by Greig Beck
Marcus sighed and sipped again. “Before the fish, we need the people, and before the people, we need somewhere to house them. We need the hatchery up and running; plus, the laboratory, the pens, and the cabins—a lot to do.”
“We look tomorrow. Then I can have people start working by end of the week.” Yuri’s vision seemed to turn inward. “More people there the better. Better for…” He bit down on the words and then just shrugged. “You sleep better.”
Marcus tilted his head. “Something else?”
The big Russian grumbled deep in his chest for a moment and then shook his bear-like head. “Just too much vodka, I think.” He raised his glass. “To tomorrow morning.”
“So, you still have a boat?” Marcus asked.
“Sure, sure. But lake is frozen, so no boat now.” He grinned. “But I also have a truck.”
“We’re driving, and it’s safe, right?” Marcus’ brows went up, as he hadn’t actually tried driving on the ice sheets yet.
“Yes, we are driving on the lake.” Yuri toasted Marcus again and downed it in one.
Marcus didn’t hear his reply on the safety question.
CHAPTER 04
Listvyanka, Lake Baikal—main wharf
The next morning, Yuri was waiting at the dock, and Marcus had changed into more formidable cold-weather clothing of his bright orange SeaWorld jacket, boots, and gloves. Even though he expected it wouldn’t be a boat he’d be traveling in but the cabin of a truck fitted with spiked ice tires, he knew when they were out on the open ice sheets that the cold was going to be like a living thing, trying to get in at them any chance it got.
To begin with, Yuri would be coming back and forth for supplies as they were setting up, but then he too would situate permanently at the mill house compound. On one of his trips, he’d return with the boat on a trailer, and also a pair of bobcats, powerful little snow sleds that were like motorbikes on ice.
Marcus was lucky to have found the guy, and he’d interviewed plenty. Yuri was a successful manager and jack-of-all-trades, involved in fishing, construction, and probably half a dozen other things Marcus didn’t want to delve into too deeply. However, the bottom line was, the guy was honorable, dependable, got things done, and was an all-round good guy—good enough for Marcus, and after working with him now for two years, mostly via the phone, he knew he’d be lost without him.
Yuri pushed open the truck door. “You Americans like to stand out, yes?”
“It’s my favorite jacket.” Marcus threw his bags in the back and jumped in. He gave him a thumbs-up, and then pulled his collar down from his chin. “So cold,” he said.
“This? This is nothing.” Yuri reached across to slap his shoulder. “Wait until teeth of winter. She bites hard.” He roared with laughter and then started the truck.
Marcus groaned and turned to watch the town of Listvyanka grow smaller as they departed. Save for smoke lifting from chimneys, it looked deserted, bleak, and frozen in time.
Marcus settled back and stared out at the lake’s icy surface; it was like driving on an endless white plain that was dusted in sparkling sugar crystals. He knew beneath that ice, the water was crystal clear, and in some places impossibly deep.
They had a long way to go, and Yuri had sandwiches—fish, of course—several thermoses of coffee, and plenty of spare fuel. The surface of the lake, either driving over or boating, was the fastest way to traverse it, but even at top speed, it would still take them the entire day traveling along the coastline.
Marcus fell into a form of trance as the shoreline flew past. They needed to travel up past the staggering, over-sized Olkhon Island. It was the largest island in Lake Baikal, which was 44 miles long with a landmass of 280 square miles. It was covered in thick forest and even had its own community of people living there.
It was the size of everything around here that staggered Marcus. Everything about this place was enormous, ancient, and remote. It made Marcus feel tiny and insignificant, and a modern creature out of place in an alien land.
It was probably why these areas suited the sturgeon. Their evolution dated back to the Triassic some 245 million years ago. And since then, they’d undergone remarkably little morphological change—basically, evolution liked what it did with the fish and decided to freeze their form—and why not? They had a lot going for them: they could tolerate tropical warm or freezing water, salt or fresh, they grew big and therefore didn’t have many predators, and they were also armor-plated, having four rows of scutes that were the bony projections you see on alligators, and were even present on some dinosaurs.
