, then ran him into a tree. He kicked Taras in the head
when he returned. He hit Dymtrus below the belt. But Dymtrus clutched Arkady's
knees as he dropped, and Arkady couldn't put enough force behind a punch into
Taras's head. Dymtrus climbed up Arkady. Taras hit back with the gun. Dymtrus
held Arkady's arms so Taras could swing the gun at a steadier target. The next
conscious moment, Arkady was being turned over on the ground. Shooting him was
too easy; they could have done that when they first caught up. Dymtrus
said, "I brought the pillow." He
pulled the pillow out of his tunic and sat on Arkady's chest while Taras knelt
and held on to Arkady's arms. Dymtrus breathed hard through the saliva that
draped from his mouth. The blood on the pillow was still damp. Arkady's
eyes sought the moon, a treetop, anything else. Dymtrus
said, "You'll go like Karel went. Then we'll put you in the water, and no
one will find you for a thousand fucking years." "Fifty
thousand." Alex Gerasimov came out of the trees. "More like fifty
thousand years." In
Alex's hand was a gun. He shot Dymtrus in the back, and the big man collapsed
as dead as a slaughtered steer while his brother sat back on his heels in
surprise. Taras brushed the hair from his eyes and had started to form a
question when Alex shot him. A cigarette burn through the heart. Taras looked
down at it and kept falling until he spread out on the ground. Alex
picked up the pillow. "Je ne regrette rien. Absolutely," he
said and flung the pillow into the water almost to the diamond marker.
• • •
They carried the
bodies back. Alex
said the swamp and hillside were too hot; the militia would either leave the
Woropays or drag them out by the heels. Hadn't Arkady seen the Chernobyl
militia in action? What kind of investigation did he expect? Fortunately, there
were two witnesses. "They
were trying to kill you and I saved your life. Isn't that what happened?" They
carried the Woropays over the shoulder, fireman-style. Alex led the way with
Dymtrus while Arkady, one eye swollen shut and his sense of balance badly out
of kilter for being gunwhipped, staggered under Taras. Going uphill was slow
work, slipping on needles with every step. Alex
said, "You're lucky I heard the shot. I thought it was a poacher in the
middle of the city. You know how I am about poachers." "I
know." "Then
I heard another shot behind the school and followed the shouting. The Woropays
make a lot of noise." "Yes." "You're
not hurt?" "I'm
fine." Alex
paused to look back. "We'll take these two up to the school, and then I'll
get the truck." Arkady
tripped on a root and went to one knee like a waiter with too much on his tray.
He couldn't shift shoulders because he could see out of only one eye. He pushed
himself up and asked, "Did you see Katamay?" "Yes.
You know what makes a full moon extraordinary? You feel like an animal, like an
animal sees." Despite Dymtrus's weight, with guns stuck fore and aft in
his belt, Alex slowed his pace just to accommodate Arkady. "We don't
deserve a full moon. We make everything smaller. Everything big we cut down.
First-growth trees, big cats, adult fish, wild rivers. That's what's wonderful
about the Zone. Keep us out for fifty thousand years, and this place may grow
into something." "You
saw Karel?" Arkady repeated. "He
didn't look good." Arkady
climbed a step at a time, and Alex began talking the way an adult would on a long,
cold walk with a boy who was sniveling and slow, by distracting him with
stories and things the boy would like to hear. "Pasha
Ivanov and Lev Timofeyev were my father's favorites, always in and out of our
apartment. His best researchers, best instructors and, when he was too drunk to
function, his best protection. There's always a good impulse behind the worst
disasters, don't you find? And I swear, when I began working at NoviRus, it was
purely for the extra money. I had no great plan of retribution." Retribution?
Was that what Alex had said? Arkady's head was still ringing, and it took all
his concentration to continue moving as Alex bent a tree limb out of his way. "My
friend Yegor called from Moscow. Yes, I worked part-time for NoviRus Security
as an interpreter in the accident section, which usually meant twenty-four
hours of reading in a small, windowless room. Maybe Colonel Ozhogin's office
was on the fifteenth floor, but we were in the bowels of the building." "The
belly of the beast." "Exactly.
Since you're underground, it always seems like night. Very space-age, with
tinted glass for walls. I began wandering the halls and discovered that the
technicians monitoring all those security screens were even more bored than I
was. They're kids; I was the only one over thirty. Imagine sitting in the dark
and staring at a bank of screens for hours on end. For what? Martians?
Chechens? Bank robbers with stockings pulled over their heads? One day I went
by an empty chair, and on the screen was a palace gate swinging open for a
couple of Mercedeses. The cars moved to another screen, and there was Pasha
Ivanov after so many years, Mr. NoviRus himself, getting out of a car with a
beautiful woman on his arm. It's his palace. I hadn't seen him since
Chernobyl. On the screens I could follow him up the grand staircase and into
the lobby. Here, I told myself, was a man who had everything. "I
wondered, what do you give a man who has everything? We were working with
cesium chloride at the institute. Remember how social Ivanov was? At Christmas
he threw a party for about a thousand people at his palace, collecting gifts
for some charity. Very democratic: staff, friends, millionaires, children,
wandering in every room because Ivanov liked to show off, the way New Russians
do. I brought some grains of cesium chloride and a dosimeter in a lead box
wrapped as a present, and lead-lined gloves and tongs in the back of my belt. I
found his bathroom and left one grain out for him to step on and track around,
and the present on the toilet seat with a card inviting him to Chernobyl to
atone. I waited months, and all Ivanov did was send Hoffman, his fat American
friend, to hide among the Hasidim. Can you believe it? Ivanov delegated a
prayer for the dead, and Hoffman didn't even perform." Arkady
was not performing well, either. Taras was deadweight that took any opportunity
– the brush of a limb, a faltering step – to slide off Arkady's shoulder.
Arkady stumbled, but he followed Alex's voice. Alex stopped every few steps to
make sure of it. He laid out the story like a trail of tasty crumbs along a
forest path. "Ivanov moved to a mansion in the city with a guardhouse. But
all the bodyguards in the world won't help if your dog comes back from his run
in the park with a grain or two in his hair, which he distributes around the
house. I started a campaign against Timofeyev, too, but he was a secondary
character. He was no Pasha Ivanov. Of course, after Ivanov was dead, Timofeyev
was willing to come here, but before, the two of them had to behave as if
nothing was happening, nothing to report to the militia or even NoviRus
Security, where, incidentally, I flourished. I was every technician's big
brother. I helped them study their correspondence courses for business degrees
so they could become New Russians themselves. I found the code clerk a doctor
he could take his sexual dysfunction to while I covered for him. Really, the
plan took shape by itself. See, there's the school already, at the top of the
hill." To
Arkady, the school was as distant as a cloud in the sky. He was impressed that
he had come so far. Taras, dead or not, kept trying different ways to slither
out of Arkady's arm. Alex steadied Arkady over a log, and Arkady wondered
whether he could get close enough to grab one of the guns tucked in Alex's
waistband, but Alex was on the march with Dymtrus again, setting an example,
jollying Arkady along, keeping him entertained. "Want
to hear about the fumigator van? That was fun. Saturday mornings the tech for
Ivanov's building was always hungover. I covered and saw the same images the
receptionist saw in the lobby, and as soon as the van rolled into the service
alley, I called on the security line and told him to read a list of the
previous month's guests to me. This is not computerized. The receptionist has
to physically turn away from the street, get the binder from a bottom drawer,
find the day and decipher his own handwriting, with no view of the screens. I
know all this because I have been watching him on the lobby monitor for weeks. The
fumigator has codes for touchpads at the back door, the service elevator and
Ivanov's floor, and I've promised him twelve minutes of distraction. In the
middle of this, the tech comes back to replace me. I shake my head. He waits
while I go on talking to the receptionist, because I'm waiting for the
fumigator to get out. I can see why people turn to a life of crime; the
adrenaline is incredible. I give the tech two aspirin, and he leaves for water.
At the same moment the fumigator comes into the alley, faster now because he's
no longer pulling a suitcase full of salt, loads the van and drives off. I
thank the receptionist, hang up and then watch. He puts down the binder, looks
up at the camera, checks his screens, rewinds the street and alley tapes. He sees
the van and he calls in the doorman, who disappears toward the back. I feel
like I'm in the lobby. We wait, the receptionist and I. The doorman returns,
shaking his head, and hops in the elevator. On the monitors I can see him going
from floor to floor knocking on doors, while the receptionist acts super calm,
with half an eye on the camera, until the doorman returns. No problem, nothing
to worry about, everything's under control. Almost there, Renko." Arkady
grunted to hold up his side of the conversation. Carrying a body through a
dense wood was like passing a jack through the tines of a comb.
"Karel," he said. "Karel
was the fumigator, and he did a good job. Unfortunately, he got sloppy and must
have picked up a grain or two of cesium. I tried a million times to explain
radioactivity to Karel, and I don't think I ever got through." "Why
would he do it?" "I
was his friend. The Woropays', too. I listened to them, to their crazy
ambitions. They were just boys from the Zone, they were never going to be New
Russians. We were each in our different ways getting even." "For
what?" "Everything." Arkady
was too exhausted to plumb that. "Not everything. Tell me one thing." "Eva." "What
about her?" "You
know." With his finger Alex drew a scar across his neck. The
thorn bush behind the school reached for Taras, and Alex held back branches so
Arkady could climb the last steps to the seesaw and chairs. When Arkady caught
a ghostly reflection of himself in a window, he looked away before he turned
completely into Yakov. "Don't
drop him," Alex said. "Why
not? You were going to get your truck." "No.
We'll carry them back to Karel." "Back
to Karel?" To the other end of the plaza? Arkady thought. "We're
practically there," Alex said. "The climb is over. Easy from here
on." That
was it, then, Arkady thought. That's why he was alive instead of dead by the
swamp, so Alex could make one trip instead of three. Ever the earnest
assistant, Arkady had helped by bringing two of the bodies, Taras and himself.
This way there were no tire treads on the ground or blood in the truck. A gun
appeared in Alex's hand. Usually the distance from the school to the fun fair
was a few minutes' walk. Even at his pace, Arkady wondered, how long could he
draw it out? "You
first." Alex prodded Arkady to get him moving again, this time in front. As
Arkady stumbled forward he remembered a quote by someone about a walk to the
gallows focusing the mind. That wasn't true. He thought of favorite music,
Irina's laugh, his mother staying in bed to read Anna Karenina one
more time, pansies on a grave. He thought of how Eva had called and called
again, when all he'd had to do was answer. "Why?"
Arkady asked. "What did Pasha Ivanov and Timofeyev do to justify the
deaths of five people, so far? What could Pasha and Timofeyev have done that
made you so insane?" "Finally,
an interesting question. The night of the accident at Chernobyl, what did Pasha
and Timofeyev do? Well, you wouldn't think they could do anything; they were
just two junior professors at an institute in Moscow. But they would sit up all
night and drink with the old man. That's what they were doing when the call
came from the Party Central Committee. The Party wanted him to go to Chernobyl
to assess the situation, because he was the famous Academician Felix Gerasimov,
who had more experience in nuclear disasters than anyone else, the world's
number one expert. Since he was too drunk to talk, he gave the phone to
Pasha." "Where
were you?" "I
was at Moscow University, sleeping soundly in my room." Recollection did
slow Alex down. "How
do you know all this?" "My
father didn't write a suicide note when he died, but he sent me a letter. He
said the Central Committee had wanted his advice on whether to evacuate people.
Pasha acted as if he was just relaying answers from my father." Ahead,
Arkady saw Karel on the couch in front of the crazy chairs ride. His sister,
Oksana, bent over him; she wore the same jogging suit. Arkady recognized her by
the blue shine of her shaved head. Walking one step behind, Alex had yet to
notice her. "Pasha
asked if the reactor core had been exposed. The Committee said no, because
that's what the control room told them. Pasha asked if the reactor was shut
down. Yes, according to Chernobyl. Well, he said, it sounded like more smoke
than fire. Don't sound any alarms, just distribute iodine tablets to children
and advise the locals that they might want to stay inside for a day while the
fire is extinguished and investigated. What about Kiev, the Committee asked?
Even more important to keep the lid on, Pasha said. Confiscate dosimeters. 'Be
merciless for the common good.' Pasha and Lev were ambitious guys. They just
told the Committee and my father what they wanted to believe. That was how
Soviet science worked, remember? So the evacuation of Pripyat was delayed a day
and the warning to Kiev delayed six days so that a million children, including
our Eva, could march on an undisturbed, radioactive May Day. Pasha and my
father can't take all the credit – there were plenty of other weasels and liars
– but they should take some." "Your
father was operating with faulty information. Was there an investigation?" "A
whitewash. After all, he was Felix Gerasimov. I woke up in the morning to go to
class and there he was in my room, sober, as drawn as a ghost, with an iodine
pill for me. He knew. Every May Day from then on was a drinking bout. Sixteen
anniversaries. Finally he wrote the letter, sealed it, took it to the post
office himself, returned home to his pistol and BANG!" Oksana's
head whipped around. Arkady wondered what he and Alex looked like as they
approached in the moonlight – perhaps a single extraordinarily ugly creature
with two heads, a trunk and a tail. Arkady motioned for her to get away. "Surprised?"
Alex asked. "Not
really. As a motive for murder, money is overrated. Shame is stronger." "That's
the best part. Pasha and Timofeyev couldn't go anywhere for protection, because
then they would have had to reveal the whole story. They were too ashamed to
save their own lives, can you imagine that?" "It
happens all the time." Oksana
slipped around the couch, and only because Arkady had seen her he heard her
lightly running off. Maybe fifty more paces to Karel, who waited on the couch,
the crazy chairs tilted behind him. Arkady resisted the temptation to run
because he doubted he could escape an inchworm in his condition. Alex
said, "I wrote them. All I ever asked of Ivanov and Timofeyev was for them
to come to the Zone and declare their share of responsibility personally,
face-to-face." "Timofeyev
came. Look what happened to him." "I
didn't say there wouldn't be consequences. Fair's fair." "As
you often told Karel." "As
I often did." At
a shuffling gait, they arrived at the fun fair. Karel stretched languidly from
one end of the sofa to the other. His eyes were closed, and the blood had been
wiped from his chin and cheek; his beaded hair was arrayed more neatly, and
each foot now bore a Chinese slipper. An older sister would do that sort of
thing. Arkady thought Alex might notice, but he was too pleased with himself. A
gondola creaked on the Ferris wheel overhead. Misery to be a Ferris wheel that
never moved. Arkady had never seen a moon so large. A shadow of the wheel fell
over the plaza. Arkady
laid Taras on the ground. Alex
simply let Dymtrus roll off his shoulder. The big militiaman hit the ground,
his head striking like a coconut cracked open. Arkady
asked, "Who shot Hulak?" "Who
knows. He had an arrangement with the Woropays on where and what to steal. I
assume they killed him." Alex rolled Dymtrus, who had a back wound, onto
his face; he placed Taras, with an entry wound through the chest, on his back;
waved the pistol to show Arkady where to stand until he achieved the geometry
he wanted: a triangle of dead men – Karel, Dymtrus and Taras – with Arkady in
the middle. "I think this will be a pretty convincing picture of the
dangers of drinking samogon while bearing arms. Don't worry; I'll supply the
guns and the samogon." "So
you didn't save me from the Woropays." "No,
I'm afraid not. You never got past here, but you put up a terrific struggle, if
that makes you feel any better." "All
that's lacking is the pillow you smothered Karel with." "Je
ne regrette rien? You know, I'd barely covered his face. He gave a few
kicks and was gone. I'd say, considering the shape he was in, what I did was a
mercy." Alex
took two steps back from Arkady, into the shadow of the wheel, and raised the
gun. Not too far, not too close. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. "Let
it ring," Alex said. "One thing at a time." The
phone rang and rang. When the message came on the caller hung up and
immediately hit Redial. It could only be Zhenya, Arkady thought. No normal
person would have such maddening persistence. The phone rang until Alex removed
it from Arkady's pocket and crushed it underfoot. That
settled, the entire city silent, every window an anxious eye, Alex stepped back
and raised the gun again. Oksana crept into Arkady's view at the end of the
crazy chairs. Arkady
said, "Would you mind stepping out of the shadow?" "You
want to see me when I kill you?" Alex asked. "If
you don't mind." Alex
moved forward into the silvery light. Arkady
waited and gave Alex no reason to turn. There was a moment's perplexity on
Alex's face as he seemed to wonder why Arkady was such an easy victim. Then
Alex twitched. He was dead standing, he was dead dropping, he was dead sprawled
on the ground, and Oksana's shot had not been much louder than the snap of a
twig. As she stepped out from the crazy chairs, she freed her arm from a sling
she'd used to steady her rifle, similar to the single-shot bolt-action rifles
that Arkady had seen at the Katamay apartment in Slavutych. "I'm
so sorry. I left my rifle with my bike. I barely got back in time," she
said. "But
you did." "This
beast killed my little brother." She kicked Alex. "He's
dead." Arkady tried to steer her away. "He
was the devil. I heard every word." She got one good spit in before Arkady
calmed her down and mopped up Alex's face. There wasn't a visible mark on him.
His eyes were clear, his mouth set in a knowing smirk, his irises and muscle
tone just starting to go slack. Arkady had to press his finger into Alex's ear
to find the bullet's borehole and a dot of blood. "Will
they arrest me?" Oksana asked. "Does
anyone else know that you supply skins for your grandfather to mount?" "No,
he'd be embarrassed. You knew?" "I
assumed the skins were from Karel until I saw his condition. Then I knew they
were from you." "Can
they trace the bullet?" "A
sophisticated lab could, but there are a lot of swamps around here. Tell me
about Hulak." Arkady could barely stand, but he had a feeling that Oksana
was a rarely seen moth, that he could talk to her now or never. "He
told my grandfather he was going to get your money and give you a taste of the
cooling pond." "You
waited in a boat?" "I
fish there sometimes." "And
shot Hulak." "He
had a gun." "You
shot Hulak." "He
was dragging my grandfather into things." "And
you protect your family?" Oksana
frowned; her baldness exaggerated every expression. No, she didn't like that
question. She made room for herself on the couch and rested Karel's head in her
lap. Arkady
asked, "Do you know how your brother got so sick?" "A
saltshaker. He told me he was adding cesium to a saltshaker when he dropped a
grain. Maybe two. He wore gloves, and nothing should have happened, but later,
he ate a sandwich and..." Her face twisted. "Do you mind if I sit
here for a while?" "Please." "Karel
and I used to sit like this a lot." She
reached over her brother's shoulder to smooth the folds of his hockey shirt,
place his hands together, primp his braids. Oksana became more and more
absorbed, and gradually Arkady understood there were not going to be any more
answers. "I
have to go," Arkady said. "Can
I stay?" "The
city is yours."
Arkady drove
Alex's truck down the river road, down to the docks and the scuttled fleet,
over the bridge and the hiss of the weir. His motorcycle was in the back of the
truck. There was no other way to get there in time. For what, he didn't know,
but he felt enormous urgency. Along the housing blocks, virtually empty, always
virtually empty, and the twin track of a car path through a field of swaying
ferns, to a garage half hidden by trees and a bank of lilacs. He
turned off the engine. The white truck seemed to fill the yard. The cabin was
silent and had about it an air of darkness and grief. Wind softly heaved the
trees, and the screen door slammed. Eva
was in her bathrobe, her eyes blurred, but she held her gun steadily with both
hands. She stumbled across the ground in bare feet, but the sights stayed fixed
on him. She said, "I told you if you came back, I'd shoot you." "It's
me." He started to open the door and get out of the truck. "Don't
get out, Alex." She kept moving forward. "It's
all right." Arkady swung the door open and stepped down so she could see
him more clearly. He was ashamed, but he wasn't going away. Besides, he was
exhausted. This was as far as he could go. She stepped closer until she could not
miss before she distinguished him apart from the truck. He knew he didn't look
good. In fact, the way he looked would have scared most people off. She began
to shake. She shook like a woman in icy water until he carried her inside. Chapter EighteenZurin
was put out because Arkady wouldn't sit in the VIP lounge. The prosecutor had
arranged admission, but Arkady refused to spend hours waiting for the plane to
Moscow with nothing to entertain him but the sight of Zurin consuming
single-malt whiskey. Zurin considered a little comfort in a plush setting his
due, after coming all the way to Kiev to fetch his wayward investigator.
However, Arkady had walked out and settled in an Irish pub exactly where the
traffic flowed into the main hall. He
hadn't seen a child in over a month. Had seen hardly any clothes but camos. Had
gone nowhere without being aware of the diamond-shaped scarecrows of Chernobyl.
Here people bulled ahead, eyes on the linoleum as they dragged suitcases of
monstrous proportions. Businessmen as weary and creased as their suits tapped
on laptops. Couples heading south to Cyprus or Morocco wore extraordinary
colors to signal a holiday frame of mind. Men stood transfixed before the
flight board, and though morning sun poured through the glass front of the
hall, Arkady could see from the way the men stared that for them the hour was
the middle of the night. It was wonderful. After
the empty apartments of Pripyat, families seemed miraculous. A baby wailed and
beat on the bar of its stroller. Another in diapers decided, for the first
time, to walk. Twins with round heads and blank blue eyes strolled hand in
hand. An Indian or Pakistani boy was carried in a quilt like a prince by his
tiny mother. A veritable circus. "Enjoying
yourself?" Zurin inquired. "You stall until I have to come get you
myself, then you act as if you're still on vacation." "Was
that a vacation?" "It
wasn't work. I ordered you back seven days ago." "I
was under medical care." Arkady had the bruise to prove it. However,
Zurin had ostensible grounds for complaint. True, the prosecutor had set up
every obstacle to a successful investigation of Lev Timofeyev's murder, but the
fact remained that Arkady had failed to find out who had cut Timofeyev's
throat. "You
could have come back with Colonel Ozhogin." "We
talked briefly. I had more questions about security at NoviRus, but he had to
run." "Ozhogin
proved a disappointment. Although no worse than you. Here, this came to the
office yesterday." Zurin flipped something at Arkady that hit him in the
chest and dropped into his lap. "What is that?" "It's
a postcard." On the glossy side was a picture of nomads in blue robes
riding camels across desert sands. On the reverse was Arkady's name, office
address and the message "Two is cheaper than one." "A postcard
from Morocco," Arkady added. "I
can see that. What's it about? Who is it from?" "I
have no idea. It's not signed." "You
have no idea. A coded message from Hoffman?" Arkady
studied the postcard. "It's in Russian and in a Russian hand." "Never
mind." Zurin leaned forward. "Doesn't it stick in your craw that you
got absolutely nowhere in the investigation? What does that say about you as an
investigator?" "Volumes." "I
agree. Why don't you enjoy another bottle of Irish beer while I visit the duty-free
shop and see if I can dig up some decent cigars? But stay here." Arkady
nodded. He was diverted enough by watching the parade. A boy walked in slow
motion behind his GameBoy. A beautiful woman rolled by in a wheelchair, her lap
covered with roses. A group of Japanese schoolgirls gathered for a photograph
around two militia officers with a dog. The girls giggled behind their hands. The
same night Arkady had driven Alex's truck to Eva's cabin, they returned to
Pripyat with her car to leave the truck behind. The following day the four
bodies were discovered, and Captain Marchenko's small militia force was
overwhelmed. Also compromised, since three of the dead were the captain's own
men. Detectives and forensic teams were dispatched from Kiev, but their examination
of the crime scene was rushed due to the background radioactivity of the site.
One of the bodies was radioactive, and another was a Russian executed by a shot
in the head in a totally professional style. How coincidental was it, Kiev
asked, that on the night of the attack, a Russian security team under the
command of Colonel Ozhogin happened to be in the Zone? It was the sort of
question that demanded a frank dialogue country to country, and a
thorough-going, no- holds- barred investigation of not only the crimes but the
militia and the administration of the Zone; in short, an honest look at the
entire squalid situation. Or a quick flush of the problem down the drain. Arkady
had that second beer and bought a newspaper to peruse. He thought it might be
wise to catch up. Zurin seemed content in the duty-free shop, choosing among
French cognacs, silk neckties and paisley scarves. The Japanese schoolgirls
trooped by again. Coming the other direction was a girl of about eight years
old, with big eyes and straight dark hair cut shoulder-length. She had a wand
and streamer that she twirled as she skipped. He had seen her dance much the
same way in Kiev's Independence Square. It was the dentist's daughter. Arkady
picked up his newspaper and followed. The waiting hall was a scene of family
encampments, of slumber, of unshaved anxiety and a slow but constant milling
around souvenir shops, ATMs and newsstands. The girl darted into a crowded
music store, and he kept track of her by her upraised wand until she appeared
in a back corner with a woman in a stylish Italian-looking traveling suit. Dr.
Levinson. Victor had been concerned about the dentist's physical safety, but
she could not have seemed happier, an attractive woman who could not completely
contain her travel excitement. The girl collected a kiss and ducked out of
sight. The
wand and streamer reappeared at a newsstand, a catchall of paperbacks and
magazines, perfumes and nail polish, condoms and aspirin. A display of
lipsticks was stacked three levels high. The girl squeezed through the crush
and took the hand of a man choosing among brands of toothpaste. He was dressed
like an American golfer in a windbreaker and cap. His hair was brown instead of
bleached, and a wedding band had replaced his diamond horseshoe ring, but
Arkady recognized the sloped shoulders and heavy jaw of Anton Obodovsky. This
toothpaste promised whitening power and the other a brighter smile. How to
decide? Anton joked with the girl, who demonstrated a radiant grin. His laugh
faded when he saw Arkady coming down the aisle. Anton's eyes screwed down. He
sent the girl off with a kiss and replaced the toothpaste on the shelf. Arkady
moved down the aisle as if considering the toiletries. "Going somewhere?" "Away."
Anton kept his voice down. Arkady
spoke softly, too. He played the game. "Let me see your passport and
ticket." "You
don't have any authority here." "Let
me see them." Anton
pulled them from the windbreaker. He swallowed hard and tried to keep a smile
pasted on while Arkady read, "Final destination, Vancouver, Canada, for
Mr. and Dr. Levinson and their daughter. A Ukrainian passport and a Canadian
immigration visa. How did you manage that?" "As
an investor immigrant. You put money in their bank." "You
bought your way in." "It's
legal." "If
your past is clean. You changed your name, you changed your hair, and I'm sure
you changed your record. Anything else?" "There
was a Levinson. He ran out on them." "And
you came to the rescue?" "Yes.
Two years ago. I was already her patient. But Rebecca wants nothing to do with
the Mafia. We're married, and I only get to see her and the girl maybe once a
month because I couldn't let anyone find out, most of all, my former
colleagues." "And
the hygienist?" "Her?
I had to have a cover to be around the office. Anyway, I'm sure she's having a
good time in Morocco. A nice kid." "That's
what Victor said." "I
saw Victor. I dragged him around Kiev. He's looking better." "The
call you made from Butyrka Prison to Pasha Ivanov, what was that about?" "It
was a warning, or it would have been a warning if he'd ever returned the
call." "Warning
Pasha about what?" "Things." "You'll
have to do better than that." "Come
on." "Let
me help you. Karel Katamay. He's dead, by the way." "I
saw on the news." Anton backed into a lipstick display like a fighter
who'd decided to absorb punishment. "Okay, I knew Karel from Pripyat, from
when he was a kid. I knew what he went through. I remember the evacuation and
how people treated everyone from Pripyat as if we had the plague. I was lucky I
was a boxer; no one made much fun of me. It was tough for Karel. I'd hear from
him a lot when he was little, then nothing for the last few years until
suddenly he calls up, says he's in Moscow and needs to borrow a van. A
fumigator van. He never asked a favor before." "Did
he say why?" "He
said, a stunt. A joke on a friend." "And
you got him the van?" "What,
do you think I'm crazy? I'm going to put the future of my family in jeopardy to
steal a van for a kid I haven't seen for years? When I said no, that's when he
told me he came to Moscow to take care of Pasha Ivanov. Trying to impress me,
saying we'd get even. I told him there was no way of getting even with Ivanov,
ever. What's done is done. Then I put myself away into Butyrka until the thing
blew over. I called Ivanov but he never called back. I tried." "And
now you're going to run?" "I'm
not running. There comes a point when you've had enough. You just want to live
somewhere normal, with laws." "With
your criminal background, how do you think you can get out?" "Like
this. Walk out the door. Get on a plane. Start over." "What
about the heads you broke and the people you ruined? Do you think you can leave
them behind?" Anton
gathered his hands into fists. The lipstick display began to tremble. Arkady
glanced at the waiting hall and saw Dr. Levinson and the girl standing with
their assembled bags, their eyes on the tickets in his hand. He could almost
see the floor open up beneath them. "No,"
Anton said. "Rebecca says I take them all with me. The ones I hurt, they
all go with me. I never forget." "She's
going to redeem you?" "Maybe." "Renko!"
Zurin waved with great agitation from across the hall. "Damn it,
Renko!" For
the first time Arkady saw Anton's eyes truly open, as if there were an interior
never seen before. Anton opened his hands and let them hang. Arkady felt the
entire hall go still. "Renko,
stay there!" Zurin ordered. "Gate
B10," Arkady read from Anton's boarding pass. He handed back the tickets
and papers. "I'd go to the gate now if I were you." When Anton
started to say something, Arkady gave him a push. "Don't look back." Anton
joined the mother and daughter; framed by them, he did look more human. Arkady
watched them gather their carry-ons and join a general migration toward the
gates. Anton put on sunglasses in spite of the gloomy lighting. The girl waved. "Renko,
will you stay in one place?" Zurin arrived with a stamp of his foot.
"Who was that man?" "Someone
I thought I knew." "Did
you?" "As
it turned out, not a bit." They
returned to the pub. Zurin lit a cigar and read the newspaper. Arkady tried but
couldn't sit still enough, not when there were so many people, so many
possibilities, so much life rushing by. Chapter NineteenThey
paid a visit in December. Eva decided that one day's exposure was permissible,
although Zhenya went with all the enthusiasm of a hostage. At least Arkady had
the boy wear a new jacket, which was victory enough. A
light snow had fallen, giving the village a crisp jacket of white. Brambles
were transformed into snowy flowers. Every tumbledown cabin was traced in
white, and every abandoned chair held a cushion of snow. The entire population
had turned out: Klara the Viking, Olga with her foggy spectacles, Nina on her
crutch and, of course, Roman and Maria, to distribute a welcome of bread and
salt and samogon. Vanko had come from Chernobyl. Even the cow lifted her head
from her stall to see what the noise was about. Maria
stuffed everyone into the cabin for warm borsch and more samogon. The men ate
standing up. Windows steamed and cheeks got red. Zhenya studied the oven, with
its shelf for sleeping, and it occurred to Arkady that the boy had never seen a
peasant cabin except in fairy tales. He turned to Arkady and mouthed,
"Baba Yaga." The room was exactly as Arkady remembered: the same
woodland tapestries and red-and-white embroidered cloths, the family icon high
in its corner and, on the wall, photographs, the coexisting moments of a young
Roman and Maria, of their daughter with her husband and little girl, of the
same granddaughter on a Cuban beach. Eva
was the center of attention because Maria and her friends wanted to know what
Moscow was like. Although she made light of it, Arkady knew that for Eva the
move to Moscow was not always a happy situation. She'd gotten away from the
Zone and found work at a clinic, but many days she felt she was occupying
Irina's place or was a shell of a woman pretending to be whole. But other days
were good, and some were very good. Under
the influence of the samogon, Vanko confided that since Alex Gerasimov's death,
funding from Russia for ecological research had slowed to a trickle. A research
team from Texas was moving in, however, and they would probably need someone
local. Perhaps the British Friends of the Ecology would like to contribute. He
hoped so. Maria
laughed at everything Eva said. In her bright scarves, Maria looked like a
twice-wrapped present, and her steel teeth gleamed. An almost childish glee
seemed to have infected all the old villagers, an excitement that bubbled over
in spite of their politeness. Roman
shyly pulled Arkady aside to say, "None of our families have visited for
almost a year. Not even to the cemetery, if you can imagine." "I'm
sorry to hear that." "I
understand. They're busy people, and they're far away. I hope you don't mind if
I take advantage of your visit, but I don't know when I will have three men
here again. It takes at least three men. That's why I invited Vanko. Don't
worry, I have old clothes for you to wear." "That's
fine with me." "Good!"
Roman refilled their glasses. Arkady
backtracked. "Three men to what?" Maria
couldn't hold it in any longer. "Kill the pig!"
Snow was falling
again in soft handfuls. Roman
came out of the barn in boots and a rubber apron. Vanko had tied one of the
pig's legs across its chest to keep it off balance, but Sumo was strong and
agile, and it understood in a moment that the same people who had been its
benefactors for a year were going to slaughter it. Dragging Vanko in its wake,
the pig squealed its outrage and terror, plunging one direction and then
another while Roman hung a double pulley and rope over the barn door. "Roman
used to butcher pigs for the whole village," Maria said. "Now it's
just our pig, but we share with our friends." It
was a simple proposition: Sumo would die so they would live. Yet the scene also
had the feel of a country fair. Vanko was dragged across the white yard, and
the old women cheered him on as if they expected nothing less than bedlam. When
the pig broke for the gate, Nina, her eyes lit, steered the beast back with her
crutch. "I'm
sorry," Eva whispered. "I didn't know this was going to happen." "It's
December, it's time to fill the larder. I understand Roman's situation." "Will
you help with the pig?" Arkady
made a noose from a cord. "I'll let Vanko wear him down a little
more." From
nowhere, Zhenya stripped off his jacket and tackled the pig. They rolled over
the ground. The pig was fast, heavy and fighting for its life, pale eyelashes
fluttering, squealing for help. Even when Sumo shook Zhenya off, he held onto
the cord. A boy whom Arkady had never seen lift more than a chess piece hung on
with one hand and waved with the other. "Arkady! Arkady!" Arkady
dove for the pig. He and Vanko and Zhenya were dragged over the snow until
Arkady got the noose around the pig's other front leg. The pig plowed forward
on its jaw, still charging with its rear legs. "On
three," Arkady said. "One... two..." He
and Zhenya used the animal's momentum to turn it on its back and slide it to
Roman, who pressed down on the pig's front legs and slit its throat in one
crescent-moon stroke. The
rubber apron made Roman a different, more impressive figure. He tied together the
kicking rear legs, hooked them to the pulley, pulled the pig into the air
upside down and kicked a zinc tub into place underneath to catch the spurting
blood. Smeared
bright red, Zhenya staggered in the snow, his thin arms out, laughing. Vanko
rose from his knees and lurched toward the samogon, while the pig hung kicking
and squealing. Roman looked on with magisterial calm. He dug a finger into the
pig's eye and plucked it out. Arkady looked at Eva as she looked at him. "To
drain faster," Roman explained to Zhenya. As
soon as the pig was still, Roman moved it into a wheelbarrow to the center of
the yard, where the women came to life, heaping hay on the pig and setting it
on fire. Flames swirled in the snow, orange beating against white. Once the hay
had burned, Roman straddled the pig and scraped off the singed hair. Maria
released the chickens, who raced around the yard pecking at blood and chasing
the eye. When the pig had been burned and scraped several times, Roman washed
off the blood; it was remarkable, Arkady thought, how clean an operation it
was. Roman cut off a crisped ear and offered it as a treat to Arkady. When he
declined, Zhenya took it. The
rest of the afternoon was spent reducing the pig. First with a hatchet to chop
off the head, because it took longest to boil, then with knives to carve off
the limbs. Roman sliced open the back to reveal a glistening sheet of fatback,
and Maria and her friends scurried with plastic pails in anticipation of a
year's hams, sausages, smoked fat. Blue
shadows had covered the village by the time the work was done, and Arkady and
Zhenya had changed clothes and washed for the ride back to the airport. By the
time everyone had kissed and had their farewell sit, a winter evening had
settled in. So, into the car, Arkady and Eva in front, Zhenya in back, all
waving to faces in the headlights. A bounce in reverse before finding the ruts
that led like rails to the main road. A final burst of leave-taking and then
they were free. They
could have been floating. On an overcast night in the Zone, there was no star,
no lamp, no other traffic, only their headlights groping in a void. He looked
at Eva. She reached to hold his hand and say, "Thank you." For what,
he hardly dared say. He stole a glance in the rearview mirror. Zhenya sat
straighter, as if he had shoulders. Finding
and following the road took all their concentration. Dazzling
crystals rushed to the windshield. Beads of light swirled around the car,
tugged on the doors and beat against the windows. No
one slept, and no one said a word.
END OF WOLVES EAT DOGS
Copyright
This book was copied
right, in the dark, by Illuminati. About the e-Book TITLE: Wolves Eat Dogs AUTHOR: Smith, Martin
Cruz ABEB Version: 3.0 Hog Edition WOLVES
EAT DOGS BY Martin Cruz Smith
Dedication
for Em Acknowledgments
Many people
generously offered knowledge and insight during the writing of this book. In the Knox
Burger and Kitty Sprague, Luisa Cruz Smith and Ellen Branco read draft after
draft. Nevertheless, there will be errors and for them I claim sole credit. Chapter One
Senior
Investigator Arkady Renko leaned out a window the better to see Ivanov on the
pavement ten floors below. Ivanov was dead but not particularly bloody, arms
and legs at odd angles. Two black Mercedeses were at the curb, Ivanov's car and
an SUV for his bodyguards. It sometimes seemed to Arkady that every successful
businessman and Mafia hood in Ivanov
had arrived at 9:28 p.m., gone directly up to the safest apartment in Behind
Arkady, Prosecutor Zurin had brought drinks from the wet bar to a NoviRus
senior vice president named Timofeyev and a young blonde in the living room.
Zurin was as fussy as a maоtre d'; he had survived six Kremlin regimes by
recognizing his best customers and smoothing out their problems. Timofeyev had
the shakes and the girl was drunk. Arkady thought the gathering was a little
like a party where the host had suddenly and inexplicably dived through the
window. After the shock the guests carried on. The
odd man out was Bobby Hoffman, Ivanov's American assistant. Although he was
worth millions of dollars, his loafers were split, his fingers were smudged
with ink and his suede jacket was worn to a shine. Arkady wondered how much
more time Hoffman had at NoviRus. An assistant to a dead man? That didn't sound
promising. Hoffman
joined Arkady at the window. "Why are there plastic bags around Pasha's
hands?" "I
was looking for signs of resistance, maybe cuts on the fingers." "Resistance?
Like a fight?" Prosecutor
Zurin rocked forward on the sofa. "There is no investigation. We do not
investigate suicides. There are no signs of violence in the apartment. Ivanov
came up alone. He left alone. That, my friends, is a suicide in spades." The
girl lifted a dazed expression. Arkady had learned from the file he had on
Pasha Ivanov that Rina Shevchenko was his personal interior designer, a
twenty-year-old in a red leather pantsuit and high-heeled boots. Timofeyev
was known as a robust sportsman, but he could have been his father, he had
shrunk so much within his suit. "Suicides are a personal tragedy. It's
enough to suffer the death of a friend. Colonel Ozhogin – the head of NoviRus
Security – is already flying back." He added to Arkady, "Ozhogin
wants nothing done until he arrives." Arkady
said, "We don't leave a body on the sidewalk like a rug, even for the
colonel." "Pay
no attention to Investigator Renko," Zurin said. "He's the office
fanatic. He's like a narcotics dog; he sniffs every bag." There
won't be much left to sniff here, Arkady thought. Just out of curiosity, he
wondered if he could protect the bloody prints on the windowsill. Timofeyev
pressed a handkerchief against his nose. Arkady saw spots of red. "Nosebleed?"
asked Zurin. "Summer
cold," said Timofeyev. Opposite
Ivanov's apartment was a dark office building. A man walked out of the lobby,
waved to Arkady and gave a thumbs-down. "One
of your men?" Hoffman asked. "A
detective, in case someone over there was working late and might have witnessed
something." "But
you're not investigating." "I
do whatever the prosecutor says." "So
you think it was suicide." "We
prefer suicides. Suicides don't demand work or drive up the crime rate."
It also occurred to Arkady that suicides didn't expose the incompetence of
investigators and militia who were better at sorting out dead drunks from the
living than solving murders committed with any amount of forethought. Zurin
said, "You will excuse Renko, he thinks all of In
which case, better the suicide of an unbalanced financier than assassination,
Arkady thought. Timofeyev might lament the suicide of his friend, but a murder investigation
could place the entire NoviRus company under a cloud, especially from the
perspective of foreign partners and investors who already felt that doing
business in "Who
had access to this apartment?" Arkady asked. "Pasha
was the only one allowed on this level. The security was the best in the
world," Zurin said. "Best
in the world," Timofeyev agreed. Zurin
said, "The entire building is covered by surveillance cameras, inside and
out, with monitors that are watched not only at the reception desk here but, as
a safeguard, also by technicians at the headquarters of NoviRus Security. The
other apartments have keys. Ivanov had a keypad with a code known only to him.
He also had a lock-out button by the elevator, to keep out the world when he
was in. He had all the security a man could wish for." Arkady
had been in the lobby and seen the monitors tucked into a round rosewood desk.
Each small screen was split in four. The receptionist also had a white phone
with two outside lines and a red phone with a line direct to NoviRus. "The
building staff doesn't have Ivanov's code?" Arkady asked. "No.
Only the central office at NoviRus." "Who
had access to the code there?" "No
one. It was sealed, until tonight." According
to the prosecutor, Ivanov had ordered that no one enter the apartment but him –
not staff, not a housecleaner, not a plumber. Anyone who tried would appear on
monitors and on tape, and the staff had seen nothing. Ivanov did his own
cleaning. Gave the elevator man the trash, laundry, dry cleaning, lists for
food or whatever, which would be waiting in the lobby when Ivanov returned.
Zurin made it sound like many talents. "Eccentric,"
Arkady said. "He
could afford to be eccentric. Churchill wandered around his castle naked." "Pasha
wasn't crazy," Rina said. "What
was he?" Arkady rephrased the question. "How would you describe
him?" "He
had lost weight. He said he had an infection. Maybe he had a bad reaction to
medication." Timofeyev
said, "I wish Ozhogin were here." Arkady
had seen a glossy magazine cover with a confident Lev Timofeyev sailing a yacht
in the An
ambulance rolled discreetly to the curb. The detective crossed the street with
a camera and shot flash pictures of Ivanov being rolled into the body bag and
of the stain on the pavement. Something had been concealed under Ivanov's body.
From Arkady's distance it looked like a drinking glass. The detective took a
picture of that, too. Hoffman
watched Arkady as much as the scene below. "Is
it true, you treat "Force
of habit." The
living room would have been a forensic technician's dream: white leather sofa
and chairs, limestone floor and linen walls, glass ashtray and coffee table,
all excellent backgrounds for hair, lipstick, fingerprints, the scuff marks of
life. It would have been easy to dust and search before Zurin genially invited
in a crowd and tainted the goods. Because with a jumper, there were two
questions: was he alone, and was he pushed? Timofeyev
said to no one in particular, "Pasha and I go far back. We studied and did
research together at the institute when the country suffered its economic
collapse. Imagine, the greatest physics laboratory in Arkady
was taken aback. He certainly hadn't known. Rina
took Timofeyev's glass to the bar, where she paused by a gallery of photographs
in which Pasha Ivanov was not dead. Ivanov was not a handsome individual, but a
big man full of grand gestures. In different pictures he rappelled off cliffs,
trekked the Urals, kayaked through white water. He embraced Yeltsin and Clinton
and the senior Bush. He beamed at Putin, who, as usual, seemed to suck on a
spur tooth. He cradled a miniature dachshund like a baby. Ivanov partied with
opera tenors and rock stars, and even when he bowed to the Orthodox patriarch,
a brash confidence shone through. Other New Russians fell by the wayside: shot,
bankrupted or exiled by the state. Pasha not only flourished, he was known as a
public-spirited man, and when construction funds for the Church of the Redeemer
ran low, Ivanov provided the gold foil for the dome. When Arkady first opened a
file on Ivanov, he was told that if Ivanov was charged with breaking the law,
he could call the senate on his mobile phone and have the law rewritten. Trying
to indict Ivanov was like trying to hold on to a snake that kept shedding skin
after skin and grew legs in the meantime. In other words, Pasha Ivanov was both
a man of his time and a stage in evolution. Arkady
noticed a barely perceptible glitter on the windowsill, scattered grains of
crystals so familiar he could not resist pressing his forefinger to pick them
up and taste them. Salt. "I'm
going to look around," he said. "But
you're not investigating," Hoffman said. "Absolutely
not." "A
word alone," Zurin said. He led Arkady into the hall. "Renko, we had
an investigation into Ivanov and NoviRus, but a case against a suicide doesn't
smell good in anybody's nostrils." "You
initiated the investigation." "And
I'm ending it. The last thing I want is for people to get the idea that we
hounded Pasha Ivanov to death, and still went after him even when he was in the
grave. It makes us look vindictive, like fanatics, which we aren't." The
prosecutor searched Arkady's eyes. "When you've had your little look
around here, go to your office and collect all the Ivanov and NoviRus files and
leave them by my office. Do it tonight. And stop using the phrase 'New Russian'
when you refer to crime. We're all New Russians, aren't we?" "I'm
trying." Ivanov's
apartment took up the entire tenth floor. There weren't many rooms, but they
were spacious and commanded a wraparound view of the city that gave the
illusion of walking on air. Arkady began at a bedroom upholstered in linen wall
panels, laid with a Persian rug. The photographs here were more personal:
Ivanov skiing with Rina, sailing with Rina, in scuba-diving gear with Rina. She
had huge eyes and a Slavic shelf of cheekbones. In each picture a breeze lifted
her golden hair; she was the kind who could summon a breeze. Considering their
difference in ages, for Ivanov their relationship must have been a bit like
making a mistress of a leggy girl, a Lolita. That was who she reminded Arkady
of – Lolita was a Russian creation, after all! There was a nearly paternal humor
in Pasha's expression and a candy-sweet flavor to Rina's smile. A
rosy nude, a Modigliani, hung on the wall. On the night table were an ashtray
of Lalique glass and a Hermиs alarm clock; in the drawer was a 9mm pistol, a
Viking with a fat clip of seventeen rounds, but not a whiff of ever having been
fired. An attachй case on the bed held a single Bally shoe sack and a
mobile-phone charger cord. On the bookshelf was a decorator's selection of worn
leather-bound collections of Pushkin, Rilke and Chekhov, and a box that held a
trio of Patek, Carrier and Rolex watches and gently agitated them to keep them
running, a definite necessity for the dead. The only off note was dirty laundry
piled in a corner. He
moved into a bathroom with a limestone floor, gold-plated fixtures on a step-in
spa, heated bars for robes large enough for polar bears and the convenience of
a toilet phone. A shaving mirror magnified the lines of Arkady's face. A
medicine cabinet held – besides the usual toiletries – bottles of Viagra, sleeping
pills, Prozac. Arkady noted a Dr. Novotny's name on each prescription. He
didn't see any antibiotics for infection. The
kitchen looked both new and forgotten, with gleaming steel appliances, enameled
pots without a single smudge and burners with not one spot of crusted sauce. A
silvery rack held dusty, expensive wines, no doubt selected by an expert. Yet
the dishwasher was stacked with unwashed dishes, just as the bed had been
loosely made and the bathroom towels hung awry, the signs of a man caring for himself.
A restaurant-size refrigerator was a cold vault, empty except for bottles of
mineral water, odds and ends of cheese, crackers and half a loaf of sliced
bread. Vodka sat in the freezer. Pasha was a busy man, off to business dinners
every day. He was, until recently, a famously sociable man, not a wealthy
recluse with long hair and fingernails. He would have wanted to show his
friends a shining up-to-date kitchen and offer them a decent At
the twist of a rheostat, the next room turned into a home theater with a flat
screen a good two meters wide, speakers in matte black and eight swivel chairs
in red velvet with individual gooseneck lamps. All New Russians had home
theaters, as if they were auteurs on the side. Arkady flipped through a video
library ranging from Eisenstein to Jackie Chan. There was no tape in the tape
player, and nothing in the mini-fridge but splits of Moлt. An
exercise room had floor-to-ceiling windows, a padded floor, free weights and an
exercise machine that looked like a catapult. A television hung over a
stationary bike. The
prize was Ivanov's apartment office, a futuristic cockpit of glass and
stainless steel. Everything was close at hand, a monitor and printer on the
desk, and a computer stack with a CD tray open beneath, next to an empty
wastebasket. On a table lay copies of The Wall Street Journal and The
Financial Times, folded as neatly as pressed sheets. CNN was on the
monitor screen, market quotes streaming under a man who muttered half a world
away. Arkady suspected the subdued sound was the sign of a lonely man, the need
for another voice in the apartment, even while he banned his lover and nearest
associates. It also struck Arkady that this was the closest anyone in the
prosecutor's office had ever come to penetrating NoviRus. It was a shame that
the man to do so was him. Arkady's life had come to this: his highest skill lay
in ferreting out which man had bludgeoned another. The subtleties of corporate
theft were new to him, and he stood in front of the screen like an ape
encountering fire. Virtually within reach might be the answers he had been
searching for: the names of silent partners in the ministries who promoted and
protected Ivanov and their account numbers in offshore banks. He wouldn't find
car trunks stuffed with dollar bills. It didn't work that way anymore. There
was no paper. Money flew through the air and was gone. Victor,
the detective from the street, finally made it up. He was a sleep-deprived man
in a sweater that reeked of cigarettes. He held up a sandwich bag containing a
saltshaker. "This was on the pavement under Ivanov. Maybe it was there
already. Why would anyone jump out a window with a saltshaker?" Bobby
Hoffman squeezed by Victor. "Renko, the best hackers in the world are
Russian. I've encrypted and programmed Pasha's hard drive to self-destruct at
the first sign of a breach. In other words, don't touch a fucking thing." "You
were Pasha's computer wizard as well as a business adviser?" Arkady said. "I
did what Pasha asked." Arkady
tapped the CD tray. It slid open, revealing a silvery disk. Hoffman tapped the
tray and it slid shut. He
said, "I should also tell you that the computer and any disks are NoviRus
property. You are a millimeter from trespassing. You ought to know the laws
here." "Mr.
Hoffman, don't tell me about Russian law. You were a thief in "No,
I'm a consultant. I'm the guy who told Pasha not to worry about you. You have
an advanced degree in business?" "No." "Law?" "No." "Accounting?" "No." "Then
lots of luck. The Americans came after me with a staff of eager-beaver lawyers
right out of Harvard. I can see Pasha had a lot to be afraid of." This was
more the hostile attitude that Arkady had expected, but Hoffman ran out of
steam. "Why don't you think it's suicide? What's wrong?" "I
didn't say that anything was." "Something
bothers you." Arkady
considered. "Recently your friend wasn't the Pasha Ivanov of old, was
he?" "That
could have been depression." "He
moved twice in the last three months. Depressed people don't have the energy to
move; they sit still." Depression happened to be a subject that Arkady
knew something about. "It sounds like fear to me." "Fear
of what?" "You
were close to him, you'd know better than I. Does anything here seem out of place?" "I
wouldn't know. Pasha wouldn't let us in here. Rina and I haven't been inside
this apartment for a month. If you were investigating, what would you be
looking for?" "I
have no idea." Victor
felt at the sleeve of Hoffman's jacket. "Nice suede. Must have cost a
fortune." "It
was Pasha's. I admired it once when he was wearing it, and he forced it on me.
It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty more, but he was generous." "How
many more jackets?" Arkady asked. "Twenty,
at least." "And
suits and shoes and tennis whites?" "Of
course." "I
saw clothes in the corner of the bedroom. I didn't see a closet." "I'll
show you," Rina said. How long she had been standing behind Victor, Arkady
didn't know. "I designed this apartment, you know." "It's
a very nice apartment," Arkady said. Rina
studied him for signs of condescension, before she turned and, unsteadily, hand
against the wall, led the way to Ivanov's bedroom. Arkady saw nothing different
until Rina pushed a wall panel that clicked and swung open to a walk-in closet
bathed in lights. Suits hung on the left, pants and jackets on the right, some
new and still in store bags with elaborate Italian names. Ties hung on a brass
carousel. Built-in bureaus held shirts, underclothes and racks for shoes. The
clothes ranged from plush cashmere to casual linen, and everything in the
closet was immaculate, except a tall dressing mirror that was cracked but
intact, and a bed of sparkling crystals that covered the floor. Prosecutor
Zurin arrived. "What is it now?" Arkady
licked a finger to pick up a grain and put it to his tongue. "Salt. Table
salt." At least fifty kilos' worth of salt had been poured on the floor.
The bed was softly rounded, dimpled with two faint impressions. "A
sign of derangement," Zurin announced. "There's no sane explanation
for this. It's the work of a man in suicidal despair. Anything else,
Renko?" "There
was salt on the windowsill." "More
salt? Poor man. God knows what was going through his mind. "What
do you think?" Hoffman asked Arkady. "Suicide,"
Timofeyev said from the hall, his voice muffled by his handkerchief. Victor
spoke up. "As long as Ivanov is dead. My mother put all her money in one
of his funds. He promised a hundred percent profit in a hundred days. She lost everything,
and he was voted New Russian of the Year. If he was here now and alive, I would
strangle him with his own steaming guts." That
would settle the issue, Arkady thought.
By the time
Arkady had delivered a hand truck of NoviRus files to the prosecutor's office
and driven home, it was two in the morning. His
apartment was not a glass tower shimmering on the skyline but a pile of rocks
off the Garden Ring. Various Soviet architects seemed to have worked with
blinders on to design a building with flying buttresses, Roman columns and
Moorish windows. Sections of the facade had fallen off, and parts had been
colonized by grasses and saplings sowed by the wind, but inside, the apartments
offered high ceilings and casement windows. Arkady's view was not of sleek
Mercedeses gliding by but of a backyard row of metal garages, each secured by a
padlock covered by the cutoff bottom of a plastic soda bottle. No
matter the hour, Mr. and Mrs. Rajapakse, his neighbors from across the hall,
came over with biscuits, hard-boiled eggs and tea. They were university
professors from "It
is no bother," Rajapakse said. "You are our best friend in Mrs.
