Untraceable

by Sergei Lebedev

  They both jumped out. A dent, paint scraped off. Nothing terrible. But now their car was too noticeable.

  The red car’s bumper and rear light were smashed.

  Grebenyuk suddenly laughed and banged his fist on the hood. “Fuck. Were you waiting to ambush us, you asshole?”

  Shershnev relaxed. This was a comedy. A joke. When I tell this story later, no one will believe me. This guy obviously had lunch while we were changing the tire. And pulled out just as we came by, a kamikaze asshole.

  “Should we get out of here?” Grebenyuk offered.

  “What if he calls the police? Says it’s our fault. Rear-ended him. And gives them a whole story, that we tried to make him swerve and caused the accident.”

  The driver got out, a fat, gray-haired man in glasses. He had been calming the frightened, barking dog. He didn’t look bewildered, however; he bent over his trunk, looked under it, and said something in the local language. Shershnev indicated that he did not understand and replied in English—uselessly, since the man continued yapping in his own tongue. He took out a phone, called someone, gabbled, and then signaled with his palm to wait, and got back in his car.

  The merriment faded. Shershnev and Grebenyuk looked at each other. The rain had stopped, the last drops banging on the windshield.

  “We have to wait. We’ll bullshit our way out of it,” said Shershnev.

  He was seething inside. The laughter was replaced almost instantly by fury, to which he could not succumb; but he couldn’t suppress it either, only postpone it, and Shershnev promised himself, soon, soon you will be able to feel it.

  The police came about twenty minutes later; it felt like an hour. They exchanged a few words with the driver of the red car and came over to them.

  “He was backing up on the highway. It’s not our fault,” Shershnev began in English.

  “Yes, yes, we know,” the policeman responded with some surprise at his aggressiveness. “The driver at fault reported it. He called us to write up a report for the rental company.”

  Grebenyuk winked.

  The report was written quickly. They took a few photos of the damaged fender with their iPhones. The officer, a young provincial cop with good school English, asked as he returned their documents in a bored manner, looking for something to distract him from work, “Where are you headed?”

  They had the rehearsed reply to fit their cover. There were no usual tourist sites near the subject’s residence, no castles, thermal springs, or canyons with observation platforms. There was only one spot. The embassy people went there every year to lay wreaths. So they proposed it.

  “The museum,” said Shershnev. “You know, the memorial . . . ”

  “You’ve passed it,” said the cop with animation. “We can show you the road, we’re headed in that direction anyway.”

  Shershnev didn’t risk telling him that they’ve already been there—what if the driver had told them they had already met on the road? The odometer would not match their mileage. He was at a loss for an answer, trapped by the excessive amiability, idiotic readiness to help. One cretin called the police to take care of them. Other cretins were now going to accompany them. Why didn’t they just leave them alone? And what made him say that? He could have avoided an answer. Everything seemed fine, but words are like instant glue, holding so that you can’t tear away.

  “Thank you,” Shershnev said. “We’d be grateful.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Grebenyuk whispered in the car. “What the fuck do we need this for?”

  “How could I refuse?” Shershnev answered in irritation, angered by his mistake. “Say, oh, we changed our mind? Let’s go back? We can’t be memorable. We have to behave the way they expect. I remember the map. It’s not far. We’ll zip over and back. Quick trip.”

  “They’re hard to understand,” Grebenyuk insisted. “Can you imagine our cops behaving this way?”

  “This is Europe,” Shershnev said. “Get used to it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Kalitin awoke long past noon. His head was clear, even though he had drunk over half a bottle of cognac. In the shower, he decided to leave tomorrow, not today. Clean out the computer, burn some papers in the evening. Make very sure that the container of Neophyte was ready for the trip, and could withstand bouncing on the road, unexpected falls, jolts, or bangs.

  The perfume bottle had been kept for decades in the safe. Kalitin, deprived of a laboratory, could not move Neophyte into a more reliable vessel. He couldn’t even check the container: Was the valve intact? The technicians on the Island had promised that the loaded bottle would remain hermetically sealed forever. But Kalitin remembered his wife’s fate and was extra careful.

  The refrigerator was empty, and he had not been in the mood for food on the way home yesterday. He decided to have lunch in the village. An omelet with sausage and cracklings, invigorating tea with ginger. Then home and a nap for a couple of hours, followed by a hot and cold shower. Coffee. That would take away the feebleness in his fingers, sharpen his mind, and he could carefully pack Neophyte, that capricious and dangerous child, into the transportation box.

  He drove the usual way past the church and turned toward the river. The restaurant was empty, people here kept country hours for meals. Kalitin went to the far terrace over the deep waters of the mill, where silvery trout stayed in the slow circling water, catching flies and bugs from the surface. They knew him here, and made the omelet the way he liked it—without over-cooking the bacon, adding sweet peppers, and he was sorry he would have to leave all this.

  Behind him came professionally polite steps: must be the landlady. She often brought him something on the house, strudel or crepes with jam.

  But it was Travniček. Black cassock, expressionless face. Kalitin shuddered.

  “Forgive me,” said that pastor. “Good morning. May I speak with you?”

