The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  Jaq sat apart from the rest of the group at lunch. She needed space to think. How had she ended up here? The single tourist hotel in a ruined town? She flinched at the clink of steel cutlery on china plates as the tour group tucked into borscht, and gagged at the smell of roasting meat from the gleaming modern kitchen. The food would do her no harm, all brought in from outside the zone of alienation, all checked for isotopes of caesium-137. She wasn’t hungry.

  She’d read about Chernobyl, written about it, lectured on it; now she had seen the harsh reality for herself.

  The rush for nuclear power in the Soviet Union accelerated with the cold war. To compete with the West, the Soviets needed affordable power. The coal, oil and gas lay deep underground in the most remote regions, difficult to extract and transport to populated areas. So, when uranium was found in Kazakhstan, the wartime nuclear programme was reconfigured to include domestic power generation.

  The technology recommended by the expert Soviet team was rejected. An inferior design was chosen, one which would be faster to implement.

  But there were two critical design flaws.

  In the military design chosen for the Chernobyl complex, the coolant was water. As the water boiled, the reactor power increased, releasing more heat and causing more water to vaporise, reducing the water level further in a vicious circle.

  The experts understood this design flaw. The automatic control system was enhanced with secondary safety systems including an emergency shutdown button which inserted additional control rods.

  But there was a second design flaw. As the control rods descended, they displaced water, so instead of reducing the power of the reactor, the power momentarily increased.

  When the night shift took over just after midnight on Saturday, 26 April 1986, an insanely unsafe safety test was in progress on Chernobyl Reactor Number Four.

  A supervisor intervened; he hit the emergency shutdown button. The control rods started to fall. The entry of the graphite tip of the boron control rod into an already unstable reactor was the final straw.

  The power surged.

  The first explosion happened seconds later, lifting the 1,000-tonne upper shield. A second, more powerful explosion followed. Lumps of fuel and graphite were ejected from the core, catching fire as they hit the air.

  Compared with the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, four hundred times the amount of radioactive material was released from the Chernobyl reactor explosion. Unprotected workers received fatal doses in less than a minute, though it took them weeks to die. Radiation. Jaq shivered. Something chilling about not being able to see or touch or smell or hear the danger. Did it make them braver? Did the first responders know what they were walking into? Some did, and yet still they came.

  The engineers on shift that night knew the risks. They understood that to stay was to die; knew they were being exposed to fatal doses of radiation. And yet they never faltered. Had they not acted, the accident would have been a hundred, a thousand times worse, and Europe would be a different place today.

  The scientists who came later certainly knew; those who mapped the zone of alienation, walking across contaminated land with handheld Geiger counters, fully aware that the dose they received doing their vital job made a slow and horrible death inevitable.

  But what about the liquidators, the ones sent to clean up afterwards, the ones who were given vodka and cigarettes instead of protective clothing and dosimeters, medals instead of medical screening? The ones who died slowly? Were still dying? The former Soviet Union was good at that. Throwing men and women into the path of monsters. Sacrificing individuals to save the greater humanity.

  What had she achieved by coming here? Nothing. She had one task. Only one task. To find Sergei’s locker and retrieve the evidence she needed. She’d had it in her hands, and then let it slip away.

  Metal chair legs screeched against polished tiles. The tour group were on the move, but the guide was nowhere to be seen.

  She had to give it one last try.

  The tour guide sat in the bus, talking on the phone. And there beside her, on the front seat was . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . a shoebox.

  Katya scowled as she handed it over.

  Jaq hooted with relief. ‘How did you—’

  ‘Petr says you owe him lunch.’

  The group passed through the thirty-kilometre checkpoint without incident and changed buses. When they reached Kiev, a surge of optimism overcame Jaq as she waved goodbye to the group from Fukushima.

  Thursday 2 June, Kiev, Ukraine

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ Frank’s anger was tinged with relief to see The Spider standing – well, stooping – over a high table in the rooftop cocktail bar. And where the fuck is my passport? Careful. Find out what he wants, or you’ll never get out of this shithole.

