“What do you suggest?” whispered Janos.
“I don’t know,” whispered Vasily.
“I realize it is difficult,” whispered Lazlo, “but we should separate. Perhaps one of us should go back to the boat and come in that way while the other three—”
An object bouncing down the embankment stopped Lazlo. Mariya watched as Lazlo tried to climb over Janos and Vasily, and then there was a loud explosion and sand in her face.
When the sand cleared, Mariya saw Lazlo, still trying to crawl over Vasily and Janos. He had his AK-47 aimed when two men came over the rise, and he shot them both. Another came from the left. Lazlo turned to fire, but the man fired first, hitting Vasily, who was beneath Lazlo. Lazlo peppered this man, but two more came, plus several from the right. Mariya shot one man, but now there were five … seven … ten. The men were spread out, lying on the other side of the embankment, their rifles aimed. No words were spoken. Lazlo lowered his rifle and raised his hands, looking back to Mariya and nodding to signal her to do the same.
Janos was shot in his right arm, and Vasily was shot in his left leg. Both of them, and Lazlo, had facial lacerations from the grenade. Two men grabbed Mariya from behind. Guns were kicked away and collected. Men dragged Janos and Vasily over the hill, followed by several with guns behind her and Lazlo.
“Do not make sudden moves,” whispered Lazlo in Hungarian.
One of the men behind kicked Lazlo’s legs, and he fell. The men waited while he stood, and they were marched into the crowd on the beach while Vasily was dragged and Janos was shoved, the man purposely pushing at Janos’ wounded arm.
As Mariya was dragged past them, the young people on the beach stared up at her with eyes empty of emotion. The guards leered at her. Suddenly, the four of them were presented like trophies to three old men. The largest of the three, dressed in an old Army uniform and carrying a rifle, raised his hand in greeting.
“Welcome to the Zone!” he shouted in Ukrainian. “I see you have murdered some of my men. How uncivilized! They were mercenaries for the Motherland. But still, we should have introductions!”
After introducing himself as “Maxim Vakhabov, Soldier of Reconciliation,” he introduced Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov and Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, bowing to them in an obvious show of ridicule.
One man digging through pockets found Janos’ GPS and tossed it to Vakhabov, who put it in one of his many pockets. Vakhabov smiled and scanned his men. Most were on the beach guarding the young people who were still pulling on jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers. The rest of his men guarded the four who stood before him. Vakhabov’s men murmured among themselves and were obviously restless.
“It is like a film spectacle!” shouted Vakhabov. “A fight to the finish, and we have finished it! It is like the end time! Unfortunately, several of my men have died, and we will need to burn them up with the others.”
Vakhabov looked beyond Mariya. “You! Bring that other murderer of my men! What is her name?”
One of the guards shouted back. “They called her Lena!”
“What a beautiful name,” said Vakhabov scornfully. He pointed to Mariya. “Now we have two beauties of the proper age. What is that age?”
“In Kiev, Chernigov, Kharkiv, or Tashkent, they are foxes!” yelled one of the men.
“Very good,” said Vakhabov. “In order to mean business, please, lieutenants, take the two foxes over there and prepare them for their new and productive life!”
Mariya struggled, kicking a man and landing her fist in the face of another, but it was no use. A punch in her stomach and boots kicking behind her knees brought her down. They carried her and the young woman named Lena onto a sandy mound some distance away, but still within view of everyone on the beach. The men threw them down, one holding each arm and each leg, while others pulled off Mariya’s and Lena’s jeans, a leg at a time.
Lazlo had met Mariya only minutes earlier when she and Janos came ashore. The young woman named Lena he had met moments ago when she, too, was dragged to Vakhabov. Mariya was here trying to find out who killed her husband and, according to Janos, also trying to help the young people being held captive. Lena was a captive accused of killing two of Vakhabov’s men.