Rajapakse wore a sari. She flew around the apartment like a butterfly to catch
a fly and put it out the window. "She
harms nothing," her husband said. "The violence here in After
Arkady chased them home, he had half a glass of vodka and toasted. To a New
Russian. He
was trying. Chapter TwoEvgeny
Lysenko, nickname Zhenya, age eleven, looked like an old man waiting at a bus
stop. He was in the thick plaid jacket and matching cap that he'd been wearing
when he was brought by militia to the children's shelter the winter before. The
sleeves were shrinking, but whenever the boy went on an outing with Arkady, he
wore the same outfit and carried the same chess set and book of fairy tales
that had been left with him. If Zhenya didn't get out every other week, he
would run away. How he had become Arkady's obligation was a mystery. To begin
with, Arkady had accompanied a well-intentioned friend, a television
journalist, a nice woman looking for a child to mother and save. When Arkady
arrived at the shelter for the next outing, his mobile phone rang. It was the
journalist calling to say she was sorry, but she wasn't coming; one afternoon
with Zhenya was enough for her. By then Zhenya was almost at the car, and
Arkady's choice was to either leap behind the wheel and drive away, or take the
boy himself. Anyway,
here was Zhenya once again, dressed for winter on a warm spring day, clutching
his fairy tales, while Olga Andreevna, the head of the shelter, fussed over
him. "Cheer Zhenya up," she told Arkady. "It's Sunday. All the
other children have one kind of visitor or another. Zhenya should have
something. Tell him some jokes. Be a jolly soul. Make him laugh." "I'll
try to think of some jokes." "Go
to a movie, maybe kick a ball back and forth. The boy needs to get out more, to
socialize. We offer psychiatric evaluation, proper diet, music classes, a
regular school nearby. Most children thrive. Zhenya is not thriving." The
shelter appeared to be a healthful setting, a two-story structure painted like
a child's drawing with birds, butterflies, rainbow and sun, and a real
vegetable garden bordered by marigolds. The shelter was a model, an oasis in a
city where thousands of children went without homes and worked pushing outdoor
market carts or worse. Arkady saw a circle of girls in a playground serving tea
to their dolls. They seemed happy. Zhenya
climbed into the car, put on his seat belt and held his book and chess set
tight. He stared straight ahead like a soldier. "So,
what will you do, then?" Olga Andreevna asked Arkady. "Well,
we're such jolly souls, we're capable of anything." "Does
he talk to you?" "He
reads his book." "But
does he talk to you?" "No." "Then
how do you two communicate?" "To
be honest, I don't know."
Arkady had a
Zhiguli 9, a goat of a car, not prepossessing but built for Russian roads. They
drove along the river wall, past fishermen casting for urban aquatic life.
Considering the black cloud of truck exhaust and the sluggish green of the Meanwhile,
Zhenya read aloud his favorite fairy tale, about a girl abandoned by her father
and sent by her stepmother into the deep woods to be killed and eaten by a
witch, Baba Yaga. "
'Baba Yaga had a long blue nose and steel teeth, and she lived in a hut that
stood on chicken legs. The hut could walk through the woods and sit wherever
Baba Yaga ordered. Around the hut was a fence festooned with skulls. Most
victims died just at the sight of Baba Yaga. The strongest men, the wealthiest
lords, it didn't matter. She boiled the meat off their bones and when she had
eaten every last bite she added their skulls to her hideous fence. A few
prisoners lived long enough to try to escape, but Baba Yaga flew after them on
a magic mortar and pestle.' " However, page by page, through kindness and
courage, the girl did escape and made her way back to her father, who sent away
the evil stepmother. When Zhenya was done reading he gave Arkady a quick glance
and settled back in his seat, a ritual completed. At
Sparrow Hill, Arkady swung the car in sight of "Did
you have some fun this week?" Arkady asked. Zhenya
said nothing. Nevertheless, Arkady tried a smile. After all, many children from
the shelter had suffered negligence and abuse. They couldn't be expected to be
rays of sunshine. Some children were adopted out of the shelter. Zhenya, with
his sharp nose and vow of silence, wasn't a likely candidate. Arkady
himself would have been harder to please, he thought, if he'd had a higher
opinion of himself as a child. As he remembered, he had been an unlovable
stick, devoid of social skills and isolated by the aura of fear around his
father, an army officer who was perfectly willing to humiliate adults, let
alone a boy. When Arkady came home to their apartment, he would know whether
the general was in just by the stillness in the air. The very foyer seemed to
hold its breath. So Arkady had little personal experience to draw on. His
father had never taken him for outings. Sometimes Sergeant Belov, his father's
aide, would go with Arkady to the park. Winters were the best, when the
sergeant, tramping and puffing like a horse, pulled Arkady on a sled through
the snow. Otherwise, Arkady walked with his mother, and she tended to walk
ahead, a slim woman with a dark braid of hair, lost in her own world. Zhenya
always insisted on going to "Let's
go shoot something," Arkady said. That generally cheered boys up. Five
rubles bought five shots with an air rifle at a row of Coke cans. Arkady
remembered when the targets had been American bombers dangling on strings,
something worth blazing away at. From there they went into a fun house, where
they followed a dark walkway between weary moans and swaying bats. Next came a
real space shuttle that had truly orbited the earth and was tricked out with
chairs that lurched from side to side to simulate a bumpy descent. Arkady
asked, "What do you think, Captain? Should we return to earth?" Zhenya
got out of his chair and marched off without a glance. It
was a little like accompanying a sleepwalker. Arkady was along but invisible,
and Zhenya moved as if on a track. They stopped, as they had on every other
trip, to watch bungee jumping. The jumpers were teenagers, taking turns soaring
off the platform, flapping, screaming with fear, only to be snapped back the
moment before they hit the ground. The girls were dramatic, the way their hair
rippled on the way down and snapped as the plunge was arrested. Arkady couldn't
help but think of Ivanov and the difference between the fun of near death and
the real thing, the profound difference between giggling as you bounced to your
feet, and staying embedded in the pavement. For his part, Zhenya didn't appear
to care whether the jumpers died or survived. He always stood in the same spot
and glanced cagily around. Then he took off for the roller coaster. He
took the same rides in the same order: a roller coaster, a giant swing and a
ride in a pontoon boat around a little man-made lake. He and Arkady sat back
and pedaled, the same as every time, while white swans and black swans cruised
by in turn. Although it was Sunday, the park maintained an uncrowded lassitude.
Rollerbladers slid by with long, easy strides. The Beatles drifted from
loudspeakers: "Yesterday." Zhenya looked hot in his cap and jacket,
but Arkady knew better than to suggest the boy remove them. The
sight of silver birches by the water made Arkady ask, "Have you ever been
here in the winter?" Zhenya
might as well have been deaf. "Do
you ice-skate?" Arkady asked. Zhenya
looked straight ahead. "Ice
skating here in the wintertime is beautiful," Arkady said. "Maybe we
should do that." Zhenya
didn't blink. Arkady
said, "I'm sorry that I'm not better at this. I was never good at jokes. I
just can't remember them. In Soviet times, when things were hopeless, we had
great jokes." Since
the children's shelter fed Zhenya good nutritious food, Arkady plied him with candy
bars and soda. They ate at an outdoor table while playing chess with pieces
that were worn from use, on a board that had been taped together more than
once. Zhenya didn't speak even to say "Mate!" He simply knocked over
Arkady's king at the appropriate time and set the pieces up again. "Have
you ever tried football?" Arkady asked. "Stamp collecting? Do you
have a butterfly net?" Zhenya
concentrated on the board. The head of the shelter had told Arkady how Zhenya
did solitary chess problems every night until lights-out. Arkady
said, "You may wonder how it is that a senior investigator like myself is
free on such a glorious day. The reason is that the prosecutor, my chief, feels
that I need reassignment. It's plain that I need reassignment, because I don't
know a suicide when I see one. An investigator who doesn't know a suicide when
he sees one is a man who needs to be reassigned." Arkady's
move, the retreat of a knight to a useless position on the side of the board,
made Zhenya look up, as if to detect a trap. Not to worry, Arkady thought. "Are
you familiar with the name Pavel Ilyich Ivanov?" Arkady asked. "No?
How about Pasha Ivanov? That's a more interesting name. Pavel is old-fashioned,
stiff. Pasha is Eastern, Oriental, with a turban and a sword. Much better than
Pavel." Zhenya
stood to see the board from another angle. Arkady would have surrendered, but
he knew how Zhenya relished a thoroughly crushing victory. Arkady
said, "It's curious how, if you study anyone long enough, if you devote
enough effort to understanding him, he can become part of your life. Not a
friend but a kind of acquaintance. To put it another way, a shadow has to
become close, right? I thought I was beginning to understand Pasha, and then I
found salt." Arkady looked for a reaction, in vain. "And well you
should be surprised. There was a lot of salt in the apartment. That's not a
crime, although it might be a sign. Some people say that's what you'd expect
from a man about to take his life, a closet full of salt. They could be right.
Or not. We don't investigate suicides, but how do you know it's a suicide
unless you investigate? That is the question." Zhenya
scooped up the knight, revealing a pin on Arkady's bishop. Arkady moved his
king. At once, the bishop disappeared into Zhenya's grasp, and Arkady advanced
another sacrificial lamb. "But
the prosecutor doesn't want complications, especially from a difficult
investigator, a holdover from the Soviet era, a man on the skids. Some men
march confidently from one historical era to the next; others skid. I've been
told to enjoy a rest while matters are sorted out, and that is why I can spend
the day with you." Zhenya pushed a juggernaut of a rook the length of the
board, tipped over Arkady's king and swept all of the pieces into the box. He
hadn't heard a word. The
last regular event was a ride on the Ferris wheel, which kept turning as Arkady
and Zhenya handed over their tickets, scrambled into an open-air gondola and
latched themselves in. A complete revolution of the fifty-meter wheel took five
minutes. As the gondola rose, it afforded a view first of the amusement park,
then of geese lifting from the lake and Rollerbladers gliding on the trails
and, finally, at its apogee, through a floating scrim of poplar fluff, a
panorama of gray daytime Moscow, flashes of gold from church to church and the
distant groans of traffic and construction. All the way, Zhenya stretched his
neck to look in one direction and then the other, as if he could encompass the
city's entire population. Arkady
had tried to find Zhenya's father, even though the boy refused to supply the
first name or help a sketch artist from the militia. Nevertheless, Arkady had
gone through When
Zhenya and Arkady were at the very top of the wheel, it stopped. The attendant
on the ground gave a thin shout and waved. Nothing to worry about. Zhenya was
happy with more time to scan the city, while Arkady contemplated the virtues of
early retirement: the chance to learn new languages, new dances, travel to
exotic places. His stock with the prosecutor was definitely falling. Once you'd
been to the top of the Ferris wheel of life, so to speak, anything else was
lower. So here he was, literally suspended. Poplar fluff sailed by like the
scum of a river. The
wheel started to turn again, and Arkady smiled, to prove his attention hadn't
wandered. "Any luck? You know, in Zhenya
acknowledged not a word, which was a statement in itself, that Arkady was
merely transportation, a means to an end. When the gondola reached the ground,
the boy stepped out, ready to return to the shelter, and Arkady let him march
ahead. The
trick, Arkady thought, was not to expect more. Obviously Zhenya had come to the
park with his father, and by this point, Arkady knew exactly how they had spent
the day. A child's logic was that if his father had come here before, he would
come again, and he might even be magically evoked through a re-creation of that
day. Zhenya was a grim little soldier defending a last outpost of
memory, and any word he passed with Arkady would mute and dim his father that
much more. A smile would be as bad as traffic with the enemy. On
the way out of the park, Arkady's mobile phone rang. It was Prosecutor Zurin. "Renko,
what did you tell Hoffman last night?" "About
what?" "You
know what. Where are you?" "The
"Relaxing?" "I'd
like to think so." "Because
you were so wound up last night, so full of... speculation, weren't you?
Hoffman wants to see you." "Why?" "You
said something to him last night. Something out of my earshot, because nothing
I heard from you made any sense at all. I have never seen a clearer case of
suicide." "Then
you have officially determined that Ivanov killed himself." "Why
not?" Arkady
didn't answer directly. "If you're satisfied, then I don't see what there
is for me to do." "Don't
be coy, Renko. You're the one who opened this can of worms. You'll be the one
who shuts it. Hoffman wants you to clean up the loose ends. I don't see why he doesn't
just go home." "As
I remember, he's a fugitive from "Well,
as a courtesy to him, and just to settle things, he wants a few more questions
answered. Ivanov was Jewish, wasn't he? I mean his mother was." So? "I'm
just saying, he and Hoffman were a pair." Arkady
waited for more, but Zurin seemed to think he had made his point. "I take
my orders from you, Prosecutor Zurin. What are your orders?" Arkady wanted
this to be clear. "What
time is it?" "It's
four in the afternoon." "First
get Hoffman out of the apartment. Then get to work tomorrow morning." "Why
not tonight?" "In
the morning." "If
I get Hoffman out of the apartment, how will I get back in?" "The
elevator operator knows the code now. He's old guard. Trustworthy." "And
just what do you expect me to do?" "Whatever
Hoffman asks. Just get this matter settled. Not complicated, not drawn out, but
settled." "Does
that mean over or resolved?" "You
know very well what I mean." "I
don't know, I'm fairly involved here." Zhenya was just finishing his
circuit of the fountain. "Get
over there now." "I'll
need a detective. I should have a pair, but I'll settle for Victor
Fedorov." "Why
him? He hates businessmen." "Perhaps
he'll be harder to buy." "Just
go." "Do
I get my files back?" "No." Zurin
hung up. The prosecutor might have shown a little more edge than usual, but,
everything considered, the conversation had been as pleasant as Arkady could
have wished.
Bobby Hoffman
let Arkady and Victor into the Ivanov apartment, moved to the sofa and dropped
into the deep impression already there. Despite air-conditioning, the room had
the funk of an all-night vigil. Hoffman's hair was matted, his eyes a blur, and
tear tracks ran into the reddish bristle on his jowls. His clothes looked
twisted around him, although the jacket given to him by Pasha was folded on the
coffee table beside a snifter and two empty bottles of brandy. He said, "I
don't have the code to the keypad, so I stayed." "Why?"
Arkady asked. "Just
to get things straight." "Straighten
us out, please." Hoffman
tilted his head and smiled. "Renko, as far as your investigation goes, I
want you to know that you wouldn't have touched Pasha or me in a thousand
years. The American Securities and Exchange Commission never hung anything on
me." "You
fled the country." "You
know what I always tell complainers? 'Read the fine print, asshole!' " "The
fine print is the important print?" "That's
why it's fine." "As
in 'You can be the wealthiest man in the world and live in a palace with a
beautiful woman, but one day you will fall out a tenth-floor window'?"
Arkady said. "As fine as that?" "Yeah."
The air went out of Hoffman, and it occurred to Arkady that for all the
American's bravado, without the protection of Pasha Ivanov, Bobby Hoffman was a
mollusk without its shell, a tender American morsel on the Russian ocean floor. "Why
don't you just leave "That's
what Timofeyev suggested, except his number was ten million." "That's
a lot." "Look,
the bank accounts Pasha and I opened offshore add up to about a hundred
million. Not all our money, of course, but that's a lot." A
hundred million? Arkady tried to add the zeroes. "I stand corrected." Victor
took a chair and set down his briefcase. He gave the apartment the cold glance
of a Bolshevik in the Hoffman
contemplated the empty bottles. "Staying here is like watching a movie,
running every possible scenario. Pasha jumping out the window, being dragged
and thrown out, over and over. Renko, you're the expert: was Pasha
killed?" "I
have no idea." "Thanks
a lot, that's helpful. Last night you sounded like you had suspicions." "I
thought the scene deserved more investigation." "Because
as soon as you started to poke around, you found a closet full of fucking salt.
What is that about?" "I
was hoping you could tell me. You never noticed that with Ivanov before, a
fixation on salt?" "No.
All I know is, everything wasn't as simple as the prosecutor and Timofeyev
said. You were right about Pasha changing. He locked us out of here. He'd wear
clothes once and throw them away. It wasn't like giving the jacket to me. He
threw out the clothes in garbage bags. Driving around, suddenly he'd change his
route, like he was on the run." "Like
you," Victor said. "Only
he didn't run far," Arkady said. "He stayed in Hoffman
said, "How could he go? Pasha always said, 'Business is personal. You show
fear and you're dead.' Anyway, you wanted more time to investigate. Okay, I
bought you some." "How
did you do that?" "Call
me Bobby." "How
did you do that, Bobby?" "NoviRus
has foreign partners. I told Timofeyev that unless you were on the case, I'd
tell them that the cause of Pasha's death wasn't totally resolved. Foreign
partners are nervous about Russian violence. I always tell them it's
exaggerated." "Of
course." "Nothing
can stop a major project – the Last Judgment wouldn't stop an oil deal – but I
can stall for a day or two until the company gets a clean bill of health." "The
detective and I will be the doctors who decide this billion-dollar state of
health? I'm flattered." "I'd
start you off with a bonus of a thousand dollars." "No,
thanks." "You
don't like money? What are you, communists?" Hoffman's smile stalled
halfway between insult and ingratiation. "The
problem is that I don't believe you. Americans won't take the word of either a
criminal like you or an investigator like me. NoviRus has its own security
force, including former detectives. Have them investigate. They're already
paid." "Paid
to protect the company," Hoffman said. "Yesterday that meant
protecting Pasha, today it's protecting Timofeyev. Anyway, Colonel Ozhogin is
in charge, and he hates me." "If
Ozhogin dislikes you, then I advise you to get on the next plane. I'm sure
Russian violence is exaggerated, but it serves no one's purpose for you to be
in "After
you ask some questions. You hounded Pasha and me for months. Now you can hound
someone else." "It's
not that simple, as you say." "A
few fucking questions is all I'm asking for." Arkady
gave way to Victor, who opened a ledger from his briefcase and said, "May
I call you Bobby?" He rolled the name like hard candy. "Bobby, there
would be more than one or two questions. We'd have to talk to everyone who saw
Pasha Ivanov last night, his driver and bodyguards, the building staff. Also,
we'd have to review the security tapes." "Ozhogin
won't like that." Arkady
shrugged. "If Ivanov didn't commit suicide, there was a breach in
security." Victor
said, "To do a complete job, we should also talk to his friends." "They
weren't here." "They
knew Ivanov. His friends and the women he was involved with, like the one who
was here last night." "Rina
is a great kid. Very artistic." Victor
gave Arkady a meaningful glance. The detective had once invented a theory
called 'Fuck the Widow', for determining a probable killer on the basis of who
lined up first to console a grieving spouse. "Also, enemies." "Everyone
has enemies. George Washington had enemies." "Not
as many as Pasha," said Arkady. "There were earlier attempts on
Pasha's life. We'd have to check who was involved and where they are. It's not
just a matter of one more day and a few more questions." Victor
dropped a butt in the soda can. "What the investigator wants to know is,
if we make progress, are you going to run and leave us with our pants down and
the moon out?" "If
so, the detective recommends you begin running now," Arkady said.
"Before we start." Bobby
hung on to the sofa. "I'm staying right here." "If
we do start, this is a possible crime scene, and the very first thing is to get
you out of here." "We
have to talk," Victor told Arkady. The
two men retreated to the white runway of the hall. Victor lit a cigarette and
sucked on it like oxygen. "I'm dying. I have heart problems, lung
problems, liver problems. The trouble is, I'm dying too slowly. Once my pension
meant something. Now I have to work until they push me into the grave. I ran
the other day. I thought I heard church bells. It was my chest. They're raising
the price of vodka and tobacco. I don't bother eating anymore. Fifteen brands
of Italian pasta, but who can afford it? So do I really want to spend my final
days playing bodyguard to a dog turd like Bobby Hoffman? Because that's all he
wants us for, bodyguards. And he'll disappear, he'll disappear as soon as he
shakes more money out of Timofeyev. He'll run when we need him most." "He
could have run already." "He's
just driving up the price." "You
said there are good prints on the glasses. Maybe there are some more." "Arkady,
these people are different. It's every man for himself. Ivanov is dead? Good
riddance." "So
you don't think it was suicide?" Arkady asked. "Who
knows? Who cares? Russians used to kill for women or power, real reasons. Now they
kill for money." "The
ruble wasn't really money," Arkady said. "But
we're leaving, right?" Bobby
Hoffman sank into the sofa as they returned. He could read the verdict in their
eyes. Arkady had intended to deliver the bad news and keep going, but he slowed
as bands of sunlight vibrated the length of the room. A person could argue
whether a white decor was timid or bold, Arkady thought, but there was no
denying that Rina had done a professional job. The entire room glowed, and the
chrome of the wet bar cast a shimmering reflection over the photographs of
Pasha Ivanov and his constellation of famous and powerful friends. Ivanov's
world was so far away from the average Russian's that the pictures could have
been taken by a telescope pointed to the stars. This was the closest Arkady had
gotten to NoviRus. He was, for the moment, inside the enemy camp. When
Arkady got to the sofa, Hoffman wrapped his pudgy hands around Arkady's.
"Okay, I took a disk with confidential data from Pasha's computer: shell
companies, bribes, payoffs, bank accounts. It was going to be my insurance, but
I'm spending it on you. I agreed to give it back when you're done. That's the
deal I made with Ozhogin and Zurin, the disk for a few days of your help. Don't
ask me where it is, it's safe. So you were right, I'm a venal slob. Big news.
Know why I'm doing this? I couldn't go back to my place. I didn't have the
strength, and I couldn't sleep, either, so I just sat here. In the middle of
the night, I heard this rubbing. I thought it was mice and got a flashlight and
walked around the apartment. No mice. But I still heard them. Finally I went
down to the lobby to ask the receptionist. He wasn't at his desk, though. He
was outside with the doorman, on their hands and knees with brushes and bleach,
scrubbing blood off the sidewalk. They did it, there's not a spot left. That's
what I'd been hearing from ten stories up, the scrubbing. I know it's
impossible, but that's what I heard. And I thought to myself, Renko: there's a
son of a bitch who'd hear the scrubbing. That's who I want." Chapter ThreeIn
the black-and-white videotape, the two Mercedeses rolled up to the street
security camera, and bodyguards – large men further inflated by the armored
vests they wore under their suits – deployed from the chase car to the building
canopy. Only then did the lead car's driver trot around to open the curbside
door. A
digital clock rolled in a corner of the tape. 2128. 2129. 2130. Finally Pasha
Ivanov unfolded from the rear seat. He looked more disheveled than the dynamic
Ivanov of the apartment photo gallery. Arkady had questioned the driver, who
had told him that Ivanov hadn't said a word all the way from the office to the
apartment, not even on a mobile phone. Something
amused Ivanov. Two dachshunds strained on their leashes to sniff his attachй
case. Although the tape was silent, Arkady read Ivanov's lips: Puppies?
he asked the owner. When the dogs had passed, Ivanov clutched the attachй to
his chest and went into the building. Arkady switched to the lobby tape. The
marble lobby was so brightly lit that everyone wore halos. The doorman and
receptionist wore jackets with braid over not too obvious holsters. Once the
doorman activated the call button with a key, he stayed at Ivanov's side while
Ivanov used a handkerchief, and when the elevator doors opened, Arkady went to
the elevator tape. He had already interviewed the operator, a former Kremlin
guard, white-haired but hard as a sandbag. Arkady
asked whether he and Ivanov had talked. The operator said, "I trained on
the Kremlin staircase. Big men don't make small talk." On
the tape, Ivanov punched a code into the keypad and, as the doors opened,
turned to the elevator camera. The camera's fish-bowl lens made his face disproportionately
huge, eyes drowning in shadow above the handkerchief he held against his nose.
Maybe he had Timofeyev's summer cold. Ivanov finally moved through the open
doors, and Arkady was reminded of an actor rushing to the stage, now
hesitating, now rushing again. The time on the tape was 2133. Arkady
switched tapes, back to the street camera, and forwarded to 2147. The pavement
was clear, the two cars were still at the curb, the lights of traffic filtering
by. At 2148 a blur from above slapped the pavement. The doors of the chase car
flew open, and the guards poured out to form a defensive circle on the pavement
around what could have been a heap of rags with legs. One man raced into the
building, another knelt to feel Ivanov's neck, while the driver of the sedan
ran around it to open a rear door. The man taking Ivanov's pulse, or lack of
it, shook his head while the doorman moved into view, arms wide in disbelief.
That was it, the Pasha Ivanov movie, a story with a beginning and an end but no
middle. Arkady
rewound and watched frame by frame. Ivanov's
upper body dropped from the top of the screen, shoulder hitched to take the
brunt of the fall. His
head folded from the force of the impact even as his legs entered the frame. Upper
and lower body collapsed into a ring of dust that exploded from the pavement. Pasha
Ivanov settled as the doors of the chase car swung open and, in slow motion,
the guards swam around his body. Arkady
watched to see whether any of the security team, while they were in the car and
before Ivanov came out of the sky, glanced up; then he watched for anything
like the saltshaker dropping with Ivanov or shaken loose by the force of the
fall. Nothing. And then he watched to see whether any of the guards picked up
anything afterward. No one did. They stood on the pavement, as useful as potted
plants.
The doorman on
duty kept looking up. He said, "I was in Special Forces, so I've seen
parachutes that didn't deploy and bodies you scraped off the ground, but
someone coming out of the sky here? And Ivanov, of all people. A good guy, I
have to say, a generous guy. But what if he'd hit the doorman, did he think
about that? Now a pigeon goes overhead and I duck." "Your
name?" Arkady asked. "Kuznetsov,
Grisha." Grisha still had the army stamp on him. Wary around officers. "You
were on duty two days ago?" "The
day shift. I wasn't here at night, when it happened, so I don't know what I can
tell you." "Just
walk me around, if you would." "Around
what?" "The
building, front to back." "For
a suicide? Why?" "Details." "Details,"
Grisha muttered as the traffic went by. He shrugged. "Okay." The
building was short-staffed on weekends, Grisha said, only him, the receptionist
and the passenger elevator man. Weekdays, there were two other men for repairs,
working the service door and service elevator, picking up trash. Housecleaners
on weekdays, too, if residents requested. Ivanov didn't. Everyone had been
vetted, of course. Security cameras covered the street, lobby, passenger
elevator and service alley. At the back of the lobby Grisha tapped in a code on
a keypad by a door with a sign that said staff only. The door eased open, and
Grisha led Arkady into an area that consisted of a changing room with lockers,
sink, microwave; toilet; mechanical room with furnace and hot-water heater;
repair shop where two older men Grisha identified as Fart A and Fart B were
intently threading a pipe; residents' storage area for rugs, skis and such,
ending in a truck bay. Every door had a keypad and a different code. Grisha
said, "You ought to go to NoviRus Security. Like an underground bunker.
They've got everything there: building layout, codes, the works." "Good
idea." NoviRus Security was the last place Arkady wanted to be. "Can
you open the bay?" Light
poured in as the gate rolled up, and Arkady found himself facing a service
alley wide enough to accommodate a moving van. Dumpsters stood along the brick
wall that was the back of shorter, older buildings facing the next street over.
There were, however, security cameras aimed at the alley from the bay where
Arkady and Grisha stood, and from the new buildings on either side. There was
also a green-and-black motorcycle standing under a No Parking sign. Something
about the way the doorman screwed up his face made Arkady ask,
"Yours?" "Parking
around here is a bitch. Sometimes I can find a place and sometimes I can't, but
the Farts won't let me use the bay. Excuse me." As they walked to the
bike, Arkady noticed a cardboard sign taped to the saddle: don't touch this
bike, I am watching you. Grisha borrowed a pen from Arkady and underlined
"watching." "That's better." "Quite
a machine." "A
Arkady
noticed a pedestrian door next to the bay. Each entry had a separate keypad.
"Do people park here?" "No,
the Farts are all over them, too." "Saturday,
when the mechanics weren't on duty?" "When
we're short-staffed? Well, we can't leave our post every time a car stops in
the alley. We give them ten minutes, and then we chase them out." "Did
that happen this Saturday?" "When
Ivanov jumped? I'm not on at night." "I
understand, but during your shift, did you or the receptionist notice anything
unusual in the alley?" Grisha
took a while to think. "No. Besides, the back is locked tight on
Saturdays. You'd need a bomb to get in." "Or
a code." "You'd
still be seen by the camera. We'd notice." "I'm
sure. You were in front?" "At
the canopy, yes." "People
were going in and out?" "Residents
and guests." "Anyone
carrying salt?" "How
much salt?" "Bags
and bags of salt." "No." "Ivanov
wasn't bringing home salt day after day? No salt leaking from his
briefcase?" "No." "I
have salt on the brain, don't I?" "Yeah."
Said slowly. "I
should do something about that."
The Arbat was a
promenade of outdoor musicians, sketch artists and souvenir stalls that sold
strands of amber, nesting dolls of peasant women, retro posters of Stalin. Dr.
Novotny's office was above a cybercafe. She told Arkady that she was about to
retire on the money she would make selling to developers who planned to put in
a Greek restaurant. Arkady liked the office as it was, a drowsy room with
overstuffed chairs and Kandinsky prints, bright splashes of color that could
have been windmills, bluebirds, cows. Novotny was a brisk seventy, her face a
mask of lines around bright dark eyes. "I
first saw Pasha Ivanov a little more than a year ago, the first week in May. He
seemed typical of our new entrepreneurs. Aggressive, intelligent, adaptable;
the last sort to seek psychotherapy. They are happy to send in their wives or
mistresses; it's popular for the women, like feng shui, but the men rarely come
in themselves. In fact, he missed his last four sessions, although he insisted
on paying for them." "Why
did he choose you?" "Because
I'm good." "Oh."
Arkady liked a woman who came straight to the point. "Ivanov
said he had trouble sleeping, which is always the way they start. They say they
want a pill to help them sleep, but what they want me to prescribe is a mood
elevator, which I am willing to do only as part of a broader therapy. We met
once a week. He was entertaining, highly articulate, possessed of enormous
self-confidence. At the same time, he was very secretive in certain areas, his
business dealings for one, and, unfortunately, whatever was the cause of
his..." "Depression
or fear?" Arkady asked. "Both,
if you need to put it that way. He was depressed, and he was afraid." "Did
he mention enemies?" "Not
by name. He said that ghosts were after him." Novotny opened a box of
cigars, took one, peeled off the cellophane and slipped the cigar band over her
finger. "I'm not saying that he believed in ghosts." "Aren't
you?" "No.
What I'm saying is that he had a past. A man like him gets to where he is by
doing many remarkable things, some of which he might later regret." Arkady
described the scene at Ivanov's apartment. The doctor said that the broken
mirror certainly could have been an expression of self-loathing, and jumping
from a window was a man's way out. ''However, the two most usual motives of
suicide for men are financial and emotional, often evidenced as atrophied
libido. Ivanov had wealth and a healthy sexual relationship with his friend
Rina." "He
used Viagra." "Rina
is much younger." "And
his physical health?" "For
a man his age, good." "He
didn't mention an infection or a cold?" "No." "Did
the subject of salt ever come up?" "No." "The
floor of his closet was covered with salt." "That
is interesting." "But
you say he recently missed some sessions." "A
month's worth, and sporadically before then." "Did
he mention any attempts on his life?" Novotny
turned the cigar band around her finger. "Not in so many words. He said he
had to stay a step ahead." "A
step ahead of ghosts, or someone real?" "Ghosts
can be very real. In Ivanov's case, however, I think he was pursued by both
ghosts and someone real." "Do
you think he was suicidal?" "Yes.
At the same time, he was a survivor." "Do
you think, considering everything, he killed himself?" "He
could have. Did he? You're the investigator." Her face shifted into a
sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help you more. Would you
like a cigar? It's Cuban." "No,
thank you. Do you smoke?" "When
I was a girl, all the modern, interesting women smoked cigars. You'd look good
with a cigar. One more thing, Investigator. I got the impression that there was
a cyclical nature to Ivanov's bouts of depression. Always in the spring, always
early in May. In fact, right after May Day. But I must confess, May Day always
deeply depressed me, too."
It wasn't easy
to find an unfashionable restaurant among the Irish pubs and sushi bars in the
center of Victor
said, "Dr. Toptunova said she didn't autopsy suicides. I asked her, 'What
about your curiosity, your professional pride? What about poisons or
psychotropic drugs?' She said they'd have to do biopsies, tests, waste the
precious resources of the state. We agreed on fifty dollars. I figure Hoffman
is good for that." "Toptunova
is a butcher." Arkady really didn't want to look at the pictures. "You
don't find Louis Pasteur doing autopsies for the militia. Thank God she
operates on the dead. Anyway, she says Ivanov broke his neck. Fuck your mother,
I could have told them that. And if it hadn't been his neck, it would have been
his skull. Drugwise, he was clean, although she thought he had ulcers from the
condition of his stomach. There was one odd thing. In his stomach? Bread and
salt." "Salt?" "A
lot of salt and just enough bread to get it down." "She
didn't mention anything about his complexion?" "What
was to mention? It was mainly one big bruise. I questioned the doorman and
lobby receptionist again. They have the same story: no problems, no breach.
Then some guy with dachshunds tried to pick me up. I showed him my ID to shake
him up, you know, and he says, 'Oh, are they having another security check?'
Saturday the building staff shut down the elevator and went to every apartment
to check who was in. The guy was still upset. His dachshunds couldn't wait and
had a little accident." "Which
means there was a breach. When did they do this check?" Victor
consulted his notebook. "Eleven-ten in the morning at his place. He's on
the ninth floor, and I think they worked their way down." "Good
work." Arkady couldn't imagine who would want to pick up Victor, but
applause was indicated. "A
different subject." Victor laid down a picture of two buckets and mops.
"These I found in the lobby of the building across from Ivanov's.
Abandoned, but the name of the cleaning service was on them, and I found who
left them. Vietnamese. They didn't see Ivanov dive; they ran when they saw
militia cars, because they're illegals." Menial
tasks that Russians wouldn't do, Vietnamese would. They came as "guest
workers" and went into hiding when their visas expired. Their wardrobe was
the clothes on their back, their accommodations a workers' hostel, their family
connection the money they sent home once a month. Arkady could understand
laborers who slipped into the golden tent of "There's
more." Victor picked macaroni off his chest. The detective had changed his
gray sweater for one of caterpillar orange. He licked his fingers clean,
gathered the photos and replaced them with a file that said in red: not to be
removed from this office. "Dossiers
on the four attempts on Ivanov's life. This is rich. First attempt was a
doorway shooting here in "Second
attempt is hearsay, but everyone swears it's true. Ivanov rigged an auction for
some ships in "Third:
Ivanov took the train to "Fourth,
and this is the best: Ivanov is in the South of France with friends. They're
all zipping back and forth on Jet Skis, the way rich people carry on. Hoffman
gets on Ivanov's Jet Ski, and it sinks. It flips upside down, and guess what's
stuck to the bottom, a little limpet of plastique ready to explode. The French
police had to clear the harbor. See, that's what gives Russian tourists a bad
name." "Who
were Ivanov's friends?" Arkady asked. "Leonid
Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch, his very best friends. And one of them probably
tried to kill him." "Was
there an investigation?" "Are
you joking? You know our chances of even saying hello to any of these
gentlemen? Anyway, that was three years ago, and nothing has happened
since." "Fingerprints?" "Worst
for last. We got prints off all the drinking glasses. Just Ivanov's,
Timofeyev's, Zurin's and the girl's." "What
about Pasha's mobile phone? He always had a mobile phone." "We're
not positive." "Find
the mobile phone. Ivanov's driver said he had one." "While
you're doing what?" "Colonel
Ozhogin has arrived." "The
Colonel Ozhogin?" "That's
right." Victor
saw things in a different light. "I'll look for the mobile phone." "The
head of NoviRus Security wants to consult." "He
wants to consult your balls on a toothpick. If Ivanov was pushed, how does that
make the head of security look? Did you ever see Ozhogin wrestle? I saw him in
an all-republic tournament – he broke his opponent's arm. You could hear it
snap across the hall. You know, even if we did find a mobile phone, Ozhogin
would take it away. He answers to Timofeyev now. The king is dead, long live
the king." Victor lit a cigarette as a digestif. "The thing about
capitalism, it seems to me, is, a business partner has the perfect combination
of motive and opportunity for murder. Oh hey, I got something for you."
Victor came up with a plastic phone card. "What's
this for? A free call?" Arkady knew that Victor had strange ways of
sharing a bill. "No.
Well, I don't know, but what it's great for..." Victor jimmied the card
between two fingers. "Locks. Not dead bolts, but you'd be amazed. I got
one, and I got one for you, too. Put it in your wallet." "Almost
like money." Two
young men settled at the next table with bowls of ravioli. They wore the
jackets and stringy ties of office workers. They also had the shaved skulls and
scabby knuckles of skinheads, which meant they might be office drudges during
the day, but at night they led an intoxicating life of violence patterned on
Nazi storm troopers and British hooligans. One
gave Arkady a glare and said, "What are you looking at? What are you, a
pervert?" Victor
brightened. "Hit him, Arkady. Go ahead, hit the punk, I'll back you
up." "No,
thanks," Arkady said. "A
little fisticuffs, a little dustup," Victor said. "Go on, you can't
let him talk like that. We're a block from headquarters, you'll let the whole
side down." "If
he doesn't, he's a queer," the skinhead said. "If
you won't, I will." Victor started to rise. Arkady
pulled him back by his sleeve. "Let it go." "You've
gone soft, Arkady, you've changed." "I
hope so."
Ozhogin's office
was minimalist: a glass desk, steel chairs, gray
tones. A full-size model of a samurai in black lacquered armor, mask and horns
stood in a corner. The colonel himself, although he was packaged in a tailored
shirt and silk tie, still had the heavy shoulders and small waist of a
wrestler. After having Arkady sit, Ozhogin let the tension percolate. Colonel
Ozhogin actually had two pedigrees. First, he was a wrestler from The
colonel slid a form and clipboard across the desk. "What's
this?" Arkady asked. "Take
a look." The
form was a NoviRus employment application, with spaces for name, age, sex,
marriage status, address, military service, education, advanced degrees.
Applying for: banking, investment fund, brokerage, gas, oil, media, marine,
forest resources, minerals, security, translation and interpreting. The group was
especially interested in applicants fluent in English, MS Office, Excel;
familiar with Reuters, Bloomberg, RTS; IT literate; with advanced degrees in
sciences, accounting, interpreting/translation, law or combat skills; under
thirty-five a plus. Arkady had to admit, he wouldn't have hired himself. He
pushed the form back. "No, thanks." "You
don't want to fill it out? That's disappointing." "Why?" "Because
there are two possible reasons for you being here. A good reason would be that
you've finally decided to join the private sector. A bad reason would be that
you won't leave Pasha Ivanov's death alone. Why are you trying to turn a
suicide into a homicide?" "I'm
not. Prosecutor Zurin asked me to look into this for Hoffman, the
American." "Who
got the idea from you that there was something to find." Ozhogin paused,
obviously working up to a delicate subject. "How do you think it makes
NoviRus Security look if people get the idea we can't protect the head of our
own company?" "If
he took his own life, you can hardly be blamed." "Unless
there are questions." "I
would like to talk to Timofeyev." "That's
out of the question." Besides
an open laptop, the sole item on the desk was a metal disk levitating over
another disk in a box. Magnets. The floating disk trembled with every forceful
word. Arkady
began, "Zurin –" "Prosecutor
Zurin? Do you know how all this began, what your investigation of NoviRus was
all about? It was a shakedown. Zurin just wanted to be enough of a nuisance to be
paid off, and not even in money. He wanted to get on the board of directors.
And I'm sure he'll be an excellent director. But it was extortion, and you were
part of it. What would people think of the honest Investigator Renko if they
heard how you had helped your chief? What would happen to your precious
reputation then?" "I
didn't know I had one." "Of
a sort. You should fill out the application. Do you know that over fifty
thousand KGB and militia officers have joined private security firms? Who's
left in the militia? The dregs. I had your friend Victor researched. It's in
his file that on one stakeout he was so drunk, he went to sleep and pissed in
his pants. Maybe you'll end up like that." Arkady
glanced out the window. They were on the fifteenth floor of the NoviRus
building, with a view of office towers under construction; the skyline of the
future. "Look
behind you," Ozhogin said. Arkady turned to take in the samurai armor and
helmet with mask and horns. "What does that look like to you?" "A
giant beetle?" "A
samurai warrior. When "Not
this morning, no. Missed it." "There
was a considerable obituary for Pasha Ivanov. The Post called Pasha a
'linchpin figure' in Russian business. Have you considered the effect a rumor
of homicide would have? It would not only harm NoviRus, it would damage every
Russian company and bank that has struggled to escape "No." "I
didn't think so. And as for your financial investigation of NoviRus, didn't the
fact that Zurin chose you as investigator suggest to you that he wasn't
serious?" "It
crossed my mind." "It's
laughable. A pair of worn-out criminal detectives against an army of financial
wizards." "It
doesn't sound fair." "Now
that Pasha is dead, it's time to let go. Call it a draw if you want. Pasha
Ivanov came to a sorry end. Why? I don't know. It's a great loss. However, he
never asked for any increase in security. I interviewed the building staff.
There was no breach." Ozhogin leaned closer, a hammer taking aim on a
nail, Arkady thought. "If there was no breach in security, then there's
nothing to investigate. Is that clear enough for you?" "There
was salt –" "I
heard about the salt. What sort of attack is that? The salt is an indication of
a mental breakdown, pure and simple." "Unless
there was a breach." "I
just told you there wasn't." "That's
what investigations are for." "Are
you saying there was a breach?" "It's
possible. Ivanov died under strange circumstances." Ozhogin
edged closer. "Are you suggesting that NoviRus Security was, to any
degree, responsible for Ivanov's death?" Arkady
picked his words carefully. "Building security wasn't all that
sophisticated. No card swipes or voice or palm ID, just codes, nothing like the
security at the offices here. And a skeleton crew on weekends." "Because
Ivanov moved into an apartment meant for his friend Rina. She designed it. He
didn't want any changes. Nevertheless, we staffed the building with our men,
put in unobtrusive keypads, fed the surveillance cameras to our own monitors
here at NoviRus Security and, any hour he was home, parked a security team in
front. There was nothing more we could do. Besides, Pasha never mentioned a
threat." "That's
what we'll investigate." Ozhogin
brought his brows together, perplexed. He had pushed his opponent's head
through the wrestling mat, but the match went on. "You're stopping
now." "It's
up to Hoffman to call it off." "He'll
do what you say. Tell him that you're satisfied." "There's
something missing." "What?" "I
don't know." "You
don't know, you don't know." Ozhogin reached out and tapped the disk so it
fluttered in the air. "Who's the boy?" "What
boy?" "You
took a boy to the park." "You're
watching me." Ozhogin
seemed saddened by such naivetй in a Russian. He said, "Pack it in, Renko.
Tell your fat American friend that Pasha Ivanov committed suicide. Then why
don't you come back and fill out the form?"
Arkady found
Rina curled up in a bathrobe in Ivanov's screening room, a vodka bottle hanging
from one hand and a cigarette from the other. Her hair was wet and clung to her
head, making her appear even more childlike than usual. On the screen Pasha
rose in the elevator, floor by floor, briefcase clasped to his chest,
handkerchief to his face. He seemed exhausted, as if he had climbed a hundred
stories. When the doors parted, he looked back at the camera. The system had a
zoom capacity. Rina froze and magnified Pasha's face so that it filled the
screen, his hair lank, his cheeks almost powdery white, his black eyes sending
their obscure message. "That
was for me. That was his good-bye." Rina shot Arkady a glance. "You
don't believe me. You think it's romantic bullshit." "At
least half of what I believe is romantic bullshit, so I'm not one to criticize.
Anything else?" "He
was sick. I don't know with what. He wouldn't see a doctor." Rina put down
her cigarette and pulled the robe tight. "The elevator operator let me in.
Your detective was going out as I came in, looking pleased with himself." "A
gruesome image." "I
heard Bobby hired you." "He
offered to. I didn't know the market price for an investigator." "You're
no Pasha, He would have known." "I
tried to reach Timofeyev. He's not available. I suppose he's picking up the
reins of the company, taking charge." "He's
no Pasha, either. You know, business in Arkady
took the seat beside her and relieved her of the vodka. "You designed this
apartment for him?" "I
designed it for both of us, but all of a sudden, Pasha said I shouldn't
stay." "You
never moved in?" "Lately
Pasha wouldn't even let me in the door. At first I thought there was another
woman. But he didn't want anyone here. Not Bobby, no one." Rina wiped her
eyes. "He became paranoid. I'm sorry I'm so stupid." "Not
a bit." The
robe fell open again, and she pushed herself back in. "I like you,
Investigator. You don't look. You have manners." Arkady
had manners, but he was also aware of how loosely tied the robe was. "Did
you know of any recent business setback? Anything financial that could have
been on his mind?" "Pasha
was always making deals. And he didn't mind losing money now and then. He said
it was the price of education." "Anything
else medical? Depression?" "We
didn't have sex for the last month, if that counts. I don't know why. He just
stopped." She stubbed out one cigarette and started another off Arkady's.
"You're probably wondering how a nobody like me and someone as rich and
famous as Pasha could meet. How would you guess?" "You're
an interior designer. I suppose you designed something for him besides this
apartment." "Don't
be silly. I was a prostitute. Design student and prostitute, a person of many
talents. I was in the bar at the Savoy Hotel. It's a fancy place, and you have
to fit in, you can't just sit there like any whore. I was pretending to carry
on a mobile-phone conversation when Pasha came over and asked for my number so
I could talk to someone real. Then, from across the bar, he called. I thought,
What a big ugly Jew. He was, you know. But he had so much energy, so much
charm. He knew everybody, he knew things. He asked about my interests – the
usual stuff, you know, but he really listened, and he even knew about design.
Then he asked how much I owed my roof – you know, my pimp – because Pasha said
he would pay him off, set me up in an apartment and pay for design school. He
was serious. I asked him why, and he said because he could see I was a good
person. Would you do that? Would you bet on someone like that?" "I
don't think so." "Well,
that was Pasha." She took a long draw on her cigarette. "How
old are you now?" "Twenty." "And
you met Pasha..." "Three
years ago. When we were talking on the phone at the bar, I asked if he
preferred a redhead, because I could be that, too. He said life was too short,
I should be whatever I was." The
longer Arkady stared at the screen, at Pashas hesitation on the threshold of
his apartment, the less he looked like a man afraid of a black mood. He seemed
to dread something more substantial waiting for him. "Did
Pasha have enemies?" "Naturally.
Maybe hundreds, but nothing serious." "Death
threats?" "Not
from anyone worth worrying about." "There
were attempts in the past." "That's
what Colonel Ozhogin is for. Pasha did say one thing. He said he had once done
something long ago that was really bad and that I wouldn't love him if I knew.
That was the drunkest I ever saw him. He wouldn't tell me what and he never
mentioned it again." "Who
did know?" "I
think Lev Timofeyev knew. He said no, but I could tell. It was their
secret." "How
they stripped investors of their money?" "No."
Her voice tightened. "Something awful. He was always worse around May Day.
I mean, who cares about May Day anymore?" She wiped her eyes with her
sleeve. "Why don't you think he killed himself?" "I
don't think one way or the other; I just haven't come across a good enough
reason for him to. Ivanov was clearly not a man who frightened easily." "See,
even you admired him." "Do
you know Leonid Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch?" "Of
course. They're two of our best friends. We have good times together." "They're
busy men, I'm sure, but can you think of any way I could talk to them? I could
try official channels, but to be honest, they know more officials than I
do." "No
problem. Come to the party." "What
party?" "Every
year Pasha threw a party out at the dacha. It's tomorrow. Everyone will be
there." "Pasha
is dead and you're still having the party?" "Pasha
founded the Blue Sky Charity for children. It depends financially on the party,
so everyone knows that Pasha would want the party to go on." Arkady
had come across Blue Sky during the investigation. Its operating expenses were
minute compared to other Ivanov ventures, and he had assumed it was a fraud.
"How does this party raise money?" "You'll
see. I'll put you on the list, and tomorrow you'll see everyone who's anyone in
"I
don't look like a millionaire?" She
shifted, the better to see him. "No, you definitely look like an
investigator. I can't have you stalking around, not good for a party mood. But
many people will bring their children. Can you bring a child? You must know a
child." "I
might." Arkady
turned on the chair's light for her to write directions in. She did it
studiously, pressing hard, and, as soon as she was done, turned off the light. "I
think I'll stay here by myself for a while. What's your name again?" "Renko." "No,
I mean your name." "Arkady." She
repeated it, seeming to try it out and find it acceptable. As he rose to go,
she brushed his hand with hers. "Arkady, I take it back. You do remind me
of Pasha a tiny bit." "Thank
you," said Arkady. He didn't ask whether she was referring to the
brilliant, gregarious Pasha or the Pasha facedown on the street. Arkady
and Victor had a late dinner at a car-wash cafй on the highway. Arkady liked
the place because it looked like a space station of chrome and glass, with
headlights flying by like comets. The food was fast, the beer was German and
something worthwhile was being attempted: Victor's car was being washed. Victor
drove a forty-year-old Lada with loose wiring underfoot and a radio wired to
the dash, but he could repair it himself with spare parts available in any
junkyard, and no self-respecting person would steal it. There was something
smug and miserly about Victor when he drove, as if he had figured out one
bare-bones sexual position. Among the ranks of Mercedeses, Porsches and BMWs
being hosed and buffed, Victor's Lada was singular. Victor
drank Armenian brandy to maintain his blood sugar. He liked the cafй because it
was popular with the different Mafias. They were Victor's acquaintances, if not
his friends, and he liked to keep track of their comings and goings. "I've
arrested three generations of the same family. Grandfather, father, son. I feel
like Uncle Victor." Two
identical black Pathfinders showed up and disgorged similar sets of beefy
passengers in jogging suits. They glared at each other long enough to maintain
dignity before sauntering into the cafй. Victor
said, "It's neutral ground because nobody wants his car scratched. That's
their mentality. Your mentality, on the other hand, is even more warped. Making
work out of an open-and-shut suicide? I don't know. Investigators are supposed
to just sit on their ass and leave real work to their detectives. They last
longer, too." "I've
lasted too long." "Apparently.
Well, cheer up, I have a little gift for you, something I found under Ivanov's
bed." Victor placed a mobile phone, a Japanese clamshell model, on the
table. "Why
were you under the bed?" "You
have to think like a detective. People place things on the edge of the bed all
the time. They drop, and people kick them under the bed and never notice, especially
if they're in a hurry or in a sweat." "How
did Ozhogin's crew miss this?" "Because
everything they wanted was in the office." Arkady
suspected that Victor just liked to look under beds. "Thank you. Have you
looked at it yet?" "I
took a peek. Go ahead, open it up." Victor sat back as if he'd brought
bonbons. The
mobile phone's introductory chime drew no attention from other tables; in a
space-age cafй, a mobile phone was as normal as a knife or fork. Arkady went
through the call history to Saturday evenings outgoing calls to Rina and Bobby
Hoffman; the incoming calls were from Hoffman, Rina and Timofeyev. A
little phone, and yet so much information: a wireless message concerning an
Ivanov tanker foundering off Victor
copied the names into a notepad. "What a world these people live in.
Here's a number that gives you the weather in Arkady
punched "Messages." There
was one at 9:33 p.m. from a "A
man of few words. Familiar?" Arkady handed the phone to Victor. The
detective listened and shook his head. "A tough guy. From the South, you
can hear the soft O's. But I can't hear well enough. All the people talking
here. Glasses tinkling." "If
anyone can do it..." Victor
listened again, the mobile phone pressed tight to his ear, until he smiled like
a man who had identified one wine from a million. "Anton. Anton
Obodovsky." Arkady
knew Anton. He could imagine Anton throwing someone out a window. The
tension was too great for Victor. "Got to pee." Arkady
sat alone, nursing his beer. Another crew in jogging suits pushed into the
cafй, as if the roads were full of surly sportsmen. Arkady's gaze kept
returning to the mobile phone. It would be interesting to know whether the
phone Anton had called from was within fifteen minutes of Ivanov's apartment.
It was a landline number. He knew he should wait for Victor, but the detective
could take half an hour just to avoid the bill. Arkady
picked up the mobile phone and pushed "Reply to Message." Ten
rings. "Guards
room." Arkady
sat up. "Guards' room? Where?" "Butyrka.
Who is this?"
By the time
Victor returned, Arkady was outside in the Lada, which proved unredeemed by
soap. A wind bent the advertising banners along the highway and snapped the
canvas. Each car that buzzed past rocked the Lada. Victor
got behind the wheel. "I'll drive you back to your car. You paid the whole
thing? What a friend!" "You
know, with the money you've saved eating with me, you could buy a new
car." "Come
on, I'm worth it, getting the mobile phone and sharing my repository of
knowledge. My head is a veritable Lenin Library." Mice
and all, Arkady thought. As Victor pulled onto the highway, Arkady told him
about the return call to Anton, which amused the detective immensely. "Butyrka!
Now, there's an alibi." Chapter FourThe
address on Butyrka Street was a five-story building of aluminum windows, busted
shades and dead geraniums, ordinary in every way except for the line that
snaked along the sidewalk: Gypsies in brilliant scarves, Chechens in black and
Russians in thin leather jackets, mutually hostile as groups but alike in their
forlorn bearing and the parcels that, one by one, they dutifully submitted at a
steel door for the thousands of souls hidden on the other side. Arkady
showed his ID at the door and passed through a barred gate to the
underbelly of the building, a tunnel where guards in military fatigues lounged
with their dogs, Alsatians that constantly referred to their handlers for
orders. Let this one pass. Take this one down. The far end opened onto the
morning light and – totally hidden from the street – a fairy-tale fortress with
red walls and towers surrounded by a whitewashed courtyard; all that was
missing was a moat. Not quite a fairy tale, more a nightmare. Butyrka Prison
had been built by Catherine the Great, and for over two hundred years since,
every ruler of Since
Butyrka was a pretrial prison, investigators were a common sight. Arkady
followed a guard through a receiving hall where new arrivals, boys as pale as
plucked chickens, were stripped and thrown their prison clothes. Wide eyes
fixed on the hall's ancient coffin cells, barely deep enough to sit in, a good
place for a monk's mortification and an excellent way to introduce the horror
of being buried alive. Arkady
climbed marble stairs swaybacked from wear. Nets stretched between railings to
discourage jumping and passing notes. On the second floor, light crept from low
windows and gave the impression of sinking, or eyelids shutting. The guard led
Arkady along a row of ancient black doors with iron patchwork, each with a
panel for food and a peephole for observation. "I'm
new here. I think it's this one," the guard said. "I think." Arkady
swung a peephole tag out of the way. On the other side of the door were fifty
men in a cell designed for twenty. They were sniffers, lifters, petty thieves.
They slept in shifts in the murk of a caged lightbulb and a barred window.
There was no circulation, no fresh air, only the stench of sweat, pearl
porridge, cigarettes and shit in the single toilet. In the heat they generated,
everyone stripped to the waist, young ones virginally white, veterans blue with
tattoos. A tubercular cough and a whisper hung in the air. A few heads turned
to the blink of the peephole, but most simply waited. A man could wait nine
months in Butyrka before he saw a judge. "No?
This one?" The guard motioned Arkady to the next door. Arkady
peeked into the cell. It was the same size as the other but held a single
occupant, a bodybuilder with short bleached-blond hair and a taut black
T-shirt. He was exercising with elastic bands that were attached to a bunk bed
bolted to the wall, and every time he curled a bicep, the bed groaned. "This
is it," Arkady said.
Anton Obodovsky
was a Mafia success story. He had been a Master of Sport, a so-so boxer in the "It's
the bankers who are the real thieves. People bring the money to you, you fuck
them and no one lays a hand on you. I make a hundred thousand dollars, but
bankers and politicians make millions. I'm a worm compared to them." "You're
doing pretty well," Arkady said. The cell had a television, tape player,
CDs. A Pizza Hut box lay under the bottom bunk. The top bunk was stacked with
car magazines, travel brochures, motivational tapes. "How long have you
been here?" "Three
nights. I wish we had satellite. The walls of this place are so thick, the
reception is shit." "Life
is tough." Anton
looked Arkady up and down. "Look at your raincoat. Have you been polishing
your car with that? You should hit the stores with me sometime. It makes me
feel bad that I'm better dressed inside prison than you are out." "I
can't afford to shop with you." "On
me. I can be a generous guy. Everything you see here, I pay for. Everything is legal.
