Jaq crept out and crossed the corridor. Immediately opposite was another changing room with the number six. The same layout but with urinals. This one smelt different. Musty. Mouldy. Disused. Were there no men here in Sector Twelve? She moved past the toilets. She found the showers and benches and . . . bingo! Lockers.
Eight rows of forty lockers. She headed for the last line. The numbering on the key was logical. 12016834 – Sector Twelve, Ground Floor 01, Amenity 6, Row 8. Now all she needed to find was locker 34.
Bolas!
Row eight only had thirty lockers. All the other rows had forty. But at the last row the hot water pipes entered the room and made a 90-degree bend, robbing the space.
Jaq collapsed onto a bench and put her head in her hands. She shivered, suddenly cold and completely exhausted. Why had she come? What was the point? She didn’t have the energy to rage. Or to cry.
The aniseed smell from the urinals finally forced her to look up. Turn towards the exit. And then she saw them. Ten extra lockers tucked in behind the door. Numbers 830 to 840.
Jaq’s fingers trembled as she put the key in the lock of 834. Come on. This must be it. The shaft slid in and turned easily. She pressed the handle and opened the door. Empty. After all this, after all she’d been through to get here, how could it be empty? Sergei, you bastard, why did you send me on this wild goose chase? She thrust her hand to the back and it made contact with something other than steel. Rough, pliable, rectangular: a cardboard shoebox. Slowly, she withdrew the box then checked behind it. Nothing else. Heavy, more than shoes in here. Whatever Sergei had been hiding, the secret was in this box.
A noise. Footsteps outside. Jaq jammed the box under her gown and stood in front of the locker, pushing it closed with an elbow.
The door opened. The superintendent strode in and scowled. She spoke in Ukrainian with a heavy accent. Jaq clutched at her stomach, bending forward to hide the shoebox as she moved towards one of the stalls.
The superintendent’s eyes widened. She probably didn’t fancy cleaning up after Jaq. She strode out, banging the door behind her.
Jaq flushed the toilet and ran the tap at the handbasin in case the superintendent was listening. The bag underneath the drip pouch was big enough to take the shoebox. Jaq stuffed it in and shuffled back to the door.
The superintendent was waiting.
‘Inzhener?’ she asked. Engineer. The Russian word had the proper derivation. From ingenuity, not from engine. No wonder the English undervalued their engineers, regarding them as mechanics rather than inventors.
‘Da.’ Jaq nodded.
‘Distsiplina?’ What sort?
No point in lying. ‘Khimicheskaya.’ Chemical.
The superintendent beamed ‘Khorosho.’ Good.
Why was it good? Were they short of chemical engineers for the New Safe Confinement project? More the preserve of structural engineers and physicists, but you never knew what sort of challenges a major project like this could throw up. At least the superintendent seemed friendlier now.
‘Kompanii?’ Fancy some company? Ah, a bit too friendly.
Jaq liked women. As friends. How different might her life have been if she had felt the same sexual desire for women as for men. One day she might give it a try. But not here and not now. Not in a modular Finnish hostel in a radioactive fallout zone in a hospital gown with a drip attached. Not with an intimidating woman sporting a blonde beehive cast from stone. Right now, Jaq was more interested in Sergei’s shoebox than a sapphic adventure.
‘Nyet.’ Jaq reached her room. ‘Mne nuzhno pospat.’ I need to sleep.
Jaq closed the door. When the squeaking of slippers across the linoleum had stopped, Jaq opened the door to confirm she’d really gone.
Only then did she dare to open the shoebox.
Wednesday 1 June, Kiev, Ukraine
Frank paced up and down, his room too small to work off the seething anger. What the fuck was The Spider playing at? The message from Pauk said: Unavoidably delayed. Speak later. What sort of a message was that? Not a word of apology, no explanation. When was ‘later’? Today? Tomorrow? Next week? Who was paying whom? Not any more. That was that. Frank had always been straight with his employees. Firm and fair. Although fair depended on your point of view, always firm. No one received a second chance to fail. Exactly what he told the project team in Smolensk. You fuck up, and you’re out.
