Wolves Eat Dogs (30 page)

Arkady called the children’s shelter and asked for Zhenya. Olga Andreevna came on the line. “Are you finally here in Moscow?” she asked.

“No.”

“You’re impossible. But at least you called
him
this time, and that’s an improvement. His group is in music class now, although Zhenya doesn’t actually sing. Wait.”

Arkady sat with the phone for ten minutes.

The director came back on and said, “Here he is.” Zhenya, naturally, said nothing.

“Do you like music?” Arkady asked. “Any special group? Have you been playing chess? Eating well?” Arkady remembered films of pioneers of flight, the unsuccessful ones with man-made wings who ran and flapped, ran and flapped, and never got off the ground. That was like trying to talk to Zhenya.

“My case here is winding up soon. I’ll be back, and if you like, we can go to a soccer game. Or Gorky Park.” If Arkady had not met Zhenya, he would have no good reason to believe the boy actually existed. Just for a test, he said, “Baba Yaga has a wolf.”

There was a perceptible quickening of the breath on the other end.

“The wolf lives in a red forest with his wife, a human who wants to escape. He doesn’t know whether he wants to eat her or keep her, but he does know he’ll eat anyone who tries to help her. In fact, the forest is littered with the bones of those who have tried and failed. I wanted your advice on whether I should try. What do you think? Take your time. Consider every possibility, like a chess game. When you know, call me. In the meantime, be good.”

He hung up.

Liverpool wore red uniforms, Chelsea white. Zurin called and Arkady didn’t answer. Something was right in front of him, dangling and shining like a mirror ball, but every time he reached out, it disappeared. Or skipped along like that Icelandic sprite you could see only from the corner of your eye.

Vanko had said Alex made lots of money. In the belly of the beast, Alex had said. Exactly what beast? Arkady wondered.

Arkady opened his file. On the NoviRus employment application were an Internet site, e-mail address, phone and fax numbers.

Arkady called the phone number, and a woman’s musical voice said, “Welcome to NoviRus. How may I direct your call?”

“Interpreting and translation.”

“Legal, international or security?”

“Security.” He never would have guessed.

“Hold, please.”

Arkady held until a brusque male voice answered, “Security.”

“I’m calling Alex Gerasimov.”

A pause to punch in the name. “You want the accident section.”

“That’s right.”

“Hold.”

A Liverpool forward scored on a breakaway, the gift of a bad pass that left the Chelsea goalie naked. Soccer had been Arkady’s sport, and goalie had been his position. A goalie’s life balanced between anxiety and agony. Once in a while, though, there was the unexpected, undeserved save.

“Accident.” A second male voice was not nearly so military.

“Alex Gerasimov?”

“No. He’s not on duty for another two weeks.”

“Doing interpreting and translation?”

“That’s right.”

“For the accident section?”

“Yes.”

“He was going to explain everything to me.”

“Sorry, Alex is not here. I’m Yegor.”

A good sign; a man who offered his name invited conversation.

“I apologize for bothering you, Yegor, but Alex was going to tell me about the job.”

Arkady heard a rustle like a newspaper being put down.

“You’re interested?”

“Very.”

“You talked to the people in Employment?”

“Yes, but you know how it is with them, they never give you an honest picture. Alex was going to.”

“I can do that.”

Yegor explained that NoviRus offered physical security to Russian and foreign clients in the usual form of bodyguards and cars. For foreign clients, they provided standby interpreters who could go to the scene of a traffic accident or an incident involving police or any emergency where their presence could alleviate a dangerous or costly misunderstanding, often with prostitutes, for which there was a discretionary fund. Interpreters were expected to be university-educated, well dressed and fluent in two foreign languages. They worked a twenty-four-hour shift every three days and were paid a handsome ten dollars an hour, perfect for part-time work. What the people in Employment didn’t tell applicants was that the twenty-four-hour shift was spent either racing around Moscow, from one scene of confusion to the next, or going nowhere at all, which meant a day and a night in a basement room not much larger than a closet, with three cots, a coatrack and a minibar. The interpreters had been promised real quarters, but they were still stuck like an afterthought behind Surveillance, which, by virtue of all the screens it monitored, had a quarter of the floor.

“Alex made it sound better than that,” Arkady said.

“Alex has the run of the place. He’s been here awhile. He knows everyone, and he’s in and out of everywhere.”