They allow you anything but alcohol, cigarettes or mobile phones." Anton
had a restless, sharklike quality that made him pace. A man could get a stiff
neck just having a conversation with him, Arkady thought. "What's
the worst deprivation?" "I
don't drink or smoke, so for me it's phones." No one consumed phones like
the Mafia; they used stolen mobile phones to avoid being tapped, and a careful
man like Anton changed phones once a week. "You get dependent. It's kind
of a curse." "It's
led to the demise of the written word. You look in the pink." "I
work out. No drugs, no steroids, no hormones." "Cigarette?" "No,
thanks. I just told you, I keep myself strong and pure. I am a slave to
nothing. It's pitiful to see a man like you smoke." "I'm
weak." "Renko,
you've got to take care of yourself. Or other people. Think of the secondary
smoke." "All
right." Arkady put away the pack. He hated to see Anton get worked up.
There were actually three Antons. There was the violent Anton, who would snap
your neck as easily as shake your hand; there was Anton the rational
businessman; and there was the Anton whose eyes took an evasive course when
anything personal was discussed. Most of all, Arkady didn't like to see the
first Anton get excited. Anton
said, "I just think at your age, you shouldn't abuse your body." "At
my age?" "Look,
go fuck yourself, for all I care." "That's
more like it." A
smile crept onto Anton's lips. "See, I can talk to you. We
communicate." Arkady
and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton's prize cell was
available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka's ancient chamber
of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that
such a cell would obviously go to the highest bidder. Both also understood that
while the Mafia ruled the streets, a subcaste of tattooed, geriatric criminals
still ruled the prison yards. If Anton were stuck in an ordinary cell, he would
be a shark in a tank with a thousand piranhas. Anton
couldn't sit still without twitching a pec here, a deltoid there. "You're
a good guy, Renko. We may not see eye to eye, but you always treat a person
with respect. You speak English?" "Yes." Anton
picked up a copy of
Architectural Digest from the bunk and flipped to a picture of a western lodge
set against a mountain range. " "Can
you ride a horse?" "Is
that necessary?" "I
think so." "I
can learn. I'll give you the money. Cash. You go and negotiate, pay whatever
you think is fair. It could be a beautiful partnership. You have an honest
face." "I
appreciate the offer. Did you hear that Pasha Ivanov is dead?" "I
saw the news on television. He jumped, right? Ten stories, what a way to
go." "Did
you know him?" "Me
know Ivanov? That's like knowing God." "You
left a message on his mobile phone three nights ago about cutting off his dick.
That sounds like you knew him fairly well. It might even sound like a
threat." "I'm
not allowed a phone here, so how could I call?" "You
bribed a guard and called from the guards' room." Anton
got to his feet and threw punches as if hitting a heavy bag. "Well, like
they say, there's a crow in every flock." He stopped and shook out his
arms. "Anyway, if I called Pasha Ivanov, what about?" "Business.
Somebody has been jacking NoviRus Oil trucks and draining the tanks. It's
happening in your part of Anton
circled again, throwing jabs, crosses, uppercuts. He backed, covered up, seemed
to dodge a punch and then moved forward, rolling his shoulders and snapping
jabs while the cell got smaller and smaller. Anton may not have been a
champion, but when he was in motion, he took up a lot of room. Finally he dropped
his fists and blew air. "He has this prick in charge of security, a former
colonel from the KGB. They caught one of my boys with one of their trucks and
broke his legs. That's overreaction. It put me in a difficult situation. If I
didn't retaliate, my boys would break my legs. But I don't want a war. I'm sick
of that. Instead, I wanted to go straight to the top, and also make a point
about the colonel's bullshit security by calling Ivanov on his personal phone.
I said what I said. It was an opening line; maybe a little crude, but it was
meant to begin a dialogue. I have body shops, tanning salons, a restaurant. I'm
a respectable businessman. I would have loved to work with Pasha Ivanov, to
learn at his knee." "What
was the favor? What did you have to offer him?" "Protection." "Naturally." "Anyway,
I never got through and never saw him face-to-face. It seems to me, when Pasha
died I was right here, and that phone call proves it." "Pretty
lucky." "I
live right." Anton was modest. "What
did they pick you up for?" "Possession
of firearms." "That's
all?" A
firearms charge was nothing. Since Anton always had a lawyer, judge and bail
money standing by, there was no good reason for him to spend an hour in jail,
unless he was waiting for some bumbling investigator to come along and
officially mark how innocent Anton Obodovsky was. Arkady didn't want to provoke
the dangerous side of Anton, but he also didn't like being used. Anton
grabbed some travel brochures off the bunk. "Hey, as soon as I'm out, I'm
going on holiday. Where would you suggest? "You
want creature comforts? Quiet? Gourmet food?" "Yeah." "A
staff that caters to your every whim?" "Right!" "Why
not stay in Butyrka?"
• • •
Zhenya stared
like a manacled prisoner at what most people would have called an escape to the
country. The population of Arkady
wasn't clear on what good cause benefited from Pasha Ivanov's Blue Sky Charity picnic,
but he did not want to miss the millionaires Nikolai Kuzmitch and Leonid
Maximov. Such dear friends were sure to appear. After all, they had vacationed
with Pasha in "Maybe
there'll be swimming. I brought you a swimsuit just in case," Arkady said,
indicating a gift-wrapped box at the boy's feet. Up till now Zhenya had ignored
it. Now he began crushing it with his heels. Arkady usually kept a pistol in
the glove compartment. He'd had the foresight to remove the magazine; he patted
himself on the back for that. "Or maybe you're a dry-land kind of
man." Even
with cars weaving over the median and the shoulder of the road, traffic
advanced at a snail's pace. "It used to be worse," Arkady said.
"There used to be cars broken down by the side of the road all the way. No
driver left home without a screwdriver and hammer. We didn't know about cars,
but we knew about hammers." Zhenya delivered a last savage kick to the
box. "Also, windshields had so many cracks, you had to hold your head out
the window like a dog to see. What's your favorite car? Maserati?
Moskvich?" A long pause. "My father used to take me down this same
road in a big Zil. There were only two lanes then, and hardly any traffic. We
played chess as we went, although I was never as good as you. Mostly I did
puzzles." A Arkady
hoped the boy might mention a car that could somehow be traced, but Zhenya sank
into his jacket and pulled his cap low. On the side of the road stretched a
memorial of tank traps in the form of giant jacks, marking the closest advance
of the Germans into "There'll
be other kids," Arkady promised. "Games, music, food." Every
card Arkady played was trumped by scorn. He had seen parents in this sort of
quagmire – where every suggestion was a sign of idiocy and no question in the
Russian language merited response – and Arkady, for all the sympathy he
mustered, had always delivered a sigh of relief that he was not the adult on
the cross. So he wasn't quite sure why, now, an unmarried specimen like himself
should have to suffer such contempt. Sociologists were concerned about "It'll
be fun," Arkady said.
Finally Arkady
reached a suburb of fitness clubs, espresso bars, tanning salons. The dachas
here were not traditional cabins with weepy roofs and ramshackle gardens but
prefabricated mansions with Greek columns and swimming pools and security
cameras. Where the road narrowed to a country lane, Ivanov's security guards
waved him to the shoulder behind a line of hulking SUVs. Arkady had on the same
shabby raincoat, and Zhenya looked like a hostage, but the guards found their
names on a list. So as infiltrators, Arkady and Zhenya went through an iron
gate to a dead man's lawn party. The
theme was Outer Space. Pink ponies and blue llamas carried small children
around a ring. A juggler juggled moons. A magician twisted balloons into
Martian dogs. Artists decorated children's faces with sparkle and paint, while
a Venusian, elongated by his planet's weak gravity, strode by on stilts.
Toddlers played under an inflated spaceman tethered to the ground by ropes, and
larger children lined up for tennis and badminton or low-gravity swings on
bungee cables. The guest list was spectacular: broad-shouldered Olympic
swimmers, film stars with carefully disarranged hair, television actors with
dazzling teeth, rock musicians behind dark glasses, famous writers with
wine-sack bellies overhanging their jeans. Arkady's own heart skipped a beat
when he recognized former cosmonauts, heroes of his youth, obviously hired for
the day just for show. Yet the dominating spirit was Pasha Ivanov. A photograph
was set near the entrance gate and hung with a meadow garland of sweet peas and
daisies. It was of a buoyant Ivanov mugging between two circus clowns, and it
as good as gave his guests orders to play, not grieve. The photograph couldn't
have been taken too long before his death, but its subject was so much more
impish and alive than the recent man that it served as a warning to enjoy
life's every moment. The guards at the gate must have phoned ahead, because
Arkady felt a ripple of attention follow his progress through the partygoers,
and the repositioning of men with wires in their ears. Children sticky from
cotton candy raced back and forth. Men collected at grills that served shashlik
of sturgeon and beef in front of Ivanov's dacha, ten times the normal size but
at least a Russian design, not a hijacked Parthenon. A DJ played Russian bubble
gum on one stage, while karaoke ruled a second. Separate bars served champagne,
Johnnie Walker, Courvoisier. The wives were tall, slim women in Italian
fashions and cowboy boots of alligator and ostrich. They positioned themselves
at tables where they could watch both their children and their husbands and
anxiously track a younger generation of even taller, slimmer women filtering
through the crowd. Timofeyev was in a food line with Prosecutor Zurin, who
expectantly scanned the crowd like a periscope. It was not a positive sign that
he looked everywhere but at Arkady. Timofeyev appeared pale and sweaty for a
man about to inherit the reins of the entire NoviRus company. Farther on, Bobby
Hoffman, already yesterday's American, stood alone and nibbled a plate
overheaped with food. An outdoor casino had been set up, and even from a
distance Arkady recognized Nikolai Kuzmitch and Leonid Maximov. They were
youngish men in modest jeans, no Mafia black, no ostentatious gold. The
croupiers appeared real, and so did the chips, but Kuzmitch and Maximov hunched
over the baize like boys at play. Arkady
had to admit that what often distinguished New Russians was youth and brains.
An unusual number of them had been the protйgйs and darlings of prestigious
academies that had gone suddenly bankrupt, and rather than starve among the
ruins, they rebuilt the world with themselves as millionaires, each a biography
of genius and pluck. They saw themselves as the robber barons of the American
Wild West, and didn't someone say that every great fortune started with a
crime? Kuzmitch,
as a student at the The
best example of all had been Pasha Ivanov, a physicist, the pet of the This
was the closest Arkady had ever come to the magic circle of the super-rich, and
he was fascinated in spite of himself. However, Zhenya was miserable. When
Arkady looked at the party through Zhenya's eyes, all color drained. Every
other child was wealthier in parents and self-assurance; a shelter boy was, by
definition, abandoned. The masquerade Arkady had planned was revealing itself
as a cruel and stupid trial. No matter how spiteful or uncommunicative Zhenya
was, he didn't deserve this. "Going
already?" Timofeyev asked. "My
friend isn't feeling well." Arkady nodded at Zhenya. "What
a shame, to be so young and not to enjoy good health." Timofeyev made a
weak effort at a smile. He sniffed and clutched a handkerchief at the ready.
Arkady noticed brown spots on his shirt. "I should have started a charity
like this. I should have done more. Did you know that Pasha and I grew up
together? We went to the same schools, the same scientific institute.
But our tastes were entirely different. I was never the ladies' man. More into
sports. For example, Pasha had a dachshund, and I had wolfhounds." "You
don't anymore?" "Unfortunately,
no, I couldn't. I... What I told the investigation was that we did the best we
could, given the information we had." "What
investigation?" Not Arkady's. "Pasha
said that it wasn't a matter of guilt or innocence, that sometimes a man's life
was simply a chain reaction." "Guilt
for what?" Arkady liked specifics. "Do
I look like a monster to you?" "No."
Arkady thought that Lev Timofeyev may have helped build a financial giant
through corruption and theft, but he was not necessarily a monster. What
Timofeyev looked like was a once hale sportsman who seemed to be shrinking in
his own clothes. Perhaps it was grief over the death of his best friend, but
his pallor and sunken cheeks suggested to Arkady the bloom of disease and,
maybe, fear. Pasha had always been the swashbuckler of the two, although Arkady
remembered that Rina had mentioned some secret crime in the past. "Does
this involve Pasha?" "We
were trying to help. Anyone with the same information would have drawn an
identical conclusion." "Which
was?" "Matters
were in hand, things were under control. We sincerely thought they were." "What
matters?" Arkady was at a loss. Timofeyev seemed to have switched to an
entirely different track. "The
letter said apologize personally, face-to-face. Who would that be?" "Do
you have it?" Rina
called out from the casino. She shone in a silver jumpsuit in the spirit of the
day. "Arkady, are you missing someone?" Zhenya
had vanished from Arkady's side only to reappear at the gaming tables. There
were tables for poker and blackjack, but Rina's friends had opted for classic
roulette, and there Zhenya stood, clutching his book and dourly assessing each
bet as it was placed. Arkady excused himself to Timofeyev with a promise to
return. "I
want you to meet my friends, Nikolai and Leo," Rina whispered. "They
are so much fun, and they're losing so much money. At least they were until
your little friend arrived." Nikolai
Kuzmitch, who had cornered the nickel market, was a short, rapid-fire type who
placed straight-up and corner bets all over the baize. Leonid Maximov, the
vodka king, was heavyset, with a cigar. He was more deliberate – a
mathematician, after all – and played the simple progression system that had
ruined Dostoyevsky: doubling and redoubling on red, red, red, red, red. If the
two men lost ten or twenty thousand dollars on a bounce of the roulette ball,
it was for charity and only gained respect. In fact, as the chips were raked
in, losing itself became feverishly competitive, a sign of panache – that is,
until Zhenya had taken a post between the two millionaires. With every
flamboyant bet, Zhenya gave Kuzmitch the sort of pitying glance one would
bestow upon an idiot, and every unimaginative double on red by Maximov drew
from Zhenya a sigh of disdain. Maximov moved his chips to black, and Zhenya
smirked at his inconstancy; Maximov repositioned them on black, and Zhenya,
with no change in expression, seemed to roll his eyes. "Unnerving
little boy, isn't he?" Rina said. "He's almost brought the game to a
standstill." "He
has that power," Arkady admitted. He noticed that, in the meantime,
Timofeyev had slipped into the crowd. Kuzmitch
and Maximov quit the table in disgust, but they put on matching smiles for Rina
and a welcome for Arkady that said they had nothing to fear from an
investigator; they had been buying and selling investigators for years. Kuzmitch
said, "Rina tells us that you're helping tie up the loose ends about
Pasha. That's good. We want people reassured. Russian business is into a whole
new phase. The rough stuff is out." Maximov agreed. Arkady was put in mind
of carnivores swearing off red meat. Not that they were Mafia. A man was
expected to know how to defend himself and own a private army if need be. But
it was a phase, and now that they had their fortunes, they firmly advocated law
and order. Arkady
asked whether Ivanov had mentioned any anxieties or threats or new names,
avoided anyone, referred to his health. No, the two said, except that Ivanov
had not been himself lately. "Did
he mention salt?" "No." Maximov
unplugged his cigar to say, "When I heard about Pasha, I was devastated.
We were competitors, but we respected and liked each other." Kuzmitch
said, "Ask Rina. Pasha and I would fight over business all day and then
party like best friends all night." "We
even vacationed together," Maximov said. "Like
They
winced as if he had added something unpleasant to the punch. Arkady noticed Colonel
Ozhogin arrive and whisper into Prosecutor Zurin's ear. Guards started to move
in the direction of the roulette table, and Arkady sensed that his time among
the elite was limited. Kuzmitch said that he was piloting his plane to "They're
like a boys' club," she told Arkady. "Greedy little boys." "And
Pasha?" "President
of the club." "Rina
straightened him out," Kuzmitch said. "If
I could meet a woman like Rina, I would settle down, too," said Maximov.
"As it is, all this wine, women and song could be fatal." "Where
were you when you heard about Pasha's death?" Arkady asked. "I
was playing squash. My trainer will tell you. I sat down on the floor of the
court and cried." Kuzmitch
said, "I was in "All
these questions. It was suicide, wasn't it?" Maximov said. "Tragically,
yes." Zurin slipped up to the table. He held Zhenya firmly by the
shoulder. "My office looked into matters, but there was no reason for an
investigation. Just a tragic event." "Then
why..." Kuzmitch glanced at Arkady. "Thoroughness.
But I think I can assure you, there will no more questions now. Could you
excuse us, please? I need a word with my investigator." " "Give
this man a day off," Maximov told Zurin. "He's working too
hard." The
prosecutor steered Arkady away. "Having a good time? How did you get
in?" "I
was invited, me and my friend." Arkady took Zhenya… "To
ask questions and spread rumors?" "You
know what rumor I heard?" "What
would that be?" Zurin kept Arkady and Zhenya moving. "I
heard they made you a company director. They found you a chair in the
boardroom, and now you're earning your keep." Zurin
steered Arkady a little faster. "Now you've done it. Now you've gone too
far." Ozhogin
caught up and gripped Arkady's shoulder with a wrestler's thumb that pressed to
the bone. "Renko, you'll have to learn manners if you ever want to work
for NoviRus Security." The colonel patted Zhenya on the head, and Zhenya clenched
Arkady's hand in a hard little knot. "How
dare you come here?" Zurin demanded. "You
told me to ask questions." "Not
at a charity event." "You
know the disk that Hoffman was holding out on us?" Ozhogin let Arkady peek
at a shiny CD. "Ah,
that must be it," Arkady said. "Are you breaking arms today, or
legs?" "Your
investigation is over," Zurin said. "To sneak into a party and drag
in some homeless boy is inexcusable." "Does
this mean I will be reassigned?" "This
means disciplinary action," Zurin said wearily, as if setting down a heavy
stone. "This means you're done." Arkady
felt done. He also felt he might have gone a little too far with Zurin. Even
sellouts had their pride. Back
he and Zhenya went, away from the circle of important men, past the cosmonauts,
cotton candy and smoky grills, the telegenic faces and blue llamas and aliens
on stilts. A rocket shot up from the tennis court, rose high into the blue sky
and exploded into a shower of paper flowers. By the time the last of the petals
had drifted down, Arkady and Zhenya were out the gate. Meanwhile, Bobby Hoffman
was waiting at Arkady's car, stuffing a bloody nose with a handkerchief, head
tilted back to protect the jacket bequeathed him by Ivanov.
On the drive,
Zhenya regarded Arkady with a narrow gaze. Arkady had gone with dizzying speed
from the heights of New Russia to a boot out the door. This descent was swift
enough to get even Zhenya's attention. "What's
going to happen?" Hoffman asked. "Who
knows? A new career. I studied law at "Ha!"
Hoffman thought for a second. "It's funny, but there's one thing about you
that reminds me of Pasha. You're not as smart, God knows, but you share a
quality. You couldn't tell whether he found things funny or sad. More like he
felt, What the hell? Especially toward the end." Arkady
asked Zhenya, "Is that good, to share qualities with a dead man?"
Zhenya pursed his lips. "It depends? I agree." Zhenya
hadn't eaten. They pulled in at a pirozhki stand and found, on the far side of
the stand, an inflated fun house of a homely cabin standing on chicken legs. An
inflated fence of bones and skulls surrounded the hut, and on the roof stood
the witch, Baba Yaga, with the mortar and pestle on which she flew. In Zhenya's
fairy tales, Baba Yaga ate children who wandered to her cabin. This cabin was
full of children jumping on a trampoline floor covered with balls of colored
foam. Boys and girls slid out one door and ran in another while the mechanical
witch cackled hideously above. Zhenya left his chess set and walked into the
witch's cabin, spellbound. Hoffman
said, "Thanks for the ride. I don't drive in "I
wouldn't know. How is the nose?" "Ozhogin
pinched it. Wasn't even a punch. Showed me the disk, reached up and popped a
blood vessel, just for the humiliation." "It's
a day for bloody noses. Timofeyev had one, too." Now that Arkady thought
about it, on the videotapes, Ivanov had held a handkerchief the same way. Hoffman
hunched forward. "Did I mention he likes you just as much as me?" "I
don't know why." The prospect of running into Ozhogin again made Arkady
want to lift weights and work out regularly. He lit a cigarette. "Where
did you hide the disk?" "I
knew Ozhogin would look in my apartment, so I put it in my gym locker. I
actually taped it upside down. It was invisible. I don't know how he found
it." "How
often do you go to the gym, Bobby?" "Once
a..." Hoffman shrugged. "There
you are." "Oh,
and now that they have the disk, the offer is 'Leave the country or go to
jail.' I pissed them off. Fuck them, I'll be back." "And
Rina?" "Let
me tell you about Rina." Bobby picked pirozhki crumbs off his jacket.
"She is a lovely kid, and Pasha left her well set up, and within a year
the most important thing in her life will be fashion shows. And she'll run
Pasha's foundation, that'll keep her busy. Everyone wins except you and me. And
I'll bounce back." "Which
leaves me." "At
the bottom of the food chain. I'll tell you this much: the company's
dead." "NoviRus?" "Kaput.
All that held it together was Pasha." Bobby gently touched his nose.
"Maybe Timofeyev was a good scientist once upon a time, but in business he
is a total dud. No nerve, no imagination. I never understood why Pasha kept him
on. Not to mention that Timofeyev is falling apart in front of everyone's eyes.
Six months, you know who'll run the show at NoviRus? Ozhogin. He's a cop. Only
you can't run a complicated business entity like a cop, you have to be a
general. Kuzmitch and Maximov can't wait. When they're done with Ozhogin, you
won't be able to find his bones. It's the food chain, Renko. Figure out the
food chain, and you figure out the world." Arkady
watched Zhenya bounce in and out of sight. He asked Hoffman, "What do you
know about Anton Obodovsky?" "Obodovsky?"
Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Tough guy, local Mafia, jacked some of our
trucks and drained some oil tanks. He has balls, I'll give him that. Ozhogin
pointed him out on the street once. Obodovsky made the colonel nervous. I liked
that." When
Zhenya finally emerged from the fun house, they started home. Hoffman and
Zhenya played chess without a board, calling out their moves, the boy piping
"e4" from the backseat, followed quickly by Hoffman's confident
"c5" up front. Arkady could follow through the first ten moves, and
then it was like listening to a conversation between robots, so he concentrated
more on his own diminishing prospects. It
was virtually impossible to be dismissed for incompetence. Incompetence had
become the norm under the old law, when prosecutors faced no courtroom
challenges from upstart lawyers, and convenient evidence and confessions were
always close at hand. Drinking was indulged: a drunken investigator who curled
up in the back of a car was treated as gently as an ailing grandmother.
Corruption, however, was tricky. While corruption was the lubrication of
Russian life, an investigator accused of corruption always drew public outrage.
There was a painting called The Sleigh Ride, of a troika driver
throwing a horrified girl to a pursuing wolf pack. Zurin was like that driver.
He compiled files on his own investigators, and whenever the press got close to
him, he tossed them a victim. Arkady had no reason to be horrified or
surprised. He
asked Hoffman, "Does Timofeyev have a cold or a bloody nose?" "He
says he has a cold." "There
were spots on his shirt that looked like dried blood." "Which
could have come from blowing his nose." "Did
Pasha have a bloody nose?" "Sometimes,"
Hoffman said. He was still engaged in the chess game. "Did
he have a cold?" "No." "An
allergy?" "No.
Rook takes b3." Zhenya
said, "Queen to d8, check." "Did
he see a doctor?" Arkady asked. "He
wouldn't go." "He
was paranoid?" "I
don't know. I never looked at it that way. It wasn't that obvious, because he
was still on top of the business end. King to h7." "Queen
to e7," said Zhenya. "Queen
to d5." "Checkmate." Hoffman
threw his hands up as if upsetting a board. "Fuck!" "He's
good," Arkady said. "Who
knows, with these distractions?" Zhenya
won two more games before they got to the children's shelter. Arkady walked him
to the door, and Zhenya marched through without a backward look, which was both
more and less than disdain. Hoffman was closing his mobile phone when Arkady
returned to the car. "He's
Jewish," Hoffman said. "His
last name is Lysenko. That's not Jewish." "I
just played chess with him. He's Jewish. Can you let me off at the Mayakovsky
metro station? Thanks." "You
like Mayakovsky?" "The
poet? Sure. 'Look at me, world, and envy me. I have a Soviet passport!' Then he
blew his brains out. What's not to like?" As
Arkady drove, he glanced at Hoffman, who was not the sobbing wreck he had been
the day before. That Hoffman could not have played chess with anyone. This
Hoffman went from poetry to boasting lightly, without incriminating detail,
about a variety of business scams – front companies and secret auctions – that
he and Ivanov had perpetrated together. "How
are you feeling?" Arkady asked. "Pretty
disappointed." "You've
been humiliated and fired. You should be furious." "I
am." "And
you lost the disk." "That
was the ace up my sleeve." "You're
bearing up well, considering." "I
can't get over that kid. You probably don't appreciate it, Renko, but that was
chess at a really high level." "It
certainly sounded like it. Keeping the disk, hiding the disk, using me and my pitiful
investigation to make the disk seem important, and finally letting Ozhogin find
it at your gym, of all places. What did you put on it? What's going to happen
at NoviRus when that disk goes to work?" "I
have no idea what you're talking about." "You're
a computer expert. The disk is poison." The
sky darkened behind illuminated billboards that used to declaim: The Party Is
the Vanguard of the Workers! and now advertised cognac aged in the barrel, as
if a madman raving on a corner had been smoothly replaced by a salesman. Neon
coins rolled across the marquee of a casino and lit a rank of Mercedeses and
SUVs. "How
would you know?" Hoffman twisted in his seat. "I'm getting out. Right
here is good." "We're
not at the station." "Hey,
asshole, I said this corner was good." Arkady
pulled over, and Bobby heaved himself out of the car. Arkady leaned across the
seat and rolled down the window. "Is that your good-bye?" "Renko,
will you fuck off? You wouldn't understand." "I
understand that you made a mess for me." "You
don't get it." Drivers
trapped behind Arkady shouted for him to move. Horns were rarely used when
threats would do. A wind chased bits of paper around the street. "What
don't I get?" Arkady asked. "They
killed Pasha." "Who?" "I
don't know." "They
pushed him?" "I
don't know. What does it matter? You were going to quit." "There's
nothing to quit. There's no investigation." "Know
what Pasha said? 'Everything is buried, but nothing is buried long enough.'
" "Meaning
what?" "Meaning
here's the hot news. Rina is a whore, I'm a shit and you're a loser. That's as
much chance as we had. This whole place is fucked. I used you, so what?
Everybody uses everybody. That's what Pasha called a chain reaction. What do
you expect from me?" "Help." "Like
you're still on the case?" Bobby looked up at the heavy sky, at the gold
coins of the casino, at the split toes of his shoes. "They killed Pasha,
that's all I know." "Who
did?" Bobby
whispered, "Keep your fucking country." "How
–" Arkady began, but the lead Mercedes in line slid forward and popped
open its rear door. Bobby Hoffman ducked in and shut it, closing himself off
behind steel and tinted glass, although not before Arkady saw a suitcase on the
seat. So the car hadn't been idly sitting by, it had been arranged. At once the
sedan eased away, while Arkady followed in the Zhiguli. In tandem, the two cars
passed Mayakovsky Station and continued on Leningrad Prospect, headed north.
What was worth heading to? It was too dark for a sunlit stroll on the beach at
Serebryaniy Bor, and too late for races at the Hippodrome. But there was the
airport. Evening flights from Sheremetyevo headed in all directions, and
Hoffman had been in and out of the airport often enough to grease half the
staff there. He would have a ticket to Not
that Arkady had any authority to stop Hoffman. He simply wanted to ask him what
was buried. And what he had meant when he said that Pasha had somehow been
killed? Was Pasha Ivanov pushed or not? Hoffman's driver reached up to place a
blue light on the car roof and plowed ahead in the express lane. Arkady slapped
on his own official light and swung from lane to lane to stay close. No one
slowed. Russian drivers took an oath at birth to never slow, Arkady thought,
just as Russian pilots took off no matter what the weather. But
traffic did brake and squeeze around a bonfire in the middle of the road.
Arkady thought it was an accident until he saw figures dancing around the fire,
executing Hitler salutes and smashing the windshields and headlights of passing
cars with rocks and steel rods. As he drew closer, he saw not wood but a
blackened car shifting in the flames and spewing the acrid smoke of burning
plastic. Fifty or more figures rocked a bus. A woman jumped from the bus door
and went down screaming. A three-wheeled Zaporozhets hardly larger than a
motorcycle cut in front of Arkady and rammed his fender. Inside were a man and
woman, perhaps Arabs. Four men with shaved heads and a red-and-white banner
swarmed the car. The largest lifted the car so that its front wheel spun in the
air, while another stove in the passenger window with the banner pole. Arkady
lifted his eyes to the light towers of Dynamo Stadium blazing ahead and
understood what was happening. Dynamo
was playing Spartak. The Dynamo soccer club was sponsored by the militia, and
Spartak was the favorite of skinhead groups like the Mad Butchers and the
Clockwork Oranges. Skinheads supported their team by stomping any Dynamo fans
they found on the street. Sometimes they went a little further. The skinhead
holding the front of the Zaporozhets had ripped off his shirt to show a broad
chest tattooed with a wolf's head, and arms ringed with swastikas. His friend
with the pole beat in the last of the windshield and dragged the woman out by
her hair, shouting, "Get your black ass out of that Russian car!" She
emerged with her cheek cut and her hair and sari sparkling with safety glass.
Arkady recognized Mrs. Rajapakse. The other two skinheads beat in Mr.
Rajapakse's window with steel rods. Arkady
was not aware of getting out of the Zhiguli. He found himself holding a gun to
the head of the skinhead clutching the bumper. "Let go of the car." "You
love niggers?" The strongman spat on Arkady's raincoat. Arkady
kicked the man's knee from the side. He didn't know whether it broke, but it
gave way with a satisfying snap. As the man hit the ground and howled, Arkady
moved to the Spartak supporter who was pinning Mrs. Rajapakse to the hood.
Since skinheads filled the street and the clip of Arkady's pistol held only
thirteen rounds, he chose a middle course. "If you –" the man had
begun when Arkady clubbed him with the gun. As
Arkady moved around the car, the skinheads with the rods gave themselves some
swinging room. They were tall lads with construction boots and bloody knuckles.
One said, "You may get one of us, but you won't get both." Arkady
noticed something. There was no clip in his gun at all. He'd removed it for the
drive with Zhenya. And he never kept a round in the breech. "Then
which one will it be?" he asked and aimed first at one man and then the
other. "Which one doesn't have a mother?" Sometimes mothers were
monsters, but usually they cared whether their sons died on the street. And
sons knew this fact. After a long pause, the two boys' grip on the bars went
slack. They were disgusted with Arkady for such a low tactic, but they backed
off and dragged away their wounded comrades. Meanwhile,
the general melee spread. Militia piled out of vans, and skinheads smashed
bus-stop displays as they ran. The Rajapakses brushed glass from their seats.
Arkady offered to drive them to a hospital, but they nearly ran over him in
their haste to make a U-turn and leave the scene. Rajapakse
shouted out his broken window, "Thank you, now go away, please. You are a
crazy man, as crazy as they are." Holding
his ID high, Arkady walked up to the burning car. Victims of the skinheads
sprawled on the road and sidewalk, sobbing amid broken side mirrors, torn
shirts, shoes. He went as far as a line of militia barricades being rapidly,
belatedly erected at the stadium grounds. Hoffman was nowhere in sight, but
everywhere was shining glass, in coarse grains and small.
The elevator
operator was the former Kremlin guard Arkady had interviewed before. As the
floors passed, he looked Arkady up and down. "You need a code." "I
have you. You know the code." Arkady pulled on latex gloves. The
operator shifted, exhibiting the training of an old watchdog. At the tenth floor,
he was still uncertain enough to take a mobile phone from his pocket. "I
have to call Colonel Ozhogin first." "When
you call, tell the colonel about the breakdown in building security the day
Ivanov died, how you shut down the elevator at eleven in the morning and
checked each apartment floor by floor. Explain why you didn't report the
breakdown then." The
elevator whined softly and came to a stop at the tenth floor. The operator
swayed unhappily. Finally he said, "In Soviet days we had guards on every
floor. Now we have cameras. It's not the same." "Did
you check the Ivanov apartment?" "I
didn't have the code then." "And
you didn't want to call NoviRus Security and tell them why you needed it." "We
checked the rest of the building. I don't know why the receptionist was
worried. He thought maybe he'd seen a shadow, something. I told him if he
missed anything, the man watching the screen at NoviRus would catch it. In my
opinion, nothing happened. There was no breakdown." "Well,
you know the code now. After you let me in, you can do whatever you want." The
elevator doors slid open, and Arkady stepped into Ivanov's apartment for the
fourth time. As soon as the doors closed, he pressed the lock-out button on the
foyer panel. Now the operator could call anyone, because the apartment was, as
Zurin had said, sealed from the rest of the world. With
its white walls and marble floors, the apartment was a beautiful shell. Arkady
removed his shoes rather than track dirt across the foyer. He turned on the
lights room by room and saw that other visitors had preceded him. Someone had
cleaned up the evidence of Hoffman's vigil on the sofa; the snifter was washed
and the cushions were plumped. The photo gallery of Pasha Ivanov still graced
the living room wall, although now it seemed sadly beside the point. The only
missing photographs were the ones of Rina with Pasha from the bedroom
nightstand. And no doubt Ozhogin had been to the scene, because the office was
stripped clean of anything that, encrypted or not, possibly held any NoviRus
data: computer, Zip drive, books, CDs, files, phone and message machine. All
the videotapes and disks were gone from the screening room. The medicine
cabinet was empty. Arkady appreciated professional thoroughness. He
didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but this was the last chance he
would have to look at all. He remembered the Icelandic fairy, the imp with
nothing but a head and foot, who could be seen only out the corner of the eye.
Look directly, and he disappeared. Since all the obvious items had been
removed, Arkady had to settle for glimpsed revelations. Or the lingering shadow
of something removed. Of
course, the home of a New Russian should be shadow-free. No history, no
questions, no awkward legalities, just a clear shot to the future. Arkady
opened the window that Ivanov had fallen from. The curtains rushed out.
Arkady's eyes watered from the briskness of the air. Colonel
Ozhogin had removed everything related to business; but what Arkady had seen of
Pasha Ivanov's last night among the living had nothing to do with business.
NoviRus was hardly on the point of collapse. It might be soon, with Timofeyev
at the helm, but up to Ivanov's last breath, NoviRus was a thriving, ravenous
entity, gobbling up companies at an undiminished rate and defending itself from
giant competitors and small-time predators alike. Perhaps a ninja had climbed
down the roof like a spider, or Anton had slipped through the bars at Butyrka;
either was a professional homicide that Arkady had little realistic hope of
solving. But Arkady had the sense that Pasha Ivanov was running from something
more personal. He had banned virtually everyone, including Rina, from the
apartment. Arkady remembered how Ivanov had arrived at the apartment, one hand
holding a handkerchief and the other clutching an attachй case that seemed
light in his hand, not laden with financial reports. What was in the case when
Arkady saw it on the bed? A shoe sack and a mobile phone recharger. Ivanov
might have headed to the apartment office and learned about some disastrous
investment? In that case, Arkady pictured a maudlin Ivanov assuaging himself
with a Scotch or two before working up the nerve to open the window. What
Arkady recalled from the videotape was an Ivanov who emerged reluctantly from
his car, entered the building in a rush, bantered with another tenant about
dogs, rode the elevator with grim determination and added a valedictory glance
at the security camera as he stepped out the door. Was he rushing to meet
someone? In his attachй case, why a single shoe sack? Because it wasn't being
used for shoes. Ivanov had gone to the bathroom, maybe, but he hadn't swilled
pills in any suicidal amount. He was the decisive type, not the sort to wait
passively for a sedative's effect. He had talked to Dr. Novotny enough to
concern her, then skipped his last four sessions. All Arkady really knew about
Ivanov's last night was that he had entered his apartment by the door and left
by the window and that the floor of his closet was covered with salt. And there
had been salt in Pasha's stomach. Pasha had eaten salt. The
bedroom phone rang. It was Colonel Ozhogin. "Renko,
I'm driving over. I want you to leave the Ivanov apartment now and go down to
the lobby. I'll meet you there." "Why?
I don't work for you." "Zurin
dismissed you." "So?" "Renko,
I –" Arkady
hung up. Ivanov
had gone to the bedroom and laid his attachй case on the bed. Set his mobile
phone on the edge of the bed. Opened the attachй case, so intent on the
contents that he did not notice having knocked the phone onto the carpet or
kicked it under the bed, for Victor to find later. What did Ivanov slip from
the shoe sack: a brick, a gun, a bar of gold? Arkady walked through every move,
trying to align himself on an invisible track. Pasha had opened the walk-in
closet and found the floor covered in salt. Did he know about a coming
worldwide shortage of salt? Good men were the salt of the earth. Smart men
salted away money. Pasha had rushed home to eat salt, and all he took with him
on his ten-story exit was a shaker of salt. Arkady inverted the shoe sack. No
salt. This
thing from the sack, was it still in the apartment? Ivanov had not
taken it with him. As Arkady remembered, everyone focused on company matters,
and a shoe sack was the wrong size and shape for either computer disks or a
spreadsheet. The
phone rang again. Ozhogin
said, "Renko, don't hang –" Arkady
hung up and left the receiver off the hook. The colonel's problem was that he
had no leverage. Had Arkady been a man with a promising career, threats might
have worked. But since he was dismissed from the prosecutor's office, he felt
liberated. Back
a step. Sometimes a person thought too much. Arkady returned to the bed, mimed opening
the attachй case, slipping something from the shoe sack and moving to the
closet. As the closet opened, its lights lent a milky glow to the bed of salt
still covering the floor. The top of the mound showed the same signs of
activity that Arkady had seen before: a scooping here, a setting something down
there. Arkady saw confirmation in a brown dot of blood tunneled through the
salt, from Ivanov leaning over. Ivanov had removed the thing from the
shoe sack, set it on the salt and then... what? The saltshaker might have fit
nicely into the depression in the middle of the salt. Arkady pulled open a
drawer of monogrammed long-sleeved shirts in a range of pastels. He flipped
through them and felt nothing, shut the drawer and heard something shift. Arkady
opened the drawer again and, in the back, beneath the shirts, found a bloody
handkerchief wrapped around a radiation dosimeter the size of a calculator.
Salt was embedded in the seam of its red plastic shell. Arkady held the
dosimeter by the corners to avoid latent fingerprints, turned it on and watched
the numbers of the digital display fly to 10,000 counts per minute. Arkady
remembered from army drills that an average reading of background radioactivity
was around 100. The closer he held the meter to the salt, the higher the
reading. At 50,000 cpm the display froze. Arkady
backed out of the closet. His skin was prickly, his mouth was dry. He
remembered Ivanov hugging the attachй case in the elevator, and his backward
glance to the elevator camera. Arkady understood that hesitation now. Pasha was
bracing himself at the threshold. Arkady turned the meter off and on, off and
on, until it reset. He made a circuit of Pasha's beautiful white apartment. The
numbers dramatically shuffled and reshuffled with every step as he picked his
way like a blind man with a cane around flames he sensed only through the
meter. The bedroom burned, the office burned, the living room burned, and at
the open window, curtains dragged by the night wind desperately whipped and
snapped to point the fastest way out of an invisible fire. Chapter FivePripyat
had been a city of science built on straight lines for technicians, and it
shimmered in the light of a rising moon. From the top floor of the municipal
office, Arkady overlooked a central plaza wide enough to hold the city's entire
population on May Day, Revolution Day, International Women's Day. There would
have been speeches, national songs and dances, flowers in cellophane presented
by neatly pressed children. Around the plaza were the broad horizontals of a
hotel, restaurant and theater. Tree-lined boulevards spread to apartment
blocks, wooded parks, schools and, a mere three kilometers away, the constant
red beacon of the reactor. Arkady
sank back into the shadows of the office. He had never thought his night vision
was particularly good, but he saw calendars and papers strewn on the floor,
fluorescent tubes crushed, file cabinets facedown around a nest of blankets and
the glint of empty vodka bottles. A poster on the wall proclaimed something
lost in faded letters: confident of the future was all Arkady could make out.
In camouflage fatigues, he himself was fairly hard to see. The pinprick of a
match being struck drew him closer to the window. He'd missed where. The
buildings were blank, streetlamps broken. The forests pressed increasingly
closer, and when the wind died, the city was utterly still, without a single
light, without the progress of a car or the sound of a footstep. Around the
city there was not one human intrusion until the orange bud of a cigarette
stirred directly across the plaza in the dark mass of the hotel. Arkady
had to use a flashlight in the stairway because of the debris – bookcases,
chairs, drapes and bottles, always bottles, and everything covered by a chalky
residue of disintegrating plaster that formed a cavern's worth of stalactites
and stalagmites. Even if there had been power, the elevators were rusted shut.
From outside, a building might seem intact. Inside, this one resembled a target
of artillery, with walls exploded, pipes ruptured and floors heaved by ice. On
the ground floor, Arkady turned off the light and went at a lope around the
plaza. The hotel entrance doors were chained together. No matter; he walked
through missing panes of glass, turned on the flashlight, crossed the lobby and
maneuvered as silently as possible around service trolleys piled on the steps.
On the fourth floor, the doors were open. Beds and bureaus materialized. In one
room, the wallpaper had curled off in enormous scrolls; in another, the ivory
torso of a toilet lay on the carpet. By now he smelled the sourness of a doused
fire. In a third room, the window was covered by a blanket that Arkady pulled
aside to let moonlight creep in. A box spring had been stripped to the coils and
set over a hubcap as a makeshift grill and pan that was filled with coals and
water and a ghostly hint of smoke. An open suitcase showed a toothbrush,
cigarettes, fishing line, a can of beef and a plastic bottle of mineral water,
a plumber's pipe cutter and a wrench wrapped in rags. If their owner had been
able to resist a peek out of the blanket, Arkady never would have seen him. He
spotted him now, moving at the edge of the plaza. Arkady
went down the stairs two at a time, sliding over an overturned desk, stumbling
on the crushed maroon of hotel drapes. Sometimes he felt like a diver plunging
through the depths of a sunken ship, his vision and hearing magnified in such
faint light. As he hit the ground, he heard a screen door slap shut at the far
end of the plaza. The school. Between
the school's two front doors was a blackboard that read APRIL 29, 1986. Arkady
ran through a cloakroom painted with a princess and a hippo sailing a ship. The
lower rooms were for early grades, with blackboard examples of penmanship,
bright prints of farm children with happy cows that smiled amid blown-in
windows and desks overturned like barricades. Footsteps pounded the floor
above. As Arkady climbed the stairs, a display of children's art fluttered in
his wake. Pictures of students sitting neatly in a music room led to a music
room with a shattered piano and half-size chairs around broken drums and
marimbas. Dust exploded with every step; Arkady swallowed a fine powder with
every breath. In a nap room, bed frames stood at odd angles, as if caught in a
wild dance. Picture books lay open: Uncle Ilyich visiting a snowy village, Although
it was wrong to think "nothing" when the place was so alive with
cesium, strontium, plutonium or pixies of a hundred different isotopes no
larger than a microdot hiding here and there. A hot spot was just that: a spot.
Very close, very dangerous. One step back made a great difference. The problem
with, say, cesium was that it was microscopic – a flyspeck – and it was
water-soluble and adhered to anything, especially the soles of shoes. Grass
that grew chest-high from seams in the road earned another tick from the
dosimeter. At the opposite end of the plaza from the school was a small
amusement park, with crazy chairs, a rink of bumper cars and a Ferris wheel
that stood against the night like a rotting decoration. The reading at the rink
shot the needle off the dial and made the dosimeter sing. Arkady
made his way back to the hotel, to the room with the box-spring grill. He
weighted, with the can of beef, a note with his mobile-phone number and the
universal sign for dollars.
Arkady had left
a motorcycle in a stand of alders. He wasn't a skilled rider, but a Uralmoto
bike, unlike some fancier makes, relished punishment. He fishtailed to the
highway and, headlights off, rode out of the city. This
quarter of the Death
had been so generous here that there was a graveyard even for vehicles. Arkady
coasted to a halt at a fence of wooden stakes and barbed wire and a loosely
tied gate with the warnings extreme danger and remove nothing from this site.
He untied the rope and rode in. Trucks
were lined up by the thousands. Heavy trucks, tankers, tow trucks, flatbeds,
decontamination trucks, fire engines, mess trucks, buses, caravans, bulldozers,
earthmovers, cement trucks and row after row of army trucks and personnel
carriers. The yard was as long as an Egyptian necropolis, although it was for
the remains of machinery, not men. In the headlight of the motorcycle, they
were a labyrinth of metal cadavers. A giant spread its arms overhead, and
Arkady realized that he had passed under the rotors of a crane helicopter.
There were more helicopters, each marked in paint with its individual level of
radiation. It was here, tucked in the center of this yard, that Timofeyev's
BMW, covered with the dust of the long trip from A
fountain of sparks led Arkady to a pair of scavengers cutting up an armored car
with an arc welder. Radioactive parts from the yard were sold illegally in car
shops in By
this point the eye was always pulled to the reactors. Chain link and razor wire
surrounded what had been a massive enterprise of cooling towers, water tanks,
fuel storage, cooling ponds, the messenger ranks of transmission towers. Here
four reactors had produced half the power of the Ten
kilometers from the plant was a checkpoint, its gate a crude bar
counterweighted by a cinder block. As Arkady was Russian and the guards were
Ukrainian, they walked the bar out of his way at half speed. Past
the checkpoint were a dozen "black villages" and fields where
scarecrows had been replaced by diamond-shaped warning signs on tall stakes.
Arkady swung the bike onto the crusted ruts of a dirt road and rode a
jaw-shaking hundred meters around a tangle of scrub and trees into a gathering
of one-story houses. All the houses were supposed to be evacuated, and most
looked collapsed from sheer emptiness, but others, even in the moonlight,
betrayed a certain briskness: a mended picket fence, a sledge for gathering
firewood, a haze of chimney smoke. A scarf and candle turned a window red or
blue. Arkady
rode through the village and up a footpath through the trees another hundred
meters to a clearing surrounded by a low fence. He swung his headlamp, and up
jumped a score of grave markers fashioned from iron tubing painted white and
decorated with plastic flowers, improbable roses and orchids. No burials had
been allowed since the accident; the soil was too radioactive to be disturbed.
It was at the cemetery gate that Lev Timofeyev – one week after the suicide of
Pasha Ivanov – had been found dead. The
initial militia report was minimal: no papers, no money, no wristwatch on a
body discovered by a local squatter otherwise unidentified, cause of death
listed as cardiac arrest. Days later, the cause of death was revised to "a
five-centimeter slice across the neck with a sharp unserrated blade, opening
the windpipe and jugular vein." The militia later explained the confusion
with a note that said the body had been disturbed by wolves. Arkady wondered
whether the excuse had wandered in from a previous century. He
lifted his ear to the muffled flight of an owl and the soft explosion that marked
the likely demise of a mouse. Leaves swirled around the bike. All of
One way to look
at Checkpoints
blocked the roads at ten and thirty kilometers, and though the houses of A
researcher named Alex brought Arkady a brandy. "Cheers! How long have you
been with us, Renko?" "Thanks."
Arkady downed the glass in a swallow and didn't breathe for fear of detonation. "That's
it. People around you are trying to get drunk. Don't be a prig. How long?" "Three
weeks." "Three
weeks and you're so unfriendly. It's Eva's birthday, and you have yet to give
her so much as a kiss." Eva
Kazka was a young woman with black hair that put Arkady in mind of a wet cat.
Even she was in camos. "I've
met Dr. Kazka. We shook hands." "She
was unfriendly? That's because your colleagues from "Am
I?" "By
acclamation. You have to pull your head out of your investigation and enjoy
life. Wherever you are, that's where you are, as they say in "Except
that they're in "Good
point. Check out Captain Marchenko. With his mustache and uniform, he looks
like an actor abandoned in a provincial theater. The rest of the troupe has
moved on and left him nothing but the costumes. And the corporals, the Woropay
brothers, Dymtrus and Taras, I see them as the boys most likely to have sexual
congress with barnyard animals." Arkady
had to agree that the captain had a classic profile. The Woropays had pasty
faces speckled with a late bloom of acne, and their shoulders were broad as
barrels. They turned away from Arkady to share a laugh with the captain. "Why
does Marchenko spend his time with them?" Arkady asked. "The
sport here is hockey. Captain Marchenko fields a team, and the Woropays are two
of his stars. Get used to it. You're a sitting duck. People say you've been
exiled and your boss in "It
would help if I solved the case." "But
you won't. Wait, I want to hear this." The
other table started serenading Eva Kazka, and she let her face go blissfully
stupid. Researchers were variously described to Arkady as the scientific crиme
de la crиme or washouts, but always as fools because they were volunteers; they
didn't have to be here. Alex returned to his friends briefly to bay like a wolf
and steal a bottle of brandy before returning to Arkady. "Because
people think you're crazy," Alex said. "You go to Pripyat. Nobody
gives a damn about Pripyat anymore. You ride through the woods on a bike that
glows in the dark. Do you know anything about radioactivity?" "I
went over the bike with a dosimeter. It's clean, and it doesn't glow." "No
one is going to steal it, let me put it that way. So, Investigator Renko, on
this most blighted part of the planet, what are you looking for?" "I'm
looking for squatters. In particular, the squatter who found Timofeyev. Since I
don't have a name, I'm questioning all the squatters I can find." "You're
not serious. You are serious? You're crazy. Over the course of a year, we get
all sorts: poachers, scavengers, squatters." "The
police report said the body was found by a local squatter. That suggests a sort
of permanency, someone the militia officer had seen before." "What
kind of officers can you get at "No."
Arkady thought fleetingly of Zhenya, but the boy could hardly have been called
family. For Zhenya, Arkady had been nothing but transportation to the park.
Besides, Victor was looking in on the boy. "So,
you've given yourself an impossible task in a radioactive wasteland. You're
either a compulsive-obsessive or a dedicated investigator." "Right
the first time." "We'll
drink to that." Alex refilled their glasses. "Do you know that
alcohol protects against radiation? It removes oxygen that might be ionized. Of
course, deprivation of oxygen is even worse, but then every Ukrainian knows
that alcohol is good for you. Red wine is best, then brandy, vodka, et
cetera." "But
you're Russian." Alex
put his finger to his lips. "Shhh. I am provisionally accepted as a
madman. Besides, Russians also drink precautionary vodka. The real question is,
are you a madman, too? My friends and I serve science. There are interesting
things to be learned here about the effects of radiation on nature, but I don't
think the death of some Arkady
had told himself as much many times over the days he'd spent searching the
apartments of Pripyat or farmhouses hidden in the woods. He didn't have an
answer. He had other questions. "Whose is?" he asked. "What
do you mean?" "Whose
death is worth it? Only good people? Only saints? How do we decide whose murder
is worth investigating? How do we decide which murderers to let go?" "You're
going to catch every killer?" "No.
Hardly any, as a matter of fact." Alex
regarded Arkady with mournful eyes. "You are totally lunatic. I am awed. I
don't say that lightly." "Alex,
are you going to dance with me or not?" Eva Kazka pulled him by his arm.
"For old times' sake." Arkady
envied them. There was a desperate quality to the scene. In general, the troops
were not getting healthier for having been posted to Kazka
laid her head on Alex's shoulder for a slow dance. Although Ukrainian women
were said to be beautiful in a soulful, doe-eyed way, Kazka looked like she
would bite the head off anyone who flattered her. She was too pale, too dark,
too sharp. The way she and Alex moved suggested a past involvement, a momentary
truce in a war. Arkady was surprised at himself for even speculating, which he
took to be a result of his own social isolation. Why
was he at Timofeyev's
prerevolutionary palace was the same. He hadn't barred visitors because he
didn't have Pasha's strength of character, but the halls and rooms of his
gilded abode were a radioactive warren. No wonder about the man's nervousness
and loss of weight. After waltzing with dosimeters through Timofeyev's palace,
Arkady and Victor took the precaution of visiting the militia doctor, who gave
them iodine tablets and assured them that they had suffered no more exposure to
radiation than an airline passenger flying from St. Petersburg to San
Francisco, although they might want to shower, dispose of their clothes and
look out for nausea, loss of hair and, especially, nosebleeds, because cesium
affected bone marrow where platelets were formed. Victor asked what to do about
nosebleeds. The doctor said to carry a handkerchief. Ivanov
and Timofeyev had lived with this sort of anxiety? Why hadn't either reported
to the militia that someone was trying to kill them? Why hadn't they alerted
NoviRus Security? Finally, why had Timofeyev driven a thousand kilometers from The
investigation of Timofeyev's body, once it was found at the village cemetery,
had been a farce. The cemetery grounds were radioactive – family members were
supposed to visit grave sites only one day a year – and the first thing the
lads from the militia did was drag Timofeyev a safe distance away to turn him
this way and that. Since the dead man's billfold and wristwatch were missing,
they had no idea of his identity or importance. Because of the rain, they
wanted to toss the body in a van and go. Their surmise was that a businessman
with, say, an uncle or auntie buried in the cemetery had made a clandestine
visit, had a heart attack and dropped. No one asked where his car was or
whether his shoes were muddy from walking. There
was a great flurry from With
his pallor and stringy hair, Vanko looked more like a crazed monk than an
ecologist. "Are you gay?" he asked Arkady. "I don't dance with
gays. A straight man is permissible under the circumstances." "It's
okay." "You're
not so bad. Everyone said you'd be gone in a week, like the others. You stuck
it out; I have to respect that. Do you want to lead?" "Whichever." "Doesn't
matter, I agree. Not here. This is the cafй at the end of the world. If you
want to know what the end of the world will be like, this is it. Not so
bad." Chapter SixCaptain
Marchenko steered with one finger and waved a radio microphone in his other
hand like a tank commander. "This is good. We will prove there is law and
order in the Zone. Even here! These vultures go into the village churches and
steal the church icons, or go into the houses of simple people and take the
icons there. Well, we have him now. The fields are too boggy to cross, and
there isn't much traffic on this road. Aha, there he is! The vulture is in
sight!" A
dot on the horizon was developing into a motorcycle and sidecar, not a powerful
bike, more what a farmer might use to transport chickens. Gray sky swept by.
Red firs lined the road, and markers showed where houses and barns too hot to
truck away or burn were buried. Captain
Marchenko had swung by in a militia car and invited Arkady to help pursue a
thief who had escaped a checkpoint with an icon in the sidecar of his
motorcycle. From exchanges on the radio, Arkady gathered that another car was
posted ahead. It was clear that it gave the captain pleasure to turn an
investigator from "I'm
sure that "Ch'o'rnobyl.
The Ukrainian pronunciation is Ch'o'rnobyl." Much
of the topsoil had been buried under sand; up to the woods the ground was
bulldozed flat, a chute for a headwind that made the motorcycle skitter from
one side of the road to the other, not over a hundred meters ahead, and
although the rider hunched down, the car was gaining. Arkady could see that the
bike was small, maybe 75cc, blue, the license plate taped over. "They're
criminals, Renko. This is the way you have to treat them, not like you do,
making friends, leaving food and money like it's everybody's birthday. You
think you're going to find informants? You think that one dead Russian is more
important than regular policing? Maybe he was a big man in To
locate the local squatter, Arkady had, over three weeks, created a registry of
Zone illegals: old folks, squatters, scavengers, poachers and thieves. The old
people were hidden but stationary. Scavengers operated out of cars and trucks.
