‘Do many people actually work inside the zone?’
‘Thousands,’ he said. ‘All the construction workers on the New Safe Confinement, hundreds of them, in shifts. Three weeks on, three weeks off. Then there are the epidemiologists, zoologists, botanists and mycologists. People like myself who come and go.’
‘Does anyone live there permanently?’
‘Not officially.’ Petr looked over his shoulder. ‘But, yes. Some old folk returned to their farms. They were told of the danger, but I guess they decided a slightly increased risk of cancer was better than the absolute certainty of grinding urban poverty. We don’t really understand why radiation affects people differently. But the younger you are, the worse it is. The old peasants who went back are the survivors. If they’ve lived this long, there’s every chance they’ll live longer.’
‘So only old people?’
Petr shuffled in his seat. ‘There’s been a change. People fleeing war in Azerbaijan, Georgia. I guess the zone looks like a paradise compared to where they came from.’
‘But how do they get in?’
‘The security is pretty tight on the Ukrainian side, as you saw, but it’s more porous in Belarus. In fact, I collect samples there – they’re so used to my bike, they never stop me.’
‘Motorbike?’
‘I have an old Ural. You drive?’
‘You bet!’ She paused. ‘Ever been on the border due north of Pripyat?’
Petr pulled his seat closer to the table. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity.’ She twirled a strand of hair round her finger.
‘No, why that exact location? Come on, what else are you not telling me?’
What to say? Was Petr a Zagrovyl stooge as well? He was certainly good-looking, intelligent, unusually interested in her. Another man for hire? Careful.
‘Have you been there?’ she asked.
‘This is extraordinary. You have identified the one area I’ve never been able to take samples from. Last time I tried, I had a gun pointed at me. Hunters protecting their patch. It’s illegal to hunt in the zone, but there are rich men who will pay and poorly paid bureaucrats who will look the other way for a price. They come in by helicopter.’
A tingle of excitement. ‘Did you ever come across a helicopter pilot, a guy called Sergei Koval?’
Petr shook his head. ‘I’ve only been working here for a couple of years.’
‘He isolated that location as an area of . . . special interest.’
‘So, this isn’t a tourist visit?’
‘Business and pleasure,’ Jaq said, and smiled.
Petr grinned back, and then dropped his eyes and folded his hands. ‘Fancy a spin on the bike?’
Christ, this was so easy. Too easy? Another trap? What the hell. ‘Yes.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Guess.’
Petr laughed. ‘Back into the zone?’
Friday 3 June, Kiev, Ukraine
‘Want to drive?’ Petr handed her the keys.
Jaq zipped up the borrowed leather jacket, tightened the chin strap on the helmet, pulled the visor down and straddled the bike. Once Petr hopped on the back she kicked away the stand, clunked into gear and opened the throttle.
It had been a while. The Moto Guzzi 500 cc bike had languished in the garage for much of her marriage. Gregor was a terrible pillion passenger, giving unwanted advice, trimming the bike on corners. She sold the motorbike to keep the peace. If only she’d banished Gregor instead.
They sped past faceless concrete suburbs on wide boulevards and joined a minor road that wound through gentle hills and ancient forests. Jaq put the bike through its paces, tilting into the curves – one knee almost on the tarmac; accelerating out of bends – steering with the throttle and harnessing the raw power of old-fashioned Soviet engineering. So good to be on the open road again with the sun on her back, breeze in her hair, exhilarating speed, thrilling control and a steady vibration between her thighs. A sonata of speed: the whistling wind, the deep bass of the engine roar, squeals of friction, rat-a-tat-tat of gravel and stones spraying out behind her. A whiff of burning rubber and unburnt fuel mixed with the woody terpenes and sweet esters of the forest. She barely noticed Petr behind her. He shadowed her every movement, holding onto the luggage rail at the back with one hand, keeping his body at a respectful distance.
The traffic thinned as they headed north. Jaq patted the pocket of the borrowed jacket, her passport with the Belarus visa still there.
