The Ice Curtain

by Robin White

  Yuri thought of them simply as “the Brothers.” Anzor, Aslan, and Mahmet actually were. Mahmet was the eldest, Anzor the baby. The fourth, Bashir, was a cousin who’d made his living as a locksmith. His services were in great demand after the Russians were thrown out of Grozny the first time. There wasn’t a safe, abandoned, buried by rubble, he could not open.

  Then the Russians came back. The Brothers escaped the doomed city under the thunder of artillery. Instead of melting into the mountains, they took the last train north to Moscow. The militia stopped them and threw them onto another train, this one heading east. They tried to get off, but no city wanted them. Six days later the train neared Irkutsk. They were hungry, broke, desperate. They jumped off before the station and wandered to the airport, thinking they might hijack a flight back home.

  Yuri hired them on the spot.

  The four Chechens had dark, ringletted black hair, sharp, angular features, black eyes, and volcanic tempers. They acted like a family. An incautious slur tossed at one in the Irkutsk bazaar was promptly answered by all.

  The Brothers sat in a huddle beneath the Yak’s high tail, smoking potent tobacco and drinking equally smoky black tea from a metal thermos. The jet’s tail ramp was down. They were dressed in mottled green, tan, and white camouflage jackets and pants. Winter garments for the Red Army, except that the Red Army couldn’t afford them now. They wore dark karakul hats. Mahmet had pulled his down almost to his eyes. Anzor adored him, and wore his the same way. Bashir and Aslan wore theirs pushed back at a jaunty, less threatening angle. Thirty-round AK-102 magazines were stacked nearby like dominoes.

  Yuri did a quick check of the jet, pausing, probing, making sure that all the critical items were attended to. The Yak had once belonged to Aeroflot. It was taken over by a Siberian oil company in exchange for a mountain of unpaid fuel bills. Yuri had acquired it in a complicated deal that gave him possession without having to list it as White Bird’s property. He painted out the old name, the old registration number, and replaced them with pure white-and-blue WHITE BIRD AIRLINES lettering.

  No matter that its ownership was muddy. The Yak was tangible evidence that if Yuri worked hard good things would come his way. People called it “Cigarette Butt.” It was stubby, and the wings had none of the elegant sweep of more modern business jets. And when all three Ivchenko turbojets were in full cry, the roar was all but deafening. Even in the cockpit. But to Yuri, it was a mark of his achievement. He could scarcely believe that he’d begun with an old biplane covered with fabric measled with silver tape. It was an affirmation that Yuri Durashenko had what it took to make his way through the chaos that was Russia.

  He walked over to the Brothers’ huddle. “Everyone set?” Yuri waited. No one moved. “What’s wrong?”

  “There are diamonds in Mirny,” Mahmet explained. “Winter is coming. Life will be difficult in the mountains.”

  Sometimes the Brothers seemed as impenetrable as the Siberian forest. “What mountains?”

  “Kavkass.” The Caucasus. “Sending money to our families is like sending ice cubes. A little bit melts at every step. The banker, the agent, the courier. By the time it arrives, not much ice is left.”

  “And?”

  “Diamonds don’t melt.”

  Yuri did the simultaneous translation. “Okay. Let me get this straight. You want to be paid in diamonds so that you can send some back to Chechnya?”

  Mahmet shrugged. “As you like.”

  “What if there aren’t any diamonds?”

  “We trust in God,” said Mahmet.

  Dealing with the Brothers was like negotiating with a band of pirate clerics. Pious men who lived by the teachings of the Koran and would slit your throat if they felt like it, but then feel obliged to find religious justification for it. Yuri looked at his watch. He didn’t have time to haggle. “Suppose we run across some loose diamonds. If we do, everyone gets a share. But no guarantees.”

  “As God wills.”

  “I will that we get moving. I have to be back by midnight.”

  The Yak’s cabin contained ten seats, a sofa mounted along the side, a VCR, a bar. Even a samovar. It left plenty of room in the aisles for the Brothers’ carry-on luggage: four Kalas, AK-102 assault rifles, were piled against the arm of the sofa, their slings brightly decorated in tribal weavings. The short, foldable 102 was the weapon issued to Russia’s elite airborne troops. Two RPG rocket-propelled grenade launchers were secured by seat belts. The seat sagged under the weight of a canvas sumka filled with conical grenade rounds. A PK machine gun on a bipod squatted in the aisle, with boxes of ammunition stacked around it.