Poachers were usually restaurant employees from Arkady
said, "Then why was Timofeyev here? What was the connection between him
and Chornobyl? What was the connection between him and Ivanov and Chornobyl?
How many murders do you have here?" "None.
Only your Timofeyev, only a Russian. I would have a perfect record otherwise. I
might be out of here with a clean record. How do we know he was killed by
someone from here? How do we know he was even here before in his life?" "We
ask. We find local people and ask, although I'll grant you, it isn't easy when
officially no one is here." "That's
the Zone." Sometimes
Arkady thought of the Zone as an amusement-park mirror. Things were different
in the Zone. He said, "I still wonder about the body. An Officer Katamay
turned in the first report. I haven't been able to interview him, because he
quit the militia. Do you have any idea where Katamay is?" "Try
the Woropay brothers. He was close to them." "The
Woropays were not responsive." The brothers Woropay knew that Arkady had
no authority. They had been both dull and sly, smirking to each other, going
heavy-lidded and silent. "I'd like to find Katamay, and I'd like to know
who led him to the body." "What
does it matter? The body was a mess." "How
so?" "Wolves." "Specifically
what did the wolves do?" "They
ate his eye." "Ate
his eye?" No one had mentioned that before. "The
left eye." "Wolves
do that?" "Why
not? And they tugged on his face a bit. That's why we missed the knife wound on
the throat." "He
was dead when the wolves arrived. He wouldn't have bled that much." "There
wasn't that much blood. That's one reason we thought heart attack. Except for
his eye and his nose, his face was clean." "What
was in his nose?" "Blood." "And
his clothes?" "Pretty
clean, considering how the rain and how the wolves messed up the scene." Hardly
more than the militia, Arkady thought, but bit his tongue. "Who examined
the body the second time? Who noticed that his throat was cut? They left no
name or official report, only a one-line description of the neck wound.' "I'd
like to get my hands on them, too. If it hadn't been for someone mucking around
where they shouldn't have been, the Russian would still be a heart attack, you
wouldn't be here and my slate would be clean." "Now,
there's a new approach to militia work. If they don't have a pickax in the
head, call it cardiac arrest." Arkady had meant to sound lighthearted, but
Marchenko didn't seem to take it that way. Maybe it came out wrong, Arkady
thought. "Anyway, the second examiner knew what he was doing. I'd just
like to know who it was." "You
always want to know. The man from "I'd
also like to take another look at Timofeyev's car." "See
what I mean? I don't have the time or the manpower for a homicide
investigation. Especially of a dead Russian. Do you know what the official
attitude is? 'There's nothing in the Zone but spent uranium, dead reactors and
the suckers stationed there. Fuck them. Let them live on berries.' You saw
yourself how all those other investigators didn't want to stay around too long.
Nevertheless, we still carry out our functions, like now." Marchenko squinted
ahead. "Ah, here we come." Ahead,
where dead firs gave way to potato fields, a white militia Lada and a pair of
officers blocked the road. The fields were wet from the previous week's rain:
no escape there. No problem. The motorcycle rider slowed to size up the
blockade, sped up, leaned to his left and steered down and up the right
shoulder of the road as neatly as plucking a blade of grass. Marchenko
picked up the radio. "Get out of the way." The
officers desperately pushed the Lada onto the shoulder as Marchenko barreled
through. Arkady was glad he hadn't quit smoking. If he was going to die in the
Zone, why deny himself a simple pleasure? "Do
you work out?" Marchenko asked. Arkady
hung on to a strap. "Not really." "Middle
of "I
haven't seen much besides the Zone. "Ukrainian
girls?" "Very
beautiful." "The
most beautiful in the world, people say. Big eyes, big..." Marchenko
cupped his chest. "Jews come once a year. They talk Ukrainian girls into
going to "Really?"
There was a free-floating quality to the captain's anger that Arkady found
disturbing. "A
bus goes daily to "But
not to "No,
who would go to Arkady
unsnapped the guard and drew out a heavy blade with a blood groove and a
two-edged tip. "Like a sword." "For
wild boar. You can't do that in "Hunting
with a knife?" "If
you have the nerve." "I
am sure I do not have the nerve to catch a wild boar and stab it to
death." "Just
remember, it's essentially a pig." "And
then you eat them?" "No,
they're radioactive. It's sport. We'll try it sometime, you and I." The
motorcycle swerved onto a side road, but Marchenko would not be shaken. The
road dove down along a black mire of ragged cattails and then up by an apple
orchard carpeted with rotting fruit. Two hovels seemed to rise from the ground,
and the motorcycle went in between, followed by Marchenko, at the cost of a
wing mirror. Suddenly they were in the middle of a village that was a quagmire
of houses so cannibalized from the bottom up for firewood that every roof and
window was at a slant. Washtubs sat in the front yards, and chairs sat at the
street, as if there had been a final parade out of town and people to watch.
Arkady heard the dosimeter raise its voice. The motorcycle shot through a barn,
in the front and out the back. Marchenko followed only ten meters behind, close
enough for Arkady to see an icon and blanket stuffed in the sidecar. The road
dropped again toward a stand of sickly willows, a stream and, rising on the far
side, a field of grain tangled by wind and gone to seed. The road narrowed at
the willows, the perfect point to cut off the motorcycle – just like in the
movies, Arkady thought, when Marchenko swerved to a stop and the motorcycle
slipped into the trees and out of sight behind a screen of leaves. Arkady
said, "We can go on foot. A path like that, we'll catch up." The
captain shook his head and pointed to a radiation marker rusting among the
trees. "Too hot. This is as far as we can go." Arkady
got out. The trees didn't quite reach the creek, and although the grass was
high, the slope was downhill, and his boots were heavy with mud, Arkady managed
to push through. Marchenko shouted for Arkady to stop. He saw the thief emerge
from the trees. Despite the fact that the rider had gotten off to push, the
motorcycle stayed virtually in place, spewing smoke and spraying mud. The rider
was short, in a leather jacket and cap, with a scarf wrapped around his face.
The icon, a Madonna with a starry cowl, peered from the sidecar. Arkady nearly
had his hand on it when the bike gained traction and lurched forward on a road
so overgrown it was barely a fold in the grass. He was close enough to read the
logo on the engine cover. Suzuki. The bike bounced down from rut to rut, Arkady
a step behind and Marchenko a step behind him. Arkady tripped over a radiation
sign but was still almost within reach when the bike spurted across the
streambed, kicking back rocks. From one step to the next, he was about to reach
for the sidecar, but the climb from the stream on the other side was steeper,
the wheat sleeker, and the motorcycle had more space to maneuver. Arkady dove
for the rear fender and held it until a reflector snapped off in his hand and
the bike pulled away by one meter, then five, then ten. It drew off while
Arkady leaned on his knees and gave up. Blowing like a whale, Marchenko joined
him. The
hillside was a yellow knoll topped by a silhouette of bare trees dead where
they stood. The biker climbed to the trees, stopped and looked back. Marchenko
pulled out his gun, a Walther PP, and aimed. It would take a real marksman at
this range, Arkady thought. The pistol swayed with the captain's breathing. The
biker didn't move. Finally
Marchenko replaced the gun in its holster. "We're over the border. The
stream is the border. We're in Horseflies
spun around the two men as they trudged back to the car. For humiliation, the
day was already quite full, Arkady thought. Out of curiosity, he turned on his
dosimeter when they crossed the stream, then shut off the angry ticking as soon
as he heard it. "Can you take me back to The
captain slipped in the mud. As he rose, he bellowed, "It's Chornobyl. In
Ukrainian, it's Chornobyl!"
Arkady's room in
The
team of investigators from Who
was connected to Not
Colonel Georgi Jovanovich Ozhogin, the head of NoviRus Security. His file was
stuffed with encomiums to his first career as a Master of Sport, and adulatory
references to his second career as a "selfless agent of the Committee for
State Security." The authors of the report did not detail what this
selflessness involved beyond citing his efforts for "international amity
and athletic competition in The
investigators hadn't known what to make of Rina Shevchenko. Pasha Ivanov had
given his lover excellent but thoroughly fictitious papers: birth certificate,
school record, union card and residency permit. At the same time, it was clear
from police reports that an underage Rina had run away from a cooperative farm
outside The
investigators loathed Robert Aaron Hoffman. Age: thirty-seven. Nationality: On
the other hand, in June of the previous year, Hoffman had taken a NoviRus jet
from Who
else had the investigators turned their attention to? The
muscleman Anton Obodovsky proved a disappointment. He may have threatened
Ivanov, but he was in Butyrka Prison the night of Pasha's suicide and very
publicly in The
elevator operator at Pasha's building, the Kremlin veteran, had access to the
tenth floor, but not to Ivanov's two previous homes or Timofeyev's. A sweep of
his wardrobe and apartment showed not a trace of radioactivity. Timofeyev's
household staff was under treatment for exposure to radioactive materials. They
had no information to offer, and their loss of hair seemed sincere. Day
by day
Although the Alex
stood and played host. "We welcome all our British Friends and, in
particular, Professor Ian Campbell, who will be staying on with us for a
week." He indicated a bearded, ginger-haired man who looked like he had
drawn the short straw. "Professor, perhaps you'd like to say a few
words?" "Is
the food locally grown?" "Is
the food locally grown?" Alex repeated. He savored the question like the
blue smoke of his cigarette. "Although we are not quite ready to label it
'Product of Chernobyl,' yes, much of the food was grown and harvested in the
neighboring environs." He took an extravagant inhale. " Another
question passed the length of the table before Alex could sit. "Ah,
is the food radioactive? The answer to that depends on how hungry you are. For
example, this copious meal makes up in part for the low pay of the staff. They
are paid in calories as well as cash. The waitresses are overage but extremely
coquettish, practically a floor show in and of themselves. The food? Milk is
dangerous; cheese is not, because radionuclides stay in the water and albumin.
Shellfish are bad, and mushrooms are very, very bad. Did they serve mushrooms
today?" While
the Friends glumly regarded their lunch, Alex sat and vigorously carved his
meat. Vanko put a soup bowl next to Arkady and sat down. The researcher looked
like he had been following an earthworm down a hole. "Did
you understand any of that?" he asked Arkady. "Enough.
Is Alex trying to be dismissed?" "They
wouldn't dare." Vanko ladled the soup slowly. "This is my
grandmother's remedy for a hangover. You don't even have to chew." "Why
wouldn't they?" "He's
too famous." "Oh."
Arkady felt suddenly ignorant. "He
is Alex Gerasimov, son of Felix Gerasimov, the academician. With Alex, the
Russians will fund the study; without him, they won't." "Why
doesn't he just leave?" "The
work is too interesting. He says he'd rather leave with his head off than on.
Last night was fun. You shouldn't have left." "They
closed the cafй." "The
party continued. It was a birthday. You know who can really drink?" "Who
can really drink?" Coming from Vanko, this sounded like high praise. "Dr.
Kazka. She's tough. She was in "You
mentioned something last night about poachers," Arkady said. "No,
you mentioned poachers," Vanko said. "I thought you were
looking for the squatter who found that millionaire from "Maybe.
The note said squatter, but squatters tend to stay in Pripyat. They like
apartments. I get the impression that black villages are more for old
folks." A
salad swimming in oil replaced Vanko's soup. He didn't raise his head again
until he had wiped the last piece of lettuce from his chin. "Depends on
the squatter." "I
don't think squatters spend much time at cemeteries. There's nowhere to sleep
and nothing to steal." "Are
you going to eat your potatoes? They're locally grown." "Help
yourself." Arkady pushed his plate over. "Tell me about
poachers." Vanko
talked between mouthfuls. The good poachers were local. They had to know their
way around, or they could walk into some very hot spots. They might be adding
some meat to their diet, or they might be called by a restaurant so a chef
could put game on the menu. "A
restaurant in "Maybe
"I'll
keep that in mind. You study wild boar?" "Boar,
elk, mice, kestrels, catfish and shellfish, tomatoes and wheat, to name a
few." "You
must know some poachers," Arkady said. "Why
me?" "You
set traps." "Of
course." "Poachers
set traps. Maybe they even rob your traps from time to time." "Yeah."
Vanko's eating slowed to a ruminative pace. "I
don't want to arrest anyone. I only want to ask about Timofeyev, exactly when
he was found, his position and condition, whether his car was ever
nearby." "I
thought his car was found in Bela's yard. A BMW." "Timofeyev
got there somehow." "The
path to the village cemetery is too narrow for a car." "See,
that's exactly the kind of information I need." Meanwhile,
Alex got to his feet again. "To vodka, the first line of radiation
defense." Everyone
drank to that.
Pripyat was
worse in the light of day, when a breeze stirred the trees and lent a semblance
of animation. Arkady could almost see the long lines of people and the way they
must have looked over their shoulders at their apartments and all their
possessions, their clothes, televisions, Oriental rugs, the cat at the window.
Families must have pulled the reluctant young and pushed the confused elderly
and shielded babies from the sun. Ears had to close to the question
"Why?" Patience must have been an asset as the doctors handed iodine
tablets to every child, too late. Too late because, at the beginning, although
everyone saw the fire at Reactor Four, only two kilometers away, the official
word was that the radioactive core was undamaged. Children went to school,
though they were drawn to the spectacle of helicopters circling the black tower
of smoke and fascinated by the green foam covering the streets. Adults
recognized the foam as the plant's protection against an accidental release of
radioactive materials. Children waded though the foam, kicked it, packed it
into balls. The more suspicious parents called friends outside Pripyat for news
that might have been withheld, but no, they were told that May Day preparations
were in full swing in So
any stir of the trees or tall grass created a false sense of resurrection,
until Arkady noticed the stillness at doors and windows and recognized that the
sound traveling from block to block was the moving echo of his motorcycle.
Sometimes he imagined Pripyat not so much as a city under siege but as a
no-man's-land between two armies, an arena for snipers and patrols. From the
central plaza he rode up one avenue to the town stadium and back on another,
amid headless streetlamps, over a black crust of roads undergoing a slow
upheaval. Outdoor murals of Science, Labor and the Future peeled off office
fronts. A
movement at a corner window made Arkady swing the motorcycle to an apartment
block, park and climb the stairs to the third floor, a living room with
tapestries on the wall, a reclining chair, a collection of decanters. A bedroom
was heaped with clothes. A little girl's room had a pink theme, school awards
and a pair of ice skates hanging from the wall. In a boy's room an intricate
skeleton curled in a glass tank under posters of Ferraris and Mercedeses.
Photographs were everywhere, color pictures of the family caravanning in He
rode back to the main plaza and to the office where he had spotted the
scavenger the night before. The suitcase and makeshift grill were gone. So was
the note with Arkady's mobile-phone number and the dollar sign. He didn't know
whether he was hunting or fishing, but he was doing what he could, and that, he
had to admit, was where Zurin was so brilliant. The prosecutor knew that where
another, more balanced individual would say that if the Chernobyl nuclear
accident had caused forty or four million deaths – depending on who was
counting – who would care what had happened to a single man? So what if Arkady
found a connection between Timofeyev and The
The
captain wore clean camos and bitter satisfaction. "You wanted to take
another look? Too late. Bela took it to "No,
you were right, I should say Chornobyl." "Let
me give you some advice. Say, 'Farewell, Chornobyl.' " "But
something occurred to me." "Something
always occurs to you." "When
you originally found Timofeyevs car in the truck graveyard, it had no
keys?" "No
keys." "You
towed it here from the truck graveyard?" "Yes.
We went over this." "Remind
me, please." "Before
we towed the car here, we looked for keys, looked for blood on the car seats,
forced open the trunk to look for blood or any other evidence. We didn't find
anything." "Nothing
to suggest that Timofeyev had been killed somewhere else and taken in the car
to the cemetery?" "No." "Did
you take casts of any tire treads at the cemetery?" "No.
Anyway, our cars rolled over any tracks there." Right. "It's
a black village. Radioactive. Everyone moved fast. And it rained on and off,
don't forget." "And
there were wolf tracks?" Arkady still found that hard to believe. "Big
as a plate." "Who
did the towing?" "We
did." "Who
drove?" "Officer
Katamay." "Katamay
is the officer who found Timofeyevs body and then disappeared?" "Yes." "He
does a lot around here." "He
knows his way around. He's a local boy." "And
he's still missing?" "Yes.
It's not necessarily a crime. If he quits, he quits. Though we would like the
uniform and gun." "I
looked at his file. He had disciplinary problems. Did you ask him about
Timofeyev's wallet and watch?" "Naturally.
He denied it, and the matter was dropped. You have to meet his grandfather to
understand." "Is
he from around here?" "From
a Pripyat family. Look, Renko, we're not detectives, and this is not the normal
world. This is the Zone. We are as forgotten as any police can be. The country
is collapsing, so we work for half pay, and everyone steals to make ends meet.
What's missing? What's not missing? Medicine, morphine, a tank of oxygen, gone.
We were given night-vision goggles from the army? Disappeared. I was with Bela
when we discovered Timofeyev's BMW, and I remember his look, as if he would
kill me for that car. If that's the truck graveyard manager, what kind of
officers do you think I'm going to have? I know what he's doing, I see the
sparks at night. Everyone else is suffering, and he's making his fortune, but
I'm not allowed to conduct the sort of raid I would like, because he has a
'roof,' understand, he's protected from above." "I
didn't mean to criticize." "Fire
away. Like my wife says, anyone intelligent steals. The thieves understand.
Most of the time they just pay off the guards at the checkpoints; this morning
was an exception. Usually they slip from one black village to the next, and if
we get too close, they just dive into a hot spot we can't go into. I'm not
going to risk the lives of my men, even the worst of them, and there are maybe
a thousand hot spots, a thousand black holes for thieves to dive into and come
out who knows where. If you know anyone else who is willing to come here, ask
them." While they talked, the afternoon had turned to dusk. Marchenko lit
a cigarette and smiled like the happy captain of a sinking ship. "Invite
all your friends to Chornobyl."
Since the
ecologists and British Friends had been absent from the cafeteria, Arkady had
eaten a quiet dinner and gone to bed with case notes when a phone call came
from Olga Andreevna at the children's shelter in Moscow. "I am sorry to
report that we have had problems with Zhenya since you left. Behavioral problems
and refusal to eat or communicate with other children or with staff. Twice we
caught him leaving the shelter at night – so dangerous for a boy his age. I
cannot help but associate this increase in social dysfunction with your
absence, and I must ask when you plan to return." "I
wish I could say. I don't know." Arkady reached automatically for a
cigarette to help him think. "Some
estimate would be helpful. The situation here is deteriorating." "Has
my friend Victor visited Zhenya?" "Apparently
they went to a beer garden. Your friend Victor fell asleep, and the militia
returned Zhenya to the shelter. When are you coming back?" "I
am working. I am not on vacation." "Can
you come next weekend?" "No." "The
weekend after?" "No.
I'm not around the corner, and I'm not his father or an uncle. I am not
responsible for Zhenya." "Talk
to him. Wait." There
was silence on the other end of the line. Arkady asked, "Zhenya, are you
there? Is anyone there?" Olga
Andreevna came on. "Go ahead, he's here." "Talk
about what?" "Your
work. What it's like where you are. Whatever comes to mind." All
that came to Arkady's mind was an image of Zhenya grimly clutching his chess
set and book of fairy tales. "Zhenya,
this is Investigator Renko. This is Arkady. I hope you are well." This
sounds like a form letter, Arkady thought. "It seems you've been giving
the good people at the shelter problems. Please don't do that. Have you been
playing chess?" Silence. "The
man you played chess with in the car said you were very good." Maybe
there was a boy at the other end, Arkady thought. Maybe the telephone was
dangling down a well. "I'm
in the Talk
about what else, a man with his throat cut? Arkady searched. "It's like Chapter SevenChernobyl
Ecological Station Three was a run-down garden nursery. A filmy light
penetrated a plastic roof that had been torn and patched and torn again. Rows
of potted plants sat on tables, suffering the music of a radio hanging on a
post. Ukrainian hip-hop. Bent over a microscope, Vanko shifted with the beat. Alex
explained to Arkady, "Actually, the most important instrument for an
ecologist is a shovel. Vanko is very good with a shovel." "What
are you digging for?" "The
usual villains: cesium, plutonium, strontium. We sample soil and groundwater,
test which mushroom soaks up more radionuclides, check the DNA of mammals. We
study the mutation rate of Clethrionomys glareolus, whom you'll meet,
and sample the dose rates of cesium and strontium from a variety of mammals. We
kill as few as possible, but you have to be 'Merciless for the Common Good,' as
my father used to say." Alex led Arkady outside. "This, however, is
our Garden of Eden."
Alex
had a gardener's pride. "The old topsoil had to be scraped away. This new
soil is sandy, but I think it's doing well." "Is
that the old soil?" Arkady pointed to an isolated bin of dark earth fifty
meters off. The bin was half covered by a tarpaulin and surrounded by warning
signs. "Our
particularly dirty dirt. It's worse than finding a needle in a haystack. A
speck of cesium is too small to see without a microscope, so we dig everything
up. Ah, another visitor." One
of the orange crates had fallen. As Alex lifted the trap, a ball of quills
tipped in white rolled out, a pointed nose appeared and two beady eyes squinted
up. "Hedgehogs
are serious sleepers, Renko. Even trapped, they don't like to be awakened quite
so rudely." The
hedgehog got to its feet, twitched its nose and, with sudden attention, dug up
a worm. An elastic tug-of-war ended in a compromise; the hedgehog ate half the
worm while half escaped. More alert, the hedgehog considered going one way,
then another. "All
he can think of is a new nest with soft, cool rotting leaves. Let me show you
something." Alex reached down with a gloved hand, picked up the hedgehog
and set it in front of Arkady. "I'm
in his way." "That's
the idea." The
hedgehog marched forward until it encountered Arkady. It butted his foot two,
three, four times until Arkady let it through, spines bristling, the exit of a
hero. "He
wasn't afraid." "He's
not. There have been generations of hedgehogs since the accident, and they're
not afraid of people anymore." Alex pulled off his gloves to light a
cigarette. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to work with animals
that aren't afraid. This is paradise." Some
paradise, Arkady thought. All that separated the plot from the reactor was four
kilometers of red forest. Even at that distance, the sarcophagus of Reactor
Four and the red-and-white-striped chimney loomed above the trees. Arkady had
assumed the garden was only a test site, but no, Alex said, Vanko sold the
produce. "People will eat it, it's nearly impossible to stop them. I used
to have a big dog, a rottweiler, to guard the place. One night I was working
late, and he was outside barking in the snow. He wouldn't stop. Then he
stopped. I went out ten minutes later with a lamp, and there was a ring of wolves
eating my dog." "What
happened then?" "Nothing.
I chased them and fired a couple of shots." A
Moskvich with a bad muffler went by on the way to Pripyat. Eva Kazka shot
Arkady and Alex a glance without slowing down. "Mother
Teresa," Alex said. "Patron saint of useless good works. She's off to
the villages to tend the lame and the halt, who shouldn't be here in the first
place." Black smoke poured out the tailpipe of the Moskvich like a bad
temper. "She
likes you," Alex said. "Really?
I couldn't tell." "Very
much. You're the poetic type. So was I once. Cigarette?" Alex unwrapped a
pack. "Thank
you." "I
had stopped smoking before I came to the Zone. The Zone puts everything in
perspective." "But
the radioactivity is fading." "Some.
Cesium is the biggest worry now. It's a bone seeker; it heads to the marrow and
stops the production of platelets. And you've got a radiation-sensitive lining
in your intestines that cesium just fries. That's if everything goes well and
the reactor doesn't blow again." "It
might?" "Could.
No one really knows what's going on inside the sarcophagus, except that we
believe there's over a hundred tons of uranium fuel keeping itself very
warm." "But
the sarcophagus will protect any new explosion?" "No,
the sarcophagus is a rust bucket, a sieve. Every time it rains the sarcophagus
leaks and more radioactive water joins the ground-water, which joins the "Not
usually this early in the day." "Well,
this is the Zone." Alex unscrewed the caps and threw them away.
"Cheers!" Arkady
hesitated, but etiquette was etiquette, so he took the bottle and tossed it
down in a swallow. Alex
was pleased. "I find that a cigarette and a little vodka lends a
perspective to a day in the Zone."
Although Alex
said, "The general rule for moving around the Zone is to stay on the
asphalt," he seemed to despise the road. His preferred route was across
the mounds and hollows of a buried village in a light truck, a "Turn
off your dosimeter." "What?"
That was the last thing Arkady had in mind. "If
you want the tour, you'll get the tour, but on my terms. Turn off the
dosimeter. I'm not going to listen to that chattering all day." Alex
grinned. "Go ahead, you have questions. What are they?" "You
were a physicist," Arkady said. "The
first time I came to "I
don't know enough to suspect anyone." "That's
what I told Vanko. Oh, I should add, favorite writer: Shakespeare." "Why
Shakespeare?" Arkady held on as the truck climbed a slope of chimney
bricks. "He
has my favorite character, Yorick." "The
skull in Hamlet?" "Exactly.
No lines but a wonderful role. 'Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well... a man of
infinite jest...' Isn't that the best you can say about anyone? I wouldn't mind
being dug up every hundred years so someone could say, Alas, poor Alexander
Gerasimov, I knew him well." "A
man of infinite jest?" "I
do the best I can." Alex accelerated as if crossing a minefield. "But
Vanko and I don't know much about poachers. We're only ecologists. We check our
traps, tag this animal or that, take blood samples, scrape some cells for DNA.
We rarely kill an animal, at least a mammal, and we don't have barbecues in the
woods. I can't even tell you the last time I ran into a poacher or a
squatter." "You
trap in the Zone, and poachers hunt in the Zone. You might have run into each
other." "I
honestly don't remember." "I
talked to a poacher who was caught with his crossbow. He said another man whom
he took to be a hunter had put a rifle to his head and warned him off. He
described the man as about two meters tall; lean; gray eyes; short dark
hair." That pretty much described Alex Gerasimov. Arkady leaned back for a
better view of the rifle bouncing in the van's rear seat. "He said the
rifle was a Protecta twelve-millimeter with a barrel clip." "A
good all-purpose rifle. These characters use crossbows so they can hunt without
making a lot of noise, but they're hardly the marksmen they imagine they are.
Usually they botch the job, the animal escapes and takes days of agony to bleed
to death. To put the barrel of a rifle to someone's head, though – that is a
little extreme. This poacher, will he prosecute?" "How
can he, without admitting he was breaking the law himself?" "A
real dilemma. You know, Renko, I'm beginning to see why Vanko is afraid of
you." "Not
at all. I appreciate the ride. Sometimes activity prompts a memory. You might
empty a trap today and remember that you ran into such-and-such a man right
there." "I
might?" "Or
perhaps a person came to you with a moose he accidentally hit with his car, to
ask whether it was safe to eat, the moose already being dead and food a shame
to waste." "You
think so? There wouldn't be much car left after hitting a moose." "Just
a possibility." "And
I wouldn't advise going in those woods at all." A
wall of rusting pines stretched as far as Arkady could see, from left to right.
Being dead, the branches held no cones and no squirrels; except for the flit of
a bird, the trees were as still as posts. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him
well. Arkady could picture a skull on each post. Something ghostly did a
pirouette in front of the trees. It fluttered like a handkerchief and darted
away. "A
white swallow," Alex said. "You won't see many of those outside of "Do
poachers come here?" "No,
they know better." "Do
we?" "Yes,
but it's irresistible, and we do it anyway. In the wintertime you should see
it, the ground covered with snow, like a belly dimpled with mysterious scars,
and the trees bright as blood. People call it the red forest or the magic forest.
Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it? And not to worry – as the authorities
always say, Appropriate measures will be taken, and the situation is under
control.' " They
moved along the face of the red forest to an area replanted with new pine
trees, where Alex hopped out of the truck and brought back the end of a bough. "See
how stunted and deformed the tip is. It will never grow into a tree, only
scrub. But it's a step in the right direction. The administration is pleased
with our new pines." Alex spread his arms and announced, "In two
hundred and fifty years, all this will be clean. Except for the plutonium; that
will take twenty-five thousand years." "Something
to hope for." "I
believe so." Still,
Arkady found himself breathing easier when the red pines gave way to a mix of
ash and birch. At the base of a tree, Alex brushed back high grass to reveal a
tunnel leading to a cage of what looked to Arkady like squirming field mice. "Clethrionomys
glareolus," said Alex. "Voles. Or maybe super voles. The rate of
mutation among our little friends here has accelerated by a factor of thirty.
Maybe they'll be doing calculus next year. One reason voles have such a fast
rate of mutation is that they reproduce so quickly, and radiation affects
organisms when they are growing much more than it does when they're adult. A
cocoon is affected by radiation, a butterfly is not. So the question is, How
does radiation affect this fellow?" Alex opened the top of the cage to
lift out a vole by its tail. "The answer is that he does not worry about
radionuclides. He worries about owls, foxes, hawks. He worries about finding
food and a warm nest. He thinks that radiation is by far the smallest factor in
his survival, and he's right." "And
you, what is the largest factor in your survival?" Arkady asked. "Let
me tell you a story. My father was a physicist. He worked at one of those
secret installations in the Urals where spent nuclear fuel was stored. Spent
fuel is still hot. Insufficient attention was paid, and the fuel exploded, not a
nuclear explosion but very dirty and hot. Everything was done secretly, even
the cleanup, which was fast and messy. Thousands of soldiers, firemen,
technicians waded through debris, including physicists led by my father. After
the accident here, I called my father and said, 'Papa, I want you to tell me
the truth. Your colleagues from the Urals accident, how are they?' My father
took a moment to answer. He said, 'They're all dead, son, every one. Of vodka.'
" "So
you drink and smoke and ride around a radioactive forest." Alex
let the vole drop into the cage and switched the full cage with an empty.
"Statistically, I admit that none of these are healthy occupations.
Individually, statistics mean nothing at all. I think I will probably be hit by
a hawk of some kind. And I think, Renko, that you're a lot like me. I think you
are waiting for your own hawk." "Maybe
a hedgehog." "No,
trust me on this, definitely a hawk. From here we walk a little."
Alex carried the
rifle, and Arkady carried a cage that had a one-way gate baited with greens.
Step by step, the woods around them changed from stunted trees to taller,
sturdier beeches and oaks that produced a dappling of birdcalls and light. Arkady
asked, "Did you ever meet Pasha Ivanov or Nikolai Timofeyev?" "You
know, Renko, some people leave their problems behind them when they go into the
woods. They commune with nature. No, I never met either man." "You
were a physicist. You all went to the "They
were older, ahead of me. Why this focus on physicists?" "This
case is more interesting than the usual domestic quarrel. Cesium chloride is
not a carving knife." "You
can get cesium chloride at a number of labs. Considering the economic health of
the country, you can probably persuade a scientist to siphon off a little extra
for either terrorism or murder. People steal warheads, don't they?" "To
transport cesium chloride would take professional skill, wouldn't it?" "Any
decent technician could do that. The power plant still employs hundreds of
technicians for maintenance. Far too many for you to question." "If
the person who used cesium in "To
those hundreds of technicians." "Not
really. The technicians live an hour away. They commute by train to the plant,
work their shift and go directly home. They don't wander around the Zone. No,
the person who cut Timofeyev's throat is part of the security staff, or a
squatter or poacher." "Or
a scientist living in the Zone?" Alex said. "That's
a possibility, too." There weren't many of those, Arkady thought. There
was no scientific glory work being done at "Cesium
is a complicated way to kill someone or drive them crazy." "I
agree," said Arkady. "And hardly worth the effort, unless you're
sending a message. The fact that neither Ivanov nor Timofeyev complained to the
militia or their own security, in spite of a threat to their lives, suggests
that some sort of message was understood." "Timofeyev
had his throat cut. Where's the subtle message in that?" "Maybe
it was in where he was found – at the threshold of a village cemetery. Either
he drove all the way from "I
suppose someone who went into the freezer. I can tell you that people were very
unhappy there was a body inside. They had to clean everything else out." "Then
why go into the freezer except to look at the body?" "Renko,
I had never appreciated before how much detection work was groundless
speculation." "Well,
now you know." Trees
continued to grow taller, shadows deeper, roots more ancient and interlaced.
Arkady waded through fronds of bracken and had the illusion of spiders,
salamanders, snakes scurrying ahead, a subtle ripple of life. Finally Alex
stopped Arkady at the edge of blinding light, an arching meadow of wide-open
daisies and, here and there, the red flags of poppies. Alex motioned him to
crouch and be quiet, then pointed to the top of the meadow, where two deer
stared back with dark liquid eyes. Arkady had never been so close to deer in
the wild. One was a doe; the other had a wide rack of antlers, a hunter's
prize. The tension in their gaze was different from the placid observation of
zoo deer. Alex
whispered, "They are fat from grazing at the orchards." "Are
we still in the Zone?" Arkady found it hard to believe. "Yes.
What you can see from the road is a horror show – Pripyat, the buried villages,
the red woods – but much of the Zone is like this. Now slowly stand." Both
deer went still as Arkady rose. They balanced more particularly but held their
ground. Alex
said, "Like the hedgehog, they're losing their fear." "Are
they radioactive?" "Of
course they're radioactive, everything here is. Everything on earth is. This
field is about as radioactive as a beach in For
a minute Arkady heard nothing more than the mass drone of field life or his
hand slapping a bug on his neck. By concentrating on the deer, however, he
started to pick up their thoughtful chewing, the individual transit of
dragonflies amid a sunlit cross fire of insects, and in the background, a
squirrel scolding from a tree. Alex
said, "The Zone has deer, bison, eagles, swans. The Chernobyl Zone of
Exclusion is the best wild-animal refuge in Arkady
turned his head as slowly as possible and saw a row of yellow eyes behind the
trees. The air grew heavy. Insects slowed in their spirals. Sweat ringed
Arkady's neck and ran down his chest and spine. The next moment the deer bolted
in an explosion of dust and flower heads, took the measure of the field in two
bounds and crashed into the woods on the far side. Arkady looked back at the
birches. The wolves had gone so silently that he thought he might have imagined
them. Alex
unslung his rifle and ran to the birches. From a lower branch, he freed a tuft
of gray fur that he carefully placed inside a plastic bag. When he had put the
bag in a pocket and given the pocket a loving pat, he tore a strip of bark off
the birch, placed the strip between his palms and blew a long, piercing
whistle. "Yes!" he said. "Life is good!"
Eva Kazka had
set up a card table and folding chairs in the middle of the village's only
paved road. Her white coat said she was a doctor; otherwise, her manner
suggested a weary mechanic, and she didn't tame her black hair back as much as
subdue it. On
either side of this outdoor office, the village slumped in resignation. Window
trim hung loose around broken panes, the memory of blue and green walls faded
under the black advance of mildew. The yards were full of bikes, sawhorses and
tubs pillowed in tall grass and bordered by picket fences that leaned in an
infinitely slow collapse. All the same, set farther back from the main street
were, here and there, repainted houses with windows and intricate trim intact,
with a haze of wood smoke around the chimney and a goat cropping the yard. A
benchful of elderly women in versions of shawl- and- coat- and- rubber- boots
waited while Eva looked down the throat of a round little woman with steel
teeth. "Alex
Gerasimov is crazy, this is a well-known fact," Eva said as an aside to
Arkady. "Him and his precious nature. He's a perfectionist. He is a man
who would drive a car into a pole again and again until it was a perfect wreck.
Close." The
old woman closed her jaw firmly to signify nothing less then complete
cooperation. Arkady doubted that, from the shawl tied tight around her head to
her boots hanging clear of the ground, she was over a meter and a half tall.
Her eyes were bright and dazzling, a true Ukrainian blue. "Maria
Fedorovna, you have the blood pressure and heart rate of a woman twenty years
younger. However, I am concerned about the polyp in your throat. I would like
to take it out." "I
will discuss it with Roman." "Yes,
where is Roman Romanovich? I expected to see your husband, too." Maria
lifted her eyes to the top of the lane, where a gate swung open for a bent man
in a cap and sweater, leading a black-and-white cow by a rope. Arkady didn't
know which looked more exhausted. "He's
airing the cow," Maria said. The
cow trudged dutifully behind. A milk cow was an asset precious enough to be
displayed for visitors, Arkady thought. All attention was fixed on the animal's
plodding circuit up and down the street. Its hooves made a sucking sound in the
wet earth. Eva's
fingers played with a scarf tucked into the collar of her lab coat. She wasn't
pretty in an orthodox way; the contrast of such white skin and black hair was
too exotic and her eyes had, at least for Arkady, an unforgiving gaze. "There's
no house here you could use for more privacy?" Arkady asked. "Privacy?
This is their entertainment, their television, and this way they can all
discuss their medical problems like experts. These people are in their
seventies and eighties. I'm not going to operate on them except for something
like a broken leg. The state doesn't have the money, instruments or clean blood
to waste on people their age. I'm not even supposed to be making calls, and
Maria would never go to a city, for fear they wouldn't let her return
here." Arkady
said, "She's not supposed to be here anyway. This is the Zone." Eva
turned toward the ladies on the bench. "Only someone from Maria
said, "At our age, you go into the hospital, you don't come out." Eva
asked Arkady, "You've seen those television shows with the bathing
beauties dropped off on a tropical island to see if they can survive?" She
nodded to Maria and to her friends on the bench. "These are the real
survivors." The
doctor introduced them: Olga had a corrugated face and filmy glasses; Nina
leaned on a crutch; Klara had the angular features of a Viking, braids and all.
Their leader was Maria. "An
investigator of what?" Maria asked. Arkady
said, "A body of a man was found at the entrance of your village cemetery
in the middle of May. I was hoping that one of you might have seen or heard
someone, or noticed something odd or maybe a car." "May
was rainy," Maria said. "Was
it at night?" Olga asked. "If it was at night and it was raining, who
would even go outside?" "Do
any of you have dogs?" "No
dogs," Klara said. "Wolves
eat dogs," said Nina. "So
I hear. Do you know a family called Katamay? The son was in the militia
here." The
women shook their heads. "Is
the name Timofeyev familiar to you?" Arkady asked. "I
don't believe you," Eva said. "You act like a real detective, like
you're in "Is
the name Pasha Ivanov familiar to you?" Arkady asked the women. Eva
said, "You're worse than Alex. He values animals above people, but you're
worse. You're just a bureaucrat with a list of questions. These women have had
their whole world taken away. Their children and grandchildren are allowed to
visit one day a year. The Russians promised money, medicine, doctors. What do
we get? Alex Gerasimov and you. At least he's doing research. Why did "To
get rid of me." "I
can see why. And what have you found?" "Not
much." "How
can that be? The death rate here is twice normal. How many people died from the
accident? Some say eighty, some say eight thousand, some say half a million.
Did you know that the cancer rate around Chornobyl is sixty-five times normal?
Oh, you don't want to hear this. This is so tedious and depressing." Was
he in a staring contest with her? This had to be like a falconer's dilemma,
holding a not completely trained bird of prey on the wrist. "I
did want to ask you a few questions, maybe someplace else." "No,
Maria and the other women can use a little amusement. We will all concentrate
on one Russian stiff." Eva opened a pack of cigarettes and shared them
with her patients. "Go on." "You
do have drugs?" Arkady asked. "Yes,
we do have some medicine, not much, but some." "Some
has to be refrigerated?" "Yes." "And
some frozen?" "One
or two." "Where?" Eva
Kazka took a deep draw on her cigarette. "In a freezer, obviously." "Do
you have one, or do you use the freezer at the cafeteria?" "I
have to admit, you have a single-mindedness that must be very useful in your
profession." "Do
you store medicine in the cafeteria freezer?" "Yes." "You
saw the body in the freezer?" "I
see a lot of bodies. We have more deaths than live births. Why not ask about
that?" "You
saw the body of Lev Timofeyev." "What
if I did? I certainly didn't know who he was." "And
you left a note that he hadn't died of a heart attack." Maria
and the women on the bench looked to Eva, Arkady and back as if a tennis match
had come to the village. Olga removed her glasses and wiped them.
"Details." Eva
said, "There was a body dressed in a suit and wrapped in plastic. I'd
never seen him before. That's all." "People
told you that he had had a heart attack?" "I
don't remember." Arkady
said nothing. Sometimes it was better to wait, especially with such an eager
audience as Maria and her friends. "I
suppose the kitchen staff said he had a heart attack," Eva said. "Who
signed the death certificate?" "Nobody.
No one knew who he was or how he died or how long he had been dead." "But
you're fairly expert in that. I hear you spent time in Eva's
eyes lit. "You have it backward. I was with a group of doctors documenting
Russian atrocities against the Chechen population." "Like
slit throats?" "Exactly.
The body in the freezer had its throat cut with one stroke of a long sharp
knife from behind. From the angle of the cut, his head was pulled back, and he
was kneeling or seated, or the killer was at least two meters tall. Since his
windpipe was cut, he couldn't have uttered a sound before dying, and if he was
killed at the cemetery here, no one would have heard a thing." "The
description said he had been 'disturbed by wolves.' Meaning his face?" "It
happens. It's the Zone. Anyway, I do not want to be involved in your
investigation." "So
he was lying on his back?" "I
don't know." "Wouldn't
someone whose throat was cut from behind be more likely to fall forward?" "I
suppose so. All I saw was the body in the freezer. This is like talking to a
monomaniac. All you can focus on in this enormous tragedy, where hundreds of
thousands died and continue to suffer, is one dead Russian." The
old man turned the cow in the direction of the card table. Despite the heat,
Roman Romanovich was buttoned into not one but two sweaters. His pink, well-fed
face and white bristles and the anxious smile he cast at Maria as he approached
suggested a man who had long ago learned that a good wife was worth obeying. Eva
asked Arkady, "Do you know how Roman
tugged on Arkady's sleeve. "Milk?" "He
wants to know if you would like to buy some milk," Eva said. She twisted
her scarf with her fingers. "Would you like some milk from Roman's
cow?" "This
cow?" "Yes.
Absolutely fresh." "After
you." Eva
smiled. To Roman she said, "Investigator Renko thanks you but must
decline. He's allergic to milk." "Thank
you," Arkady said. "Think
nothing of it," said Eva. "He
must come to dinner," Maria said. "We'll give him decent food, not
like they serve at the cafeteria. He seems a nice man." "No,
I'm afraid the investigator is going back to Chapter EightEach
commuter on the six p.m. train from the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station began
his trip by standing in the booth of a radiation detector and placing his feet
and hands on metal plates until a green light signaled that he could continue
to the platform. The train itself was an express that passed through
Byelorussian territory without stopping, bypassing border checks. It was a cozy
ride through pine forests on a summer evening. Men
rode at one end, women at the other. Men played cards, drank tea from thermoses
or napped in rumpled clothes, whereas the women held conversations or knit
sweaters and were painstakingly well dressed, with not a gray hair among them,
not while henna grew on earth. Halfway,
the car became more subdued. Halfway, eyes wandered to the window, more and
more a mirror. Halfway, thoughts turned to home, to coping with dinner,
children, private lives. Arkady,
too, nodded from the rhythm of the train. One thought dissolved into another. He
gave Eva Kazka credit for bringing medical service, however minimal, to people
in villages no one else dared visit. But she had played him like a thief before
a jury in front of the old women. Eva had that knack of making a person draw
too little air or speak too loud. In front of such an individual, a man could
become so aware his weight was on his left foot that he might fall over on his
right, and the village women had practically cackled while watching the show.
She had called them survivors. What kind of appearance did he present, an
intrepid investigator following clues to the end of the earth, or a man lost by
the wayside? At a dead end, at least. A signal flashed by the window, and
Arkady thought of Pasha Ivanov flying through the air. Arkady didn't approve or
disapprove. The problem was that once people landed, other people had to clean
up the mess. And what had he learned on his excursion with Alex? Not much. On
the other hand, he'd seen at least three wolves behind the white trunks of the
birches, eyes shining like pans of gold, weighing the deer, he and Alex and the
deer much the same. He remembered how the hairs had stiffened down the back of
his neck. The word "predator" meant more when you were potential
prey. He laughed at himself, imagining that he was on his motorcycle being
chased by wolves.
Slavutych had
been built for people evacuated from Pripyat. It was a successor city, with
spacious squares and white municipal buildings that looked like a child's
building blocks – arches, cubes, columns – on a giant scale. It was a city with
modern amenities. A sunken football field was serviced by espresso bars. The Oleksander
Katamay lived on the fifth floor of an "Uzbeki" building. A young
woman in a jogging suit and top-heavy blond hair let Arkady in and immediately
left him in a living room arranged around a taxidermy worktable with lamps and
a stand-up magnifying glass aimed at a badger skin rolled up with the head
inside. Another badger, farther along, bathed in a bucket of degreaser. Shelves
held plastic sacks of clay and papier-mвchй and a menagerie of stuffed and
mounted animals: a lynx with bared fangs, an owl looking over its shoulder, a
slinking fox. A pair of hunting rifles resided in a glass cabinet with a Soviet
flag: small-bore, single-shot, bolt-action rifles polished as lovingly as a
brace of violins. Hung on the walls had to be twenty framed photos of men in
hard hats studying plans, setting pilings or working the levers of a crane, and
in the middle or taking the lead in each was the same tall vigorous figure of
Oleksander Katamay. Arkady was studying a photograph of workers in front of a
power plant and realized that it was the first photo he had seen of the intact
Chernobyl Reactor Four, a massive white wall next to its twin, Reactor Three.
The men in the picture were as relaxed and confident as if they stood on the
prow of a mighty ship. A
deep voice called, "Is that the investigator? I'm coming." While
Arkady waited, he noticed a framed plaque that displayed civilian medals,
including Veteran of Labor, Winner of Socialist Competition and Honored Builder
of the U.S.S.R., plus rows of military ribbons. Arkady was standing by them
when Oleksander Katamay rolled into the room in a wheelchair. Though a
pensioner in his late seventies, he still had a laborer's chest and shoulders,
with a broad, pushed-in face and a mane of white hair. He gripped Arkady's hand
firmly enough to squeeze the blood out. "From
"That's
right." "But
Renko is a good Ukrainian name." Katamay leaned close, as if to peer into Arkady's
soul, then abruptly spun and shouted, "Oksana!" He brought his gaze
back to Arkady and the taxidermy in progress. "You were admiring my hobby?
Did you see the ribbons?" Katamay rolled to the plaque of medals and
pointed out one with writing in Arabic. " 'Friendship of the Afghan
People.' The friendship of niggers, I guess that's worth my son's life.
Oksana!" The
woman who had let Arkady into the apartment brought a tray of vodka and
pickles, which she set on a coffee table. Although there was something
negligent about her, her hair was a golden beehive. She sat on the floor by
Katamay's wheelchair while he drew close a stand-up ashtray on the other side.
Arkady settled on an ottoman and had the sense of being in a scene both posed
and askew. It was the table with the two badgers, one in the stew, one out. It
was Oksana. Her stiff hair was a wig. But it was more than that. Katamay
pointed to the stuffed animals and asked Arkady, "Which do you like
most?" "Oh.
They're all lifelike." Which was the best Arkady could come up with,
considering his first instinct had been to say, There's a dead cat on your
shelf. "The
trick is suppleness." "Suppleness?" "Getting
off all the flesh and then shaving the inside of the skin until it's blue.
Timing, temperature, the right glue are all important, too." "I
wanted to ask about your grandson, Karel." "Karel
is a good boy. Oksana, am I right?" Oksana
said nothing. Katamay
half-filled the glasses with vodka and passed one to Arkady. "To
Karel," Katamay said. "Wherever he is." The old man put his head
back, took the vodka in one continuous swallow and watched out of the corner of
his eye to make sure Arkady and Oksana did the same. Maybe he was in a
wheelchair, but he was still the man in charge. Arkady wondered what it was
like to have been chief of construction of such a huge enterprise and now to be
restricted to such a small arena. Katamay refilled the glasses. "Renko,
you came to the right part of the Arkady
said, "I'd like to ask some questions first." "To
fucking Russians," Katamay said and downed his glass. Arkady
opened the file he carried and passed around a photograph of a young man with
half-finished, impatient features: a pinched nose, a thin mouth, a gaze that
challenged the camera. Oksana
said, "That's my brother." "Karel
Oleksandrovich Katamay, twenty-six, born Pripyat, "He
can shoot and leave something worth stuffing, if that's a marksman,"
Katamay said. "Twice
demoted for physical abuse of newer recruits." "That's
hazing. It's a tradition in the army." True
enough, Arkady thought. Some kids were hazed enough that they hanged
themselves. Karel must have stood out among the tormentors. "Disciplinary
action once for theft." "Suspicion
of theft. If they had been able to prove anything, they would have put him in
the brig. He has a wild side, but he's a good boy. He couldn't have joined the
militia here without a clean record." "In
the militia, Karel was frequently late or absent from his post." "Sometimes
he was hunting for me. We always got things straightened out with his
chief." "That
would be Captain Marchenko?" "Yes." "Hunting
for what? Another fox or lynx? A wolf?" "A
wolf would be the best." Katamay rubbed his hands at the thought. "Do
you know how much money a properly mounted wolf would bring?" "Karel's
father died in "I
did. That was when I still had functioning legs." "Karel's
mother?" "Who
knows? She believed all that propaganda about the accident. I've talked to the
top scientists. The problem at Chornobyl isn't radiation, it's fear of
radiation. There's a word for it: radio-phobia. Karel's mother was radiophobic.
So she left. The fact of the matter is, these people are lucky. The state built
them Pripyat and then Slavutych, gave them the best salary, the best living
conditions, schools and medicine, but the Ukrainian people are all radiophobic.
Anyway, Karel's mother disappeared years ago. I raised him." "Dressed
him, fed him, sent him to school?" "School
was a waste of time. He was meant to be a hunter; he was wasted indoors." "When
did you lose the use of your legs?" "Two
years ago, but it was a result of the explosion. I was operating a crane for
the firemen when a piece of the roof came down. It came down like a meteor and
crushed my back. The vertebra finally gave in. There's a citation on the wall;
you can read all about it." "Had
Karel ever been to "He'd
been to "You
haven't seen him since he found that body in the Zone?" "No." "Heard
from him?" Arkady
noticed Oksana's glance at yet another hide lolling in a bucket of degreaser in
a corner. For a man who hadn't seen or spoken to his marksman grandson in
months, Katamay seemed to have no lack of fresh material for his craft. Katamay
said, "Nothing, not a word." "You
don't seem worried." "It's
not like he did anything wrong. He resigned from the militia – so what? Karel's
a big boy. He can take care of himself." "Did
you ever hear of two physicists named Pasha Ivanov or Lev Timofeyev?" "No." "They
never visited "How
would I know?" Arkady
asked for the names of family or friends whom Karel might have visited or
contacted, and Katamay dispatched Oksana to make up a list. While they waited,
Katamay's gaze drifted back to the photographs on the wall. One had probably
been taken on International Women's Day, because a younger version of Katamay
was surrounded by women in hard hats. In another photograph he strode ahead of
technicians in lab coats, who struggled to keep up. "That
must have been a great responsibility, being head of construction," Arkady
said. Katamay
said nothing while Oksana rustled through papers in the other room. Then he
refilled his glass. "It's all political, you know, shutting down the other
reactors. Totally unnecessary. The other three could have run for another
twenty years, and we could have built Five and Six, Seven and Eight. Chornobyl
was and is the best power-plant site anywhere. The charities got in and blew up
statistics. What's easier, to milk foreign aid or run a power plant?
So we went from a world power to a third-class nation. Do you know how many
died because of Chornobyl, the real figures? Forty-one. Not millions, not
hundreds of thousands. Forty-one. The wonderful thing we have discovered is
that the human organism can live with much higher levels of radiation than we
once thought. But radiophobia has taken over. Forty-one. You have that many
dying of lung cancer in the hospitals of Katamay
energetically swung his chair around and propelled himself into the next room,
a study where his granddaughter had been gathering names and phone numbers at a
desk. The desk and all the furniture had been pushed against the wall to make
space for a draftsman's table holding an architectural model of the
Arkady was aware
of being followed by Oksana from the apartment. She was in her jogging suit but
had replaced her wig with a knit cap and darted like a mouse from doorway to
doorway. Arkady had an hour until the next train. He stopped at a cafй called
Colombino and took two coffees to an outside table where he had a view of the
shallow pools of light cast by the plaza lamps. The structures of civilization
– city hall, football stadium, cinema, supermarket – were apparent, just not
the activity. He watched Oksana buy an apple from a farmer outside the
supermarket, then start to eat the apple as she crossed the plaza and act
surprised to find him. "You
were expecting someone?" She looked at the second cup. "As
a matter of fact, you." She
looked cautiously around. Her cheeks were flushed. Now that she was close, it
was obvious that under her cap, Oksana's head was shaved. She tucked in her
ears. "I must seem pretty ridiculous to you." "Not
a bit. I was hoping you would join me." She
inched into the chair without taking her eyes off Arkady. He waited until she
was settled before pushing the second cup in her direction. They sat for a
minute quietly. Shoppers weighted with bags came out of the supermarket and
lurched from side to side under archways decorated with symbols of a peaceful
atom. Oksana
sipped her coffee. "It's cold." "I
m sorry." "No,
I like coffee cold. I usually have it cold after serving my grandfather." "He
is a strong personality." "He's
the boss." "He's
close to Karel?" "Yes." "Are
you?" "Karel
is my little brother." "Have
you seen him or talked to him?" Oksana
turned a wide smile toward Arkady. "Did you really like my grandfather's
stuffed animals?" "I'm
not a great fan of taxidermy." Perhaps because of my line of work, he
thought. "I
could tell. 'Lifelike.' Like us at Slavutych." "Do
you work at the station?" "Yes." "Why
is that amusing?" "The
pay was good, a fifty percent bonus to live here and work at Chornobyl. We
called it coffin money. My grandfather gets an added pension for his
disability. But there's a catch." "Because
you're just cleaning up "At
the rate we're going? It will take a hundred. That's not the catch." "What
is the catch?" "They
cut our pay seventy-five percent. After rent and utilities and school, we end
up paying to work at Chornobyl. But it's a job, and that's saying something in
the "What
is the catch?" Oksana
adjusted her cap so her ears showed. "Quiet, isn't it?" "Yes."
Arkady saw a customer leaving the illumination of the market? a couple of
schoolgirls with backpacks, a man with a cigarette stuck in a weathered face,
no more than ten people, in all, along the square and its promenades. "Everyone
is leaving. They built the town for fifty thousand people, and there are fewer
than twenty thousand now. Over half the town is empty. The catch is, they built
on contaminated land. Cesium from Chornobyl was waiting for us here. Pripyat to
Slavutych, we didn't escape at all." Oksana smiled, as at a joke that
never grew stale, and she rolled her cap down. "I wear the wig because it
makes women here unhappy to see me shaved. I feel a little like a stuffed
animal with it on, though. What do you think?" "The
shaved look is very popular." "Want
to see?" She pulled off the cap, revealing an almost perfectly round skull
with blue tones. The nakedness made her eyes seem large and luminous. "You
can feel." She took his hand and moved it around her head, which felt
almost polished. "Now what do you think?" "Smooth." "Yes."
As she pulled the cap back on, she wore the smile of someone who had divulged a
secret. "You
miss Pripyat." "Yes."
