Belly of the Beast (13 page)

Niki settled into a well-worn seat surrounded by suited men and wondered about Yuri. She guessed he carried some heavy baggage. Helping her, perhaps, was an attempt to shed some of it.

The plane rattled loudly as it started to taxi. Niki checked every place in her satchel for the Valium before remembering she had placed it with her rubles.
It may be just as well,
she thought.
I haven’t had great luck with Valium.

 Engines roaring, the plane climbed above the setting sun, then banked toward a band of dark lavender to the east. Niki managed as well as she could.

Within half an hour, the little window to Niki’s left was black: not a light on the ground, not a star in the sky. The engines droned, the seat tray rattled, Niki thought about Alex. She took out her notebook and tried to write.

“Something to drink?” asked a flight attendant.

Niki studied the cart full of liquor bottles. “Just water, thank you.” She didn’t bother to try English.

The man to her right checked his watch—a Rolex. “You took your time getting here,” he said to the attendant. “Chivas Regal, double, with ice.”

The man downed half his drink, then swirled the ice. “I noticed you at the counter,” he said to Niki. “Nice purse. I like the logo.”

Everyone seemed to know Yves Saint Laurent except Niki. She closed her notebook. The man’s black eyes stared directly into hers, a bit of saliva hanging from a gold tooth.

“Thank you,” said Niki.

“You are very nervous.”

“I hate flying,” said Niki.

The man pulled a vial from his pocket and offered Niki a pill. “These will knock the growl out of a grizzly bear.”

Niki stared at the pill a long time then declined.

“Well, we should be on the ground again in four hours, sooner if we’re unlucky.” He laughed. “Oh, sorry. You are already nervous. We will be fine. I fly to Moscow every week. I know the pilot, holds his vodka well.” He laughed again.

Niki thought about the pills in the man’s pocket.

Abruptly, the plane dipped to the left then right. Niki gasped. The man smiled. “That’s nothing,” he said as he used his handkerchief to wipe up water that had spilled on Niki’s tray. “Probably the pilot’s son is flying.”

“Maybe I will take a pill. You are kidding about the pilot’s son, eh?”

“Good humor always has a kernel of truth.” He shook a pill from a vial and handed it to Niki.

Niki studied it. Raised it to her lips. Stopped.
I can’t afford to take any more chances.
Niki handed back the pill. “Thank you, but I’m okay now.”

The man put away his pills, then folded his handkerchief.

Niki stared at the monogram, D.A.M.

“Call me Dimitri,” he said, “Dimitri Andryevich Mironenko.”

Niki feigned a smile. “I’m Niki.”

Dimitri pulled a gold embossed business card from his pocket and placed it next to Niki’s glass. “DAM Business Services,” he said. “If you need anything in Sverdlovsk, call me.”

Niki nodded as she looked at it.

“Your Russian is quite good, but you’re not Russian?”

“Canadian.”

“Ah, the cold war.”

“That would be the United States.”

“No. Canada. The other cold war. Ice Hockey.” Dimitri clasped his hands. “Canada and the Soviet Union. The best hockey players in the world. You know Wayne Gretzky?”

“It’s a big country.”

“Everyone knows Wayne Gretzky.”

“Of course I know of him,” she lied. “I just don’t know him personally.”

“Too bad. I would like to meet him. So, what brings Niki halfway around the world in the dead of winter?”

“Glasnost, the new economy. My company wants to do business in Russia.” Niki fumbled with her satchel, finally exposing her finger through the side. “I was robbed in Moscow. My business cards are all gone.”

“Robbers. One would think the police would take better care of our visitors. I apologize for my country, the government is a ship of fools. But tell me, what do you really do? CIA?”

Niki felt her face flush. “I told you. I represent a clothing company, Black Diamond Skiwear.” She dove into her satchel again and retrieved the Black Diamond Skiwear catalog and the pair of lavender ski gloves.

Dimitri glanced through the catalog. “I like the double diamond logo,” he said, then whispered, “I control clothing in Sverdlovsk. I will represent your company. This is your lucky day. You and I will be partners.”

Niki didn’t feel so lucky. She agreed politely then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

The drone of the engines eased to a hum as the nose of the plane dipped.

