She counted to one hundred, listening for sounds of pursuit. Box Man must have assumed the wedge had slipped, hadn’t noticed the hatch was unbolted. Not yet, anyway – time to move.
Two doors, one at either end of a wide corridor divided by slatted wooden benches. Along one wall there were grey steel lockers. On the other side were white tiled cubicles: toilets and showers.
As she approached the door, voices grew louder from the other end. She slipped into one of the cubicles. Just in time. A noisy group entered the changing room, women by the sound of them. She peered through the keyhole, but her line of sight was obscured by the coats hanging on the upstands between the benches. The hatch opened with a crash, and an angry male voice bellowed something though the gap. Box Man from the laundry shouting at the women about the unlocked hatch.
If this group was leaving, then perhaps the people she’d followed were the incoming shift. How many? It had been difficult to tell in the tunnels; she shivered at the memory. Ten, twelve? Could she follow the outgoing shift, blend in with them? No, she was wearing the wrong clothes. Stupid!
The hatch closed with a thud and squeal of bolts. No escape back that way. The hatch was locked from inside the laundry again. What to do?
The door of the cubicle flew open. A woman stood in front of her in her underwear, hands on hips. Her voice was loud, angry. Jaq pressed herself against the back wall. Another woman appeared beside the shouting one and started laughing. It was even more terrifying. And yet familiar.
‘Dobry vechir miy malen’kyy inzhener-khimik!’ Good evening, my little chemical engineer.
Of course! The stance, the beehive – so this was where the superintendent from the dormitory in Sector Twelve really worked. Not in the legal New Safe Confinement project. But in the illegal chemical weapons complex. No wonder she’d been pleased to hear of Jaq’s profession. She thought Jaq was destined for this clandestine factory, too.
The first woman threw up her hands and left, cursing loudly. The superintendent reached forward and grabbed Jaq by the grey lapels of her boiler suit and frogmarched her to the opposite end of the corridor, away from the exit, before using her elbow to press the intercom.
She shouted into the white box. ‘Cheterya!’
‘Parole?’ came the reply.
The superintendent nudged Jaq in the ribs.
‘Zagrovyl,’ Jaq said.
The door opened, and the woman pushed her forward.
Jaq blinked and shielded her eyes. It was so bright inside. The golden liquid bubbling in the tall glass column cast an unearthly light over the rest of the production hall.
The superintendent handed Jaq a hard hat and safety glasses; she put them on without protest.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Jaq was in the heart of a fully functioning chemical weapons complex, expected to work.
Perfect.
Slap bang in her comfort zone.
Saturday 4 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
Jaq hung her head and remained silent while the superintendent delivered a stern lecture in Russian. After a while her tone grew kinder. Then the instructions started. Jaq couldn’t follow everything; she focused on the pauses, the spaces between the words. When a silence followed an upward inflection, Jaq made eye contact and nodded. After a while the woman smiled, pinched Jaq on the cheek and gestured for her to follow.
The warehouse lay between the changing rooms and the production hall. Blue and yellow adjustable racking, like the Meccano she played with as a child. Pallets of bags and drums stored six high. Hundreds of tonnes of high-hazard material, a few bearing the Zagrovyl label. She stopped at one. The top bags had been removed and the next bags down slit open. Inside each bag were smaller packages, tight bricks of powder of different colours, each one labelled by hand. That explained the lumpy bags at Snow Science all those weeks ago. Lumpy because they were filled with packages of neurotoxic chemicals. It also explained the difficulty of sampling. And the confusing analysis. She’d been right all along.
And then it hit her, the genius of locating a factory here, right inside the contaminated zone. Controlled chemicals were being diverted to this complex. The kind manufactured with tracing agents to track them to their destination. If the tracers were radioisotopes, then sending them into the most radioactive location on earth would disrupt the normal tracking.
A sharp elbow in the ribs. The superintendent shouted at her to move. They continued past a row of generators, through a control room where a row of men in red overalls sat at large screens. A Roseboro distributed control system, the latest model, no expense spared.