She recited her old address there: street, block and flat. "We had the
best view, right on the water. In the fall we would watch the ducks follow the
river south, and in the spring follow the river north." "Oksana,
have you seen your brother?" "Who?" "Have
you seen Karel?" Arkady's
mobile phone rang. He tried to ignore it, but Oksana seized the interruption to
bolt down the rest of her coffee and get up from her chair. "I have to go.
I have to cook for my grandfather." "Please.
This will just take a second." A local number on the caller ID. Arkady
answered, "Hello." A
man said, "This is your friend from the Pripyat Hotel." The
scavenger with the plumber's tools and bedspring grill whom Arkady had chased
through the school. A Ukrainian speaking Russian, so he knew who Arkady was. A
penetrating voice husky from years of smoking. No identifiable background
noise. A landline, no breaking up. Arkady looked at Oksana, who was disengaging
step by step. "Yes,"
Arkady said into the phone. "You
wanted to talk, and you're willing to pay money?" "That's
right." As
Oksana slipped away onto the plaza, she whispered, "You're very nice, very
nice. Just... don't stay too long." "What
about?" "The
body of a "Can
you pay in American dollars?" "Yes." "Then
you're a lucky man, because I can help you." "What
do you know?" "More
than you do, I bet, because you've been here a month, and you don't know
anything." The
longer they spoke, the more Arkady heard a sibilant S and the scratchiness of
an unshaved chin. Arkady gave him a name: the Plumber. "Like
what?" "Like
your businessman was really rich, so there's a lot of money involved." "Maybe.
What do you know?" Arkady
saw Oksana run past the supermarket and vanish around a corner. "Oh
no, not over the phone," the Plumber said. "We
should meet," Arkady said. "But you have to give me some idea of what
you know so that I'll know how much money to bring." "Everything." "That
sounds like nothing." And that was Arkady's impression of the Plumber. A
blowhard. "A
hundred dollars." "For
what?" The
Plumber hurried. "I'll call you in the morning and tell you how we'll
meet." "Do
that," Arkady said, although the Plumber had already hung up.
On the ride
back, the train carried the smaller crew of the night shift, all men and most
napping, chins on their chests. What was there to see? The moon was obscured by
clouds, and the coach moved in a black terrain of evacuated farms and villages,
only a rattling of the rails to indicate forward motion. Then a signal light
would plunge by like a face at the window, and Arkady would be thoroughly
awake. Pasha's
death was complicated because he had been dying already. He had a dosimeter. He
knew that he was dying and what he was dying from. That was part of the ordeal.
Arkady tried to imagine the first time Pasha became aware of what was
happening. He had been a social animal, the sort who took off his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves, as Rina put it, to have a good time. How did it start?
In the blurred confusion of a party, had someone slipped a salt-shaker and a
dosimeter into his jacket pocket? The meter's sound would have been turned off.
Arkady pictured Pasha's face when he read the meter, and the fast, tactful exit
away from everyone else. The dose wouldn't have been too high, more like the
first probe of artillery. "We flushed the radioactive water right into the
And
it would go on. Timofeyev was also under attack. So, by sheer proximity, was
Rina. Ivanov and Timofeyev had both had cesium pallor. Their bloody noses were
signs of platelet failure. They couldn't eat or drink. Each day they were
weaker and more isolated. And in the sanctuary of Ivanov's apartment, in the
closet of his bedroom was this shining floor of salt. With a saltshaker. It
hadn't matched any pepper shaker in the apartment, and Arkady guessed that it
had sat on top of the pile like a tiny lighthouse, pulsating gamma rays.
Suicides had a pattern, first fatigue and then a manic energy. Here's the
chair, where's the rope? Here's the razor, where's the bath? How to dispose of
radioactive salt? Eat it. Eat it with wads of bread. Choke it down with
sparkling water. The dosimeter screams? Turn it off. The nosebleeds? Wipe it
off, wrap the handkerchief around the meter and place them in the shirt drawer.
Neatness counts, but hurry. Momentum is important. The stomach wants to
throw back what you've fed it. Open the window. Now grasp the saltshaker, climb
high above the world, curtains flapping, and fix your eye on the bright
horizon. It's easier to die if you're already dead. Chapter NineMorning
rain fell on the Chernobyl Yacht Club, a gap-toothed dock on the Vanko
said, "That's all you've got? No bait?" "No
bait." "A
light rain like this can be good fishing." Arkady
changed the subject. "There really used to be a yacht club here?" "Sailboats.
They sailed away after the accident. Now they're all sold to rich people on the
Vapors
drifted around a fleet of commercial and excursion boats scuttled or run
aground, rusting from white to red. An explosion seemed to have lifted ferries,
dredgers and scows, coal barges and river freighters out of the water and set
them haphazardly along the river's edge. The dock's end was guarded by a
padlocked gate and signs that read high radiation! and no swimming and no
diving. Taken together, the signs were, it seemed to Arkady, redundant. "Eva
lives up there in a cabin." Vanko pointed across the bridge toward a brick
apartment block. "Way back. You'd never find it." "I'll
take your word for it." Vanko
had a key for the boat's padlock and helped Arkady portage the boat over a
floodgate and bridge to the north arm of the river. Arkady had noticed before
that Vanko, with his stolid manner and calflike fringe of hair, seemed to have
keys to everything, as if he were the town custodian. "Chornobyl was a
busy port once. A lot of business went up and down the river when we had
Jews." Arkady
thought that conversations with Vanko sometimes skipped a groove. "So you
haven't had Jews here since the war? Since the Germans?" They
scrambled down to the water. Vanko slid the rowboat in and gripped it by the
stern. "Something like that." As
Arkady got in with the oars, he gave a last glance at the posted warnings.
"How radioactive is the river?" Vanko
shrugged. "Water accumulates radiation a thousand times more than
soil." "Oh." "But
it settles to the bottom." "Ah." "So
avoid the shellfish." Vanko still held the boat. "That reminds me.
You're invited to the old folks' tonight for dinner. Remember Roman and Maria
from the village?" "Yes."
The old woman with the bright blue eyes and the old man with the cow. "Can
you come?" "Of
course." Dinner in a black village. Who could pass that up? Vanko
was pleased. He gave a push. Arkady slipped the oars into the oarlocks and
pulled a first long stroke, then another, and the boat eased into the sluggish
current of the Pripyat. He
was here because the Plumber had kept his promise and called in the morning
with instructions: Arkady was to come alone in a rowboat to the middle of the
cooling pond behind the Arkady's
camos and cap were reasonably water-resistant, and as he settled into even
strokes, he soon had the rowboat clear of shipwrecks and decaying piers. He
dipped his hand in. The water was glassy, brown from peat bogs far upstream and
dimpled with light rain. The land ahead was low-lying, riddled by the myriad
channels of an ancient river and softened by pines and willows. It was four
kilometers against the current from the yacht-club dock to even reach the
cooling pond. Arkady checked his watch. He had two hours to cover the full
distance, and if he was a little late, he figured the Plumber would probably
wait for a hundred dollars. Arkady
didn't have the money, but he couldn't miss the chance to make contact. In
fact, he thought his lack of money might be his safe passage out if the
Plumber's only interest was robbery. Mist
steamed from the riverbanks, snagged on birches, drifted free. Frogs plopped
for cover. Arkady found that the discipline of rowing led to a trancelike state
that left whirlpools of oar strokes behind. A swan cruised by, a white
apparition that deigned to turn its head in Arkady's direction. There were, as
Vanko might have said, worse ways to spend a day. Sometimes
the river silted and broadened, sometimes narrowed to a tunnel of trees, and
much of the time Arkady wondered what he was doing. He wasn't in An
hour later, Arkady had fallen into such a rhythm that it took him a moment to
react to a crowd of radiation signs on a sandy beach. His target. He gathered
speed, drove the boat onto the beach and jumped out, dragging the boat over the
sand and up to the crown of a causeway that separated the river from the
man-made reservoir of the cooling pond. The pond was twelve kilometers long and
three wide; it took a lot of water to cool four nuclear reactors. When the
plant had been active – when A
causeway road was blocked by a chain-link fence, bent on one side as if to say,
"Come this way." Saplings had uprooted the cement slabs that were the
walls of the pond; at one point a red shirt tied to a tree marked where slabs
had shifted and, in their disrepair, become stairs down to the water. Arkady
checked his meter, which ticked with increasing interest; then he lowered the
rowboat onto the surface and pushed off as he stepped in. In
fair weather, the cooling pond might have been a clever rendezvous. With
binoculars, the Plumber could have made sure Arkady was alone, in a rowboat and
far from help. No doubt the Plumber would have the advantage of an outboard
engine. Whatever the plan, Arkady didn't like approaching with his back turned,
bent over oars. And it was raining harder; visibility was down to a hundred
meters and closing in. People made mistakes when they couldn't see clearly.
They misconstrued what they did see, or saw what wasn't there. What did he know
about the Plumber? The brief phone conversation suggested that he was hardly an
experienced professional, more a slovenly middle-aged Ukrainian male with bad
dental work. He had probably lived in Pripyat and, to judge from his choice of
rendezvous, had probably worked at the power plant. A scavenger rather than a
poacher, a man likely to carry a hammer rather than a gun, if that was a
comfort. Arkady
stayed in sight of the causeway to keep his bearings and checked his watch to
determine how far he had come. For a moment he thought he'd caught the throb of
an outboard engine ahead in the rain, but he couldn't honestly say which way it
came from, or whether he'd really heard it. All he heard for certain was his
own oars ladling water. He
had rowed for half an hour along the causeway when he glimpsed, over his
shoulder, two red-and-white chimneys hanging in the fog. Mist closed in, but
not before he had a new bearing, directly toward the reactor stacks. He rowed
and coasted until he got a new sighting, rowed and coasted again. Perhaps it
was going to work out after all. The Plumber would putt-putt into view, and
they would talk. Arkady
rowed to what he guessed was halfway across the pond and waited, turning the
boat every minute or two for a different view. He was aware of boats far off on
the periphery, but not a single one approached. Ten minutes passed. Twenty.
Thirty. By then he wished he had a cigarette, damp or otherwise. He
was about to quit when he heard a metallic rattle and an empty boat drifted
sideways out of the rain. It was an aluminum tub like his, with a small
outboard engine clamped to the stern and a chain swinging at the bow. The
engine was off. An empty vodka bottle rolled forward as Arkady stopped the
boat. Nothing else was in it, not a cigarette butt, not a fishing rod, not a
paddle. Arkady
tied the empty boat to the back of his and started rowing to another boat he
saw on the reactor side of the pond. He couldn't imagine why anyone besides the
Plumber or Vanko would be out in such weather, but maybe the other boat's
occupant had seen someone or knew whose boat this was. Towing the boat was
awkward; with every pull, it snapped against Arkady's boat and produced the
sound of a bass drum lightly kicked, the perfect acclaim for a day wasted. There
were two men in the boat, fifty meters off, and every ten meters the rain got
worse, veiling the boat even as Arkady approached. The Woropays. Dymtrus stood
and
Arkady
had stopped rowing. The woman was gone, replaced by a catfish weighing at least
sixty kilos, a slippery, scaleless monster that thrashed this way and that and
turned its blunt face and jelly eyes to Arkady. Oriental whiskers spread from
its lips, and what looked like sopping embroidery fell into the water. "You
netted it?" Arkady asked. "They're
too heavy to pull up otherwise," said Dymtrus. "Chornobyl
giants," said "Then
don't catch them." Arkady noticed that the Woropays had sidearms. He
supposed he was lucky they weren't fishing with grenades. "Let it
go." Dymtrus
opened his arms. The fish dropped with a great splash into the water, swirled
to the surface and then sank ponderously out of sight. "Relax, it's just
for fun. There are bigger fish down there."
The
brothers wore slack, calculating smiles. "We
wouldn't eat one," Dymtrus said. "They're loaded with all sorts of
radioactive shit." "We're
not crazy." Arkady
felt his heart rate start to slow. He pointed to the empty boat. "I'm
looking for the man who came in that." The
Woropays shrugged and asked how Arkady knew there had been someone in it.
People hid boats around the cooling pond. The wind could have blown the boat
in. And since when did they take orders from fucking Russians? And maybe they
could use a fucking outboard engine of their own. They made the last comment
too late, after Arkady had switched boats and retied the lines and was towing
Vanko's boat away, under power, into the face of a squall that drenched any
idea of pursuit. Arkady
switched boats again at the causeway to take Vanko's back downstream. At least
this time he would have the current working with him. A stork with a red beak
as sharp as a bayonet and white wings trimmed in black sailed by and passed
over another stork that waded in slow motion along the edge of the river,
painstakingly stalking a victim. The streets of As
he began to row, however, the mist cleared enough for the apartment blocks of
Pripyat to loom like giant headstones. Hadn't Oksana Katamay described her
block in Pripyat as overlooking the river? He swung the boat around.
The Katamay
apartment wasn't difficult to find. Oksana had given him the address, and
although the flat was on the eighth floor, the stairs were clear of the usual
debris. The door was open and the view from the living room took in the power
station, the river, the dark wormholes of former river tracks and banks of
steamy mist. Arkady could imagine Oleksander Katamay, Chief of Construction,
standing like a colossus before such a panorama. The
family must have returned on the sly to remove items they hadn't been able to
carry with them at the evacuation. This bare wall had been covered by a
tapestry. Those empty shelves had held books or a stuffed menagerie. Overall,
however, the family had been selective and Arkady had the impression that
squatters and scavengers knew to give the Katamay flat a pass. Sofa and chairs
still sat in the parlor; wiring and plumbing still seemed intact. Someone had
cleaned out the refrigerator, taped a broken window, made the beds, scrubbed
the tub. The place was practically in move-in condition, disregarding
radiation. One
bedroom was, Arkady guessed, the grandfather's; it was stripped clean but for a
few pails of taxidermy degreaser and crusted glue. A second bedroom was
decorated with Happy Faces, pictures of pop stars and posters of girl gymnasts
tumbling with manic energy on a mat. Names swam back from the past: Abba,
Korbut, Comaneci. Stuffed toys sat on the bed. Arkady ran a dosimeter over a
lion and produced a little roar. Karel's
room was at the end of the hall. He must have been about eight at the time of
the accident, but he was already a marksman. Paper targets punched in the
middle were taped to the wall, along with a boy's selection of posters of heavy
metal musicians with painted faces. The shelves were lined with Red Army tanks,
fighter planes, shark's teeth and dinosaurs. A broken ski leaned in a corner. A
bedpost was hung with ribbons and medals for a variety of sports: hockey,
soccer, swimming. Taped over the bed was a photograph of Karel at a fun fair
with his big sister Oksana; she was no more than thirteen, with straight dark
hair that hung to her waist. Also pictures of Karel fishing with his
grandfather and posing with a soccer ball and two surly teammates, the
proto-Woropays. Squares of peeled paint were left where tape had peeled off.
Under the bed Arkady found pictures that had fallen: a team picture of the Kiev
Dynamo soccer team, the ice hockey great Fetisov, Muhammad Ali and, finally, a
snapshot of Karel posed with his fists up with a boxer. Karel was in trunks
just like a real fighter. The boxer wore trunks and gloves. He was maybe
eighteen, a skinny, slope-shouldered boy as white as soap, and his autograph
was scrawled across the photograph: "To My Good Friend Karel. May we
always be pals. Anton Obodovsky."
Roman introduced
Arkady to a pig that rubbed with exquisite pleasure against the slats of its
sty as Roman poured in slops. "Oink,
oink," said Roman, "oink, oink," his cheeks apple red from the
rays of the setting sun and pride of ownership. It was possible that Roman had
had a nip before Arkady arrived. Alex and Vanko followed in Arkady's footsteps;
the rain had stopped but left the farmyard ankle-deep in mud. The scene
reminded Arkady of the official inspections that had once been Soviet fare:
"Party Secretary Visits Collective Farm and Vows More Fertilizer."
"Oink, oink," said Roman, the soul of wit. He seemed delighted to be
leading the tour without his wife's assistance. "Russians raise pigs for
meat, we raise pigs for fat. But we're saving Sumo. Aren't we, Sumo?" "For
what?" asked Arkady. Roman
placed a finger to his lips and winked. A secret. Which struck Arkady as
appropriate for an illegal resident of the Zone. Roman led the way to a chicken
coop. In the cool after the rain, Arkady felt the heat of the sitting hens. The
old man showed Arkady how he tied the bar of the door shut with a twist of
wire. "Foxes are very clever." "Perhaps
you should have a dog," Arkady suggested. "Wolves
eat dogs." That did seem to be the consensus of the village, Arkady
thought. Roman shook his head as if he'd given the matter a lot of
consideration. "Wolves hate dogs. Wolves hunt down dogs because they
regard them as traitors. If you think about it, dogs are dogs only because of
humans; otherwise they'd all be wolves, right? And where will we be when all
the dogs are gone? It will be the end of civilization." He opened a barn
with an array of shovels and hoes, rakes and scythes, a grindstone, a pulley
hanging from a crossbeam and bins of potatoes and beets. "Did you meet "The
cow? Yes, thank you." A
pair of huge eyes in the depths of a stall beseeched the tour to leave her
alone to masticate her hay. Which reminded Arkady of Captain Marchenko when
Arkady alerted him to the possibility of a body floating in the cooling pond.
The captain had suggested that a loose boat was not sufficient reason to leave
a dry office, and the pond was a large body of water to go pounding around in
the rain or the dark. The empty vodka bottle aside, had there been blood in the
boat? Signs of struggle? Professional to professional, didn't this sound like a
wild goose chase? Roman
led his guests out by a half-shed packed so tight with firewood that not
another piece could have been inserted. Arkady suspected that when Roman was
too drunk to stand, he could still stack wood with lapidary care. Roman waved
to an orchard and identified cherries, pears, plums and apples. Arkady
asked Alex, "Have you gone around the yard with a dosimeter?" "What's
the use? This is a couple in their eighties, and their own food tastes better
to them than starving in the city. This is heaven." Maybe,
Arkady thought. Roman and Maria's house was a weathered blue, windows trimmed
with carving, one corner resting country-style on a tree stump. It shone amid
abandoned houses that were as black as if they'd been burned, with tumbledown
barns and fruit trees wrapped in brambles. One dirt path led from the house to
the village center; another climbed toward the wrought-iron fence and crosses
of the cemetery, within a few steps a compass of peasant life and death.
The interior was
a single room: a combination kitchen, bedroom and parlor centered around a whitewashed brick stove that heated the house, cooked
the food, baked the bread and – peasant genius! – on especially cold nights
provided a second sleeping bench directly over the oven. Lamps and candles lit
walls covered with embroidered cloths, tapestries with forest scenes, family
photos and picture calendars collected from various years. Photos framed a
younger Roman and Maria, he in a rubber apron, she holding an enormous braid of
garlic, together with an urbanized group that must have been their son and his
family, a timorous wife and a skinny girl about four years of age. A separate
picture of the girl showed her maybe a year older, in a sun hat by a
rust-pocked sign that said Maria
glowed so, she could have been polished for the occasion. She wore an
embroidered shirt and apron, a tasseled shawl and, of course, her brilliant
blue eyes and steel smile. Despite the crowded quarters, she was everywhere at
once, setting out bowls of cucumbers, pickled mushrooms, pickles in honey, thin
and fat sausages, apple salad, cabbage in sour cream, dark bread and
home-churned butter and a center plate of salted fat with an alabaster glow. "Don't
even think about your dosimeter," Alex whispered to Arkady. "How
often do you eat here?" "When
I feel lucky." The
rattle of a car muffler drew up outside, and a moment later, Eva Kazka appeared
with flowers. She also wore a scarf. It seemed to be her style. "Renko,
I didn't know you were going to be here," Eva said. "Is this part of
your investigation?" "No.
Purely social." "Social
is as social does." Roman arranged a row of small glasses around a bottle
of vodka. The party had gone a long time without vodka, Arkady thought; Vanko
looked as if he had crawled on his knees to a water hole. The host poured every
glass to the trembling brim, and Maria watched proudly as he distributed each
without the loss of a drop. "Wait!" Roman magisterially struck a
match and lit his glassful like a candle, a yellow flame dancing on the surface
of the liquid. "Good. It's ready." He blew out the flame and raised
his glass. "To Arkady
took a swallow and gasped, "Not vodka." "Samogon."
Alex wiped his eyes. "Moonshine from fermented sugar, yeast and maybe a
potato. It doesn't get much purer than that." "How
pure?" "Maybe
eighty percent." The
samogon had its effect: Eva looked more dangerous, Vanko more dignified,
Roman's ears went red and Maria glistened. There was a solemn dipping into the
food while Roman poured another round. Arkady found the pickles crisp and sour,
with perhaps a hint of strontium. Roman asked him, "You went fishing in
Vanko's boat? Did you catch anything?" "No,
although I did see a very large fish. A Eva
said, "The catfish? It's Alex's joke." "A
catfish is a catfish," Vanko said. "Not
quite," said Alex. "People here are accustomed to channel catfish
that grow to a paltry meter or two. Someone – I couldn't say who – seems to
have imported "It's
a sick joke," Eva said. "Alex would like a plague to sweep across "Present
company excluded, of course," Alex said. Maria smiled. The party seemed to
be off to a nice start. "What
shall we drink to?" Roman asked. "Oblivion,"
Alex suggested. Arkady
was better prepared for his second samogon, but he still had to step back from
the impact. Eva declared herself warm. She loosened her scarf but didn't remove
it. Maria
advised Arkady to eat a slice of fat. "It will grease the stomach." "Actually,
I'm feeling fairly well greased. This picture of the girl by the Havana Club
sign was taken in "Their
granddaughter," Vanko said. "Maria,
after me," Maria said. Alex
said, "Every year Arkady
was aware of having introduced an element of unease. Roman cleared his throat
and said, "We're not sitting. This is irregular. We should be
sitting." In
such a small cabin, there were only two chairs and room for only two on the
bench. Alex pulled Eva down on his lap, and Arkady stood. "Truly,
how is the investigation going?" Alex asked. Arkady
said, "It's not going anywhere. I've never made less progress." "You
told me that you weren't a good investigator," Eva said. "So
when I tell you that I've never made less progress, that's saying
something." "And
we hope you never make any progress," said Alex. "That way you can
stay with us forever." "I'll
drink to that," Vanko said hopefully. Eva
said, "None of us makes progress, that's the nature of this place. I will
never cure people who live in radioactive houses. I will never cure children
whose tumors appear ten years after exposure. This is not a medical program,
this is an experiment." "Well,
that's a downer," Alex said. "Let's go back to the dead
Russian." "Of
course," said Eva, and she filled her own glass. Alex
said, "I can understand why a Russian business tycoon would have his
throat slit. I just don't understand why he would come all the way to this
little village to have it done." "I've
wondered the same thing," Arkady said. "There
must have been plenty of people in "I'm
sure there were." "He
was protected by bodyguards, which means he had to escape his own security to
be killed. He must have been coming here for protection. From whom? But death
was inevitable. It was like an appointment in "Alex,
you should be an actor," Vanko said. Eva
said, "He is an actor." "You
were a physicist before you became an ecologist," Arkady said to Alex.
"Why did you change?" "What
a dull question. Vanko is a singer." Alex poured for everyone. "This
is the entertainment section of the evening. We are on a night train, samogon
is our fuel and Vanko is our engineer. Vanko, the floor is yours." Vanko
sang a long song about a Cossack off to the wars, his chaste wife and the hawk
that carried their letters back and forth until it was shot down by an envious
nobleman. When Vanko was done, everyone applauded so hard they sweated. "I
found the story absolutely believable," Alex said. "Especially the
part about how love can turn to suspicion, suspicion to jealousy and jealousy
to hate." "Sometimes
love can go right to hate," said Eva. "Investigator Renko, are you married?" "No." "Been
married?" "Yes." "But
no more. We often hear how difficult it is for investigators and militia
detectives to maintain a successful marriage. The men supposedly become
emotionally cold and silent. Was that your problem, that you were cold and
silent?" "No,
my wife was allergic to penicillin. A nurse gave her the wrong injection, and
she died of anaphylactic shock." "Eva,"
Alex whispered. "Eva, that was a bad mistake." "I'm
sorry," she told Arkady. "So
am I," said Arkady. He
left the party for a while. Physically he was present and smiled at the
appropriate times, but his mind was elsewhere. The first time he'd met Irina
was at the Mosfilm studio, during an outdoor shoot. She was a wardrobe
mistress, not an actress, and yet once the sun lit her huge deep-set eyes,
everyone else seemed made of cardboard. It was not a placid relationship, but
it was not cold. He could not be cold around Irina; that was like trying to be
cold beside a bonfire. When he saw her on the gurney, dead, her eyes so blank,
he thought his life had ended, too, yet here he was years later, in the Zone of
Exclusion, lost and stumbling but alive. He looked around the room to clear his
head and happened to light on the icons high in their corner, Christ on the
left wall, the Madonna on the right, the two framed by richly embroidered
cloths and lit by votive candles on a shelf. The Christ was actually a
postcard, but the Mother was the genuine article, a Byzantine painting on wood
of the Madonna in an unusual blue cowl with gold stars, her fingertips lightly
pressed together in prayer. She looked like the stolen icon he had seen in the
motorcycle sidecar. That icon had been taken over the border to Vanko
said, "The Jews are here." "Where?"
Arkady asked. "In
Alex
said, "Thank you, Vanko, we've been warned." He added to Arkady,
"Hasidic Jews. There's a famous rabbi buried here. They visit and pray.
Maria's turn." After
the formalities of modesty and protest, Maria sat up in her chair, closed her
eyes and broke into a song that transformed her from an old woman into a girl
looking for her lover at a midnight tryst, and singing in a register so high
the windowpanes seemed to vibrate like crystals. When Maria finished, she
opened her eyes, spread a smile of steel teeth and swung her feet with
pleasure. Roman tried to follow with selections on a violin, but a string
broke, and he went hors de combat. "Arkady?"
Alex asked. "Sorry,
I'm low in entertainment skills." "Then
it's your turn," Alex told Eva. "All right." She ran her hands through her hair as
if that combed it, fixed her eyes on Alex and began:
We're all drunkards here and
harlots: How wretched we are together...
The
poetry was coarse and blunt, Akhmatova's words, familiar to Arkady, familiar to
any literate man or woman over the age of thirty, before the new poetry of
"Billions Served" and "Snickers for Energy!"
I have put on a narrow skirt
to show my lines are trim. The windows are tightly sealed,
What brews? Thunder or sleet?
How well I know your look, Your eyes like a cautious cat.
She
swung her own gaze from Alex to Arkady and hesitated so long that Alex took
over the last line:
O heavy heart, how long before the tolling bell? But that one dancing there, will
surely rot in hell!
Alex
pulled Eva's face to his and collected a deep kiss until she pulled away and
slapped him hard enough to make even Arkady smart. She stood and plunged out
the door. It was like a Russian party, Arkady thought. People got drunk,
recklessly confessed their love, spilled their festering dislike, had
hysterics, marched out, were dragged back in and revived with brandy. It wasn't
a French salon. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. It was Olga Andreevna, from the children's shelter in "Investigator
Renko, you have to come back." "A
second, please." Arkady gestured apologies to Maria and went outside. Eva
was nowhere in sight, although her car hadn't left. Olga
Andreevna asked, "Investigator, what are you still doing in the "I
am assigned here. I am working on a case." "You
should be here. Zhenya needs you." "I
don't think so. I can't think of anyone he needs less." "He
goes and stands by the street, waiting for you and looking for your car." "Maybe
he's waiting for the bus." "Last
week he was gone for two days. We found him sleeping in the park. Talk to
him." She
put Zhenya on the line before Arkady could get off. At least he assumed Zhenya
was on; all Arkady heard at his end was silence. "Hello,
Zhenya. How are you doing? I hear you've been causing people at the shelter
some anxiety. Please don't do that." Arkady paused in case Zhenya wanted
to offer any response. "So I suppose that's all, Zhenya." He
was in no mood and no condition to have another one-sided conversation with the
garden gnome. He leaned back to take a breath of cool air and watched clouds
cover the moon, slipping the house in and out of shadow. He heard the cow
shuffle in her stall and a twig snap and wondered whether it was a night for
wolves to be abroad. "Still
there?" Arkady asked. There was no answer; there never was an answer.
"I met Baba Yaga. In fact, I'm outside her house right now. I can't say
whether her fence is made of bones, but she definitely has steel teeth."
Arkady heard, or thought he heard, a focusing of attention at the other end.
"I haven't seen her dog or cat yet, but she does have an invisible cow,
who has to be invisible because of the wolves. Maybe the wolves wandered in from
a different story, but they're here. And a sea serpent. In her pond she has a
sea serpent as big as a whale, with long whiskers. I saw the sea serpent
swallow a man whole." There was unmistakable rustling on the other end
now. Arkady tried to remember other details of the fairy tale. "The house
is very strange. It is absolutely on chicken legs. Right now the house is
slowly turning. I'll lower my voice in case it hears me. I didn't see her magic
comb, the one that can turn into a forest, but I did see an orchard of
poisonous fruit. All the houses around are burned and full of ghosts. I will
call in two more days. In the meantime, it's important that you stay at the
shelter and study and maybe make a friend in case we need help. I have to go
now, before they see that I'm missing. Let me say a word to the director." There
was a passing of the phone, and Olga Andreevna came back on. "What did you
tell him? He seems much better." "I
told him that he is a citizen of a proud new "I'm
sure. Well, whatever you said, it worked. Are you coming to "Not
quite yet. I'll call in two days." "The
"Good
night, Olga Andreevna." As
Arkady put the mobile phone away, Eva stepped out of the orchard, silently
applauding. "Your son?" she asked. "No." "A
nephew?" "No,
just a boy." She
shifted like a cat getting comfortable. "Baba Yaga! Quite a story. You are
an entertainer after all." "I
thought you were going." "Not
quite yet. So you're not with anybody now? A woman?" "No.
And you, are you and Alex married, separated or divorced?" "Divorced.
It's that obvious?" "I
thought I detected something." "The
residue of an ancient disaster, the crater of a bomb, is what you detect."
The window light on her was watery, the stamp of linen making her eyes darker.
"I still love him. Not the way you loved your wife. I can tell you had one
of those great faithful romances. We didn't. We were more... melodramatic,
let's say. Neither of us was undamaged goods. You can't be in the Zone without
a little damage. How much longer do you plan to stay?" "I
have no idea. I think the prosecutor would like to leave me here forever." "Until
you're damaged?" "At
least." What
was disturbing about Eva Kazka was her combination of ferocity and, as she
said, damage. She had been to The
door opened. Alex leaned out to say, "My turn."
"Our new
friend Arkady may not know all the facts. Facts are important. Facts should not
be swept aside." "You're
drunk," Eva said. "It
goes without saying. Arkady, do you enjoy comedy?" "If
it's funny." "Guaranteed.
This is Russian stand-up comedy," Alex said. "Comedy with
samogon." Maria
opened a new bottle, releasing the sickeningly sweet smell of fermented sugar,
and toddled from guest to guest refilling glasses. "April
twenty-sixth, 1986. The setting: the control room of Reactor Four. The actors:
a night shift of fifteen technicians and engineers conducting an experiment –
to see whether the reactor can restart itself if all external power for the
machinery is cut off. The experiment has been performed before with safety
systems on. This time they want to be more realistic. To defeat the safety
system of a nuclear reactor, however, is no simple matter. It involves application.
You have to disconnect the emergency core cooling system and close and lock the
gate valves." Alex walked rapidly back and forth, attending to imaginary
switches. "Turn off the automatic control, block the steam control,
disable the pre-sets, switch off design protection and neutralize the emergency
generators. Then start pulling graphite rods from the core by remote control.
This is like riding a tiger, this is fun. There are a hundred and twenty rods
in all, a minimum of thirty to be inserted at all times, because this was a
Soviet reactor, a military model that was a little unstable at low efficiency,
a fact that was, unfortunately, a state secret. Alas, the power plunged." "When
does this start to become funny?" Eva asked. "It's
already funny. It just gets funnier. Imagine the confusion of the technicians.
The reactor efficiency is dropping through the floor, and the core is flooding
with radioactive xenon and iodine and combustible hydrogen. And somehow they
have lost count – they have lost count! – and pulled all but eighteen control
rods from the core, twelve below the limit. All the same, there is one last
disastrous step to take. They can replace the rods, turn on the safety systems
and shut down the reactor. They have not yet turned off the turbine valves and
started the actual experiment. They have not pushed the final button." Alex
mimicked hesitation. "Let's
pause and consider what is at stake. There is a monthly bonus. There is a May
Day bonus. If they run the test successfully they will likely win promotions
and awards. On the other hand, if they shut down the reactor, there would
certainly be embarrassing questions asked and consequences felt. There it is,
bonuses versus disaster. So, like good Soviets, they marched forward, hands
over their balls." Alex
pushed the button. "In
a second the reactor coolant began to boil. The reactor hall started to pound.
An engineer hit the panic switch for the control rods, but the rod channels in
the reactor melted, the rods jammed, and superheated hydrogen blew off the
roof, carrying reactor core, graphite and burning tar into the sky. A black
fireball stood over the building, and a blue beam of ionized light shot from
the open core. Fifty tons of radioactive fuel flew up, equal to fifty Alex
picked up his glass of samogon. "And
what did our heroes say when Roman
and Maria sat numb and deflated, feet hanging free of the floor. Vanko looked
away. Eva pressed her fist to her mouth, then stood and applied the fist to
Alex, not slapping him as she had before but hitting him solidly in the chest
until Arkady pulled her away. For a moment no one moved, like marionettes gone
limp, until Eva bolted again for the door. This time Arkady heard her car
start. Alex's
glass spilled. He refilled and raised it a second time. "Well, it seemed
hilarious to me." Chapter TenAs
a rule, fresh bodies hang facedown underwater, with their arms and legs
dangling in a shallow dive. This one was suspended against the bars of the
inlet that fed water from the cooling pond to the smaller holding ponds of the
station. Emergency water was still needed; the reactors were full of fuel, and
in some ways they weren't so much dead as in hibernation. Two
men with gaffs were trying to pull the body closer without falling in themselves.
Captain Marchenko watched from the wall of the pond with a group of useless but
curious militia officers, the Woropay brothers in front. Eva Kazka stood by her
car, as far from the proceedings as possible. Arkady noticed that she looked,
if possible, wilder and more unkempt than usual. Probably she had just gone
home and dropped, in a samogon stupor. She seemed to be drawing the same
conclusion about him. As
Marchenko joined Arkady, a shadow broke the surface of the water to display a
slick gray head with rubbery lips, then slid back toward the bottom to stir
with even larger catfish in the murk. The
captain said, "Taking into account the bad weather yesterday and the
dimensions of the cooling pond, I think you'll agree that it was wise to wait
before looking for a body. The way the ponds circulate, everything ends up here
at the inlet. Now it's right in our hands." "And
now it's ten in the morning a day later." "A
fisherman falls off his boat and drowns, it really doesn't matter whether you
find him one day or the next." "Like
the tree that falls in the forest, does it make a noise?" "Lots
of trees fall in the forest. They're called accidental deaths." Arkady
asked, "Is Dr. Kazka the only doctor available?" "We
can't pull the station doctors. All Dr. Kazka has to do is sign a death
certificate." "You
couldn't call for a pathologist?" "They
say Kazka was in Eva
Kazka tapped out a cigarette. Arkady had never seen such a nervous individual. "By
the way, I meant to ask you, Captain, did you ever find out whose icon we saw
stolen the other day?" "Yes.
It belonged to an old couple named Panasenko. Returnees. The militia keeps a
record. I understand it was a beautiful icon." "Yes." So
a thief on a motorcycle had stolen the icon of Roman and Maria Panasenko's, a
crime officially recorded, and yet the icon had returned to its corner perch in
the Panasenko cabin. Which was, to Arkady, the opposite of a tree falling
without a sound. From
the inlet Arkady had a view of half-completed cooling towers that resembled,
with the brush that flourished under and around them, temples half-built. The
towers had been meant for the planned Reactors Five and Six. Now power went the
other direction, at a trickle, to keep lightbulbs and gauges alive. An
ironic cheer went up when the body was finally grappled. As it was lifted,
water drained from its pants and sleeves. "Don't
you have a tarp or plastic to lay the body on?" Arkady asked Marchenko. "This
is not a murder investigation in The
captain's men moved truculently out of Arkady's way; the Woropays snickered at
the recorder in Arkady's hand. "Speak
up," Marchenko said. "We can all learn." "Pulled
from the water at the inlet of Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant at 1015 hours on
July 15, a male apparently in his sixties, two meters tall, dressed in a
leather jacket, blue work pants and construction boots." An ugly man, in
fact, his thick features bleached by immersion, brown teeth badly sorted,
clothes sodden as a wet sheet. "Extremities are rigid, exhibiting rigor
mortis. No wedding ring." Arms and legs yearned for the sky, fingers open.
"Hair brown." Arkady peeled an eyelid back. "Eyes brown. Left
eye dilated. Fully clothed, the body presents no tattoos, moles or other
identifying marks. No immediately evident abrasions or contusions. We'll
continue at the autopsy." "No
autopsy," Marchenko said. "We
know him," Dymtrus Woropay said.
"Do
you have latex gloves?" Arkady asked. Marchenko
said, "Afraid of getting your hands wet?" At
a nod from the captain, the Woropays unzipped the dead man's jacket and dug out
his booklet of identification papers. Marchenko
read them: "Boris Petrovich Hulak, born 1949, residence "We'll
check his lungs for water," Arkady said. "He
was fishing." "Where's
the rod?" "He
caught a catfish. He had consumed an entire bottle of vodka, he was standing in
his boat, a catfish bigger than him pulled the rod out of his hands, and he
lost his balance and fell in. No autopsy." "Maybe
the bottle was empty to begin with. We can't assume he was drunk." "Yes,
we can. He was a well-known drunk, he was alone, he fished, he fell in."
From his tunic Marchenko pulled the hunting knife he had shown Arkady before,
the boar knife. "You want an autopsy? Here's your autopsy." He drove
the knife into Boris Hulak's stomach, spewing the sweet gas of digested
alcohol. The samogon in Arkady's own stomach rose to his throat. "That's
drunk." Even
the Woropays took a step back from the hanging mist. Marchenko wiped his blade
on the dead man's jacket. Arkady
said between shallow breaths, "There's still the eye." "What
eye?" the captain asked, his satisfaction interrupted. "The
right eye is normal, but the left eye is fully dilated, which indicates a blow
to the head." "He's
decomposing. The muscles relax. His eyes could go different directions. Hulak
hit his head on the boat as he went over, what does it matter?" "He's
not a pig. We have to see." "The
investigator is right," Eva Kazka said. She had wandered over from her
car. "If you want me to sign a death certificate, there should be a cause
of death." "You
need an autopsy for that?" "Before
you stick the body again, I think so," Eva said.
She wasn't
talkative. Boris Hulak was laid out naked on a steel table with his head propped
against a wooden block, and he said about as much as Eva did while she opened
his body, first with an incision from his collar to his groin and then in
handfuls, moving organs into separate bedpans, all with the brisk dispatch of
someone washing dishes. The room was meanly furnished, with little more than
the essentials of scales and pails, and she had already spent an hour washing
the body and examining it for bruises, tattoos and needle tracks. Arkady had
checked Hulak's clothes at a sink, finding nothing more remarkable in the dead
man's pockets than a purse of loose change and a door key, and nothing in his
billfold except a damp twenty-hryvnia note, a photo-booth picture of a boy
about six years old and an expired video-club card. Arkady had cut off Hulak's
boots and found hidden under the sole almost two hundred American dollars – not
bad for a scavenger of radioactive electrical wiring. While Eva Kazka worked on
one side of the table, Arkady worked on the other, drying out fingers wrinkled
by immersion and then plumping them with injections of saline to lift the
ridges and produce usable prints to compare with those he had lifted from the
bottle found in the boat. Fluorescent
lights turned cadavers green, and Boris Hulak was greener than most, a fleshy
body wrapped in fat through the middle, hard through the legs and shoulders,
exuding a bouquet of ethanol. Eva wore her lab coat, cap and professional
demeanor, and she and Arkady smoked as they worked to mask the smell. There
were few enough benefits to smoking; this was one. "Ever
wish you hadn't asked for something?" Eva said. She saw through him, which
didn't make him feel any better. She consulted her autopsy chart. "All I
can tell you so far is that between cirrhosis of the liver and necrosis of the
kidney, Boris had perhaps two more years to live. Otherwise, he was a hardy
specimen. And no, there was virtually no water in the lungs." "I
think I chased Hulak through Pripyat a few nights ago." "Did
you catch him?" "No." "And
you never would have. Scavengers know the Zone like a magician knows his
trapdoors and top hats and radioactive bunnies." She tapped the scalpel on
the table. "Captain Marchenko doesn't like you. I thought you were great
friends." "No.
I've ruined his perfect record. A militia station commander wants no problems,
no homicides and, most of all, no unsolved homicides. He certainly doesn't want
two of them." "The
captain is a bitter man. The story is that he got in trouble in "From
the vodka bottle I found in the boat." "And?" "They're
all Hulak's." "Wouldn't
you say that was fairly strong evidence Hulak was alone? Have you ever known a
Russian or a Ukrainian to not share a bottle? He didn't drown, but I have to
tell you that apart from being posthumously stabbed by the captain, I see no
signs of recent violence. Maybe he did hook a big fish and hit his head on the
boat as he went over. Either way, you made the wrong enemy in Captain Marchenko.
It might make him happy if we stopped right here." Arkady
leaned over the body. Boris Hulak had a pugnacious head with heavy brows, a
broad nose mapped in erupted veins, brown hair thick as otter fur and cheeks
covered in stubble, no bruising or swelling, no ligature marks around the neck,
no defensive wounds on the hands, not a scratch in the scalp. However, there
was that dilated iris of the left eye, as open as the stuck shutter of a
camera. Also, Arkady had worked his way out of his samogon stupor. Arkady
said, "Then it will make the captain even happier if we prove I'm
wrong." Most
doctors never encountered a cadaver after anatomy class, and forgot the reeking
totality of death. But Eva coolly repositioned the block farther down under
Hulak's neck. He
said, "You've seen men shot in the head before." "Shot
in the head with a pistol and shot in the back with a rifle, supposedly in the
middle of combat. Either way, there's usually an entry wound, which your man
appears to lack. Last chance to stop." "You're
probably right, but let's see." Eva
sliced the back of Hulak's scalp from ear to ear. She folded the flap of skin
and hair forward over the eyes to work with a circular saw. A power saw was
always heavy and, what with the cloud of white dust it produced, hard to manage
in delicate work. She popped the top of his skull with a chisel, reached in
with a scalpel to free the brain from the spinal cord and laid the soft pink
mass in its glistening sac beside the empty head. "The
captain is not going to like this," Eva said. A
red line ran across the top, the trail of a bullet that had traversed the brain
and then, bouncing off angles, scoured the cranium. Hulak must have gone down
instantly. "Small-caliber?"
Eva asked. "I
think so." She
turned the brain in every direction before choosing one pomegranate-red clot to
attack. She cut the sac, sliced into gray matter and squeezed out a bullet like
a pip. It pinged as it dropped onto the table. She wasn't done. She shone a
penlight around the inside of the skull until a beam came out the left ear. "Who
is this good a shot?" she asked. "A
sniper, a sable hunter, a taxidermist. I would guess the bullet is
five-point-six-millimeter, which is what marksmen use in competitive
shooting." "From
a boat?" "The
water was still." "And
the sound?" "A
silencer, maybe. A small-caliber doesn't make that much noise to begin
with." "So,
now, two murders. Congratulations, Chornobyl has killed a million people, and
you have added two more. I would say that at death, you're very good." While
she was impressed Arkady asked, "What about the first body, the one from
the cemetery? Besides the nature of the wound on the throat, was there anything
else you could have added to your note?" "I
didn't examine him. I simply saw the wound and wrote something. Wolves tear and
yank, they don't slice." "How
bloody was his shirt?" "From
what I saw, very little." "Hair?" "Clean.
His nose was bloody." "He
suffered from nosebleeds," Arkady said. "This
would have been quite a nosebleed. It was packed." "How
do you explain that?" "I
don't. You're the magician – only you pull up the dead instead of
rabbits." Arkady
was wondering how to respond when there was a knock at the door and Vanko stuck
in his head. "The
Jews are here!" "What
Jews?" Arkady asked. "Where?" "In
the middle of town, and they're asking for you!"
The afternoon
sun detailed "Bobby
Hoffman." Hoffman
looked over his shoulder. "I knew I'd find you if I just kept walking.
This is the second day I've been marching up and down." "You
should have asked people where I was." "Jews
do not ask Ukrainian cannibals. I asked one, and he disappeared." "He
said the Jews were coming. It's just you?" "Just
me. Did I scare them? I wish I could fry the whole fucking lot of them. Let's
keep walking. My advice to Jews in the "You've
been here before." "Last
year. Pasha wanted me to look into the spent-fuel situation." "There's
a profit in spent radioactive fuel?" "It's
the coming thing." The
car was a mud-spattered Nissan, a comedown from the Mercedes Arkady had last
seen Hoffman in. Hoffman's clothes, too, were a change. "Is
this a new you?" "The
Hasidic gear? Hasidim are the only Jews they see around here. The idea is, this
way I draw less attention." Hoffman looked at Arkady's camos. "Join
the army?" "Standard
wear for a citizen of the Zone. Does Colonel Ozhogin know you're here?" "Not
yet. You remember that disk the colonel was so proud of finding? It was more
than just a list of foreign accounts. It was an order to reroute them to a
little bank of my own. I could have stayed in "So
you should be on the run. Why are you here?" "You
need help. Renko, you've been here over a month. I talked to your detective Victor." "You
talked to Victor?" "Victor
does e-mail." "He
hasn't communicated with me. I call and he's out of the office, I call his
mobile phone and there's no answer at all." "Caller
ID. You're not paying him, and I am. And Victor says you didn't send any
reports to "No." "No
progress at all?" "Nothing." "You're
drowning here. You're on dream time." They
had walked past the cafй to a neighborhood of acacias and two-story wooden
houses where once lived "How
are you going to help?" Arkady asked. "We'll
help each other." Hoffman
motioned for the car to draw forward and pushed Arkady inside. The driver offered
a glance of indifference. He had sunken eyes and a skullcap pinned to a wisp of
hair. He rested busted knuckles on the steering wheel. Hoffman
said, "Don't worry about Yakov. I selected him because he's the oldest Jew
in the "Thanks." "I'm
just saying you need a little assistance. For example, you had an idea about
collecting surveillance videotapes not only from Pasha's apartment building but
also from the buildings on either side. In fact, Victor did what you told him.
The problem was that you caved. You called Pasha's death a suicide." "It
was a suicide." "Driven
to killing himself is not what I call suicide. Don't get me started. Okay,
Pasha was called a suicide, and no more investigation, and Victor had read
somewhere about vodka protecting against radiation. He got real protected. By
the time he got sober, he had forgotten all about the tapes. Then Timofeyev got
his throat cut, and Prosecutor Zurin sent you here." Bobby looked out the
car window at the houses. "Eskimos are kinder: they just set you on a fucking
ice floe." "The
tapes?" "I
reached Victor. Know what his e-mail address is? You can buy it on the
Internet; it's illegal, but you can do it. Apparently, like all Russians, he
once had a dog named Laika. So I reached 'Laika 1223' and offered Victor a
reward for any notes or evidence left over. I caught him at a sober moment,
because he even transferred the tapes to a disk for me." "You
and Victor, what a pair." "Hey,
I feel bad about the way I left you in "The
service alley behind Pasha Ivanov's apartment house. But this is taken from the
apartment house on the right." "You
saw the tape from Pasha's building?" "It
was taped over; it was on a short loop. We saw Pasha arrive and fall, and we
saw about two hours before that, but nothing from before." "Watch,"
Hoffman said. The
camera froze images with a five-second lag to stretch tape time. Also, it was
on a motorized pivot that swung 180 degrees. The result was a curious collage:
a cat was caught in the act of entering from the street; seen next balanced on
the rim of a Dumpster; and then, in a sideways view, approaching the Dumpster
next door, at Ivanov's building. Hoffman
said, "According to Victor, you thought there was a security breach about
now." "We
know that the staff went up and down the building knocking on doors. There was
some sort of event." At
1045:15 the cat was caught in acrobatic midleap from the Dumpster as a white
van entered the left side of the alley. "When
you're right, you're right," Hoffman said. At
1045:30 the van had stopped beside Ivanov's Dumpster. At fifteen-second gaps,
the camera returned to the Dumpster, and the screen showed what were
essentially poor-quality black-and-white photographs of: The
van with the driver's door open and a dark figure at the wheel. The
van with the door shut and the driver's seat empty. The
same scene for one minute. A
bulky man in coveralls, gas mask and cowl that completely covered his head,
shouldering a tank and hose and rolling a suitcase on casters from the van to
Ivanov's building. The
van in the driveway. The
same scene for five minutes. An
encore by the cat. The
van. For
one more minute, the van. The
same man with the same gear returning to the rear of the van. The
van. A
figure in coveralls and mask climbing into the driver's seat. The
van moving away as the driver removed the mask, his face a blur. The
empty alley. The
cat. The
building's doorman, fists on his hips. The
empty alley. The
cat. Time
1056:30. Time elapsed, eleven minutes. Seven minutes of risk for the driver. "When
you interrogated the staff, they never mentioned an exterminator, did
they?" Hoffman said. "A fumigator? Bugs?" "No.
Can you enlarge the image of the man moving from the van to the building?" Hoffman
did. How he fit such fat fingers onto the keyboard, Arkady didn't know, but
Bobby was quick. "The
head?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
circled the head and magnified a gas mask with goggles and two shiny filters. "Can
you enlarge it more?" "I
can enlarge it all you want, but it's a grainy picture. All you'll get is
bigger grains. A fucking exterminator." "That's
not an exterminator's mask. That's radiation gear. Can you enlarge the
tank?" The
tank bore what appeared to be fumigation warnings. "The
suitcase?" The
suitcase was covered with cartoon decals of dead rats and roaches. On the way
in the suitcase was rolled. Arkady remembered that on the way out it had been
carried. "It's
a delivery. The suitcase arrived heavy, it left light." "How
heavy?" "I
would guess – fifty or sixty kilos of salt, a grain of cesium and lead-lined
suitcase – maybe seventy-five kilos in all. Quite a load." "See,
this is fun. Working together. This is a breakthrough, right?" "Can
you bring out the license plate?" It
was a "Victor
is on your payroll now?" "Hey,
I'm doing your work for you and paying for it. I'm giving you Maximov
on a platter. While you've been stumbling around here, there's been a war in "I
have been out of touch," Arkady granted. "They
both always wanted NoviRus." Arkady
remembered them at the roulette table. Kuzmitch was a risk taker who stacked
chips on a number; Maximov, a mathematician, was a methodical, cautious player. "The
Ivanov case is closed," Arkady said. "Ivanov jumped. If Kuzmitch
drove him to it, then Kuzmitch succeeded. I'm working on the Timofeyev case.
Someone cut his throat. That's murder. And the evidence has not been paid
for." "How
much do you want?" "Much
what?" "Money.
How much to drop Timofeyev and concentrate on Pasha? What's your number?" "I
don't have a number." Hoffman
closed the laptop. "Let me put it another way. If you won't help, Yakov
will kill you." Yakov
turned and aimed a gun at Arkady. The gun was an American Colt, an antique with
a silencer but nicely greased and cared for. "You'd
shoot me here?" "Nobody
would hear a thing. A little messy, that's why the old car. Yakov thinks of
everything. Are you in or are you out?" "I'd
have to think about it." "Fuck
thinking. Yes or no?" But
Arkady was distracted by the sight of Vanko's face pressed against Hoffman's
window. Hoffman recoiled. Up front, Yakov was swinging the gun toward Vanko
when Arkady raised his hands to reassure him and told Hoffman to open his
window. Bobby
demanded, "Who is this nut?" "It's
okay," Arkady said. As
the window slid down, Vanko shook a massive ring of keys. "We can start
now. I'll let you in."
Hoffman and
Arkady followed Vanko on foot back the way they had come as Yakov trailed
behind. Away from the car, he was a small man dressed like a librarian, in a
mended sweater and jacket, but his crushed brow and flattened nose gave him the
look of a man who had been run over by a steamroller and not totally
reassembled. "Yakov's
not afraid," Bobby said. "He was a partisan in the "A
walking history lesson." "So
where is our happy friend with the keys taking us?" "He
seems to think you know," Arkady said. Vanko
veered toward a solid building in municipal yellow that stood alone, and Arkady
wondered whether they were headed to some sort of historical archive. Short of
the building, Vanko stopped at a windowless bunker that Arkady had passed a
hundred times before and always assumed housed an electrical substation or
mechanics of some sort. Vanko unlocked a metal door with a flourish and ushered
Hoffman and Arkady in. The
bunker sheltered two open cement boxes, each about two meters long and one
wide. There was no electricity; the only light came through the open door, and
there was barely enough overhead clearance for Bobby's hat. There were no
chairs, no icon or pictures, instructions or decoration of any kind, although
the rims of the two boxes were lined with votive candles burned down to tin
cups, and the inside of each box was stuffed with papers and letters. "Who
is it?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
took so long to answer that Vanko, the tour guide, did. "Rabbi Nahum of
Chornobyl and his grandson." Hoffman
looked around. "Cold." Vanko
said, "Holy places are often cold." "A
religious expert here." Hoffman asked Arkady, "What am I supposed to
do now?" "You're
the Hasidic Jew. Do what a Hasidic Jew does." "I'm
just dressed like a Hasidic Jew. I don't do this stuff." Vanko
said, "One day a year the Jews all come in a bus. Not alone like
this." "What
stuff?" Arkady asked. Hoffman
picked up a couple of papers from a tomb and held them to the light to read
them. "In Hebrew. Prayers to the rabbi." "Oh,
yes." Vanko was emphatic. "Do
that many Jews live here?" Arkady asked. "Just
visitors," Vanko said. "All
the way from "They're
pilgrims," Arkady said. "I
get the idea. Now what?" "Do
something." Vanko
had been following the conversation more with his eyes than his ears. He dug
into his pockets and came up with a fresh votive candle. Hoffman
said, "You happen to have a tallith, too? Never mind. Thank you, thanks a
ton. What do I owe you?" "Ten
dollars." "For
a candle worth a dime? So the tomb is your concession?" Hoffman found the
money. "It's a business?" "Yes."
Vanko was eager for that to be understood. "Do you need paper or a pen to
write a prayer?" "At
ten dollars a page? No, thanks." "I'll
be right outside if you need anything. Food or a place to stay?" "I
bet." Hoffman watched Vanko escape. "This is beautiful. Left in a
crypt by a Ukrainian Igor." There
were hundreds of prayers in each box. Arkady showed two to Hoffman. "What
do these say?" "The
usual: cancer, divorce, suicide bombers. Let's get out of here." Arkady
nodded to the candle. "Do you have a match?" "I
told you, I don't do that stuff." Arkady
lit the candle and set it on the edge of the tomb. A flame hovered on the wick. Bobby
rubbed the back of his head as if it didn't fit right. "For ten dollars,
that's not much light." Arkady
found used candles with wax left and relit them until he had a dozen flames
that guttered and smoked but together were a floating ring of light that made
the papers seem to shift and glow. The light also made Arkady aware of Yakov
standing at the open door. He was thin enough for Arkady to think of a stick
that had been burned, whittled and burned again. "Is
something wrong?" Vanko asked from outside. Yakov
removed his shoes and stepped inside. He kissed the tomb, prayed in a whisper
as he rocked back and forth, kissed the tomb a second time and produced his own
piece of paper, which he laid on the others. Bobby
bolted out and waited for Arkady. "The visit to the rabbi is over.