  Frank grabbed a high stool and joined The Spider. Their eyes were at the same level. Pauk must be six foot seven or eight, although the awkward way he held himself brought him back down to a normal height. Fucking weirdo.

  ‘Good evening, Frank.’ Pauk held out a hand. He grimaced as Frank yanked it, forcing him to straighten up. ‘I do apologise for not meeting you earlier. I had some loose ends to tie up.’ He groaned and resumed his contortions as Frank released his hand.

  Christ, what had he been thinking of to do business with this creep? The Spider had better have something good. ‘I am a busy man. What is this business opportunity?’

  ‘Let us start at the beginning, shall we?’ Pauk said. ‘What are you drinking?’

  Frank snapped his fingers at the waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary. Pauk asked for the same – without the tomato juice.

  Pauk plopped a sliver of lemon and a single ice cube into his vodka. ‘The company that Zagrovyl purchased on my recommendation, Tyche, do you know what they do?’ He passed the tongs to Frank.

  ‘I know what they did. Chemical weapons disarmament.’ Frank added three ice cubes and returned the tongs to the ice bucket. ‘But all the chemical weapons are gone now.’ The company formerly called Tyche had been merged into Zagrovyl. Quite profitably, as it turned out. With all the bleeding-heart, whale-cuddling greens, even conventional chemical waste disposal was an increasingly lucrative business.

  ‘Indeed, but what if I were to tell you that there are still some customers for their original market?’

  ‘If the price is right, why not?’ Frank shook first Tabasco and then celery salt into his drink. ‘Is there a new cache of chemical weapons in need of decommissioning?’ Interesting. Tyche had special know-how. They could name their price. Especially if idiots like the United Nations were involved. Money for jam. He added Worcester sauce and tested his drink.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Pauk said. ‘More a shortage.’

  ‘A shortage of chemical weapons?’ Frank added more Tabasco. ‘I would bloody well hope so.’

  Pauk nodded. ‘As a result, there are people who will pay a high price for such materials, an astonishingly high price.’

  ‘Yes, prison. That’s far too high a price for me.’ Frank sipped his drink and appraised The Spider. ‘Come off it, Pauk, you know there are sanctions. We’re talking about controlled chemicals – the authorities are all over us like a rash. Zagrovyl can’t get around international rules.’

  ‘No, but my associates can.’

  ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.’

  ‘Tell me, Frank.’ Pauk opened a packet of cigarettes. ‘Why do you view chemical weapons with such horror?’

  Frank’s jaw dropped. Was this guy for real?

  ‘Death is ugly – is the medium by which it is delivered so important?’ Pauk extracted a black and gold Sobranie. ‘Is it any better to be stabbed or bludgeoned, shot or have bits blown off? How many gunshot wounds or shrapnel lacerations are immediately fatal? Victims bleed to death, or linger for days as agonising sepsis sets in.’

  Pauk lit the cigarette with a gold lighter. ‘What if a sophisticated chemical cocktail induces a glorious euphoria
to ease the passing? What if the end comes faster? Is swift and painless? Is this not a form of mercy?’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Frank scanned the room; the barman had moved to the far end to wipe tables, but still, you couldn’t be too careful.

  Pauk took a long puff and exhaled, making no effort to direct the smoke away from Frank. ‘Perhaps you believe government misinformation about the rules of war. That armies send smart bombs, guided with pinpoint precision, and soldiers check the insignia of the enemy uniform before they fire. That the only honourable weapons are those with a line of intention – the sight of a barrel, angle of a mortar, point of a sword, blade of a machete, thick end of a club. Perhaps you still believe that sophisticated weapons can discriminate between enemy combatant and innocent bystander?’

  Pauk shook his head.

  ‘Is modern warfare really so cleanly delineated? Don’t guerrilla fighters hide among civilians? How many innocents die in bombing raids? What of napalm, landmines, IEDs?’

  Frank rolled his shoulders. Was he really having this conversation? Why had he ever thought Pauk smart? Until he got his passport back, he had no choice but to listen to this monster, to humour him.