Over the border, the sun lit up the countryside. The biggest threat to the planet was human. Left alone, the plant and animal life sprang back with vigour. Even new fungi evolved, feeding on the radioactive mess humankind left behind.
As they approached their destination, she weaved around potholes filled with vegetation, slowing down as the road surface disintegrated. A doe and her fawn skittered across the forecourt of an old petrol station. Unmanned and deserted but in surprisingly good condition, gleaming pipes and quick-release couplings beside a large area of hardstanding free of weeds. Struck by the incongruity, she made a mental note to ask Petr what it was used for. Soon after, the road became an earth track and faded away entirely, overrun by bushes. She brought the bike to a halt.
Unprepared for the brutal energy of nature left to its own devices, Jaq gazed ahead in wonder. So, this was what happened with unfettered competition – anarchy. Without a managed division between forest and farmland, wetland and dry, the fastest-growing plants invaded. A tangle of willows and reeds blurred the edges of lakes, thorny bushes choked saplings and creepers sucked the life from mature trees. All that remained was a chaotic tangle of stunted and straggling plants where once there had been the order and beauty of productive farmland and forest.
Petr jumped off and helped her rock the bike onto the centre stand. ‘On foot from here,’ he said, removing his helmet and jacket. ‘It’s quite hard going. Leave everything you don’t need with the bike.’ He recovered her bag from the side pannier and handed her a portable dosimeter, clipping another onto his jeans.
Jaq peeled off the leather jacket and luxuriated in the warmth of the sun on her skin. She removed her passport and zipped it into the front pocket of her Tardis bag and converted it into a backpack.
Petr stuffed the helmets and jackets into a dry bag which he sealed and strapped to the bike. ‘It’s hot, but tuck your jeans into your socks and roll down your sleeves.’ He handed her a bottle of water. ‘Try not to touch anything. There are a couple of radiation hotspots here,’ he warned. ‘Everything contaminated should have been buried, but some people hid stuff to try and take it out later. I’ve set the meter to warn at ten, okay?’
There was something reassuring about Petr. The fact he’d let her drive, the way the guards waved him through the border checkpoint. His story seemed to map out.
‘This way.’ Petr nodded at an opening in the trees where the old road snaked out of sight. ‘Let’s go.’
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
A gentle breeze swished through the forest in the zone of alienation. Petr led the way as the road petered out and Jaq followed him through the thickening trees. He stopped to collect a sample of bracket fungi from the rotting bark of a fallen tree and she continued on until she reached a high wall, so well hidden in the trees she almost bumped into it. Expecting it to be a ruin, she followed it to the left, but it extended as far as the eye could see. She tried to the right, but it was huge.
‘Petr,’ Jaq shouted over her shoulder. ‘What’s this wall?’
Petr came crashing through the undergrowth. He sucked in his cheeks and made a popping sound of surprise. ‘I think there was a factory here once. It was abandoned long ago.’
‘I’m going to explore, see if there’s a way in.’
‘There’s nothing in there.’ He pointed back down the path. ‘I’m going to take some soil samples. I’ll find you when I’m done. Keep near the wall. Don’t go too far.’
&n
bsp; Jaq checked her portable dosimeter. Tolerable. About the level of radioactivity given off by granite. No worse than strolling down Union Street in Aberdeen. Considerably quieter, but harder going over peatbog and scrub. She shouldered her way past a stand of young birches, the branches bending and swishing, leaping from ankle-twisting, squelching hummocks of moss to hillocks of bramble and blackthorn that tangled and tripped. The first entrance she found in the wall was bricked up. A long time ago, judging by the wild honeysuckle clambering all over it. She tried to track what was left of the road leading from it, but it was overgrown with prickly shrubs: cranberry and bearberry.
Kweee-kwee. A little bird, the size of a thrush, whistled an alarm from the top of a larch tree. Another bird, pearly grey with a white breast and black mask, hopped along the top of the wall, five metres above the ground. Chek-chek-chek. Keep away. She ignored the warning and continued her trek to the next corner. Trr-trr-trr. The rattling was insistent, ending in an explosive aak-aak-aak as the little bird flew away.
