She glanced at Adam, who was sitting beside her behind the driver. He shrugged.
“Two roads,” the Evenk said. “Old and new. Old, twelve hundred kilometers. New, two thousand kilometers. Too late April for old. River melting, bridges and road risky. We take new road via Ust-Nera.”
Nadia leaned toward Adam. “Did your father say anything about a new road?”
“No,” Adam said. “Road of Bones.”
“New Trakt finish 2009,” the Evenk said. “Good, good, all year. My name Sharlam. Sharlam take care of you.”
Sharlam turned right onto a cracked asphalt road.
Nadia bounced lightly on her seat as the van’s suspension squeaked and groaned. Ivory figurines of dancing bears and children riding wolves were glued to the dashboard. There were two additional rows of seats behind them. A mattress and sleeping bag were rolled out on each of them. Eight spare tires, two windshields, and a cardboard box full of windshield wipers and headlights lay in the back beside a huge toolbox.
“What is this vehicle?” Nadia said.
“Buhanka,” Sharlam said with pride. “Also call wazzik, hiebobulka. You know buhanka in America?”
“No,” Nadia said. “But I know some neighborhoods in New York City where a buhanka might work.”
“Buhanka best. It break, Sharlam fix. Anyone can fix. Easy as Evenk. You see.”
“I can’t wait,” Nadia said.
“How do you know my father?” Adam said.
“Know father from gulag. From Sevvostlag. Father save Sharlam’s life. Sharlam remember. Sharlam help boy.”
“Did you do business with my father?” Adam said.
“Yes, business. Government hire Evenki to manage horses at gulag. Sharlam in charge of oat supply for horses at Sevvostlag. Father buy oats from Sharlam. Yes, business.”
“Oats,” Nadia said. “For food. I understand the rations were horrible.”
“One bowl soup, two pieces bread for dinner. When bring soup, if thin, prisoner cry. If thick, prisoner so happy, cry more. Many tears in gulag. But father no buy oat for food.”
Nadia frowned. “No?”
“Then why?” Adam said.
“To burn so other prison gang leader no get. Estonian, Lithuanian prisoner much bigger. Bigger prisoner die first in Sevvostlag. Portions same no matter what size. Father burn oats so other gang leader no get, die first.”
A moment of silence passed.
“How did my father save you?” Adam said.
“Guard find out. Sharlam sentenced to death. Father paid guard to let Sharlam escape. Sharlam remember. Sharlam always remember.”
In Kolyma, the taiga is infinite, signs of life rare. Time is measured in distance. Nadia alternated shifts with Sharlam. She drove four hours for each of his twelve. She tried to persuade him to let her do more, but he refused. His concern for her and Adam’s safety and their need for speed were the only reasons he agreed to allow her to drive.
Sharlam knew precisely which outposts had food and bottled water and, more important, 92 octane fuel. Their first stop was Khandyga, 380 kilometers past Yakutsk. Subsequent stops included Ust-Nera, Susuman, Ust-Omchug, and Palatka.
They suffered five flat tires and one broken windshield when a windstorm felled a branch onto the buhanka. Adam stayed quiet through the trip, returning to his hockey magazine time and time again.
The two thousand–kilometer trip took two and a half days. Sharlam dropped them off with a tearful hug a quarter mile from their destination at 8:45 a.m. on Sunday, May 2. Nadia and Adam were sore, hungry, and exhausted.
They were near an airport on the outskirts of the administrative headquarters of the Russian Far East, four hours ahead of schedule. It was a port town on the Sea of Okhotsk and the gateway to Kolyma, where most gulag prisoners had been processed.
The town was called Magadan.
CHAPTER 64
“IT SEEMS YOU have some influence in Russia,” Deputy Director Krylov said. “The director told me to give you full cooperation.”
“We’re old friends,” Kirilo said. “We went to university together. We’re always on the lookout for the best interests of our countries, the way neighbors and brothers should be.”
