The Boy from Reactor 4

by Orest Stelmach

  “Neither do I. I’d like to hire you.”

  “It’s going to be expensive.”

  “How much?”

  The kid hesitated. “Eight thousand rubles. Plus gasoline. Half up front.”

  Kirilo laughed. “Half up front. Good for you. Done. There are six of us.”

  The kid looked them over, pausing when he got to Misha. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Misha brandished his gun, pointed it at him, and grinned. “This is what’s wrong with me.” Spit flew from his lips and connected with the kid’s shirt.

  The kid looked at his shirt with disgust and backed away. “You’d be better off with two cars,” he said to Kirilo. “More space. More comfortable.”

  Kirilo could see the kid’s mind working. He was using comfort as an excuse to put Misha in someone else’s car. Smart boy.

  “Fine.” Kirilo looked at the other drivers. “You decide who else goes.”

  “All right. The road is bad. There are many holes. It’s a brutal drive. You sure you don’t want to wait for the train?”

  “We’re sure.”

  “In the dark, it’s going to be slow going.”

  “The train arrives at Tommot in fifteen hours. We must be there before the train.”

  “I’ve done it twice. It took me sixteen to eighteen hours. And that was daylight.”

  Kirilo pulled out his wallet. “I will give you three thousand rubles up front. And another nine thousand if you make it before the train.”

  The kid’s eyes lit up. “I think I can make it in fifteen, though.”

  “I thought you might.”

  CHAPTER 61

  THE GLACIAL PEAKS of the Stanovoy Range glistened in the dark. The train hurtled through a tunnel beneath them. A hundred miles past Tynda, they entered the Sakha Republic of Russia, also known as Yakutia.

  The train crossed three rivers and rumbled past the coal mines at Berkakit and Neryungri. Smog hung over the stations at the mining towns. They passed abandoned collectives and empty wooden cottages with fenced-in gardens overgrown with weeds. When the train pulled in to Tommot at 11:00 a.m. on Friday, the Aldan River shimmered beneath the morning sun.

  Adam followed Nadia as she skulked her way through the train station. She was fearful that Kirilo, Victor, and Misha had somehow caught up with her, but they were nowhere in sight. “Where do we wait?” Nadia said.

  “Outside, in front of the station,” Adam said. “My father said the man will find us.”

  “And he didn’t tell you what he’d look like?”

  “Just that he is a Yakut, and he will look a little more like me, and a little less like you.”

  “What is a Yakut?” Nadia said.

  “They’re one of the indigenous people of Siberia. Close to five hundred thousand live in northern Russia. Great hunters. Really intense.”

  The Tommot station was a plain cement building but boasted three yellow domes like a church. Nadia put on her hat, gloves, and winter coat. Adam did the same. A wind blasted them when they stepped outside. According to the oversized thermometer by the entrance, the temperature was negative five degrees Celsius. That was about twenty degrees Fahrenheit.

  A man got out of a vintage SUV parked a few steps away. He looked like the offspring of a Slav and an Asian. A fur hat covered his bald head. Although the creases in his weathered face suggested he was in his late sixties or older, the bounce in his step said otherwise.

  After glancing at Nadia, he looked at Adam cautiously. “There is much talk about you. Can it be true?”

  “Yes,” Adam said. “She betrayed me for a Yakut.”

  The Yakut smiled. “Old Cossack song. Your father loved it. Yeah, good. We go.”

  The SUV was a square-shaped model Nadia had never heard of, called a Nissan Patrol. The exterior was dented and dinged, but the interior was spotless, the cloth upholstery impeccably maintained. They stored their bags in the cavernous cargo area, which contained three spare tires and four cans of gasoline. Nadia sat behind the Yakut so she could watch him. Adam sat beside him.

  “My name is Fyodor,” he said as he guided the car away from the station.

  Nadia introduced herself and Adam. Fyodor spoke in a strange dialect. Nadia had to focus on the words to understand him.

  “How did you know my father?” Adam said. “Did you work together on the railroad?”

  “No. I knew father from gulag in Kolyma. Many years ago. We did business together.”

  “Business?” Nadia said. “At the gulag?”

  “Were you a prisoner, too?” Adam said.