When Vakhabov’s men began taking turns raping Mariya and Lena, Lazlo felt anger as never before. The anguish confronting his loved ones from Chernobyl had been terrible, but not like this! Except for his brother, who died a quick death shortly after the explosion, the women in his life died slowly from radiation. Not like this, by humiliation and condemnation to a life of slave prostitution! Even the KGB major, who tried to create a conspiracy in 1986, had tortured Lazlo and his cousin Bela rather than the women and children. This was too much to bear! And, worse, he felt Janos’ anguish. He could hear it—Janos emitting a low growl.
Up on his mound with Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov and Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, Vakhabov took out a cell phone and opened it. “Cell phones do not work here!” He pointed to Andropov. “This one has computers for his trafficking operation. Perhaps he can send e-mail! He is a trafficker getting even with other traffickers while using so-called ‘good works’ for cover!” He pointed to Rogoza. “This one is a priest in the traffyck byznis!“
To Lazlo, it seemed as if Vakhabov meant to justify the brutality of his men. The idiotic speech gave Lazlo a chance to think before he shouted out to him.
“I am an American! I work with US intelligence agencies! I personally know members of the FBI, CIA, NSA, ICE, and even the SBU here in Ukraine. If you do not stop, they will be down upon you like vultures on your flesh. I have a homing device in the car I drove. They will come soon. Stop your men before it’s too late!”
As if in answer to Lazlo’s threat, the sounds of motors revving at high speed came from the reservoir. Everyone except the men busy with their assault on Mariya and Lena turned to the river. Two gray inflatable boats like the one Janos and Mariya had used sped toward shore. But before they could beach, Vakhabov raised his rifle toward the boats and made a motion to his men on the beach. The men with AK-47s immediately turned and fired off hundreds of rounds. The two boats turned at high speed, headed south out of range, and kept going.
Lazlo pulled his right arm free and reached out toward Vakhabov, trying to get to him, but the guards held him back. When Lazlo turned to look to Janos, he saw the tears, swung his arm out, and put his hand on Janos’ shoulder. The guard between them, busy watching the rapes and the boats speeding away, did not pull Lazlo’s hand away.
Suddenly, Janos seemed to realize Lazlo had hold of his shoulder and stared at him. Yes, he and Janos were one. When the time came, they would sacrifice themselves to even the score. Helpless, Lazlo was reminded of boyhood and his father’s oft-repeated oath when recalling Stalin’s reign in Ukraine: “Blood brought to boil will not bleed out onto the ground!”
The shouting and screaming during the rape of the two women expanded into the crowd on the beach. Young people shouted protests. Guards ordered to stay in position alternately cheered their comrades on and cursed their own absence from the two women held spread-eagled and helpless. Several young men on the beach stood and stepped forward, but guards clubbed them down with the butts of their rifles. Despite his past errors in judgment, Pyotr despised this open show of abuse and wondered if there was a way he could take advantage of the situation.
Vakhabov motioned Pyotr, Rogoza, and his personal guard north, across several mounds of sand, so they could speak without interruption.
“Not much farther,” said Pyotr, with disdain. “Those are radiation signs ahead.”
“I see them,” grumbled Vakhabov.
“Are we going to have a conference?” asked Pyotr.
Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, who had remained silent and introspective, suddenly spoke out. “Let us consider,” he said contemptuously. “Which do we export to the trafficking market, and which do we burn alive? Perhaps there is a political way to decide. Or perhaps I should ask for
divine help in this question.”
Pyotr watched with interest. He could not have said it better.
Vakhabov’s anger showed in his face, yet he kept his voice even. “I will tell you this, Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, and also you, Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov: I, Maxim Vakhabov, will make decisions. You think I come here for amusement? You think I come here, backed by all these men, to join the traffickers?
You are wrong. Although I come from Uzbekistan, my loyalties have always been to Mother Russia. And it is for Mother Russia I come to end this insanity. There is a summit planned in Moscow next year. At the summit, Russia will show its superiority to the Americans, who decree ethical standards for the rest of the world. Trafficking across the borders of Belarus, Ukraine, Romania, Moldova, and the Czech Republic will suffer at the hands of a new Russian Motherland, protector of children. After this, perhaps Russia will become arbiter of justice rather than the fucking Americans! I have men with cameras, and the world will see young people with vacant eyes. They will recall the troops entering the camps in Germany. But this time, Mother Russia will be the savior!”
