Authors: Tom Grace
Quantum (9 page)
Chicago, Illinois
Walter Guk walked into Rollie’s Bar just after midnight followed by three of his coworkers from the second shift at O’Hare International Airport. The banter of the broadcasters announcing the Cubs game blared from a television hanging over the far end of the bar. Three older men nursed a couple of drinks as they watched.
‘A round of beers?’ the bartender guessed.
‘You read our minds,’ Guk replied. ‘And by the way, is the pool table in back open?’
‘Yeah.’
The bartender placed four icy Miller longnecks on the bar. The cargo handlers paid for the round and disappeared into the back. Immediately the bartender pulled a business card from his pocket and dialed the number scrawled on it.
‘Yes,’ Voronin answered.
‘It’s Nicolai at Rollie’s Bar. Guk just came in.’
‘
Spasíba
, Nicolai. A couple of my associates will be there shortly to collect him.’
Leskov entered the bar accompanied by Josef. Both quickly surveyed the room, then moved straight to the bar.
‘You Nick?’ Leskov asked.
‘Yeah,’ the bartender replied.
‘Where is Guk?’
‘In the back, playing pool.’
‘How many others?’
‘Three men.’
‘Give me four beers.’
The bartender eyed Leskov for a second, then thought better of it and pulled four Millers from the cooler.
Leskov nodded, handed two of the bottles to Josef, and then moved toward the short hallway that led past the restrooms into the back of the bar. A burst of shouting erupted from the room, briefly overwhelming the excited voices of the baseball announcers.
‘What happened?’ Leskov asked.
‘The Cubs’ first baseman just hit a two-run homer,’ one of the men answered without taking his eyes off the replay. ‘Game’s tied at five.’
As the replay ended, Guk and his coworkers turned to see who had joined them. Leskov smiled warmly as he moved around the table, studying the four uniformed men carefully. A clip-on photo ID badge hung from the left shirt pocket of each man. Josef took up position between the pool table and the hallway.
Leskov took a small sip of beer, then flipped the bottle in his hand and threw it at Guk’s forehead. The bottle struck him on the hairline and exploded in a spray of foamy beer and broken glass. Guk’s hands covered his face, and he howled in pain.
‘What the fuck you doin’, man?’ one of Guk’s coworkers shouted.
‘Oh, shit!’ another added when Leskov drew a pistol from the small of his back and aimed it in their direction.
‘I’m bleeding,’ Guk wailed, staring at the reddish smears on his hands.
Josef stood near the hallway aiming a second pistol at the group. Leskov set his remaining beer on the pool table.
‘Gentlemen,’ Leskov announced calmly, ‘this matter concerns only Guk. I suggest you remain where you are and enjoy the rest of the game.’
Guk’s coworkers hesitated for a second, then slowly backed away. Leskov stepped over to Guk and struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol. Guk fell facedown on the pool table. Leskov grabbed Guk around the chest and dragged him toward the hallway. Guk hung limply in his arms, unconscious.
Once Leskov and Guk had exited the back room, Josef put his two untouched bottles of beer on the pool table.
‘This round is on us,’ he said with a laugh.
Guk regained consciousness as the sharp scent of ammonia burned in his nostrils. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, but something was holding them closed. He lay flat on his back, wedged between a pair of hard vertical walls.
I’m in a box
, he thought, panicking.
Guk tried to sit up, but his arms and legs were bound. A fist struck his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him as he fell back.
‘He’s awake,’ a voice announced.
‘Good. Take that thing off his eyes.’
Guk felt fingers probing the material adhered over his eyes, and then a violent tug jerked his head upward as the tape tore the eyebrows and lashes from his face. He blinked repeatedly as tears filled his eyes, as much from fear as from the irritation of salty blood.
Slowly, his vision cleared and he was looking up at a white tiled ceiling. The room was warm and had a clean antiseptic look, like a hospital. Guk heard footsteps. Then a man with a thick fleshy face and stringy black hair leaned his arm against the rim of the box and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, do you know who I am?’
‘
Da
, Pyotr Voronin.’
Voronin smiled. ‘Very good. Now for a more difficult question. What the fuck happened to the cargo container I sent to Moscow?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t—’
Voronin smashed his fist into Guk’s mouth, splitting the man’s lower lip.
‘Don’t lie to me, Walter. I know how things work at O’Hare – I get a percentage. Yesterday International Airfreight flight number eleven twenty-eight left Chicago for Moscow. I have a receipt confirming that a container of property belonging to an associate of mine was on board that plane. When the plane reached Moscow, the cargo was not on board. How is this possible?’
