Traffyck (51 page)

Sofya was feeding the girl sips of tea with sugar when there was a knock at the door. She quickly covered the girl’s face with a thin scarf hung on a hook behind the bed, the scarf she used in summer for mosquitoes. She turned off the bed light and switched on the kitchen table light so the bed in the corner of the cottage would be in darkness.

When she opened the door, she expected guards and guns and barbarism for the remainder of her meager life. But instead of guards, her neighbor Tatiana stood in the doorway.

“Come in, quickly.”

Tatiana stared into the darkness of the cottage. “I saw you coming across the field with what appeared to be a scarecrow.”

Sofya motioned Tatiana to the bed, turned on the light, and lifted the thin scarf. “It is a girl from the peninsula. She escaped through the hole your husband—God be with him—made in the fence for rabbits.”

Tatiana crossed herself. “She is like … like the ones from the camps after the war, the ones my mother cared for. Do not worry. I will run home for my medicine kit.”

As Lazlo and Vasily made their way through the woods on the peninsula, several quick gunshots in the distance were followed by a barrage.

Vasily stopped. “Those were AK-47s on full automatic.”

“How far away?” asked Lazlo.

“At the settlement,” said Vasily. “Five kilometers. What kind of pistol do you have?”

“A Makarov nine millimeter. I have extra ammunition, but against AK-47s like yours … How many men are there?”

“I have no way of knowing,” said Vasily. “I heard boats and shouting. It had to be at least two boats, so it could be as many as twenty or thirty men.”

Lazlo looked to the sky. “Daylight is coming. You know the peninsula. Which way would be the best approach for observation?”

“The light in the sky comes from the moonrise,” said Vasily, pointing east. “Sunrise is perhaps an hour away. The best approach is the long way around. The south side of the peninsula is heavily wooded, and there is no beach. The compound is at the tip of the peninsula. If we approach from the south, we can see the beach and still be in the trees.”

“Then we will go,” said Lazlo. “And on our way, you will tell me about this compound: who runs it, how many are here, their ages and condition—all of it.”

Out in the boat, the gunshots from the peninsula echoed from the far shore of the reservoir and the many tiny islands to the north. Janos shut off the motor, and he and Mariya ducked down, but he knew the shooting was not at them. While lying in the bottom of the boat, the handheld radio came to life, three men in succession asking about gunshots. Before Janos could pick up the radio, one of the men said, “Zoltan is dead. Go to alternate frequency.” After this, Janos fiddled with the radio. It seemed to have an endless number of frequencies on its digital display, and he was unable to hear anything.

“The flashes from gunfire were on the north side of the peninsula,” said Janos, looking at his GPS. “We’re a kilometer away.”

“It’s foggy on the south side, where the water must be warmer,” said Mariya.

Janos restarted the motor and headed southwest, still at the quiet idle speed, away from where they’d seen gunshots. They both sat in back, and he had Mariya take the tiller. Then he reached forward in the boat and opened his violin case.

“What are you doing?” asked Mariya.

“When we get south of the peninsula around the bend into the fog and out of the line of sight of whoever was doing the shooting, it might put the fear of God into whoever’s over there.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to sneak up?”

“Someone is aware of what happened in Kilija. They know we are coming. Back at the campground, the others have found the one you shot and the other one put to sleep. The shooting on the peninsula indicates confusion. I have a feeling Lazlo is near. He is a cautious man, and a melody will alert him. At least I hope so.”

Mariya squeezed his arm. “Janos, all the shooting at once sounded so desperate.”

“I know,” said Janos, looking to the sky. “It’s getting lighter, and if we go in, they’ll hear our motor when we get closer. You have a point about the desperation. What if I play the melody now, out here, while it’s still dark enough? Then we speed up, cut the engine, and drift into the fog on the south shore? I have a feeling a melody will give courage to those who need it, and perhaps confound others. It’s an old folk song specifically designed for times like this.”

“You are mad,” said Mariya, putting her arm around him.

“And you are mad for coming with me.”

“So we’re both mad. I agree with the plan. What’s the name of the song?”

“It’s called ‘My Life Won’t End Well Anyway.’“

As Janos began playing the slow, melancholy, lilting melody, Mariya steered slowly toward the south end of the peninsula, one hand on the tiller, her other hand on Janos’ shoulder.

Lena did not struggle. There were too many, one holding each arm, another grasping her sweatshirt from behind, and another pulling her hair from the front. The one behind kicked at her feet as they walked. Out from beneath the trees in the courtyard in front of Pyotr’s cabin, the dawn brightened. Several more armed men haphazardly dressed in military-style clothing gathered about as she was dragged to the porch.

