The bastard. The cold, wicked, murderous bastard. The stomach spasms became stronger as the scent of dark tobacco filled her nostrils. How dare he smoke a cigar beside Petr’s corpse? Quiet! Keep quiet. Jaq put her hand to her mouth and gagged it with her fist. If they hear anything, you’re dead.
Jaq cowered in the marsh, her heart hammering, her limbs trembling as barked instructions led to retreating footsteps, the rattle and whoosh of some machine, a creaking, grinding noise, a metallic thud.
And then silence.
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
Peaty water seeped over her body, the soft ground giving way as she sank. But Jaq dared not move. The motorbike engine spluttered from the road as someone repeatedly tried to kick-start it. Not Petr. He wouldn’t flood the engine.
Petr was dead.
Cabrões. Someone was going to pay for this.
As the shock ebbed, a swell of unreal calm flooded over her. A staged motorbike accident. Smash him up. Set fire to him. The keys to the bike were in his pocket. The bike was going off the road along with Petr.
No bike. They’d travelled perhaps twenty miles since the last habitation. She’d be visible on foot, an easy target on the road. In any case, she didn’t have enough fresh water left for a twenty-mile hike. Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. She adjusted position and sank further. She’d have to wait until dark. What new dangers in the dark? Lynx? Bears? Wolves?
Why would anyone shoot Petr? A harmless mycologist, a threat to no one. He’s come for the Englishman. What Englishman? He’s seen The Spider. Who or what was The Spider? He’s seen the complex. What complex?
She looked back at the wall. It might be a trick of the light, but further away from the road, the signs of recent repair were more obvious. This was no ruin. Whatever it was enclosing – hiding – was worth killing for.
Where had the men gone? The footsteps moved away from the wall, not towards it. There had been no new whir of a helicopter overhead, so the men couldn’t have been hoisted up off the ground. No sound of vehicles either, and the road was not far away. Was it a trick? A trap? Were they waiting for her? Jaq’s breath came in hot bursts, bubbling from her mouth into the marsh. Her neck ached as she struggled to keep her nose above the waterline. The bog wrapped its cool arms around her, claiming her, engulfing her in thick brown water. If she didn’t move soon, she would drown.
Squelch. She dragged one hand out of the bog, slurp, then the other, and inched her way out of the peaty water, back to the hummocks of moss. She ran a wet hand through her hair; it caught on sticky seeds and sharp burrs. She listened. Nothing but the buzz of flies and whine of mosquitoes. Eating her alive. When she could bear it no longer, she straightened up and peeked above the grass. No one there; the men had gone. Her whole body shook with relief.
A beech tree towered over the surrounding saplings. Smooth bark and low branches. A possible refuge until nightfall. Jaq shimmied up. Hard work to reach the first branch, then easy to climb. She surveyed the area from her new vantage point. Credo! So that was the complex.
Inside the wall were several low buildings, invisible from outside. The roof looked new, no sign of moss or broken tiles. She climbed higher and examined the walls. Painted aluminium cladding, double-glazed glass windows, more 2010 than 1980s. But what was it for? She’d almost completed a tour of the perimeter wall before the helicopters arrived and still had found no sign of an entrance or a supply road. How could the complex be in use if there was no road in or out?
Freeze. A noise. Voices. From behind the wall. She climbed as high as she dared and craned her neck, trying to locate the source. Definitely coming from inside the complex now, and it sounded like Mario, the bastard who murdered Petr. And then other voices.
‘Let me go!’
Jaq gripped the branch. There was no mistaking Frank Good, no confounding his imperious English accent. So, he had been in league with the murderers and now it had turned sour. A happy ending.
A female voice, too, the sing-song cadence and soft timbre vaguely familiar, but Jaq couldn’t make out the words.
She remained in the tree as the shadows lengthened. Her clothes dried quickly, but the stench of the bog attracted flies. They were everywhere, swarms of tiny grey flies, fat black horseflies, all buzzing and whining and stinging. Caramba. How long could she stand it? Valha-me Deus. What choice did she have?
