Traffyck (47 page)

“I will nap in the car and wait until someone is there.”

“Perhaps you should go back to Ivankiv and wait.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

The taller of the two finally spoke. “We could stop for a drink.”

“There is nothing better I would like to do,” said Lazlo. “Being a former militia investigator myself, I have often lifted a glass or two with Chief Investigator Boris Chudin from the Kiev office. However, my aunt expects me in the morning. I have bread for her in the back.”

The taller militiaman nodded to his shorter partner, who quickly returned Lazlo’s documents. Both gave salute-like waves as he drove away. In his mirror, he could see their militia Skoda, much like his rented Skoda, make a U-turn and head south.

As Lazlo drove on toward the Dityatki checkpoint, he recalled what he had told Janos. Bored men sleep early in the morning prior to dawn. The clock on the Skoda’s dash said it was 1:30, and that was too early. But he had some distance to go. He still had to get through the checkpoint and, after that, find his way out to the peninsula.

At 1:30 in the morning, Mariya was still driving when they saw signs for Chernigov. Janos was in the front passenger seat. He had seen Mariya watching him in the rearview mirror as he put on his shoulder holster after putting away his violin. With his coat back on, he emptied boxes of cartridges into the pockets of the old coat she had bought for him.

“Good choice,” he said. “Large pockets with no holes in them.”

“They were sewn with thick material,” said Mariya. “It is one of very few things I remember my mother doing when my father was still my father.”

Janos glanced toward Mariya but remained focused on the road. Her father was not something she wished to think about. It was as if Janos could read her mind.

Janos directed Mariya to take the Chernigov bypass to the left. While they circled the exit ramp, Janos saw an unmarked Lada with auxiliary grill lights parked on the overpass. He told Mariya to take the exit slowly and adjusted his wig. He turned on the overhead map light and held the map up before him. He wrinkled up his face, pressed his lips together and out to simulate the absence of dentures in a toothless jaw, and looked down as they passed the car. Two men were inside, and Janos knew they might be militiamen or SBU looking for them.

“You did not look very old,” said Mariya after he turned out the light.

“I wasn’t sure what to do to make myself look older.”

“Nothing. We’ll both look like pensioners if we keep up this way of life.”

“I should drop you somewhere,” said Janos.

Mariya shook her head. “We have already discussed the topic into its grave. We are both obsessed with finding Shved’s and Viktor’s killers. We are both obsessed with the children.”

“We are not certain about the children—”

Mariya interrupted. “I am. Don’t ask how I know there are children on the peninsula. I simply know.” She reached over and touched Janos’ knee. “So, should I hurry, or are we too early? Perhaps you should drive. Did you know there is tea back there, and a pot for the stove?”

Mariya slowed to 50 kilometers per hour, and they switched positions without stopping.

Before making the tea, Mariya stood in the center aisle in back, tried to play Janos’ violin, but was barely able to get out a couple of screeches, which sounded like cats dying.

“Ah,” said Janos, “The old folk song entitled ‘My Foot Rests Beneath the Wheel.’“

Mariya put the violin and bow back in the case. “American gangsters carried machine guns in violin cases.” She turned on the small light over the stove. In a few minutes, she was back in the passenger seat with two steaming cups of tea. She placed the cups in the holders on the console. Then she bent and kissed Janos on his ear. Her hands were hot on his neck.

“I wish for an autopilot,” he said.

Mariya moved to the floor between the seats and leaned her head against his hip.

Beneath the console, the diesel engine clattered contentedly, and on the console, the ripples in the cups of tea resembled militia practice targets in the greenish glow of the dash lights.

Sofya Adamivna Kulinich heard a car enter the far end of the village. As she climbed from her bed and put on her housecoat and slippers, the car lights shined in her windows. She made her way to the kitchen window, held onto the table for balance, found her glasses in the basket on the table, put them on, and peered outside.

The car looked like one of the militia cars that sometimes drove through the village. But militiamen never came at this time of morning. It was too early and too dark to share a pot of tea and a few words. Perhaps it was that young woman writing a book about the women of Opachychi. But why would a writer come at this time?

The car stopped just past her walkway trellis at the side of the road. The interior light went on, and she saw a man looking at a map. The man had thinning, gray hair and a wrinkled brow, not at all like the young militiamen who visited from time to time. Even the Zone supervisor, who made sure food and medicine were delivered, was younger. No, it was not the Zone supervisor, or the female doctor who checked on the women of Opachychi, or the priest who occasionally came to the stone church in the nearby village, or one of the guards who sometimes crossed her farm plot to go to the peninsula forbidden zone. Because the man was obviously lost and needed help, and she had so few visitors and he was closer to her age than most men who visited for such short periods, Sofya turned on the light above her kitchen table.

The car headlights went out, the inside light went out, a few moments passed, and finally the man got out of his car and came through her trellis and up the walkway. She opened the door to let him in. His smile was sincere. He introduced himself, and she introduced herself. They shook hands. She offered tea. He accepted. They sat at the kitchen table while the water heated.

“At first, I thought you were militia.”

“I was in the militia years ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I am sorry for the early hour.”

“I always awaken early. Perhaps not this early, but before dawn. At dawn, I check on the four other women living here. Do you have family in the Zone, Lazlo?”