Happy?" "It
was interesting." "Interesting?"
Bobby laughed. "Okay, here's the deal. The deaths of Pasha and Timofeyev
are related. It doesn't matter that one died in "Probably."
Arkady watched Yakov emerge from the tomb and Vanko lock it up. Bobby
said, "So, maybe you should concentrate on Timofeyev, and I'll concentrate
on Pasha. But we'll coordinate and share information." "Does
this mean that Yakov isn't going to shoot me?" Arkady asked. "Forget
about that. That's inoperative." "Does
Yakov know it's inoperative? He might be hard of hearing." "Don't
worry about that," Bobby said. "The point is, I'm not leaving, so
I'll either be in your way, or we'll work together." "How?
You're not a detective or an investigator." "The
tape we just looked at? It's yours." "I've
seen it." "What
are you offering in return? Nothing?" Vanko
had been hanging back out of earshot but reluctant to leave a scene where more
dollars might appear. Sensing a gap in the conversation, he sidled up to Arkady
and asked, as if helpfully suggesting another local attraction, "Did you
tell them about the new body?" Bobby's
head swiveled from Vanko to Arkady. "No, he hasn't. Investigator Renko,
tell us about the new body. Share." Yakov
rested his hand in his jacket. "Trade,"
Arkady said. "What?" "Give
me your mobile phone." Bobby
yielded the phone. Arkady turned it on, scrolled through stored numbers to the
one he wanted and hit "Dial." A
laconic voice answered, "Victor here." "Where?" There
was a long pause. Victor would be staring at the caller ID. "Arkady?" "Where
are you, Victor?" "In
"What
are you doing there?" Another
pause. "Is
it really you, Arkady?" "What
are you doing?" "I'm
on sick leave. Private business." "What
are you doing in A
sigh. "Okay, right now I'm sitting in "A
"If
you were here, you'd know why. You've got to see it to believe it." "Stay
with him. I'll call you when I get there." Arkady
turned off the mobile phone and returned it to Bobby, who clutched Arkady's arm
and said, "Before you go. A new body? That sounds like progress to
me." Chapter Eleven
As
soon as Arkady saw the gilded domes of Victor
was at a sidewalk cafй reading a newspaper. Arkady dropped into the chair
beside him and waved for a waiter. "Oh,
no," Victor said. "You can't afford the prices here. Be my
guest." Arkady
settled back and took in the square's leafy trees and sidewalk entertainers and
children chasing fountain water carried by the breeze. Soviet-classical
buildings framed the long sides of the square, but at its head the architecture
was white and airy and capped with colorful billboards. Victor
ordered two Turkish coffees and a cigar. Such largesse from him was unknown. "Look
at you," Arkady said. An Italian suit and silk tie softened Victor's
scarecrow aspect. "On
an expense account from Bobby. Look at you. Military camos. You look
like a commando. You look good. Radiation is good for you." The
coffees arrived. Victor took exquisite pleasure in lighting the cigar and
releasing its blue smoke and leathery scent. " "That
is the question, isn't it? Who are you working for?" "Arkady,
you're so black and white. Modern life is more complicated Prosecutor Zurin
told me that I wasn't supposed to communicate with you under any circumstances.
That it would insult the Ukrainians. Now the Ukrainians have a president who
was caught on tape ordering the murder of a newspaper reporter, but he's still
their president, so I don't know how you insult the Ukrainians. Such is modern
life." "You're
on sick leave?" "As
long as Bobby is willing to pay. Did I tell you that Lyuba and I got back
together?" "Who
is Lyuba?" "My
wife." Arkady
suspected that he had committed a gaffe. The struggle for Victor's soul was
like catching a greased pig, and any mistake could be costly. "Did you
ever mention her?" "Maybe
I didn't. It was thanks to you. I sort of screwed up with your little friend
Zhenya the Silent, and I ran into Lyuba when I was coming out of the drunk
tank, and I told her everything. It was wonderful. She saw a tenderness in me
that I thought I had lost years ago. We started up again, and I took stock. I
could carry on the same old life with the same crowd, mostly people I put in
jail, or start fresh with Lyuba, make some real money and have a home." "That
was when Bobby e-mailed you?" "At
that very moment." "At
Laika 1223." "Laika
was a great dog." "It's
a touching story." "See
what I mean? Always black and white." "And
you're dry now, too?" "Relatively.
A brandy now and then." "And
Anton?" "This
is an ethical dilemma." "Why?" "Because
you haven't paid. I'm not just thinking about me anymore, I have to consider
Lyuba. And remember, Zurin said no contact. Not to mention Colonel Ozhogin. He
said absolutely no contact with you. No one wants me to talk to you." "Did
Bobby Hoffman call you while I was coming here? What did he say?" "To
talk to you but keep my mouth shut." "How
are the new shoes?" Arkady caught sight of Victor's footwear. "Beginning
to pinch." From
time to time Arkady saw Victor glance two doors over at a building with an
Italian leather-goods shop on the ground floor and professional offices above.
Victor had an ice-cream sundae. Arkady picked at a crepe. Somehow, the Zone
dampened hunger. Afternoon faded into evening, and the square only became more
charming as spotlights turned fountains into spires of light. Victor pointed
out a floodlit theater on the hill above the square. "The opera house. For
a while the KGB used it, and they say you could hear the screams from here.
Ozhogin was stationed here for a while." "Tell
me about Anton." "He's
having dental work done, that's all I can say." "All
day? That's a lot of dental work." Arkady
got up and walked to the Italian leather store, admired the handbags and
jackets and read the plaques for the businesses upstairs: two cardiologists, a
lawyer, a jeweler. The top floor was shared by a Global Travel agency and a
dentist named R. L. Levinson, and Arkady remembered the vacation brochures on
Anton's bunk at Butyrka Prison. On the way back to Victor's table, Arkady
noticed a girl, about six years old, with dark hair and luminous eyes, dancing
to the music of a street fiddler dressed as a Gypsy. The girl wasn't part of
the act, just a spontaneous participant making up her own steps and spins. Arkady
sat. "How do you know he's visiting the dentist and not getting tickets to
go around the world?" "When
he arrived, all the offices but the dentist were shut for lunch. I'm a
detective." "Are
you?" "Fuck
you." "I've
heard that before." Victor
sank into a bitter smile. "Yeah, it's like old times." He loosened
his tie and stood to observe himself in the plate glass of the cafй window. He
sat and waved for a waiter. "Two more coffees, with just a touch of
vodka."
Anton Obodovsky,
as Victor told it, was a bonus. Victor had been flying to Victor
said, "Now that you and Bobby looked at the surveillance tapes, he's
convinced Obodovsky was the guy with the suitcase in the exterminator van.
Anton was strong enough, he'd threatened Ivanov on the phone and he wasn't put
in Butyrka until the afternoon. Motive, means and opportunity. Besides which,
he's a killer. There he is." Anton
stepped out of the door and felt his jaw as if to say that all the muscles in
the world were no protection from an abscessed tooth. As usual, he was in
Armani black and, with his bleached hair, not a difficult man to spot. He was
followed by a short, dark woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a trim, sensible
jacket. "The
dentist is a woman? She's so good, he comes all the way from "That's
not the whole package. Wait until you see this," Victor said. Last out of
the door was a tall woman in her twenties with swirls of honey-colored hair and
a brief outfit in denim and silver buttons. She took a firm grip on Anton's
arm. "The dental hygienist." After
the dentist had locked the door, she was joined by the dancing girl, who by
every feature was her daughter. The girl gestured toward a figure on stilts
farther up the square, where a public promenade of sorts had developed, drawing
sketch artists and street acts. She appealed to Anton, who shrugged expansively
and led the way, he and the hygienist striding ahead, the girl skipping around
her mother a step behind. Arkady and Victor fell in thirty meters back, relying
on that fact that Anton would not be looking for a Victor
said, "Bobby thinks that Anton was paid by Nikolai Kuzmitch. The van came
from a Kuzmitch company, so that much makes sense." "Kuzmitch
has an exterminator company? I thought he was into nickel and tin." "Also
fumigation, cable television and airlines. He buys a company a month. I think
the airline and fumigation came together, one of those Asian routes." "Well,
Anton is a carjacker. He doesn't need help getting a van." "You
think the Kuzmitch van was a setup?" "I
think it's unlikely a smart man would use a vehicle that could be easily traced
to him, and Kuzmitch is a very smart man.' The
stilt walker was flamboyant in a Cossack's red coat and conical hat; he blew up
balloons that he twisted into animals. Anton bought a tubular blue dog for the
girl. As soon as the gift was presented, the dentist gave Anton a polite
good-bye handshake and pulled her daughter away. Victor and Arkady watched from
a table selling CDs, and Arkady wondered whether it would be a lifelong trait of
the little girl to be attracted to dangerous men. The hygienist obviously was. "The
hygienist wears a diamond pin with her name, Galina," Victor said.
"She walked by with that bouncing pin and my erection nearly knocked over
the table." The
dentist and daughter turned toward the metro stop while Anton and Galina
continued into a brilliantly lit glass dome where an elevator carried
passengers down to an underground shopping mall, a borehole of boutiques
selling French fashion, Polish crystal, Spanish ceramics, Russian furs,
Japanese computer games, aromatherapy. Victor and Arkady followed on the
stairs. Victor
said, "Anytime I think A
bow wave of fear preceded Anton in each store, and mall guards greeted him with
such deference that Arkady considered the possibility that Anton might be a
silent partner in a store or two. The beautiful Galina traded in her denim top
for a mohair sweater. She and Anton slipped into the changing room at a
lingerie shop while Arkady and Victor watched from a rack of cookware in the
opposite store. The plate-glass transparency of the modern mall was a gift to
surveillance. "A
whole day in the dentist's chair, and all Obodovsky can think of is sex. You've
got to give him credit," Victor said. Arkady
thought that Anton's shopping spree had more the aspect of a public tour, a
prince of the streets demanding respect. Or a dog marking his old territory. "Anton
was originally Ukrainian. I need to know from where. Let me know if he stays
around. I'm going back to "Don't
do it, Arkady. Fuck Timofeyev, fuck Bobby, it's not worth it. Since I got
together with Lyuba again, I've been thinking: nobody misses Timofeyev. He was
a millionaire, so what? He was a stack of money that blew away. No family.
After Ivanov was dead, no friends. Really, I think what happened to him and
Ivanov must have been a curse."
The ride back
from "Your
friend Timofeyev was dead white. You ask so many questions I thought you'd like
to know." "Would
you like to come in?" Arkady asked. "No,
the hall is fine. You don't seem to have any neighbors." "One.
Maybe this is the low season for the Zone." "Maybe,"
she said. "It's after midnight, and you're not drunk." "I've
been busy," Arkady said. "You're
out of step. You have to keep up with the people of Chornobyl. Vanko was
looking for you at the cafй." They
were interrupted by Campbell, the British ecologist, who came out into the hall
in an undershirt and drawers. He swayed and scratched. Eva had stepped aside,
and he didn't appear to see her at all. "Tovarich!
Comrade!" "People
don't actually say that anymore," Arkady said. In fact, they rarely had.
"In any case, good evening. How are you feeling?" "Tip-top." "I
haven't seen you around." "And
you won't. I brought a lovely pair of nonradioactive balls here, and I will
leave with the same number. Stocked for the duration. Whiskey, mainly. Pop in
anytime, although I apologize in advance for the quality of Ukrainian
television. Will fix that soon enough. You do speak English?" "That's
what we're speaking." Although "You're
so right. The joke's on me. A standing invite, any hour. We're Scots, not
Brits, no formalities with us." "You're
very generous." "Seriously.
I'll be badly disappointed if you don't." Eva
let the air clear for a moment. "Your new friend? What did he say?" "I
think he said that whiskey was better than vodka for protection against
radioactivity." "You
can't help some people." "What
do you mean, he was white?" "It
was only an impression I had because Timofeyev was clothed and refrigerated.
Even so, he seemed bloodless, drained. I didn't think about it at the time.
I've seen wounds like his among the dead in "He
had nosebleeds." "This
would have been more than a nosebleed." "A
broken nose?" "There
was no bruising. Of course, the local wolf pack had tugged him this way and
that, so I couldn't be sure." "Throat
slit and an appearance of bloodlessness, but no bloodstains on the shirt or
hair, only in the nose. Everything is contradictory." "Yes.
Also, I should apologize again for the comment about your wife. That was stupid
of me. I'm afraid I've lost all sensitivity. It was unforgivable." "No,
her dying was unforgivable." "You
blame the doctors." "No." "I
see. You're the self-elected captain of the lifeboat; you think you're
responsible for everyone." She sighed. "I'm sorry, I must be drunk.
On one glass, even. I usually don't get obnoxious quite so fast." "I'm
afraid there's no one left in the lifeboat, so I didn't do a very good
job." "I
think I should be going." She didn't, though. "Who was the boy you
were talking to on the phone? Just a friend, you said?" "For
reasons beyond my comprehension, I seem to have become responsible for an
eleven-year-old boy named Zhenya who lives in a children's shelter in "It's
a normal relationship. I refused to speak to my parents from the age of eleven
on. Is he slow?" "No,
he's very bright. A chess player, and I suspect he might have a mathematical
mind. And courage." Arkady remembered the times Zhenya had run away. "Spoken
like a parent." "No.
His real father is out there, and that's who Zhenya needs." "You
like helping people." "Actually,
when people get to me, they're generally beyond help." "You're
laughing." "But
it's true." "No,
I think you help. In "What
does "Did
you?" "Yes." "That's
how I am with Alex, except that he hasn't died, he just changed." "How
did we get on this subject?" "We
were being honest. Now you ask a question." Arkady
gently tugged her scarf so that it hung free. The hallway light was poor but
when he raised her chin he saw a lateral scar like a minus sign at the base of
her neck. "What's that?" "My
Chornobyl souvenir." He
realized that his hand hadn't moved, that it lingered on the warmth of her
skin, and that she hadn't objected. The
door downstairs opened, and a voice called up, "Renko, is that you? I have
something for you. I'm coming up." "It's
Vanko." Eva retied her scarf in a rush. "I'll
show you." Vanko started up. "Wait,
I'm coming down," Arkady said. Eva
whispered, "I wasn't here."
The cafй was "Alex
says you attract murders the way a magnet attracts iron filings." "Alex
says the nicest things." "He'll
be by. He's looking for Eva." Arkady
did not say that he had just left her. Interesting, he thought. Our first collusion.
"You said you had something for me?" "For
the Jews." Vanko opened up a backpack and handed Arkady a videotape,
unlabeled except for a price of fifty dollars. "How
did you come up with that price?" "It's
a valuable keepsake. We could sell this to your American friend and share the
profit. What do you think?" "A
videotape of a tomb? This is the gravesite we saw yesterday? You really have
made a business out of it." "I
can be a guide, too. I know where everything is. I was here during the
accident, you know, just a boy." "Considering
the exposure you had then, isn't the Zone the last place you should be?" "The
Zone is the last place for anyone to be. Anyway, we rotate, as many days off as
on." "What
do people do in their free time?" "I
don't do much. Alex makes good money; he says he works in the belly of the
beast. That's what he calls Arkady
turned the cassette over. "A Jewish tomb? I haven't noticed many Jews
here." "Because
of the Germans and the war. Although many people suffered from the Germans
during the war, not just Jews. You always hear about the Jews." Arkady
nodded. "The genocide and all." "Yes." "But
you seem to be the unofficial welcoming party for visiting Jews." "I
try to help. I found accommodations for your friend and his driver in a
decontaminated house." "Sounds
charming." Arkady knew that this was against Zone regulations; he also
knew that dollars worked miracles. "So do you have a tape player? I can't
sell the tape to the American unless I know what's on it." "Mine
is broken. Some of the militia had personal machines in their rooms, but they
got stolen. But no problem, this can be organized. Hold on to the tape." "You
can count on Vanko." Alex pulled a chair up to the table. "He can
organize anything. And congratulations to you, Senior Investigator. Another
dead body, I understand. You bring out the murder in people. I suppose in your
line of endeavor that is a talent. Where is Eva?" Vanko
shrugged and Arkady said he didn't know, even as he asked himself why he had
now lied twice about her. "You're
sure you haven't seen her?" Alex asked Arkady. "I
just returned from "That's
right," Vanko said. "His bike was warm." "Maybe
we should issue a missing-persons bulletin for her," Alex said. "What
do you think, Renko?" "Why
are you worried?" "A
husband worries." "You're
divorced." "That
doesn't matter, not if you still care. Vanko, can you get us a round of
beers?" "Sure."
Vanko, happy to attend, pushed his way through dancers toward the crowd at the
counter. Arkady
didn't want to talk about Eva with Alex. He said, "So, your father was a
famous physicist, and you were a physicist. Why did you change to
ecology?" "You
keep asking." "It's
an interesting switch." "No,
what's interesting is that there are two hundred nuclear power plants and ten
thousand nuclear warheads around the world and all in the hands of
incompetents." "That's
a sweeping statement." "It
only takes one. I think we can count on it." Alex lowered his voice to a
confidential level. "The thing is, Renko, that Eva and I are not really
divorced. On paper, yes. However, in my heart, no. And of course it's so much
worse if you've been married. That kind of intimacy never ends." "A
former husband doesn't have claims." "Outside
the Zone, maybe. The Zone is different, more intimate. You're an educated man:
do you know what smell is?" "A
sense." "More
than that. Smell is the essence, the attachment of free molecules of the thing
itself. If we could really see each other, we would see clouds of loose
molecules and atoms. We're dripping with them. Every person you meet, you
exchange some with. That's why lovers reek of each other, because they've
joined so completely that they're virtually the same person. No court, no piece
of paper can ever separate you." Alex took Arkady's hand in his and began
to squeeze. Alex's hand was broad and strong from setting traps. "Who
knows how many thousands of molecules we're exchanging right now: "This
is something you learned in ecology?" Alex
squeezed harder; his hand was a vise with five fingers. "From nature.
Smell, taste, touch. You have pictures in your mind of her with another man.
You know every inch of her body, inside and out. Every single feature. The
combination of experience and imagination is what drives you crazy. Because
you've slept with her, you even know what gives her pleasure. You hear her. To
picture someone physically with her is too much. A wolf wouldn't put up with
it. Would you say you are a wolf or a dog?" Arkady
pulled his hand into a fist for self-protection. "I'd say I'm a
hedgehog." "See,
that's exactly the sort of answer Eva would enjoy. I know the kind of man she's
attracted to. I knew when she said she disliked you." "It
was that obvious?" "You
even look alike, the same dark hair and soulful pallor, like brother and
sister." "I
hadn't noticed." "I'm
just saying that even if the opportunity presents itself, for Eva's sake you
shouldn't take advantage. I ask as a friend, your first friend in the Zone, is
anything going on between you and Eva?" "No." "That's
good. We don't want to get territorial, do we?" "No." "Because
all you came to the Zone for was your investigation. Stay focused on
that." Alex let go. Arkady's hand looked like wadded clay, the blood
driven out, and he resisted the temptation to flex it to see what worked.
"Go ahead, did you have any questions?" "I
understand that for safety's sake, you only do research in the Zone every other
month. What do you do during your month in "That
kind of question: good." "What
do you do?" "I
visit various ecological institutes, pull together research I did here,
lecture, write." "Is
that lucrative?" "Obviously
you have never written for a scientific journal. It's for the honor." Alex
described amusingly a scientific conference on the tapeworm where hungry
scientists stayed near the canapйs, and he and Arkady went on talking in a
normal fashion about everyday subjects – films, money,
On his way back
to the dormitory, Arkady heard the muffled flight of a nightjar scooping up
moths. He had retreated from the cafй when he became aware that Alex was
watching for Eva's arrival and realized that Alex was waiting only to see how
she and Arkady would act, to look for social uneasiness, to discover the
telltale clues a former husband couldn't miss. The clinging molecules and
atoms. The streetlamp had gone out since Arkady had crossed under it with
Vanko. The only light at the dormitory was a weak bulb at the front step, and
where trees crowded out the moon, the street disappeared in the dark. Arkady
didn't mind darkness. The problem was that he didn't feel alone. Not another
bird or a cat slinking for cover but something else glided by him, first on one
side and then the other. When he stopped, it circled him. When he walked, it
kept pace. Then it stopped, and he felt ridiculous even as his neck grew cool. "Alex?
Vanko?" There
was no answer but the sifting of leaves overhead, until he heard a laugh in the
dark. Arkady clutched Vanko's videotape under his arm and started to trot. The
dormitory light was a mere fifty meters off. He wasn't afraid; he was just a
man taking midnight exercise. Something flew by, scooped up his leg in
midstride and planted him on his back. Something from the other side speared
him in the stomach and knocked the air out of him. Oxygen floated over him just
out of reach, and his chest made the sound of a dry pump. The best he could do
was roll to the side as a blade dug into the street by his ear, which earned
him a slap on the head from the other direction. The gliding sound went on.
Face on the pavement, he sucked his first breath and saw, silhouetted against
the distant light of the cafй, a figure in camos on inline skates and carrying
a hockey stick. It rolled forward, stick poised for a winning goal. Arkady
tried to get to his feet and immediately went down on a numb leg, his reward a
blow across the back. Facedown again, he noticed that what made them such
excellent shots were night-vision goggles strapped to their heads. Since he was
going nowhere, they circled, darting in and out, letting him twist one way and
then the other. When he kicked back, they slashed his legs. When he tried to
grab a stick, they feinted and hit him from the other side. The last thing he
was prepared for was a man stepping in between with a flashlight that he shone
directly into the eyes of the nearest skater. While the skater blindly
staggered back, the man put a large gun under the skater's chin and directed
the light on it so that the second skater could see the relationship of gun
barrel to head. A
voice croaked, "Fascists! I will shoot, and your friend will blow up like
a grapefruit. Get back, go home or I'll shoot both of you goyischer
boot shit. Go on, go!" It
was Yakov, and although he was half the size of the skater in his grasp, Yakov
gave him a kick to send him on his way to the other skater. They huddled for a
moment, but the click of the gun hammer being cocked discouraged them, and they
rolled off into the shadows on the far side of the street. Arkady
got to his feet and located, in order, his head, shins and the videotape. "If
you're standing, you're okay," Yakov said. "What
are you doing here?" "Following
you." "Thank
you." "Forget
it. Let me see again." Yakov played the flashlight beam around Arkady's
head. "You look fine." Yakov
is now the arbiter of damage? Arkady thought. This was trouble. Chapter TwelveYakov
set up a camp stove on the dock of the Chernobyl Yacht Club and made a
breakfast of smoked fish and black coffee for Hoffman and Arkady. The gunman
cooked in shirtsleeves, his shoulder holster showing, and he seemed to take
pleasure in the vista of rusted ships heaped against a gray sky. Hoffman
beat his chest like Tarzan. "This is like going down the "You're
not prejudiced?" Arkady asked. "Just
saying that the house your pal Vanko got us was as cold and dark as a cave.
Forget kosher kitchen." "Is
the house radioactive?" "Not
particularly. I know, I know, in Arkady
looked Hoffman over. The red stubble on the American's jowls was filling in.
"You stopped shaving?" "They
want Hasidim, I'll give them Hasidim. You, on the other hand, look like you've
been fucked by a bear." "Yakov
says I'll be fine." Arkady had checked himself when he woke. He was
crosshatched with bruises from his shins to his ribs, and his head throbbed
every time he turned it. Hoffman
was amused. "With Yakov, unless broken bones are sticking through the
skin, you're fine. Don't ask for any sympathy from him." "He's
fine," Yakov said. He picked crust off the pan to throw in the water. Fish
rose to take it in gulps. "He's a mensch." "Which
means?" Arkady asked. "Schmuck,"
Hoffman said. "Get close to people, help them, trust them, it just makes
you vulnerable. Do you know who jumped you? "I'm
pretty sure they were two brothers named Woropay. Militia. Yakov scared them
off." "Yakov
can do that." Yakov
squatted by the stove and – except for the cannon hanging from his shoulder –
resembled any pensioner at peace with the slow-moving water, the array of
wrecks going nowhere, the mounting thunderheads. Arkady couldn't tell how much
Yakov understood or cared to understand. Sometimes he responded in Ukrainian,
sometimes Hebrew, sometimes nothing, like an ancient radio with a varying
signal. Hoffman
said, "Yakov did the right thing by letting the creeps go. Ukrainians are
not going to take the word of a Russian and a Jew over two of their own police.
Besides, I don't want Yakov tied up. I'm paying him to protect me, not you. If
they really start digging around, they've got warrants out for Yakov that go
back to the Crimean War. You notice he wears a yarmulke. He puts the goyim on
notice enough." "Have
you been here before?" Arkady asked, but Yakov busied himself turning the
fish, which was smoked, grilled and charred. What more could be done to it?
Arkady wondered. "So
you saw our friend Victor in "Didn't
he look prosperous?" "Transformed." "Better,
let's leave it at that. The main thing is, the two of you saw that ape
Obodovsky with his dentist." "And
dental hygienist." "Dental
hygienist. Why don't you and Victor steal a page from the Woropay brothers and
take a couple of hockey sticks to Obodovsky? Get him to tell you where he was
when that van showed up in the alley behind Pasha's apartment house. If you
don't know how, Yakov can help you. This happens to fall into his field of
expertise. You must have questions." "I
do. You said you were here last year, on instructions from Pasha Ivanov, to
look into a commercial transaction involving spent nuclear fuel." "They're
stuffed to the gills here. No working reactor, but tons of dirty fuel.
Insane." "It
didn't make business sense?" "Right.
What does this have to do with Obodovsky?" "Who
did you talk to here? What officials?" Arkady asked. "I
don't know. I don't remember." "That
would have involved an investment of millions of dollars. You talked to the
plant manager, the engineers, the ministry in "People
like that, yes." "You
had to come disguised for that?" Hoffman's
eyes got smaller as he got angry. "What are these questions? You're
supposed to be on my side. The fuel deal never happened. It had nothing to do
with Pasha or Timofeyev dying. Or Obodovsky, for that matter." "Eat,
eat." Yakov handed out camp plates of grilled fish. Hoffman
asked, "How about Yakov and I just go back to "Coffee."
Yakov passed metal cups of something black and syrupy. "Before it
rains." The
fish had the texture of underwater cable. Arkady sipped the coffee and, now
that he had time, admired Yakov's American gun, a .45 with bluing worn to bare
steel. "Reliable?" "For
fifty years," Yakov said. "A
little slower than a modern gun." "Slow
can be good. Take your time and aim, is what I say." "Wise
words." "Why
not beat on Obodovsky?" Hoffman insisted. "Because
Anton Obodovsky is very much an outside person, and whoever arranged the
delivery of cesium chloride to Pasha's apartment was inside. They didn't break
in; they had the codes and somehow got around the cameras." "Colonel
Ozhogin?" "He
certainly is inside NoviRus Security." "I
can have him killed. He killed Timofeyev and Pasha." "Only,
Ozhogin has never been here. You are the one who has been, and you won't tell
me why. How long are you going to stay?" "I
don't know. We're enjoying ourselves, camping out, what's the rush?" There
didn't seem to be one for Hoffman. He sat on the car fender and picked his
teeth with a fish bone. He looked like a man with a sudden abundance of
patience. "Thank
you for the coffee." Arkady started off the dock. "My
father was here," Yakov said. "Oh?"
Arkady stopped. Yakov
felt in his shirt pocket and lit half of a cigarette he had saved. He spoke in
an offhand way, as if a detail had come to mind. " "Like
I told you," Hoffman told Arkady, "don't ask for any sympathy from
Yakov."
As soon as
Arkady rode to the street above the river he called Victor, who admitted that
he had lost Anton Obodovsky at a casino the night before. "You
have to buy a hundred-dollar membership before they let you in. And they really
liked sticking it to a Russian. Anton games all night while I'm jerking off in
front. He's up to something. I just feel sorry for Galina." "Galina?" "The
hygienist. Miss Universe? She seems like a sweet kid. Maybe a tad
materialistic." "How
was Anton's tooth?" Arkady asked. "He
seemed normal." "Where
are you now?" "Back
at the cafй, in case Anton returns. It's pouring here. You know what Europeans
do in the rain? They spend all day over a cup of coffee. It's very chic." "You
sound like you're having a wonderful vacation. Go to the travel agency across
from the dentist and see whether Anton bought tickets anywhere. Also, I know we
checked before to see what Ivanov and Timofeyev were doing during the accident
here at "We
already know. Nothing. They were two prodigies in "On
what, for whom?" "Ancient
history." "I'd
appreciate it if you would do it anyway." Through the trees Arkady could
make out Hoffman and Yakov on the dock. Yakov meditated by the water and
Hoffman was on a mobile phone. "How much of this information are you
passing to Bobby?" After
momentary embarrassment, Victor said, "Lyuba called. I explained the
situation to her, and then she explained the situation to me. As she says,
Hoffman is paying me." "You're
giving him everything?" "Pretty
much. But I'm giving the same to you, and I'm not charging you a kopek." "Bobby
is using me as a hunting dog. He's going to sit around and wait until I flush
something into the open." "You
do the work and he cashes in? I think that's called capitalism." "One
more thing. Vanko admires the way Alex Gerasimov makes money during his
off-time from "That's
what I was thinking." Arkady
caught a raindrop in his palm. "Start by calling "Magic
words."
• • •
Before the rain
hit, Arkady rode to the black village where Timofeyev had been found. He had
visited the site twenty times before, and each time he had tried to imagine how
a Russian millionaire could have arrived at the gate of a cemetery in the Zone.
Arkady also tried to picture how Timofeyev's body had been discovered by
Militia Officer Katamay and a local squatter. Did that description fit the
scavenger hauled from the cooling pond? Now all three were gone, Timofeyev and
Hulak dead and Katamay vanished. The facts made no sense. The atmospherics, on
the other hand, were perfect, a spatter of raindrops from an ominous sky and an
approaching fanfare of thunder, the same as Timofeyev's last day. Arkady
got off the bike in the clearing where Eva Kazka had held her outdoor medical
clinic. In a way, there were two cemeteries. One was the village itself, with
its punched-in windows and falling roofs. The other was the graveyard of simple
crosses of metal tubing painted blue or white, some with a plaque, some with a
photograph sealed in an oval frame, some decorated with bright bouquets of
plastic flowers. Keep your eternal flame, Arkady thought, bring me plastic
flowers. Maria
Panasenko popped up from a corner of the cemetery. Arkady was surprised,
because a diamond marker by the gate indicated that the cemetery was too hot to
trespass on, and visits were limited to one a year. Maria wore a heavy shawl in
case of rain; otherwise, she was the same ancient cherub who had provided the
drunken samogon party two nights before. Maria held a short scythe and, over
her shoulder, a burlap sack of brambles and weeds she refused to let Arkady
relieve her of. Her hands were small and tough, and her blue eyes shone even in
the shadows of heavy clouds. "Our
neighbors." She looked around the graveyard. "I'm sure they'd do the
same for us." "It's
nicely kept," Arkady said. A cozy anteroom to heaven, he thought. She
smiled and showed her steel teeth. "Roman and I were always afraid there
wouldn't be a good cemetery plot for us. Now we have our choice." "Yes."
The silver lining. She
cocked her head. "It's sad, all the same. A village dies, it's like the
end of a book. That's it, no more. Roman and I may be the last page." "Not
for many years." "It's
long enough already, but thank you." "I
was wondering, what are the militia like around here?" "Oh,
we don't see much of them." "Squatters?" "No." "There
don't happen to be any Obodovskys in the cemetery?" Maria
shook her head and said she knew all the families from the surrounding
villages. No Obodovskys. She glanced up at the sack. "Excuse me, I should
get these in before they get wet. You should stop for a drink." "No,
no, thank you." The very threat of samogon made him sweat. "You're
sure?" "Yes.
Another day, if I may." He
waited until she was gone before he brought his mind back to Lev Timofeyev's death.
Arkady was sure of so little: basically that the body had been found faceup in
the mud at the cemetery gate, his throat slit, his left eye a cavity, neither
his hair nor his shirt bloody but blood packed in his nose. Arkady was nowhere
near to asking why; it was all he could do to ask how. Had Timofeyev driven
himself to the village or been brought by someone else? Searched out the
cemetery or been led to it? Dragged to it dead or alive? If there had been a
competent detective at the scene, would he have found tire tracks, a trail of
blood, the twin shoe marks of a dragged body or mud inside the dead man's
shoes? Or at least footprints; the report cited wolf prints, why not shoes? If
it came to why, was Timofeyev the target of a conspiracy, or a plum that
happened to fall into the hands of Officer Katamay? Arkady
started again in the village clearing as the most likely place for a car to
stop. From there, the way to the cemetery narrowed to a footpath. A curtain
shifted at one of the few occupied houses, and before the curtain closed, he
caught a glimpse of Maria's neighbor Nina, on a crutch. How could anything have
occurred within eyesight of these wary survivors and not be spied? Yet they had
all sworn they'd seen nothing. Walking
up the path, Arkady stopped every few feet to brush aside leaves and look for
prints or signs of blood, as he had done a dozen times before and with no more
success. He paused at the cemetery gate and imagined Timofeyev standing,
kneeling, lying on his back. Photographs really would have been helpful. Or a
diagram or sketch. At this point Arkady was no better than a dog trying to
uncover a stale scent. Yet there was always something. Visitors to the rolling
hills of Arkady
opened the gate. The cemetery was a second village of plots and crosses
separated by wrought-iron fences. A few plots had barely enough room to stand
in, while one or two offered the comfort of a table and bench, but there were
no impressive crypts or stones; wealth played little part in the life or death
of such a community. Maria had industriously cleared around the crosses on one
entire side, and on their own, without crosses, stood four glass jars of
pansies, purple, blue and white, each at the head of a faintly discernible
mound. The light was so thin that Arkady couldn't be sure. He knelt and spread
his arms. Four child-size graves hidden by their lack of crosses. Illegal
graves. How great a crime was that? Eva
had said that Timofeyev was white, he seemed drained. Frozen bodies could fool,
but Arkady was willing to believe that she had seen more violence than most
physicians, and Timofeyev's one-eyed stare through a mask of hoarfrost must
have reminded her more of Unless
he was hung by his feet and, afterward, had his hair washed. Despite the
draining there still would have been some lividity of settled blood around the
head, but that could have been confused with freezer burn. Arkady
stood with his hand on the gate and for a moment caught the glint of something
revealed, something lying in front of him and then gone, chased by a patter of
raindrops, the light preparation of a hard rain.
The next black
village had no inhabitants at all, and its cemetery lay deep in the embrace of
brambles and weeds. Arkady had hoped the comparison would lead to some sort of
realization, but what he found as he dismounted from the motorcycle and walked
around was a deepening gloom of rotting cottages. A loamy toadstool smell vied
with the oversweet scent of decaying apples. Where wild boar had dug for
mushrooms, the dosimeter in Arkady's pocket spoke up. He heard something
shifting in the house ahead and asked himself which was faster to the
motorcycle, man or boar? Suddenly he wished he had Captain Marchenko's hunting
knife or, better, Yakov's cannon. The
house gave a single-cylinder whine, and a rider in a helmet and camos on a
small motorbike came out the front door. The rider pushed through the debris in
the yard and over a prostrate picket fence, where he momentarily came to a halt
to lower his helmet visor. The bike had no sidecar to stuff an icon in, and it
did have a license plate, but it was a blue Suzuki, and the reflector was
missing from the rear fender. Arkady had that reflector in his pocket. "Are
you looking for more icons to steal?" Arkady asked. The
thief returned Arkady's gaze as if to say, "You again?" and started
off. By the time Arkady had reached his own motorcycle, the thief was halfway
out of the village. Arkady
had the bigger, faster bike, but he simply wasn't as good a rider. The thief
left the village on a narrow trail made for gathering firewood. Where branches
had half-fallen, he ducked, and where the path was blocked, he deftly slipped
by. Arkady crashed through the smaller branches and was swept clean off his
saddle by the outstretched arm of an oak. The bike was all right, that was the
main thing. He climbed back on and listened for the voice of the Suzuki. Rain
pinged the leaves. Birches swayed in the arriving breeze. There was no hint of
the thief. Arkady
pushed ahead with his engine off and, at this more deliberate speed, found
motorbike tracks in the damp leaves underfoot; moisture made footprints and
tire treads easier to read. Where the path forked, he consciously took the
wrong trail for fifty meters before cutting through the woods to the right
trail, where he saw the thief waiting behind a glistening screen of firs. The
forest floor of damp needles was soft, and the thief's attention was fixed
entirely on the trail until the steel jaws of a trap sprang from the ground and
snapped shut next to Arkady's foot. The thief turned to regard the tableau of
Arkady, bike and trap, and in a second was riding back down the trail the way
he had come. The
thief kept ahead of Arkady but didn't completely lose him; as long as Arkady
kept the smaller bike in sight, he could anticipate obstacles. Also, Arkady
took chances he wouldn't have in a saner mood, following a far more expert
rider leap for leap, fishtailing on leaves to swing off the path and weave
through a stand of pines until they broke back into the village. On the far
side was a forestry road with chest-high seedlings of second-growth trees. The
thief took them like a slalom skier, leaning one way and then the other. Arkady
rode straight over the seedlings, gaining all the time. As
Arkady drew close, the thief veered off the forestry road into a line of
rust-colored pines, the outer reach of the As
the clouds unloaded, the lights of the town seemed to drown. Arkady rode in at
a limp, wet hair wrapped across his brow. He passed the inviting glow of the cafй
and heard the splash of people running for its door. The windows were steamed.
No one saw him go by. He rode past the dormitory, the parking lot sizzling with
rain. He rode under bending branches. He pictured Victor sitting out the storm
at a cafй in He
turned at the road that led down to the river, where he had a panorama of the
storm. Steam rose from the water as rain fell, but Arkady could see that
Hoffman, Yakov and their car had deserted the yacht-club dock. Scuttled ships
levitated from fog with each lightning strike. The far bank was a hazy sketch
of aspens and reeds, but farther upstream the bridge led to the forlorn lights
of staff quarters still occupied. Arkady could see well enough by the lightning
to keep his own headlight off. He crossed the bridge and passed between the
solid brick buildings on spongy soil that came to an end, except for a car
track that led along what might once have been a sports field but had sunk
under cattails and ferns. Arkady
killed his engine and pushed, following the track around a shadowy stand of
trees to a garage fashioned from sheets of corrugated steel. The doors were
held shut with a loose padlock. They creaked as he swung them open, but with
thunder in every direction, he doubted anyone would hear less than a bomb.
Arkady scanned the interior with his penlight. The garage was crammed but
orderly: hardware in jars on shelves, hand tools in rows along the walls. In
the middle was Eva Kazka's white Moskvich. On one side of the car was a Suzuki
bike with the engine still warm; under a tarp on the other side, a disengaged
sidecar. From his pocket Arkady took the reflector he had snapped off the rear
fender of the icon thief's bike and mated it to the metal stub on Eva's fender.
They fit. Wood
smoke led to a cabin set among a blue mass of lilacs. A porch had been
converted to a parlor. Through a window Arkady glimpsed an upright piano and
bright chinks of fire in a woodstove. He rapped on the door, but thunder had
opened up like siege guns, flattening all other sounds. He opened the door as
lightning flashed behind him, strobe-lighting a glassed-in porch's assortment
of a rug, wicker table and chairs, bookshelves and paintings. The room sank
back into the dark. He had taken a step in when the sky above cracked open and
filled the room like a searchlight. Eva moved to the middle of the rug with a
gun. She was barefoot, in a robe. The gun was a 9mm, and she seemed familiar
with it. Eva
said, "Get out or I'll shoot." The
door slammed shut in the wind, and for a moment Arkady thought she had fired.
She gathered the robe together with her free hand. "It's
me," he said. "I
know who it is." In
a momentary dark he moved closer and pushed aside the collar of the robe to
kiss her neck on the same fine scar he had found before. She pressed the muzzle
of the pistol against his head as he slid open the robe. Her breasts were cold
as marble. He
heard a mechanism of the gun at work, easing the hammer down. He felt a tremor
run through her legs. She pressed the flat of the gun against his head, holding
him. Her
bed was in a room with its own woodstove, which whistled softly with heat. How
they had arrived there, he wasn't quite sure. Sometimes the body took over. Two
bodies, in this case. Eva rolled on top as he entered until her head rocked
back, sweat like kohl around her eyes, her body straining as if she were about
to leap, as if all the frenzy he had detected in her before had become a
voracious need. No different from him. They were two starving people feeding
from the same spoon.
• • •
Chaos turned to
steady rain. Eva and Arkady sat at opposite ends of the bed. The light of an
oil lamp brought out the black of her eyes, hair, curls at the base of her
stomach, the gun by her hand. "Are
you going to shoot me?" he asked. "No.
Punishment only encourages you." She gave his scratches and bruises a
professional glance. "Some
of these are thanks to you," he said. "You'll
live." "That's
what I thought." She
gestured vaguely to the bed, as if to a battlefield. "This didn't mean
anything." "It
meant a great deal to me." "You
took me by surprise." He
thought about it. "No. I took you by inevitability." "A
magnetic attraction?" "Something
like that." "Have
you ever seen little toy magnetic dogs? How they attract each other? That
doesn't mean they want to. It was a mistake." The
lamp threw as much shadow as light, but he could see an agreeable mess: an
overlap of pillows, books and rugs. A framed photo showing an older couple in
front of a different house; Arkady had to look twice to recognize the ruin
where Eva had hidden with her bike. A poster for a Stones concert in Arkady
nodded to the gun. "I could field-strip that for you. I could field-strip
it blindfolded by the age of six. It's about the only thing my father ever
taught me." "A
handy ability." "He
thought so." "You
and Alex have more in common than you imagine." One
item they had in common was obvious, but Arkady felt that Eva had meant more
than herself. "How is that?" Eva
shook her head. She dismissed that line of conversation. Instead, she said,
"Alex said this would happen." "Alex
is a smart man," Arkady said. "Alex
is a crazy man." "Did
you drive him crazy?" "By
sleeping with other men? Not that many. I desperately need a cigarette." Arkady
found two and an ashtray he put in no-man's-land at the center of the bed. Eva
said, "What do you know about suicide? Besides cutting down the bodies, I
mean?" "Oh,
I come from a long line of suicides. Mother and father. You'd think it would be
a short line, but no, they get their procreation done early, and then they kill
themselves." "Have
you..." "Not
successfully. Anyway, here we are in She
balked again, not ready to let him lead. "So how is your investigation
going?" "Moments
of clarity. Millionaires are generally murdered for money. I'm not sure that's
the case here." "Anything
else?" "Yes.
When I first came, I assumed that the deaths of Ivanov and Timofeyev were
connected. I still think so, but in a different way. Perhaps more
parallel." "Whatever
that means. What were you doing in the village today?" "I
was at the cemetery at Roman and Maria's, and I began wondering if any of the
official fatalities from the accident came from the villages in the Zone.
Whether I would recognize names on the crosses. I didn't, but I found four
unmarked graves of children." "Grandchildren.
Of different causes supposedly unrelated to Chornobyl. What happens is the family
breaks up, and no one is left to bury the dead but the grandparents, who take
them home. No one keeps track. There were forty-one official deaths from the
accident and half a million unofficial. An honest list would reach to the
moon." "Then
I went to the next village, where I found you. What were you doing on a
motorcycle in a house? Let me guess. You take icons so they can be reported as
stolen to the militia. That way scavengers and the corrupt officers they work
with have no reason to bother old folks like Roman and Maria. Then you return
the icons. But there were no occupied houses or icons in that village, so why
were you there? Whose house was it?" "No
one's." "I
recognized the bike by the broken reflector and recognized you by the scarf.
You should get rid of your scarves." He leaned across the bed to kiss her
neck. That she didn't shoot him he took as a good omen. Eva
said, "Every once in a while I remember this thirteen-year-old girl
parading on May Day with her idiotic smile. She's moved out of the village to
Kiev to live with her aunt and uncle so she can go to a special school for
dance; their standards are rigid, but she's been measured and weighed and has
the right build. She has been selected to hold a banner that says, 'Marching
into the Radiant Future!' She is so pleased the day is warm enough not to wear
a coat. The young body is a wonder of growth, the division of cells produces
virtually a new person. And on this day she will be a new person,
because a haze comes over the sun, a breeze from Chornobyl. And so ends her
days of dancing and begins her acquaintanceship with Soviet surgery." She
touched the scar. "First the thyroid and then the tumors. That's how you
know a true citizen of the Zone. We fuck without worries. I am a hollow woman;
you can beat me like a drum. Still, once in a while, I remember this fatuous
girl and am so ashamed of her stupidity that if I could go back in time with a
gun, I would shoot her myself. When this feeling overcomes me, I go to the
nearest hole or black house and hide. There are enough black houses that this
is never a problem. Otherwise I have nothing to fear. Were you ambitious as a
boy? What did you want to be?" "When
I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronomer and study the stars. Then someone
informed me that I wasn't seeing the actual stars, I was seeing starlight
generated thousands of years before. What I thought I was seeing was long since
over, which rendered the exercise rather pointless. Of course, the same can be
said about my profession now. I can't bring back the dead." "And
the injured?" "Everybody's
injured." "Is
that a promise?" "It's
the only thing I'm sure of." Chapter ThirteenIn
the morning the rain had passed and the cabin felt like a boat safely landed. Eva
was gone but had left him brown bread and jam on a cutting board. While Arkady
dressed he noticed more photographs: a ballet mistress, a tabby cat, friends
skiing, someone shielding their eyes on a beach. None of Alex, which, he
confessed, reassured him. As
he stepped out the screen door he couldn't help but notice how the willows,
like timid girls, stood with one foot in the water and that the river, swollen
with runoff, bore an earthy smell and a new full-throated voice. Arkady hadn't
slept with a woman for a while and he felt warm and alive. Blow on cold ashes,
he thought, you never know. "Hello."
Oksana Katamay slipped into view around the corner of the house. She was in her
blue jogging suit and knit cap; a wig, maybe, or lunch for her brother Karel
was in her backpack. She ducked her head with every step forward and pulled her
hands into her sleeves. "Is everyone up?" "Yes." "The
lilacs smell so sweet. This is the doctor's house?" "Yes.
What are you doing here?" "I
saw your motorbike. That's my friend's Vespa next to it. I borrowed it." "A
friends?" "Yes." Arkady
saw the bike and scooter in the yard but they were hardly visible from the
road. Oksana smiled and looked around in a goose-necked way. Arkady
asked, "Have you been here long?" "Awhile." "You're
very quiet." She
smiled and nodded. She must have rolled the scooter the last fifty meters with
the engine off to arrive so silently, and she obviously didn't find anything
odd about waiting for him outside another woman's door. "You're
not at work today?" Arkady asked. "I'm
home, sick." She pointed at her shaved head. "They let me take time
off whenever I want. There's not much to do, anyway." "Can
I give you some coffee, hot or cold?" "You
remembered. No, thank you." He
looked at the scooter. "You can travel around here? What about
checkpoints?" "Well,
I know where to go." "So
does your brother Karel. That's the problem." Oksana
shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted to see how you were. If you're with
the doctor, I suppose you're okay. I was worried because of Hulak." "You
knew Boris Hulak?" "He
and my grandfather would rant on the telephone for hours about traitors who
shut down the plant. But my grandfather would never really hurt anyone." "That's
good to know." Oksana
seemed relieved. If a man in a wheelchair a train ride away was not going to
attack him, Arkady was happy, too. "Look."
She pointed out a stork skimming over its mirror image on the surface of the
river. "Like
you. You simply come and go." She
shrugged and smiled. For inscrutability, the Mona Lisa had nothing on
Oksana Katamay. He
asked, "Do you remember Anton Obodovsky? A big man in his mid-thirties. He
used to box." Her
smile spread. Arkady
tried an easier question. "Where would I find the Woropays?"
Dymtrus Woropay
skated on a street of empty houses, gliding backward, sideways, forward,
handling a hockey stick and rubber ball around potholes and grass. His yellow
hair lifted and his eyes were intent on the rolling ball. He didn't notice
Arkady until they were a few steps apart, at which point Dymtrus pushed forward
and cocked his stick, and Arkady threw the trash-bin cover he had carried
behind his back. The cover cut off Dymtrus at the ankles. He went down on his
face, and Arkady put a foot on the back of his neck and kept him splayed. "I
want to talk to Katamay," Arkady said. "Maybe
you want a stick up your ass, too." Arkady
leaned. He was afraid of the burly Dymtrus Woropay, and sometimes fear could be
exorcised only one way. "Where is Katamay?" "Get
stuffed." "Do
you enjoy breathing?" Arkady dug his heel into Woropay. "Do
you have a gun?" Woropay twisted his eyes up to see. Arkady
unclipped Woropay's pistol, a Makarov, militia issue. "Now I do." "You
won't shoot." "Dymtrus,
look around. How many witnesses do you see?" "Fuck
off." "I
bet your brother is tired of being your brother. I think it's time he stood on
his own two feet." Arkady pushed off the pistol's safety and, to be
convincing, put the muzzle to Dymtrus's head. "Wait.
Fuck. Katamay who?" "Your
friend and teammate, your fellow militia officer Karel Katamay. He found the
Russian at the cemetery. I want to talk to him." "He's
missing." "Not
to everyone. I talked to his grandfather, and soon two thugs, you and your
brother, begin playing hockey with my head." "What
do you want to talk about?" "The
Russian, pure and simple." "Let
me up." "Give
me a reason." Arkady applied more weight to the decision making. "Okay!
I'll see." "I
want you to take me to him." "He'll
call you." "No,
face-to-face." "I
can't breathe." "Face-to-face.
Arrange it, or I will find you and shoot off your knee. Then we'll see how you
skate." Arkady applied one last squeeze before getting up. Dymtrus
sat up and rubbed his neck. He had a sloped face like a shovel and small eyes.
"Shit." Arkady
gave Dymtrus his mobile-phone number and, since he felt Dymtrus tensing for a
fight, threw in as an afterthought, "You're not a bad skater." "How
the fuck would you know?" "I
saw you practice. You prefer ice?" "So?" "I
bet you're wasted on the league down here." "So?" "Just
an observation." Dymtrus
pushed his hair back. "So what? What do you know about ice hockey?" "Not
much. I know people." "Like
who?" "Wayne
Gretzky." Arkady had heard of Wayne Gretzky. "You
know him? Fuck! Do you think he'd ever come down here?" "To
"He
could see me there?" "Maybe.
I don't know." "But
he might? I'm big and I'm fast and I'm willing to kill." "That's
an unbeatable combination." "So
he might?" "We'll
see." A
Dymtrus with a more positive frame of mind got to his feet. "Okay, we'll
see. Could I have my gun back?" "No.
That's my guarantee that I will meet Katamay. You get your gun back
after." "What
if I need it?" "Stay
out of trouble."
• • •
Feeling in a
better frame of mind himself, Arkady rode to the cafй, where he found Bobby
Hoffman and Yakov working on black coffee in the absence of a kosher kitchen. "I
figured it out," Bobby told Arkady. "If Yakov's father was here when
they sank the ferry full of Jews, and that was 1919, 1920, that makes Yakov
over eighty. I didn't know he was that old." "He
seems to know his business." "He
wrote the book. But you look at him and think, All this guy wants is to sit in
a beach chair in Tel Aviv, take a nap and quietly expire. How are you feeling,
Renko?" Yakov
raised a basilisk's gaze. "He's fine." "I'm
fine," Arkady said. Despite the accumulation of bruises, he was. Yakov
was tidy, like a pensioner dressed to feed the birds, but Bobby's face and
clothes were corrugated from lack of sleep, and his hand was swollen. "What
happened?" "Bees."
Bobby shrugged it off. "I don't mind bees. So what about Obodovsky, what's
he doing in "Anton
is doing what you'd expect someone of his stature to do when he's visiting his
hometown. He's showing off money and a girl." "The
dental hygienist?" "That's
right. We're not in Bobby
whispered, "I don't want him questioned, I want him dead. You can do that
anywhere. I'm out on a very long limb here. And nothing is happening. My two
Russian cops are taking tea, visiting the malls. I give you Kuzmitch, you don't
want him. You see Obodovsky, you can't touch him. This is why you don't get
paid, because you don't produce." "Coffee."
Yakov brought Arkady a cup. There was no waiter. "And
Yakov, here, he prays all night. Oils his gun and prays. You two are a
pair." Arkady
said, "Yesterday you were patient." "Today
I'm shitting a brick." "Then
tell me what you were doing here last year." "It's
none of your business." Bobby leaned to look out the window. "Rain,
radiation, leaky roofs. It's getting to me." A
militia car swung into the space beside Yakov's battered Nissan, and Captain
Marchenko emerged slowly, perhaps posing for a painting called The Cossack
at Dawn, Arkady thought. A lot of things had escaped Marchenko's notice –
a slit throat, tire treads and footprints at a murder scene – but the Zone's
two newest residents had caught the captain's eye. The captain entered the cafй
and affected friendly surprise at the sight of Bobby and company, like a man
who sees a lamb and the possibility of lamb chops. He came immediately to the
table. "Do
I see visitors? Renko, please introduce me to your friends." Arkady
looked at Bobby, asking in a silent way what name he would care to offer. Yakov
stepped in. "I am Yitschak Brodsky, and my colleague is Chaim Weitzman.
Please, Mr. Weitzman speaks only Hebrew and English." "No
Ukrainian? Not even Russian?" "I
interpret." "And
you, Renko, do you speak Hebrew or English?" "A
little English." "You
would," the captain said, as if it were a black mark. "Friends of
yours?" Arkady
improvised. "Weitzman is a friend of a friend. He knew I was here, but he
came to see the Jewish grave." "And
stayed overnight not one night but two, without informing the militia. I talked
to Vanko." Marchenko turned to Yakov. "May I see your passports,
please?" The captain studied them closely, to underline his authority. He
cleared his throat. "Excellent. You know, I often say we should make our
Jewish visitors especially welcome." "Are
there other visitors?" Arkady asked. There
was an answer – specialists in toxic sites – but Marchenko maintained a smile,
and when he handed back the passports he added a business card. "Mr.
Brodsky, please take my card, which has my office phone and fax. If you call me
first, I can organize much better accommodations, and perhaps a day visit for a
much larger group, strictly supervised because of radiation, naturally. Late
summer is good. Strawberry season." If the captain expected an effusive
response from Yakov, he didn't get it. "Anyway, let's hope the rain is
over. Let's hope we don't need Noah and his ark, right? Well, gentlemen, a
pleasure. Renko, you weren't going anywhere, were you?" "No." "I
didn't think so." As
the captain climbed into his car, Bobby waved and muttered,
"Asshole." Arkady
asked, "Bobby, how many passports do you have?" "Enough." "Good,
because the captain's brain is like a closet light that sometimes lights and
sometimes doesn't. This time it didn't; the next time it might, and he'll
connect Timofeyev and me and you. He'll check on your papers or call Ozhogin.
