Traffyck (45 page)

Yuri Smirnov had just used another line to call his wife and tell her he might not be home tonight. He considered contacting the national phone company to have the Pechersk number traced, but assumed there wasn’t time. Perhaps, deep down inside, he planned the delay to give Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth a chance. He considered calling Anatoly Lyashko, but waited.

Smirnov stood at his window, looking down at Khreshchatik Boulevard. The street was calm. By now everyone except Smirnov, his black bear friend, Agent Sergei Izrael, and his men, Janos Nagy, and Mariya Nemeth were having a sip of vodka or watching television.

Smirnov went to his bookcase and took out an album containing photographs chronicling his early days in the SBU. Sergei Izrael’s photo was there. Izrael in a training room at National SBU Academy on Zolotovoritska Street. Izrael, young and tough with his thick, black bear hair, and his old knife scar on his cheek. On the same page of the album, Smirnov saw his own face, a nervous boy, a weakling, an obedient servant of those in the offices above.

Smirnov put the album away and went to his desk. He lifted the receiver of the phone that accessed the scrambled line. Then he replaced the receiver and said, “Fuck everyone’s mother!” exactly the way Sergei Izrael had said it when the instructor was not around to hear.

Smirnov stood, lifted his briefcase from the side of his desk, opened it, made sure his cell phone was charged, set the desk phone to transfer to his cell phone, checked his pocket guide for flights to Chernigov, and left his office.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Pyotr stood in the dark on the porch of his cabin. The air was crisp as he stepped down off the porch and looked up into the sky. Stars winked at him as he walked through the compound past bunkhouses, where those soon to be trafficked by way of the reestablished Balkan Trail slept. In the past, it had been more complicated, having to go overland in buses. But with the boats and Lyashko’s SBU guards on the other shore…

At the edge of the compound where a path led off into the woods, Pyotr heard shouts from the other side of the peninsula, where Ivan rallied his boy soldiers. Vasily had been right. Ivan had gone insane.

Pyotr turned, retracing his way through the compound, but stopped at one of the bunkhouses. The door squeaked as he opened it. Inside was the gentle breathing of deep sleep induced by strong sleeping pills. Pyotr was drawn into the darkness and felt his way along the aisle, walking between two cots.

He reached out to touch the child’s soft hair. Although he could not see her, he knew she was the blond from Kursk. He touched her nose, lips, and small chin. Finally, his hand brushed across breasts, stomach, hips, and … She moved! Was she awake? No, she simply turned in her sleep. He left the bunkhouse, walked quickly back to his own cabin, and sat at his desk.

When he was younger, he would have taken the girl and raped her. But he was older, and something had changed. Perhaps it was the look in the eyes of the girl brought to his cabin. He could not erase the image of her eyes because they were so large compared with the rest of her. Her eyes seemed to represent the eyes of all women from his past, including even his mother…

As Pyotr waited for the night visitor who had made an arrangement with the Slavutich and Chernigov Mafioso, he considered what life had to offer a man who no longer burned with rage and desire. Perhaps his visitor would know. Although the visitor had also aged, the mere mention of his name in trafficking circles brought chills to men’s spines … Vakhabov.

Lena had been awake thinking of her grandmother washing clothes in the old wringer washing machine when the door squeaked and she saw the faint glow of silver hair in the starlight. As he moved into the bunkhouse, floorboards creaked, and Lena thought only of the fact she and Nadia had not taken sleeping pills. It was as if Pyotr had overheard their plan to rest the first half of the night before making their escape. His shadow moved slowly down the aisle and into the narrow space between their bunks. She felt and heard her blankets brush his legs as his shadow, blacker than the room, closed in.

Do not come awake, Nadia! Do not move or scream! It is a test. If we are discovered, he will wash our minds
.

He bent over Nadia. Lena could hear his breathing. Although he stayed only seconds, it seemed hours. When he was gone and the bunkhouse door squeaked closed, Lena knew their plan for escape must go forward. Tonight she would get the engine keys to one of the boats so she and Nadia could escape. They would go downriver and ashore somewhere, get a ride to Kiev. She would get a job, find an apartment, change her name, and keep Nadia hidden until she was certain no one from the compound could find them. Perhaps they would dye Nadia’s hair.

Lena recalled her friend Katerina’s words the last time they were in Kiev: “We should have known when Ivan and Leonid tied up that woman. Pyotr is losing control. These so-called boys will become recruiters, or big shot traffickers with pockets stuffed with money!”

