Untraceable

by Sergei Lebedev

  For years, Kalitin struggled for minute improvement; he was close to the success he begged from fate. But the country fell apart, the Island collapsed, and Neophyte was not born officially, remaining nonexistent, unrecorded, as if its name doomed it to perpetual beginner status.

  Neophyte.

  Kalitin had proposed the name long ago. He hated ciphers that meant nothing. They seemed to steal something from the substance, something that appears when a thing has the right name, a pet with the perfect diminutive, a secret of the soul, a drawing of fate.

  He went through dozens of names, checked dictionaries—none of them worked.

  One day Kalitin took a walk on the edge of the testing ground. There was a ravine overgrown with angelica, a stream pouring from the slimy stone wall. Beyond the ravine were broken, tumbledown tombstones of an abandoned cemetery; the wooden village houses had rotted long ago, but the limestone slabs stuck out through last year’s flattened grass. There, at the ravine, Kalitin came up with clever, elegant, lively name: Neophyte, as if someone had placed it on his tongue.

  There was no substance yet, no formula, no path to it—only his brazen idea.

  He had joined Zakharyevsky’s laboratory not knowing that he would be working on chemical weapons. He had signed a nondisclosure agreement before he had anything to disclose.

  Of course, the institute had other areas of work. He learned about them only later, after receiving his first independent assignment from Zakharyevsky.

  Kalitin did not regret a thing. The ontology of death that he encountered as a researcher set before him scientific questions of incredible scope and depth.

  Now he could admit that he had never been an atheist in the strict sense of the word. But he was not a believer, either. He knew that there was a higher power in the world. He knew it as a practitioner who had experienced epiphanies that could not be explained rationally. A prospector, a miner, depending on these insights, knowing how to find the intuitive path.

  He did not ascribe them to God or the devil, to human nature or the qualities of knowledge.

  Probably, deep inside, he thought himself an archaic creature, a shaman traveling through other worlds in the search of sources, artifacts of power. It was no accident that he was a collector; they did a lot of digging in the test field, and those were areas of ancient nomads, ancient stops along the river, and the land always yielded up gifts—ancient, original symbols of sacred, clumsy Paleolithic figures, and also flint axes and arrowheads.

  Kalitin believed that he was a creator alongside other creators, since he did not draw water from some black well, did not find inspiration in blood and suffering. Huge eagles often circled above the Island; Kalitin liked the birds, liked the winds, the unrestrained sunsets, the wild expanses. It was from them that he drew vision, inspiration, the sense of the significance of his own life. This fact was proof to him that he was like all the other talents; divisions were hypocritical. Anyone who condemned him simply did not know that the same wind and sunsets ran in his blood as in that of any other gifted person; Neophyte was as much a product of inspiration, risk, and art as was the Winged Victory of Samothrace, as Mendeleev’s table of elements.

  Kalitin remembered and could relive the first flash of understanding, the guiding meteor.

  He was working on Zakharyevsky’s orders with vegetable substances, stable, acting instantly, but leaving traces just as stable. He tried to lower their visibility, blurring, dissolving, turning them into a transparent veil.

  But the stubborn substance would not yield, and Kalitin, furious, threw his pencil on the floor and stared at the lab ceiling, a cupola of the former church, with exhaust vents hanging down. Only one angel in the corner, cut off at the chest, remained of the original painting. Anywhere else it would have been painted over, but the Party committee was not allowed inside the lab. Kalitin liked looking at the thoughtful face in a gold wreath, at the narrow golden tube pressed to the angelic lips. The angel was in Kalitin’s power, a ghost of another era, herald of a trial that did not take place, having outlived the prerevolutionary world in which his image had sense, the direct power of significance.

  While gazing at that angel with the special stubbornness of the last shard that does not wish to vanish, steadfastly witnessing the existence of the whole, Kalitin realized that death by its very nature is a dirty thing, and that was not a metaphor. Death always left clues, the multifaceted natural traces that the wise investigator will understand; that is how the world is made, those are its laws.