The internet was so slow it was useless, the mobile reception even worse. When he had complained, the dumb blonde at reception had suggested a tour of the city instead. As if he had time. Her sidekick strongly recommended a day trip to Chernobyl, except he couldn’t even pronounce it right. As if he fancied being irradiated. Frank had told him where to shove those ideas.
Well, Pauk had missed his chance. Whatever business opportunity The Spider was so keen to promote, he had failed at the first hurdle. First rule of business – never keep Frank Good waiting.
He contacted the airline from the hotel phone. There was a flight out this evening via Paris – heaven forbid, Charles de Gaulle was the worst airport in the world. An earlier flight via Amsterdam might be possible, if he hurried.
Frank travelled light: a good-quality three-piece wool suit, Italian leather shoes, spare shirts – professionally laundered and folded for travelling, several sets of cufflinks, two ties – daytime and evening, black socks, clean crotch-hugging trunks, shaving kit, deodorant, aftershave and condoms. Everything he wasn’t wearing packed snugly into his four-wheeled carry-on suitcase.
He shut down his computer and slid it into the padded section of his case. Where was his passport? He’d presented it at check-in. The receptionist had spouted some nonsense about a broken photocopier and promised to send it up. Now he thought about it, had they ever returned it?
Frank telephoned reception but got the idiot bloke who had no idea that working in a hotel might involve the ability to speak something other than sodding Slav gibberish. He stormed down and made a beeline for the pretty receptionist. The airhead with plump cheeks and dimples. On her face, as well.
She forced a smile as he approached. God, he could teach her to do better. A little slap and tickle and she’d be grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening those pouting red lips for him. He stiffened at the thought.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Bad luck, honey. Next time. Not that there would be a next time. No, she’d missed her chance. ‘I’m checking out.’ He gave his name and room number. ‘You have my passport.’
She went to the computer and frowned. ‘Sir, there must be some mistake. Your room is booked for three nights.’
‘No mistake,’ he said. ‘I’m on the next flight out.’
‘Was everything all right, sir?’
‘No.’ Frank listed the various deficiencies in the hotel. She stopped writing them down halfway through his diatribe and a faraway look came into her eyes. This one needed more slap than tickle. ‘Give me my passport,’ he concluded.
He examined her bottom as she searched the pigeonholes, coming back empty-handed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s not here. We must have returned it to you. Are you sure it is not in your room?’
He scanned her name badge – Irina – and licked his lips. ‘Do you like your job here, Irina?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, Mr Good.’
‘Then it is a pity you are about to be fired, Irina.’
She bit her lip and looked around for support. ‘Sir?’
‘Unless you find my passport in the next two minutes, I will kick up such a stink, lodge such a detailed complaint, specifically about you, that you will be on the street without references and blacklisted from every hotel in Kiev.’
Tears welled up in her blue eyes. ‘But, sir. I didn’t take your passport. It’s not my fault.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ he snarled. ‘Right now, you represent the hotel group. I am holding you, and you alone, fully responsible.’
She blushed, her alabaster skin turning wine red. ‘But, sir . . .’
‘Yo
ur American masters always take immediate action. Sack first, ask questions later.’ He flicked a finger at her. ‘My passport. There’s a good girl.’
She scuttled away and returned with her supervisor, the useless bloke who barely spoke English.
‘Your passhport,’ he said. ‘Whiss Mr Pauk.’
Frank snapped to attention. ‘Pauk is here?’
The man said something unintelligible and the bimbo translated. ‘Yes, sir. He checked in before you arrived.’
Frank slammed his fist on the counter. ‘Then where the fuck is he?’
‘Message, sir.’ The man handed over an envelope addressed to Mr Good.
Frank tore it open and his jaw dropped.
Cocktails at 7 p.m. Rooftop bar. See you then.
Pauk
PS You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?