‘I don’t—’
Another fist slammed into Guk’s face. Blood flowed freely from his lip and nose; one eye was nearly shut from swelling.
‘I apologize,’ Voronin said as he wiped Guk’s blood from his knuckles. ‘I must not be making myself clear. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I am going to kill you. It will be slow and most unpleasant. Do you understand me now? Just nod your head yes or no.’
Guk nodded yes.
‘Wonderful. Where is my cargo?’
‘Moscow,’ Guk replied, slurring his words.
‘Why you little fuck!’ Voronin wound up for another punch.
‘No, no!’ Guk pleaded. ‘It’s in Moscow, I swear. It was on the plane.’
Voronin pulled his punch, his thick knuckles less than an inch from Guk’s damaged face.
‘How?’
‘I changed the flight manifest to make it look like the container wasn’t on board.’
‘But it was loaded on the plane?’
‘
Da
, it went to Moscow,’ Guk replied emphatically.
‘Why did you do this?’
‘I didn’t think anyone would notice. It was just some furniture, a computer, and a stereo. It was insured, so if it got lost, I figured the owner would rather have the money.’
‘If you were going to steal my property, why did you send it to Moscow?’
‘I didn’t know it was yours. God, you must believe me,’ Guk pleaded. ‘It looked like something no one would miss. I have a cousin in Moscow who is getting married soon. I sent it to him as a wedding present. You know, a housewarming gift.’
‘How did your cousin get it if Customs in Moscow says it didn’t arrive?’
‘He works cargo at Sheremetyevo.’
Voronin saw all the pieces fit together. He’d been a little too clever in packaging Orlov’s stolen property, making it so innocuous that this termite Guk stole it without a second thought.
‘What is your cousin’s name?’
‘Konrad. Konrad Guk,’ the man blubbered.
Voronin pulled a phone from his coat pocket and selected a number from its memory.
‘
Dóbraya útra
,’ Voronin said into the phone. ‘I have the information Orlov requested. The package arrived in Moscow but was stolen by a cargo worker named Konrad Guk. I have his cousin here who tells me that he’s the one who altered the plane’s manifest and made Orlov’s property disappear. The furniture was to be a wedding gift.’
Voronin paused for several minutes, listening to the other person on the line.
‘
Da
,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Voronin slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, I’m so glad we had this talk, but I must go now. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very good hands.’
Voronin stepped back. A man appeared on the other side; he smiled and then swung a hinged lid over the top of the box. Guk was again plunged into darkness, and quickly the box reverberated with the sound of a hammer driving a nail.
‘Oleg,’ Voronin said as Artuzov set the last nail, ‘once again, thank you for your assistance.’
‘No bother at all, Pyotr Yefimovich. I’m just happy to be of service.’
With that, Artuzov rolled the trolley bearing the wooden box up to the door of the cremating furnace. The wooden box shuddered as Guk thrashed inside, screaming for his life. When the trolley was properly aligned, Artuzov walked over to the console and started the cremation. Slowly, the wooden box glided down the stainless-steel rollers into the furnace. Already the temperature inside the box was over two hundred degrees. The superheated air seared Guk’s throat and lungs, each frantic, labored breath more difficult than the last. The thrashing inside the box stopped as Guk lost consciousness.
This isn’t the first time Artuzov has incinerated a living person for me
, Pyotr Voronin thought with a smile.
No doubt, it won’t be the last.
As Voronin walked out of Artuzov’s funeral parlor, he thought about Guk’s cousin in Moscow and the visit he would soon receive from Dmitri Leskov.
‘Fool,’ he said incredulously, ‘you stole from the wrong man.’
Sverdlovsk 23, Russia
Lara Avvakum sat back in her chair, her legs propped up on a cushion that lay across the top of an open desk drawer. With a pad of paper on her lap, she stared out her window at the Siberian forest in the distance and the rhythmic swaying of the branches in the wind. The movement was both orderly and complex. In her mind’s eye, she could see the ebb and flow of energy within the organic system outside her window, the fluid beauty of nature framed before her like a painting by van Gogh.
Sverdlovsk 23 was the name government planners had given this secret research facility, and Avvakum had spent the past decade of her life here. It was a remote collection of buildings nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, and its existence was still considered a state secret.
A sharp knock at the door brought her reverie to an abrupt end.
‘
Da
,’ she said, recovering from her meditation.
The door opened slightly, and the graying head of Boris Zhirov emerged through the crack.
‘Lara, you have a visitor,’ Zhirov said, his voice carrying equal measures of concern and excitement. ‘Georgi just called from the main gate. She’ll be here in a minute.’