The superintendent opened the door for her and Jaq stepped into the reactor hall. Meu Deus, even more impressive close up. Whoever had designed this facility did not lack ambition. And was partial to glass. A chemist then, not a chemical engineer.
They passed through an airlock into a changing room. The superintendent selected a chemical protection suit from a rack and ordered Jaq to step into it as she delivered further instructions. The self-contained breathing apparatus inflated the suit from inside. Once Jaq had snapped the cuffs over rubber boots and gloves, the hissing stopped. Inflated, protected and ready to roll.
On the other side of the airlock, a dozen workers – all in similar protective suits – worked at benches. The glassware was smaller here, where the concentrated final products were tested and packed.
As Jaq watched, one of the workers filled a bottle with liquid from a dewar flask in a fume cupboard. Thick white smoke curled upwards. Interesting.
The superintendent was watching her through the window of the airlock. Jaq turned away and tried to follow the instructions. Bench Five. Quality control. Shadow the worker. Watch and learn. Right next to the fume cupboard of interest.
Jaq waited until Blonde Beehive disappeared from view. She moved slowly towards the fume cupboard. Bingo! Her guess was right: the chemical symbol on the label was TiCl4. Titanium tetrachloride. Highly hazardous.
Well, at least she had a weapon now.
Saturday 4 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
Jaq marched towards the fume cupboard and grabbed the dewar flask. Ten litres. Just the ticket. More than enough for what she had in mind.
As a visiting industrial lecturer, she’d once taught Chemical Engineering 101 to first year undergraduates. The advantage of the profession is a transferrable set of skills, a universal toolkit. One chemical plant is much like another. Raw materials are transformed into more valuable products. Sometimes the steps are simple, like making a cake – weighing, mixing, heating, cooling, separating and packing. Often there are more sophisticated unit operations, like in brewing – fermentation, filtration, drying and distillation, but reaction is at the heart of any transformation; elements separate and recombine to form new compounds.
In less than a second, Jaq had decided what to do. Create a diversion. Easy. A little longer to figure out how to do it without killing everyone outside the airlock. She must spare the workers. Harmless dupes. People like the superintendent, just a gay girl with a beehive, in need of a job. They came in and out of the zone, squatted in the free accommodation in Sector Twelve, pretended to work on the New Safe Confinement project and were paid extra to keep quiet about what they really did.
Outside the airlock she had seen safety showers, eyewash sinks with running water, neutralising spray bottles of both citric acid and ammonia solution, toxic refuges and a rack of self-contained breathing apparatus. The alarm buttons were colour-coded according to international standards, with labels to confirm. A big red mushroom – – for the fire alarm, a black and yellow button – – for toxic. Safety first, even in an illegal chemical weapons complex.
The workers wouldn’t be the problem. The ones at risk were Victor and Anton. A man who threw a lighted match into a flammable tank bund was a liability. Security men, thugs more comfortable with guns than with chemicals. The very people she wanted to eliminate.
Jaq was no stranger to
chemical warfare. After all, she had punished Mr Peres for his faithlessness, deprived him of his livelihood and access to vulnerable children by swapping potassium for sodium in the school chemistry store. But since then, Jaq had spent her professional life teaching people how to avoid accidents. Now she was about to cause one. All over again.
Saturday 4 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
Jaq made her way towards the airlock. Walking slowly, purposefully, looking as if she knew what she was doing. The workers in their spacesuits made no attempt to stop her, engrossed in their own activities.
Jaq passed through the airlock back into the reactor hall and hit the red button for the toxic alarm. The siren blast was muted – the plant had been designed not to draw attention to itself outside the walls – but the workers reacted immediately. As the emergency alarm flashed overhead, they scattered, rushing towards the toxic refuges.
She opened the flask and poured some liquid into each of the eyewash sinks. A cloud of white followed her through the reactor hall. When she looked back, she could no longer see her hand in front of her face.
Titanium tetrachloride, TiCl4, forms a dense white cloud on contact with water. So dense, a few drops cause a total white-out. And Jaq had used more than a few drops. The whiteness comes from titanium dioxide, but the reaction of chlorine and water gives hydrochloric acid. Deadly to living tissue.