When it was dark she would run for help. The shortest way to habitation was south-east. It would take her deeper into the zone of alienation, but there was more cover and she could use the deserted nuclear power plant structures as waypoints to find the dormitory in Sector Twelve. How far away? Five, ten miles? She couldn’t risk the forest road north into Belarus. Dehydration and wild animals posed a far greater risk than radiation.
She slithered back down the tree, then paused. The rattling noise followed by grinding metal. A pause. Then a metallic thud. Footsteps. New voices. Close, this time. She straddled one of the low branches and froze.
‘You are sure there was no one else?’
A new voice. Deceptively soft, but there was no mistaking the authority. He spoke in English with trilling, hissed sibilants and a strong Russian accent.
‘Positive.’
Jaq recognised Mario’s voice, the cigar-smoking Latino murderer.
‘And you’ve cleared up?’
‘No trace left, sir.’
A note of deference from Mario. The hissing Russian was the one who called the shots. Checking for himself. She pressed herself against the smooth branch as the swish of the grass became louder. Don’t look up. Please don’t look up. She held her breath and peered through the leaves. The hissing Russian stood directly underneath, right below the beech tree, so tall his dark spiky hair, cut short around a bald crown, almost brushed the lower branches. He held his head at an awkward angle to his shoulders, his limbs long and thin, moving sideways in short, jerky movements. So, this was The Spider. A perfect nickname.
‘We’re leaving,’ he said. ‘Anton and Victor can stay behind.’
‘And our visitors?’ Mario asked. A match flared, and cigarette smoke swirled in her nostrils. Perhaps they only broke out the cigars after murdering someone. A mosquito whined in her ear. A high-pitched warning. She daren’t move a hand to swat it.
Jaq slowly let out her breath as the two men moved away.
‘The Englishman could be useful,’ the hissing Russian said. ‘On the plus side, he’s from Zagrovyl. Unfortunately he’s a stuck-up, inflexible prick.’
Too right. They had the measure of Frank Good.
‘He’s resisting.’
Resisting what?
‘And if he won’t play ball?’
So, there was some doubt? In which case, why had Frank stolen the tracker from her?
‘He stays here,’ the spidery Russian said. ‘Interrogate him any way you want. Then kill him.’
Saves me a job.
‘And our Swedish expert?’
Jaq froze.
‘Dr Camilla Hatton travels with me.’
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
The leaves of the beech tree shivered. Twigs snapped, the branches suddenly too narrow, the foliage suddenly too sparse to hide the woman falling from the canopy.
The shock slammed into Jaq, gripping and twisting her stomach. Heart swelling, bursting from her ribs, bile rising to her throat choking her as she struggled to catch her breath, an ache throbbing at the back of her throat at each rasping breath. And then the shivering began. She felt herself slipping, falling.
The Swedish expert.
Camilla was alive.
Camilla had lied from the beginning. Camilla had threatened her, interfered with her work. Yet all along Jaq had given her the benefit of the doubt, found an explanation, an excuse. Convinced herself that Camilla had perished trying to destroy the bad stuff.
She could fool herself no longer. Camilla had masterminded the supply of chemicals from Zagrovyl. She was
in league with the murderers inside the complex.
Murderers.
Murderers who would put a bullet through her head, just like they did with Petr. Jaq hooked a narrow branch with her knees just in time to break her fall, swung up and stretched out full length, peering down. Had they heard her?
Breathe. Breathe.
The men were gone. The rattling, grating, grinding of metal on metal was followed by silence. The minutes passed, then the same metallic sound came from the other side of the wall. Voices as Mario and his Russian boss emerged inside the complex. A tunnel? Under the wall. The only possible way in.
Jaq climbed back up into the tree, but she couldn’t get high enough to see in.
‘Vamos, poydemt!’ Let’s go!
At the whir of accelerating blades, Jaq crouched low among the leaves. Would they see her? She lay flat against the smooth, wide branch and held her breath, letting it out as a helicopter rose from the complex and flew away. Only one. The other chopper was still inside.
Time to go. Time to get as far away from this cursed place as she could. Time to report Petr’s death. Time to get the authorities involved.
