The Boy from Reactor 4

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.”