  To bypass, trick those laws, to make death come unseen, penetrating every cover and leaving no trace is the highest power, the ability to directly rule existence.

  At that moment Kalitin—who was still young—vacillated.

  He understood that the appearance of death, its eternal fate to leave traces, be known, is a natural good, the red signal thread sewn and woven into the fabric of the world. The original law of retribution is encoded and realized in matter. That means the possibility of executing it. The possibility of the existence of the concepts of crime, guilt, revenge, retribution, repentance. Morality per se.

  Kalitin hesitated but he was not frightened. He had touched a certain border—the sensation was clear, real. He wanted to step beyond it.

  When Kalitin created Neophyte, he saw that it was impossible to bypass the protective mechanism. The law was more complicated than he thought.

  Neophyte was weak because of its strength. It left no trace and was lethal, but too unstable as a chemical; the absolute of two qualities to the detriment of all others. Too lethal and therefore not viable.

  Neophyte could not be directed, untraceable but dependent on the container. The experts had immediate questions on the tactics of use: How to deploy a substance that kills the killer as well as the victim? They came up with the lame scheme of leaving the target alone with the Neophyte and then removing the vessel, the container; that’s how they killed the banker. The scheme worked, but it removed Neophyte’s main advantage: secrecy.

  Back then, at the start of the journey, before Neophyte was formulated as a clear concept, Kalitin was filled with hope.

  He became a fan of death. He studied how people died, how that took place chemically and physiologically. He listened to talks by invited specialists, doctors who thought they were entrusting their knowledge to a chemist working on a secret medicine for the Central Committee. At the City morgue he learned from the forensic experts. He read histories of epidemics and researched the death of all living things: plants, mushrooms, insects, plankton, ecosystems.

  The first, the simplest, path of experiments he chose led to the creation of a twin substance.

  He had long thought that all substances with their various fighting temperaments, duration of action, vulnerabilities, and strong points had twins in the human world. Among people you can call yourself something else, random, unassociated—and so Kalitin created dark twins for substances for civilian use, achieved identical traces that no one could interpret as evidence of murder.

  But that was still only a partial, imperfect solution. The trace remained, and in unfortunate circumstances could raise suspicions.

  Once Kalitin went night fishing with the chief of security, Zakharyevsky’s old friend. Called back into the acting reserves, the general respected and nurtured Kalitin in his rough way. But his peasant habits had to be indulged from time to time, for instance, carp fishing. The security chief was of interest to Kalitin, too. Uneducated, hopelessly behind the times, he was a fossil from a bygone era, from the sins, filth, and blood that Kalitin wanted to avoid. The simple and meaningless death by bullet reigned there, indiscriminately taking millions of souls. Kalitin was creating a different death—rational, focused; its morality and justification lay in its singularity. But that was why the general interested Kalitin, he reeked of wild blood; against his background, Kalitin’s inner principles stood in stark relief. Besides which, there was a profound and unobvious similarity to their work, which preordai
ned and blessed their alliance, the scientist and the KGB officer. The security chief was a professional whose ethics were expediency; he knew how to open people up and take the shortest path to truth. That’s how Kalitin acted in science.

  They fished by the light of a kerosene lantern that cast long shadows on the sand. Nothing was biting. The security chief sucked on his stinking Belomor cigarette, stared at length, thoughtless, at the fishing pole’s bell, sipped at his flask of alcohol infusion of birch fungus, real turpentine—Kalitin tried it once and almost burned his throat. They had brought three newbies to the Island, recent graduates of the special school, as he had once been. Kalitin was looking for an opportunity to ask informally about one he was planning to take on as a lab assistant.

  “I wouldn’t,” the old man said in a friendly tone, instantly understanding why Kalitin was interested. “He’s a fool. Talks too much. If he keeps blabbing we’ll take away his access.”

  “What does he blab about?” Kalitin asked neutrally.

  “Ghosts,” the old man answered slowly. “Those, damn it, specters. Seen them in the cellar.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Kalitin exclaimed sincerely.