  Fyodor shook his head and glared at Adam. “No Yakuts in gulag. Bounty hunter.”

  “Bounty hunter?” Nadia said.

  “Yakut is hunter. Government hire Yakut to hunt prisoners who escape from gulag.”

  “So how did you do business with my father?” Adam said.

  “Your father arrange for prisoner to escape. Bounty hunter catch prisoner and bring him back. Bounty hunter get paid. I get paid. Father get paid. Prisoner get paid—if live.”

  Nadia envisioned prisoners escaping and returning, and money changing hands.

  “Didn’t the guards catch on after a while?” she said.

  “Guard, no problem,” Fyodor said. “Other gang leader, problem. He set trap. Prisoner caught. Bounty hunter caught.”

  A horn blared. Nadia craned her neck to the right. A massive cargo truck headed straight toward them.

  Fyodor swerved into a pothole to avoid it. Nadia’s head hit the ceiling. She yelped.

  “Sorry,” Fyodor said. “They work on railroad, extend all way to Yakutsk. Supply come to Tommot. Many trucks. Many holes in road.” He turned to Adam. “When I caught in gulag, your father pay money to guards. Bounty hunter escapes. Owes father debt. Yakut always pay debt.”

  They drove farther north for a hundred kilometers until they reached a small village beside a river surrounded by rolling hilltops.

  “This is Anga,” Fyodor said. “Oldest Russian settlement in Siberia. We are headed to one hundred kilometers from Yakutsk, near Sharlam’s lodge. Evenk meet you there, yes?”

  “Outside Yakutsk,” Adam said. “Yes. An Evenk. Another friend of my father’s.”

  “Evenk,” Fyodor said with a derisive sneer. “Yeah, good.”

  Nadia whispered to Adam. “What’s an Evenk?”

  “Another indigenous people of Siberia. About eighty thousand of them. Great herdsmen. Laid-back. Total opposite of Yakut.”

  They drove on for another three hours along an increasingly awful road. Nadia was starting to think that it might just be possible to jar a person’s brains out of his skull, when Fyodor pulled to a stop.

  Everyone climbed out of the vehicle. The sun burst into an orange ball of fire as it set over the horizon. Beneath the ridge, water rushed packs of rocks and ice along a river. After three hours in the van’s cloying heat, the Arctic chill was a welcome relief.

  “You okay?” Nadia said.

  Adam shivered and nodded.

  “You see the trapper’s lodge where we’re supposed to meet this guy? I don’t see any lodge.”

  Fyodor pointed at a cluster of pine trees a hundred yards away. “There.”

  The corner of a roofline formed by three intersecting logs protruded through the trees.

  “Five fifteen,” Adam said. “He’s supposed to be there at five. From five to nine.”

  Thanking Fyodor for the ride, they ran to the lodge.

  When they got there, a man was waiting. Like the Yakut, the Evenk was of medium height and lean build. His chin and cheekbones, however, were less pronounced, and his nose was sharper. He had a darker complexion, like an Australian aborigine.

  The Evenk raised a shotgun and aimed it between them. “Who goes there?” he said in coarse Russian. He was even harder to understand than the Yakut.

  Nadia and Adam froze.

  “Umukon,” Adam said. “Umukon Khalganchuluk.”

  “Then let’s run from here,
” the Evenk said, “because it’s a place where evil spirits live.”

  The Evenk laughed heartily and lowered his gun. He bounded forward and hugged them as though they were long-lost friends.

  “Sorry late. Stopped by to see friends on way. In, in,” he said. “Leave quick.”

  They climbed into a vehicle similar to the white van they had just left.

  “Who is Umukon Khalganchuluk?” Nadia said.

  “I don’t know,” Adam said. “It’s just something my father made me memorize.”

  “Umukon Khalganchuluk. One-arm, one-leg, one-eye evil spirit,” the Evenk said.

  “Why is he evil?” Nadia said.

  “Because,” the Evenk said as he turned the van around, “he steal children from their sleep.”

  CHAPTER 62

  A SHOTGUN EXPLODED behind him.

  Kirilo ducked. The kid behind the wheel swore. The Volvo screeched and swerved to a halt on the bridge.

  Kirilo waited, turned, and looked back through the rear window.

