Belly of the Beast (21 page)

“Both.” Maria ripped another piece of cloth. “Victor took out his frustration on Hauser. After beating him senseless, he sent him to the Magadan Gulag on the far side of Siberia. It was just for people from Mayak. Six months later, Lana defected. Victor disguised his rage as patriotism and got permission to track her down.”

“For once he didn’t get his prey,” said Niki.

“I don’t know that he has given up,” said Maria. “He may have transferred his manic obsession to you.”

Niki sat up on her elbows.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Pytor.

“I’ve given up looking for my father,” said Niki.

Maria nodded. “It is not likely Hauser survived the gulag.”

“But he did.” Niki pulled the note from her satchel and handed it to Pytor. “This is what I found. I . . .”

Pytor read slowly from the yellowed paper:

Returned to Mayak as rehabilitated Russian worker, my dearest. Spills continue and I look for you in tunnel. Some say you are on trip. Should you find this, I have adopted your surname. I am at your birth year, initial of your patronym street, Tatysh. My love til death, J.

“He’s Joseph Trepov now,” said Niki.

Maria tied a knot in the last wrap. “I knew he was exiled. I didn’t know he had returned. Someone who has something to hide keeps to himself.”

Pytor put the note down. “This must be thirty years old.

“Birth year,” said Niki. “Why the riddle?”

“So if someone else found the note, they couldn’t trace it to Joseph,” said Pytor.

“I can trace it,” said Niki. “My mother’s patronym was Mikhailovna. So nineteen thirty-two or maybe just thirty-two on M street. Does that make any sense?”

“It’s probably thirty-two Mayakovskogo Street, one of the old wooden barracks on the other side of Tatysh, not far, but I don’t know anyone over there. Everyone has something to hide. We keep to ourselves. I’m done with your leg now.”

Niki looked down. “You do this sort of thing often?”

“Oh no. I’ve never sewn a person before, but I’ve always wanted to. I hand-stitched the curtains and made this blouse, do you like it?” Maria smiled.

Niki did her best to smile back, then turned to Pytor. “You’re right about the note. It’s a cold lead, and Hauser, if he is my father, probably isn’t a match. I can’t take you on another wild chase. You’ve got to get back to Katrina.”

“I’ll get some clothes for you,” said Maria. “Pytor, throw all her stuff out the back door. Where’s the other boot?”

“She threw it out,” said Pytor.

“Actually, I tossed it in the back of Malenkov’s car.”

There was a noise at the back door.

Niki clutched the blankets to her neck.

Borya stepped inside and stomped his feet. He carried a large duffel bag and wore a rucksack on his back.

“It’s still snowing, I think the roads will be blocked soon. Just as well, it will slow down Comrade Malenkov. Too bad about his car. It rolled into a ravine.”

“Did you leave tracks to here?” asked Maria.

“Backtracked and walked on the steam line. Even a bloodhound would get lost.”

“Good, did you get the girl’s boot from the back seat?”

“Boot?”

“Too bad,” Maria deadpanned, “Comrade Malenkov will be going house to house to find who it fits.”

Borya took off his coat and shook it. “Did you give her milk?”

“I just finished her leg.”

“Give her milk. I brought salo and bread, traveling food. I’ll not be going back to my place.”

Maria pointed to the stove. “Heat up the borscht and thaw some fish, I’ve got to find clothes.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Niki.

“You have to eat,” said Maria as she dug through a chest. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself.”

After Niki was dressed, Pytor helped her to the table. She nibbled the edge of a piece of salmon.

“You haven’t eaten since this morning,” said Pytor.

“I’m just not hungry.”

“That’s not a good sign,” said Maria.

“Can she travel?” asked Borya. “We all need to get going.”

Maria raised her eyebrows. “Borya Borisavich, am I going somewhere?”

“East, to Siberia. You will love it there. There are so many salmon you can walk across the rivers on their backs.”

“You are dreaming, old man. The weather in the east is bad.”

Borya smiled. “There is no such thing as bad weather, only dressing badly for the weather. I see you have taught Niki the lesson.”

Niki was now dressed in peasant clothes, baggy grey pants with a simple drawstring and an equally drab blouse. Heavy quilted overpants and a parka were draped over the sofa.

“We’ve got to keep her warm.” Maria got up and put the kettle on the stove once more.

With Maria behind him, Borya leaned forward and whispered. “I saw cars. KGB. They stopped in front of my place as I went out the back and ran for my life. We’re all in grave danger. I don’t want Maria to worry.”

“Do you think I am deaf, old man?”

Borya shrugged. “I just don’t want you to panic. You know how women are.”

“I’ll just stay in the kitchen and make tea then.”

Borya leaned forward again. “Perhaps the checkpoints have not been notified about you. The phone and power lines are down. If you can get as far as Kasli, you should make a run to the east, they wouldn’t expect that.”

“Then that’s the first thing they’d expect,” Maria said from the kitchen.

“If Malenkov is alive,” said Niki, “he’ll find a way to notify the checkpoints.”