  ‘What if chemical weapons fall into the hands of terrorists?’ he asked.

  Pauk smiled. ‘And what is a terrorist? Isn’t one man’s terrorist another man’s freedom fighter? Anyone who plays by different rules of engagement? Anyone who targets the powerful, those who rely on their conventional armies to preserve the status quo? The patriarchy? Those who abuse their power and exploit the helpless?’ He waggled his cigarette. Frank coughed. ‘What a terrible world we live in. It’s no longer newsworthy for a Cambodian child to lose both legs rescuing their puppy from the tripwire of an old mine. Barely a mention if a wedding party is blown up into red confetti by a drone attack in Afghanistan. But one whiff of chemical weapons and suddenly the world is in uproar. Why?’

  ‘Who cares about the rights and wrongs?’ Frank said. ‘It’s bad business, illegal: end of story.’

  ‘Ah, Frank. I see your difficulty. What if I were to tell you that the main buyers of chemical weapons are not terrorists, but national governments? And in my country, the rules can always be . . .’ Pauk bent his spine, bringing his lips to Frank’s ear, ‘adjusted. Together, you and I could make good business – very, very good business.’

  Mad as a fucking hatter. Frank looked around. A statuesque woman walked towards the bar, her blonde wig and low-cut evening dress suggesting she was a regular fixture. He lowered his voice. ‘You must be joking. If anyone found out . . .’

  ‘Precisely the problem. Someone already has.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Frank hissed. ‘Zagrovyl has no involvement—’

  Pauk held up a large bony hand. ‘Not intentionally, perhaps. By omission.’ He finished his drink and shook his head. ‘You remember all those materials mysteriously disappearing on their way to Smolensk?’

  Only too bloody well. Frank had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Somehow he knew what was coming next.

  ‘I’ve discovered where they went, what they are being used for.’ Pauk signalled to the waiter to bring another round of drinks.

  Frank banged down his empty glass. ‘Christ-all-fucking-mighty!’ He added twice as much of everything to the fresh glass. The ice cubes rattled against the side as his hand trembled. ‘There is no way they can link anything back to Zagrovyl.’

  ‘Alas, you’re wrong there,’ Pauk said. ‘You see, your friends have been useful and troublesome in equal measure.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘A Dr Jaqueline Silver, for one.’

  ‘No friend of mine.’

  ‘Indeed? She is here, in Kiev. A coincidence?’

  ‘Search me,’ Frank said.

  ‘I think it might be more profitable for you to search her. She appears to have acquired something we need. Before it falls into the wrong hands.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘What do you know about radioactive tracers?’

  ‘Fuck all,’ Frank said, and held up his middle finger. ‘And this is how much I care.’

  ‘Really, Frank, I’m shocked. You should pay more attention to the operational details of your own business.’

  ‘I have engineers for the details.’

  Pauk shook his head. ‘The tragedy of British industry. If the captain no longer understands his ship, how can he be expected to steer it wisely?’ He popped a pistachio nut in his mouth, cracking the shell and spitting it back into the tray. ‘Well, let me enlighten you.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Tyche, the company you – Zagrovyl – bought, developed expertise in chemical tracking. Designer molecules added in tiny quantities to controlled materials, unique fingerprints lasting as long as the chemical substance does. Harmless to humans, or so they say, but radioactive enough to be picked up by a sensitive tracker.’ He cracked another nut. ‘And Tyche, that clever company, also makes the spectroscopic trackers, the most sophisticated in the world.’

  ‘So what?’ Frank gulped at his drink.

  ‘So successful was the Tyche business model, now all controlled materials must have a tracer added, by law.’

  Frank’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘You see, Frank, you were right to be concerned about the missing material. You represent the Zagrovyl Group in Europe. You, and you alone, will be held fully responsible.’ Pauk smirked. ‘Your American masters will not be very understanding. Sack first, ask questions later.’