  The second taxi, an old Peugeot, wobbled to a halt. The rubber on the front driver’s side wheel lay flat in a pothole. It wasn’t a shotgun. The tire had exploded.

  “How far are we from Tommot?” Kirilo said.

  “Ten kilometers.”

  Kirilo glanced at his watch. It was 11:05 a.m. The train had probably arrived on time five minutes ago.

  “You almost made it,” Kirilo said. “Excellent job.”

  The kid frowned into the rearview mirror. “But I didn’t make it. I failed.”

  Kirilo pushed his door open. Water rushed and chattered below the bridge. Victor opened the other rear door beside him.

  “Failure creates opportunity, my friend,” Kirilo said. “You will be paid your bonus in full. Stay in the car and keep the engine running. We will be moving in a few minutes.” Kirilo turned to Pavel and the other bodyguard. “Step outside and keep our friends company. Especially the American.” He glanced at Victor. “You. Follow me.”

  Kirilo put on his fur hat and a pair of finger-hugging Italian driving gloves. He stepped out of the car, leaving his warm cashmere gloves behind.

  The other driver opened the trunk and removed the spare tire.

  Misha had already gotten out of the other car. He pointed a gun at the driver’s head. Pus oozed from a sore festering on his sunken left cheek. Misha waved the gun as though it were a pointer. “You’ve got thirty seconds to change that tire,” he said. “Thirty seconds. We would have been on time. We were almost there. But no. You had to screw it all up.”

  The driver’s hands shook so badly he couldn’t get his fingers under the spare tire to lift it out of storage. Specter and Misha’s other bodyguard helped him.

  Kirilo made soothing noises and motioned for Misha to lower his gun. “There, there, my friend,” Kirilo said. “Sometimes bad news brings good news with it. Siberian waters are known for their antioxidants. The Lena River is known for its healing powers. People travel from all over Europe to bathe in it. Come down to the river with me. Fortunately for us, it’s late April, so the river melts during the day before freezing at night. Come splash some water on your face, and you will be instantly rejuvenated.”

  Misha appeared baffled. “Where?”

  “To the river. Down below,” Kirilo said.

  “No,” Misha said. “Where are we?”

  Specter started toward him.

  Kirilo put his hand out for him to stop. “No, no. We’re fine. He’s just a little feverish from all the travel. You all help the man with the tires.” He turned to Misha. “You are in Russia. Past Tommot on the way to Yakutsk. The formula, my friend, the formula.”

  “The formula.” Misha’s eyes lit up. “The formula.”

  Specter stepped aside tentatively. He took the jack and lug wrench while Misha’s bodyguard grabbed the spare tire. As they began to work, Specter kept glancing over his shoulder.

  Kirilo motioned for Victor to follow. He guided Misha around the bridge to an embankment that fell gently to the river’s edge, out of sight. When he got to the water, Misha placed his gun on a rock and bent over. He reached into the water with both hands.

  Kirilo thrust the cattle prod against his neck. Misha convulsed and made gurgling noises. He collapsed into the water. Kirilo put the prod beside the gun. He hoisted Misha out of the river and rolled him on his back. Misha coughed and wheezed.

  Kirilo wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed.

  Misha brought his hands around Kirilo’s. They felt weak, weaker than Victor’s had when he’d almost strangled him on his boat. Misha tried to speak. Kirilo eased his grip.

  “American citizen,” Misha said.

  “That doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

  Kirilo resumed squeezing until Misha’s body went limp and his pants moistened. Kirilo relaxed for a minute to catch his breath. After taking Misha’s wallet, passport, and diamond-crusted watch, he pushed the body into the water. The current swept it down the river around patches of ice.

  Kirilo walked up to Victor beside the bridge, cattle prod in hand. “You were wrong,” he said, still wheezing.

  “About what?” Victor said.

  “Ten million divided by two is not much more than ten million divided by three. But this formula…That’s a different matter.”

  Kirilo replaced the cattle prod in the lining of his coat and put Misha’s gun in his pocket. When Victor and he climbed to the road, Misha’s bodyguard was changing the tire with his back to him. Pavel and Kirilo’s other bodyguard immediately drew weapons.