  It must be the roof or stained glass windows again, Kalitin thought with regret. When it came to repairs, Travniček was unbearable. “Why do you get so upset,” someone said to him once. “The church has been here six hundred years and will be there six hundred more.”

  “It is God’s House,” Travniček replied loftily, as if he really thought that God lived in that stone barn.

  “Of course. Would you like some tea?” Kalitin decided to have some fun before leaving and maybe even give him money, let the ridiculous priest enjoy an unexpected victory.

  “Thank you.” The pastor sat down, adjusting his cassock with a fussy, feminine gesture. “You drove past yesterday, I waved to you, but you did not stop.”

  It’s starting, Kalitin thought. What broke or leaked this time?

  “I was just about to go to your place, but here you are. That’s a good sign.”

  Something new, Kalitin told himself. The extortionist never went door-to-door before.

  “You see, while you were away. . . People came to your house. Agents. External surveillance.”

  “Agents? To my house?” Kalitin did not quite understand what he had said.

  He looked at the awkward pastor, his plump hands with infrequent colorless hairs, his flabby breasts—must be hormonal, he thought—beneath the cassock. A miracle of nature!

  “Yes. To you,” the pastor replied simply.

  “Pastor, you imagined it.” Kalitin spoke sincerely. “What agents? What am I, a spy? Must have been some tourists who got lost. You’ve been watching too much television.”

  But inside, it was as if a glass rod used in mixing reagents had snapped.

  “You haven’t asked whom I saw,” Travniček said with a small smile. “Fine. I won’t insist. But I will explain for your own good why I cannot make a mistake. I don’t like talking about it, but . . . I spent nineteen years under surveillance. In the country that no longer exists, thank God. Every day. In church. On the street. In the store. I know their breed all too well. Looks. Manners. Methods. So, they were agents. People from my past. However, this time with Slavic faces.”

>   Kalitin could hear the water rushing in the stones. The pastor’s sentences were dissolving, lost behind the roar that had grown suddenly and threateningly.

  The house. The container with Neophyte. The unfinished omelet on his plate. The plans for tomorrow—it all fell away. Now there was only his body, aged, weak, so easily shot with a bullet.

  No, no, there would be no bullet, Kalitin thought in impotent horror. They would send someone with Neophyte. That would be like them.

  The very thought that Neophyte was somewhere nearby, in someone else’s hands, made Kalitin dizzy. He remembered Vera’s blue, inhuman face. Why hadn’t he destroyed all the other samples before he defected? He had been in the lab. He couldn’t do it. He was sorry.

  “How long ago?” Kalitin asked, controlling himself. He hoped it was yesterday or the day before, which meant he had plenty of time.

  “Nine days ago,” Travniček replied. “Alas. I didn’t know where to call you. I think they reported that no one had seen them. It’s amazing but people often don’t notice priests. We are an anachronism for them. Do you have a place to go?”

  “Why do you ask?” Kalitin asked automatically; nine days took away almost all his hope.

  “You live here. You are my parishioner, even if you don’t go to church,” Travniček replied with dignity.

  The pastor’s words engendered a strange sense of trust, as if he had been sent a smart animal who would save him, a clever lizard that knew the secret passages in the rocks.

  His mind began calculating possibilities.

  He was found after the invitation to join the investigation. That means the leak was from there. He couldn’t ask for help, it might go to a mole. That may even be the plan: make him jumpy, ask for help, for evacuation.

  How many would come? Two. Kalitin had consulted the people who wrote the manual. They would come by car. It was very likely that they were already here. Near the house. In the woods. In the hills. With binoculars. Waiting for him to come back.

  There was nowhere to run. No one to ask for help. He had to get into the house. Neophyte was there, his ticket. Without the deadly substance and with a fatal diagnosis no one needed him. Just garbage. They would not treat his disease until he first showed them his wares.

  “Let’s get your car out of the parking lot,” Travniček said gently. “They certainly know your license plate number. I assume you don’t want to call the police?”

  Kalitin shook his head.

  “Let’s go,” Travniček said. “Don’t forget to pay your bill.”

  “Where?” Kalitin asked, getting up and reaching for his wallet.

  “To the church. Where else?” Travniček replied. “You don’t think they’ll look for you in the church?”

  Kalitin had no answer.

  “Why are you helping me?” he demanded as soon as the stepped over the threshold of the church. The car was hidden behind shrubs in the area for garbage cans; if you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t find it.

  “It’s my duty,” the priest said, locking the door.

  “All right. I’ll ask a different way. Why are you helping—me?” Kalitin was overcome with hysterical laughter, a response to the fear.

  “It’s my duty,” Travniček repeated.

  “Listen, you don’t know about me,” Kalitin giggled. “I’m not calling the police. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Wait, I’ll bring some wine,” Travniček responded kindly. “It’s for communion,” adding apologetically. “But you need a sip or two. To calm down.”

  Kalitin remained standing in confusion.

  It was the first time he had entered the church that he had seen from the outside a thousand times.

  The vaulted ceiling reminded Kalitin of his laboratory. Yes. They had worked in a former church. The same narrow windows, extremely thick walls, the same design.