She wiped the sweat from her brow and paused to retrieve the water bottle from her bag. After she turned the second corner, a hush descended, strangely silent: no chirp of crickets, no more birdsong, no rustle of small animals running away from big feet ripping through the scrub. Perhaps the wildlife had the sense to hide from the sticky heat of the afternoon. But plants as well? The ivy on this side of the wall straggled, yellow and sickly. From the scorched and blackened earth rose a stench of garlic and putrefaction. A forest fire, perhaps, though it smelt of rotten fish rather than burnt wood. It made her route easier, through dead trees and bare shrubs and snap-dry stalks. She hurried past another bricked-up doorway and ploughed on.
A honeyed scent hit her as she rounded the third corner; she took a deep breath. This side of the impregnable fortress was a riot of coloured leaves and flowers struggling though the brambles and birches. Had there been a garden here once? What was left of the delicate ornamental plants – a blood-red acer, a pink blossoming azalea, a yellow rose – were being strangled and choked by the native species. Without a gardener to weed and cut and select, only the strongest and most aggressive survived. There was little hope for the delicate and beautiful.
She sucked water through a closed straw – just a mouthful. Flies buzzed around her head. She swatted them away and completed the circuit, returning to her starting point.
Jaq shivered. There was something eerie about the old factory. The wall stretched for about two kilometres, five hundred paces on each side of a square, yet it was in remarkably good shape for an abandoned structure in the middle of a forest; some of the mortar looked as good as new. An entrance and an exit, both long bricked up. No way in or out. And yet something felt wrong. Smelt wrong. Smelt fishy.
She walked away from the trees, looking for Petr. The beats in the air started softly and grew in intensity. The swishing saplings swayed and bent. Helicopter approaching, merda! Petr had warned her about hunters. She crouched down as the first one appeared, a black metal insect – whirling blades chopping the air – banking as it flew over the wall. A second one followed, circling wider, coming right overhead. Her heart beat faster. Would they spot her? She didn’t want to be mistaken for a deer. Move back to the wall? Better to stay still. She dropped to the ground. Ouch! The bramble thorns were razor sharp, piercing her palm. Stupid, she should’ve worn gloves. She licked her hand, pulling out the thorns with her teeth, gagging on the taste of salt and rust as she spat out the blood. The cut hurt like hell, but she focused on the noise directly above her head. How many helicopters?
Whack! Jaq jumped at the sharp noise. What was that? Someone felling a tree up ahead? With an axe? Whip-crack! Whistling in her ear. Insects? No, too high-pitched and moving too fast for beating wings. A sapling exploded beside her with a deafening crash. Merda. She flattened herself, face down on the ground, elbows tight against her side, clammy hands clutching trembling legs, her insides liquid again.
Bullets. They were shooting from the air. Shooting at her. Bad. Very bad. The trail through the undergrowth would be visible from the broken twigs and branches, the trampled moss and shrubs. The shooters must think they were following the track made by a wild animal. And where the trail stopped it would signal her current position. Quick. Move. She slithered forward using her elbows and knees, moving away from the wall at an angle to her most recent trail. A cluster of willows lay ahead, peeling white bark and a pale green canopy. The young trees would only come up to her shoulders when standing but would provide better cover. Her hand was bleeding, and thorns and twigs scratched at her face and arms as she hauled herself forward. Even hotter so close to the ground, airless.
Inside the cave of willow, she made herself as small as possible, crouched in a foetal position over her bag, not daring to look up. The downdraught from the helicopter moved the leaves as it hovered, the little trees rustling. Could they see her hiding place from the air? The helicopter hovered close now; she could hear voices shouting above the chopping blades.
Her logical brain told her to remain as still as possible. She clenched her jaw and tried not to jump at every crack and blast and thump and boom. She so desperately wanted to flee, stand up and run from the deafening, terrifying noise all around her. Run where? Straight into the line of fire? It took all her strength to stay still.