“We’ll be landing soon,” said Dimitri. “Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know. Someone is supposed to meet me.”

“Someone?”

“A man named Pytor. He will be Black Diamond’s business representative.”

“You don’t understand,” said Dimitri reaching over and squeezing Niki’s hand too tightly. “I represent all clothing businesses in Sverdlovsk.” He eased his grip. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of this Pytor. You will stay with me tonight.”

Niki looked at the dark window to her left, the tall seat back in front, and the gold embossed man to her right. She was trapped, mostly by her own lie.

“I’m not CIA,” Niki finally whispered, “but I’m not a business woman either. My son is dying and I’m trying to save him.”

Dimitri shook his head, then smiled. “We are but onions, layer upon layer of deceit, and when all layers are peeled, what is left? Nothing, and we can’t have that. We always leave more layers.”

“I’m telling the truth now,” said Niki. “There’s only one layer.”

“You would make a lousy Russian.”

As the plane rolled to stop, Niki told Dimitri about the search for her father.

“Listen,” said Dimitri, “you do not know how dangerous Russia can be. This Pytor is a nobody. You need my protection, and I know Sverdlovsk. I have a flat fit for an empress, the entire twelfth floor of a new building, curved glass all across the front. To the left I see trains at the train station, to the right the boats on the Iset River. You will stay with me. I will help you find your father.”

“There actually is one more layer,” Niki said sheepishly. “My father never lived in Sverdlovsk.” She leaned close to Dimitri and whispered, “He lived in Chelyabinsk-40.”

Dimitri pulled back his business card. “No one returns from that place. A nice girl like you should not know about it.”

“Pytor may know about people who live there.”

“If you go, you will die trying to save your son.”

In the crowded terminal, Pytor held a small sign with four Cyrillic letters that read
Niki.

When Niki walked up with her leather coat and fancy suitcase, Pytor raised an eyebrow. “Father didn’t tell me what to expect,” he said in Russian. “Let’s go.”

Wire-rimmed glasses framed the glare in Pytor’s eyes. Disheveled hair hung down his forehead. He was gaunt, unkempt, totally unlike his father.

“I need to use a toilet,” said Niki.

Pytor frowned, then whispered. “Don’t speak with your accent. It’s bad enough you look like—”

“A foreigner,” said Niki. “This is how foreigners look.”

“Foreigners don’t come to Sverdlovsk,” said Pytor, “and if they did, it would be illegal for me to talk to one.”

Niki quickly glanced about, assuring herself that she was no longer being followed before turning back to Pytor.

Pytor eyed the long queue that led to the women’s toilets. “You’ll have to wait,” he said.

Niki already disliked Yuri’s son. It was hard to believe they were related.

Pytor led her to a boxy little Zhuguli. It was frigid outside, much colder than Moscow. Niki put on her ski gloves. Pytor tossed Niki’s suitcase where the back seat should have been.

The car smelled of onions and cabbage. Niki tried not to think what his place must be like.

Pytor climbed in and fiddled with the defroster knob, then wiped the windshield with the back of his glove. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he muttered. “It’s hard enough staying out of prison without hauling around foreigners.”

“I thought you volunteered.” Niki reached for the door handle. “I’ll find my own way.”

Pytor grabbed her arm. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not in Kansas.”

“I’m from Canada. And your father said you’d be glad to help. I guess he doesn’t know you.”

“That’s an understatement.” Pytor drove onto the highway, leaning forward to see through the frosted windshield. “He’s been gone most of my life, doesn’t care about anything but himself.”

Niki shivered, wrapped her arms about herself. “Well, he was very nice to me. Sorry to get you out on Christmas Eve.”

“Russian Christmas is two weeks away.”

“God, I’m far from home. It’s tomorrow in the
Sta
—Canada. I never even got a present for my son. Oh, your father wanted me to give you something.”

“A present? He never gives presents. He doesn’t even write letters.”

“Well, he sent you a radio.”

“That’s stupid. I don’t need a radio.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Headlights glared on the frosted windshield. Pytor pulled to the side of the road, got out, and scraped the windshield. Back inside, he used his gloves on the inside again and said, “Look, I don’t know why I agreed to help you with your little genealogy project, but I did. Let’s just make the best of it.”

