Wolves Eat Dogs (13 page)

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 St. Petersburg, moved illegally to Moscow and survived initially as a prostitute. The investigators’ dilemma was whether the protection of such a powerful benefactor extended posthumously. On the advice of lawyers retained for her by her two friends Kuzmitch and Maximov, she refused to meet with investigators a second time. Would they have asked her about her Ukrainian surname? Well, millions of Russians had a Ukrainian surname. Arkady couldn’t see her walking around Ivanov’s apartment broadcasting salt and cesium. What he had seen in the apartment was Rina unable to do anything other than watch a video of Pasha over and over again.

The investigators loathed Robert Aaron Hoffman. Age: thirty-seven. Nationality: U.S.A. and Israel. Occupation: business consultant. A visa photograph of Hoffman accentuated his small eyes and round jowls. According to the report, Hoffman had stolen a computer disk from the Ivanov apartment, and although the disk was retrieved, there was reason to believe that he had altered the contents to compromise the entire NoviRus computer network. Hoffman might have stolen other items from the apartment as well. However, all Arkady had seen Hoffman take was the gift of a suede jacket. And Arkady remembered Bobby’s drunken vigil. Would a man who had spread toxic cesium linger at all?

On the other hand, in June of the previous year, Hoffman had taken a NoviRus jet from Moscow to Kiev’s Boryspil Airport, and a bus from Boryspil to Chernobyl to, in the opinion of the investigators, “meet fellow Jews and possibly transfer diamonds.” He had returned to Moscow that night. Arkady sometimes avoided raising the subject of Jews because people who appeared quite decent and sane one moment would start ranting about Jewish cabals the next. Arkady found anti-Semitism depressing and endemic, like scabies or lice. Captain Marchenko, however, had been correct about one thing: according to the investigators Jews did sometimes visit Chernobyl’s Jewish cemetery. Bobby Hoffman, who hadn’t struck Arkady as the religious sort, had come with them. He hadn’t noticed any Jews in Chernobyl, so why would they visit?

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 Moscow casinos at the time of Timofeyev’s disappearance.

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 Moscow lost interest. After all, Ivanov was a suicide, half crazed from radiation or not. Timofeyev had been murdered, but not in Moscow, not even in Russia. In short, any homicide investigation was properly a Ukrainian responsibility, with Russian assistance limited to a single investigator. It was fair to say that there was no real investigation anymore. Arkady occasionally felt like a man underwater breathing through a reed, the reed being his mobile phone. For a while Victor ran down leads in Moscow, an example being laboratories that produced cesium chloride. Although there was no commercial use of anything so toxic, grains were used in scientific research. Victor tracked down labs and researchers until, on Zurin’s orders, he stopped taking Arkady’s calls. Arkady was on his own. Meanwhile, NoviRus stock plunged, and the world moved on.

Although the Chernobyl cafeteria offered borsch, buns, tomato salad, meat and potatoes, pudding, lemonade and tea, it struck Arkady that the delegation from the British Friends of the Ecology seemed unsure, less than famished, shy of their food. They also seemed intimidated by a constantly moving corps of heavily rouged waitresses who might have once been a sister trapeze act.

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. “Chernobyl is not the Black Earth region of the Ukraine, famous for its wheat. We have a more sandy soil given to potatoes and beets. The greens are local, the lemons in the lemonade are not and the tea, I believe, is from China. Bon appétit.”

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 café.”

“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 Chechnya, a volunteer. She saw real action.” Vanko mopped up the soup with bread. Alex seemed to be having a grand time at the long table, urging his guests to dig 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 Moscow.”

“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 Kiev.”

“Maybe Moscow. Gourmets love wild boar. The problem is that wild boars love to root for big fat radioactive mushrooms. Stick to pigs that eat slops, and you’ll be fine.”

“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 Kiev, Minsk, Moscow. Costumes and banners were finished. Nothing was canceled. Still, those people with binoculars went to the roofs of their apartment blocks and watched firemen scramble off giant ladders onto the reactor and carry back blocks of indeterminate material, no fireman staying longer than sixty seconds. No one was allowed out of Pripyat except to fight the fire, and those who returned from the plant were dizzy, nauseated, mysteriously tanned. Supermarket stocks of iodine tablets sold out. Children were sent home from school with instructions to shower and ask Mommy to wash their clothes, even though all the city’s water had been diverted to the fire. The news broadcast from Moscow said that there had been an incident at Chernobyl, but measures were being taken and the fire was contained. Finally, no one in Pripyat was allowed outside. Three days passed between the accident and the sudden evacuation of the city. Eleven hundred buses took away the fifty thousand inhabitants.
They were told they were going to a resort, to bring casual clothes, documents, family pictures. As the buses departed, loose pictures scattered, and children waved at the dogs running behind.

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 Italy, and older black-and-white portraits of a previous generation of mustached men and tightly buttoned women. The photos seemed trampled, suggesting violent disagreement or grief. A doll dangling from a cord tapped the sash of a broken window—the movement Arkady had seen. Scavengers had come and gone, punching in walls to rip out electrical wiring. Every time he left an apartment like this, he felt he was stepping from a tomb, in a city of tombs.

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 Chernobyl? Russians, Byelorussians, Ukrainians, Danes, Eskimos, Italians, Mexicans and Africans touched by the poison as it spread around the world had no connection to Chernobyl, and they would die, too. The first ones, Pripyat’s firemen, irradiated inside and out, died in a day. The rest would die obliquely over generations. On that scale, what did Timofeyev or Ivanov matter? Yet Arkady couldn’t stop himself. In fact, riding a motorcycle through the abandoned streets of Pripyat, he found himself more and more at home.