“They’re not my friends. They never were.”
She looked at me hard. “Are you CIA?”
If I lied, she would know it. I paused too long before answering.
“Yes, you are.” She turned toward the window, took a few deep, audible breaths. “Tanya and Bohdan…?”
“Were involved in something very bad.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t need to know.” But why shouldn’t she?
“Tell me.”
“Sarin.”
She nodded slowly. “Stealing it, selling it.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. I’m glad they’re dead.”
Neighbors huddled on the sidewalk under dripping umbrellas, murmuring among themselves, turning anxious faces toward the faded brown apartment building where the murders had taken place. The rain was fine and warm, the sky a low gray sheet.
I brushed past the small groups, wearing a wide-brimmed rain hat pulled down around the sides of my face. The hat had been donated by Ilmira, who wanted me gone, completely and irrevocably gone, who would insist she’d not laid eyes on her American guest since the night before. The duffel bag on one shoulder and the backpack on the other were dead giveaways, but Ilmira had refused to let me leave my luggage behind. I expected to be stopped and identified at any moment. A sense of frightened chaos reigned among the bystanders, who were milling about, uncertain of the facts. Had there been one death or two? When had it happened? Why? A police car sped noiselessly up the street, its silence more ominous than a blaring siren would have been. It made a sharp turn into the parking lot behind the building. The ambulance and other vehicles were back there, their pulsing, glowing lights visible in the moist air. Local voyeurs streamed in that direction. I walked on alone.
I reached a commercial street on the edge of the city ten minutes later. Here there were shoppers, families on Saturday outings—people who wouldn’t have heard about the murders yet. A vendor outside a store offered me a bunch of chrysanthemums wrapped in cellophane. I waved her off, but she followed aggressively, prattling about the pretty flowers. She seemed to know I was a tourist. Was it really that obvious? Did I walk like a Westerner? Or was it my clothing that set me apart? All I knew for sure was that if I didn’t want to be instantly pegged as American, I had better not open my mouth.
The flower vendor trailed off, and I walked a little slower on the wet sidewalk, putting distance between myself and the scene of the crime. Another silent police car sped past. Stay calm. It might have nothing to do with the murders, I told myself. Clear thinking was needed now, not fearful reactions. First question: where to go?
The airport and hotels were off limits. If not now, then very soon, airport security and hotel personnel would be on the lookout for an American woman travelling alone. The CIA’s false documents wouldn’t be much help if I were questioned because I didn’t have a cover story to back them up. I had no idea who Anne-Marie Phipps was supposed to be. If I were detained, Ilmira would be called in to identify me, which she would do. She’d have no choice, as several of her neighbors would be able to make the identification, too. At that point, my false documents would only confirm my guilt.
With a shock of horror, I remembered that Ilmira and I had taken pictures of each other with our cell phones. When the police questioned her, would she produce images of my face to be broadcast on local television and published in the newspaper? Or would she keep them back, and afterwards delete them from her phone?
I mindlessly retraced the path I’d taken the day before. One of the city’s mangy stray dogs trotted beside me in strange companionship until I came to the battered door of the Evenki Cultural and Historical Museum. It was just past one o’clock, and the museum didn’t open until two, so I prayed a little as I pressed the buzzer, and was relieved to hear the halting scrape of the second-story window. Tolya peered over the ledge, reading glasses on his nose, tufts of white hair sticking out like the horns of a centaur’s helmet.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about my cousin,” I called up.
“Surely. Come up. The door’s open.”
I glanced up and down the street of small businesses, where people were going about their day in the warm drizzle. No one appeared to be paying attention to me. I stepped inside.
Tolya took my wet hat and jacket and made room for my bags inside the door of his small apartment. He offered tea, and set about preparing it before I had a chance to accept. “Have a seat. Emmie’s at work.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you. I need your help to go to Death Valley.” It made perfect sense once the words were out of my mouth. I would be safe in the wilderness, at least for a while, and I’d be on the path to finding Misha, if he was still alive.