“Ten dollars an hour?” Arkady figured this was about five times what a senior investigator made. “That covers a lot of sins. Were you on duty the day Pasha Ivanov died?”

“No.”

“But Alex was, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Who did you say you were?”

Arkady hung up. The game was getting interesting. With a minute to go, Chelsea was a man down but pressing for a tie and getting corner kick after corner kick to try for a header. The goalie tugged on his gloves and stationed himself one long diagonal step in front of the goalmouth. Campbell had come out of the bathroom to watch. Red and white uniforms elbowed for position as the ball rose from the corner and curled toward the goal. Players milled, thrust themselves up by their elbows and achingly stretched. The goalie committed, diving into the mass, hands high to intercept. Moving swiftly for a drunk, the professor crossed to the videotape and pressed Stop. The players hung in midair.

“I can’t see it. I won’t watch it one more time. It’s agony aforesaid, the turning of the thumbscrews, the inevitable lop. They can freeze for fookin’ eternity for all I care. Who cares? Do y’know what happens? Do y’know?” Exhausted, Campbell dropped on his bed and passed out.

No, Arkady thought, he didn’t know. By now Bobby Hoffman could be halfway to Cyprus or Malta. Anton was either menacing someone or buying matching luggage with Galina. It was even getting dark enough for Arkady to stir.

Arkady’s mobile phone rang. Eva. He was about to answer when an image of her and Alex came flooding back. The sight of Eva pressed against the bureau. The sound of perfume bottles rolling to the floor. Arkady remembered her eyes, the look of a drowning woman who embraces the whirlpool. He still couldn’t answer.

Another call. From Bela. Arkady took this one because he could use good news, but Bela said, “We’re at the power station, at the sarcophagus. We were headed to the checkpoint when the fat one changed his mind.”

“Why did you go to the power station? Why did you agree?”

Bela’s voice got small. “He offered so much money.”

Arkady covered the first few kilometers on dirt roads through black villages to see whether anyone was following him before taking the motorcycle onto the highway. Ozhogin would focus on the route south to Kiev, not to the center of the Zone. There was no avoiding the checkpoint outside the power station, but Arkady was waved through. He had become a familiar figure, the eccentric investigator who haunted Pripyat. Usually he rode by the station entrance. This time, he killed his headlight and swung in. In the twilight were faint indications of towers and high-tension wires. The power station’s main office was a four-story building as white as a ghost. Arkady remembered that the complex had been designed for a total of eight reactors, the largest in the world. A digital clock over the main door read 20:48.

A Uralmoto motorcycle was not a quiet machine, and Arkady half expected to see a flashlight’s beam or hear the challenge of a guard. Buses he saw, but no cars or vans. He crossed the parking lot to a row of what might have been laboratories and saw enough radiation posters and advisory signs to persuade him to turn on his headlight again. He U-turned at a dead end of dump bins overflowing with bags marked
TOXIC WASTE
, ignored a sign that said
AUTHORIZED
PERSONNEL ONLY
, as any Russian would anywhere, and followed a wire fence crowned with razor wire. More fences and wire led him right and left up to a sign that said
DO NOT ENTER—REPORT TO GUARD BEFORE PROCEEDING—ARE YOU WEARING YOUR RADIATION PIN?
Arkady coasted through and found a service road where Bela’s van was parked at a gate, not a simple counterweighted pole but a steel gate that was rolled shut. A sign in English said
STOP
. Bela was in the van. Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore a yarmulke and a tasseled shawl. Arkady couldn’t make out what they were saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm.

Beyond the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. Connected to the sarcophagus was the more presentable Reactor Two, which was invisible. The sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive.

Bela crept out of the van. “This is as close as we could get.”

Arkady didn’t need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise.

“It’s close enough. Why are you here?”

“The fat one insisted.”

“The old guy didn’t try to talk him out of it?”

“Yakov? He seemed to expect it. They just waited until dark so it was safer. They seem to have a lot of names. You didn’t tell me they were on the run.”

“Does it matter?”

“It drives up the price.”

Arkady looked around. “Where are the guards?”

Bela pointed to a pair of legs sticking out from the shadow of the gate. “Just a watchman. I gave him some vodka.”

“You’re always prepared.”

“I am.”