The shout rang out from behind the wall. ‘You tricked me!’ Then a scream. Frank Good, no doubt about it. She loathed the man with every sinew in her body, every fibre of her being. Let the bad guys sort him out.
If she’d been so wrong about Camilla, what else had she been wrong about? Could she have misjudged Frank as well? Could she really leave him there, knowing he would die?
Yes, easily. He sent Beige to spy on her. To kill her. Ben had almost drowned. Frank Good deserved everything that was coming to him.
The sooner she slipped away, the sooner she could bring in backup. She’d go to the British embassy in Kiev and tell them everything. What about corroboration? Petr was dead. Oh, Petr! The only person who could back up her story was Elena in Belarus. Not the most credible witness, hardly someone you would rely on in a tight spot. The one person they might listen to was Frank Good, but he was about to be tortured inside a deserted complex in the zone of compulsory resettlement near Pripyat with no road in or out.
If only she had some evidence.
Jaq dropped from the tree onto the soft moss with barely a sound. It wasn’t hard to see where the men had gone. A gold and black cigarette end lay smouldering on the grass. Black Sobranie. The spidery Russian had expensive tastes. She kept as low as her trembling muscles would allow and followed the broken stalks and bent grass until the trail stopped beside a clump of trees. Where was the entrance to the tunnel? A dead tree, larger than the saplings, stood out. It had been struck by lightning, split down the middle with a charred centre and hollow branches. She inspected it, running her hands over the rough bark. When her fingertips detected a smooth patch, she investigated more closely. The button was at shoulder height, concealed behind a hinged flap of wood. She glanced around and made sure she could find it again later, when she returned with help.
Her fingers searched for the dosimeter. Cumulative dose 85. She shook her head. She needed to distance herself right now. Clean up, destroy her filthy, contaminated clothes, find a cold drink and some food. She started to creep away.
‘No!’ A scream. ‘What do you want from me?’
Jaq stopped. What they wanted from Frank was information. While she went for help, he’d spill the beans. He would sing. Long and loud. The Russians had let her slip through their fingers in Kranjskabel. But Frank would tell them Dr Jaqueline Silver was not locked up in Slovenia, had found the Tyche tracker, had looked at the maps, had seen the evidence of what they were up to. They wouldn’t let her escape a second time. They would come for her as well. If not today, then next week; if not next week then next month, if not openly in the day, then by stealth at night. She knew too much. She would never be safe again. Unless she stopped them now.
Stop them how, exactly? Unarmed against brutes with guns and helicopters inside a fortress. How many? The Russian boss said he was taking everyone. Leaving only Anton and Victor. One against two. Would Frank be any help? If his life depended on it? Two against two. Another shout of pain tore through the air like a thunderclap.
Saving him was one thing. Saving herself was another.
Who was more likely to be believed? A woman accused of professional incompetence, manslaughter and murder? A woman who had skipped bail in Europe to come east? Or the operations director of a FTSE 100 company?
Face it: if she was to have a future, she had to get Frank out of there.
She returned to the clearing, reached out for the panel in the tree and pushed the button.
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
This time, Jaq was expecting the noise: first the rattling and swishing, then a metallic grinding and squealing. Exactly the noises that preceded the men disappearing. She jumped aside as the ground vibrated and bulged and a square began to pivot away from the forest floor. The trapdoor opened in juddering, creaking lurches, revealing a metal underside with a cap of soil and grass clinging on tenaciously as it rose to an angle of 45 degrees.
Jaq peered into the abyss.
Light reflected from an iron ladder, the steps shiny and worn with use, stretching from the lip of the opening to the concrete floor below. Beyond it a tunnel snaked towards the complex. She hesitated. How long did she have before the trapdoor closed again? Had she already activated some sort of alarm inside the complex by opening it? Too late to worry now. She clambered in.
Inside the tunnel it took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bright sunshine outside. It wasn’t dark; a ribbon of dim lighting ran along a square ventilation duct.
The tunnel was large enough for her to stand upright. She ignored the cobwebs brushing her face. After a few hundred metres, the tunnel branched into six. She tried to remember the layout above ground and chose the direction most likely to continue into the complex. It began to slope upwards, and she moved more slowly as the height fell. She was almost bent double when she came to the first dead end.