In addition to Deputy Director Krylov, Kirilo, Victor, and five other men sat at a large rectangular table at the Magadan headquarters of the FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service and successor to the KGB.
After quick introductions, it was clear from their titles that the first four were the deputy director’s lackeys. The fifth one, however, wore an everyday olive military uniform with a single gold star on the insignia on his shoulder.
“This is Major General Yashko of the Russian Ground Forces from the Far Eastern Military District,” Krylov said. “Your exact command, General? Forgive me; in all this excitement, I’ve forgotten.”
“The Fourteenth Independent Spetsnaz Bridage in Ussuriysk.”
“Special Forces,” Kirilo said.
“Yes,” Major General Yashko said with a dismissive smile. “To catch a woman and a child.” He enunciated slowly and precisely to convey his disgust with his assignment.
“You’d be surprised how elusive American women can be,” Victor said. “Especially if they’re from New York. I see them outside my apartment on the sidewalk chasing their dreams every day. They move so quickly. One second they’re there. Then you blink. And they’re gone.”
Major General Yashko measured Victor and smirked. He turned to the deputy director. “Who is this little man?”
“He is with me,” Kirilo said. “Do I need to get the director and the general on the phone and ask them for reassignments?”
“No, you most certainly do not,” Krylov said.
He turned to a wall with twenty television monitors featuring live video feeds. Some showed passengers wheeling suitcases and checking in, while others offered wide-angle views of piers and ships.
“We have security monitors at Sokol Airport,” Krylov said. “Arrival, check-in gate, security, luggage, departure. There are five international flights departing this evening from Magadan. We also have security monitors along the pier. There are three ships leaving this evening. We have agents all over the airport and the pier.”
“But you’re not certain she’s even in Magadan,” Major General Yashko said, “are you?”
“We’re certain she’s either in Magadan or is on her way,” Kirilo said. “She’s getting local help, so she could be coming in slightly off the grid. On a parallel road of some kind.”
“Passport Control is on full alert throughout Russia,” Krylov said. “It is impossible for her to get out of Russia legally.”
“Then she will get out of Russia illegally,” Victor said.
Shortly thereafter, two shapely assistants came in with lunch and coffee.
It was 12:00 p.m. on Friday.
CHAPTER 65
“THE PLAN FROM here on out…” Nadia said. “Adam. It’s dangerous.”
“No,” Adam said. “The plan is good.”
“It’s really dangerous and unnecessary.”
“No, it’s necessary.”
“The man who’s chasing us is Ukrainian. He’s powerful in Ukraine. Not in Russia. If he were, he would have caught us by now. Let me buy tickets for the flight to New York tonight.”
“No.”
“Actually, it’s New Jersey. United Airlines. It connects through Los Angeles.”
“No. You don’t understand how it is here. Russia, Ukraine, the other Soviet countries—they’re all independent, but they’re still linked. They’re linked by bad governments. We follow my father’s plan. He may be dying, but he’s still smart. He’s never told me a lie.”
“I’m not saying he’s not smart, Adam, but he’s not here now—”
“My father’s plan. We stick to my father’s plan.”
“Adam—”
“No.”
Nadia looked across the street at the airport and sighed. She checked her wrist, forgett
ing it was bare. “What time is it?” she said.
“Twelve thirty.”
“Okay. We stick with the plan. God help us.”
Four trees stood in front of the modest peach-yellow cement terminal. The grass along the front hadn’t been cut for a year. They entered through a pair of rusty steel-framed glass doors. Two weathered men in plaid shirts and jeans were buying Fanta sodas from a babushka at a small convenience shop. A fourth old man, with his back to Nadia, was chatting up a woman in a uniform at the check-in counter. When the woman glanced at Nadia and Adam, he turned.
He looked like a tunnel rat made of sinew and bone, with a fair Russian complexion. Gray stubble covered his sunken face. A cigarette hung on the edge of his lips. After glancing at Nadia and Adam, he pulled a small white envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to the woman. After peeking inside the envelope, she turned away. He approached with the swagger of a younger, albeit equally short, man.