Visitors were uncommon events at Sverdlovsk 23. One never knew how to take the unexpected arrival of a government official – the only kind of visitor permitted there.
Avvakum stood and adjusted her pale yellow dress. ‘What do you think, Boris?’ she asked, hoping she was presentable.
‘Beautiful, as always,’ Zhirov replied. ‘Here she comes.’
Zhirov opened the door and stood aside, allowing a tall, well-dressed brunette to enter Avvakum’s office.
‘Dr Avvakum, I am Oksanna Zoshchenko, deputy director of the Russian Academy of Sciences.’
‘I am honored. Please have a seat.’
Zoshchenko nodded, accepting Avvakum’s hospitality despite the fact that the long, jarring drive from Yekaterinburg had left her back and buttocks aching.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Perhaps later. Right now, I would like to get to the purpose of my visit.’
Zoshchenko zipped open her thin leather briefcase and extracted a white file folder embossed with the academy’s insignia. The file tab bore Avvakum’s name.
‘You have worked for the academy since you graduated from Moscow State University, a little over ten years ago?’
‘
Da.
’
‘Your doctoral work was quite impressive,’ Zoshchenko continued, skimming over the dossier. ‘You did your thesis on quantum laser optics, which led to your assignment at this research facility.’
‘
Da
,’ Avvakum replied, wishing now that she’d studied something less interesting to the academy’s military-applications apparatchiks.
‘I see that you have requested reassignment on numerous occasions and that each request has been denied.’
Avvakum nodded, her throat constricting. A feeling of dread welled up inside. Her frequent requests had finally been noticed, and this woman had been sent to reprimand her personally.
‘Pity,’ Zoshchenko said as she closed the file, ‘there were a number of more interesting projects that could have used a mind like yours. I offer the academy’s apologies for allowing you to rot in this wilderness.’
Avvakum’s mouth formed a small O, but she didn’t utter a sound. An apology from the academy for wasting so many years of her life was unheard-of. Like the sun rising in the west, this was something that simply did not happen.
‘You may know that the academy is branching out into new ventures, mostly of a commercial nature. Russia needs truly productive industries if it is to survive. This is the reason we are actively seeking commercial research projects – the academy needs to generate its own revenue, or it will starve.’ Zoshchenko stared directly into Avvakum’s blue eyes. ‘When was the last time you were paid?’
‘At the end of last year.’
‘Then you personally understand the situation the academy is in. Things cannot continue this way. There is a company, a Russian firm that has requested scientific assistance from the academy. It was involved in a research project with a group of Americans that has since dissolved. This firm would like to continue the research with the intent of developing a marketable product.’
‘What kind of product?’ she blurted out, curious to know more.
‘It has to do with energy production. I’m sorry, but I can’t be any more specific than that, except to say that both the firm and the academy believe that you are the most qualified candidate for the project. Under such an arrangement, the firm would pay a fee to the academy and pay your salary directly. It is my understanding that this money would be in hard currency.’
Avvakum’s eyes widened at the prospect of not only being paid but being paid in a currency whose value wouldn’t evaporate like the ruble.
‘The firm would also pay to relocate you to Moscow,’ Zoshchenko continued, ‘where a private laboratory would be equipped for your work. You will reside in a nice apartment building off Tverskaya Ulitsa, not far from the Bolshoi Theater.’
‘How do you know this company can do what it says?’ she wondered, afraid it was all too good to be true.
‘I can assure you that this firm is reputable and well financed. It has dealings around the world and its founder is a confidant of the President. It has already established an account containing approximately one million American dollars in funding for this project. As an added incentive to you, should any marketable product result from your work, you will be awarded shares of ownership in the company. This is an opportunity to create something worth-while for yourself and your country. In truth, it is far more important than what you are doing here.’
Avvakum felt dizzy. She’d dreamed of escaping this place, of returning to civilization somewhere, but never did she imagine such an opportunity. The world had changed so much in the past ten years. Economics had replaced ideology, and consumer goods were more important than weapons.
‘I don’t know what to say. Of course I accept.’
Zoshchenko smiled. ‘Wonderful. I think you’ll find your new position very rewarding. I’ll make arrangements for you and your belongings to be transported to Moscow. Make whatever preparations you feel necessary to turn your current work over to your replacement.’
Zoshchenko extended her hand across the desk; Lara Avvakum grasped it heartily.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Avvakum said, on the verge of tears. ‘This is beyond anything I could have dreamed of.’
‘Lara,’ Zoshchenko said, smiling, ‘this is not the same Russia we were born to anymore.’