by Tom Abrahams
“You’re probably right to doubt me.”
She doesn’t know the details of my conversation with Sir Spencer. I was vague when she asked about it in the cab ride to the hotel. I only told her that two scientists were dead and that Blogis likely had a piece of the process. I kept the rest to myself. She doesn’t know Mack betrayed her.
“I’ve been letting things drip out,” she says, “a little at a time.”
“I figured as much.” I glance outside. A SmartCar swings into the valet lane. “Sir Spencer alluded to it.”
“Did he?”
“He told me that you were only sharing with me what was needed at any given time.”
“Did he also explain what’s really at stake?”
“What’s at stake?” I rub my eyes and lean forward in the chair.
“If we fail,” she says, “if Dr. Wolf’s research falls into the wrong hands...” She closes her eyes and sighs through her pursed lips.
“What happens?”
“A very one-sided World War III.”
PART THREE: FISSION
“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”
--Buddha
CHAPTER 15
“I don’t think I understand what you’re telling me, Bella. How could neutrinos start a nuclear war?”
“It’s not the neutrinos, per se, it’s what they can do. Neutrinos can move through anything.”
“We already established that.”
“That means that they can go through the Earth, right?” Her arms are folded now. She’s in attack mode. “Scientists think they can concentrate a beam of these neutrinos and, instead of using them to communicate messages, use them to destroy nuclear weapons.”
“I don’t get it. I thought the real purpose, the one you were keeping from me, was to find and identify nuclear reactors. You know, Iran or Syria, places like that?”
“Well, the beam could do that. But that’s not what Wolf was developing.”
“Apparently.”
“If you sent a beam that was strong enough, then it could be aimed at a stash of nuclear weapons anywhere in the world. You fire the beam and it zaps the weapons, vaporing them.”
“You mean blowing them up?”
“No. The process is slow. The neutrino beam causes a chain reaction that takes time. It’s more like a burnout of the bomb, degrading the nuclear fuel. It wouldn’t explode, it would just...evaporate.”
“Whoever controls the technology could destroy the weapons of an enemy and attack without fear of reprisals.”
“Exactly.” She unfolds her arms and rubs her hands on the armrests. “That’s the theory.”
“Except it’s not a theory anymore, is it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’ll work. The funding is there, the technology is there. It’s just a matter of building it, of focusing the beam with the right amount of energy.”
“Has anyone tested it?”
“No.”
“Why are you telling me this now? What’s your game here, Bella?”
“Game?” She jerks her neck like a clucking chicken. “This isn’t a game.”
“What I mean, is that you don’t trust me. You said that. You’ve told me partial truths from the beginning. Why are you telling me this now?”
“I was unfair before,” she said. “I already apologized for that. And I saw how you looked at me when we were at the airport. You turned away from me. Sir Spencer told you things you’re not sharing with me.”
“I’m not playing some Hannibal Lector/Clarice Starling quid pro quo with you,” I tell her. “We’re better off not doing that.”
“I’m not asking for you to trade information with me. I don’t need you to tell me what you want to keep to yourself.”
“Then what do you need?” The Opel pulls up. Lenin gets out of the car and walks to the back to pop the hatch. “Hurry up. We need to go.” I reach into the pack and pull out enough cash for the ride.
“You’re working for me. You’re helping me. You’re risking your life for me,” she says. “I mean not for me,” she clarifies before I can correct her, “but you know what I mean.”
I stand from the chair and grab my pack with one hand, her bag with the other.
She stands from her seat and follows me to the entrance to the hotel. “It’s only fair that you know everything,” she says, stepping quickly to catch up to me. “You should know what’s at stake, how serious this is on a big scale.”
“Whatever you say.” I pull open the heavy door, swinging it inward and nodding for Bella to walk ahead of me. “This is really about gamesmanship, Bella. You playing all of your cards because you don’t know what I’m holding. That’s fine. Let’s finish the job and save the world.”
She walks past me to the parking lot, looking at me as though I just killed her puppy.
***
Lenin was right. The roads from Kiev, north to Chernobyl, are dangerous. They’re two lane, mostly in disrepair, and often unmarked. Lenin is driving the route from memory. He speeds past a woman and her cart pulling donkey. The draft of his hatchback pulls a trail of hay into the air behind us. The woman, head covered in a bright yellow headscarf, doesn’t seem to notice or care as she tugs on the donkey’s lead.
Lenin takes a sharp left turn on a highway marked P-02 to head west. Already low in the sky, the sun shines through the front of the car, blinding us momentarily until our eyes adjust.
“That’s bright,” Bella says. She’s sitting behind Lenin, who takes her cue and pulls down his visor to block some of the direct orange light. “Thank you,” she tells him. “By the way, what is your name?” His car is clean, looks new, but already smells of stale cigarettes. It’s a smell prevalent throughout Ukraine. Even those who don’t smoke smell like those who do.
He glances at Bella in his rearview mirror. “I’m Sergei. My friends call me Lisi.”
“Lisi?” Bella asks.
“It means bald,” I say. “Sergei, this trip is what, two hours maybe?”