  Yuri tugged the explosives-laden sumka to be sure it wouldn’t move with turbulence. The last thing he wanted was a rocket going off. They’d brought enough firepower to stage a modest invasion, which a simple flight to Mirny surely would not be. Satisfied, he pulled the tail ramp up and locked it.

  Yuri settled himself into the cockpit’s front left seat. The business end of the Yak was a tight fit. It seemed to have been designed by an indecisive committee. The seats were bright red, the armrests green, the ceiling tan, the instrument panel pastel blue. Three yellow throttles sprouted from the center console. He gave the ready signal to the waiting tug.

  The Yak emerged from the heated hangar, out into the night. Yuri looked up at the cold, brilliant stars, then snapped the master battery switch on, bringing his own galaxy of lights blazing into existence on the instrument panel.

  His hands flitted above the toggles, the dials, the handles. In a moment, a loud whine and a rumbling roar announced the awakening of the first turbojet. The cockpit lights blinked, went out, then came back brighter than before. The second and third engines joined the first. Yuri gave the signal, and the ground crew pulled the tow bar away and fled, their hands over their ears.

  Yuri advanced the three yellow throttles on the center console. The engines built up to a thunderous shout, and the Yak began to roll. He touched the windshield. The glass was already cold. He hoped there was an extra parka on board.

  He steered the Yak out onto the runway and ran all three throttles forward, and the little Yak climbed into the cold night, streaking over the dark expanse of Lake Baikal.

  Yuri retracted the flaps, switched the autopilot on. If the GPS was healthy, if the cat’s cradle of wires was hooked up right, he would have nothing to do until it was time to land.

  The nose wavered, then swung decisively north. He smiled, sat back and watched as the faint lights of the tiny fishing village of Lystvyanka fell beneath his wing.

  Chapter 24

  The Ore Chute

  Nowek concentrated on keeping his feet beneath him. It was impossible to say how much ground he’d covered, how much remained. His boot caught on some irregularity and he fell. Sharp-edged rocks slashed his knee. He got up and took another step.

  And fell. This time, not against rubble, not against the diamond line’s conveyor belt. But against a steep ramp of smooth, slick ice. He needed a light. He remembered that he had one.

  Nowek pulled out Chuchin’s cigarette lighter, popped it open, struck a fat spark, and a blue flame glowed.

  Nowek was at the bottom of a wide, icy chute. Triangular, broad at the top, narrowing down to the dimension of the ore belt at the bottom. Liquid water trickled down, freezing to lumpy milk before it made it halfway. He snapped the lighter off, put it in his pocket, got to his knees, and scrabbled up on all fours.

  His hand struck something hard, something irregular at the top. Not steel. Not ice. Cold, wet stone. He found a crack, wedged in two fingers, pulled himself up and snapped the lighter back on.

  He was no longer in the tunnel. The acoustics were different. He was in a room too large for the feeble fire of a cigarette lighter to reveal. In Mirny Deep, or at least the ore chute where rocks blasted from the mine were dumped onto the conveyor.

  Dark boulders huddled at the top of the chute. A small tracked machine, a kind of miniature bulldozer, was park
ed behind them, and behind it Nowek could just make out a wide garage door. Leading where? Outside? If so, then what? Walk back into town and find a sympathetic ear? Across the tundra to the nearest railroad and catch a train? Hardly.

  He looked back down. The flashlight beam that had followed him through the tunnel glinted on the steel chute. He killed the blue flame and dropped down behind a boulder. Nowek put his shoulder to it. It shifted with a gritty sound. It probably weighed more than he did. Another push. This time when it moved, its neighbor shifted. One more shove and he’d send it down the chute and bury whoever it was who was coming. A sharp clack from behind and overhead made him freeze. The whistle of moving air died away. The pressure changed in his ears.

  The next instant, the room filled with blinding white light.

  “Are there more lights?”

  A man.

  “Shut your mouth and open your eyes.”

  Two men. Nowek crouched lower.

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Slava, if you say one more word, I will kill you myself.”