  Had Pauk been listening to every conversation? Stringing him along all this time, waiting to make a point? The bastard. The worst of it was, he was right. If an American soldier was gassed in Iraq and it turned out to be by chemicals from Zagrovyl Europe, there would be hell to pay.

  ‘But fortunately for you, there is one place radioactive tracers fail to work. Where do you think it is?’

  Patronising git. Frank resisted the urge to wrap his hands round his long, scrawny neck. Play the game. Get the facts. Assess the risk. ‘I don’t know,’ Frank said evenly between gritted teeth. ‘Somewhere highly contaminated.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you rejected the invitation to visit.’

  Frank slapped his forehead. ‘Chernobyl!’

  ‘You do catch on fast,’ Pauk said. ‘As I see it, we have a choice. Either we take up this unique business opportunity to work with a rather special organisation. We can manage the risks perfectly well so long as we are in control.’

  Frank ground his teeth. What had he done?

  ‘Or, if your appetite for risk is,’ The Spider cracked two more pistachios, ‘rather more, shall we say, anaemic, then we can cut ties, but in a surgical, precise way, giving both sides a clean break and – in return for a financial consideration – no risk of future association.’

  Frank threw back his head and groaned.

  ‘But either way, we need to relieve Dr Silver of the Tyche tracker she recently acquired. Your job, Frank.’

  Frank froze. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Two reasons.’ Pauk emptied his glass. ‘First, I need to know I can trust you before I give you your passport back.’

  A little spray of pistachio spittle landed on Frank’s cheek as he tried to turn away from the vodka-infused stench. He clenched his teeth. The bastard.

  ‘And secondly . . .’ Pauk snapped his fingers and the blonde at the bar sashayed towards him. ‘I have a dinner date.’

  Thursday 2 June, Kiev, Ukraine

  Jaq locked the door of her hotel room with a sigh of relief before checking from the window. A steady trickle of traffic, dwarfed by the wide boulevard, moved in both directions as the heavens opened and rain poured down. A few people on the pavement unfurled umbrellas or dashed for shelter, all intent on their own business: no one lingering, no eyes looking up.

  She closed the curtains and removed the heavy shoebox from her bag. Under the cardboard lid lay the key to the mystery. She slid her hands between the cardboard and metal and
eased the instrument carefully onto the desk.

  She’d decided against a new phone, too easy to track, but the laptop she’d purchased in Lisbon came with a set of adapters. She rifled through the padded section of her bag until she found the right connection and plugged the instrument into the mains using her computer lead. Once it was charging, she sat on a chair in front of the desk to inspect more it carefully.

  The metal casing was smooth: satin-polished, no sharp corners or rough edges, black with a lilac sheen, cool to the touch. A groove for a USB connector, a protruding switch. Jaq flicked it and the screen lit up. A purple cursor flashed.

  Blink.

  A prompt? Try return.

  Blink.

  She ran a finger over the dual English and Russian keypad. What to enter? Try Sergei.

  Nothing.

  Try it in Cyrillic letters. No. How about Test? No . . . No.

  Some problems are best solved by walking away, doing something else, letting the mind wander. Jaq filled a glass with water and sipped it by the window. A few lights shone from the government building next door, but the windows opposite were black. No movement in the darkness. Nothing stirred, just her own shadow.

  She switched on the desk lamp. As she sat down the light caught the letters scratched onto the surface of the Tyche tracker. Russian for key. Could it be that simple? She typed it in.

  Something happening.

  That easy? Surely not.

  Not.

  A new prompt. Parole. Word. Password.

  Try Sergei again. Nothing. Try Test? Nothing doing. Wait a second, what was the number on the locker key? 12016834. And . . .

  Bingo!

  Jaq gasped – a map of Europe appeared on the screen. A series of dots formed coloured ribbons stretching between Chornobyl and Western Europe. What sort of map was this? Had someone tracked the movement of materials out of Chornobyl? Had she been wrong about chemical weapons? Was someone smuggling radioactive materials?

  She used the touchscreen menu to zoom in. Most dots lay between countries. Did Geiger counters scan trucks passing borders across Europe? Emma would know.