“Give or take. I get you there right after dark. I make good time and know back roads once we get to exclusion zone.”
“Exclusion zone?” Bella looks me, eyebrows knotted. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“The exclusion zone is area around reactor number four at Chernobyl plant,” Sergei responds. “It is restricted area.”
“It’s safe,” I assure Bella. “We’re not going to be getting too close to the reactor. We might not even see it. The exclusion zone is a wide area. People work there, some still live there.”
“Near the reactor that exploded?” Bella asks in shock. “People live next to the worst nuclear disaster ever? How is that possible?”
“It was people’s homes,” says Sergei. “They live in Chernobyl their whole lives. Where else do they go? Two hundred people live here. They are old now. Government looks other way now, calls them Samosely. It means illegals. They farm and they hunt.”
“The government lets them hunt?”
“Government doesn’t like the hunting. They crack down on hunting. Add more security for that. They also don’t like people who come to steal metal scrap, but people still do it. Maybe almost every night someone comes into exclusion zone without permission.”
“So, you are here a lot? You help people come.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“I thought the whole place was still radioactive, that it would be some sort of no man’s land for a century or more. When did it happen? In the eighties?”
“Nineteen eighty six,” Sergei says. “Yes. There are parts where it is worse, parts not as bad. Radiation still high, but not going to kill you from a quick visit.”
“That’s reassuring,” Bella says. “Sergei—” A black Mercedes SUV pulls next to us, speeds ahead, then shifts back into our lane.
“Lisi, please. Call me Lisi…?”
“Oh, how rude,” she says, “I’m sorry. My name is B—”
I grab her
leg and squeeze.
“A-Analiese,” she sputters, and pulls my hand from her leg.
“Analiese.” his bottom lip curls upward as he considers it. “Is that German? You don’t sound German.”
“Swiss,” she says quickly. “I’m Swiss.”
“Your English is good. No accent like me.” He laughs. His eyes dart back and forth between Bella and me. He knows.
“Je travil dur,” Bella says, telling Sergei that she works hard at her accent.
“Tres bien,” he counters. “Vouse parlent un excellent Francais.”
“Merci. You’re too sweet, Lisi,” she giggles.
She’s playing him.
“You were about to ask me something, Analiese,” he prods her and then turns his attention to the road as a large truck rumbles past us, heading east.
“How is it you’re going to get us into the exclusion zone?”
“I have ways,” he says. “I do it before a couple of times.” He shifts his left hand to the top of the steering wheel and rubs his chin with his right. “Believe me, I am best at this. That is why Wolodymyr told you to come to me.”
“You work together often? You and Wolodymyr?”
Another truck whizzes past us, shaking the Opel.
“We are both businessmen,” he says. “When there is business that is good for me, he tells people to call. When there is business good for him, I make recommendation. Lots of hand washing together. There is less of it since Crimea problem in east part of country. Still, some good business.”
“Capitalists,” she nods.
“Maybe that,” he says with a smirk. “I say we are just businessmen. Capitalism is not good to say.”
“Why is that?” I interject. “Without it, you wouldn’t have seven thousand dollars of my money in your pocket.”
“Seven thousand?” Bella’s eyes widen, her jaw drops. “For a ride?”
“Analiese, I provide very special service. It takes very special price. For me, it is good. For my country, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” I lean my right arm on the door. “If capitalism is good? How could it not be good?”
“That is not easy answer,” he says. “I am clever man. This economy is good for clever people. For most people it is not good. That is why you see many of my comrades thinking that Russia is good for us. They like to give Crimea back to Russia. Maybe it’s good idea.” He reaches into a compartment underneath the dashboard touchscreen and pulls something from the space. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“It’s your car,” I shrug.
He glances at Bella to check with her and she smiles, so he shakes loose a cigarette with his lips, tosses the pack onto the front seat, and pushes in the lighter. It pops and he pulls it to the end of the cigarette, puffing twice before replacing the lighter in the dash.
The driver’s side window hums halfway open and Sergei blows smoke from the corner of his mouth toward the red two-door zooming past us. I can smell rain underneath the smoke. The air is thick with humidity and I notice the tall green trees waving back and forth, their leaves rustling against gusts of wind.
“Capitalism is not always good, yes? I remember before wall comes down. I was young. We would stand in line every week for toilet paper, milk, potatoes. Maybe some weeks we wait hour. Some weeks we are in lines all day. My mother would tell stories to us or sing songs. Other children would bring their toys. We would play chess with them on the streets, waiting to move to front of line.”
“That’s awful,” says Bella.
“Is it?” Sergei takes another puff and blows it out the window. He reaches across his body to tap the ash into the damp air. “Every time we get to front of line we have toilet paper. We have milk. We get our potatoes. We are never disappointed. Our government always provide.”
“But it was doled out,” she says. “You didn’t have the choice to get whatever you wanted when you wanted it.”
“No,” Sergei says around the cigarette dangling from his lip, “but after wall comes down we had choice and there was nothing to buy.”
“How could that be with a new market economy?”