Tolya set the tea things on the table, sat across from me, and smiled in his untroubled way, his hands resting easily in his lap. “To look for Mikhail Tarasov?”
“It’s his last known location. It’s possible something happened there—I have to check it out.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And you need help getting there.”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind that I came. I didn’t know who to ask.”
“Well, I can get you started. It’s a long trip—about six days on horseback. But you can get there in six hours if you go by air. Helicopters go out to herders’ camps every week or so with supplies. I can probably find a pilot who will take you, but it will cost a lot.”
“How much?”
“Depends when you want to go.”
“Today. I’d like to go today.”
“That’s not possible. Maybe tomorrow or Monday, but it will cost you more.”
“I’d really like to go today.”
“Why so urgent?”
“I’m heading back to the States soon. This is kind of a last-ditch effort.”
The kettle whistled, and he got up to shut it off. Over his shoulder he said, “You have cash with you?”
“I have some. I also have a credit card.”
“Okay, I’ll make some calls, see what I can do.”
He spent the next half hour on his cell phone, speaking in his native tongue. I understood nothing but the few Russian and English words he used. Amerikanka occurred frequently, and every time it did, I winced. I didn’t need people knowing my nationality.
The first few calls were short, but the last one went on for five or six minutes. He was increasingly pleased, smiling and nodding his head. He jotted some figures on a notepad before hanging up.
“Tomorrow is the earliest. You go first thing in the morning. You’ll have a very good pilot, Roxana Amasova, who’s very experienced. She’s flown anthropologists, oil and gas men, even people from National Geographic. She’s just back yesterday from taking tourists to see the woolly mammoth graves. She really gets around! Says there isn’t much to see at Death Valley, but she’ll take you if you really want to go. She’s a very good shot with a rifle—that’s good to know.”
“Thank you so much, Tolya. I really appreciate it.”
“It will cost sixty thousand rubles, including fuel and provisions for one night camping. Cash only. Paid up front.”
That came out to about $930 USD. I’d come to Mirny with a lot of cash in rubles, not knowing if I’d be able to depend on bank withdrawals or my credit card. But after having left Misha’s back rent for Ilmira, I had only about 13,000 rubles, or $200 USD, left. I rummaged in my purse for Oleg’s thick stack of rubles and thumbed the notes, quickly counting.
“Can you do it?” Tolya asks, reading my expression.
“Would she be willing to take fifty thousand rubles?”
Tolya pursed his leathery brown lips. “Hmm. Let me ask.” He got on the phone again, and engaged in another lengthy conversation. I could hear Roxana’s voice on the other end—first strident, then firm, then considerably softened. The end of their discussion involved a surprising amount of laughter. Tolya grinned as he hung up. “Done!” he said, raising his tea
mug.
I clinked my cup against his in relief.
The museum was soon to open. Emmie arrived home in time to apply eyeliner in front of a little mirror hanging on the closet door, and to brush her long hair into a silky sheen. She stepped carefully into her beaded white regalia, allowing me to help with the hook-and-eye clasps down the back, then set her silver headdress carefully on her head. She slipped her feet into dainty reindeer fur slippers and her right arm into the strap on the back of the reindeer skin shield, then stood before me proudly, transformed from just another third-world girl into a kind of arctic goddess.
“You look amazing,” I said.
She struck a three-quarter pose, her chin tilting up with queenly haughtiness, the gleam of supreme confidence in her dramatically darkened eyes.
I smiled indulgently.
After some moments in this posture, she petulantly asked, “Don’t you want to take a picture of me?”
“Of course, what am I thinking?” I scrambled for my phone—no, Anne-Marie Phipps’s phone.
At two o’clock, Tolya ceremoniously unlocked the front door, and hung the “open” sign. No one was waiting outside. Emmie sank to the floor in a magnificent white puddle to play Candy Crush on her phone. Tolya, looking dignified in his suit jacket, string tie, and beaded cap, read the newspaper. Neither seemed concerned by the museum’s lack of visitors.
