Rogozhkin finds Yartsev worrying a cigarette outside the brigade’s concrete Operations Center. Rogozhkin marches past him, snaps, “With me” in Russian, then leads the sergeant some twenty meters down an alley between two long mill buildings.
Once they’re clear of any eavesdroppers, Rogozhkin faces Yartsev. “What’s happened?”
“There’s been an incident near Kumachove. A local bypassed a checkpoint. Fire was exchanged. It’s still confused, but I’m hearing three dead.”
“What? Civilians?”
Yartsev shakes his head, then thumbs over his shoulder toward the Ops Center.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Rogozhkin tears off his sky-blue beret and scrubs his fingers through his short salt-and-pepper hair. “Who shot who?”
“I can’t tell yet, sir. Their radio discipline’s shit. They’re yelling over each other, no call signs. But there’s something else.” Yartsev steps closer and lowers his voice. “They’ve got a patrol following someone. I don’t know who, yet—they call him a bandit—but they’ve got a GLONASS beacon on him and they’re chasing him all over to hell down there. He may be part of this. I’ve asked questions, but no one’s answered them yet.”
Rogozhkin won’t even bother to ask why the militia’s wasting its time in a backwater like Kumachove. They’ll call it a “training exercise,” like this bunch needs more practice stopping traffic. “Where’s this patrol?”
Yartsev grimaces. “West of Novozarivka.”
“What? That’s outside their zone. Who authorized that?”
“I can guess.”
So can Rogozhkin. “Which unit’s down there?”
“Detached from A Company, Second Battalion.”
Rogozhkin waits for his flare of anger to fade. “Goddamned Mashkov. That’s deliberate.”
The first and third battalions have Russian commanders, supposed ex-Russian Army “volunteers” supposedly working for the Wagner Group, Russia’s answer to the American Blackwater company. They know better than to do anything without telling Rogozhkin about it first. Second Battalion’s commander is still a local. It used to make sense: he was reasonably competent and it was useful for appearances. But it gives Mashkov a way to operate independently and leads to trouble like this.
He turns over the problem in his mind long enough for Yartsev, a slow smoker, to finish his cigarette. Then Rogozhkin makes a decision. “Are you getting enough intel to vector me toward this bandit?”
“Yes, sir. Most of the time.”
“Good. I’ll get a team from the 45th to help get to the bottom of this mess. Mashkov doesn’t need to know where I am or what I’m doing. Tell him I’m at Command for a meeting if he presses you. Feed me whatever intel you get. These hoholy”—idiot Ukrainians—“are spending a lot of time and blood on something. I intend to find out what it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever get anything more about Amvrosiivka?”
“No, sir. They’re playing it tight.”
“Keep digging. I won’t be surprised if all this is related. I swear, Oleg—if these morons are running drugs, some of them are going to end up hanging from that silo.” He claps Yartsev’s shoulder. “Good work. I’ll check in when I’m on the road.”
Chapter 14
Carson and Galina bribe their way past a roadblock and roll into Komsomolske by midafternoon. It’s the largest town they’ve been through today, though that’s a low bar.
They pull into a small parking lot surrounded on three sides by market stalls and smallish buildings. A dozen other cars share the lot. Most are in marginally better condition than the Slavuta, though no cleaner. Carson groans out the door.
It seems like they’ve been in the car forever, but the GPS says they’ve covered only forty-five klicks, less than half the distance to the contact line. Carson’s ribs are kicking her ass. Not broken—she knows what that feels like—but probably cracked. She hobbles around for a minute, then braces against the car to stretch out her legs. “Is there someplace to eat here? Fucking starving.”
Galina glares at her. “You have a filthy mouth.”
Not even Carson’s mother says that to her. “I bet you got dinner and breakfast.”
Galina leans against the fender, folding her arms. She watches Carson work out her physical kinks. “I can tell you aren’t from here. You get upset when you miss a meal.” Galina looks her up and down. “You haven’t missed many.”
“You saying I’m fat?”
“You aren’t thin.”