He has the colonel's number. It might be wise to go now." "We'll
wait. By the way, Noah was an asshole, too." "Why
Noah?" Arkady asked. This was a new indictment. "He
didn't argue." "Noah
should have argued?" Yakov
explained, "Abraham argues with God not to kill everyone in "Not
a word," said Bobby, "and saves the minimum. What a bastard."
Perhaps Eva had
gone to the Panasenkos' to give Roman a physical examination, but the cow had
gotten out during the storm and trampled the vegetable garden, and Maria and
Eva were in the middle of trying to resurrect what they could when Arkady
arrived and joined in. The air was hot and humid, the ground damp and baked and
oozing humors, and each step produced a sharp scent of crushed mint or
chamomile. The
old couple had laid out their garden in straight- as- a- string rows of beets,
potatoes, cabbage, onion, garlic and dill, the necessities of life; celery,
parsley, mustard and horseradish, the savor of life; buffalo grass for vodka
and poppies for bread, everything chopped by the cow into muck. The root
vegetables had to be rebedded and the greens salvaged. Where water pooled,
Roman shaped drainage with a hoe. Maria
wore a shawl around her head and around her waist a second shawl to hold what
she picked. Eva had laid aside her lab coat and shoes to work barefoot in a
T-shirt and shorts, no scarf. They
worked separate rows, digging their hands into the mud and freeing the greens
or replanting root vegetables tops up. The women were faster and more
efficient. Arkady hadn't worked in a garden since he was a boy, and that was
just at the dacha to keep him out of the way. The neighbors – Nina on her
crutch, Olga squinting through her glasses, Klara with Viking braids – came to
witness. From the general interest and the size of the lot, it became clear
that Roman and Maria fed the entire population of the village. Maria could have
pulled a small train behind her, the way she leaned in to the work and smiled
with satisfaction in it, except when she looked up from strangling red-veined
greens of beets to gaze on Roman. "You're
sure you latched the cow's stall? She could have been eaten by wolves. The wolves
could have gotten her." Roman
acted deaf, while Eva
had ignored him since his arrival, and the more he thought about it, the more
he realized that the night with her had been a mistake. He had gotten too
involved. He had lost his sacred objectivity. He was like one of those
telescopes launched into space with lenses so distorted it could be seeing
either headlights or the Milky Way. When
the garden was done, Maria brought cold water for Arkady and Eva and kvass for
Roman. Kvass was a beer made from fermented bread, and a summons to life for
Roman. Eva managed to keep one of the old couple between her and Arkady at all
times: a dance of avoidance. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. It was the director of the "Investigator
Renko, this is impossible. You must return at once. Zhenya waits every
day." "The
last time I saw Zhenya, he didn't as much as wave goodbye. I doubt very much
that he's upset." "He's
not demonstrative. Explain to Zhenya." Again
the void on the phone, from either the bottom of a waste bin or an
undemonstrative boy. "Zhenya?
Are you there? Zhenya?" Arkady
heard nothing, but he could feel the boy pressing a receiver close to his ear
and pursing his lips in a disagreeable way. "How
are you doing, Zhenya? Driving the director insane, it sounds like." Silence
and perhaps a nervous shift of the phone from one ear to the other. Arkady
said, "No news about Baba Yaga. Nothing to report." He
could see Zhenya gripping the phone tight with one hand and chewing the nails
of the other. Arkady tried to outwait him, which was impossible, because Zhenya
just hung on. "We
had a storm during the night. A dragon got loose and went on a rampage, tearing
up the fields and knocking over fences. Bones everywhere. We chased him over
the fields to the river, where he escaped because the bridge was guarded by a
monster that had to be defeated in a game of chess. None of us was good enough,
so the dragon got away. Next time we should take along a better chess player.
Other than that, nothing happened in the Arkady
folded the phone and discovered Roman and Maria regarding him with
astonishment. Eva seemed unamused. Nevertheless,
they carried scythes into the field behind the cow barn to cut grass and barley
bent by the rain. The scythes were long two-handled affairs with blades so sharp
they whistled. Eva and Maria bundled cut grass into sheaves with binding twine,
while Arkady and Roman waded ahead. Arkady had cut grass in the all-purpose Red
Army, and he remembered that the rhythm of scything was like swimming; the
smoother the motion, the longer the stroke. Straws flew and insects spiraled in
a golden dust. It was the most mindless labor he had performed for years and he
gave himself over to it completely. At the end of the field, he dropped the
scythe and lay down in high grass, in the warm stalks and cool ground, and
stared numbly at the sky slightly spinning above. How
could they do it? he wondered. Work this field so happily when a short walk up
the path, four grandchildren lay in unmarked graves. He imagined each funeral
and the rage. Could he have stood it? Yet Roman and Maria and the other women
seemed to approach every task as God's allotment. Work is holy, he remembered
one of Tolstoy's heroes saying. A
body dropped nearby, and though he couldn't see her, he heard Eva's breathing.
It was so normal, Arkady thought. Although it wasn't in the least normal. Did
he normally perform farm labor? Through closed eyes, he felt the dull pulsation
of the sun. What a relief to think of nothing, to be a rock in the field and
never move again. Even better, he thought: two rocks in the field. Unseen
behind the grass, Eva asked, "Why did you come here?" "Yesterday
Maria said you would be here." "But
why?" "To
see you." "Now
that you've seen me, why don't you go?" "I
want more." "Of
what?" "You." Directness
was not a language he generally spoke, and he expected her to leap to her feet
and walk away. There
was a stir, and Eva's hand grazed his. She
said, "Your friend Zhenya plays chess." "Yes." "And
he's very good?" "Apparently." He
heard a murmur of satisfaction in a guess confirmed. "You
didn't ask," Eva said. "Ask
what?" "Whether
the garden was radioactive. You're becoming a real citizen of the Zone." "Is
that good or bad?" "I
don't know." "For
you," he asked, "is it good or bad?" She
uncurled his fingers and laid her head on them. "Disaster. The
worst."
Arkady's mobile
phone rang as he coasted into town, and he turned onto the side street of beech
trees to take the call. It was Victor phoning from the state library in Arkady
leaned the motor bike on its stand. The sun danced through the trees, belying the
fact that the street was dead and the houses empty. "Something someone
said. Any connection to Sounds
of paper flipping. "Not much. A delegation six months after the accident.
I bet every scientist in "Anything
personal?" Eva
had told Arkady that he and Alex Gerasimov had more in common than he knew. He
had a suspicion of what, but he wanted to be sure. While he talked, he paced by
houses, each in its individual state of decay. At one window stood a doll, at
least the third or fourth he'd seen at windows in Victor
said, "These are scientific books and journals, not fan magazines. Lyuba
called last night. I told her about the lingerie shop here. She said to pick
out anything I wanted. My choice." "Look
for "Okay,
here's an article translated from the French about an explosion of nuclear
waste in Could
dump radioactive water into the "More
recent stuff," Victor said. "Newspaper clippings. A
family tradition of suicide, that was the connection between Alex and Arkady.
Eva had spotted the merry bond right away. "What is the date on the Izvestya
piece?" "May
second. He was found on May Day." Imagine,
Arkady thought. One day Felix Gerasimov is the respected and honored director
of a scientific institute well enough funded to have its own research reactor
in the middle of Moscow, a reactor he's earned not only through his
groundbreaking work in theoretical physics but also through his willingness to
engage in the down-to-earth problems of nuclear this and that (test-site
pollution and spontaneous explosions in the hinterland), all the signs of a
politically shrewd careerist. And then the political system collapses. The
Communist Party lies as gutted as Reactor Four. Bankrupt. The director and his
faculty (including Ivanov and Timofeyev) have to walk around the institute in
blankets and dump "hot water" on the sly. That did, indeed, seem like
twists enough for one career. "Arkady,
are you there?" "Yes.
Call Petrovka –" "In
"Yes.
Call headquarters and see if there's any record of a suicide attempt by the
son, Alexander." "What
makes you think there will be?" "Because
there will. Did you get anywhere with his off-time work in "Sorry.
I called, at Bobby's expense, every major hotel in "Yes,
that's why you're in "I
have my notes right here." There was a rush of papers falling. "Shit!
Fuck your mother! I have to call you back." Victor
really wasn't meant for the hushed confines of a library, Arkady decided. He
looked at the doll in the window. Her face was bleached off, but the contours
and a ponytail of golden filaments remained, and he glimpsed a shelf of more
dolls, as if the house had been entrusted to a second, smaller family. The
doorway lured him to the threshold. Close up, the doll's arms bore a gauze of
spider-webs that he untangled, and when his mobile phone rang, he almost saw
her flinch. Arkady
answered, "Hello, Victor, go ahead." A
raspy voice asked, "Who is Victor?" "A
friend," Arkady said. "I
bet you don't have many. I hear you got someone shot at the cooling pond." Arkady
started again. "Hello, Karel." It
was Katamay, the missing militia officer. Dust motes eddied around the doll as
if she were breathing. "I
want to talk to you about the Russian that you found. That's all, nothing
else," Arkady said and waited. The gaps were so long it was almost like
talking to Zhenya. "I
want you to leave my family alone." "I
will, but I have to talk to you." "We're
talking." "In
person. Just about the Russian, that's all I'm here for, and then I can go
home." "With
your friend Wayne Gretzky?" "Yes." A
seizure of coughing, followed by "When I heard that, I almost split my
side." "Then
I won't bother your grandfather and sister anymore, and Dymtrus can have his
gun back." A
long silence. "Pripyat,
the center of the main square, ten tonight. Alone." "Agreed,"
Arkady said, but to a dial tone. Victor
rang the next instant. "Okay, Anton was at a couple of casinos by the
river." "Why
is he spending so much time here?" "I
don't know. Galina wore this tight outfit." "Spare
me." Arkady was still trying to switch gears from the Katamay call. "Hey,
thank God for our little hygienist, or I'd never see Anton. He picks her up
after work every day. Goes up to the office like a real gentleman. Took her to
a Porsche showroom, churches and a graveyard." "A
graveyard?" "Very
prestigious. Poets, writers, composers all laid out. He put a pile of roses at
a gravestone. I looked at it later. Sure enough, the stone said 'Obodovsky'.
His mother died this year." "I'm
interested in where he was born. See if you find any record that he lived in
Pripyat." "Bobby
is going to be very interested in this." "Wonderful.
Is Anton doing any business?" "Not
that I can see." "Then
why is he hanging around "I
don't know, but you should see the Porsches."
• • •
Arkady rode down
an avenue not of Porsches but of fire engines on one side and army trucks on
the other. Few visitors came to the yard except dealers in auto parts. From row
to row, the variety changed from cars to armored personnel carriers, from tanks
to bulldozers, all too hot to bury but sinking in the mud. Arkady followed the
single power line to the trailer office of Bela, the manager. Bela
had few visitors and he was eager to roll up yard maps and share with Arkady
the living comforts engineered into his trailer: microwave, minibar,
flat-screen TV and videotape collection. A pornographic tape was already
playing, pneumatic sex with the sound down, like background music. Bela
picked a hair off his shoulder. In his dirty white suit he looked like a lily
beginning to rot. "I'm
seriously thinking of retiring. The demands of this job are too much." "What
demands?" "Demands.
Customers can't just drive into the Zone to shop for auto parts. This is not a
showroom. On the other hand, they want to see what they're buying. So I bring
them." "Bring
them here?" "In
the back of my van. I have an understanding with the boys at the checkpoint.
They have to eat, too. Everyone eats, that's the golden rule." "And
Captain Marchenko?" "A
mass of envy. However, the Zone administrators in their wisdom have given me
control of the yard with no interference from the captain because they
understand how unreliable the militia is. I am up before dawn every day to make
sure things run smoothly. I am, if nothing else, reliable. Hence, this
multitude of vehicles outside is all mine." Now
that Arkady thought about it, there was something Napoleonic in the pride Bela
took in his army of radioactive vehicles, in his splendid isolation. "And
with every car a free dosimeter?" "Don't
even joke about such things. You should enjoy life's more beautiful
things." The manager held up a box that said "Actually,
I brought one." Arkady handed over Vanko's tape. "No
label. Some amateur action? A little hanky-panky? Bathroom camera?" "I
somehow doubt it." "But
it could be?" Bela
eagerly switched tapes. As he watched Vanko's tape, the yard manager's face
expressed first surprise and then disappointment, as if sugar he had shoved
into his mouth proved to be salt. Chapter FourteenThe
steppe was soft. The steppe was a vast plain that shone with ponds and
corkscrew rivers and evoked a wistful sadness. The poetry was stentorian, to
rouse a patriotic fervor, but the bread was as plump as pillows, and bread
always won over poetry. Ukrainian beauty was the child of history: the luminous
doe eyes and fair skin of the Slav set on Tartar cheeks. At least that was the
ordinary beauty. Galina was probably like that, Arkady thought. Eva
was not soft. Her pale skin and black hair – black as a cormorant's, liquid to
the hand – set a theme of contradiction. Her eyes were dark mirrors. Her body
looked slight but was strong as a bow, and Arkady thought she would have made
an excellent imp in hell, goading slow and doughy sinners with a pitchfork. She
should have come from a landscape of flames and spewing lava. Then he
remembered that, in part, she did. They
had kicked the sheet off the bed and lay, skin on skin, enjoying the cool
evaporation of the sweat they had produced. Dusk hung outside the window. She
asked, "Why do you have to go?" "I
have to meet a missing man." "That
sounds like a children's rhyme, but it's not, is it? You're still
investigating." "From
time to time. I'll be back in a few hours." "That's
up to you." She turned her face to him. Her eyes were too dark to
distinguish an iris and they seemed huge. "If you do return, you should
know the risks." "Such
as?" She
moved his hand with hers to the scar on her neck. "Cancer of the thyroid,
but you knew that." To her breast. "Chornobyl heart, literally a hole
in the heart." She played his fingers along her ribs. "Leukemia in
the bone marrow." Below the ribs. "Cancer of the pancreas and
liver." Across a ruff of pubic hair. "Cancer of the reproductive
organs, not to mention tumors, mutations, missing limbs, anemia, rigidity. Not
that any of this necessarily matters. Alex says, in the future our main concern
will be predators." "What
kinds?" "All
kinds." "People
aren't like that." "You
don't know. When people in "Yes." She
sighed and stroked his cheek. "Well, you may come back or not, but you've
been warned."
• • •
In Pripyat light
slowed to a drifting mist. Arkady had arrived on his motorbike on time at ten,
and another twenty minutes passed while he heard the occasional whir or
glimpsed a moving shadow that meant the Woropay brothers were making sure he
had come alone. The
square was fronted by the city hall, hotel, restaurant, school, all shells. The
moon made figures out of streetlamps, turned the amusement park Ferris wheel
into a huge antenna. Other civilizations, when they vanished, at least left
awesome monuments. The buildings of Pripyat were, one after the other,
prefabricated ruins. Dymtrus
Woropay popped up like a large sprite at Arkady's side and said, "Leave
the bike. Follow me." Easier
said than done. The Woropays wore night-vision goggles and glided on inline
skates, clicking over cement and sweeping through the grass. On foot they might
be clumsy, but on wheels they swung in graceful arcs. Arkady walked briskly
while the brothers circled in and out of shadows to shepherd him along an
arcade to a footpath through what had once been a tended garden and now was a
maze of branches. Nothing stopped the Woropays; they splashed through standing
water and shouldered aside brush to a two-story building with stone columns
that supported a mural of organ pipes and atoms: Pripyat's cultural theater.
Taras, the younger brother, punched the doors open and whooped as he rolled
into a lobby. Dymtrus elbowed his way in and thrust his arms over his head as
if he'd scored a goal. By
the time Arkady entered, the Woropays were gone. He heard them, but in the dark
it was difficult to see which way they had gone, and the path was obstructed by
stage flats stacked in the lobby. What dramas had been left behind, to rest
cheek to cheek for eternity? "Uncle Vanya, meet Anna Karenina." Of
course, there would have been children's productions, too. "Mouse King,
meet Raskolnikov." A
crashing of piano keys came from deep inside the theater, and Arkady pushed
through the flats and the clatter of cloakroom racks into a passageway of
near-total darkness. He used his cigarette lighter to see along a wall defaced
with curses, threats and crude anatomy. He had been in the theater before, but
in the daytime. The dark gave no warning of the broken glass that slid
underfoot or of the ripped wires that dangled in the face. Finally
Arkady groped his way to a drawn curtain and ropes and the light of a kerosene
lamp. A piano with broken and missing keys was onstage, and Taras Woropay
played as he sang, " 'You can't always get what you want, but you get what
you need!' " while Dymtrus, night goggles flipped up, skated and danced
wildly from one side of the stage to the other. The
audience seats were tiers of red benches strewn with broken chairs and tables,
bottles and mattresses, like furniture thrown down the steps of a house, while
Dymtrus's shadow stamped around the walls. A couch had been dragged to the
other side of the piano, where Karel Katamay lay propped by pillows and covered
with shawls. Arkady barely recognized the virtual skinhead he had seen in
photographs at the grandfather's house. This Karel Katamay wore his hair long
and beaded around a chalky face with pink eyes. A hockey shirt – the Detroit Red
Wings – swam over him. Small, thoughtful pansies sat in jars of water around
the couch, and a liter of Evian was tucked between his legs. Arkady didn't know
what he had expected, but not this. He'd read descriptions of the court of
Queen Elizabeth. That was what Karel Katamay looked like, a powdered Virgin
Queen with two oafish courtiers. A satin pillow cushioned his head; a corner of
the pillow was embroidered "Je ne regrette rien." "I
regret nothing." When Karel smiled, tickled by the sight of Dymtrus whirling
like a dervish, he showed pulpy gums. "
'Get what you need! need! need!' "
Dymtrus
steadied himself and pointed in Arkady's direction. "Brought him." "A
chair." Katamay's voice was not much more than a whisper, but Dymtrus
immediately jumped off the stage to bring a chair from the benches and set it
in front of the couch so that Arkady and Karel Katamay would be at the same eye
level. Close up, Katamay looked crayoned by a child. Arkady
said, "You don't look well." "I'm
fucked." Katamay's
nose sprang a leak. He pressed a towel against the blood in an offhand, nearly
elegant way. The towel, to judge by its blotches of brown, had been used
before. "Summer
cold," Katamay said. "So you wanted to know about the dead Russian I
found?" "Yes." "There's
not much to say. Some old fart I found in a village." The
hoarseness of Katamay's voice brought the volume down to a level of intimacy,
as if they were theatrical types discussing a production to be presented on
this very stage. Katamay said he had never seen the Russian before, and
couldn't know the dead man was Russian, since his papers were missing. He was
found in the morning lying on his back, his head at the cemetery gate, bloody
but not too bloody, stiff from full rigor mortis, disorganized because of
wolves. Katamay found the body coincidentally with a squatter he had seen
before, a guy called Seva, about forty years old, missing a little finger on
his left hand. Arkady took notes in case the Woropays wanted to stomp on
anything afterward. Notes were a good target. But around Katamay, they were
like dogs under voice command, and he had obviously told them to be still. "Just
a few questions. How was the dead man dressed?" "He
was rich. Expensive gear." "Nice
shoes?" "Beautiful
shoes." "Well
cared for?" "Beautifully." "Not
muddy?" "No." "His
shirt was damp. Was it clean or dirty?" "A
few leaves, I think." "So
he had been turned over?" "What
do you mean?" "A
man who drops dead to the ground doesn't roll around much." "Maybe
he wasn't dead yet." "More
likely someone turned him over to relieve him of his money and threw away the
ID later. Did you find anything else on the body? Directions, matches,
keys?" "Nothing." "No
car keys? He left them in the car?" "I
don't know." "You
didn't notice that his throat had been cut?" "It
was under his collar, and there wasn't that much blood. Anyway, wolves had been
messing with him." "Moved
him? Torn him up?" "Didn't
move him. Yanked on his nose and face a bit, enough to get an eye." Lovely
picture, Arkady thought. "Do wolves go for eyes?" "They'll
eat anything." "You
saw their tracks?" "Huge." "Did
you see a car or any tire tracks?" "No." "Where
were the people in the village, the Panasenkos and their neighbors?" "I
don't know." "People
in black villages don't get a great deal of entertainment. They're pretty nosy
about visitors." "I
don't know." "Why
were you there that day?" Dymtrus
said, "That's enough. He's got a million questions." "It's
all right, Dyma," Katamay said. "On the captain's orders, we were
taking a count of villagers in the Zone, and items of value." "Like
icons?" "Yes." "Would
you like to stop for a minute and drink something?" "Yes."
Katamay sipped French water and laughed into his handkerchief. In case he spits
up blood, Arkady thought. "I still can't get over Wayne Gretzky. Tell the
truth, do you know Gretzky?" "No,"
Arkady whispered, "no more than you know a squatter named Seva missing a
little finger." "How
could you tell?" "The
bizarre detail. Keep lies simple." "Yeah?" "It's
always worked for me. Give me your hands." The
Woropays shifted anxiously, but Katamay put out his hands, palms up. Arkady
turned them over to look at purpled fingernails. He motioned Katamay to lean
forward, and held up the lantern to observe tendrils of bleeding capillaries in
the whites of Katamay's eyes. "So
tell me the truth," said Katamay. "Am I fucked or am I fucked?" "Cesium?" "Fucked
as they come." "Is
there a treatment?" "You
can take Prussian blue; it picks up cesium as it passes through the body. But
it has to be administered early. It wasn't. There's no point going to the
hospital now." "What
happened? How did you get exposed?" "Ah,
that's a different story." "Maybe
not. Three men suffered from cesium poisoning: your Russian, his business
partner and you. You don't think they're related?" "I
don't know. It depends how you look at it. History moves in funny ways, right?
We've gone through evolution, now we're going through de-evolution. Everything
is breaking down. No borders, no boundaries. No limits, no treaties. Suicide
bombers, kids with guns. AIDS, Ebola, mad cow. It's all breaking down, and I'm
breaking down with it. I'm bleeding internally. No platelets. No stomach
lining. Infected. The reason I agreed to see you was to say that my family had
nothing to do with this. Dymtrus and Taras had nothing to do with any of this,
either." Katamay stopped for a spasm of wet coughs. The Woropays were
solicitous as nurses, wiping blood from his lips. He raised his head and
smiled. "Much better than a hospital. I had my theater debut here in Peter
and the Wolf. I played the wolf. I thought I was a wolf until I met a real
one." "Who
is that?" "You'll
know when you know. Anyway, we stray. Just the Russian I found, we
agreed." "His
car. You towed it. Was there anything inside? Papers, maps, directions?" "No." Arkady
reviewed his notes. "His watch, you said it was a Rolex?" "Yes.
Oh, that was sneaky. You caught me." Katamay held up an arm to show a gold
Rolex like a bauble. Dymtrus
punched Arkady in the back of the head. He obviously did not appreciate
lиse-majestй. Katamay
said, "No, no, fair is fair. He caught me. It doesn't matter,
anyway." "It
doesn't, does it?" Arkady said. "Give
Dymtrus back his gun. He's embarrassed." "Sure." Arkady
returned the pistol to Dymtrus, who muttered, "Gretzky." "Okay,
there was a checkpoint pass and directions," Katamay said. "To
where, exactly?" "The
cemetery." "Where
are the directions now?" "I
don't know." "Typewritten?" "Hardly."
Katamay was amused. "But
the pass was signed by Captain Marchenko?" "Maybe." "It's
just a form that could be snatched off a desk?" "Pretty
much." "You
saw the pass and directions when you found the body or when you towed the
car?" "When
we found the body." You
said you found the body while you were canvassing houses about theft. The
cemetery gate is fifty meters from the nearest occupied house. Why were you at
the gate?" "I
don't remember." "That
was cute, towing the car and hiding it at Bela's yard." "Right
under Bela's nose and where Marchenko couldn't go. I hear Bela walks the whole
yard every day now." Karel's laugh turned into a cough; every word seemed
to cost him. "You
disappeared at the same time. Were you sick then?" "A
little." "But
you still wanted money from a stolen car?" "I
thought I could leave something... to someone." "Who?"
Arkady asked, but Katamay stopped for breath. "Leave me something. Who was
the 'squatter' who led you to the gate?" "Hulak,"
Katamay got out. "Boris
Hulak? The body pulled out of the cooling pond?" "That's
the only reason I'm telling you." Karel sank out of sight against the
cushions with a laugh no more than a sigh. "There's nothing you can do
about it anyway."
As Arkady rode
by the sarcophagus, he felt the monster shift within its steel plates and razor
wire. But the monster wasn't only there. It was riding a Ferris wheel here,
swirling though a bloodstream there, seeping into the river, rooting in a
million bones. What leitmotif for this kind of beast? An ominous cello. One
note. Sustained. For fifty thousand years. The
closer Arkady got to the turnoff to Eva's cabin, the more each passing
radiation marker sounded like the stroke of an ax. He didn't have to go back.
She wouldn't answer any questions. She was a complication. The truth was that,
after such close contact with Karel Katamay, part of Arkady craved nothing more
than a chance to burn his own clothes, to scrub himself with a stiff brush and
ride as far away as he could. By
itself, the motorbike seemed to turn her way. He rode over the rattle of the
bridge and along nodding catkins to the house among the birches, where he found
her sitting in bed in her bathrobe, smoking, cradling a glass and an ashtray
between her legs. She looked as if she had stared a hole through the door since
he'd left. Arkady
asked, "Are we drinking?" "We're
drinking." There
was a sharpness in the air that said it wasn't water. "Do
you think we drink too much?" "It
depends on the circumstances. I used to go over patient files in the evening,
but since you arrived, I have been trying to understand who you are. When I get
the answer, I may not want to be sober." "Ask
me." He tried to take the bottle, but she held on. "No,
no, you're the Question Man. Alex says most people get over asking why by the
age of ten, only you never did." "Was
Alex here?" "See?
The problem is, I hate questions and poking into other people's lives. I don't
see much of a future for us." He
pulled a chair up to the bed and sat. Being with her was like watching a bird
beat against a pane of glass. Anything he did could be disastrous. "Well,
I had a question." "No
questions." "What's
your opinion of Noah?" Arkady asked. "From
the Bible?" "The
Bible, the Flood, the ark." "You
are a strange man." He felt her tease around the question, searching for
his angle. Eva said, "My opinion of Noah is low, my opinion of God is
lower. Why on earth do you ask?" "I
was wondering 'Why Noah?' Was he a carpenter or a sailor?" "A
carpenter. All he had to do was float, and muck the stupid animals. It wasn't
as if he was going anywhere." "How
do you know?" "God
would have given him directions." "You're
right." If Timofeyev had driven from "Why
not? It's a nice place," Eva said. "Full of murdered Poles, Jews,
Reds and Whites, not to mention the victims starved to death by Stalin or hung
by the Germans, but still nice. The best milk, best apples, best pears. We used
to spend the summer on the river, in boats or on the beach. We fished. The
Pripyat was famous for pike in those days. I would lie down on a towel on the
beach and watch fluffy clouds and dream of dancing and traveling to foreign
countries where I would meet a famous pianist, a passionate genius, and marry
him and have six or seven children. We would live in "Is
this a trick question?" "Definitely
not. A trick question is, how long will you be here? When will you suddenly disappear?
People do that. They're here for a week or two, and poof, they're gone, taking
with them their fascinating tales of living with the exotic natives of the
Zone." "Let's
dance." Arkady took the glass. "Are
you a good dancer?" "Awful,
but I remember you dancing with Alex." "You
were dancing with Vanko, after all." "It
wasn't the same thing." "Slow?" "Please." "I
didn't think you were coming back." "But
I did." She
slipped out of bed over to a cassette player. "A waltz at midnight. This
is romantic. You're surprising. You can cut wheat like a farmer, you can
dance." "I
surprise myself." "A
midnight waltz in Chornobyl, that's kicking death in the teeth." "Exactly." He
took her in his arms and executed a practice dip. She was incredibly light for
being so much trouble. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. "Ignore
it," Eva said. "I'll
just see who it is." He
assumed the caller was Victor or Olga Andreevna, but it was Zurin the
prosecutor, calling from "Good
news, Renko. Sorry to ring you in the middle of the night. We're bringing you
home." It
took Arkady a moment to absorb the news. "What are you talking
about?" "You're
coming back to "I'm
not done." "It's
not a failure, not a bit. You've been working hard, I'm sure. However, we've
decided to wrap up things at Arkady
turned with the phone away from Eva. "There is no Ukrainian side to this
investigation." "So
be it. This matter should have been shouldered by the Ukrainians from the
start. They can't always depend on us to wipe up their spilled milk." "The
victim was Russian." "Killed
in the "Because
it is." "They
wanted to be independent, now they are. There's also a manpower issue. I can't
have a senior investigator staying indefinitely in "I
need more time," Arkady said. "Which
will become more time and more time. No, it's been decided. Get to the airport,
catch the early flight and I'll expect to see you in my office by noon
tomorrow." "What
about Timofeyev?" "Unfortunately,
he died at the wrong place." "And
Ivanov?" "Wrong
way. We're not reopening a suicide." "I'm
not finished." "One
last thing. Before you come into the office, take a shower and burn your
clothes," Zurin said and hung up. Eva
refilled two glasses like a good barmaid. "Marching orders? And where are
you going from here? You must be going someplace." "I
don't know." "Don't
look so sad. You can't be stuck here forever. Someone must be getting killed in
"I'm
sure." "How
long can you sleep with a radioactive woman? I'd say the odds against that are
not very good." "You're
not radioactive." "Don't
quibble with me, I'm the doctor. I simply need to understand the situation. The
prognosis. It sounds as if you're leaving soon." "That's
not up to me." "Oh,
it isn't? I had taken you for a different kind of man." "What
kind?" "Imaginary."
Eva delivered a smile. "I'm sorry, that's unfair. You were enjoying
yourself so much, and I was enjoying you. 'Never pop a bubble' is a good rule.
But you should be happy to go. Out of exile, back among the living." "That's
what I'm told." He felt his mind race in ten directions. "Secretly,
aren't you a wee bit happy, a little relieved to have the decision taken out of
your hands? I'm happy for you, if that helps." "It
doesn't." "Just
as well, because I don't think we really made the ideal couple. You obviously
hate histrionics, and I am completely histrionic. Not to mention damaged goods.
When, exactly, are you going?" "I
have to go now." "Oh."
Her smile began to sink. "That was fast. Hardly more than a one-night
stand." She drank half her glass in a swallow and set it down. "Not
samogon. We will always have our samogon party. Well, they say short farewells
are the best." "I
will be back in a day. Two at the most." "Don't
even –" She pulled her robe tight and picked up the gun when he
approached. Shining streaks ran down her face. "The Zone is an exclusive
club, a very exclusive club, and you have just been voted out. So get
out." Chapter FifteenArkady
found Bobby Hoffman sitting with a lantern in a backyard that was wild with
roses and thorny canes that reached into the dark. Someone had once put
beehives in the garden, and a colony still thrived; a dozen had been lured out
by Bobby's light, in spite of the hour. Bobby let a bee crawl over the back of
one hand to another and around his fingers like a coin trick. Other bees
wandered on his hat. "My
father kept hives on "We've
got to go," Arkady said. "The
old man was tight with the Irish. They thought he was Irish because he could
drink and sing and fight. Women? They were like bees. My mother would say, 'So
you've been with your shiksa ho'ahs?' She was very religious. The funny thing
is, he was just as strict about me going to a yeshiva. He'd say, 'Bobby, what
makes the Jews special is that we don't just worship God, we have a contract
with Him in writing. It's the Torah. Figure out the fine print in that, and you
can figure out the fine print in anything.' " "Tell
him again," Yakov said. He was watching the street. Arkady
said, "I got a call from Prosecutor Zurin ordering me back to "Remember
the nice police?" said Yakov. "Captain
Marchenko at the cafй?" Arkady reminded Bobby. "The one who wanted
your business? I think that little lightbulb in his head went on. I think he
called Ozhogin, and to judge by the urgency in Zurin's voice, Ozhogin is
commandeering a company jet to come and get you. Not to arrest you; they would
have kept me here for that." "He
wants to give Bobby a beating?" Yakov asked. "We could let him have
Bobby for ten minutes. A little pain..." Bobby
laughed gently, so as not to disturb the bees browsing on his hat. "He's
not flying in from Arkady
said, "It won't just be punishment – there's also the threat to NoviRus as
long as you're around." Bobby
shrugged, and it struck Arkady that, day by day, Bobby had been getting more
inert. "This
is just guesswork on your part," Bobby said. "You have no proof that
the colonel is coming." "Do
you want to wait and find out? If I'm wrong, you leave the Zone a day early. If
I'm right and you stay, you won't last the day." Bobby
shrugged. Arkady
asked, "What happened to the old elusive Bobby Hoffman? "He
got tired." Yakov
asked, "What happened to your father?" "Prison
killed him. The feds tossed him in just to make him name his associates. He was
a stand-up individual, and he named no one, so they kept handing him more
years. Six years in, he got diabetes and bad circulation. But decent medical
treatment? Not a chance. They started whittling him down, one leg and then the
other. They took a big man like my father and turned him into a dwarf. His last
words to me were 'Don't ever let them put you inside, or I will come back from
the grave to beat the living shit out of you.' When I think of him, I remember
how he was before they put him inside, and whenever I see a bee, I know what
the old man would be thinking: Where's this little guy going? To an apple
blossom? A pear tree? Or is he just buzzing around in the sun? "But
not just waiting to be stepped on," Arkady said. Bobby
blinked. "Touchй." "Time
to go, Bobby." "In
more ways than one?" A wan smile, but awake. "The
dormitory. It's a short walk and it's dark." "We're
not taking the car?" "No.
I don't think your car can get through a checkpoint now." "Why
are you doing this? What's in this for you?" "A
little help." "A
quid pro quo. Something for you, too." "That's
right. There's something I want you to see." Bobby
nodded. He gently blew the bee off his fingers, got to his feet and shook the
bees from his jacket, removed his hat and, with soft puffs, blew the bees off
the brim.
Arkady led Bobby
and Yakov to the room next to his, heard the vague tumult of a cheering stadium
and knocked. When
no one answered Arkady used the phone card Victor had given him and popped the
latch. Professor Campbell sat in a chair, his eyes shut and his head tucked
into his chest, as stiff as a mummy, an empty bottle at his feet. Empties on
the desk reflected the dim light of the television, where a soccer match surged
back and forth, and the home crowd swayed and sang its fight song. Arkady
listened to "Dead
or drunk?" Bobby asked. "He
looks fine," Yakov said. Bobby
settled into a chair next to "Got
any baseball?" Bobby asked. "I
have this." Arkady fed Vanko's tape into the player and pushed Play.
"This
was taped last year by Vanko," Arkady said. A
disorganized march – carrying a murmur in Hebrew and English – filled the road
and spilled over onto the sidewalk, trying not to get too far ahead of
patriarchs with beards that spread like unraveling silk. They had come from Arkady
asked himself whether any rabbi, dead or alive, could meet the expectations of
the people waiting their turn to enter. Many carried letters, and he knew what
they asked: health for the ill, ease for the dying, safety from the suicide
bomber. Arkady set the tape on slow motion to catch Bobby, about to take his
turn, dropping out of line. For everyone else, there was a curious relaxation,
as if they were all playing on grandfather's lap. Men sang and danced, hands on
the shoulders of the man in front, and snaked back and forth across the street.
Bobby stayed apart and moved only to shun the camera. When people unwrapped
sandwiches and ate, Bobby disappeared. Vanko cut to more dancing, continuous
visits to the tomb, then finally a prayer said by a long line of men facing the
river. As
Yakov sang along, his croak of a voice became sonorous: "Y'hay sh'may
raho m'vorah, l'olam ulolmay olmayo." He translated: "Blessed
and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be
the name of the Holy One, blessed be he." He added, "Kaddish, the
prayer for the dead." The
camera glimpsed Bobby with his lips sealed. Then the buses reloaded and formed
their convoy and started the drive back to "Why
did you come last year, Bobby?" Arkady asked. "You didn't visit the
grave or sing or dance or pray. You told me that you came to look into
processing reactor fuel, and you certainly didn't do that. You arrived on the
bus, and you left on the bus, but you didn't do anything, so why were you
here?" Bobby
looked up, his eyes hot and wet. "Pasha asked me." "To
visit the tomb?" Arkady said. "No.
All he wanted was that I prayed, that I said the Kaddish. I told him I didn't
do that stuff. Pasha said, 'Go, you'll do it.' He insisted so much I couldn't
say no. But I got here and it didn't matter. I couldn't." "Why
not?" "I
didn't pray for my father. He died in prison, but he wanted a Kaddish, from me
especially, only I was already on the run over some stock swap. Unimportant.
The thing is, I blew it. And what the hell kind of deal did God give my father,
anyway? Half his life in jail, a disease that took half his body, my mother for
a wife and me for a son. So I signed off on all this stuff. I just don't do
it." "What
did you tell Pasha when you got back to "I
lied. The only favor he ever asked of me, and I let him down. And he knew
it." "Why
did he choose you?" "Who
else would he? I was his guy. Besides, I told him once I was a yeshiva kid. Me,
Bobby Hoffman. Can you believe it?" Before
Bobby went completely down the emotional drain, Arkady wanted to get the facts
straight. "The men facing the river were saying Kaddish for Jews killed in
the pogrom eighty years ago?" A listless nod. "And that's what Pasha
Ivanov sent you from "It
had to be "To
say a prayer for victims of the pogrom here." That, at least, seemed
understood. Bobby
had to laugh. "You don't get it. Pasha wanted a Kaddish for "Why?" "He
wouldn't say. I asked. And after I went back to Well,
there had been a few signs of trouble brewing, Arkady thought. Isolation,
paranoia, nosebleeds. Bobby
said, "Somehow I can't help but believe that if I had only prayed when
Pasha asked, he and Timofeyev would be alive today." "Was
someone watching you?" Arkady asked. "Who
would watch?" "The
camera watched." "Do
you think it would have made any difference?" Bobby asked. "I
don't know."
Out of mercy,
Arkady switched tapes and stepped into the hall with Yakov. "Clever,"
Yakov said. The eye under the crushed brow shone in the light of the moon. "Not
really. I think Bobby has been trying to tell us this since he arrived. That's
probably why he came." "Now
that he has, do you have a way to take us out?" "I
have an individual in mind." "Trustworthy?" Arkady
weighed Bela's character. "Reliable but greedy. How much money do you
have?" "Whatever
he wants, if we get to "Not
much." "It's
what we have left." Not
enough, Arkady thought. "That will have to do, then. Keep Bobby as quiet
as possible and take off his shoes. And keep the television on; as long as the
housekeeper thinks the Englishman's here, she won't go in." "You
know Ozhogin?" "A
little. He'll watch your car and the house first. Then he'll strike into the
field. He's more a spy than military; he likes to operate alone. He might bring
two or three men. All he'll want from Marchenko is to keep the checkpoints closed.
When you leave, I'll follow you out." "No,
I operate alone, too." "You
don't know Colonel Ozhogin." "I've
known a hundred Ozhogins." Yakov took a deep breath. Outside, the taller
trees were starting to separate from the night. The first birdsong rang out.
"Such a day. Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption. He said
redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that's how
important redemption is. No one can take it away."
Arkady went into
his own room and packed, if for no other reason than to give the impression
that he was leaving and following orders. His life – case notes and clothing –
fit into a small suitcase and duffel bag with room to spare. There were flights
all day to He
noticed, at the top of his file, the employment application for NoviRus. He was
surprised to find he still had it. He scanned the opportunities. Banking?
Brokerage? Security or combat skills? It did nothing for his confidence to
realize he had not one marketable talent. Certainly not communication skills.
He wished he could start the night over again, beginning with Zurin's call, and
clarify to Eva what he was doing. Not going, only helping a criminal flee the
Zone. Was that better?
• • •
Bela was already
up, having a daybreak coffee in front of CNN, when Arkady arrived. "I
always like to hear the weather in "Not
Russian girls in boots?" "A
different picture altogether. Not necessarily a bad one. I judge no one. In
fact, I always liked those Soviet statues of women with powerful biceps and
tiny tits." "You've
been here too long, Bela." "I
take time off. I see the doctor. I walk around the whole yard every day. That's
a 10K walk." "Let's
walk," Arkady said. The
scale of the yard was best appreciated on foot. As it broke the horizon the sun
turned shadowy canyons into the neat ranks of a necropolis. The endless rows of
poisoned vehicles evoked the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who had dug,
bulldozed and loaded radioactive debris. The trucks were here. Where were the
men? Arkady wondered. No one had kept track. "Two
passengers," Arkady said. "You take them out like your usual
customers." "But
they're not regular customers. Things out of the ordinary make me
nervous." "Selling
radioactive auto parts is ordinary?" "Mildly
radioactive." "Get
out while you're ahead." "I
could. I should be reaping the benefits of my labor, not living in a graveyard.
The situation with Captain Marchenko has become intolerable, the bastard's
always trying to get me dismissed." "Does
he ever stop your van?" "He
wouldn't dare. I have more friends upstairs than he does, because I'm generous
and spread the money around. When you think about it, I have a good thing going
here. I'm the only one in the Zone with a good thing going. I'm sitting
pretty." "You're
sitting in the middle of a radioactive dump." Bela
shrugged. "Why should I jeopardize that for two men I don't know?" "For
five hundred dollars that you don't have to spread around." "Five
hundred? If you called a taxi from "What
are you moving today?" "An
engine block. I got a van specially outfitted, with jump seats for the
customers." "Then
they'll just be two customers riding along, as usual." "But
I sense desperation. Desperation means risk, and risk means money. A thousand
each." "Five
hundred for both. You're going anyway. The real question is why you would come
back." Bela
spread his arms. His chains and medals jingled. "Look around. I've got
thousands of auto parts to sell." "Because
you're losing your hair. Look in a mirror." Bela
touched his hairline. "What a joker. You had me for a second." Arkady
shrugged. "And the virility is normal?" "Yes!" "Five
hundred for transportation for two to "Immediately?
We're pulling the engine now, but it's not ready." Bela glanced in the
wing mirror of a car. "Any
dryness of the mouth?" "It's
the dust, the wind always kicking it up." "You'd
know better than I. It's just that everyone rotates time here except you. I
don't want to see you holding on to a sack of money with one hand and an IV
tube with the other." "Don't
lecture me. I was here for years before you showed up, my friend." Bela
slapped dust off his sleeves. "My
point exactly." "Change
of subject!" They
turned the corner onto an avenue of heavy trucks. Halfway down the row was a
shower of sparks. "Fifteen
hundred." Bela touched his hair again. "I
hate haggling," Arkady said. "Why don't we do this? Clean your
hairbrush and brush your hair. We'll start at five thousand. No, we'll start at
ten thousand, and for every new hair in the brush, we deduct a thousand." "I
wouldn't have any money left." "And
we haven't mentioned yet that you're illegally selling state goods." "They're
radioactive." "Bela,
that's not a mitigating factor." "What
do you care? They're Ukrainian goods. You're Russian." "I'll
shut you down." "I
trusted you." "Nothing
personal." "Five
hundred." "Done." To
prevent the removal of the hotter engines, the hoods of some trucks had been
welded shut. Bela's welder, in a mask and greasy coveralls, was cutting one
open with an acetylene torch. A lifting sling and a crane stood by to pull the
engine out; then the welder would seal the hood again. It was a perfect system.
Arkady checked his dosimeter. The count was twice normal. Well, what was normal?
Feeling high
from a successful negotiation and the euphoria of a sleepless night, Arkady
detoured. Instead of returning directly to the dormitory, he went to Eva's
cabin to explain to her that while he had to report to As
Arkady rode the motorcycle up to the cabin, he saw Alex's Arkady
moved to the bedroom window, and there, through the lilacs, he had a view of
Alex and Eva. They stood together. Her bathrobe was open, and he was pressing
her against a bureau, his pants down, his buttocks flexing in and out. She clung
limp as a rag doll, arms around his neck, as he pounded his flesh into hers,
covered her mouth with his. Was this the magical dance floor from the night
before? Arkady wondered. A change of partners, obviously. As Alex pulled Eva's
head back by her hair to kiss her she saw Arkady at the window. She freed a
hand to motion him to leave. The bureau, jostled, spilled brushes, pictures,
perfume bottles. Alex saw Arkady in the bureau mirror and more vigorously
lifted her with his strokes. As she rocked, Eva listlessly watched Arkady. He
waited for some signal from her, but she closed her eyes and laid her head on
Alex's shoulder. Arkady
backtracked to the bike, staggering as if he'd lost his sense of balance. It
was a little early in the day to cope with this. Apparently, Eva hadn't
expected him back. All the same, it was, he felt, a little sudden. And it
seemed to spell farewell. He felt a rage take over, although he wasn't sure at
whom. This was, he understood, why domestic quarrels ended so badly. Alex
came out of the cabin's screen door, tucking his shirt in, buckling his belt,
the man of the house encountering an unexpected visitor. "Alas, poor
Renko, I knew him well. Sorry you caught us like that. I know it's
painful." "I
didn't know you would be here." "I
thought you were gone. Anyway, why not? She's still my wife." "Did
you rape her?" "No." "Was
there resistance?" "No.
Since you ask." Alex looked back at the cabin as Eva appeared through the
haze of the screen door. "It was very good. Felt like home." Arkady
walked to the cabin door. As he reached the front step Eva bolted the screen
door and backed up to the middle of the little parlor clutching her robe tight.
"She'll get over it," Alex said. "Eva is tougher than she
looks." Arkady
rattled the door. He considered ripping it out, but she shook her head and said
in a hoarse voice, "This is none of your business." "You're
upsetting her," Alex said. "Are
you bruised?" Arkady asked. Eva
said, "No." "I
need to talk to you." "Go
away, please!" Eva said. "I
need to –" This
was exactly the sort of scene that police the world over hated. Two men
starting to wrestle on the ground, a motorcycle kicked over, a woman sobbing
inside the house. The gun in Alex's hand was the next escalation. He pushed it
against Arkady's temple and said, "We had an understanding, you and I. You
came here for an investigation. Fine, investigate. Any questions you want. But
leave Eva alone. I take care of Eva. She needs someone reliable who will be
here tomorrow and the day after. Go back to "I
was lonely," Eva said. She came to the screen. "I phoned Alex and
asked him over. It was my idea." "All
of it?" But
she retreated from sight. "Is
that good enough for you?" asked Alex. "So, you're finished here, right?
We can be friends again. We'll run into each other on the street in Alex
was first to his feet. He tucked the gun, a 9mm, into the back of his belt.
Arkady rose more slowly. "One
question." "The
investigator is back on the case. Excellent." "Who
did they call?" "Who
called who?" "At
the samogon party, you did a hilarious impersonation of the control-room technicians,
how they blew up the reactor and had to report to "You're
serious? What does it matter?" "Who?" "It
was a chain. The minister of energy, the director of power-plant construction,
the minister of health, Gorbachev, the Politburo." "And
who did they call? Someone respected, with firsthand experience in
nuclear disasters. I think they called Felix Gerasimov. They called your
father." "That's
a guess." "It
can be checked." Alex
seemed to consider a wide range of responses. With self-control, he picked up
Arkady's motorcycle and dusted off the saddle. "A good trip home, Renko.
Be careful." A
thought struck Arkady. "You said you had an understanding with me. Do you
have an understanding with Eva?" Alex
smiled, caught out. "I said I wouldn't hurt you." Chapter SixteenBela
tucked Bobby and Yakov into jump seats behind a washed and brushed Kamaz V8 in
a wooden cradle and security straps. "Not
hidden but not seen," Bela said. "It's going to go down like cream.
I've done this a hundred times. As soon as we get going, I'll turn on the air
conditioner. I guarantee a good time." Yakov
kept one hand on the gun inside his jacket and smiled like a grandpa. Bobby
held onto his laptop. Arkady
glanced at Bela's CDs. "Your Tom Jones collection?" "It's
a long drive." Bobby
rallied enough to say, "Renko, you remind me of a dog I once had. With one
eye, three legs, no tail. Answered to the name Lucky. That's you. You never
know when to stop." "Probably
not." Arkady wasn't sure it was a compliment. "Ozhogin
is really coming?" "I
think so." Yakov
nodded. Wonderful, Arkady thought, the paranoids agree. Bobby
said, "One thing, Renko. Tell me you're staying because you know who
killed Pasha. Tell me you're close." Arkady
let his fingers lie: he held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart and
slid the van door shut.
"Where are
you?" Zurin demanded. "I expected you here in this office an hour
ago." "I'm
sorry. That flight was overbooked," Arkady said. "To
"Yes." "Where
are you right now? I hear shouts." "On
the plane." Arkady was in "What
flight number?" the prosecutor asked. "When are you landing in "Can
Colonel Ozhogin meet me?" "No." "How
do you know? You haven't asked him." "I'm
sure he's busy. When are you landing?" "They're
telling us to turn off our mobile phones." "How
could you –" Arkady
ended the call. That was the problem with long leashes, he thought. You
couldn't tell whether the dog was at the other end or not. He
hoped he had done one thing right and gotten Bobby and Yakov safely out of He
cleared Campbell's desk enough to write a list of what he knew about Timofeyev:
the pivotal relationship with Pasha Ivanov, their paired careers, their similar
poor health and poisoning, the letter that Timofeyev had mentioned at Pasha's
charity party, the discovery of Timofeyev's body in the Zone by what Militia
Officer Karel Katamay had reported as a local squatter. Everything parallel to
Ivanov except his death; that was different. The only person as ill as they
were, in the same extraordinary fashion, was Karel Katamay. Katamay was the
key, and he was a wraith in the woods. Or hidden in Pripyat near the theater,
at least during the day, while the Woropay brothers were on duty. Arkady's
task was to avoid Ozhogin. The colonel would consider him the most likely lead
to Bobby, and Arkady suspected that he enjoyed gathering information. Arkady
had taken the precaution of hiding his motorbike in back of a woodpile behind
the dormitory. Of course, Ozhogin's arrival might be a figment of Arkady's
imagination, and the urgency in Zurin's commands merely revealed excitement at
having Arkady near. In
the meantime, Arkady hydrated the wilted Victor
called. "You were right about the travel office. Anton and Galina picked
up tickets for "For
when?" Arkady felt apologetic: he had completely forgotten about Anton. He
paced, negotiating empty bottles on the floor. On the television "Two
days. I caught the travel agent on the way down and bought her a coffee." "You
chatted up the agent?" The newly attired Victor must be much less
frightening than the old one, Arkady thought. "I
chatted up an agent. Did you know that it's often cheaper for two people to
travel than one?" "You're
getting very sophisticated." "But
there's more to it than that. We were having our coffees, the travel agent and
I, when Anton and Galina came out of the building. See, after the agent. So,
they must have gone into the dentist's office. That just struck me as odd.
Where was the dentist?" "Dr.
Levinson?" No inspiration in "That's
right. There was a phone number on her office sign. I called it and a voice
said she was going on a month's vacation starting tomorrow. It was a sweet
voice, but not a well-educated voice, and my bet is it was our lovely Galina. I
worry about the dentist." "Why?" "You
know where Anton went from there? A bank. I ask you, since when does Anton
Obodovsky use a legitimate bank? He launders money or he buys diamonds. He does
not stand in line like a normal person at an ordinary bank. Something is going
on." "What?" "I
don't know. Whatever it is, I have a feeling that when he and Galina take off
to "Where
is Anton now?" It was the end of the soccer match. Arkady could tell
because the British fans were ripping out grandstand railings and hurling them
at police. "The
last I saw, he and Galina were tearing along the river in a new Porsche
convertible. Real lovebirds." Klaxon
wailing, a bus pulled onto the field and disgorged Dutch police with helmets
and shields. Victor
said, "By the way, you may be right about Alex Gerasimov. He either fell
or jumped off a four-story building a week after his father blew his head off.
But the son lived. Is he crazy or strong?" "Good
question." "Where's
Bobby?" Victor asked. "His phone's off. What's going on up there? Do
I hear soccer?" Only
Victor would rightly interpret a riot as a soccer match, Arkady thought. "Kind
of. Get a home number for the dentist, just to hear her voice. And if Zurin
calls..." "Yes?" "You
haven't talked to me in weeks." "I
wish." Arkady
closed the mobile phone and rewound the video to the point where police buses
rolled into view. The phone rang. The caller ID showed a local number. "Arkady?"
It was Eva. There
was a pause while British fans threw seat cushions, bottles, coins. "Eva,
I think I misunderstood your relationship with Alex." "Arkady..." Thugs,
stripped to Union Jack tattoos, dragged down local fans and stomped them with
boots. Eva
said, "Alex said you went to "So?" Once
down, a victim could be kicked in any number of vital spots. Some hooligans, British
or Russian, were virtuosos with steel-toed boots. Meanwhile, the police ducked
from the rain of hard objects. "I
thought you'd left." "You
were wrong." A
crowd surged onto the field, broke through the police line and rocked a bus. "I
hear shouts. Where are you, Arkady?" "I
can't tell you." "You
don't trust me?" He
let the question stand. The bus driver had locked the doors but trapped himself
inside. The bus windows burst into crystal. Eva
asked, "What can I do?" Rioters
put their shoulders to the bus and rocked it from side to side. The lights were
on. Running back and forth, the driver looked like a moth in a swinging lamp. "If
you want to help," Arkady said, "you can tell me what Alex does in "Is
that what you want to talk about?" "Can
you help or not? What does a radioecologist do in Police
formed a wedge in an effort to rescue the bus. However, a number of hooligans
had appropriated helmets and batons and put up a stiff resistance. One
policeman, taken hostage, spun comically between blows. "Can
you help or not?" Arkady repeated. Oopah!
The bus went over with a cheer. Figures swarmed it, kicking in the windshield
and dragging the driver out. "Please
don't," she said. "Can
you help or not?" Too
late, a water cannon arrived to clear the field. As the jet drove the crowd
back, the stampede in the exits gained the strength of desperation. A second
wave of bodies rushed the camera and sucked it under. "No?
Too bad." Arkady ended the call. The
next images were taped later, of police picking over clothes on the field and
the empty stands, photographing the scene, maneuvering a tractor crane to lift
the toppled bus back on its wheels. An ambulance stood by in case anyone was
underneath. There was a special, mutual pain to the conversation, he thought.
Hurting her, of course. Also – by ending the call and demonstrating who was in
control – denying himself the chance to listen. This way he could enjoy the
deep satisfaction of twisting the knife in two people at the same time. It was
the sort of pain a man could suck on forever. The bus lurched onto its wheels.
No bodies. The final shot was of the score: 0 – 0. As if nothing had happened
at all. Great
minds compartmentalized. Arkady put on Vanko's tape and fast-forwarded, then
rewound. The question, he decided, was why the camera had found Bobby, among
all the Hasidim. On repeated viewings, it was a little more obvious, and not as
a matter of editing. If Vanko had edited, he would have excised the clumsy shot
of his run to the tomb. And the virtual close-up of Bobby at the prayer was not
hidden well enough. Toward the end of the tape, at the leave-taking of the
buses, Arkady could almost feel the camera search for Bobby. He went frame by
frame until he saw a reflection in the bus's folded glass door of Vanko handing
out business cards. If Vanko hadn't been taping, who had? When had the handover
taken place? Before the Kaddish? Or even earlier, before the visit to the tomb? Arkady
heard a car brake hard in the dormitory parking lot and bodies rush into the
downstairs hall. A rapid conversation included the bewildered tones of the
housekeeper. A moment later, heavy feet ran up the stairs and stopped next
door, at the room Arkady had occupied. A key jiggled and they were in. It
sounded like they tossed the mattress and drawers, then collected again in the
hall. Arkady
slid a chain bolt into the doorplate a moment before someone rapped on the
other side. "Renko?