Pyotr waited to see if there was more. When Vakhabov looked back to the shouting on the beach, Pyotr spoke to get his attention. “So now it comes down to politics?”
“Of course,” said Vakhabov. “It is always politics.”
Rogoza stepped closer to Vakhabov. “You may work for Russia, with your ragtag men dressed in old Soviet uniforms, but they are mercenaries armed and paid by the Russian Mafia. Therefore, for you, it has nothing to do with politics. It has to do with economics!”
Vakhabov put his face close to Rogoza’s face. “I have something to tell you personally, Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza.” He motioned back toward the commotion on the beach. “Before all this, my most trusted man brought me a message. He said one of the youngest of the young women has offered to go back to Kiev with you and live at the secret residence at your office. She said she will be much more cooperative than the last visit and do anything you wish. I saw you looking at her earlier.”
Rogoza stared at Vakhabov with both hatred and hope.
Vakhabov turned to his guard. “It will be best to take the Father with us so he can be with his sex slave. I cannot trust him back in Kiev.”
Pyotr wished SBU Deputy Lyashko were also here so the boys he violated in his Kiev apartment could step forward to destroy him.
Vakhabov turned to Pyotr. “You will also come with us.”
Vakhabov began walking back to the others on the beach.
“What about my Chernobyl orphans?” asked Pyotr. “Even the ones without arms or legs or brains might be of economic value in your Kafkaesque world! Have you ever read Kafka?”
Vakhabov turned and slapped Pyotr across the face. But Pyotr stood his ground.
“You cannot take me!” shouted Pyotr. “This is my home! Leave me here, and I will care for the Chernobyl orphans!”
Vakhabov waved his hand dismissively, and the guard pointed his rifle and motioned both Pyotr and Rogoza to follow. To Pyotr, being taken prisoner was unacceptable. It was like the Union being broken apart, like history played back. His name and legacy ruined. But if he were able to escape, if he were able to convince officials in government of his attempts to stop the Russian Mafia, he would become a hero in Ukraine, complete with a statue in one of the parks.
Pyotr knew the peninsula well. Beyond the next mound of sand was a root, and to the side of that root were large trees, then more trees, and then the woods. In spite of the guard yelling for him to stay close, Pyotr wandered inland a few yards, toward the root. He made a show of tripping on the root and yelling as if in pain, as he rolled off to the side. He held onto his leg, groaned, and waited for the guard to come and pull him up. At least they stayed away from their faces and Mariya was able to capture Lena with her stare. Held down, their legs and arms pressed into the sand, she and Lena stared at one another. It was as if they had created an alternate world. Mariya had learned to do this while working in Kiev’s strip clubs and massage parlors, and she tried to convey this to Lena.
Imagine yourself into another reality, Lena. The creature becomes feces flushed away while you stand at the bathroom sink washing your hands. Ignore who they are and what they are because they are nothing.
It did not always work. It did not work when the creature wanted to kiss. But most times, these creatures did not want to kiss. It was simply mayhem, like the night someone brought in a Rolling Stones recording and they danced, and the audience of creatures became insane and Igor the bouncer gave up…
It ended when Vakhabov came and ordered his men away, kicking at the ones taking their turns. When Vakhabov shouted orders, Mariya’s arms were freed and she reached out across the expanse of sand and squeezed Lena’s hand.
Vakhabov kicked their clothing at them. “Dress!”
Men brought Janos, whose wounded arm was tied with a gray piece of cloth. Men carried Vasily, whose leg was also tied at his wound. Finally, men brought Lazlo, whose mouth bled.
“Take them to a cabin!” shouted Vakhabov. “Secure it! But wait with the fires until we are in the boats.” He selected several of the men who had just raped Mariya and Lena. You men … there, there, and there … put them in the cabin and—”
A man ran up from behind, said something into Vakhabov’s ear.
“Tripped?” yelled Vakhabov. “And then he runs away? How could he run away?”
The man who had brought the news shrugged and turned to point behind him, but Vakhabov hit the man on the back of his head with the butt of his rifle before he could answer.