“One way or the other, I have to get to my daughter,” said Pytor. “It won’t be long before they figure things out, then they’ll pick her up.”

“Go without me,” said Niki. “You’ll have a better chance. You were supposed to be here in the first place. There’s no reason for me to hurry anymore. I’d do just as well to let Malenkov find me and convince him to give me his bone marrow.”

“I’m not going to leave you,” said Pytor.

Niki hung her head. “I’m sorry about all this. Coming here was a stupid idea from the start.”

Pytor stood and got his coat. “It was a noble idea, and you did not fail in the effort.”

Niki put on the overpants.

“At least I have money for fuel,” Pytor said as he reached into his coat pocket.

“It may be difficult to find a benzene station open,” said Borya. “It’s almost six, blizzarding, and there is no power.”

“I’ll steal it if I have to.” Pytor pulled Malenkov’s pistol from his coat pocket and tucked it under his belt. Then he checked all his other pockets. Slow and methodical turned to frantic and desperate.

“No bullets?” asked Borya.

“Worse. I can’t find my passport. Niki?”

“I don’t have either one.”

“Malenkov. He frisked me while I was face down, and he went through your satchel. How could I be so stupid? I could have gotten them after I knocked him out. We’re trapped.”

“There must be some way,” said Niki.

“What about the train?” asked Pytor. “There are tracks within a kilometer, and conductors can be bribed easier than the soldiers.”

“There is no passenger train here,” said Borya.”

“I already asked about the milk train in Kyshtym,” said Niki. “Borya said there was no way we could get on it.”

“It doesn’t leave until 8:15,” said Maria.

“They have to keep the milk from freezing,” said Pytor. “If we dressed warm—”

“The trains are checked with guard dogs,” said Borya. “Outsiders aren’t welcome in Kyshtym.”

Maria turned and put a hand on Borya’s shoulder. “Observation is the crux of science, old man. They check the trains coming in. They don’t check the trains going out. What is someone going to take from this place, plutonium?”

“How do you know so much about the trains?” asked Borya.

“My mother still lived in Verkhniy when I started work here. We weren’t ever supposed to leave, but I snuck out several times to visit her—one of those things punishable by death. I rode the freight trains, and I was good at it. I still notice when they come and go.”

“At least we can drive to Kyshtym without passports.” said Pytor.

Borya looked at his watch again. “It’s too late for that. They man the checkpoint this side of the city after six.”

“Use the ice road,” said Maria.

Borya smiled. “I suppose that would work. Fishermen drive cars onto the lake by the checkpoint from both ends. I could get you around the checkpoint and drop you off at the train in Kyshtym, then drive myself back to Maria. Even in this weather, I could be back in twenty-five minutes.

“They do a cursory inspection of the train at eight,” said Maria. “You would be ill-advised to be there early.”

“Then tea is a good idea,” said Borya. Maria turned to Niki and touched her blond hair. “This child doesn’t have time for tea. She has two hours to find Joseph Trepov. By the way, he was blond. Yuri Kolchak and Victor Malenkov had black hair. Joseph is most likely your father.”

“I can’t put this on,” said Niki as she studied the quilted peasant’s parka.

Maria shook her head. “Now is not the time to be snobby about fashion.”

“You don’t understand,” said Niki. “I’m claustrophobic. I can’t pull clothes over my head.”

Pytor looked over. “You crawled down that rabbit hole and you can’t put on a coat?”

“Hush. What do you know,” said Maria. “Phobias aren’t about making sense.” Maria held up the coat. “Sorry, workers couldn’t afford zippers and buttons allow drafts. Put up your hands and I’ll pull it down quickly.”

“No. I’ll have to do this myself.” Niki she took a deep breath slipped the bulky coat over her head.

“Gray looks good on you,” said Maria. “Now you like a poor Russian.”

Borya looked at Pytor, then opened his duffel bag. “I’ll trade clothes with you. You will both be Siberian peasants dressed for the weather.”

Niki felt along her sides. “No pockets?”

“Peasants don’t own much. Just a small inner pocket on the coat.”

While Pytor changed, Niki slipped her notebook, the picture of Alex, and the medallion into her one pocket, then laced the boots Maria had given her and hoped that peasants’ feet didn’t hurt as badly as hers did. She picked up her leather satchel and put Malenkov’s black gloves inside it.

Maria frowned. “That will never do. A peasant with a fancy leather bag.”

“My medical kit is inside. I need it.”

“Just a minute.” Maria rummaged under a counter and returned with a long-handled cloth sack. “We won’t be picking vegetables for a while.”

Niki pulled up the hood of her coat, put her satchel in the vegetable sack, then hesitated. “The bag for the bone marrow is soft plastic. We’ll need to protect it.”

Pytor sighed. “A full bag is not likely a problem we will have.”

“Don’t take away the child’s hope,” said Maria.

Niki spotted the stainless canister by the sofa and pointed. “Can that be cleaned?”

“Stainless is easy to decontaminate,” said Maria. “The new tunnels are lined with it.” She grabbed the canister and a lantern and washed the toxic sludge down the sink drain. “A little more radioactive waste in the lake won’t be noticed.” She quickly scrubbed the container with soap and hot tea water, then handed it to Niki.