Outside his cabin door, Vasily heard the sounds of bolts being tested on rifles, whispers about who would have rifles with scopes, and magazines being snapped into place on AK-47s. The sounds came from the storage lockers in the lean-to addition attached to his cabin. The only entrance was from outside. Until now, only he and Pyotr had keys.

Soon after the lean-to and storage lockers were raided, Vasily looked out and saw Ivan leading his boy soldiers toward the other side of the peninsula, perhaps to raid the armory behind Pyotr’s cabin to get additional ammunition. As he stood at his window, Vasily imagined the scene, a soldier accidentally shooting his toes off, another trying an AK-47 on full automatic, the gun climbing and firing through Pyotr’s windows. He imagined Pyotr cowering behind the stone mass of his fireplace for protection from idiots in baseball caps. But nothing was funny here, and Vasily put on his jacket to go see what was in the cabin next to Ivan’s, the cabin in which a light had burned day and night for a week.

She sat on the floor in the far corner of the cabin, the frail girl named Lyudmilla who was carried from Pyotr’s cabin, the one Pyotr claimed was taken to the left bank for medical care. Her sweatshirt hung from her shoulder bones as if on a hanger. Her knees were drawn up, with her hands clasped tightly about them. Her eyes were vacant, and it was obvious she had been drugged. When Vasily stooped down and said her name, Lyudmilla’s only reaction was to turn away. When Vasily reached out and touched her hand, the reaction startled him.

Lyudmilla stood, ran to the bunk on the far wall, and rolled beneath it. Before she could hide completely, before she was out of the light from the ceiling lantern, Vasily saw something that changed his plan to escape the peninsula alone. Lyudmilla’s jeans were stained with blood, the stain obviously at her rectum.

As Vasily carried Lyudmilla to his cabin, he could feel her bones. Lyudmilla’s attempts to struggle were obviously hindered by a heavy dose of barbiturates. Once inside the cabin, he locked the door, lay her on his bunk, covered her with a blanket, and sat away from her in a chair.

After Lyudmilla finally closed her large eyes, Vasily looked away from her toward his backpack and AK-47 against the wall. If he was going to leave the peninsula, he knew he must do it soon. But now there was this girl he had helped rescue from the mountains, a girl so thin it was difficult to tell if she was girl or boy. Yes, a frail boy like he had been when he was raped in boys’ school and awakened the next morning to the sight of his own blood.

Outside her cottage, sitting on her garden bench and looking to the east at the stars in the quiet and still night, Sofya Adamivna Kulinich wore a shawl because of the chill in the air. She often came out on nights like this to view the stars. Ever since Sputnik, when she was young, she watched for satellites, and tonight she managed to see two.

When Sofya heard what sounded like dogs in the distance, she lifted her shawl from her ears and stopped breathing. Even though she was hard of hearing, what she heard could not be dogs. These were voices. Young men and boys shouting words she could not make out. But she did know the shouts were passionate, like the oaths of men who once lived in the village when a piece of farm machinery failed or when a party boss came to the village collective meeting with a new quota. The shouting made her think of the old days, yet these were not the old days.

For a second, she thought she heard a girl scream. But it could have been one of the young men with a high-pitched voice. Recently, she had seen young men on the other side of the fence. When they appeared, the uniformed guards would run from the guardhouse and chase them back into the woods. Perhaps the shouting tonight was simply vodka shouting from inside boys who were not yet men.

Sofya got up from her bench and was about to go into her cottage when she heard footfalls out on the road like those of men walking with purpose. Perhaps she was in bed dreaming. She crept slowly to the corner of the cottage, and there, on the road, was the shadow of a Przewalski horse. Although small, it was larger than most, and she could see it was a stallion. Its head turned to look her way for a moment before it walked slowly and steadily down the road and out of sight, heading toward Chernobyl.

Sofya ran inside and locked her door. She knew the other women of the village had locked their doors long before, at dusk. This was the nature of the village these days. Bad feelings in the still air, like the whispers of their dead husbands saying it was time to go away from here. Time to get on a bus and head south, perhaps to Ivankiv or even Kiev. But what would an old woman do in Kiev? Without the four walls and roof of her cottage to wrap about her, what would an old woman do?

Although it was not yet close to winter and fuel must be preserved, Sofya Adamivna Kulinich made a small fire in her stove to ward off the chill.

At SBU headquarters in Kiev, Deputy Anatoly Lyashko sat in the dark in his locked office, smoking. After he put the cigarette out, he picked up the phone to access a scrambled line and called Zoltan, supervisor of his private SBU unit across the resevoir from Pyotr’s compound.