Wolves Eat Dogs (31 page)

“I know.”

“Then I heard another shot behind the school and followed the shouting. The Woropays make a lot of noise.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

Alex paused to look back. “We’ll take these two up to the school, and then I’ll get the truck.”

Arkady tripped on a root and went to one knee like a waiter with too much on his tray. He couldn’t shift shoulders because he could see out of only one eye. He pushed himself up and asked, “Did you see Katamay?”

“Yes. You know what makes a full moon extraordinary? You feel like an animal, like an animal sees.” Despite Dymtrus’s weight, with guns stuck fore and aft in his belt, Alex slowed his pace just to accommodate Arkady. “We don’t deserve a full moon. We make everything smaller. Everything big we cut down. First-growth trees, big cats, adult fish, wild rivers. That’s what’s wonderful about the Zone. Keep us out for fifty thousand years, and this place may grow into something.”

“You saw Karel?” Arkady repeated.

“He didn’t look good.”

Arkady climbed a step at a time, and Alex began talking the way an adult would on a long, cold walk with a boy who was sniveling and slow, by distracting him with stories and things the boy would like to hear.

“Pasha Ivanov and Lev Timofeyev were my father’s favorites, always in and out of our apartment. His best researchers, best instructors and, when he was too drunk to function, his best protection. There’s always a good impulse behind the worst disasters, don’t you find? And I swear, when I began working at NoviRus, it was purely for the extra money. I had no great plan of retribution.”

Retribution? Was that what Alex had said? Arkady’s head was still ringing, and it took all his concentration to continue moving as Alex bent a tree limb out of his way.

“My friend Yegor called from Moscow. Yes, I worked part-time for NoviRus Security as an interpreter in the accident section, which usually meant twenty-four hours of reading in a small, windowless room. Maybe Colonel Ozhogin’s office was on the fifteenth floor, but we were in the bowels of the building.”

“The belly of the beast.”

“Exactly. Since your’re underground, it always seems like night. Very space-age, with tinted glass for walls. I began wandering the halls and discovered that the technicians monitoring all those security screens were even more bored than I was. They’re kids; I was the only one over thirty. Imagine sitting in the dark and staring at a bank of screens for hours on end. For what? Martians? Chechens? Bank robbers with stockings pulled over their heads? One day I went by an empty chair, and on the screen was a palace gate swinging open for a couple of Mercedeses. The cars moved to another screen, and there was Pasha Ivanov after so many years, Mr. NoviRus himself, getting out of a car with a beautiful woman on his arm. It’s
his
palace. I hadn’t seen him since Chernobyl. On the screens I could follow him up the grand staircase and into the lobby. Here, I told myself, was a man who had everything.

“I wondered, what do you give a man who has everything? We were working with cesium chloride at the institute. Remember how social Ivanov was? At Christmas he threw a party for about a thousand people at his palace, collecting gifts for some charity. Very democratic: staff, friends, millionaires, children, wandering in every room because Ivanov liked to show off, the way New Russians do. I brought some grains of cesium chloride and a dosimeter in a lead box wrapped as a present, and lead-lined gloves and tongs in the back of my belt. I found his bathroom and left one grain out for him to step on and track around, and the present on the toilet seat with a card inviting him to Chernobyl to atone. I waited months, and all Ivanov did was send Hoffman, his fat American friend, to hide among the Hasidim. Can you believe it? Ivanov delegated a prayer for the dead, and Hoffman didn’t even perform.”