  “Nonsense, but not nonsense,” he said in a lecturing tone. “We’re in a special place. With history. Events took place here in the olden days. Shouldn’t gab in that direction.”

  Kalitin felt the old man was talking about something personal, long past. He knew some details of his biography. Zakharyevsky had enlightened him, explaining how to deal with the general.

  Kalitin wondered more than once as he thought about the old man: Why didn’t they just round people up, shoot and bury them? Why did they have investigations, write documents, observe the formalities, if they knew it was all a lie? Why all those procedures? He understood now, looking at the old man: for the sake of the executioners. The procedures served as guardrails, to keep them from going mad and becoming insubordinate.

  The old man had fallen silent. Kalitin felt that the topic of ghosts had upset him, the idea that death was reversible, that witnesses could arise out of nowhere. He did not believe in ghosts. But it was pleasant observing the superstitious, childish fears of the all-powerful chief of security.

  The bell jingled. Deep in the water the carp had taken the bait and pulled it. The old man tugged, then cursed in disappointment. “Gone, the bastard.”

  Suddenly in the cupola of light from the lantern white flakes swirled like a snow shower. The wind had carried August mayflies from the expanses of the river, wandering creatures of the night that would not live till dawn.

  The mayflies threw themselves at the heated glass, striving for the flame, turning to charcoal. The lamp was like a magical vessel calling them out of the darkness.

  The mayflies covered the sand, the tideline, like fallen constellations. Kalitin felt piercing delight. He now knew what his Neophyte should be: short-lived, vanishing in the shadows of the world, capable before disintegrating of performing just one wish: death.

  Mayflies. Glorious mayflies. The rusty light of the kerosene flame. The living white blizzard at the end of summer, the dance of departure. A foretaste of blizzards to come. The swoon of winter’s white sleep.

  Kalitin fell asleep, feeling the tremor of light-winged shadows under his shut eyelids.

  CHAPTER 17

  They started out later than planned. When the manager at the rental place typed in the information on Shershnev-Ivanov’s driver’s license, the computer crashed. He reloaded and tried again—another crash.

  The manager apologized; Shershnev thought, is this a trap? The license had been issued properly and added to the database.

  “Let’s use mine, what’s the difference,” Grebenyuk suggested. “Let’s try some magic,” he added, addressing Shershnev.

  The computer worked. They were given a car. V6 turbo, but not flashy, the upgraded version of a popular family sedan. Local production, thousands like it on the road.

  Grebenyuk got behind the wheel and when they had traveled a bit he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Shershnev replied.

  “It’s a strange feeling,” Grebenyuk said. “As if someone is slowing us down. The border agents. The train. Now the computer.”

  Shershnev looked at him with feigned surprise.

  “What’s up? Didn’t get enough sleep?”

  “I did. Sorry. Just this stupid idea.”

  “Happens,” Shershnev replied.

  He hadn’t expected such perception from the tech guy. It had suited him to know nothing much about his partner: what for, they weren’t going to be friends. He was told he was a pro, and that was enough. Now Shershnev regretted not feeling him out, learning his background. It was too late now, it would be clumsy. He’d have to wait for the right moment.

  Shershnev was glad to get out of the city and roll toward Germany, head for the goal at last, and leave yesterday behind. To convince himself that the boy from the past was just a crazy accident, an unsummoned souvenir of his own history. And now Grebenyuk with his question!

  The weather had turned bad, too. Clouds filled the sky, and it was drizzling. Grebenyuk switched on the wipers, pushed the washer button—two weak jets sprayed and fell. They parked, bought water, turned on the GPS. The system loaded and set the course—it seemed right in terms of mileage, a little over three hours, thought dubious Shershnev—and they set off. The female voice gave orders in English: left, right, traffic circle, second exit.

  In the end, the disembodied lady led them into a traffic jam on a road under construction. The turn she wanted was blocked.