A half hour before closing, a small herd of Japanese tourists gathered outside. They were led up the stairs by an English-speaking Russian guide. Closing their umbrellas, they filed respectfully into the cramped museum space, dividing themselves into three fairly regular rows.
Emmie performed beautifully, jabbering an insouciant mash of Russian and English—mostly Russian—which the guide gently rendered into pure English for the visitors, who occasionally whispered translations to each other in Japanese. Emmie proceeded to teach the visitors an Evenki greeting, and soon the Japanese were reciting it in unison, and everyone seemed quite pleased. In the end, the visitors showered Emmie with applause, and further gratified her by snapping countless pictures of her, Tolya, and practically everything else, no prompt required.
Tolya and Emmie were in fine spirits as they changed into casual clothes. I felt awkward hanging around for so long, but I didn’t dare show my face on the street. To buy more time, I offered to help Emmie with her English. She was thrilled, and we sat at the table for over an hour discussing simple subjects in English, with me making gentle corrections and writing English words and sentences on a pad of paper. Soon it was dinnertime, and they asked me to join them. Afterward, I mentioned that I’d checked out of my hotel and needed to find an inexpensive room for the night. They graciously encouraged me to stay with them, in a sleeping bag they would unroll for me on the museum floor. We passed the rest of the evening in pleasant conversation. They were as eager to learn about my life as I was to learn about theirs.
Later, I tried to fall sleep in the darkness among the shelves of Evenki artifacts, the handmade ancient saddle straddling its log post, and all the weather-beaten faces gazing down from photographs. The rain had stopped hours before, and the street below was quiet. Safe, I thought. For now. I was fairly certain that I hadn’t told Ilmira about my previous trip to the museum. And Tolya and Emmie, in their charming simplicity, didn’t watch TV. They didn’t even have one. Tolya might learn about the murders in the next day’s paper, but unless the story was accompanied by a photo of the prime suspect, he probably wouldn’t suspect me right away, as we’d grown to be friends, and he wasn’t the suspicious type.
I thought about Vera. I couldn’t call her on Anne-Marie Phipps’s phone. If I were captured, the call would be discovered and my cover, as pitiful as it was, would be blown. I wouldn’t ask to use Tolya’s for the same reason. The fewer connections he had to me, the better. It was about 1 p.m. in Maryland now. She would be worried and heartsick at not having heard from me for another evening. Eventually, she’d panic and start trying to reach me any number of ways—my cell phone, Lena, the hotel in Yakutsk, anything she could think of. But nothing would work—my cell phone was probably decommissioned by now, Lena couldn’t be reached, and the hotel would say I’d checked out days ago. When her anxiety got intense enough, she’d probably contact the US State Department, but they wouldn’t be able to help either. As far as the Western world was concerned, I’d fallen off the map.
I closed my eyes, needing desperately to rest. But it was useless: my brain was practically on fire from stress. I was guilty of murder, if not directly, then by association. If I were caught, I had no defense whatsoever. Even giving up my CIA handler—an act of treason I would never commit—wouldn’t exonerate me: it would only add the charge of espionage.
Giving up on sleep, I got up and quietly pulled a chair next to the window. The sky was murky black, letting no starlight or moonlight through. A couple of electric lights flickered on the street below. I sat by the window like a sentry all night long, my ears straining for the wail of approaching sirens or the thumping of police boots on the pavement. Those sounds didn’t come. But every once a while a group of Saturday night revelers passed below my perch, their young voices rising in boasting or gaiety, the tips of their cigarettes winking like fireflies in the dark. And somewhere nearby a dog kept barking furiously—sharp, jagged warnings that went on intermittently for hours.
At a private airstrip early the next morning, I waited in a one-room office. Not an office, really, more like a public shelter from the elements. The window onto the runway was grimy, its view of tethered helicopters and biplanes distorted by a torn polyurethane covering. Across the way, at the edge of woods, was a narrow outhouse on a raised platform, several steps on each side leading up to separate doors for women and men.
