The Ice Curtain

by Robin White

  She had to probe deeply for the last pellet. She used the razor to open up the wound, then pulled the edges apart with the tweezers. She saw the black metal ball embedded in pink muscle. She got a grip on it, but it slipped. She went in after it. The pain broke down the door and rushed Nowek’s brain. He tensed.

  “Almost out. Don’t move.”

  Another clink of lead on tile. She sponged off his skin with alcohol, bandaged it like the others and used a fresh towel to make a kind of sling.

  The tub seemed to be filled with his blood, like an animal had been killed, then butchered. “The diamonds,” he said. “They’re leaving Mirny tomorrow morning. They’re going out on the same flight I was supposed to take. They can’t—”

  “Later.” She helped him to his feet. “There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

  Nowek felt the room swirl, the blood, the steam, the herb-laced vodka. He began to shiver.

  “You’re cold?” she asked.

  “You’ve been crying. Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  It was a complicated question. “Yes.”

  “You were honest with me. I know it’s not the same as trust, but you were honest and I wasn’t. Now look at me.” Her slippers were smeared with blood. She kicked them off. She had long, narrow feet, a high arch. “I even look like a murderer.”

  “I’m alive. You knew Kirillin was going to do something?”

  “No. I swear it. I thought Hock would try to buy you. It’s the way he likes to work. I knew he couldn’t, and it made me happy to imagine his face when you said no. Hock isn’t used to surprises.”

  “Did you tell that to Kirillin?”

  She wrapped a dry towel over his bare shoulders. “Come on. You’d better rest.”

  She led him out of the tiny bathroom, switched off the overhead lamp, then opened the door to her bedroom. “Wait.” She went ahead and turned off the light.

  Pale, snowy light streamed through the window from the street lamp. On the bed, a stuffed bear.

  “Larisa . . .”

  “You can stay here. I’ll sleep with Liza. I’ll think of something to do about tomorrow. I don’t know—”

  She was interrupted by three insistent buzzes, like a large angry wasp trapped behind a screen. The telephone.

  “Wait,” she said, and went out to the main room.

  Nowek followed her to the door.

  “Larisa Arkova listening.”

  Nowek saw her posture change. Straighter, respectful. He’d seen it before when she’d opened the door to Kirillin’s office.

  “It’s not possible. Never.” She turned and saw Nowek in the door, then looked away. “Of course. What should I do?”

  No, thought Nowek. What will you do?

  “Absolutely. I’ll be very careful.” She hung up the phone.

  “Well?”

  She put her finger to her lips, then urged him back into the darkened room. “They found Boyko. He was shot.”

  “I told you that already.”

  “Kirillin said diamonds were found on him. He said that you did it.”

  Nowek thought of the gems sparkling from the fissures of the Ninth Horizon. “And so what will you do now, Larisa?”

  “I’ll help you if I can. Can you believe that?”

  Was it the drink, the shock, the absence of alternatives? Whatever, Nowek said, “Yes.”

  She shut the door and walked to the window. The curtains were open. She was looking down on the street. He joined her.

  The gray world of Russia lay beyond the icy glass. The snow might as well be swirling clouds of ash. A militia patrol sat parked at the corner, more shadow than substance. “Now you’re shaking,” he said.

  “Thinking makes me afraid. Doesn’t it do that to you?”

  “It’s only in the movies where you can be shot and blown up and feel nothing.”

  She turned to him. “You hurting?”

  “To be honest, it hurt a lot less when they just shot me.”

  She smiled. “You need some more to drink. I’ll get it.”

  “No. I’ve had enough.” Inside, outside, he thought. A spark of life buried by Mirny. He could feel the cold of the glass, and also her warmth. The silence, the space between them grew electric.

  Finally, she said, “You shouldn’t trust me, Delegate Nowek. If Kirillin walked in this instant I don’t know what I would do.”

  “My blood is all over your bathroom. You can use my name.”