  “They haven’t updated the app, I guess,” said Grebenyuk, and Shershnev waited to see if he would continue, bring up the strange, silly holdups. But the major said nothing more, and pulled back into traffic.

  It was no longer drizzling but pouring. The wipers were on high, the right one squeaking. They got out on the highway, but the cars were barely moving there, either. Far on the hill they could see the rhythmic pulse of blue lights.

  Minus ninety minutes.

  At last they reached the scene of the accident. Police were letting cars drive against traffic. An overturned truck lay across the road. The asphalt was covered in scraps of wooden crates and shards of bottles. Dark wine puddles grew lighter in the rain, and a sour smell wafted in the opened window. On the side of the road, emergency workers huddled around a crushed car. The soggy air bags were covered in blood.

  “Good thing they had some wine,” Grebenyuk joked. “There’s enough for the wake.”

  He had changed gears once in the driver’s seat—a real technician. He drove wisely, efficiently, and Shershnev felt the superiority he acquired from the car, its 240 horsepower that recognized a steady hand.

  Minus two and half hours.

  “Stop looking at the time. We’ll get there,” Grebenyuk said confidently.

  He shifted to sports mode, and then raced down the left lane. The road was clear after the traffic jam, the rain was coming down even harder, the wipers were barely adequate. Grebenyuk drove steadily, without slowing down for curves. Shershnev was filled with confidence, watching the wind-flattened fabric covers of trucks, trees, mileposts flash by.

  A red car ahead, an undersized city vehicle. Grebenyuk flashed his lights. He wouldn’t let them pass, perhaps ready for a left exit. Grebenyuk began passing on the right, the road curved, when the red car also moved to the right without signaling.

  They passed, just avoiding a skid, scraping the curb.

  A dog in the backseat. A Giant Schnauzer. The windows were fogged inside, and the driver couldn’t see a thing.

  Three and half hours.

  They should have been approaching the site of the operation and checking it out. It would be dark soon, especially in this weather.

  “In ten kilometers turn right,” the navigator announced.

  Shershnev tensed. “That’s too soon.”

  “We’ll see when we get there,” Grebenyuk rep
lied. “But I think it is too soon.”

  They reached the top of the hill and through the blurred corridor of slanting rain they saw the dark foothills enveloped in blue-gray fog.

  The car pulled off the road.

  It sounded like a shot with a silencer.

  Grebenyuk held the wheel. The right front tire had blown out, the rubber flapped on the road. They stopped right at the barrier; below was a steep boulder-filled slope.

  When they removed the tire, they found a shard of bottle glass.

  “This is unbelievable,” Grebenyuk shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t have spent time with broads last night. You know, they can do anything they want if they don’t like you. We should have tipped them.”

  Shershnev couldn’t tell if his partner was joking. He just couldn’t wait for it all to end. The target would die, the bad luck would end. They just had to get to him.

  Good thing the spare tire was full-sized, even though the jack was kind of puny. They got dirty changing the tire, and they needed to get to a store and buy some jeans; his other pair, that is, Ivanov’s, were left behind in the suitcase lost at the airport.

  “I had something like this happen once,” Grebenyuk continued. “Smile, you’re on candid camera. It was on an assignment. I realized the trick was not to worry, struggle, or panic. Like a swamp or quicksand if you’re drowning. It will let you go.”

  “Got it,” said Shershnev. “Let’s go.”

  They were approaching a fork in the road. The GPS was indicating for them to go right: a turn in three kilometers, one kilometer, five hundred meters. Shershnev used the touchscreen to zoom in on the map. The electronic assistant was sending them on a side road through the next valley for some reason.

  “Well, are we turning?” Grebenyuk asked.

  “Straight,” Shershnev ordered.

  Up ahead, two highways merged. On the broad curving ramp, Shershnev noticed that they had caught up with the red car. It had its emergency blinkers on: the driver must have gotten lost and was looking for his exit. Grebenyuk slowed down and moved left. But the little red car suddenly jumped in reverse. Grebenyuk braked and went into reverse, but the red car still hit their fender.