It was the night shift, Arkady thought. There were no office or construction workers. A skeleton crew could maintain the three reactors that were shut down, and no one entered the sarcophagus. On the power grid, the Chernobyl station was a black hole, a repository of spent fuel in a bankrupt country. How many guards would there be?

The chanting wasn’t loud enough to carry far. Bobby’s voice was whispery. Yakov’s was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again.

“How long have they been doing this?”

“Half an hour, at least. When I called you.”

“The rest of the time, what did you do all day?”

“Drove into the woods. I found them a hill with nice mobile-phone reception. The fat one called and arranged things.”

“What things?”

“Belarus is just a few kilometers north. Your friends have got visas and a car waiting. They’ve got every move figured out.”

“Like a game of chess.”

“Exactly like chess.”

Except if they were doing it for Pasha, it was too late, Arkady thought. Arkady was aware of having been manipulated by Bobby and Yakov, but he didn’t feel angry. They were escape artists, what else would they do?

“But they let you call me?”

“Yakov suggested it.”

So they should have been on the run to Minsk, gateway to the world, instead of standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over,
“Ose sholom himromov hu yaase sholom.”
When they finished the prayer, they simply began again. Arkady told himself he should have known this was coming. Would Bobby have come all this way to repeat his failure? Wasn’t this the logical, inevitable outcome, whether Bobby knew it consciously or not? Or was Yakov, like a black angel, forcibly keeping Bobby out of hell?

Arkady moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too, as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard. Maybe Bobby and Yakov had planned well and had some luck, but every minute spent at the power plant was a chance taken, and the list looked long. Arkady remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon. The thought of his cold-blooded rejection of her made him wince. It occurred to him that when she needed him most he had abandoned her, and that he had made an irretrievable mistake.

T
he way to see Pripyat, like the Taj Mahal, was by moonlight. The broad avenues and stately chestnuts. The confident plan of greenery, office towers and residential blocks. The way the central plaza admired the Soviet wreath that topped the city hall. Never mind the empty sockets of the windows or the grass that grew between the pavers.

Arkady left his motorcycle in the plaza. He went to the theater where he had met Karel Katamay, feeling his way again through the flats stacked in the lobby, shining his flashlight on the stage, around the piano, up the tiers of benches. Karel Katamay and the couch were gone, leaving only a few dried drops of blood in the dust.

Arkady couldn’t search a city built for fifty thousand people. However, a dying man and his couch could not have gone far, even with the Woropay brothers bearing him on a royal litter. His nosebleeds were small leaks. He was bleeding internally from the lungs, intestinal tract, cerebellum. Faced with that prospect, Pasha Ivanov had chosen the quicker alternative of a ten-story jump.

Back on the plaza, Arkady turned off the chatter of his dosimeter. He had a mental map of the city now: the hot buildings, the alleys to be taken only on the run.

Arkady called out, “Karel! We should talk.” While we can, he thought.

Something slipped through the grass and disappeared like smoke in the beam of Arkady’s flashlight. He swung the light around the front of offices. Where plate glass was still intact, the beam winked back. He swung the light up but decided the Woropay brothers wouldn’t have tried to carry Katamay above the ground floor. Anyway, why would Karel want to be in a dark room littered with plaster, sour with squatter’s piss, when outside in the balmy air he could touch the moon?

Arkady returned to the center of the plaza and kept going when he saw the amusement park. It had three rides: a Ferris wheel, bumper cars and crazy chairs. In the crazy chairs, children sat in a circle of flower petals that spun until the children were dizzy or nauseated. Half the bumper cars were on their side; the rest were still entangled in traffic. The Ferris wheel was big enough for forty gondolas. Everything was edged and pitted with corrosion; the wheel looked like it had rolled, stopped and rusted in place.

Karel Katamay lay on his couch in front of the crazy chairs. Arkady turned off his flashlight; he didn’t need it. Karel was in the same hockey shirt and propped up with cushions, as before. His face was luminously pale, but his hair seemed brushed and freshly beaded. On the ground in front of the couch were plastic flowers, a plastic liter of Evian and a porcelain teacup, no doubt filched from an apartment. Also, a tank of oxygen, a breathing tube and a harness. So the Woropay brothers had made him as comfortable as possible. He did seem a prince of the netherworld.

However, Karel was dead. The eyes, red as wounds, stared through Arkady. The hockey shirt seemed voluminous, twice Karel’s size. His hands lay with their palms up on either side of the white satin pillow embroidered
Je ne regrette rien.
One foot wore a Chinese slipper, the other was bare. There were worse ways to die than peacefully outside on a summer night, Arkady thought.