Was this what it was like to be hunted? Did animals feel this dread, this desperation? Did their breath catch in their throats, choking and gasping against the fear? Did their hearts pound in their chests, rat-a-tat-tat, like the bullets all around her? Did their insides turn to water? All to provide men with entertainment.
But were they hunters? Or worse, was someone determined to hide what went on inside that wall? Hunters or security, any movement would attract more bullets. The only option was to stay perfectly still. Jaq closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. Focus on something else. She looked around.
It took her a moment to realise what the movement was. Just above her head. A wriggling animal. A field mouse. Impaled by its neck on a thorny branch. Bleeding. One last spasm and then still. She looked away only to see the corpse of an amphibian. Partly skinned. Those little birds must have been shrikes, the sentinel butchers. And this was their larder. Nature red in tooth and claw. What could be more natural? Natural doesn’t mean gentle or kind. It just means survival. Kill or be killed. Chiça, she needed air, needed to get out of here.
The whir of blades receded. She crawled forward, further away from the wall when she sensed the new danger. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and a trickle of sweat ran down her temple. She stopped moving and listened. No mistaking it, the sound of boots squelching over wetland: men on foot. Where had the helicopter landed? Thud, thud, the earth beneath her was vibrating. Footsteps getting closer. If they were hunting wild animals, it was bad enough. If they were protecting a location, it was even worse. What had she been thinking, to come here? She lay flat, a little mound of sphagnum pillowing her face, the groundwater seeping into her clothes, slowly sinking.
Would anyone notice if she didn’t return? She had no family left who cared. Her mother refused to acknowledge her daughter, still crying for her long-lost son. Emma and Johan might become concerned, but they were used to her long absences.
The boots were getting closer. She sank further into the peatbog and held her breath.
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
A noise behind her. Something slithering through the undergrowth. Jaq turned in alarm then sighed with relief. Petr – graças a Deus!
‘Stay where you are,’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, stay here until I come for you. I heard them talking. Russian hunters. Let me handle this.’
He slithered forward. ‘Ne strelyach!’ he shouted. Don’t shoot! He raised his hands above the grass and let his body follow as he emerged from the undergrowth. He moved away from her, towards the hunters.
The conversation was short. She could hear Petr talking calmly in Russi
an. She imagined him showing the hunters his pass, the bagged samples of interesting fungi, reassuring them of his scientific credentials.
‘Where is the other one?’ English. Heavily accented. Spanish? Latin American? ‘There were two helmets on the bike.’
‘He says he came alone.’ The Russian spoke good English.
Jaq prepared to stand up. She couldn’t let Petr face this unaided, couldn’t oblige him to lie on her behalf.
‘Then he’s come for the Englishman,’ the Latino said.
The Englishman? Jaq remained where she was.
‘I don’t think so, Mario.’ The Russian spoke calmly. ‘I’ve seen this guy before. He’s definitely one of the Chernobyl scientists.’
‘I don’t care.’
Jaq was on her knees, her hands on the grass, ready to push herself into view when the shot rang out. She collapsed back onto her stomach, a primeval form of self-preservation taking over. Quick, shallow breaths. Ó meu Deus! Had they just done what she thought they had? There was no sound from Petr. Maybe it was a warning shot. Whoomph – an exhalation without sentience – a last breath and slow collapse. Jaq recoiled, shrinking into the smallest, tightest ball, hands over her ears, unable to deny the thudding vibration of a body hitting the ground.
‘Christ, Mario.’ The Russian sounded more peeved than shocked. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘He saw the complex. He saw The Spider.’ The thump of a boot kicking something soft.
Jaq cringed. She swallowed back the bile in her throat, fighting the urge to retch. Keep quiet.
‘What now?’ Another voice, Russian.
Jaq backed away, slithering into the marsh, retreating inch by inch, freezing at the rasp of a match striking a box.
‘Take the bullet out. Crash the bike and make it look like an accident.’ Mario paused and puffed repeatedly. ‘Smash him up good and proper. Then set him and the bike on fire.’
The Chemical Detective Page 26