“A genealogy project! Is that what you think? My son has leukemia. My father’s bone marrow is the only thing that might save him.”

Pytor put his car in gear and pulled back onto the highway. “Your son is sick?”

“Acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” Niki said in English, then switched back to Russian. “Do you know what that means?”

Pytor nodded. “I used to be a radiologist. Sorry, I didn’t know what this was all about. I just had a cryptic message about you finding your father. I’m supposed to tell you he is dead and put you on the next plane out of here. I almost didn’t go to the airport to pick you up.”

“My father is my son’s last hope. I’ve got to find him.”

Pytor wiped the inside of the windshield again. “I’ll do what I can, but Sverdlovsk’s a big place.”

“He’s in Chelyabinsk. Your father said you might know some people there.”

“I don’t, and Chelyabinsk is quite a ways away.”

“Then I just need your help to get some currency changed. I saw a flight listed for Chelyabinsk at the airport.”

“Changing currency will be difficult. We’re pretty much on a barter system. And Chelyabinsk is a big place too.”

“I think it’s like a suburb: Chelyabinsk-40.”

Pytor nervously checked his rearview mirrors. “Chelyabinsk-40 is just a post office box.”

“I don’t think so. It’s some kind of secret city, but it can’t be too secret if you can fly to it. I know about Mayak too.”

Pytor looked over at Niki. “Chelyabinsk and Chelyabinsk-40 are as different as tea and dynamite. Chelyabinsk-40 is territory of over 1000 square kilometers that has been closed to all foreigners and most Russians for forty-five years. Chelyabinsk is an open city fifty kilometers from the territory. You’d have a long walk. You shouldn’t know about Mayak, but it’s what you don’t know that scares me.”

“Your father thought you might be able to help me. He didn’t want me to come here, but—Look, I really need a toilet.”

“We’ll stop at Mole’s.”

“Moles?”

“Same as in English, the little ground animal. It’s my friend’s nickname.”

“You speak English.”

“A few words.”

On the outskirts of Sverdlovsk, Pytor turned off the main road. The headlights washed a row of old concrete apartment buildings. A few lights showed dimly at the windows. Pytor parked in one of the three spaces in front.

“Not many cars,” said Niki.

“Cars are a luxury.” Pytor turned off the lights.

In the shadows, two men smoked cigarettes, their eyes on Pytor’s car.

“Now we’re going to find a toilet?”

“Yeah, stay close, and bring the radio. Maybe Mole can use it for parts.”

Niki unlocked her suitcase while Pytor fished out a package from under his seat.

“Better bring your whole suitcase,” said Pytor, glancing at the men. He locked the car, put his package in his coat pocket, and took Niki’s suitcase.

Niki whispered
thanks
, then followed Pytor over a bank of dirty snow to the dark building. He kicked the bottom of the door and pushed. “Lock’s broken,” he said as the rusty slab swung in.

A rush of warm air, heavy with the smell of fish, cabbage, and urine, almost knocked Niki off her feet.

Pytor didn’t seem to notice.

Inside, an overhead bulb exposed a small entry. Graffiti-covered green paint peeled from graffiti-covered grey paint. Vodka bottles and litter filled a corner.

Pytor started up the unlit stairway. “Careful, fifth stair is missing.”

Niki counted carefully wondering what might lurk below the stairway. After two flights, Pytor tapped on a door. Three locks clicked before a second steel door swung open allowing a line of light to paint the dingy hall. A short man peered out, half-hidden by a beard and coke-bottle glasses.

“Who’s that?” he whispered to Pytor.

“The girl from Canada,” Pytor whispered back. “She needs a toilet.”

“You shouldn’t have brought her here.”

“I couldn’t let her go outside, there were some men hanging around, probably taking my tires as we speak. Besides, I think she’s okay. She’s trying to save her son.”

“Alex,” said Niki. “He’s only thirteen.”

“Inside,” said Mole. “We don’t want anybody to hear that accent or see that fancy valise.”

Pytor handed Mole the suitcase and ushered Niki inside. Mole bolted the door.