  “Gregori.” She moved against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm carefully around his back, light and tentative. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t think about tomorrow, about Liza and Kirillin. When I do, it terrifies me.”

  “Then stop thinking.” He put his right arm over her and felt the bones of her shoulders through the thick robe. She curved her body against his. He felt the soft warmth of her breasts through the fabric, against the skin of his chest. “You don’t have to explain.” He stroked her back. He could feel each vertebra.

  She pressed against him. The movement surprised him, almost knocked him off balance. They swayed, not quite standing alone, not quite together. Her robe had a nap like heavy velvet. She looked up at him, her face ghostly in the pale streetlight coming through the window. “I don’t even trust myself. How can you?”

  Nowek lived in a world of reason. But reason couldn’t span every empty space. There came a point where reason stopped, where faith took over. “My best friend died at my knee. He’d already been shot once, and then the murderer pointed the gun at me. Volsky grabbed the gun and took the second bullet. He did it because it was what he had to do.”

  “But I . . .”

  “I could have come to Mirny, seen nothing, asked no questions. It would have been smarter, but like Volsky, I did what I had to do. It’s the same for you,” said Nowek. “You live here. There’s nothing you need to tell me. There’s nothing you have to apologize for.”

  “I wish that were so.”

  “It is.”

  She shook her head. “It’s easy to forget, being trapped here, that there are different kinds of people in other places.”

  “You mean America.”

  “I mean you.” She pulled away from him, reached for her throat, and pulled down the zipper. She was naked underneath. “You make me feel clean. It’s something I’d almost forgotten.” She took his right hand and pulled it inside to her breast. Her skin was hot, her nipple firm as an unripe berry. A warm, delicate scent came from her scalp.

  She shouldered out of the robe and let it drop at her feet.

  In the snow-gray light her muscles were less distinct, more blended. Her arms, her legs were slender and athletic. Her hips were boyish, her breasts firm, full.

  She helped him to sit down on her bed, moved the stuffed bear, put a pillow behind Nowek, then gently guided his head down to it.

  She undressed him, then covered his body with hers. She let him breathe deeply from the warm, fragrant skin between her breasts.

  He looked up. “I can’t let you . . .” he began, but she put her finger to his lips.

  “You’re not. This is also medicine.” She kissed him, letting warm breath flow into his mouth with her words. “Take it.”

  Chapter 28

  Ashes

  Yuri looked up as flakes began to fall around a streetlamp. They were parked under the great black bust of Lenin. “Can you believe this? It’s snowing again.”

  “As God wills,” said Mahmet.

  “So if God wills that we’re stuck here until July, that would be okay with you?”

  “Over there.” Mahmet nodded at a militia jeep prowling the empty, snowy street. It wasn’t a tank. His Kala could take it apart, though noisily. But that would be a battle, not a diamond hunt.

  “All right,” said Yuri. “We’re not going to hang around until the militia gives us a parking ticket. Let’s get going.”

  “Back to the airport?”

  “No. The hotel.”
r />   Mahmet hid his surprise, put the little jeep in gear, and drove around the perimeter of the square. He stopped under the Zarnitsa’s overhanging concrete awning.

  “I’ll try to find Nowek. If I’m not back in . . .”

  “You’re the only pilot, boss,” said Mahmet. “I’ll find you.”

  He trudged up the steps, went in, and walked straight up to the desk. It had a sign across it that proclaimed it closed. But there was a woman behind the glass. She made the mistake of looking at Yuri before turning her back. He rapped on the glass.

  “Closed,” she said, pushing the sign closer to Yuri’s face.

  “For your sake it better not be.” Yuri looked around the empty lobby. “We’re scheduled to leave in an hour. Where is he?”

  “Where is who?”

  “The Siberian Delegate.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Moscow. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Now answer my question or else call your superior. I don’t have time for conversations.”

  Moscow? “The Delegate’s room is 322, but . . .”

  “Call him.”

  “The telephone system is under repair.”

  “Then send for him.”

  “There’s no one to send.”