Carson stands straight and shoots Galina a laser stare. “You should talk. Let’s strip you down and see how many of your ribs we can count.” Not fair, but her hangry’s coming out. “Just so you know: I have this thing called fasting hypoglycemia.” She uses the English words. “My blood sugar crashes if I don’t eat regularly, or if I burn a lot of calories.” It doesn’t help that she drinks too much, but there’s no point in overdoing honesty. “Want to see it get worse? If I have to wait until supper time, I’ll probably break your fucking neck.” She stalks off toward the market stalls before Galina can scold her for her language again.
Komsomolske’s main shopping area is a jumble of repurposed shipping containers, pipe stalls, and tables set up under corrugated iron roofs, selling a little bit of whatever people can afford to buy. Her €200 notes are useless here; she could buy out a vendor’s entire stock with one or two. Luckily, she still has Ruslan’s bankroll: 11,220 Ukrainian hryvnia (roughly $620 Canadian), 765 euros, and 375 Russian rubles (about eight bucks), the Donbass’ “official” currency.
She scores two dozen pyrizhky and a half-dozen bottles of Morshinska water at a string of tables piled with produce and baked goods. Forking over euros in small bills—at a very generous exchange rate—coaxes a grudging smile from the pickle-faced seller.
Carson finds a stool in an empty stall and wolfs down half a dozen pastries in record time. When she looks up, she sees Galina standing on the other side of the counter, watching her.
She looks thoughtful. “I didn’t know you’re sick.”
Carson doesn’t feel like explaining the condition-versus-illness thing. “Should’ve told you. I get headaches when it happens. Then I get mean. Then nobody’s happy.” She pushes the paper bags of pyrizhky to the counter’s front edge. “Chopped chicken here, mushroom in there. They’re good.”
Galina nods her head for a moment, crosses herself, then takes a careful bite of a chopped chicken roll. “It is. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I remember these from when I was a kid. Mom couldn’t cook for shit, but she could make these.”
“Would you talk to your mother that way?”
“She talked to me that way.”
Galina shakes her head as she finishes off the chicken pyrizhky. She picks a chopped mushroom pastry from the other bag. “Where is your family from? I mean, not in Canada.”
“Kharkiv. Left in the ‘70s. You grew up in Olhynske?”
“No, in Donetsk.”
Not what Carson expected. “You’re a city girl?”
“I lived there. I didn’t like it very much. My parents sent me to live on babka Yulia’s farm in the summers. She was Father’s mother. The air was better than in the city and she always had good food.”
“Still, it had to be a shock.”
Galina shrugs. “I liked it. Farm work is very honest. You have to do the right thing or your crops die or your animals die. You always have to do the right thing. Not like in the city.”
Is packing a shotgun or knowing how to run roadblocks the “right thing”? She’ll ask later if it becomes important.
Heitmann’s phone bleeps. It’s a WhatsApp text from Olivia: 113’s signal disappeared between your location and Starobesheve.
“Fuck. We lost Stepaniak.”
“Language. Who’s Stepaniak?”
“The bandit. He stole my phone. My people are—were—tracking it. The signal died.” She
texts back, which direction?
North.
Wonderful. She hopes he just hit a dead spot in cell coverage. The alternative—that he figured out her phone was on and shut it off—means they’ve lost him maybe forever. If that’s what happened, she might as well have Galina take her over the line with the job half-done. text if it comes back.
Of course.
Carson looks up Starobesheve on the GPS. It’s less than twenty klicks northwest of here. “He was heading north to Starobesheve. Should we follow him?”
Galina considers this between sips of water. “Service is bad between towns. We should wait to see if his mobilka comes back. If it does, we will know where he’s going.”
Wait. The last damn thing she wants to do. There are still four hours or more of daylight left; it seems silly to waste them. Still, she gets why Galina wants to stay here for now—they could tear off after Stepaniak in one direction only to have him go the opposite way. “If we’re gonna sit here, I’m doing some shopping. You can come or stay. Your choice.”