“I got something for you,” said Pytor. He took the package from his pocket and handed it to Mole.

Mole unwrapped the waxy brown paper, then exclaimed, “Wow, high-grade selenium rectifiers, must be military.”   

“Got them under-the-counter at the Leninskya bazaar. When soldiers aren’t paid, the black-market thrives.”

Mole smiled. “Order out of chaos.”

“And I’ve got a radio, too,” Pytor added. “Maybe you can salvage something.”

Niki opened her bag, handed Mole the package, then shuffled her feet. “The toilet?”

Mole unlocked the door and looked down the hall. “You take her, Pytor, but be quick. I can’t risk having the neighbors know a foreigner is here.”

Pytor led Niki down the door-lined hallway to a small cubicle. “I’ll wait for you at Mole’s.”

Niki was thankful the light in the toilet room was dim, and thankful that the old woman had not stolen her little pack of Kleenex. Toilet paper appeared to be a luxury not all could afford.

When Niki returned and headed toward the sliver of light at the end of the hallway, she thought she heard one of the other doors ease shut.

“Come inside,” Mole said in apparent resignation, “but keep it to a whisper. The walls are thin.”

After Mole nervously
rebolted
all the locks, he added, “Don’t touch anything.”

The room was tiny, eight feet by twelve at the most. Indicator lights flashed from equipment balanced on crates, inside crates, and on the floor. Wires hung from the ceiling, draped the blackened window, and crisscrossed the floor. The only chair sat before a computer screen with a line of Cyrillic characters and rows of numbers. Next to the computer sat half a loaf of bread and a bag of loose tea leaves.

“You live here?” asked Niki.

Mole nodded toward one corner where part of a blanket draped from a shelf, apparently his bed.

“There’s a communal kitchen down a floor,” said Pytor.

“Where my neighbors try to poison me so they can get my space,” said Mole. “I’d rather eat cold food here. My needs are few.”

“Not true,” said Pytor. “You need to save the world.”

“Just Russia—from itself. Your father sent this?” Mole asked examining the radio. The newspaper wrapping lay scattered on the floor. Mole turned the knobs, hefted its weight, then put it down. “Something is strange.”

“It worked at the immigration station.”

Mole took off the back.

Pytor’s jaw dropped. A dosimeter was hidden inside. “How did he know?”

“Knowing things is his business,” said Niki. “What is it?”

“You’d call it a Geiger counter. It measures radiation.”

“But why did he hide it?” asked Niki.

“My country is like yours,” said Pytor. “There are things the government doesn’t want us to know.”

“What else does your father know about us?” asked Mole as he turned off some equipment.

“He must know what you do,” said Niki. “Your father said you might need that
radio
for your work.”

Pytor rotated the dosimeter in his hands, turned it on, and adjusted a knob. It clicked slowly.

“Why do you need it?” asked Niki.

“Pytor is trying to document radiation where there was a nuclear accident: the government doesn’t seem to care about radiation. They actually used atomic bombs for construction excavations.”

Pytor turned off the dosimeter and stared toward the blackened window.

“Radiation caused his wife’s cancer,” Mole said softly. “It’s been years, but he still thinks about her.”

“You don’t forget someone you love,” said Niki.

“But you can’t let personal feeling get in the way of the greater good. We will save thousands of lives when we convince—”

“She wants to go there,” said Pytor.

“Where?”

“There.”

“The tractor factory?”

“Her father lived in Chelyabinsk-40.”

“Techa was mentioned too,” Niki added.

“That’s a village right in the center of Chelyabinsk-40,” said Pytor. “It was very close to the Mayak production facility.”

Mole raised an eyebrow.

“It’s okay. She knows about Mayak. Anyway, the prisoners’ barracks used to be at Techa, but we think they’re gone now. No matter; there’s no way I could get that close to Mayak itself. We’d better get going.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help,” said Mole. He looked down at the scuffed leather of his worn-out work boots, then bent to the floor, and picked up the newspaper that had been wrapped around the radio. “Look at this.”

Pytor came over and read a few lines, then looked up. “It was no mistake that my father picked
this
paper for wrapping.”