Pyotr stood on the porch with two other men. A fat, bearded man in business suit, dirty white shirt, and striped tie hanging down below his waist stood back, looking frightened. A large brute of a man armed and dressed more elaborately than the cadre of soldiers surrounding the cabin stood with his feet apart and a rifle at his side, staring at her. Pyotr stood beside this man, but instead of looking at her, he stared off into the distance.

“Who shoots?” shouted the brute, waving his rifle. “I said no shooting unless necessary!”

“She killed Goya and Tadzhik,” whined the man still holding her hair from the front.

“Idiot! Why don’t you make introductions all around?” The brute stepped off the porch and aimed his rifle at the man. “You can use patronymic names and tell about our homelands!”

The man released the grip on her hair and looked down without responding.

The brute spun about, enjoying the chaos. “I present to you the most honorable Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov, self-appointed reformed trafficker of children, who obviously must be the resurrected Peter the Great. To his right is His Eminence Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, so-called priest in the Moscow Patriarchate of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church and also zealous money collector and experimenter in tribal counseling of the young.”

Pyotr stepped forward. “Maxim Vakhabov, the court jester, has a large, hairy mouth!”

Vakhabov aimed his rifle at Pyotr. “Enough!” He turned to his men, marching among them as he shouted orders. “Gather the healthy of both sexes! Girls go to Balkan Trail; boys go to Uzbekistan for labor! It is done!”

“What will you do with the unhealthy?” asked Pyotr.

Vakhabov turned. Because Pyotr was on the porch, Vakhabov was forced to raise his head as he walked slowly forward.

Lena felt the men ease their grip on her in anticipation of what would happen next. All was silent until, far off in the distance, at first resembling a sigh of relief, a violin began playing. Everyone turned to look to the south, even Vakhabov, and Lena heard one of the men holding her murmur a prayer in the ancient Romany language.

Dawn rapidly stole away concealment as Vasily and Lazlo hurried along the wooded southern shore. Both became short of breath, running and discussing Pyotr’s compound.

“You say before you came … it was for trafficking?”

“Yes,” said Vasily. “But when several orphanages closed down and there were Chernobyl refugees … some even from Belarus … they came here.”

“These raids in the cities … what is that about?”

“Pyotr retaliates against deserters … and rivals. The female clinics and the video stores … I don’t know why he does this. Ivan has his boy soldiers.”

“Ivan?”

“Pyotr’s so-called religious warrior.”

“Pyotr is religious?”

“He pretends … but despises religion and its representatives. He takes money from Kiev’s Moscow Patriarchate.”

They were quiet as they climbed over a series of tree roots sticking out into the reservoir. Lazlo tripped, and Vasily helped him up and steadied him.

“Are you all right?”

Lazlo laughed. “Exept for my age.”

They went on.

“You have slippery tree roots and gunfire,” said Lazlo. “What about the radiation?”

“Officially, we are in a safe zone. Only the north end of the peninsula is radioactive because of river deposits.”

“According to whom?”

“The minister of the Zone … and the SBU. They watch over us.”

“The SBU?”

“From the left bank … There is a house and boats.”

Vasily thought he heard a bird, but it was not a bird. They paused, catching their breath.

“Listen,” whispered Vasily.

“A violin,” whispered Lazlo. “I recognize the song.”

“It comes from out in the reservoir,” said Vasily.

“It is Janos,” said Lazlo. “The name of the song is ‘My Life Won’t End Well Anyway.’ It is a signal. He will come ashore soon.”

Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov had no choice. With a gun at his back, he marched with the others down the path to the beach. He protested when Vakhabov ordered men to lock and board up the cabin housing Chernobyl refugees and to retrieve gasoline from the generator shed. Even Rogoza, who had remained silent, said this was unacceptable. Vakhabov ignored them, saying nothing to Pyotr until they reached the beach, where many men stood guard over Ivan’s boy soldiers and the women and girls of the compound, who sat in the sand awaiting their fate and the sunrise on the far shore.

Vakhabov stood alone on a rise near the shore and shouted, making it obvious he wanted no interruption. “You have set up a factory to turn out Natashas and Nikolais, Pyotr Alexeyevich! You capture them young and bring them here to work on your project until their value reaches its peak! You bring them here as children and sell them off for sex or labor. It is all good business! My men and I will take advantage! Girls in two boats; boys in one!”

Pyotr took a step forward and was hit across the face with the butt of a rifle.