Galina brings the surviving pyrizhky while Carson buys a toothbrush, toothpaste, a traveling hairbrush with a folding handle, hand sanitizer (she hopes it isn’t acid-based), a tube of aloe (ditto), and more boot socks. Her mental clock sounds like her watch is surgically implanted in her ear. She checks Heitmann’s phone every ninety seconds or so, but Olivia doesn’t text.
An hour has dissolved by the time they dump another flat of water in the Slavuta and Carson brushes her teeth in the parking lot (the toothpaste tastes like liquid chalk). Carson’s tired of waiting. She pulls Heitmann’s phone and thumbs in her number. Her thumb hovers. If her phone’s off and he doesn’t turn it on again, she’ll leave a voicemail that he’ll never hear. If Stepaniak somehow doesn’t know yet that her phone is still on, this’ll be a big clue. On the other hand, if Stepaniak’s serious about doing a deal, there’s no reason for him to not want to meet and get it done.
She hits the “call” button.
“Slushayu.” Stepaniak’s voice.
His voice startles her. She didn’t expect him to answer. “Still interested in a deal?”
Lots of silence follows. “Dear Carson. I have been thinking about you. Where are you?”
Like you don’t know. “Still want to deal?”
“I’m happy the militia didn’t harm you. I worried for you, dear Carson, I truly did. I must apologize for leaving so abruptly, but I am not the militia’s favorite person today.”
“I wonder why. Answer the fucking question. Deal or no deal?”
“Carson. Lyubyy. Please don’t be so hostile. I want nothing but the best for you. Yes, of course I am interested in your offer. It serves both our purposes.”
A text from Olivia: 113 is in Starobesheve.
Gotcha. “Great. Where are you? Let’s meet.”
“Ah, dear Carson, I am sorry. As much as I would like to see you now, I have business I need to attend to. It will take me late into the night. Can you perhaps make time for me tomorrow morning? We will both be rested. It will be better for us, yes?”
Carson hates wasting three hours of daylight. “Why wait? You know the terms. We can be done in ten minutes, tops. Then we can both leave this…” she almost says shithole but remembers it’s Galina’s home “…place.”
“Yes, yes, that would be ideal. Sadly, there are other people involved whose schedules I do not control. Tomorrow, early? You can be across the line in time for dinner. I would not ask this of you if it wasn’t important. Please.”
She could try to put a time limit on the deal. But what if he doesn’t take it? She goes home with the job half-done. Heitmann’s death is half a waste. “Where?”
“In Miskyi Park there is a café. Leto. Very easy to find. Tomorrow morning at seven. It is not open so early, but people will be nearby. Good for both of us. Do you agree? I look forward to seeing you again so soon. Wear something pretty for me, yes? I—”
“In your dreams. The body armor stays on. Come on time.” Carson cuts the connection.
How did she ever fall for his bullshit? Easy: she was still angry and humiliated over getting turfed out of the force and hadn’t gotten laid in months. Her standards went way down, not that they were so high to begin with. She’d married Ron, after all.
She looks at Galina, whose eyebrows kept climbing up her forehead as the call went on. “He’s in Starobesheve. The swap’s here tomorrow morning. You know someplace to stay?”
“There is a hostel.” Galina’s lips twist.
“That good, huh?”
“We are safer sleeping in the park.”
Carson’s stayed in places like that. Sleeping sitting up in a chair facing a barred door, a pistol in her lap. “Anything else?”
“I know a place.” Shrug. “It has a roof. It maybe still has doors.”
Carson and Galina case the town to find an alternative site for the swap. No way is Carson walking into a place Stepaniak chooses. They find a huge vacant lot north of the market, a hundred thirty meters by two hundred twenty with one tree on it. She’ll call him a few minutes before seven in the morning to tell him things have changed.
Galina takes Carson to Viktoriia, a restaurant in a pink building a block east of the street market. It’s basic but tidy. The Ukrainian supper is filling because it’s rich rather than plentiful.