The truck bounced on an ice fold, jolting Marcus from his trance. He saw that the morning was just a pale-orange blush on the horizon, and the sky a watery-blue. But ahead of them, the ice still seemed endless.
Yuri had told him that in winter, the Russian also took the heartier divers out in his truck and cut holes through the ice so the divers could drop in, or he would lower motorized cameras as miniaturized submersibles. Marcus had seen some of the photographs from under the ice, and it was a strange world of a sky of blue ice above and inky blackness below.
In those dark depths, they needed to find fish pen sites that were close to the mill, with a depth of between 200 and 500 feet, and preferably not too far out where there was a chance in summer months that the pens could be run over by any boating traffic, or lashed by some of the fierce storms that can kick up in a Siberian summer.
Where the mill site was located, much of the lake was frozen most of the year and that was a good thing for storm protection.
Marcus held a plastic mug of lukewarm coffee and sank back in the seat next to Yuri. The two men became lost in their own thoughts. Already he missed Sara. She was his rock, his soul mate, and his sounding board. Yuri was good company, but Marcus’ wife always seemed to bring out the best in him.
He sipped the dregs of his coffee and sucked in a deep breath, feeling a hint of nerves deep down in his stomach. There was so much riding on this. He had already spent close to a million dollars buying the mill and equipment, and hiring Yuri—even travel expenses were significant. And there would be no returns for years. That end-of-the-rainbow pot of gold was piled high, but getting there was fraught with risks, challenges, and mountains of damned hard work.
Marcus felt like a gambler who had a great hand and pushed all his chips into the center of the table, while the other players just smiled. He couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he didn’t know or was missing.
He turned to the left to watch the landscape go by. They were well past any settlement areas now, and the land moved between endless plains of brown, spiky grass to forested thickets coming right down to the water. There were also crags of weathered stone, some rising hundreds of feet into the air.
The land was wild, ancient, and mysterious. It was a place of secrets, mystery, and it was no wonder it held legends within its watery depth and dark forests. Modern people had been here for centuries, and before that there was cave art, telling stories of the land stretching back tens or even hundreds of thousands of years.
He passed by a waterline rocky outcrop where a few seals raised their heads to watch them speed by. Yuri had told him they’d be living off the land wherever possible to save money, and they could eat the local nerpa seals. Marcus didn’t think he could do that, as they reminded him too much of shiny dogs.
However, on one of their last visits, they’d encountered several of the massed seal colonies in the water. Though the beluga sturgeons were far too big and lived too deep for the seal to predate them, they would certainly make a meal of younger sturgeon. Added to that, his potential netted pens would prove no problem for the seal that would simply slide or dive over the top of the mesh.
When Marcus had remarked on the risk, Yuri had lifted his jacket and produced a handgun. Before Marcus could object, he fired twice into the air. Like magic, the seals vanished.
“Around here, we the boss, not the seals.” The big Russian h
ad grinned and pretended to blow smoke from the muzzle.
Marcus shook his head and laughed. “When in Russia, I guess.”
“No, worse; you in Siberia.” Yuri slapped Marcus’ thigh and laughed hard enough to make his seat squeak like a tortured mouse.
Damn right, Marcus thought. But he did wonder why Yuri needed a handgun.
At around 4 pm, Yuri half-turned to him. “Not long now.” He pointed. “Just around bend.”
However, the bend was still in the far distance, the day was gone, and the ice was now turning a burnt orange from the setting sun. And as soon as the sunlight started to bleed away, the temperature plummeted. It would be well below zero before they knew it.
Marcus pulled his thick pullover collar up over his chin as the cabin heater struggled against the cold outside. His breath steamed again, and he picked out landmarks he remembered from his previous visits.
Even though he’d been here many times before, he felt a tingle of excitement in his belly because this time his ambitious project was in motion.