  They were above him, standing on a kind of balcony overlooking the ore chute. They both wore white hard hats. Their shoulders were dusted with fresh snow. The first one carried a stubby rifle. No. Not a rifle. A shotgun. Nowek crouched lower as the two men clambered down a ladder, jumped off, and began to pick their way through the boulders, heading his way. He held his breath. A puff of condensation would give him away. He took sips of air and exhaled them into his parka ruff.

  “Anton. Look.”

  “I said not one more word.”

  “Down there. What is that?”

  Nowek froze.

  A pause, then Anton chuckled and said, “It’s my villa in Sochi.” His words were followed by the sharp clack clack of a shotgun shell being racked into the loading port.

  Nowek’s blood pounded. Then he heard something else. The sound of boots on gritty, frozen rock.

  “Stop right there!” Anton yelled.

  A voice from the tunnel called back, “Who is it?” A light flashed bright across the boulders. “Anton? Slava? I can hardly believe it. You two? Underground? What happened? Did you get lost?”

  Nowek listened. Boyko!

  “Where is he, boss?”

  “I never thought I’d see you two ladies back in a mine. I thought you’d retired and gone shopping. Wait. I’ll be right up.”

  “Stay right there. What are you doing?”

  “The same as you. Looking for our distinguished guest. You haven’t seen him?”

  Slava began, “We just got here a—”

  “Shut up!” Anton commanded. “Where have you come from?”

  “Where do you think? If you two aren’t hiding him under your skirts, he’s crawled up a vent shaft. Come on. We’ll find him together.”

  “I said don’t move!”

  “Piss off. I’m not some farm boy you can push into a pulley.”

  “I’m warning you, Boyko.”

  “Like you warned that kid today? Like you warned my Alyosha? Don’t move, or I’ll throw a grenade into your fucking fuel tank? Or did you just creep up and do it like a saboteur? Tell me. I’d like to know.”

  “It wasn’t a grenade. It was a flare. And if you take one more step you can ask your smart little boy all about it.”

  “So. I thought it was you. You and Kirillin make a nice couple. You embarrass me. You used to drive an ore scoop pretty good. Now what are you? A slug with a gun. And Slava. Forgive me, but the best part of you dribbled down your mother’s legs. You’re not miners. Who are you to warn me about anything? Fuck your mothers. This is my mine.”

  Anton said, “You’ll die in it.” He clambered up on top of a boulder not three feet from Nowek. His partner joined him.

  Nowek put his shoulder to the boulder and shoved. It slid, then began to roll. Another one followed it down, then a third. More. A scream cut through the avalanche’s thunder. Nowek hoped the one with the shotgun had ridden it to the bottom. His hope didn’t last long.

  Anton had jumped clear. He landed on his feet, the shotgun still in his hands. He saw Nowek. The shotgun began to rise.

  Nowek dove for Anton’s knees as the gun erupted in a brilliant flash, a tremendous detonation. The stream of pellets rocketed by so close he could feel their heat on his face.

  Anton was already racking another shell into the breach when Nowek hit him. They toppled back together, sprawling over wet, cold boulders of diamond ore. Anton’s hard hat flew off. He tried to bring the gun barrel around, but Nowek was on him.

  The barrel was hot. Nowek grabbed it, pulling with all the strength he had, all the will he could muster, images of a dark Moscow alley and Mirny Deep mingling, overlapping.

  Anton let go. Nowek slipped back, his grip on the barrel loosened, and Anton snatched the weapon away and rolled, then stood. Nowek clawed a chunk of ore loose and threw it. Anton batted it aside. The barrel came even with Nowek’s head.

  Nowek eased forward on the balls of his feet.

  “Don’t,” said Anton. He was breathing hard, his eyes strangely empty. He slid his finger through the trigger guard.

  Nowek jumped, not for Anton, but for the ore chute. His boot caught in something. His ankle twisted, but his momentum carried him through the air and down, down against the icy steel. He slid, rolling as he went, arms flailing, tumbling, caroming against the boulders at the bottom. At such close range, a moving target was only slightly more difficult to hit. How long before the pellets found him? Before they blasted him open just like they had with . . .