Arkady was not performing well, either. Taras was deadweight that took any opportunity—the brush of a limb, a faltering step—to slide off Arkady’s shoulder. Arkady stumbled, but he followed Alex’s voice. Alex stopped every few steps to make sure of it. He laid out the story like a trail of tasty crumbs along a forest path. “Ivanov moved to a mansion in the city with a guardhouse. But all the bodyguards in the world won’t help if your dog comes back from his run in the park with a grain or two in his hair, which he distributes around the house. I started a campaign against Timofeyev, too, but he was a secondary character. He was no Pasha Ivanov. Of course, after Ivanov was dead, Timofeyev was willing to come here, but before, the two of them had to behave as if nothing was happening, nothing to report to the militia or even NoviRus Security, where, incidentally, I flourished. I was every technician’s big brother. I helped them study their correspondence courses for business degrees so they could become New Russians themselves. I found the code clerk a doctor he could take his sexual dysfunction to while I covered for him. Really, the plan took shape by itself. See, there’s the school already, at the top of the hill.”

To Arkady, the school was as distant as a cloud in the sky. He was impressed that he had come so far. Taras, dead or not, kept trying different ways to slither out of Arkady’s arm. Alex steadied Arkady over a log, and Arkady wondered whether he could get close enough to grab one of the guns tucked in Alex’s waistband, but Alex was on the march with Dymtrus again, setting an example, jollying Arkady along, keeping him entertained.

“Want to hear about the fumigator van? That was fun. Saturday mornings the tech for Ivanov’s building was always hungover. I covered and saw the same images the receptionist saw in the lobby, and as soon as the van rolled into the service alley, I called on the security line and told him to read a list of the previous month’s guests to me. This is not computerized. The receptionist has to physically turn away from the street, get the binder from a bottom drawer, find the day and decipher his own handwriting, with no view of the screens. I know all this because I have been watching him on the lobby monitor for weeks. The fumigator has codes for touchpads at the back door, the service elevator and Ivanov’s floor, and I’ve promised him twelve minutes of distraction. In the middle of this, the tech comes back to replace me. I shake my head. He waits while I go on talking to the receptionist, because I’m waiting for the fumigator to get out. I can see why people turn to a life of crime; the adrenaline is incredible. I give the tech two aspirin, and he leaves for water. At the same moment the fumigator comes into the alley, faster now because he’s no longer pulling a suitcase full of salt, loads the van and drives off. I thank the receptionist, hang up and then watch. He puts down the binder, looks up at the camera, checks his screens, rewinds the street and alley tapes. He sees the van and he calls in the doorman, who disappears toward the back. I feel like I’m in the lobby. We wait, the receptionist and I. The doorman returns, shaking his head, and hops in the elevator. On the monitors I can see him going from floor to floor knocking on doors, while the receptionist acts super calm, with half an eye on the camera, until the doorman returns. No problem, nothing to worry about, everything’s under control. Almost there, Renko.”

Arkady grunted to hold up his side of the conversation. Carrying a body through a dense wood was like passing a jack through the tines of a comb. “Karel,” he said.

“Karel was the fumigator, and he did a good job. Unfortunately, he got sloppy and must have picked up a grain or two of cesium. I tried a million times to explain radioactivity to Karel, and I don’t think I ever got through.”

“Why would he do it?”

“I was his friend. The Woropays’, too. I listened to them, to their crazy ambitions. They were just boys from the Zone, they were never going to be New Russians. We were each in our different ways getting even.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Arkady was too exhausted to plumb that. “Not everything. Tell me one thing.”

“Eva.”

“What about her?”

“You know.” With his finger Alex drew a scar across his neck.

The thorn bush behind the school reached for Taras, and Alex held back branches so Arkady could climb the last steps to the seesaw and chairs. When Arkady caught a ghostly reflection of himself in a window, he looked away before he turned completely into Yakov.

“Don’t drop him,” Alex said.

“Why not? You were going to get your truck.”

“No. We’ll carry them back to Karel.”

“Back to Karel?” To the other end of the plaza? Arkady thought.

“We’re practically there,” Alex said. “The climb is over. Easy from here on.”

That was it, then, Arkady thought. That’s why he was alive instead of dead by the swamp, so Alex could make one trip instead of three. Ever the earnest assistant, Arkady had helped by bringing two of the bodies, Taras and himself. This way there were no tire treads on the ground or blood in the truck. A gun appeared in Alex’s hand. Usually the distance from the school to the fun fair was a few minutes’ walk. Even at his pace, Arkady wondered, how long could he draw it out?