“Why do policemen work in pairs?” he said to Adam in guttural Russian.
“Specialization,” Adam said. “One can read, the other can write.”
“Ruchkin,” he said, tapping his chest. Ruchka is also the word for “hand.” “Quick. This way.” He pointed toward a side door with a sign that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
They rushed down a short corridor and exited through a sheet-metal door. Power lines ran along a grassy field on one side of the single runway. Two white planes with red propellers sat along the other side. One of the wheels on one of the planes rested at an angle, as though it were ready to break. A red-and-white smokestack dominated the horizon. There was no control tower in sight, though there was a small shack beside the terminal.
A black delivery truck was backed up to the plane with better wheels. A pair of burly young men in army fatigues finished loading it with wooden crates. They nodded at Ruchkin and took off in the truck.
Nadia and Adam boarded the plane. Ruchkin started the engine and guided the plane to the far end of the runway. Pointing the nose toward the other end, he exchanged words with someone on the other end of the radio.
The plane teetered and tottered down the short runway with the speed of a broken-down Yugo. The engine groaned. Nadia bounced on her seat as though it were a trampoline. As the runway ended, the nose slowly lifted in the air and, against all odds, the plane took off.
Ruchkin said something over his shoulder, but Nadia and Adam couldn’t hear him over the engine’s wail. Nadia unbuckled her seat belt and leaned forward.
“Vodka and water in the cooler on the floor,” he said. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you,” Nadia said.
“How did you know my father?” Adam said. “Were you in business with him?”
“No. I was in gulag with him. Nine years.” He turned and flashed a smile filled with gold and decayed teeth. “For bootlegging.”
“Oh,” Adam said. “Were you friends?”
“We ran the Red Cross together.”
“Red Cross?” Nadia said. “I didn’t know there was Red Cross assistance in the gulags. I thought the West was clueless about what went on there.”
“It was. In gulag, control of the infirmary was everything. Who got sent, who got treated, who survived. To control the infirmary, you had to control the doctors. In gulag, Red Cross meant control of the doctors.”
“How did you do that?” Adam said.
Nadia shot him a glance to stop asking questions, but it was too late.
“We bought them vodka, candy, and cigarettes. And made friends with them.”
“Really?” Adam said.
Ruchkin shrugged. “Sure. That didn’t always work. Some didn’t want to listen. That’s where the Red Cross came in.” Ruchkin twisted his face toward Adam. He wore an earnest expression. “But we never killed anyone who wasn’t an asshole. Except this woman doctor. And even that was an accident…”
Adam looked down and sank back in his seat. Nadia raised her hand to touch him and remembered he had told her never to do so. She pulled it away and looked out the window instead.
Adam didn’t ask any more questions.
The plane never reached a high elevation, as though Ruchkin were purposefully avoiding detection. Half an hour into the flight, a snippet of coastline came into view on the right side.
“It’s going to get bumpy here along the coast,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ve done this trip many, many times. You know what they call this route, don’t you? Magadan to Chukotka? They call it ‘Gateway to Hell.’”
Four hours later, they landed on a runway at Ugolny Airport, serving Anadyr, the capital of the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug. Anadyr is the largest town in the extreme northeastern part of Russia and the last before land yields to water.
At Ugolny, they never left the runway. Two men hauled two dozen crates from the plane into a large helicopter with camouflage paint. Ruchkin then flew Nadia and Adam an additional three hundred kilometers to a secluded landing spot in Provideniya, the largest settlement at the tip of Chukotka.
They flew for six hours cumulatively and crossed one time zone during the trip. It was 8:35 p.m. on Saturday when they arrived in Provideniya.
CHAPTER 66
KIRILO PACED THE FSB office. He glanced at the clock: it was 9:00 p.m. on Saturday.
“So much for the airport tonight,” Deputy Director Krylov said. “The last international flight just left Sokol.”
“Nothing from the pier or Passport Control?” Victor said.
“Nothing.”