  He looked closely at the walls, slowly walked along the rows of benches of hard wood. It was dark. He couldn’t see well. However, the paintings would have been flat and meaningless to him even in good light. Who were the bearded men with haloes—apostles, saints? What were they doing? What was the significance of their positions?

  He reached the altar. The vaults were more curved and the figures on them hung above Kalitin. The Last Judgment, that he understood. It was the only thing he could understand in the church without prompting.

  He looked again at the architectural composition, the shape of the space. He remembered the trumpeting angel cut at the waist and thought: form dictates subject, happy that the ability to think deeply and nimbly had returned to him.

  Below, at eye level, horned devils with blue tongues were attacking sinners with pitchforks; multieyed monsters dragged the bodies into the purple abyss, below floor level.

  Above, in the diffuse aureole of light, the heavenly host conquered creatures that had flown too high, into forbidden territory. In the center, Jesus stood on a cloud. Along the sides, in the wedge shapes of the vaults, angels blew into long trumpets.

  The one on the right remotely resembled the one on the Island, as if two artists had painted the same creature.

  This would have been there, Kalitin thought, seeing the entire painting. That’s what! The Last Judgment! And we were working right under it. Among invisible devils and monsters that had been removed from the walls.

  Kalitin shivered. It was cold in the church. The porous limestone seemed to have absorbed the river damp and was now releasing it inside.

  Travniček returned with the wine. Kalitin gulped it down—sweet, fragrant.

  He decided to stay there until nightfall. Really: Who would look for him in the church?

  In the dark, he would go through the woods to the back door. They didn’t know that he knew about them; if the killers were there, they would expect him to drive up to the front door. As long as Travniček did not change his mind and turn him in. Should he ask him to go to the house? How would he explain the container?

  “I’ll help you,” Travniček said unexpectedly. “But you must hear me out,” he said solemnly and severely.

  “All right,” Kalitin said carefully. Let him say whatever he wanted, as long as he could remain here until night. Strange, but he felt safe in the church. He pictured how it looked from the outside—grim, dark, belonging to no one, and that inspired confidence similar to what he felt on the Island.

  “Just don’t take offense,” Travniček added. “I’m not good at being a pastor. Do you remember Hessman? The real estate agent who sold you the house?”

  “Yes,” Kalitin said, confused. “What about him?”

  “I’ll try to explain,” Travniček continued, arms crossed on his chest. “You went to his funeral. Hessman used to be an officer in state security. He worked in the department overseeing religion.”

  “Did he tell you about me?” Kalitin asked hurriedly, remembering the perceptive agent’s deduction about him.

  “No, of course not. We rarely talked. I was the only one who knew who he was. Hessman—you know this—turned out to be a very good real estate agent. His dealings were flawless. If he had not joined the service as a youth, he could have lived an honest life. Selling houses. And he committed evil only on instruction. He followed orders, no more than that.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Kalitin asked nervously.

  “It may seem like I’m beating about the bush. I told you I’m a bad pastor,” Travniček said in a hurry. “That Hessman . . . You see, I had run-ins with other people from his department. They approached the work differently.”

  “How?” Kalitin was amused; let the fool babble while they waited.

  “I used to call it creativity in the name of evil,” Travniček replied modestly. “Even like this: the problem of creativity in the name of evil.”

  Kalitin decided to take a dig at the pastor, so free, so serious and naive. He knew that Travniček would not throw him out whatever he said or did. Kalitin thought of the Island and enjoying the fact that Travnič
ek did not know who he was, asked with feigned animation: “What do you know about evil? What have you seen? Do you think that evil is the surveillance you experienced?”

  “You are right,” Travniček admitted. “I know little. Less than I should. But you are also not right.” His voice changed, deeper, calmer. “I have seen evil. Its birthmarks. Our church has humanitarian missions. I traveled. To Yugoslavia. To the Caucasus. To Syria. I’ve seen concentration camps and could not open their gates. I’ve seen ravines full of corpses felled by bullets. Men killed by soldiers in a field, tossed naked into snow. A village after a chemical attack. People hid in the cellars, but the gas still got to them. The children there have olive skin. But when they got them out of the cellars, they were white. Waxen. The birthmarks of evil. I have seen them.”

  “Enough. I believe you.” Kalitin wanted the priest to shut up. He could guess where that gas had come from. To stop Travniček’s train of thought, to confuse him, he asked, “Tell me, what happened to your face? Did you get sick during the travels? They have horrible infections in the East.”

  “I was expecting your question,” Travniček replied calmly. “Well, I’ll tell you. It will help you understand me better.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Shershnev had seen real concentration camps. Of course, in Chechnya they were called filtration points by the Russians, built hastily on the territory of some half-ruined factory, as long as there was a high fence. Sometimes it was just in a field: four towers and a row of barbed wire stretched between poles.

  But he had never seen a museum on the site of a former camp. An old fortress, earthen ramparts, sturdy brick forts. Casemates that served as cells.

  It was drizzling. They wandered around, not knowing where to go, pretending to be reading the information panels.