Arkady found the other slipper two meters away on the other side of the crazy-chairs fence and, honoring the professional rule of “touch nothing,” left it where it was. He returned to Katamay. Purple bruises consistent with tissue breakdown and lack of clotting spotted Karel’s skin. Blood smeared his chin and rouged his cheeks. When had he died? He was still warm, but he had mentioned infections, and a fever could burn in a body for an hour or more. He had probably lived on nothing but water and morphine for weeks. Actually, Arkady thought he might have lived a minute ago.

Why would a peacefully expiring man kick off a slipper? Katamay’s mouth relaxed a little and let the tongue peek out. The satin pillow between his hands was spotless. Arkady broke his rule and turned the pillow over. The opposite side was soaked with blood only starting to brown. Blood from two sources, it seemed, mouth and nose, and what a brief struggle that must have been.

Arkady became aware of Dymtrus Woropay standing on the other side of the crazy chairs. Woropay held a cardboard box that looked heavy with bottles and flowers and trailed the sort of tinsel used to decorate at the holidays. Arkady also saw what the scene looked like to Dymtrus: Arkady standing over Karel Katamay with a bloody pillow.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I found him like this.”

“What the fuck did you do?”

Dymtrus dropped the box and let the bottles explode. He swung himself directly over the fence on the other side and bulled through the crazy seats. Arkady put the pillow between Katamay’s hands and moved away.

Dymtrus snapped the gate chain. He knelt by the couch, touched the dead man’s face, picked up the pillow.

“No! No!” He got to his feet and bellowed, “Taras!” His voice went around the plaza. “Taras!”

Arkady ran.

He ran for his motorbike, but another figure closed fast from the side, parting the grass with his arms, striding from paver to paver: Taras Woropay on skates. Arkady jumped on the bike and started it. He told himself that if he reached the highway, he would be safe. Dymtrus threw something shiny. A shopping cart. Arkady outraced it and was back on the plaza, headed for the road, when his rear tire popped and took Arkady to the ground. He rolled free and looked back at Taras on one knee with a gun. A good shot.

Arkady was on foot. When he was a boy and his father took him hunting, the general would shout, “Run, rabbit!,” because shooting a standing rabbit was so little fun. “Wave,” he’d tell Arkady. “Damn it, wave.” Arkady would wave, the rabbit would bolt and the old man would drill it.

Dymtrus followed Arkady into the school, by the hanging chalkboard. Arkady tripped in the dark over gas masks on the lobby floor. They flopped out of the crate like rubber fish. He moved by memory as much as sight, heading for the kitchen in the back of the building. White tiles lined the kitchen walls. A dough bowl the size of a wheelbarrow stood on its legs. All the oven doors were open or broken off. The back door, however, had been boarded up in the last week. We should have rehearsed, the comic in him said. He looked out a window at chairs set on the ground for staff to use while smoking. He considered breaking the window with a loose oven door, until he saw Dymtrus waiting behind a birch. Arkady returned to the lobby and looked out the front window. Skates off, Taras was stepping up to the door.

Arkady went up the stairs two at a time, kicking bottles and debris aside. Taras was inside, at the bottom of the stairwell. Arkady knocked a loose bookcase down toward him. Copybooks fluttered down. Taras didn’t have to shout to his brother where Arkady was. Anyone could hear.

Second floor. The music room. A piano leaning like a drunk against a loose keyboard. The tub-thumping sound of a drum accidentally kicked. All the notes a xylophone could make when stumbled into. A one-man band. Heavier feet on the stairs. Dymtrus. The next room was a flood of books, desks, children’s benches. The door frame next to Arkady’s head split open before he heard the shot. He javelined a bench down the hall and knew he had caught someone when he heard a curse. The last room was a nap center of dolls asleep on white beds. Arkady gathered a mattress around himself and dove through the glass of the window.

He landed on his back between seesaws, rolled to the trees and crawled under a thorn bush, feeling a prick or two, also aware of blood running down the back of his neck and into his camos, but there was no time to take inventory. In the moonlight he saw the brothers scanning trees from the broken window. He thought he might get away. He would have at least the time it would take them to go the length of the hall, down the stairs and out the front while he went the opposite direction. But they were athletes. Dymtrus stepped up on the sill and jumped. He hit the mattress and rolled off. Taras followed suit, and they were close enough for Arkady to hear their breathing. Close enough to smell a mixture of vodka and cologne.