A white Ford Explorer pulled into the lot, and a woman got out. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, with a strong, compact body and a long braid of coarse graying hair. Wearing a canvas hunting vest and hiking boots, she introduced herself as Roxana Amasova and confirmed the price and details of the trip. There was a flinty light in her coal-black eyes as she appraised me. I assumed she was judging me for travel-worthiness, estimating just how much of a pain in the ass this lily-skinned American doctor would be.
The Mi-8 helicopter rose at the first streak of dawn—straining and balking at first, then letting go of the earth with a sudden powerful exhalation. As Mirny disappeared from sight, a portion of the tension I’d been carrying fell away. My lungs expanded as the helicopter’s glass nose filled with cloudless sky. Below, the dark green taiga, still nearly black in the shadows, rolled away evenly on every side.
Over the loud noise inside the cabin, Roxana shouted out a flight plan that meant nothing to me. Though the needle of the speedometer hovered at 138 miles per hour, it felt like we were drifting. The sun was rising far off in the yellowing southeast, like an event happening elsewhere.
An hour later, a ridge of snow-covered mountains appeared to the south. Forests of larch ran up the slopes as far as they could go, before surrendering to rock fields studded with craggy outcroppings of shale, which, in turn, gave way to wide snowy basins and white-capped mountain peaks.
Tiny rivulets plummeted down the slopes, merging into swelling streams that fell into a swollen river that rushed headlong across the floor of a narrow valley. The water was perfectly clear, no doubt icy cold, clogged in places by the branches and slender trunks of saplings that had been ripped from the low banks during spring floods. I looked for bear and wolves without success, but could make out flashes of fish scales in the water. The day blossomed into something brilliant; the sky turned Aegean blue.
Roxana guided the helicopter along the curve of the river, which grew wider and slower over the next hour. She occasionally consulted a rudimentary map affixed to a clipboard. At the fork of a large tributary, she banked north, and we followed a slender blue ribbon that curved through endless green forest. The larch morphed to pine, then birch, then back to larch—all of it unifor
mly dense. Rocky patches appeared and disappeared, and there were sudden glimpses of sparkling streams. Distant foothills were shrouded in a smoky haze.
Soon we were rising into hills again, and eventually crested a ridge. Now an entirely new terrain appeared: rocky mountains with round gray tops crowded close together. A shallow valley opened up. It was covered in places by short trees and underbrush, in others by carpets of moss and gold-flecked lichen. Patches of dirt and rocky fields made up the rest.
Four crumbling stone structures occupied the far end of the valley—several small ones, a larger building set apart. Doors and windows were missing, and portions of walls had collapsed into rubble. A number of open-mouthed tunnels dotted the surrounding hillsides, and running everywhere were the remnants of wooden tracks. There were no electrified fences, no razor-wire, no sentry towers—nothing to identify it as a prison—yet a shudder of fear passed through me anyway. I could almost see the single-file lines of malnourished inmates staggering into the underground shafts.
Roxana set the helicopter down on a flat area at the edge of the valley, far from the prison camp. I was confused by this choice—it would have been easy to land closer to the site. When the engine was turned off, I asked why we were so far away.
“Radioactivity,” she said without perceptible emotion. “I’m going to stay with the helicopter and set up camp, so you’ll be going on alone. You’ll have at most three hours of daylight to hike to the site, take pictures or do whatever you want to do there, and return.”
“How high are the levels?” I heard the tremor of fear in my voice.
“You’ll be okay as long as you have this.” She presented me with a bright orange plastic instrument with a digital display—a Geiger counter. It was surprisingly light, fit in the palm of my hand. A couple of AAA batteries fit into a slot on the back. Not only did the rate of beeping increase when radiation was detected, Roxana explained, but the background of the digital display turned color as well: green for safe, yellow for risk, orange for danger, red for critical.
FINDING KATARINA M. Page 17