“I’ll need to keep it cold. Do you have a plastic bag?”

“Plastic bag?” Pytor and Maria asked in unison.

“Something waterproof to hold snow around the canister.”

“I have an oilskin sack,” said Maria. “I use it to make cheese.”

“Perfect.” Niki packed the canister, oilskin, and satchel in the vegetable bag, then hugged the bald woman who had been generous enough to risk her life for a stranger.

“I studied medicine before I was sent here,” whispered Maria. “Your leg will be fine. It’s the radiation I worry about.”

“I’ll drink milk,” Niki whispered back.

“And don’t worry about us. We’ll stay here a while and see what happens. I keep my finger on the pulse of the authorities. No one pays attention to a crazy woman.”

Niki hugged Maria one more time.

At the horse barn, fresh snow was two inches deep around Pytor’s car. Borya drove while Pytor pushed until the car was back on level road.

32 Mayakovskogo Street was only three minutes away. Pytor and Niki made fresh tracks up the path to a faint light at the end of a ramshackle barracks.

“Gone,” said the woman peering from behind the weathered door, “and good riddance. They said he was Russian, but I think he was a foreigner. You a foreigner?”

“She’s Latvian,” said Pytor.

“Why do you have a planting bag? Foreigners aren’t allowed in Tatysh. I should report you.”

“She’s not a foreigner.”

“Do you know where Joseph Trepov went?” asked Niki.

“Got sick from those deformed kids at the orphanage. Foreigners carry diseases. I fumigated this place before I moved in.”

“But do you know where he is now?”

“Probably dead. Don’t bother me.”

Pytor helped Niki walk back to the car. From the expression on Niki’s face, she did not need to explain anything to Borya. “We have an hour and a half left,” he said. “Shall we go back to Maria’s?”

“I should have gotten bone marrow from Malenkov,” Niki lamented.

“It’s not likely I’m really your brother,” said Pytor, “but you can have my bone morrow if it would make a difference.”

“Thank you. It’s something I can cling to. We’ll do it when we get back to Katrina.”

“The roads are getting worse,” said Pytor. “It may be wise to start off now. We can wait out of sight in town.”

Borya pulled out on to the main road. A car passed, lights flashing in Niki’s eyes. “Are there many orphanages?” she asked.

“There are many orphans,” answered Borya. “Most villages have one or two. There’s a boy’s orphanage on Mira Prospect back just a few blocks back.”

“Maybe Joseph worked there,” said Niki. She hesitated, then added, “It could take an hour just to draw the marrow. Keep going. We can’t risk Katrina’s life on another long shot. The old woman said Joseph was probably dead.”

“But we’ve come this far,” said Pytor. “We have to go back and turn over that last stone. You’ll always regret it otherwise.”

A few minutes later, Borya stopped Pytor’s car at the Tatysh Boys’ Orphanage.

At the door, Pytor looked back at his car. The snow had melted over the warm engine making it especially conspicuous. While Niki knocked, Pytor hurried back to the car and to ask Borya to park out of sight.

A minute later, Niki and Pytor were invited inside by a kindly babushka, a Russian grandmother clad in a traditional long dress. In a barren office on the second floor, Niki told her story.

“I don’t know of a Joseph Trepov, but I’ve only been here a year. Wait here and I’ll check our files.

Babushka left to search for both Joseph Hauser and Joseph Trepov.

Niki sat on the sole chair. Pytor stood next to her. A single lantern lit wall paint peeling in a slowly changing collage of brown and lime green. The stench of urine tugged at Niki’s attention, but she focused on one thought:
If I find Joseph Hauser, I will save Alex
.

Somewhere a child cried.

“You heard what Maria said about Joseph and my blond hair,” said Niki as she nervously turned the stainless canister in her hands, “so I really think he is my father, and I think I’m going to find him. I’m just sorry to drag you into this, Pytor.”

“Living on the verge of catastrophe is pretty much everyday life for most of us,” said Pytor as he walked toward the frost-tatted window.

“If we find my father, I’ll hurry,” said Niki. “I’m sure I could get the bone marrow in forty-five minutes, and I just know it will match.”

Pytor rubbed a peep hole on the frosted glass and looked out. He stiffened and stepped back. “There’s a car out front. The passenger’s face is wrapped in bandages.”

Niki was on her feet as Pytor started for the door. Babushka blocked their way. “Joseph Trepov stopped coming here eight years ago,” she said. “Our files say he’s dead.”

Without knowing what hit her, Niki collapsed to her knees. The canister rolled to the doorway. “Dead? No, he can’t be. No.”

Pytor knelt beside her, tried to hold her, but Niki doubled forward, her head pressed to the urine-soaked floor. Pain rose from deep within her womb, intensified as it swept past her heart, and exited her lips as the wail of some wild beast, trapped, dying. It echoed wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

Only when Niki gasped for breath could the footfalls of Victor Malenkov be heard coming down the corridor.