The Siberian Dilemma

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “Except for the fire-breathing ones. You have such an imagination. Have you ever thought about writing?”

  She smiled. “I like making up stories.”

  She had red ribbons entwined in her long braid and flashing eyes as round as silver coins. He pictured her on a troika, her single braid flying, chased by wolves.

  “You went to see your friend from the other night? She’s pretty.”

  “Tatiana? Yes, and brave and intelligent. She’s all those things, but she’s foolhardy too.”

  Arkady wondered if Saran had been waiting up for him. “You have a new ribbon in your hair. Was there a party?”

  “No.” She blushed.

  “Shouldn’t you go to sleep? You only have few hours till you have to be back here,” he said.

  “Oh, no. I never get tired,” she said. “I can stay up all night.”

  “By any chance, do you remember a train accident that happened about a week ago?”

  “There was a huge explosion about this time of night. We all woke up and ran to the windows.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “A blizzard was coming down, but you could see there was an orange-and-black fireball in the direction of the station. Everyone helps when there’s a fire that big. We ran and tried to help put it out with water and snow, but there was no putting it out. It burned itself out the next day. I remember Boris Benz walking around what was left of the train car with his friend, Mikhail Kuznetsov. Around and around.”

  “How did they seem with each other?”

  “I thought they were arguing. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It’s probably lucky they didn’t have knives.”

  “You’re an observant woman, Saran.”

  “Why are you interested in them?” she asked.

  “It’s complicated, but I’d like to explain it to you when I’m thinking straight.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Good.”

  25

  “We tested the bombs from station to station,” Arkady said. “My parents were sent here. At that time Chita was a testing ground for all sorts of weapons.”

  It was morning, and Saran was showing Arkady the city.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “I was a boy.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I remember my father’s aide-de-camp. I called him ‘Uncle’ Seva. He was a political thermometer, an absolute hard-liner when it came to the party line, but he would have cut anyone in half who touched a hair on my head.”

  “It must have been hard.”

  “No, it was the norm. I even had a pet. A pet lizard.”

  “What was your mother like?”

  “I thought she was beautiful. My father thought so too. He died thinking so.”

  “How old were you when she died?”

  “Ten.”

  “Too young.”

  “Everyone is too young when their mother dies.”

  Saran nodded as if listening to the pages of a book. “Might I ask how she died?”

  “The doctors said she was high-strung. Probably today they would have given her a more precise diagnosis. Anyway, she took her own life.”

  What he didn’t say was that his father had left him alone with his mother while he went hunting with his friends. He blamed Arkady for his mother’s suicide. Before stepping into a pool, his mother had weighted herself down with stones that he had helped gather for her. Too late, he understood why she had wanted so many stones.

  “Oh,” Saran said. “That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard.”

  Arkady realized he had tipped the mood in the wrong direction.

  They walked up to a small, dark wooden house with warped shutters painted a cerulean blue. Saran leaned back looking at it, a dreamy expression on her face.

  “I’d like to live in a house like this,” she said.

  “Maybe not this house,” Arkady said. Actually, it was a reconstruction of a Decembrist house and put him in mind of paintings he had seen of Moscow in the eighteen hundreds.

  “Why not?”

  “Too dark and cold inside.”

  “It would only take a little fire in the fireplace to brighten things up.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  The Decembrist wives who followed their husbands to Chita had made homes for themselves and grew friendships. They introduced music and education to the region. One wife even smuggled in her spinet.

  Snow began to fall as they walked on. “Is that why you admire Decembrist wives?” Arkady asked. “Because they chose to leave everything behind for love?”

  “And because they made something good from a terrible curse. What I don’t understand is why some of them left their children behind. Can you imagine?”

  “Maybe those mothers knew their children would be loved and cared for in St. Petersburg, but their husbands would have nothing.”

  They walked on alongside a huge plastic coil that snaked through the city carrying steam to heat buildings. White clouds spewed from cracks in the coil.

  They stopped in front of the Siberian Boxing Club with a life-size neon tiger above the doorway. Boxing was all the rage, and this was a serious training facility.

  “Boris Benz owns this place,” she said.

  “Have you ever been inside?” Arkady asked.

  “Yes. My husband, Dorzho, used to train here. He wanted to be a boxer.”

  They entered a large hall containing two boxing rings, speed bags, and heavy punching bags. One corner of the room sold energy drinks and snacks.

  On the wall a poster promoted a boxing tournament at the end of the month. Fighters competing from all over Siberia held up their fists. On one side of the poster was a large photo of a Siberian tiger; on the other was an equally large photo of “Rocky.”

  The gym was open from six in the morning to midnight. A janitor perpetually swept the floor. Through a door in the back they passed rows of metal lockers to a small restaurant and bar.

  “They have Chinese, Mexican, and Ukrainian,” Saran said, “but I can promise you, they’ll all taste Chinese.”

  They ordered Gatorade and pot stickers and returned to the hall, where they watched boxers skip rope to work up a sweat. In another ring, young men sparred. They seemed to prize drawing blood as much as slipping punches. A bald man walked around the ring barking, “Anton, duck! Left. Right. Left again. Christ, it’s like you want to get hit. Fuck it, take a break.”