“You talk like American,” he sneers, “not Swiss. Many people like the wall. We had jobs, we had place to live, we had food. When we get old, our country takes care of us.” He’s interrupted by a flash of lightning and loud clap of thunder.
“Wall comes down and there is no job. Place to live is expensive. Food is hard to get. We get old and there is nobody to take care of us,” he shrugs. “This is why, for some, capitalism not so good. This is why you see war in my country.”
“That’s why you have to work hard,” Bella lectures. “There are opportunities if you work hard. You cannot rely on the government for everything. Hard, honest work is rewarded.”
“Hard, honest work,” he laughs and sucks on the cigarette. The ash glows brighter as he inhales, then dims as he blows out. “That is funny joke.”
“Why is it funny?”
“I am paid seven thousand dollars U.S. to sneak you into place you should not be. That is not honest. Thick raindrops begin to pelt the windshield. Sergei flicks what’s left of the cigarette out of the window and pushes a button to roll it up. “Seven thousand dollars is maybe four times more than honest person makes in year.”
“Yes but—”
“But what, Analiese?” He narrows his eyes. “You are Swiss and I am from Africa. You are not honest.”
“Wait a —”
“You judge my country. You know nothing. You come here with your money and your secrets. You think Wolodymyr send you to me if you were honest? You come to me because you need to be dishonest. I am not fool.”
“Nobody suggested you are a fool,” I intercede. “She’s just having a political debate with you.”
The rain intensifies and the Opel’s wipers whir back and forth as quickly as they can. Another flash and immediate boom rattle the car. Sergei puts both hands on the wheel and adjusts his position in his seat. He leans into the windshield and decelerates.
He raises his voice so that we can hear him over the rhythmic pounding of the rain. “Sorry, I am passionate man. I get passionate about my country. I am sorry. I should not be rude to guests.”
“It’s okay,” Bella says. “I meant no offense to you, Lisi.” She smiles demurely.
“It’s Sergei,” he says. “You now call me Sergei.”
He’s right. He’s no fool.
***
The Opel’s headlights are barely able to cut through the driving rain. We approach a red and white wooden barrier. To the right of the barrier is a large, circular white sign which reads “STOP!! Exclusion Zone” in Ukrainian. To the left is a guard house. It’s dark and presumably empty. Gravel pops underneath the tires and Sergei puts the hatchback into park.
“This entrance is good one,” Sergei says. “No guards here until morning.” He opens his door and quickly ducks into the downpour, rain spraying into the car until he slams it shut. He disappears for a moment, then sneaks into the white glow of the headlights shining on the barrier. Next to the guard house, he finds a lever and manually lifts the barrier. It sticks in the up position and he disappears back into the darkness before slinging open his door and slamming it shut.
“We go here and we find best way to where you want to go.” Sergei pulls past the open barrier and slides the Opel into park again. “I’ll be back.” He pushes open his door and runs past the driver’s side to the rear of the car so he can lower the barrier. The door is open and rain is splashing into the back seat
“It was more endearing when Schwarzenegger said it in Predator,” Bella jokes.
“It was Terminator,” I correct her. She’s culturally clueless.
“Are you sure about that?” she asks as Sergei, now drenched, slips back into the car and yanks the door shut.
“Sure about what?” Sergei turns to look at us over his right shoulder, his head beading with raindrops.
“That Schwarzenegge
r said, ‘I’ll be back’ in Terminator,” I say, “and not in the movie Predator.”
“Who said it was in Predator?” He’s clearly shocked that anyone could mistake one of the most repeated lines in movie history. “Analiese?”
“I j-just —”
“You must not be American after all.” He thumbs the fog from his lenses. “Or Austrian.”
“Whatever,” she mumbles. “It’s just a movie.”
Sergei turns around and cranks the hatchback into drive, slowly accelerating into the darkness. There are no streetlights illuminating the road, only his headlights, which he’s switched to high beam, to guide us through the deluge.
“We need the rain,” Sergei comments, “but it would have been better to not happen tonight.” He scoots forward in his seat, both hands on the wheel, navigating what’s become a narrow two lane road with no shoulders. “It is trouble enough in dark without rain. Now, it is harder.”
“Do you know where to go?” I ask.
“Yes. We are at one of southern entry gates. We need to go north.”
“Will we be close to the reactors?” Bella asks.
“No. We will not be close to sarcophagus at reactor number four.”
“Sarcophagus?” Bella asks.
“It is structure built around reactor four,” he says. “It is old now and leaking. We stay away from that.”
“Good.”
“How big is the exclusion zone?” I ask.
“Twenty six hundred kilometers. That is area.”
“So,” I calculate in my head, “that’s about one thousand square miles. Wow.”
Sergei slows the car at a fork in the road, then spins the steering wheel to the left and accelerates. A flash of lightning momentarily illuminates our surroundings, revealing towering trees swaying back and forth against a milky sky.
“We are getting close to liquor store,” he says in a voice loud enough for us to hear it over the pounding rain. “It is late.” The clock in his car reads 9:35. “I am thinking you will find nothing there. Nobody will be working.”