He smiled as they started to round the final bend. The mill site was as secluded as it got, and access was mainly by boat to its own private wharf. Another peculiarity of the site was that communications around some areas of Lake Baikal were spotty at best. Some days were fine, and others it was nothing in and nothing out.
Marcus had been there at various times of the year, and he knew the lakeshore area was magnificent—the lake was a white desert in winter and most of spring-autumn, but when it finally warmed, it was a wildflower wonderland. And by then, the summer lake was so glass-clear that you could see the bottom in 150 feet of water.
The compound and surrounding land he now owned was huge, and on it was the manager’s residence that was almost a mansion, as well as a number of smaller cabin-style buildings for the staff. The main factory building, that everyone still called the mill house, he’d be converting into a fully functioning hatchery and laboratory.
Marcus’ smile broadened as he imagined him and Sara sitting on a front porch in the evening, sipping mulled wine, and looking out over the crystal water. His smile broke into a grin—he could think of worse places to start a family. He just hoped Sara thought the same.
The night was catching them quickly, and as they rounded the bend, the first thing Marcus saw was a light on. “Hey, somebody’s home.”
Yuri grinned. “Maybe the ghost of previous owner.” He turned theatrically, raising his eyebrows. “I think this is where headless horseman used to live. You go in first; I scared of ghosts.”
The truck slowed as he came in toward an icebound wharf. When they were beside it, Yuri gave a few more revs as the truck moved up the slope from the lake’s icy surface and onto the land, and then stopped.
He jammed his pipe in his mouth, leaned out the window, and looked up toward the lit houses.
“Who is it?” Marcus asked.
Yuri shook his large head. “I don’t know.” He then wiped his hands on his heavy knit pullover and shouldered open the door with a scream of hinges. “So, now we find out who your guests are.”
“I think they’ve found us.” Marcus could see four people appear and come down along the path toward them. He and Yuri stood their ground, and he saw the big Russian surreptitiously feel for the revolver in its holster on his rear hip.
Marcus watched and waited, and Yuri let his arms hang by his sides.
“Privet, Mr. Stenson!” The lead man waved.
“Zdravstvuyte,” Yuri responded and then half-turned to Marcus. “They know you. Might be okay, local accent.”
Marcus nodded. Yuri didn’t need to translate as he picked up the greeting loud and clear. The men looked slightly Asian or Mongolian, with high cheekbones and folds over their eyes. And whoever they were, they were here to see him.
“Zdravstvuyte, zdravstvuyte.” Marcus stepped forward, and the lead man marched up and stuck a hand out. Marcus took hold of it and the guy pumped his hand like he was trying to draw water.
“Congradlins on unclose mill, you, ah…” He looked skyward as he seemed to think over his words, and a younger man, who looked remarkably similar, came forward to join him.
“My father says, congratulations on reopening the mill.” He put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “My name is Nikolay Grudinin, and this is my father, Pavel.”
Marcus nodded. “Thank you.”
Pavel shrugged. “My English is better, the, uh, more I use.” He turned and spoke in rapid Russian to his son, who listened and then nodded. He stood back and motioned to the other men with him.
“With us are Mr. Dmitry Melnikov and Mr. Leonid Luhansk. We have come here to help you, work for you, Mr. Stenson.” Nikolay smiled.
News travels quickly, Marcus thought. He could have Yuri dismiss them immediately, but he noticed that they had already begun to clean the site up, and obviously weren’t averse to hard work.
“First, I need to know whether I can use you.” He addressed Nikolay, but let his eyes travel over each of them. Once again, Nikolay did the talking.
“My father is very good with wood, carpentry, and with machines. Our family has been living in this area for many generations and knows the lake well.” He pointed to the men standing behind him. “Dmitry and Leonid are both experienced sturgeon fishermen, and ah, Jack-all-trades, own their own boats, and also know the lake.”
The one called Leonid took a homemade-looking wooden pipe from between his teeth and saluted with it.
Not bad, Marcus thought. Exactly the sort of people he would have been looking for. “And what do you do?”