Kirilo swore under his breath. Krylov brushed his hand through his thinning hair and reached for his fifth cup of coffee since lunch.
Major General Yashko marched into the room as though he were reporting for duty. His customary indignation was absent from his expression. He clicked his heels together and cleared his throat.
“I have a development to report,” he said.
Krylov raised his eyebrows.
“Magadan-Thirteen,” Major General Yashko said.
“Magadan-Thirteen?” Krylov said.
“What’s Magadan-Thirteen?” Kirilo said.
“Airfield,” Krylov said. “Thirteen kilometers northeast of Magadan. Basically abandoned. An occasional prop plane. Domestic. By appointment only.”
“Actually, that may not be true. I was discussing our problem with one of my men when he made me aware of certain rumors,” Major General Yashko said.
“What rumors?” Krylov said.
“A bootlegging operation,” Major General Yashko said, his eyes falling to the floor.
“Bootlegging?” Krylov said. “What does that mean, bootlegging?”
“Government employees in the Chukotka Oblast get paid once a month. When their paychecks arrive, there’s a big demand for alcohol. Especially among the locals, the Chukchis. It’s a big business. Thousands of people. Big enough to command a monthly run under the radar from Magadan-Thirteen.”
“What?” Krylov said. “Under whose protection?”
The major general’s face turned a darker shade of red. “I honestly don’t know. I’m sure the deputy director can launch an appropriate investigation and find out.”
“You can count on that,” Krylov said. He reached for his phone. “First we have to find out if there’s been a flight today.”
“There has,” Major General Yashko said. “That’s the development. I had my man make inquiries. A woman and teenage boy were seen boarding the plane at one o’clock this afternoon.”
“My God,” Krylov said. “What was the destination?”
“Provideniya. Via Anadyr.”
“The Chukchi Sea,” Victor said.
“What resources do you have up there?” Kirilo said.
“The Maritime Border Guard Unit,” Krylov said. “When did they land in Provideniya?”
“Hard to say,” the major general said. “Sometime in the last hour.”
“We have a modified Tupolev TU at our disposal,” Krylov said. “We can be in Providen
iya in two and a half hours. I’ll have the Border Guard set up a perimeter with a radius of one hundred kilometers up and down the coast.”
As Deputy Director Krylov barked instructions into the phone, Major General Yashko walked up to Kirilo. “So there’s no doubt now. Her plan was to escape by ship after all.”
Kirilo didn’t argue. He simply nodded and smiled. Then he glanced at Victor. He could tell from the Bitch’s expression he was thinking the same thing as Kirilo.
Now that it appeared Nadia Tesla was planning to escape by ship, there was no doubt she was going to leave Russia some other way.
CHAPTER 67
NADIA AND ADAM stood shivering beside each other. Light poured from the headlights of an idling buhanka beside the makeshift helicopter landing pad. A Caucasian man gave Ruchkin an envelope. He and another Slav transferred the crates from the helicopter to the buhanka.
A light flashed three times at the base of the knoll.
“Your Chukchis are waiting for you,” Ruchkin said. “Go.”
Nadia and Adam thanked him. They descended down the snow-covered hilltop to a ridge, walking and sliding in diagonal fashion to keep from falling. The hike warmed them up after they’d been standing so long in the biting cold.
Two men sat in another buhanka. One of the men climbed out of the vehicle and walked over to Nadia and Adam. He bore a startling resemblance to Adam, more so than the Yakut or Evenk. His face was the roundest of the three, his features the smallest, and his complexion lightly tanned. His lustrous black hair fell beneath his fur hat to his shoulders, but he had the heavily lined face of a prematurely aged man.
“You Adam?” he said, in coarse, barely comprehensible Russian.
“Yes,” Adam said.
“Skinny, though. What, no food in Ukraine?”
“No,” Adam said. “I mean, yes. There’s food in Ukraine.”
“Then why you no eat?” The Chukchi turned to Nadia. “You American, though?”
“Yes,” Nadia said. “I’m American.”
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