The dark sky’s clouding over by the time they leave. Galina leads Carson to a nearby bar. It looks like a low-rent biergarten: wood-slab tables, benches, a freestanding bar counter at the end farthest from the front door. All the drinkers are men, and most look like they’ve had a lot of practice. The most modern things in the room are the two flat-screen TVs on the walls showing soccer.
Carson buys their first two Chernigivske ales from the bar and sits across a table from Galina. “How hard will it be to cross the contact line tomorrow?”
Galina shrugs. “If there’s fighting or the checkpoints are closed, we maybe can’t go. It’s not like a real border. The crossings are open only if both sides want them to be. The kolorady are afraid of people going to the West and not coming back. The Ukrainian police are worried about kolorady going to markets to buy all the things we can’t get here now. They come home and sell them for too much money. Then they give the money to the gangsters.”
Wonderful. “How far to the nearest crossing?”
“Fifty kilometers to the one at Dokuchajevsk. It’s highway almost the whole way. The crossing is open most of the time because it’s big.”
“When I came east, we entered somewhere near Staromarivka.”
Galina shakes her head. A little silver Orthodox cross flashes on a chain around her neck. “No. That’s not a real crossing. There are usually bandits there, and the roads are bad.”
“You mean, worse than today’s?”
“The ones we used today are good for here.”
Supper had been quiet, but the stronger drink gets the women talking more now. Beer runs interrupt regularly. So do the come-ons by the local lushes.
Carson shakes her head as she watches a persistent one stagger to his table. “Are the men here more desperate, or are we hotter here than we would be in Kyiv?”
Galina laughs. It’s the first time Carson’s heard her let go. “Both. The young women went to the West, like the young men. Why stay here when the future’s there?” She leans in, lowering her voice. “We are on the steppe. The men may think they want a pretty wife, but they know pretty women are a problem, yes?”
“I hear you.”
“A strong, healthy woman who will work is a much better wife for the farm. She won’t think she can win an oligarch in the city and be a princess. She won’t lose her beauty when she gets old because she never had it. Is it that way in Canada, too?”
“It can be. Draft horses versus racehorses.”
“Yes! I like that.” Galina rests her chin on her folded hands, then smiles. There’s a little gap between her front teet
h. “It’s my turn to ask about your husband. Do you have one?”
“Not anymore.”
“Did he die, or did you kick him out of the house?” Sly smile.
“We divorced about six years ago.”
“What kind of man was he?”
An asshole. No, she won’t go there. “A police detective. We worked together. Getting married was a bad idea.”
Galina cocks her head, puzzled. “You were in the police?”
“Yeah, in Toronto. Thirteen years. I was a detective sergeant when I left. My ex was an inspector.”
“Why are you not together? Did you not love him?”
She did, once, for a while. Carson lets the flashbacks go by while she drains her bottle. “He couldn’t keep his pants zipped. He’d come home smelling like perfume. I’d drink. We fought a lot. Big fights—hitting, throwing things, cops coming to referee. The sex was great, but we couldn’t live together when we were vertical. We called it quits before we killed each other.”
Galina nods. “The women he went with—they were pretty?”
“Go on, rub it in.”
“Racehorses. As I said: pretty women are a problem.” She gets distracted by swirling white circles on one of the TVs. “Oh! Eurovision!”
Carson’s seen the Eurovision Song Contest only once, in a Berlin bar two years ago. It’s a big deal over here, but she never figured out why. Now she gets a full dose with the second semi-final broadcast. She recognizes songs she heard on the radio today, performed with glitzy lights and lots of swooping cameras and audience reaction shots. Galina sings along silently (or sometimes not-so-silently) with each one. Much beer disappears. Even the drunks pay attention, though mostly they make rude comments about the male singers and semi-dirty ones about the women.
Over an hour into it, Galina shouts “Jamala!” and claps as a pretty brunette in a flowing blue gown sings something dramatic that for once isn’t a love song. Apparently Ukraine made the semis. Galina applauds loudly at the end. The drunks mutter or hiss.
For the first time, Carson regrets giving in when Galina talked her into leaving her body armor in the car. Being free of it is a relief, but the drunks’ reactions make her edgy.
Zrada Page 8