He shook his head sadly. “No more. All except one, who lived in Pripyat at the time of the explosion, are dead.”

“I am so sorry. Are you here to visit their memory?”

“No, a friend needs help.” He took out a cell phone. “There is no service here.”

“I have a regular phone if you like.”

“Thank you, but if I have no service, my friend will also be without service. Are you familiar with the peninsula to the east?”

“Oh, yes. Before Chernobyl, we hunted for mushrooms and berries in the woods on the peninsula. When I was a girl, we swam in the river and lay on the beach. But no more. Several years ago, government officials visited the village and told us the peninsula is contaminated. They said radiation was deposited from one of the tributaries before they constructed the dam. There is a fence, and guards are posted. But in winter, when all the leaves are down, I have seen young people on the other side of the fence in the woods. I asked the guards about this, and they told me the young people are technicians performing experiments and they stay on the peninsula for only short periods. This past summer, traffic back and forth to the peninsula has been minimal. Instead of buses, as in past years, now I see only a truck with one or two guards.”

She went to the stove, brought tea to the table, and poured two cups. “All of my glasses have broken, and now I use cups.”

“Thank you,” said Lazlo. “A cup is fine. I’m curious. I saw a horse on the way into the village.”

“It is probably the same stallion I have seen wandering at night. Perhaps a stronger stallion has the herd.”

Lazlo sipped his tea, staring at her. “I must go onto the peninsula to help my friend. Can you tell me a way to bypass the guards?”

“Why would I do that? It is forbidden.”

“Do you trust the guards at the fence?”

She thought for only a moment. “No.”

Lazlo reached out and put his hand on hers. “Perhaps you will understand when I tell you my brother died within days of the accident in 1986. His child escaped within the womb of the mother. I married the mother and took her to the Ukrainian Village in Chicago in the US. She died eight years ago. The child, who escaped in her womb, died this year. I am alone in the world. I am a former Kiev militiaman. I know things impossible to explain in such short time. It has to do with young people kidnapped from the streets of Ukraine’s cities. There are no jobs, and the young are in danger. I see you have a television. You must have seen the warnings to young people about nonexistent jobs outside Ukraine. You must have wondered if your own grandchildren might be in danger. This is why I am here.” Lazlo opened his coat and showed her his gun. “There are men on the peninsula who take advantage of children, and something must be done.”

Sofya Adamivna Kulinich looked down and shook her head. “First Chernobyl, and now this?” She looked up with watery eyes. “I have heard rumors from other visitors. They say there may be deformed people on the peninsula. There are always rumors: humans made inhuman or insane by radiation. One of my friends has even had a relative mention the possibility of boys and girls born after Chernobyl becoming vampires. I told one of the guards about the rumor I heard—you know how it is, in passing—and the guard laughs like a hyena.”

She paused, took a sip of tea. “Within the laughter, there is deception. One who spends so much time alone can sense deception. My belief is, although there are not vampires, the guards are posted not only to keep the curious out, but also to keep the unknown who are there from escaping. A relative of one Opachychi woman who has taken frequent cruises on the reservoir says boats go back and forth from the left bank.”

She shook her head sadly. “And now I discover at my very doorstep young people are being trafficked. So now you must drink your tea to warm yourself. Here, refill your cup. Also, your head is bare.” She stood and reached up to a shelf above the table. “Take this cap. I knitted it for my son, but he has not visited in months.” She paused, staring at him. “I have never seen my newest grandson. Another grandson is a recruit in the militia. He is stationed near Odessa. The last time my son visited, he told me of girls taken and made into sex slaves in Turkey.”

She stood and put on a long coat over her housecoat. At the door, she took two loops of string with dried garlic cloves attached. She put one of the strings of garlic around her neck and handed the other to Lazlo. “For good luck. Even if you don’t believe in such things, it will make me feel better. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yes,” said Lazlo, “in the car.”

“Get your flashlight, and I will show you a path to the fence where there are no guards. After this, I will return to my death cottage, and you will go with God.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

The road west was dark and abandoned. Janos drove slowly, occasionally swerving to avoid deep potholes. The last village before the Belarus border on the Dnepr River was Pakul, in which streets were dark. Not long after Pakul was a sign pointing south to a fish hatchery and the villages of Dniprovske and Vasyleva Huta. Janos turned south, and in fewer than 10 kilometers they had passed the fish hatchery and were at the end of the paved road in Vasyleva Huta. At the end of the paved road, a dirt road led into the forest. The road was bumpy but well-traveled.

“We just passed a sign for a lodge,” said Mariya.

“What did it say?”

“It was back in the trees. I think it said Vasyleva Huta Lodge.”

The dark trees and bushes changed to birches; the birches stood white and straight in the headlights of the camper van like thin angels on a parade route. The dirt road curved back and forth until they came to a fork. Janos stopped when a handmade sign appeared in the headlights. An arrow pointing left said, “Vasyleva Huta Lodge.” An arrow pointing right said, “Tuzar Camp.”

“Which way now?” asked Janos.

Mariya turned on the map light and studied the map. “We need to go further south. The road left to the lodge has weeds, and that will take us away from the river. I say we take the road right. Tuzar is closer to the peninsula on the other side of the reservoir. Tuzar Camp must be the place. Shved’s note in the Bible said to cross at the camp. The road is well-traveled so this must be the way.”