They signaled to each other and separated. Arkady couldn’t see where to, although he suspected they would go only a short distance and double back right to where he was. If he did get to the far woods, he could head west to the wild Carpathian Mountains or east to Moscow. The sky was the limit.

The woods were so loud. The electric shriek of crickets and cicadas. The invisible luffing of trees in the breeze. A man could just sink into the sound. Dead, he would.

A rock, a brick, something hit the wall of the school. Immediately, Taras, one arm hung low, hurt, ran forward and around the side of the school. One on one, Arkady took his chance. He emerged and moved to the quarter that Taras had deserted.

He had been suckered. Dymtrus was waiting behind a big enough tree this time, but Arkady tripped in brambles, and the shot that should have taken off his shoulder was high. By the time Dymtrus had advanced to see, Arkady was on his feet again, weaving downhill between trees.

Arkady had no plan. He wasn’t headed to any particular road or checkpoint, he was only running. Since the Zone was uninhabited, apart from the staff in Chernobyl and the old folks in their black villages, he had a lot of running to do. He heard Taras’s shouts catching up. The brothers were behind him, one on either side. One problem was that moonlight was not real light. Branches materialized to slap his face. Roots insidiously spread. Radiation markers seemed to multiply.

He glimpsed a Woropay closer every time he dared look. How could they be so fast? The ground pitched forward, and they were herding him through deeper and deeper bracken. His feet grew heavy, clutched by mud, and he saw ahead a trail of silver water.

It was a small swamp ringed by armless, rotting trees, reeds, the plop of frogs. In the center, the hump of a beaver dam and, topping that, a diamond-shaped marker.

Arkady moved back to firmer ground. He found no stones. A branch he picked up turned to dust. Weaponless, he met the charge of Taras, threw him over his hip, and stood to face Dymtrus. Dymtrus fought like an ice-hockey player: grab with one hand and pound with the other. Arkady took the hand, twisted and locked it behind Dymtrus’s back, then ran him into a tree. He kicked Taras in the head when he returned. He hit Dymtrus below the belt. But Dymtrus clutched Arkady’s knees as he dropped, and Arkady couldn’t put enough force behind a punch into Taras’s head. Dymtrus climbed up Arkady. Taras hit back with the gun. Dymtrus held Arkady’s arms so Taras could swing the gun at a steadier target. The next conscious moment, Arkady was being turned over on the ground. Shooting him was too easy; they could have done that when they first caught up.

Dymtrus said, “I brought the pillow.”

He pulled the pillow out of his tunic and sat on Arkady’s chest while Taras knelt and held on to Arkady’s arms. Dymtrus breathed hard through the saliva that draped from his mouth. The blood on the pillow was still damp.

Arkady’s eyes sought the moon, a treetop, anything else.

Dymtrus said, “You’ll go like Karel went. Then we’ll put you in the water, and no one will find you for a thousand fucking years.”

“Fifty thousand.” Alex Gerasimov came out of the trees. “More like fifty thousand years.”

In Alex’s hand was a gun. He shot Dymtrus in the back, and the big man collapsed as dead as a slaughtered steer while his brother sat back on his heels in surprise. Taras brushed the hair from his eyes and had started to form a question when Alex shot him. A cigarette burn through the heart. Taras looked down at it and kept falling until he spread out on the ground.

Alex picked up the pillow.
“Je ne regrette rien.
Absolutely,” he said and flung the pillow into the water almost to the diamond marker.

They carried the bodies back.

Alex said the swamp and hillside were too hot; the militia would either leave the Woropays or drag them out by the heels. Hadn’t Arkady seen the Chernobyl militia in action? What kind of investigation did he expect? Fortunately, there were two witnesses.

“They were trying to kill you and I saved your life. Isn’t that what happened?”

They carried the Woropays over the shoulder, fireman-style. Alex led the way with Dymtrus while Arkady, one eye swollen shut and his sense of balance badly out of kilter for being gunwhipped, staggered under Taras. Going uphill was slow work, slipping on needles with every step.

Alex said, “You’re lucky I heard the shot. I thought it was a poacher in the middle of the city. You know how I am about poachers.”