Wednesday 1 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
A silence settled over the workers’ dormitory in Sector Twelve. Alone in the medical room, Jaq stared at the open shoebox. Inside lay a rectangular gadget. Matte black with a lilac sheen. A Geiger counter? Not one of the clunky old instruments from 1986. This device appeared new – brand new. A screen covered two thirds of the top surface and a keyboard occupied the other third. A toggle switch, a power socket and an empty USB port punctured the side with the manufacturer’s symbol – a wheel of fortune – embossed on the front. Underneath that, the name TYCHE in large bold letters. Tracker in italics underneath the name. Scratched onto the front, four Cyrillic letters – Of course. Klyutch. Russian for key. The key had opened the door to another key. The new key was some sort of Geiger counter.
With a battery that was completely dead.
Jaq barely slept, drifting in and out of dreams, waking to the noise of birdsong. The intravenous fluid bottle was empty. She tore the drip out of her arm, wincing at the sharp pain, and ran to the bathroom. Insides still liquid, but no more vomiting. Progress. She dressed and called the travel agency from a payphone in the hall. Petr sounded guilty for having abandoned her, and expressed relief that she had been given the all-clear. If he was surprised to hear she was in a workers’ dormitory in Sector Twelve, he didn’t show it. He promised to send special transport so she could join a Japanese tour group on their way back after a three-day trip. She dressed and waited outside. Soft rain fell, and she sheltered under an awning until the noise of an approaching car beckoned.
The taciturn driver raced over the potholed roads through acres of forest. She was glad there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. They travelled south, leaving Sector Twelve, close to the border with Belarus, passing the deserted city of Pripyat and skirting the Chornobyl nuclear power plant. She gazed out at Reactor Four, deceptively peaceful in the sunshine, no visible sign of the sleeping dragon trapped inside. The taxi skirted the construction site for the New Safe Confinement and continued by the lake, down the Pripyat River, through the buried village of Kopachi to the checkpoint at Leliv.
‘Da Silva?’ A woman with twinkling brown eyes and aubergine-coloured hair was waiting for her. ‘From Petr’s group? How are you feeling?’
Lousy. ‘Better, thanks.’
The new guide introduced herself as Katya and invited Jaq to join her group.
Jaq gripped her bag as she stood in line for the exit check. She adjusted her position, bringing the bag closer to her body until the sharp corners of the box pressed against her ribs. The weight of the Geiger counter made her shoulder sag. Would anyone notice? What were the rules? No souvenirs from Chornobyl. But this was no souvenir; this was a key. A key on which her freedom, her professional future, if not her life, depended.
A group of middle-aged Japanese men went first, all identically dressed in brand-new microfibre hiking gear, just one rebel with a ponytail and facial hair wearing a pink and green paisley shirt over jeans.
‘Nastupnyy bud’-laska,’ the female guard shouted. Next, please.
Jaq stood aside to let an elderly Japanese couple go ahead of her. The man was given the all-clear. The woman set off all the alarms. Katya handed a piece of paper to the guard and he nodded her through.
Jaq looked at Katya and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Doctor’s note,’ Katya whispered. ‘Cancer treatment . . . remains in the body for a long time. Now you.’
Jaq bit her lip as she approached the square metal frame. She was expecting it, but she still jumped as the lights flashed and this time a siren sounded.
‘Shoes and bag,’ Katya said.
She removed her shoes. The guard opened her bag and scanned the items one by one. A female guard opened the box and started shouting.
Katya approached the guard and raised an eyebrow. ‘Your personal Geiger counter?’
Jaq nodded.
The female guard, rosy-faced with fury, pointed at the box, shaking a fist at Katya.
‘This is a proscribed instrument,’ Katya said. ‘You need permission.’
‘I have permission.’ In the face of bureaucracy, attack was the best form of defence. Confidence and authority, determination to match intimidation. ‘I was with another group. We left the paperwork here. Don’t tell me they lost it?’
The guard stood with her hands folded under her bosom and glared as Katya translated. The male guard picked up the box and carried it to the back office, closing the door. Perhaps Jaq had underestimated the Ukrainian response to determination.
‘Hey!’ Jaq shouted. ‘That’s mine.’