Jaq grabbed an escape set and a bottle of ammonia solution and headed for the basement.
It wasn’t compassion leading her towards Frank, it was simple logic. Two stood more chance than one against Victor and Anton, and she needed his testimony.
At the bottom of the stairs, an archway led to a corridor with a row of storage cells. A bunch of keys dangled from a meat hook. She seized them and unlocked the first door.
The animal stench of blood and excrement made her recoil.
Merda! What went on in here? Hooks in the ceiling, pulleys and chains, knives, a whetstone – more like an abattoir than a prison. No sign of Frank, just a heap of bloodied rags in one corner.
She opened one door after another, cursing until she found the giant freezer.
Frank was on his feet the instant she opened the door. His hair and eyebrows were white, but he was alive. He stared at her without recognition. Perhaps as well.
Whoomph, whoomph. A helicopter rotor starting up. Victor and Anton bailing out. Quick. The only way out was up.
She threw him an escape set and gestured for him to follow. Back down the corridor, up the stairs. The fog swirled, dense and white. Jaq cleared a path, spraying ammonia solution, the base neutralising the acid, the mist sinking and then rising behind them as they moved forward.
A dark shape jumped off the chopper footplate and barrelled towards them. As he came closer Jaq recognised him – Bouncer, the other Russian thug from the Kranjskabel kidnap. Redbeard must be at the controls. Frank was fast. He lunged forward and rugby-tackled Bouncer at the knees, bringing him crashing down onto the concrete pad. Thud, thwack, crunch – Frank pounded his torturer with punches and kicks. Jaq yanked at the handle of the helicopter door, spraying ammonia solution into the cockpit. Redbeard screamed, twisting in the pilot’s seat, his fists bunched up, rubbing at his eyes.
She pulled off her hood and vaulted into the small space. ‘Frank,’ she shouted. ‘Get in here!’
Frank appeared at the door. ‘Jaqueline,’ he said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Can’t keep away, eh?’
He punched Redbeard in the gut as he leapt onto the flight deck. Something metallic clattered to the floor.
‘Can you fly a helicopter?’ Jaq asked.
‘No,’ he said, and raised his fists. ‘A light plane, yes.’
‘Then stop hitting the pilot.’
Frank reached down and retrieved Redbeard’s gun. He pressed the barrel against the back of Redbeard’s neck. ‘Vamos,’ he snarled. ‘Chop-chop. Fly.’
Redbeard’s eyes darted around, beads of sweat forming on his brow, more afraid of the swirling chemical fog than the gun. He began to cough, flicking switches faster now, glancing over at her as he manoeuvred the controls. The helicopter strained and slowly lifted. Within a few metres the air was clear again, the moon shining from a sky scattered with stars. Jaq released her mask and breathed in the night air. They hovered above the complex, the white mist roiling, tendrils creeping over the walls.
The workers would be safe in the refuge, but if Frank hadn’t killed Bouncer, then the TiCl4 vapour would. He would breathe the gas; it would react with the moisture in his throat. His body would fight back against the hydrochloric acid, the tissues releasing water until he drowned in his own fluids. She shivered. A horrible way to die.
‘Go!’ Frank struck Redbeard with the barrel of the pistol. ‘Kiev.’
‘Careful,’ Jaq hissed. ‘We need him.’
The helicopter rose and banked. The New Safe Confinement cranes blinked below, the cooling towers of the abandoned reactors casting moon shadows over the huge artificial lake. Somewhere in those dark inkblots, giant carp swam under the still water. Fish with no predators and ample food.
The forest stretched out below, a dark tangle of trees full of deer and boar and lynx and bear and tiny horses. Stretching for miles and miles. Lights here and there. Signs of human habitation, illegal resettlers. Why would someone choose to live in a contaminated zone? How bad did life have to be elsewhere to force people to settle here? Did they understand the risks? Did anyone really understand risk? Humans were the masters of self-deception. Was it any different from choosing to smoke, to drink, to ride a motorbike, to ski? Where the risk was notional, the effects delayed, didn’t humans always choose the easy way? Why else would anyone even consider nuclear power? With waste that would remain lethal for tens of thousands of years and no idea how to treat it?