  Yuri fixed her with his most determined gaze. “Call your superior at once.”

  The woman looked terrified. Yuri had hoped his words would carry weight. He was surprised to see how much, but then, he didn’t know Kirillin.

  “It’s not my fault!” she pleaded. “Go up yourself!”

  “I will. You can notify the kitchen that we’ll require a small snack. Tea. Bread. Cheese. Some sausage. Be quick about it.”

  “The kitchen is closed for the—”

  “You have five minutes. Not six. Understood?”

  Her lips continued to move, to protest, but the words didn’t come. Finally, she said, “Understood!”

  “I hope so.” Yuri left her and made for the stairs. He didn’t have time for the elevator.

  Chuchin heard them coming down the hallway. He sat back against the headboard of the bed, the Nagant in his lap.

  Footsteps outside the barricaded door. Then a knock.

  He expected them to rattle the locks, to pound on the door, to smash it open. He didn’t expect them to knock. “Who is it?”

  “Is Delegate Nowek in there?”

  “You’ve come to the right place.” Chuchin quietly got up and made his way to the door. The Nagant would fire a 108-grain lead bullet with five grains of smokeless powder. A big, fast bullet that traveled at better than two hundred meters a second. It would go through the door like tissue paper. He pulled the dresser away.

  “Nowek?”

  “Almost ready.” Chuchin reached up and unlocked the door, then stepped back. “All right. Come in. I’m ready for you.”

  The doorknob turned, the tongue clicked.

  Chuchin’s finger curled around the trigger. The mechanism was stiff, reluctant. He wished he’d oiled it. A point of pride.

  The door began to open. A hand appeared around the edge. A head. “Nowek? Are you . . .?”

  Chuchin pulled the slack out of the trigger mechanism.

  Yuri didn’t see Chuchin. He saw the gun. “Fuck.” He dived for the carpet as Chuchin fired.

  “Pull over here.” Kirillin got out of the militia jeep. The ambulance that had taken Nowek away from the mine was long gone, but the tracks he’d left in the snow were still there. They were beginning to soften, to fill. He walked very slowly, very deliberately, to the school, then ducked underneath and walked straight to the other side. He found Nowek’s prints again, saw where he’d stumbled in a drift, where he’d fallen, even where he’d put an arm out to push himself back up. The snow was pink.

  Where was he going? The trail headed in the general direction of town. Where was he now? Dead in a snowbank? Walking out of Mirny on a road? That would mean the same thing.

  The jeep’s horn sounded. Kirillin hurried back. A militia officer met him halfway.

  “There’s been a shooting at the hotel,” he said, his breath white as steam. “The babushka at the desk called the militia. They’re going there now.”

  “A shooting?” said Kirillin. “Why wasn’t I notified directly?”

  The militiaman chose his words carefully. “Most probably she thought you already knew about it.”

  Kirillin didn’t. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

  The officer shook his head, but then he thought there was more risk in withholding even trivial reports than in letting the mine director in on everything. “There were unusual signals from the airport earlier in the evening. But . . .”

  “What kind of signals?”

  “The maintenance crew was raving about terrorists. They’d been drinking and . . .”

  Kirillin hurried to the jeep and snatched the radio. “This is Kirillin. What’s going on at the airport?”

  You could hear the officer at the other end stiffen. “Someone used a radio call sign inappropriately and made a false report of—”

  “Who? Tereshenko?”

  “Yes. He took full responsibility.”

  “No,” he said. “I am taking responsibility. I don’t know what’s going on. Until I do, the city will be shut down. The roads. The airport. Nothing moves through any gate without my authorization. Is that understood?”

  “Understood. What about communications links?”

  “Cut them all,” said Kirillin. “Now.”

  “You dumb muzhik! What did you do that for?” Yuri was on the floor. The door was splintered. The opposite wall had a crater in it, and from the wind whistling through, the bullet had hit the outside wall and kept right on going. It was probably halfway to Irkutsk by now, which was more than Yuri could say for himself.