“You first.” Alex prodded Arkady to get him moving again, this time in front.

As Arkady stumbled forward he remembered a quote by someone about a walk to the gallows focusing the mind. That wasn’t true. He thought of favorite music, Irina’s laugh, his mother staying in bed to read
Anna Karenina
one more time, pansies on a grave. He thought of how Eva had called and called again, when all he’d had to do was answer.

“Why?” Arkady asked. “What did Pasha Ivanov and Timofeyev do to justify the deaths of five people, so far? What could Pasha and Timofeyev have done that made you so insane?”

“Finally, an interesting question. The night of the accident at Chernobyl, what did Pasha and Timofeyev do? Well, you wouldn’t think they could do anything; they were just two junior professors at an institute in Moscow. But they would sit up all night and drink with the old man. That’s what they were doing when the call came from the Party Central Committee. The Party wanted him to go to Chernobyl to assess the situation, because he was the famous Academician Felix Gerasimov, who had more experience in nuclear disasters than anyone else, the world’s number one expert. Since he was too drunk to talk, he gave the phone to Pasha.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at Moscow University, sleeping soundly in my room.” Recollection did slow Alex down.

“How do you know all this?”

“My father didn’t write a suicide note when he died, but he sent me a letter. He said the Central Committee had wanted his advice on whether to evacuate people. Pasha acted as if he was just relaying answers from my father.”

Ahead, Arkady saw Karel on the couch in front of the crazy chairs ride. His sister, Oksana, bent over him; she wore the same jogging suit. Arkady recognized her by the blue shine of her shaved head. Walking one step behind, Alex had yet to notice her.

“Pasha asked if the reactor core had been exposed. The Committee said no, because that’s what the control room told them. Pasha asked if the reactor was shut down. Yes, according to Chernobyl. Well, he said, it sounded like more smoke than fire. Don’t sound any alarms, just distribute iodine tablets to children and advise the locals that they might want to stay inside for a day while the fire is extinguished and investigated. What about Kiev, the Committee asked? Even more important to keep the lid on, Pasha said. Confiscate dosimeters. ‘Be merciless for the common good.’ Pasha and Lev were ambitious guys. They just told the Committee and my father what they wanted to believe. That was how Soviet science worked, remember? So the evacuation of Pripyat was delayed a day and the warning to Kiev delayed six days so that a million children, including our Eva, could march on an undisturbed, radioactive May Day. Pasha and my father can’t take all the credit—there were plenty of other weasels and liars—but they should take some.”

“Your father was operating with faulty information. Was there an investigation?”

“A whitewash. After all, he was Felix Gerasimov. I woke up in the morning to go to class and there he was in my room, sober, as drawn as a ghost, with an iodine pill for me. He knew. Every May Day from then on was a drinking bout. Sixteen anniversaries. Finally he wrote the letter, sealed it, took it to the post office himself, returned home to his pistol and BANG!”

Oksana’s head whipped around. Arkady wondered what he and Alex looked like as they approached in the moonlight—perhaps a single extraordinarily ugly creature with two heads, a trunk and a tail. Arkady motioned for her to get away.

“Surprised?” Alex asked.

“Not really. As a motive for murder, money is overrated. Shame is stronger.”

“That’s the best part. Pasha and Timofeyev couldn’t go anywhere for protection, because then they would have had to reveal the whole story. They were too ashamed to save their own lives, can you imagine that?”

“It happens all the time.”

Oksana slipped around the couch, and only because Arkady had seen her he heard her lightly running off. Maybe fifty more paces to Karel, who waited on the couch, the crazy chairs tilted behind him. Arkady resisted the temptation to run because he doubted he could escape an inchworm in his condition.

Alex said, “I wrote them. All I ever asked of Ivanov and Timofeyev was for them to come to the Zone and declare their share of responsibility personally, face-to-face.”