Jaq turned back and entered the next most likely route, to the left of her first choice. The second tunnel remained broad and high, but it sloped steeply downwards and turned a sharp left. She was almost sure this would take her away from the complex, so she retraced her steps.
When she arrived at the starting point, she had to think carefully to remember which tunnel she’d come from and which to try next. Something more systematic was required. She found the penknife in her bag, flipped it open and scored two marks in the earth wall at the entrance to the tunnel she’d rejected, then selected a third tunnel, the second on the right. Before entering she made three scores above the first lamp.
The third tunnel ran straight for several hundred metres. Her internal compass told her it was the right direction, should bring her under the wall and into the complex. At the end was a ladder. She climbed up and knocked her head against a metal trapdoor. However hard she pushed, it wouldn’t budge. Where was the mechanism? Her hair brushed against a piston cylinder, similar to the one at the entrance. Where was the button to operate it? She searched for a control panel.
Time to retrace her steps. As she hurried back along the tunnel, sweat trickled from her temples. She wiped her brow. Something had changed. The cool breeze had stopped. The ventilation ducting was no longer rattling. A grinding noise took its place. Merda. She ran towards the noise, reaching the ladder as the trapdoor slammed shut.
Not good. Where was the internal control for the trapdoors? Meu Deus. Why hadn’t she checked first? Jammed a branch in the opening before she descended into the labyrinth? What if the trapdoors could only be operated from the outside?
She went back to each of them in turn. There must be a way. Surely there was a way. There was no breeze in the tunnel, no natural light; the whoosh and rattle of forced ventilation had long ceased. Within minutes the stuffy underground warren smelt of decay. And death.
The lights went off. Darkness closed in.
Friday 3 June, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, Ukraine
Jaq had a healthy respect for confined spaces. She didn’t suffer from claustrophobia, and she was no more frightened of being trapped in a dark underground tunnel than most people, perhaps less than most as she’d been underwater caving in her time. But from her working life she recognised the danger.
The story usually goes like this. Man climbs into a confined space. Collapses. His mate shouts for help, peers in, can see no obvious danger, goes in after him. Collapses. The rescuers arrive. They guess the oxygen is low. Reckon they can hold their breath long enough to get in and out, quick as possible, save their mates. They can’t. They collapse too. One rescuer after the other. Multiple fatalities. All from lack of oxygen. The air we breathe is about 21 per cent oxygen, 78 per cent nitrogen and 1 per cent argon and other stuff. At 17 per cent oxygen, you get a headache. At 15 per cent your heart races but you slow down. At 10 per cent you lose consciousness and are dead within an hour. Below 6 per cent, you die within a minute.
Jaq recognised the signs of hypoxia. Pulse racing, head thick and stupid, breathless and exhausted. She sucked in great gulps of air, but nothing satisfied her gasping. She’d probably been down here for three hours. When she first did the calculations, she wasn’t too alarmed.
She sat down and remained still to conserve oxygen. She’d been to the end of every tunnel, glad of the score marks that stopped her repeating the same exercise. Each of them ended in a ladder and trapdoor. Each of the trapdoors was tight shut. Including the one that had allowed her to enter this labyrinth.
She followed the ventilation ducting, pulling off the grilles one by one, looking for an alternative way out. The duct diameter was too small to enter and without the fans, marshy gas was seeping into the tunnel.
The dosimeter on her lapel started beeping. Alarm point. Great: if the lack of oxygen didn’t kill her, maybe the radiation would.
How had she got herself into this situation? She’d come close to death before: kayaking rivers in flood, skiing over cliffs, paragliding, driving a motorbike, handling explosives. She’d always imagined her life would end with a bang rather than a whimper. She’d never imagined dying so helpless, so alone. What a way to go, trapped in a tunnel under a radioactive ruin without any idea why she was there, what went on in the complex, knowing only that everyone had betrayed her. Gregor, Laurent, Frank, Karel and now – and in a strange way this hurt the most – Camilla.
The Chemical Detective Page 27