Nikolay bobbed his head and grinned. “I just finished my economics degree at Moscow University. Unfortunately, there is no work for me right now. But I am strong, and smart, so…” he shrugged.
Marcus nodded. Strong, smart, and language skills were also useful, he thought. “Well, I will need a laboratory assistant for the breeding work we’ll be doing. Do you learn quickly?” Marcus raised his eyebrows.
Nikolay nodded solemnly. “Oh yes, very quickly.” He pointed to the main building. “We went all over the mill and cleaned it. It is still in very good shape, structurally sound, and any hazardous material was removed years ago. We think we can get it up and running very fast.”
“Good.” Marcus nodded, quietly impressed.
Yuri leaned in close to him and spoke just behind his head. “I think they are Turkic, maybe Yakut. Good, honest people. Hard working.” He leaned back and shrugged. “Your choice.”
“Okay.” Marcus turned back to the men. “I’m not saying yes just yet. But let’s get our stuff unpacked and we can chat some more over dinner.”
“Very good, Mr. Stenson.” Pavel clapped his hands together. “And please, we join for dinner. We make, uh, we make you stroganoff for eat.” He winked. “Reindeer.”
Marcus chuckled. “Well, okay then. In that case, I can tell you that your interviews are going very well so far.”
Marcus and Yuri squared away their supplies and equipment, inspected some of the cabins and the manager’s house, and then met the group inside the main mill house for dinner.
He was impressed with the amount of work they’d done already—inside and out of the mill, small buildings, main house, and surrounding property was near spotless, with some minor repairs already undertaken. In addition, they had partially stocked the larder.
These guys really wanted a job, and he guessed if times were lean, then he was happy to help out. Plus, he always planned to try and create employment for the local people.
He was going to task Yuri with doing a background check on them, but so far, Nikolay had already shown him his degree, and he noted he had passed with honors, so the kid had plenty upstairs. Besides, how much could they find out about the others if they didn’t even own computers or have records online anywhere?
The six of them chatted for hours, getting to know each other. They talked about their backgrounds, their lives, and their desires. Yuri was right,
in that they were all Yakuts, an ancient local people who had populated this area since the 7th century. As Marcus suspected, the Yakuts had Mongolian heritage and today they were still largely hunters, cattle herders, and fishermen. But they were also intelligent, fierce, and tough.
Marcus liked all of them, and in turn, he told them of his plans and hopes for the fish farm.
Leonid took his wooden pipe from his mouth. “And you hope to breed the fish, and sell their eggs, the Beluga caviar? In five years?”
“Yes and no.” Marcus held his arms wide. “The Beluga sturgeon produce millions of eggs, and large individuals have been known to carry several hundred pounds of caviar. It’s true that the Beluga sturgeon caviar can be worth as much as U.S. $3,500 a pound, but the problem is, it’s in such demand that the Beluga are vanishing.”
“I think you will do it,” Pavel said. “Our people sad and happy when mill closed. Sad because we lost work, but happy it go, as it was making the water unclean.”
The other men nodded, and Pavel held up a fist. “But this is good, so we will help you be success.”
The others agreed, and Yuri poured a round of vodka. He lifted his glass. “To your success.”
“To success,” Dmitry said. “And to keeping you safe.”
The men drank and Marcus sipped and then lowered his glass. “Safe?”
The men fell silent, and Dmitry looked down at the ground. ‘I mean, happy.”
“Safe from what?” Marcus pressed.
The Yakut Russian muttered something but didn’t look up.
Marcus exhaled and put his drink down. “Okay, guys, what am I missing here?”
Dmitry finally looked up, his brow creased as though struggling to choose his words. “There are people, bad people, who… can make things, hard, for new businesses.”
Marcus stared for a moment until the light went on in his head. “Oh, I see; you mean like the local mafia?”
“They are called bratva.” Yuri grunted dismissively as his mouth turned down. He faced Dmitry. “They operate even out here?”