  The trainer got down from the ring and stood next to Arkady.

  “See, I’m trying to teach them how to box and survive, and they want to get all scarred up because it makes them look tough. Scars are the new tatoo.”

  Two traffic police approached. “Hey, look who’s here, Dorzho’s porcelain doll. I forget: What’s your name?”

  “Saran.”

  “That’s right. Whatever happened to Dorzho? I haven’t seen him here for a while.”

  “He fell off a cliff,” she said.

  “Accident?”

  “No, he just disappeared. A year ago.”

  Arkady had never heard bad news delivered with such equanimity.

  “Back to work.” The trainer groaned as he climbed through the ropes.

  The bell was struck and the traffic policemen started trading odds on their favorite. But they didn’t stop there. They began speculating about which of their screen idols was tougher, “Rocky” or Steven Seagal.

  “Let me ask you this,” said one. “Could either of them beat a bear?”

  This took some thought. “Neither. But I could if I was drunk enough.”

  “Now you’re getting ridiculous.” They slapped each other on the back.

  “So, Saran, does that mean you’re free?” one of them asked.

  “No, I’m not free.”

  “Oh, you mean you’re with this man standing next to you?”

  “No, this is my friend, Investigator Renko from Moscow.”

  “Oh. A big-city investigator. I
guess that means our girl is off-limits.”

  “Right.” Arkady already felt his bones ache because he knew where the conversation was headed. He was too old for this kind of drama.

  “Let’s go,” Arkady said to Saran.

  “Not leaving already, I hope?” It was Boris Benz. “These boys giving you trouble?” The very sight of him prompted a deferential step back.

  “Do you know them?” Arkady asked.

  “Of course. I’m a sponsor. But it looks like these guys are antagonizing the customers, am I right?”

  “Just joking around, boss.”

  Benz turned to Arkady. “Have you thought more about hunting with me up north? You can even bring along your friend, Bolot. I bet he’s a good shot.”

  “You’re serious about this,” Arkady said.

  “We’ll helicopter in. I’ll start you off with three clips and all the time in the world. First man to kill a bear is the winner.”

  “You mean this is a contest?”

  “No, but this year we have to cull some of the bears around the rigs. They can be a real problem for the workers up there. This just makes it more interesting.”

  “I have to get back to the hotel,” Saran told Arkady.

  “Let me know what you decide,” Benz said.

  “I will,” said Arkady.

  * * *

  They found Tatiana waiting in the lobby along with Saran’s mother and other mahjong players. Tatiana looked curiously from Arkady to Saran.

  Saran’s mother got up from her table. Other players rose to redistribute themselves at other tables.

  “We had no idea you were going to be gone so long,” Saran’s mother said. It was a mild rebuke.

  “We ran into Boris Benz at Dorzho’s old haunt, the boxing club,” Saran said.

  “Why would you want to go there? Bad enough you’re married to that lowlife.”

  “I was showing Arkady a little of Chita and he wanted to go in.”

  “He would,” laughed Tatiana.

  “He just wanted to see it. He didn’t want to box.”

  The old lady looked at Arkady. “I should hope not.”

  Saran took up her post behind the reception desk and opened her book to where she had left off. Her mother rejoined the game.

  “I was wondering when I would see you again.” Arkady steered Tatiana to a sofa in the corner.

  “It doesn’t look like you’ve been suffering.”

  “No, I’ve been quite entertained, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Remind me: Why are you here?”

  “To get you back to Moscow.”

  “Well, I’ll come back eventually. Let me do my work.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. You do your work so well, you will get yourself killed. Isn’t Kuznetsov afraid he might be putting you in danger?”

  “I haven’t asked him.”

  “How is his book progressing?”

  “At the moment, it’s come to a stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Trouble with the rigs up north. Someone is tampering with them. Probably the same people behind the train explosion.”

  “Benz has invited me to go hunting with him up by the rigs,” said Arkady. “Maybe I’ll take him up on it and see what I can see.”

  “Don’t go with Benz. I don’t trust him and he will have complete advantage. It’s his territory.”

  “I’ll take Bolot with me. He understands survival in the snow. At least, he should.”

  “How long do you think you will be there?”

  “No more than one night.”

  “Maybe I’ll come with you. It will be perfect for my article. When do you go?”

  “Tomorrow,” Arkady said.

  26

  Arkady could see that Boris Benz enjoyed flying his helicopter.

  “For versatility and power, there’s nothing like it,” Boris shouted over the sound of the rotors. “We’re talking four blades, full speed to dead hover, backwards, straight up, dive-bomb. It’s a hummingbird! I suppose you think I’m crazy.”

  “Not necessarily,” Arkady said.

  It was six in the morning. Arkady and Tatiana filled the seats behind Boris, while Rinchin Bolot slept in the back.

  The helicopter cruised at eighty kilometers per hour, smoothing out clouds that pressed against Chita’s eastern peaks.

  “You look a little green,” Tatiana said.

  “I’m fine,” Arkady said.