“Take them, as I said!” yelled Vakhabov, his face red. He turned to his personal guard. “Idiot! We do not have time for Andropov! Send two marksmen to shoot him!”
The guard asked, “And if they do not find him?”
“We still leave! Burn it all down! Every building! Every shed! Every shithouse!”
As soon as Mariya and Lena had dressed, men marched the five of them, carrying Vasily, inland to a compound of cabins. The cabin in which they locked them had high, small windows. As soon as they were thrown to the floor of the cabin, Mariya got up and looked out one of the windows. Men came running with boards, hammers, and nails. They pounded furiously at the door, boarding it up from the outside. Although the windows were high, they began boarding these, and amid the pounding, the inside of the cabin darkened. Mariya, Lazlo, and Lena gathered, inspecting the wounds of Vasily and Janos in the waning light, but also shouting above the pounding, asking one another what they should do. For the first time, Mariya heard panic in Janos’ and even Lazlo’s voices. But then, suddenly, Lazlo stood back and screamed so loud Mariya thought his heart would burst. The words were Hungarian and completely foreign to the situation. Yet, perhaps these were the correct words for the moment.
“Bring on the Gypsies!” After Lena shot the two men who raped the girl in the nightdress behind the bunkhouse, after they took Lena away, Nadia stayed put in the hiding place within the bushes near the bunkhouse as long as she could. But soon, several men stripped their two dead comrades down to their underwear and put their bodies into the nearest bunkhouse. After this, they ran to the beach because more shots erupted there.
Despite Lena’s warning to stay hidden, Nadia ran into the woods. And when the sun came up and a breeze blew, Nadia made her decision. Lena had suggested the two of them run away. Perhaps they could sneak around the fence to the west or figure out how to disable the electricity feeding the fence. This had been the plan … the two of them escaping together.
Everyone in the compound, even the young men on the other side of the peninsula where Ivan ruled, had been collected. Coming down the path behind the parade of Ivan’s boy soldiers with their hands behind their heads, men soldiers carried bundles of rifles. Nadia witnessed it all from her perch in a hardwood tree she had climbed at the edge of the woods. It was a particular tree she knew had thick foliage within which she could hide.
It had be
en simple for the soldiers to collect young people from the bunkhouses because of the sleeping pills. But Nadia and Lena did not take pills. Instead, they dropped them down between the bunkhouse floorboards.
As Nadia waited in the tree, she considered her age. Eighteen … she was eighteen, even though she knew she appeared younger. Why would she think of this now? It never seemed important. Especially after the men at the mountain lodge drugged her and awakened her and drugged her again. It never seemed important after the insides of the men had been blown onto her hands and arms and face and … everywhere. In the mountain lodge, the deaths had no purpose. But now Lena had shown her death could have purpose.
Nadia carefully climbed down the tree and began searching along the path in the woods. She hoped a rifle might have been dropped somewhere, or perhaps a knife. The path from the main compound to the south compound was well worn, and she stayed off to the side. Back in the woods the breeze was diminished to a whisper at the tops of the trees. And then, suddenly, there was another whisper.
“Nadia.”
She crouched down, startled. Then she looked up.
“Nadia.”
“Guri!”
Guri threw a shovel to the ground from the tree he was in and climbed down. She told Guri what she had seen, and Guri told Nadia what he had seen. They were a pair, the two of them grabbed from the streets of Kiev where they lived the street life, stealing to survive. Sometimes, when desperate enough, convincing idiot men to come into their alleyway, where they had a club or a shovel hidden.
“They are all at the beach,” said Nadia.
“Not all,” said Guri.
“They took Lena.”
Guri stared at her and held his shovel more tightly. “I saw Lena.”
“Where?”
“They locked her with strangers in one of Ivan’s bunkhouses. They also locked the Chernobyl cripples in another bunkhouse. The men gathered gasoline. They will burn them.”
“What can we do?”
“Come,” said Guri, grabbing her hand and running back the way she’d come, away from where Lena was trapped.
Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders Page 35