  The bodyguard turned, dropped the lug wrench, and raised his hands.

  “Your boss had an accident,” Kirilo said. “You were local hired help anyways. You want a job?”

  “Yes, please,” the bodyguard said.

  “Where is Specter?” Kirilo said.

  “He went to take a piss,” Pavel said. “That way.” Pavel nodded at the wooded knoll on the near side of the bridge headed back toward Tommot.

  Pavel stayed with one of the bodyguards while the other went with Kirilo to find Specter. They searched for five minutes but didn’t find him. When they got back to the car, the tire was changed.

  “Nothing?” Pavel said.

  “No,” Kirilo said. “He’s gone. He lied in the warehouse when we had the Tesla woman. He told me Isabella was on the phone to get me away until the police came. But Isabella never called.”

  “Why would he do that?” Pavel said.

  “Because he’s not who he seems to be.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “Looks like a bitch to me.”

  “A government agent? Who infiltrated Misha’s operation? In America?”

  Kirilo glanced at Victor.

  Victor shrugged. “He was Misha’s man. I didn’t know him until a week ago. I don’t know where he came from.”

  “Bitches die,” Kirilo said. “Who cares where they’re from.”

  Kirilo turned to the two taxi drivers. “You guys have two choices. You can be paid handsomely for your work and forget that you had two more passengers. Or you and your families can cease to exist. Which will it be?”

  Pavel joined Kirilo and Victor in the Volvo. The other two bodyguards remained in the other car. Kirilo told the kid to pass the other car. The kid gunned the engine, and the Volvo took the lead.

  “Slow down, slow down,” Kirilo said. “There’s no need to hurry anymore.”

  The kid eased up on the gas. “There isn’t?”

  “No,” Kirilo said.

  Pavel turned from the front seat and frowned. “Why not?”

  “We know where she’s going. We’ve known where she’s been going all along.” Kirilo glanced at Victor. “Haven’t we, cousin?”

  Victor didn’t answer him. Instead, he just looked out the window.

  “It’s best to dispose of garbage in remote areas where no one will find it,” Kirilo said. “So we chase. But now that we’re rid of the garbage, we can stop chasing. S
he is going to Yakutsk. What is Yakutsk known for?”

  “Diamonds,” Pavel said. “Twenty percent of the world’s diamond production.”

  “What else?”

  “Gulag,” Victor said.

  “Yes. Gulag. Where did they bury the bodies in the gulags?”

  “Ah,” Pavel said. “Of course. The Road of Bones.”

  Kirilo looked at his hands. He tried to uncurl his fingers and straighten them completely, but he hadn’t been able to do so since wielding a pickax at the gulag for eight years straight.

  “Yes. The Kolyma Highway. And where does the Kolyma Highway lead?”

  “Magadan,” Pavel said. He turned forward, sighed with contentment, and relaxed in his seat. “It leads to Magadan.”

  “Exactly,” Kirilo said. “Gateway to the Kolyma Region. Former transit center for prisoners being shipped to the gulag. The only major port in the area. Now services the lumber trade. We are five hundred kilometers from the Arctic Circle. The ice is melting. The rivers and lakes are flooding. There is one, and only one, road in the taiga, which may or may not be passable in late April. It is the Road of Bones.”

  “They could fly from Yakutsk,” Victor said.

  “No. They are not flying for a reason. It may have something to do with the boy, or it may be to stay off the radar. They will take the Road of Bones from Yakutsk to Magadan. Once in Magadan, they must take an airplane or a boat to leave Russia.”

  “How will we get from Tommot to Yakutsk?”

  Kirilo leaned forward and tapped the kid on the shoulder. “This young man will drive us for ten thousand rubles more. Won’t you, my friend?”

  CHAPTER 63

  “NO ONE IN Russia call Road of Bones. In Russia, Kolyma Trakt.” The Evenk peppered his phrases with affirmative grunting noises and Evenki words Nadia didn’t understand.

  “Why is that?” Nadia said.

  “Many people die in old Russia. Now new Russia. No more Road of Bones. Kolyma Trakt now. We take new Kolyma Trakt. Old Kolyma Trakt no good. Too late.”

  “Excuse me? What new Kolyma Trakt?”