  As they descended through the clouds, a long blue lake came into view. A ship moved ponderously through icy water. What looked like an abandoned village of fishing shacks lay along its banks.

  “Lake Baikal,” Benz called back. “Largest body of fresh water in the world.” The helicopter climbed again into the hills on the western side of the lake.

  “Tell me,” Tatiana asked Benz, “are you really going to be able to figure out what’s going on with the oil rigs? Are you an engineer?”

  “I’m an investor. Whether it’s a shirt factory in Italy or a bank in Germany, I can understand a business problem better after a visit on the ground. Then we can get down to the serious business of hunting bear. The real question is: What does this have to do with your article?”

  “Well, I’m writing about oligarchs and how they make their money. And here I have two prime examples of oligarchs who make their money from oil.”

  Arkady noticed the change in the tempo of the rotors. They were slowing. He leaned back and shook Bolot. “We’re almost there.”

  “I just fell asleep.” Bolot was peeved.

  “Red lights ahead!” Benz yelled back. “Someone will be waiting for us down below.”

  The helicopter descended and stepped into its own shadow on a landing pad. From the window Arkady saw a man push blocks in front of the wheels.

  “Here we are,” said Boris. “Everybody out.”

  Their breath crystallized in the freezing morning air as they exited.

  Boris and the other man secured the rotor blades and helicopter body with tie-downs.

  “Georgy, meet my friends Tatiana Petrovna, Rinchin Bolot, and Arkady Renko. Arkady is an investigator, so we had better watch our step,” said Boris.

  The joke was getting tired, Arkady thought.

  A teardrop had been tattooed beneath Georgy’s right eye. Arkady wondered if he was one of the ex-prisoners that Benz was known to hire.

  Everyone carried rifles, backpacks, and food from the helicopter to an old snowcat. They climbed in and Georgy drove into what looked like an impenetrable forest.

  Their first stop was Kuznetsov’s disabled Oil Rig G2. Like an animal with a dead brain, a small red light on an electric panel indicated the system was alive but shut down.

  “This was the most productive of all the rigs up here, so of course it’s the one that was sabotaged,” Georgy said. “Someone poured concrete into the hole.”

  “Any idea who?” Arkady asked.

  “Obviously, somebody who’s out to get Kuznetsov. Some of his other mines were tampered with, too, but we were able to get them going again.”

  Arkady could only imagine how lonely the work would be up here in the taiga. What else was there to do but mind the wells and hunt for food?

  “Have you seen any bears?” Tatiana asked Georgy.

  “Now and then. They’re supposed to be in hibernation, but you never know. Brown bears sleep lightly and will come out if there’s any disturbance. The main thing is we keep an eye on them.”

  “How many have you seen since, say, a month ago?” Boris asked.

  “One bear keeps cycling back through, searching for food; at least, I think it’s the same one. It’s big, and as you know, a hungry bear is a dangerous bear. If it’s a good food year, he will have enough fat on him to last the winter in hibernation, until at least mid-April. We’re in January, so it means the bear I sighted is hungry.”

  “Right: this has been a bad food year for bears,” Bolot said.

  “Are you going to hunt?
” Georgy asked Tatiana.

  “No,” said Tatiana, “but I’ll get some work done.”

  “The base camp up ahead is comfortable and well heated. You can work there.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Georgy slowed down.

  “The snowcat can’t climb this last hill, so we have to get out and walk.”

  They started climbing toward the main cabin in snowshoes.

  “I’ll have to get used to these things.” Tatiana struggled to walk.

  “Just lift your knees and feet when you walk, making sure the front of the shoe doesn’t pick up too much snow,” said Bolot. “They’ll sink down a few inches but no more.” He moved energetically. This was his area of expertise.

  Tatiana took three large steps, turned to say something to Arkady, and fell.

  Arkady pulled her up.

  “Let me show you how to turn,” Bolot said. “If you’re turning left, first put your weight on your right foot, move your left foot left, then bring your right foot around. Okay?”

  “Not okay, but I’ll try.”

  An arctic fox tiptoed across their path ahead. They crested the hill and a million kilometers of thick taiga covered with snow spread before them.

  The cabin was simple and efficient. A wood-burning stove provided a minimum of heat, and next to it there was a metal tub for melting snow. A large round table surrounded by chairs sat in the middle of the room. A bedroom slept six, with a crude bathroom attached to it.

  They sat around the table, devoured the sandwiches they had brought for themselves, swiped the table clean with snow, and threw the remaining crumbs and food wrappings into the large bear box outside.

  The bear box stored food in a can on one side and garbage in a can on the other. The box was locked, and handles to open the two sides were constructed in such a way that the bears couldn’t fit their paws in.

  “So, in case I meet a bear, what should I know?” Arkady asked.

  “It’s best to shoot from a distance of one or two hundred yards,” Bolot said. “If you can, aim at the hump on his back so the bullet will pierce the lungs. That’s a quick kill. If the bear charges you, shoot at the two lungs and keep shooting until you’re sure it’s dead.”

  “And forget all that bullshit about shining a flashlight into a bear’s eyes to scare it away,” Georgy said. “It doesn’t work.”