Renko, if you're in there, open up." It was Ozhogin, which gave Arkady the
perverse satisfaction of knowing he had been right. At the same time, the door
seemed flimsy. Arkady moved back. He heard the housekeeper waddle up the hall
and mention the Scotsman, maybe adding a gesture of drinking. She scratched the
door and called "Renko,"
Ozhogin said, "you should have filled out the form. We would have found
some kind of job for you. Now it's come to this." The
housekeeper tried the wrong key and apologized. A key was a formality; Arkady
knew how simple it was to pop the lock. Anyway, she had the key; it was only a
matter of finding her glasses. "Here
we are," she said. Arkady
became aware of someone behind him. Arkady
didn't know how well Ozhogin spoke English but he seemed to get the message.
There was a long moment while the colonel decided whether to break in on the
drunken Scot. The moment passed. Arkady heard Ozhogin and his men retreat down
the hall, confer, then move with dispatch down the stairs and out to their car.
Doors slammed and they drove away.
• • •
Hours slipped
around the window shade. Arkady knew he should sleep; he also knew that as soon
as he closed his eyes he would be back on the ground outside Eva's cabin. Arkady
called the children's shelter and asked for Zhenya. Olga Andreevna came on the
line. "Are you finally here in "No." "You're
impossible. But at least you called him this time, and that's an
improvement. His group is in music class now, although Zhenya doesn't actually
sing. Wait." Arkady
sat with the phone for ten minutes. The
director came back on and said, "Here he is." Zhenya, naturally, said
nothing. "Do
you like music?" Arkady asked. "Any special group? Have you been
playing chess? Eating well?" Arkady remembered films of pioneers of
flight, the unsuccessful ones with man-made wings who ran and flapped, ran and
flapped, and never got off the ground. That was like trying to talk to Zhenya. "My
case here is winding up soon. I'll be back, and if you like, we can go to a
soccer game. Or There
was a perceptible quickening of the breath on the other end. "The
wolf lives in a red forest with his wife, a human who wants to escape. He
doesn't know whether he wants to eat her or keep her, but he does know he'll
eat anyone who tries to help her. In fact, the forest is littered with the
bones of those who have tried and failed. I wanted your advice on whether I
should try. What do you think? Take your time. Consider every possibility, like
a chess game. When you know, call me. In the meantime, be good." He
hung up. Liverpool
wore red uniforms, Vanko
had said Alex made lots of money. In the belly of the beast, Alex had said.
Exactly what beast? Arkady wondered. Arkady
opened his file. On the NoviRus employment application were an Internet site,
e-mail address, phone and fax numbers. Arkady
called the phone number, and a woman's musical voice said, "Welcome to
NoviRus. How may I direct your call?" "Interpreting
and translation." "Legal,
international or security?" "Security."
He never would have guessed. "Hold,
please." Arkady
held until a brusque male voice answered, "Security." "I'm
calling Alex Gerasimov." A
pause to punch in the name. "You want the accident section." "That's
right." "Hold." A
Liverpool forward scored on a breakaway, the gift of a bad pass that left the "Accident."
A second male voice was not nearly so military. "Alex
Gerasimov?" "No.
He's not on duty for another two weeks." "Doing
interpreting and translation?" "That's
right." "For
the accident section?" "Yes." "He
was going to explain everything to me." "Sorry,
Alex is not here. I'm Yegor." A
good sign; a man who offered his name invited conversation. "I
apologize for bothering you, Yegor, but Alex was going to tell me about the
job." Arkady
heard a rustle like a newspaper being put down. "You're
interested?" "Very." "You
talked to the people in Employment?" "Yes,
but you know how it is with them, they never give you an honest picture. Alex
was going to." "I
can do that." Yegor
explained that NoviRus offered physical security to Russian and foreign clients
in the usual form of bodyguards and cars. For foreign clients, they provided
standby interpreters who could go to the scene of a traffic accident or an
incident involving police or any emergency where their presence could alleviate
a dangerous or costly misunderstanding, often with prostitutes, for which there
was a discretionary fund. Interpreters were expected to be university-educated,
well dressed and fluent in two foreign languages. They worked a
twenty-four-hour shift every three days and were paid a handsome ten dollars an
hour, perfect for part-time work. What the people in Employment didn't tell
applicants was that the twenty-four-hour shift was spent either racing around
Moscow, from one scene of confusion to the next, or going nowhere at all, which
meant a day and a night in a basement room not much larger than a closet, with
three cots, a coatrack and a minibar. The interpreters had been promised real
quarters, but they were still stuck like an afterthought behind Surveillance,
which, by virtue of all the screens it monitored, had a quarter of the floor. "Alex
made it sound better than that," Arkady said. "Alex
has the run of the place. He's been here awhile. He knows everyone, and he's in
and out of everywhere." "Ten
dollars an hour?" Arkady figured this was about five times what a senior investigator
made. "That covers a lot of sins. Were you on duty the day Pasha Ivanov
died?" "No." "But
Alex was, wasn't he?" "Yeah.
Who did you say you were?" Arkady
hung up. The game was getting interesting. With a minute to go, "I
can't see it. I won't watch it one more time. It's agony aforesaid, the turning
of the thumbscrews, the inevitable lop. They can freeze for fookin' eternity
for all I care. Who cares? Do y'know what happens? Do y'know?" Exhausted, No,
Arkady thought, he didn't know. By now Bobby Hoffman could be halfway to Arkady's
mobile phone rang. Eva. He was about to answer when an image of her and Alex
came flooding back. The sight of Eva pressed against the bureau. The sound of
perfume bottles rolling to the floor. Arkady remembered her eyes, the look of a
drowning woman who embraces the whirlpool. He still couldn't answer. Another
call. From Bela. Arkady took this one because he could use good news, but Bela
said, "We're at the power station, at the sarcophagus. We were headed to
the checkpoint when the fat one changed his mind." "Why
did you go to the power station? Why did you agree?" Bela's
voice got small. "He offered so much money."
Arkady covered
the first few kilometers on dirt roads through black villages to see whether
anyone was following him before taking the motorcycle onto the highway. Ozhogin
would focus on the route south to A
Uralmoto motorcycle was not a quiet machine, and Arkady half expected to see a
flashlight's beam or hear the challenge of a guard. Buses he saw, but no cars
or vans. He crossed the parking lot to a row of what might have been
laboratories and saw enough radiation posters and advisory signs to persuade
him to turn on his headlight again. He U-turned at a dead end of dump bins
overflowing with bags marked toxic waste, ignored a sign that said authorized
personnel ONLY, as any Russian would anywhere, and followed a wire fence
crowned with razor wire. More fences and wire led him right and left up to a
sign that said DO NOT ENTER – REPORT TO GUARD BEFORE
PROCEEDING – ARE YOU WEARING YOUR RADIATION PIN? Arkady coasted through and
found a service road where Bela's van was parked at a gate, not a simple
counterweighted pole but a steel gate that was rolled shut. A sign in English
said stop. Bela was in the van. Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of
the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore
a yarmulke and a tasseled shawl. Arkady couldn't make out what they were
saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm. Beyond
the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the
sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security
lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the
sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. Connected to the
sarcophagus was the more presentable Reactor Two, which was invisible. The
sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive. Bela
crept out of the van. "This is as close as we could get." Arkady
didn't need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise. "It's
close enough. Why are you here?" "The
fat one insisted." "The
old guy didn't try to talk him out of it?" "Yakov?
He seemed to expect it. They just waited until dark so it was safer. They seem
to have a lot of names. You didn't tell me they were on the run." "Does
it matter?" "It
drives up the price." Arkady
looked around. "Where are the guards?" Bela
pointed to a pair of legs sticking out from the shadow of the gate. "Just
a watchman. I gave him some vodka." "You're
always prepared." "I
am." It
was the night shift, Arkady thought. There were no office or construction
workers. A skeleton crew could maintain the three reactors that were shut down,
and no one entered the sarcophagus. On the power grid, the The
chanting wasn't loud enough to carry far. Bobby's voice was whispery. Yakov's
was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead.
Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again. "How
long have they been doing this?" "Half
an hour, at least. When I called you." "The
rest of the time, what did you do all day?" "Drove
into the woods. I found them a hill with nice mobile-phone reception. The fat
one called and arranged things." "What
things?" "Belarus
is just a few kilometers north. Your friends have got visas and a car waiting.
They've got every move figured out." "Like
a game of chess." "Exactly
like chess." Except
if they were doing it for Pasha, it was too late, Arkady thought. Arkady was
aware of having been manipulated by Bobby and Yakov, but he didn't feel angry.
They were escape artists, what else would they do? "But
they let you call me?" "Yakov
suggested it." So
they should have been on the run to Minsk, gateway to the world, instead of
standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and
forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over, "Ose
sholom himromov hu yaase sholom." When they finished the prayer, they
simply began again. Arkady told himself he should have known this was coming.
Would Bobby have come all this way to repeat his failure? Wasn't this the
logical, inevitable outcome, whether Bobby knew it consciously or not? Or was
Yakov, like a black angel, forcibly keeping Bobby out of hell? Arkady
moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too,
as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to
face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say
not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that
Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard.
Maybe Bobby and Yakov had planned well and had some luck, but every minute
spent at the power plant was a chance taken, and the list looked long. Arkady
remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon. The thought of
his cold-blooded rejection of her made him wince. It occurred to him that when
she needed him most he had abandoned her, and that he had made an irretrievable
mistake. Chapter SeventeenThe
way to see Pripyat, like the Taj Mahal, was by moonlight. The broad avenues and
stately chestnuts. The confident plan of greenery, office towers and
residential blocks. The way the central plaza admired the Soviet wreath that
topped the city hall. Never mind the empty sockets of the windows or the grass
that grew between the pavers. Arkady
left his motorcycle in the plaza. He went to the theater where he had met Karel
Katamay, feeling his way again through the flats stacked in the lobby, shining
his flashlight on the stage, around the piano, up the tiers of benches. Karel
Katamay and the couch were gone, leaving only a few dried drops of blood in the
dust. Arkady
couldn't search a city built for fifty thousand people. However, a dying man and
his couch could not have gone far, even with the Woropay brothers bearing him
on a royal litter. His nosebleeds were small leaks. He was bleeding internally
from the lungs, intestinal tract, cerebellum. Faced with that prospect, Pasha
Ivanov had chosen the quicker alternative of a ten-story jump. Back
on the plaza, Arkady turned off the chatter of his dosimeter. He had a mental
map of the city now: the hot buildings, the alleys to be taken only on the run. Arkady
called out, "Karel! We should talk." While we can, he thought. Something
slipped through the grass and disappeared like smoke in the beam of Arkady's
flashlight. He swung the light around the front of offices. Where plate glass was
still intact, the beam winked back. He swung the light up but decided the
Woropay brothers wouldn't have tried to carry Katamay above the ground floor.
Anyway, why would Karel want to be in a dark room littered with plaster, sour
with squatter's piss, when outside in the balmy air he could touch the moon? Arkady
returned to the center of the plaza and kept going when he saw the amusement
park. It had three rides: a Ferris wheel, bumper cars and crazy chairs. In the
crazy chairs, children sat in a circle of flower petals that spun until the
children were dizzy or nauseated. Half the bumper cars were on their side; the
rest were still entangled in traffic. The Ferris wheel was big enough for forty
gondolas. Everything was edged and pitted with corrosion; the wheel looked like
it had rolled, stopped and rusted in place. Karel
Katamay lay on his couch in front of the crazy chairs. Arkady turned off his
flashlight; he didn't need it. Karel was in the same hockey shirt and propped
up with cushions, as before. His face was luminously pale, but his hair seemed
brushed and freshly beaded. On the ground in front of the couch were plastic
flowers, a plastic liter of Evian and a porcelain teacup, no doubt filched from
an apartment. Also, a tank of oxygen, a breathing tube and a harness. So the
Woropay brothers had made him as comfortable as possible. He did seem a prince
of the netherworld. However,
Karel was dead. The eyes, red as wounds, stared through Arkady. The hockey
shirt seemed voluminous, twice Karel's size. His hands lay with their palms up
on either side of the white satin pillow embroidered Je ne regrette rien.
One foot wore a Chinese slipper, the other was bare. There were worse ways to
die than peacefully outside on a summer night, Arkady thought. Arkady
found the other slipper two meters away on the other side of the crazy-chairs
fence and, honoring the professional rule of "touch nothing," left it
where it was. He returned to Katamay. Purple bruises consistent with tissue
breakdown and lack of clotting spotted Karel's skin. Blood smeared his chin and
rouged his cheeks. When had he died? He was still warm, but he had mentioned
infections, and a fever could burn in a body for an hour or more. He had
probably lived on nothing but water and morphine for weeks. Actually, Arkady
thought he might have lived a minute ago. Why
would a peacefully expiring man kick off a slipper? Katamay's mouth relaxed a
little and let the tongue peek out. The satin pillow between his hands was
spotless. Arkady broke his rule and turned the pillow over. The opposite side
was soaked with blood only starting to brown. Blood from two sources, it
seemed, mouth and nose, and what a brief struggle that must have been. Arkady
became aware of Dymtrus Woropay standing on the other side of the crazy chairs.
Woropay held a cardboard box that looked heavy with bottles and flowers and
trailed the sort of tinsel used to decorate at the holidays. Arkady also saw
what the scene looked like to Dymtrus: Arkady standing over Karel Katamay with
a bloody pillow. "What
the fuck are you doing?" "I
found him like this." "What
the fuck did you do?" Dymtrus
dropped the box and let the bottles explode. He swung himself directly over the
fence on the other side and bulled through the crazy seats. Arkady put the pillow
between Katamay's hands and moved away. Dymtrus
snapped the gate chain. He knelt by the couch, touched the dead man's face,
picked up the pillow. "No!
No!" He got to his feet and bellowed, "Taras!" His voice went
around the plaza. "Taras!" Arkady
ran. He
ran for his motorbike, but another figure closed fast from the side, parting
the grass with his arms, striding from paver to paver: Taras Woropay on skates.
Arkady jumped on the bike and started it. He told himself that if he reached
the highway, he would be safe. Dymtrus threw something shiny. A shopping cart.
Arkady outraced it and was back on the plaza, headed for the road, when his
rear tire popped and took Arkady to the ground. He rolled free and looked back
at Taras on one knee with a gun. A good shot. Arkady
was on foot. When he was a boy and his father took him hunting, the general
would shout, "Run, rabbit!," because shooting a standing rabbit was
so little fun. "Wave," he'd tell Arkady. "Damn it, wave."
Arkady would wave, the rabbit would bolt and the old man would drill it. Dymtrus
followed Arkady into the school, by the hanging chalkboard. Arkady tripped in
the dark over gas masks on the lobby floor. They flopped out of the crate like
rubber fish. He moved by memory as much as sight, heading for the kitchen in
the back of the building. White tiles lined the kitchen walls. A dough bowl the
size of a wheelbarrow stood on its legs. All the oven doors were open or broken
off. The back door, however, had been boarded up in the last week. We should have
rehearsed, the comic in him said. He looked out a window at chairs set on the
ground for staff to use while smoking. He considered breaking the window with a
loose oven door, until he saw Dymtrus waiting behind a birch. Arkady returned
to the lobby and looked out the front window. Skates off, Taras was stepping up
to the door. Arkady
went up the stairs two at a time, kicking bottles and debris aside. Taras was
inside, at the bottom of the stairwell. Arkady knocked a loose bookcase down
toward him. Copybooks fluttered down. Taras didn't have to shout to his brother
where Arkady was. Anyone could hear. Second
floor. The music room. A piano leaning like a drunk against a loose keyboard.
The tub-thumping sound of a drum accidentally kicked. All the notes a xylophone
could make when stumbled into. A one-man band. Heavier feet on the stairs.
Dymtrus. The next room was a flood of books, desks, children's benches. The
door frame next to Arkady's head split open before he heard the shot. He
javelined a bench down the hall and knew he had caught someone when he heard a
curse. The last room was a nap center of dolls asleep on white beds. Arkady
gathered a mattress around himself and dove through the glass of the window. He
landed on his back between seesaws, rolled to the trees and crawled under a
thorn bush, feeling a prick or two, also aware of blood running down the back
of his neck and into his camos, but there was no time to take inventory. In the
moonlight he saw the brothers scanning trees from the broken window. He thought
he might get away. He would have at least the time it would take them to go the
length of the hall, down the stairs and out the front while he went the
opposite direction. But they were athletes. Dymtrus stepped up on the sill and
jumped. He hit the mattress and rolled off. Taras followed suit, and they were
close enough for Arkady to hear their breathing. Close enough to smell a
mixture of vodka and cologne. They
signaled to each other and separated. Arkady couldn't see where to, although he
suspected they would go only a short distance and double back right to where he
was. If he did get to the far woods, he could head west to the wild Carpathian
Mountains or east to Moscow. The sky was the limit. The
woods were so loud. The electric shriek of crickets and cicadas. The invisible
luffing of trees in the breeze. A man could just sink into the sound. Dead, he
would. A
rock, a brick, something hit the wall of the school. Immediately, Taras, one
arm hung low, hurt, ran forward and around the side of the school. One on one,
Arkady took his chance. He emerged and moved to the quarter that Taras had
deserted. He
had been suckered. Dymtrus was waiting behind a big enough tree this time, but
Arkady tripped in brambles, and the shot that should have taken off his
shoulder was high. By the time Dymtrus had advanced to see, Arkady was on his
feet again, weaving downhill between trees. Arkady
had no plan. He wasn't headed to any particular road or checkpoint, he was only
running. Since the Zone was uninhabited, apart from the staff in Chernobyl and
the old folks in their black villages, he had a lot of running to do. He heard
Taras's shouts catching up. The brothers were behind him, one on either side.
One problem was that moonlight was not real light. Branches materialized to
slap his face. Roots insidiously spread. Radiation markers seemed to multiply. He
glimpsed a Woropay closer every time he dared look. How could they be so fast?
The ground pitched forward, and they were herding him through deeper and deeper
bracken. His feet grew heavy, clutched by mud, and he saw ahead a trail of
silver water. It
was a small swamp ringed by armless, rotting trees, reeds, the plop of frogs.
In the center, the hump of a beaver dam and, topping that, a diamond-shaped
marker. Arkady
moved back to firmer ground. He found no stones. A branch he picked up turned
to dust. Weaponless, he met the charge of Taras, threw him over his hip, and
stood to face Dymtrus. Dymtrus fought like an ice-hockey player: grab with one
hand and pound with the other. Arkady took the hand, twisted and locked it
behind Dymtrus's back, then ran him into a tree. He kicked Taras in the head
when he returned. He hit Dymtrus below the belt. But Dymtrus clutched Arkady's
knees as he dropped, and Arkady couldn't put enough force behind a punch into
Taras's head. Dymtrus climbed up Arkady. Taras hit back with the gun. Dymtrus
held Arkady's arms so Taras could swing the gun at a steadier target. The next
conscious moment, Arkady was being turned over on the ground. Shooting him was
too easy; they could have done that when they first caught up. Dymtrus
said, "I brought the pillow." He
pulled the pillow out of his tunic and sat on Arkady's chest while Taras knelt
and held on to Arkady's arms. Dymtrus breathed hard through the saliva that
draped from his mouth. The blood on the pillow was still damp. Arkady's
eyes sought the moon, a treetop, anything else. Dymtrus
said, "You'll go like Karel went. Then we'll put you in the water, and no
one will find you for a thousand fucking years." "Fifty
thousand." Alex Gerasimov came out of the trees. "More like fifty
thousand years." In
Alex's hand was a gun. He shot Dymtrus in the back, and the big man collapsed
as dead as a slaughtered steer while his brother sat back on his heels in
surprise. Taras brushed the hair from his eyes and had started to form a
question when Alex shot him. A cigarette burn through the heart. Taras looked
down at it and kept falling until he spread out on the ground. Alex
picked up the pillow. "Je ne regrette rien. Absolutely," he
said and flung the pillow into the water almost to the diamond marker.
• • •
They carried the
bodies back. Alex
said the swamp and hillside were too hot; the militia would either leave the
Woropays or drag them out by the heels. Hadn't Arkady seen the Chernobyl
militia in action? What kind of investigation did he expect? Fortunately, there
were two witnesses. "They
were trying to kill you and I saved your life. Isn't that what happened?" They
carried the Woropays over the shoulder, fireman-style. Alex led the way with
Dymtrus while Arkady, one eye swollen shut and his sense of balance badly out
of kilter for being gunwhipped, staggered under Taras. Going uphill was slow
work, slipping on needles with every step. Alex
said, "You're lucky I heard the shot. I thought it was a poacher in the
middle of the city. You know how I am about poachers." "I
know." "Then
I heard another shot behind the school and followed the shouting. The Woropays
make a lot of noise." "Yes." "You're
not hurt?" "I'm
fine." Alex
paused to look back. "We'll take these two up to the school, and then I'll
get the truck." Arkady
tripped on a root and went to one knee like a waiter with too much on his tray.
He couldn't shift shoulders because he could see out of only one eye. He pushed
himself up and asked, "Did you see Katamay?" "Yes.
You know what makes a full moon extraordinary? You feel like an animal, like an
animal sees." Despite Dymtrus's weight, with guns stuck fore and aft in
his belt, Alex slowed his pace just to accommodate Arkady. "We don't
deserve a full moon. We make everything smaller. Everything big we cut down.
First-growth trees, big cats, adult fish, wild rivers. That's what's wonderful
about the Zone. Keep us out for fifty thousand years, and this place may grow
into something." "You
saw Karel?" Arkady repeated. "He
didn't look good." Arkady
climbed a step at a time, and Alex began talking the way an adult would on a long,
cold walk with a boy who was sniveling and slow, by distracting him with
stories and things the boy would like to hear. "Pasha
Ivanov and Lev Timofeyev were my father's favorites, always in and out of our
apartment. His best researchers, best instructors and, when he was too drunk to
function, his best protection. There's always a good impulse behind the worst
disasters, don't you find? And I swear, when I began working at NoviRus, it was
purely for the extra money. I had no great plan of retribution." Retribution?
Was that what Alex had said? Arkady's head was still ringing, and it took all
his concentration to continue moving as Alex bent a tree limb out of his way. "My
friend Yegor called from Moscow. Yes, I worked part-time for NoviRus Security
as an interpreter in the accident section, which usually meant twenty-four
hours of reading in a small, windowless room. Maybe Colonel Ozhogin's office
was on the fifteenth floor, but we were in the bowels of the building." "The
belly of the beast." "Exactly.
Since you're underground, it always seems like night. Very space-age, with
tinted glass for walls. I began wandering the halls and discovered that the
technicians monitoring all those security screens were even more bored than I
was. They're kids; I was the only one over thirty. Imagine sitting in the dark
and staring at a bank of screens for hours on end. For what? Martians?
Chechens? Bank robbers with stockings pulled over their heads? One day I went
by an empty chair, and on the screen was a palace gate swinging open for a
couple of Mercedeses. The cars moved to another screen, and there was Pasha
Ivanov after so many years, Mr. NoviRus himself, getting out of a car with a
beautiful woman on his arm. It's his palace. I hadn't seen him since
Chernobyl. On the screens I could follow him up the grand staircase and into
the lobby. Here, I told myself, was a man who had everything. "I
wondered, what do you give a man who has everything? We were working with
cesium chloride at the institute. Remember how social Ivanov was? At Christmas
he threw a party for about a thousand people at his palace, collecting gifts
for some charity. Very democratic: staff, friends, millionaires, children,
wandering in every room because Ivanov liked to show off, the way New Russians
do. I brought some grains of cesium chloride and a dosimeter in a lead box
wrapped as a present, and lead-lined gloves and tongs in the back of my belt. I
found his bathroom and left one grain out for him to step on and track around,
and the present on the toilet seat with a card inviting him to Chernobyl to
atone. I waited months, and all Ivanov did was send Hoffman, his fat American
friend, to hide among the Hasidim. Can you believe it? Ivanov delegated a
prayer for the dead, and Hoffman didn't even perform." Arkady
was not performing well, either. Taras was deadweight that took any opportunity
– the brush of a limb, a faltering step – to slide off Arkady's shoulder.
Arkady stumbled, but he followed Alex's voice. Alex stopped every few steps to
make sure of it. He laid out the story like a trail of tasty crumbs along a
forest path. "Ivanov moved to a mansion in the city with a guardhouse. But
all the bodyguards in the world won't help if your dog comes back from his run
in the park with a grain or two in his hair, which he distributes around the
house. I started a campaign against Timofeyev, too, but he was a secondary
character. He was no Pasha Ivanov. Of course, after Ivanov was dead, Timofeyev
was willing to come here, but before, the two of them had to behave as if
nothing was happening, nothing to report to the militia or even NoviRus
Security, where, incidentally, I flourished. I was every technician's big
brother. I helped them study their correspondence courses for business degrees
so they could become New Russians themselves. I found the code clerk a doctor
he could take his sexual dysfunction to while I covered for him. Really, the
plan took shape by itself. See, there's the school already, at the top of the
hill." To
Arkady, the school was as distant as a cloud in the sky. He was impressed that
he had come so far. Taras, dead or not, kept trying different ways to slither
out of Arkady's arm. Alex steadied Arkady over a log, and Arkady wondered
whether he could get close enough to grab one of the guns tucked in Alex's
waistband, but Alex was on the march with Dymtrus again, setting an example,
jollying Arkady along, keeping him entertained. "Want
to hear about the fumigator van? That was fun. Saturday mornings the tech for
Ivanov's building was always hungover. I covered and saw the same images the
receptionist saw in the lobby, and as soon as the van rolled into the service
alley, I called on the security line and told him to read a list of the
previous month's guests to me. This is not computerized. The receptionist has
to physically turn away from the street, get the binder from a bottom drawer,
find the day and decipher his own handwriting, with no view of the screens. I
know all this because I have been watching him on the lobby monitor for weeks. The
fumigator has codes for touchpads at the back door, the service elevator and
Ivanov's floor, and I've promised him twelve minutes of distraction. In the
middle of this, the tech comes back to replace me. I shake my head. He waits
while I go on talking to the receptionist, because I'm waiting for the
fumigator to get out. I can see why people turn to a life of crime; the
adrenaline is incredible. I give the tech two aspirin, and he leaves for water.
At the same moment the fumigator comes into the alley, faster now because he's
no longer pulling a suitcase full of salt, loads the van and drives off. I
thank the receptionist, hang up and then watch. He puts down the binder, looks
up at the camera, checks his screens, rewinds the street and alley tapes. He sees
the van and he calls in the doorman, who disappears toward the back. I feel
like I'm in the lobby. We wait, the receptionist and I. The doorman returns,
shaking his head, and hops in the elevator. On the monitors I can see him going
from floor to floor knocking on doors, while the receptionist acts super calm,
with half an eye on the camera, until the doorman returns. No problem, nothing
to worry about, everything's under control. Almost there, Renko." Arkady
grunted to hold up his side of the conversation. Carrying a body through a
dense wood was like passing a jack through the tines of a comb.
"Karel," he said. "Karel
was the fumigator, and he did a good job. Unfortunately, he got sloppy and must
have picked up a grain or two of cesium. I tried a million times to explain
radioactivity to Karel, and I don't think I ever got through." "Why
would he do it?" "I
was his friend. The Woropays', too. I listened to them, to their crazy
ambitions. They were just boys from the Zone, they were never going to be New
Russians. We were each in our different ways getting even." "For
what?" "Everything." Arkady
was too exhausted to plumb that. "Not everything. Tell me one thing." "Eva." "What
about her?" "You
know." With his finger Alex drew a scar across his neck. The
thorn bush behind the school reached for Taras, and Alex held back branches so
Arkady could climb the last steps to the seesaw and chairs. When Arkady caught
a ghostly reflection of himself in a window, he looked away before he turned
completely into Yakov. "Don't
drop him," Alex said. "Why
not? You were going to get your truck." "No.
We'll carry them back to Karel." "Back
to Karel?" To the other end of the plaza? Arkady thought. "We're
practically there," Alex said. "The climb is over. Easy from here
on." That
was it, then, Arkady thought. That's why he was alive instead of dead by the
swamp, so Alex could make one trip instead of three. Ever the earnest
assistant, Arkady had helped by bringing two of the bodies, Taras and himself.
This way there were no tire treads on the ground or blood in the truck. A gun
appeared in Alex's hand. Usually the distance from the school to the fun fair
was a few minutes' walk. Even at his pace, Arkady wondered, how long could he
draw it out? "You
first." Alex prodded Arkady to get him moving again, this time in front. As
Arkady stumbled forward he remembered a quote by someone about a walk to the
gallows focusing the mind. That wasn't true. He thought of favorite music,
Irina's laugh, his mother staying in bed to read Anna Karenina one
more time, pansies on a grave. He thought of how Eva had called and called
again, when all he'd had to do was answer. "Why?"
Arkady asked. "What did Pasha Ivanov and Timofeyev do to justify the
deaths of five people, so far? What could Pasha and Timofeyev have done that
made you so insane?" "Finally,
an interesting question. The night of the accident at Chernobyl, what did Pasha
and Timofeyev do? Well, you wouldn't think they could do anything; they were
just two junior professors at an institute in Moscow. But they would sit up all
night and drink with the old man. That's what they were doing when the call
came from the Party Central Committee. The Party wanted him to go to Chernobyl
to assess the situation, because he was the famous Academician Felix Gerasimov,
who had more experience in nuclear disasters than anyone else, the world's
number one expert. Since he was too drunk to talk, he gave the phone to
Pasha." "Where
were you?" "I
was at Moscow University, sleeping soundly in my room." Recollection did
slow Alex down. "How
do you know all this?" "My
father didn't write a suicide note when he died, but he sent me a letter. He
said the Central Committee had wanted his advice on whether to evacuate people.
Pasha acted as if he was just relaying answers from my father." Ahead,
Arkady saw Karel on the couch in front of the crazy chairs ride. His sister,
Oksana, bent over him; she wore the same jogging suit. Arkady recognized her by
the blue shine of her shaved head. Walking one step behind, Alex had yet to
notice her. "Pasha
asked if the reactor core had been exposed. The Committee said no, because
that's what the control room told them. Pasha asked if the reactor was shut
down. Yes, according to Chernobyl. Well, he said, it sounded like more smoke
than fire. Don't sound any alarms, just distribute iodine tablets to children
and advise the locals that they might want to stay inside for a day while the
fire is extinguished and investigated. What about Kiev, the Committee asked?
Even more important to keep the lid on, Pasha said. Confiscate dosimeters. 'Be
merciless for the common good.' Pasha and Lev were ambitious guys. They just
told the Committee and my father what they wanted to believe. That was how
Soviet science worked, remember? So the evacuation of Pripyat was delayed a day
and the warning to Kiev delayed six days so that a million children, including
our Eva, could march on an undisturbed, radioactive May Day. Pasha and my
father can't take all the credit – there were plenty of other weasels and liars
– but they should take some." "Your
father was operating with faulty information. Was there an investigation?" "A
whitewash. After all, he was Felix Gerasimov. I woke up in the morning to go to
class and there he was in my room, sober, as drawn as a ghost, with an iodine
pill for me. He knew. Every May Day from then on was a drinking bout. Sixteen
anniversaries. Finally he wrote the letter, sealed it, took it to the post
office himself, returned home to his pistol and BANG!" Oksana's
head whipped around. Arkady wondered what he and Alex looked like as they
approached in the moonlight – perhaps a single extraordinarily ugly creature
with two heads, a trunk and a tail. Arkady motioned for her to get away. "Surprised?"
Alex asked. "Not
really. As a motive for murder, money is overrated. Shame is stronger." "That's
the best part. Pasha and Timofeyev couldn't go anywhere for protection, because
then they would have had to reveal the whole story. They were too ashamed to
save their own lives, can you imagine that?" "It
happens all the time." Oksana
slipped around the couch, and only because Arkady had seen her he heard her
lightly running off. Maybe fifty more paces to Karel, who waited on the couch,
the crazy chairs tilted behind him. Arkady resisted the temptation to run
because he doubted he could escape an inchworm in his condition. Alex
said, "I wrote them. All I ever asked of Ivanov and Timofeyev was for them
to come to the Zone and declare their share of responsibility personally,
face-to-face." "Timofeyev
came. Look what happened to him." "I
didn't say there wouldn't be consequences. Fair's fair." "As
you often told Karel." "As
I often did." At
a shuffling gait, they arrived at the fun fair. Karel stretched languidly from
one end of the sofa to the other. His eyes were closed, and the blood had been
wiped from his chin and cheek; his beaded hair was arrayed more neatly, and
each foot now bore a Chinese slipper. An older sister would do that sort of
thing. Arkady thought Alex might notice, but he was too pleased with himself. A
gondola creaked on the Ferris wheel overhead. Misery to be a Ferris wheel that
never moved. Arkady had never seen a moon so large. A shadow of the wheel fell
over the plaza. Arkady
laid Taras on the ground. Alex
simply let Dymtrus roll off his shoulder. The big militiaman hit the ground,
his head striking like a coconut cracked open. Arkady
asked, "Who shot Hulak?" "Who
knows. He had an arrangement with the Woropays on where and what to steal. I
assume they killed him." Alex rolled Dymtrus, who had a back wound, onto
his face; he placed Taras, with an entry wound through the chest, on his back;
waved the pistol to show Arkady where to stand until he achieved the geometry
he wanted: a triangle of dead men – Karel, Dymtrus and Taras – with Arkady in
the middle. "I think this will be a pretty convincing picture of the
dangers of drinking samogon while bearing arms. Don't worry; I'll supply the
guns and the samogon." "So
you didn't save me from the Woropays." "No,
I'm afraid not. You never got past here, but you put up a terrific struggle, if
that makes you feel any better." "All
that's lacking is the pillow you smothered Karel with." "Je
ne regrette rien? You know, I'd barely covered his face. He gave a few
kicks and was gone. I'd say, considering the shape he was in, what I did was a
mercy." Alex
took two steps back from Arkady, into the shadow of the wheel, and raised the
gun. Not too far, not too close. Arkady's
mobile phone rang. "Let
it ring," Alex said. "One thing at a time." The
phone rang and rang. When the message came on the caller hung up and
immediately hit Redial. It could only be Zhenya, Arkady thought. No normal
person would have such maddening persistence. The phone rang until Alex removed
it from Arkady's pocket and crushed it underfoot. That
settled, the entire city silent, every window an anxious eye, Alex stepped back
and raised the gun again. Oksana crept into Arkady's view at the end of the
crazy chairs. Arkady
said, "Would you mind stepping out of the shadow?" "You
want to see me when I kill you?" Alex asked. "If
you don't mind." Alex
moved forward into the silvery light. Arkady
waited and gave Alex no reason to turn. There was a moment's perplexity on
Alex's face as he seemed to wonder why Arkady was such an easy victim. Then
Alex twitched. He was dead standing, he was dead dropping, he was dead sprawled
on the ground, and Oksana's shot had not been much louder than the snap of a
twig. As she stepped out from the crazy chairs, she freed her arm from a sling
she'd used to steady her rifle, similar to the single-shot bolt-action rifles
that Arkady had seen at the Katamay apartment in Slavutych. "I'm
so sorry. I left my rifle with my bike. I barely got back in time," she
said. "But
you did." "This
beast killed my little brother." She kicked Alex. "He's
dead." Arkady tried to steer her away. "He
was the devil. I heard every word." She got one good spit in before Arkady
calmed her down and mopped up Alex's face. There wasn't a visible mark on him.
His eyes were clear, his mouth set in a knowing smirk, his irises and muscle
tone just starting to go slack. Arkady had to press his finger into Alex's ear
to find the bullet's borehole and a dot of blood. "Will
they arrest me?" Oksana asked. "Does
anyone else know that you supply skins for your grandfather to mount?" "No,
he'd be embarrassed. You knew?" "I
assumed the skins were from Karel until I saw his condition. Then I knew they
were from you." "Can
they trace the bullet?" "A
sophisticated lab could, but there are a lot of swamps around here. Tell me
about Hulak." Arkady could barely stand, but he had a feeling that Oksana
was a rarely seen moth, that he could talk to her now or never. "He
told my grandfather he was going to get your money and give you a taste of the
cooling pond." "You
waited in a boat?" "I
fish there sometimes." "And
shot Hulak." "He
had a gun." "You
shot Hulak." "He
was dragging my grandfather into things." "And
you protect your family?" Oksana
frowned; her baldness exaggerated every expression. No, she didn't like that
question. She made room for herself on the couch and rested Karel's head in her
lap. Arkady
asked, "Do you know how your brother got so sick?" "A
saltshaker. He told me he was adding cesium to a saltshaker when he dropped a
grain. Maybe two. He wore gloves, and nothing should have happened, but later,
he ate a sandwich and..." Her face twisted. "Do you mind if I sit
here for a while?" "Please." "Karel
and I used to sit like this a lot." She
reached over her brother's shoulder to smooth the folds of his hockey shirt,
place his hands together, primp his braids. Oksana became more and more
absorbed, and gradually Arkady understood there were not going to be any more
answers. "I
have to go," Arkady said. "Can
I stay?" "The
city is yours."
Arkady drove
Alex's truck down the river road, down to the docks and the scuttled fleet,
over the bridge and the hiss of the weir. His motorcycle was in the back of the
truck. There was no other way to get there in time. For what, he didn't know,
but he felt enormous urgency. Along the housing blocks, virtually empty, always
virtually empty, and the twin track of a car path through a field of swaying
ferns, to a garage half hidden by trees and a bank of lilacs. He
turned off the engine. The white truck seemed to fill the yard. The cabin was
silent and had about it an air of darkness and grief. Wind softly heaved the
trees, and the screen door slammed. Eva
was in her bathrobe, her eyes blurred, but she held her gun steadily with both
hands. She stumbled across the ground in bare feet, but the sights stayed fixed
on him. She said, "I told you if you came back, I'd shoot you." "It's
me." He started to open the door and get out of the truck. "Don't
get out, Alex." She kept moving forward. "It's
all right." Arkady swung the door open and stepped down so she could see
him more clearly. He was ashamed, but he wasn't going away. Besides, he was
exhausted. This was as far as he could go. She stepped closer until she could not
miss before she distinguished him apart from the truck. He knew he didn't look
good. In fact, the way he looked would have scared most people off. She began
to shake. She shook like a woman in icy water until he carried her inside. Chapter EighteenZurin
was put out because Arkady wouldn't sit in the VIP lounge. The prosecutor had
arranged admission, but Arkady refused to spend hours waiting for the plane to
Moscow with nothing to entertain him but the sight of Zurin consuming
single-malt whiskey. Zurin considered a little comfort in a plush setting his
due, after coming all the way to Kiev to fetch his wayward investigator.
However, Arkady had walked out and settled in an Irish pub exactly where the
traffic flowed into the main hall. He
hadn't seen a child in over a month. Had seen hardly any clothes but camos. Had
gone nowhere without being aware of the diamond-shaped scarecrows of Chernobyl.
Here people bulled ahead, eyes on the linoleum as they dragged suitcases of
monstrous proportions. Businessmen as weary and creased as their suits tapped
on laptops. Couples heading south to Cyprus or Morocco wore extraordinary
colors to signal a holiday frame of mind. Men stood transfixed before the
flight board, and though morning sun poured through the glass front of the
hall, Arkady could see from the way the men stared that for them the hour was
the middle of the night. It was wonderful. After
the empty apartments of Pripyat, families seemed miraculous. A baby wailed and
beat on the bar of its stroller. Another in diapers decided, for the first
time, to walk. Twins with round heads and blank blue eyes strolled hand in
hand. An Indian or Pakistani boy was carried in a quilt like a prince by his
tiny mother. A veritable circus. "Enjoying
yourself?" Zurin inquired. "You stall until I have to come get you
myself, then you act as if you're still on vacation." "Was
that a vacation?" "It
wasn't work. I ordered you back seven days ago." "I
was under medical care." Arkady had the bruise to prove it. However,
Zurin had ostensible grounds for complaint. True, the prosecutor had set up
every obstacle to a successful investigation of Lev Timofeyev's murder, but the
fact remained that Arkady had failed to find out who had cut Timofeyev's
throat. "You
could have come back with Colonel Ozhogin." "We
talked briefly. I had more questions about security at NoviRus, but he had to
run." "Ozhogin
proved a disappointment. Although no worse than you. Here, this came to the
office yesterday." Zurin flipped something at Arkady that hit him in the
chest and dropped into his lap. "What is that?" "It's
a postcard." On the glossy side was a picture of nomads in blue robes
riding camels across desert sands. On the reverse was Arkady's name, office
address and the message "Two is cheaper than one." "A postcard
from Morocco," Arkady added. "I
can see that. What's it about? Who is it from?" "I
have no idea. It's not signed." "You
have no idea. A coded message from Hoffman?" Arkady
studied the postcard. "It's in Russian and in a Russian hand." "Never
mind." Zurin leaned forward. "Doesn't it stick in your craw that you
got absolutely nowhere in the investigation? What does that say about you as an
investigator?" "Volumes." "I
agree. Why don't you enjoy another bottle of Irish beer while I visit the duty-free
shop and see if I can dig up some decent cigars? But stay here." Arkady
nodded. He was diverted enough by watching the parade. A boy walked in slow
motion behind his GameBoy. A beautiful woman rolled by in a wheelchair, her lap
covered with roses. A group of Japanese schoolgirls gathered for a photograph
around two militia officers with a dog. The girls giggled behind their hands. The
same night Arkady had driven Alex's truck to Eva's cabin, they returned to
Pripyat with her car to leave the truck behind. The following day the four
bodies were discovered, and Captain Marchenko's small militia force was
overwhelmed. Also compromised, since three of the dead were the captain's own
men. Detectives and forensic teams were dispatched from Kiev, but their examination
of the crime scene was rushed due to the background radioactivity of the site.
One of the bodies was radioactive, and another was a Russian executed by a shot
in the head in a totally professional style. How coincidental was it, Kiev
asked, that on the night of the attack, a Russian security team under the
command of Colonel Ozhogin happened to be in the Zone? It was the sort of
question that demanded a frank dialogue country to country, and a
thorough-going, no- holds- barred investigation of not only the crimes but the
militia and the administration of the Zone; in short, an honest look at the
entire squalid situation. Or a quick flush of the problem down the drain. Arkady
had that second beer and bought a newspaper to peruse. He thought it might be
wise to catch up. Zurin seemed content in the duty-free shop, choosing among
French cognacs, silk neckties and paisley scarves. The Japanese schoolgirls
trooped by again. Coming the other direction was a girl of about eight years
old, with big eyes and straight dark hair cut shoulder-length. She had a wand
and streamer that she twirled as she skipped. He had seen her dance much the
same way in Kiev's Independence Square. It was the dentist's daughter. Arkady
picked up his newspaper and followed. The waiting hall was a scene of family
encampments, of slumber, of unshaved anxiety and a slow but constant milling
around souvenir shops, ATMs and newsstands. The girl darted into a crowded
music store, and he kept track of her by her upraised wand until she appeared
in a back corner with a woman in a stylish Italian-looking traveling suit. Dr.
Levinson. Victor had been concerned about the dentist's physical safety, but
she could not have seemed happier, an attractive woman who could not completely
contain her travel excitement. The girl collected a kiss and ducked out of
sight. The
wand and streamer reappeared at a newsstand, a catchall of paperbacks and
magazines, perfumes and nail polish, condoms and aspirin. A display of
lipsticks was stacked three levels high. The girl squeezed through the crush
and took the hand of a man choosing among brands of toothpaste. He was dressed
like an American golfer in a windbreaker and cap. His hair was brown instead of
bleached, and a wedding band had replaced his diamond horseshoe ring, but
Arkady recognized the sloped shoulders and heavy jaw of Anton Obodovsky. This
toothpaste promised whitening power and the other a brighter smile. How to
decide? Anton joked with the girl, who demonstrated a radiant grin. His laugh
faded when he saw Arkady coming down the aisle. Anton's eyes screwed down. He
sent the girl off with a kiss and replaced the toothpaste on the shelf. Arkady
moved down the aisle as if considering the toiletries. "Going somewhere?" "Away."
Anton kept his voice down. Arkady
spoke softly, too. He played the game. "Let me see your passport and
ticket." "You
don't have any authority here." "Let
me see them." Anton
pulled them from the windbreaker. He swallowed hard and tried to keep a smile
pasted on while Arkady read, "Final destination, Vancouver, Canada, for
Mr. and Dr. Levinson and their daughter. A Ukrainian passport and a Canadian
immigration visa. How did you manage that?" "As
an investor immigrant. You put money in their bank." "You
bought your way in." "It's
legal." "If
your past is clean. You changed your name, you changed your hair, and I'm sure
you changed your record. Anything else?" "There
was a Levinson. He ran out on them." "And
you came to the rescue?" "Yes.
Two years ago. I was already her patient. But Rebecca wants nothing to do with
the Mafia. We're married, and I only get to see her and the girl maybe once a
month because I couldn't let anyone find out, most of all, my former
colleagues." "And
the hygienist?" "Her?
I had to have a cover to be around the office. Anyway, I'm sure she's having a
good time in Morocco. A nice kid." "That's
what Victor said." "I
saw Victor. I dragged him around Kiev. He's looking better." "The
call you made from Butyrka Prison to Pasha Ivanov, what was that about?" "It
was a warning, or it would have been a warning if he'd ever returned the
call." "Warning
Pasha about what?" "Things." "You'll
have to do better than that." "Come
on." "Let
me help you. Karel Katamay. He's dead, by the way." "I
saw on the news." Anton backed into a lipstick display like a fighter
who'd decided to absorb punishment. "Okay, I knew Karel from Pripyat, from
when he was a kid. I knew what he went through. I remember the evacuation and
how people treated everyone from Pripyat as if we had the plague. I was lucky I
was a boxer; no one made much fun of me. It was tough for Karel. I'd hear from
him a lot when he was little, then nothing for the last few years until
suddenly he calls up, says he's in Moscow and needs to borrow a van. A
fumigator van. He never asked a favor before." "Did
he say why?" "He
said, a stunt. A joke on a friend." "And
you got him the van?" "What,
do you think I'm crazy? I'm going to put the future of my family in jeopardy to
steal a van for a kid I haven't seen for years? When I said no, that's when he
told me he came to Moscow to take care of Pasha Ivanov. Trying to impress me,
saying we'd get even. I told him there was no way of getting even with Ivanov,
ever. What's done is done. Then I put myself away into Butyrka until the thing
blew over. I called Ivanov but he never called back. I tried." "And
now you're going to run?" "I'm
not running. There comes a point when you've had enough. You just want to live
somewhere normal, with laws." "With
your criminal background, how do you think you can get out?" "Like
this. Walk out the door. Get on a plane. Start over." "What
about the heads you broke and the people you ruined? Do you think you can leave
them behind?" Anton
gathered his hands into fists. The lipstick display began to tremble. Arkady
glanced at the waiting hall and saw Dr. Levinson and the girl standing with
their assembled bags, their eyes on the tickets in his hand. He could almost
see the floor open up beneath them. "No,"
Anton said. "Rebecca says I take them all with me. The ones I hurt, they
all go with me. I never forget." "She's
going to redeem you?" "Maybe." "Renko!"
Zurin waved with great agitation from across the hall. "Damn it,
Renko!" For
the first time Arkady saw Anton's eyes truly open, as if there were an interior
never seen before. Anton opened his hands and let them hang. Arkady felt the
entire hall go still. "Renko,
stay there!" Zurin ordered. "Gate
B10," Arkady read from Anton's boarding pass. He handed back the tickets
and papers. "I'd go to the gate now if I were you." When Anton
started to say something, Arkady gave him a push. "Don't look back." Anton
joined the mother and daughter; framed by them, he did look more human. Arkady
watched them gather their carry-ons and join a general migration toward the
gates. Anton put on sunglasses in spite of the gloomy lighting. The girl waved. "Renko,
will you stay in one place?" Zurin arrived with a stamp of his foot.
"Who was that man?" "Someone
I thought I knew." "Did
you?" "As
it turned out, not a bit." They
returned to the pub. Zurin lit a cigar and read the newspaper. Arkady tried but
couldn't sit still enough, not when there were so many people, so many
possibilities, so much life rushing by. Chapter NineteenThey
paid a visit in December. Eva decided that one day's exposure was permissible,
although Zhenya went with all the enthusiasm of a hostage. At least Arkady had
the boy wear a new jacket, which was victory enough. A
light snow had fallen, giving the village a crisp jacket of white. Brambles
were transformed into snowy flowers. Every tumbledown cabin was traced in
white, and every abandoned chair held a cushion of snow. The entire population
had turned out: Klara the Viking, Olga with her foggy spectacles, Nina on her
crutch and, of course, Roman and Maria, to distribute a welcome of bread and
salt and samogon. Vanko had come from Chernobyl. Even the cow lifted her head
from her stall to see what the noise was about. Maria
stuffed everyone into the cabin for warm borsch and more samogon. The men ate
standing up. Windows steamed and cheeks got red. Zhenya studied the oven, with
its shelf for sleeping, and it occurred to Arkady that the boy had never seen a
peasant cabin except in fairy tales. He turned to Arkady and mouthed,
"Baba Yaga." The room was exactly as Arkady remembered: the same
woodland tapestries and red-and-white embroidered cloths, the family icon high
in its corner and, on the wall, photographs, the coexisting moments of a young
Roman and Maria, of their daughter with her husband and little girl, of the
same granddaughter on a Cuban beach. Eva
was the center of attention because Maria and her friends wanted to know what
Moscow was like. Although she made light of it, Arkady knew that for Eva the
move to Moscow was not always a happy situation. She'd gotten away from the
Zone and found work at a clinic, but many days she felt she was occupying
Irina's place or was a shell of a woman pretending to be whole. But other days
were good, and some were very good. Under
the influence of the samogon, Vanko confided that since Alex Gerasimov's death,
funding from Russia for ecological research had slowed to a trickle. A research
team from Texas was moving in, however, and they would probably need someone
local. Perhaps the British Friends of the Ecology would like to contribute. He
hoped so. Maria
laughed at everything Eva said. In her bright scarves, Maria looked like a
twice-wrapped present, and her steel teeth gleamed. An almost childish glee
seemed to have infected all the old villagers, an excitement that bubbled over
in spite of their politeness. Roman
shyly pulled Arkady aside to say, "None of our families have visited for
almost a year. Not even to the cemetery, if you can imagine." "I'm
sorry to hear that." "I
understand. They're busy people, and they're far away. I hope you don't mind if
I take advantage of your visit, but I don't know when I will have three men
here again. It takes at least three men. That's why I invited Vanko. Don't
worry, I have old clothes for you to wear." "That's
fine with me." "Good!"
Roman refilled their glasses. Arkady
backtracked. "Three men to what?" Maria
couldn't hold it in any longer. "Kill the pig!"
Snow was falling
again in soft handfuls. Roman
came out of the barn in boots and a rubber apron. Vanko had tied one of the
pig's legs across its chest to keep it off balance, but Sumo was strong and
agile, and it understood in a moment that the same people who had been its
benefactors for a year were going to slaughter it. Dragging Vanko in its wake,
the pig squealed its outrage and terror, plunging one direction and then
another while Roman hung a double pulley and rope over the barn door. "Roman
used to butcher pigs for the whole village," Maria said. "Now it's
just our pig, but we share with our friends." It
was a simple proposition: Sumo would die so they would live. Yet the scene also
had the feel of a country fair. Vanko was dragged across the white yard, and
the old women cheered him on as if they expected nothing less than bedlam. When
the pig broke for the gate, Nina, her eyes lit, steered the beast back with her
crutch. "I'm
sorry," Eva whispered. "I didn't know this was going to happen." "It's
December, it's time to fill the larder. I understand Roman's situation." "Will
you help with the pig?" Arkady
made a noose from a cord. "I'll let Vanko wear him down a little
more." From
nowhere, Zhenya stripped off his jacket and tackled the pig. They rolled over
the ground. The pig was fast, heavy and fighting for its life, pale eyelashes
fluttering, squealing for help. Even when Sumo shook Zhenya off, he held onto
the cord. A boy whom Arkady had never seen lift more than a chess piece hung on
with one hand and waved with the other. "Arkady! Arkady!" Arkady
dove for the pig. He and Vanko and Zhenya were dragged over the snow until
Arkady got the noose around the pig's other front leg. The pig plowed forward
on its jaw, still charging with its rear legs. "On
three," Arkady said. "One... two..." He
and Zhenya used the animal's momentum to turn it on its back and slide it to
Roman, who pressed down on the pig's front legs and slit its throat in one
crescent-moon stroke. The
rubber apron made Roman a different, more impressive figure. He tied together the
kicking rear legs, hooked them to the pulley, pulled the pig into the air
upside down and kicked a zinc tub into place underneath to catch the spurting
blood. Smeared
bright red, Zhenya staggered in the snow, his thin arms out, laughing. Vanko
rose from his knees and lurched toward the samogon, while the pig hung kicking
and squealing. Roman looked on with magisterial calm. He dug a finger into the
pig's eye and plucked it out. Arkady looked at Eva as she looked at him. "To
drain faster," Roman explained to Zhenya. As
soon as the pig was still, Roman moved it into a wheelbarrow to the center of
the yard, where the women came to life, heaping hay on the pig and setting it
on fire. Flames swirled in the snow, orange beating against white. Once the hay
had burned, Roman straddled the pig and scraped off the singed hair. Maria
released the chickens, who raced around the yard pecking at blood and chasing
the eye. When the pig had been burned and scraped several times, Roman washed
off the blood; it was remarkable, Arkady thought, how clean an operation it
was. Roman cut off a crisped ear and offered it as a treat to Arkady. When he
declined, Zhenya took it. The
rest of the afternoon was spent reducing the pig. First with a hatchet to chop
off the head, because it took longest to boil, then with knives to carve off
the limbs. Roman sliced open the back to reveal a glistening sheet of fatback,
and Maria and her friends scurried with plastic pails in anticipation of a
year's hams, sausages, smoked fat. Blue
shadows had covered the village by the time the work was done, and Arkady and
Zhenya had changed clothes and washed for the ride back to the airport. By the
time everyone had kissed and had their farewell sit, a winter evening had
settled in. So, into the car, Arkady and Eva in front, Zhenya in back, all
waving to faces in the headlights. A bounce in reverse before finding the ruts
that led like rails to the main road. A final burst of leave-taking and then
they were free. They
could have been floating. On an overcast night in the Zone, there was no star,
no lamp, no other traffic, only their headlights groping in a void. He looked
at Eva. She reached to hold his hand and say, "Thank you." For what,
he hardly dared say. He stole a glance in the rearview mirror. Zhenya sat
straighter, as if he had shoulders. Finding
and following the road took all their concentration. Dazzling
crystals rushed to the windshield. Beads of light swirled around the car,
tugged on the doors and beat against the windows. No
one slept, and no one said a word.
END OF WOLVES EAT DOGS |
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