Jaq sighed as the Chornobyl complex faded from view. The stars were brighter now. The Little Dipper, the Big Dipper, the Pole Star. Wait. Which way were they heading? Surely Kiev was to the south. ‘Why are you going north?’ she said.
‘I said Kiev.’ Frank pushed the barrel of the gun into the pilot’s neck. ‘You double-crossing bastard,’ he snarled. ‘Kiev, not fucking Minsk.’
Redbeard tightened an oxygen mask around his mouth and flicked a few switches. Nothing happened. Why weren’t they changing direction? Did he think Frank wouldn’t use the gun? Jaq had no illusions. If Frank shot the pilot, could she land the chopper? She’d travelled in one often enough going out to the rigs in the North Sea. Often enough to know that it took real skill.
The blades whirred overhead. Whoa! Her hand flew to her mouth at a sudden spell of nausea. What was the noise? Was she imagining the popping, fizzing noise? Inside her head or out? Down, look down. Coming up from the floor. Something was hissing: a cylinder under Frank’s chair. Oxygen? That wouldn’t cause her to feel so slow and woozy. She tried to open her mouth to call out to Frank, but a sharp metallic taste caused her to retch. She attempted to jerk to the side. With a huge effort she turned to Frank. His head was thrown back, his face white, his mouth open, gasping like a goldfish. He was brandishing the gun, waving it wildly, his eyes rolling in his head.
She managed to cry out. ‘Frank, no!’
Too late. The bullet tore through the cabin and her stomach lurched as the helicopter spun. Hurtling, tumbling out of control, plummeting towards the ground.
That was when she remembered she could fly. She laughed out loud, kicked open the door, spread her wings and jumped.
The last thing she remembered was the wind in her hair and the starlight in her eyes.
So beautiful.
Saturday 4 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
The mound of bloodied rags began to move. Very slowly the heap rose and uncoiled into human shape.
The punishment cell in the complex had no windows, but the door was wide open and the corridor lights flickered as a white mist advanced. The bloodied rag monster crawled towards the light. And then recoiled.
Despite his injuries, he moved fast. Yanked the key from the door, kicked it shut and retreated to the stinking corner where he’d lain for days. He placed a urine-soaked rag over his nose and mouth and coiled back into a ball.
He’d recognised Silver the moment she threw open his cell door. Was it Silver who’d released the Tickle? Silver who’d opened Pandora’s Box? That was the trouble with chemical weapons, the consequences were so much worse than you could ever imagine. Hard to believe that anyone so smart could be so stupid.
Oh yes, Silver, well done, you just unleashed your worst nightmare.
PART V: GAVOTTE POLAND TO BELARUS
Tuesday 5 July, Terespol, Poland
Boom-boom-a-boom, thump. Jaq kept her eyes closed to avoid the dizziness, and experimented with her limbs. Her muscles ached as she moved her arms against something soft and smooth. Cotton bed sheets? She tried her legs. No restraints. So why had they stuffed her mouth with cotton wool? She brought up a hand to her face and curled a finger to hook it out, but there was nothing in there.
‘Water! Please.’
Her mouth was so dry, words came out as a whispered croak. Footsteps approached: rubber soles on a polished floor, not boots on concrete. Where was she? A hand supported her, cool and firm. Guiding her head forward until her parched lips touched the rim of a glass. Water. Tepid and chlorinated, it had never tasted more delicious. Someone was holding her up with one hand, controlling the angle of the glass with the other and talking, soft and low. She didn’t understand the words; all her attention was focused on getting more water, fighting the rhythm of unsatisfactory sips, trying to gulp down the precious liquid as fast as possible. More! Why were they taking the glass away? She screamed in frustration as the room spun and blackness closed in on her.
The Chemical Detective Page 29