  “Who are you calling a peasant, Thief?”

  “Where is Nowek?” asked Yuri. “I came for him.”

  “You mean you came to steal something.” It wasn’t one of those diamond bastards, but Yuri was close enough.

  “There’s no time to argue. You’ve fired off your stupid cannon and they’ll be—”

  “Delegate Nowek is in no hurry. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “An explosion at the mine. So whatever you came for, you can turn around and leave. There’s nothing for you here.”

  A long pause, then, “Fine. It’s my mistake. You can stay and freeze for all I care. I’m going back to Irkutsk.”

  Irkutsk? “Hey. Wait.” He pulled open the door and saw the hole in the wall across the hallway. “You’re going to Irkutsk?”

  “If you don’t kill the pilot.”

  Downstairs, the two hurried by the front desk. A plate of cheese, bread, and sausage was there, covered with enough plastic wrap to protect it from the elements for a hundred years. A silver samovar sat steaming on a cart surrounded by snowy china cups bearing Kristall’s diamond logo.

  They ignored it.

  The woman at the desk stood. “What’s going on? I heard a shot. Is Delegate Nowek . . . Hey!” she shouted when they didn’t stop. “What about the food?”

  Yuri paused at the door. “Charge it to the room.”

  Nowek listened to Larisa’s breathing deepen, slow. Twice he heard the slap of tire chains as militia patrols moved along the snowy street beyond her window. One way or the other, Kirillin knew that Nowek was trapped in Mirny. There was no other place he could be. He wouldn’t stop looking until he found him. How long could that take in a city where everything, and everyone, was connected? Where the web was drawn so firm and tight that the slightest quiver would summon him?

  He turned to look at her. The light coming in from the street-lamp illuminated the tips of her hair from behind. It was golden, like soft tassels of ripe corn lit by a full moon. They’d each made a bargain, a deal. She’d left him feeling almost painfully alive. His brain was like some finely tuned receiver, picking up everything, flooded with signals, information, impress
ions. What did Larisa get? His forgiveness, his reassurance that she wasn’t beyond the redemption of love. Even the kind that comes in the brush of a hand, the interlacing of fingers, the quickening of breath, and leaves only bittersweet traces behind.

  His arm felt stiff as plaster and just as brittle. Move too fast and he was sure something would crack. He got to his feet. His head swam with the liquor, with the shock of being alive.

  Nowek walked to the window and watched the snow drift down. The flakes slanted down through the golden halo of a street light. The wind had shifted. It was now from the northwest, meaning the worst of the weather had passed.

  A million carats to London in the morning. . . .

  Nowek had to get word to Levin tonight. Because Mirny was small and Kirillin was determined. A telephone might work, except it would be the same as pointing a gun at Larisa and pulling the trigger, and Nowek wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that.

  Alyosha was organizing the strike with his computer . . . Kirillin couldn’t read the messages . . . it must have driven him crazy. . . .

  Larisa had a computer.

  He found it out on a table in the living room. An older model. It made him think of Sherbakov, how his eyes had lit up when he’d seen Nowek’s new laptop. There was a phone line connected to it. He found the power switch, flicked it, and the screen snapped and buzzed to life, filling with a picture of Larisa’s daughter, Liza. She was holding a flower up to the camera and, on her face, a look of bright expectation.

  The familiar Internet globe icon appeared. Nowek moved the mouse over and clicked on it. The computer dialed out with a series of beeps and hisses. The connection was made. He typed in his password. A message was already waiting for him.

  To: wizard-private@russiamail.com

  CC:
  From: ivl-private@russiamail.com

  If you are still in Irkutsk, stay there. If you are in Mirny leave quickly. I am in Moscow, in Hospital 31. I won’t be coming to meet you. I was attacked and you can say the only accident is that I am still alive. I think it was arranged by someone in our own department. Maybe by an amphibian we both know. Until we speak, trust only the Delegate. And be cautious. If they would do this to me here, what would they not do in Mirny? There’s no time. I’ll explain later.