‘I’ll sort it out,’ Katya whispered. ‘Get back to the bus.’
Jaq paced up and down beside the coach while the rest of the party waited inside it. The engine rumbled into life as Katya emerged from the security building. Empty-handed.
‘What about my Geiger counter?’ Jaq said, barring her way to the bus.
‘Confiscated.’
Jaq stood her ground. ‘I’m not leaving without it.’
Katya brought her face close and hissed. ‘I don’t know where you got that thing.’ She took Jaq’s arm. ‘But right now, for your own safety, we need to get out of here.’
An armed guard emerged from the building, striding towards them with a phone to his ear. He didn’t look friendly. Jaq let Katya haul her onto the bus. The doors hissed closed and the bus rattled away from the checkpoint.
Leaving the Tyche tracker behind.
Thursday 2 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
The bus turned onto a long, straight road. The security building disappeared from sight and with it the best hope of unlocking the mystery. So close. Jaq thumped the seat beside her with a clenched fist. ‘We have to go back.’
‘Don’t push it,’ Katya said. ‘You were lucky not to get us both arrested.’
Jaq gripped her wrist. ‘But I need it.’
‘I can’t help you,’ Katya prised Jaq’s fingers away. ‘Petr will sort it . . .’
Of course. Petr would be able to resolve things.
‘. . . if you had permission.’
Jaq put her head in her hands. Hopeless. It was all hopeless.
They turned towards the eponymous town of Chernobyl, now Chornobyl, a few miles to the south-east of Leliv.
Katya spoke into a microphone. ‘Can I have your attention, please?’
‘Minasama . . .’ The young Japanese interpreter bowed and took another microphone.
‘Our final stop before lunch . . .’
The Tyche tracker languished in an office in Leliv. How long would it stay there? Would they plug it in and charge it up? Check the data? Or just wipe it? One way or another, she had to get the tracker back before they tampered with it. Whatever it took.
The bus pulled to a halt outside a monument. Could she slip away? Easy. Hail a cab? Unlikely. The road was empty. Walk? They had only travelled a few miles. Possible. And then what? How was she to prevail over armed security guards? She glanced up at Katya. The tour guide was her only hope.
She followed the rest of the group from the bus as they gathered around the
monument to the emergency responders.
‘Nan nin ga shibo . . .?’
‘How many people died?’
‘Thirty-one people died as a direct result of the accident,’ Katya said. ‘One man died immediately, killed by the explosion and forever buried in the rubble, one of a heart attack. Most of the rest were flown to Moscow to be treated in a specialist unit.’ She paused. ‘They could not be saved.’
Jaq looked up at the sky. A slow, cruel death. Unimaginable pain as the body succumbs to acute radiation exposure. The skin turns black and begins to fall off. The body swells up; internal membranes ulcerate. The vital organs shut down one by one; the body shrinks and desiccates. And only then, after days or weeks of intolerable pain, does death arrive.
The Chernobyl first responders suffered from raging thirst, but they could not drink, sudden hunger but they could not eat. Touch was forbidden; they had absorbed enough radiation to become a source of danger to everyone around them. Not that they could bear to be touched through their burning, raw skin. Somehow their relatives cared for them while the doctors attempted to heal them. All to no avail.
Katya continued. ‘In the months after the accident, 600,000 volunteers – scientists, miners, construction workers, soldiers – were drafted in to limit the spread of radioactivity. Killing animals, harvesting crops and burying them along with the topsoil, covering up everything contaminated.’
The liquidators. Jaq closed her eyes. Not all were volunteers. Conscripts as well.
Katya finished, pointing up at the statue.
‘This memorial is to all the heroes. The inscription says: To Those Who Saved the World.’
An elderly Japanese woman produced a small wreath from her handbag and laid it at the base of the monument. The group bowed their heads and stood in silence for a moment.
Jaq mourned for the men and women of Chernobyl Reactor Four.
The engineers were given an unstable beast in a complex cage and then, on the night of 26 April 1986, were ordered to unlock all the doors to see if the monster could escape.
It did.
The Chemical Detective Page 23