  A white flash, and metal hail spattered off the ramp in a blaze of bright sparks. Something stung his arm, his shoulder, his arm. Three hot staples driven into his skin. Nowek slid, the time elongating, the sparks flying, dimming, yellow, then gone. He threw out an arm to stop. He struck something soft, bounced, and stopped. A body. The rolling thunder of the detonation went silent. Blood streamed down Nowek’s wrist. He stared as it fell in thick drops to the milky white ice.

  The unmistakable sound of another shell being rammed into the pump gun made Nowek look up. A figure stood astride a pair of boulders, heroic, triumphant. Colossus at Mirny Deep. The barrel slowly lowered, lowered, stopped. It was dim and Nowek’s eyes wouldn’t focus, and in a moment, it would no longer matter. What difference did it make where his investigation came to its end? Tomorrow morning in a plane? Tomorrow afternoon when the Moscow militia would arrest him again? Or right here? Right now?

  A blast of hot light, another peal of thunder.

  Then a brilliant beam of light lanced through a cloud of burned gunpowder.

  “Nowek?” Boyko jumped off and slid down the ramp with the easy grace of an expert skier negotiating a gentle slope. He stopped right at Nowek’s feet.

  “Boyko? How did you . . .?”

  The pit boss pulled Nowek to his feet. “You’re hurt?” He examined the holes in Nowek’s parka. “Not so badly.”

  Nowek’s left arm felt like he’d been stung by angry wasps. There were just three small punctures in the arm of his parka. Holes rimmed in wet blood. He saw the body at the foot of the ramp. Not Boyko, but Anton’s partner. “How did you . . .”

  “I didn’t. You pushed the rocks from under Slava’s boots. While he was sliding down, I climbed up. This was for Anton.” He showed Nowek a flashlight. There was blood on it.

  Boyko bent down and tore the plastic identity card from Slava’s neck. “They’ll be watching for my card. Not his.”

  Slava stirred, groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He saw Boyko, opened his mouth to scream. He started to scramble away when Boyko’s boot caught him in the right temple. Slava’s head snapped to the side. Stunned, he didn’t even flinch when the pit boss kicked him again, hard enough for Nowek to hear the soft crackle of neck bones breaking.

  Boyko picked up Slava’s hard hat and tossed it to Nowek. “Let’s go. We’ve got a chance.”

  A chance for what? Nowek flicked the helmet light on and looked
down.

  Slava was dying. His eyes, his brain were cut off from his body at the neck. His mouth gaped open as he tried to gulp air down into his lungs. A slender thread of spittle draped from his chin to a chunk of ore. His eyes were wide and desperate, pleading for just one more breath, one more minute of life. “He’s alive.”

  Boyko drew his boot back and staved in the side of Slava’s head. “Not now.” Boyko turned and swarmed up the slick ramp with astonishing speed, like a ghost flying up an invisible stairway.

  Nowek tried to follow. His boot slipped.

  “Over there.” Boyko pointed to the edge of the slick chute. A ribbon of rusty metal no wider than a boot ran up the edge.

  Nowek put one boot on it. It held.

  Boyko was already bent over Anton’s body. He stood, clutching another identity card.

  How did Boyko do it? Somehow, as Anton had fired the shotgun at Nowek, Boyko had flown up the chute and struck him from behind with his flashlight, hard enough to send him tumbling facedown between a pair of boulders. Now Anton’s arms were bent back like a swimmer executing an elegant dive. Centered on his spine where Anton’s shoulders would join, a ragged crater slowly filled with blood.

  Boyko got the small bulldozer running. It chuffed asthmatically, then roared. Boyko maneuvered the blade up, then crawled forward. He dropped the blade level to the deck, then, with a second roar, he shoved the remaining boulders, along with Anton, down the chute. An avalanche of rocks sealed the end of the diamond line.

  Boyko was at the ladder at the back of the ore room. “Hey Nowek. You want to get out of here or not?” He swarmed up the rungs.

  Nowek had more trouble. His left arm was swelling. He could feel the skin growing taut and hot. Warm blood trickled into his armpit, cooling. Boyko reached down and hauled him up.

  There was a door, open to a lit passage.

  Boyko killed the lights over the ore chute and pulled open a metal box mounted by the door. Inside was a card reader, two buttons and two lights. The red lamp was on.

  Voices rose from the tunnel. A beam played across the jumble at the bottom. They were close.