Black Wolf, page 4
When twenty minutes had passed, Mel leaned over to Elena and told her she had to go to the ladies’ room. Elena looked momentarily flustered and then accompanied Mel out to the receiving area. The attractive receptionist leapt up, eager to assist. Elena instructed the young woman, Katya, to take Mel to the toilet.
Katya gestured for Mel to follow and they walked down a series of hallways to a door marked in Cyrillic.
“Please,” Katya said in heavily accented English, indicating that Mel should enter, and then following her in.
The room was fairly large, but with only two stalls. The pungent, acrid smell reminded Mel of a poorly maintained port-a-potty. Inside the stall, instead of a porcelain toilet bowl, there was a hole in the tiled floor with two raised footrests on either side. She’d have to remove her slacks all the way to save the hems from being soiled on the filthy floor. Mel closed the door, removed her slacks as carefully as possible, hung them on a hook, and squatted down. When she was finished, she cursed herself for forgetting to bring American tissues in her pockets. Soviet toilet paper—dispensed in little squares—was as coarse as sandpaper and as absorbent as sheet metal.
When she was dressed again, Mel walked to the sinks to wash her hands, using the ubiquitous hard green-gray soap that never lathered and left a sticky alkaline residue. She took her time, hoping to engage Katya in conversation as the receptionist lingered by the door. From her training, Mel knew she should never underestimate a source of potential information. As soon as she’d seen Katya smile, Mel knew she had her opening. She’d been told that Russians did not often smile with strangers. Smiling here was not a sign of politeness, but rather a demonstration of insincerity and secretiveness. Ulybka slugi. A servant’s smile, not to be trusted. But in Katya, she sensed genuine warmth. Or at the very least, youthful curiosity.
Katya continued watching her with frank interest, her head tilting from side to side as though inspecting a rare animal.
“American women do not wear dresses?” she asked finally. Katya was the only spot of vibrant color in the drab room, wearing a flowered blouse and emerald-green skirt.
“Yes, we wear dresses,” Mel answered, realizing too late that there were no towels, paper or otherwise, to dry her dripping hands. “Pants are just more comfortable.” She gave her hands a shake instead.
Katya sighed. “Not when going to Soviet toilet, yes?”
Mel nodded, not in the least embarrassed. Camping and hunting for years with her father had put an end to any squeamishness about answering nature’s call. “I guess not. Your English is very good.”
“I have no possibility to practice much.”
Mel took a lipstick from her jacket pocket and Katya leaned in hungrily to watch as Mel touched up her lips, taking her time. She then retracted the lipstick, put the top back on, and held it out. Katya finally peeled herself from the door to approach. “Here, the color would look better on you.”
“Really?” Katya brightened, smiling with delight. She took the lipstick and placed it in the waistband of her skirt. “Thank you. We cannot get here in Minsk. Not yet.”
“Maybe soon,” Mel answered. “Do you like working here?”
Katya shrugged. “Is okay. But very boring. You are secretary too. How much do you make in America?”
Mel sighed. “Not so much.”
“But more than here.”
“Yes, probably.” Mel turned back to the mirror as though examining her hair. “But it’s boring there too. What goes on in the city for fun? You know, for entertainment. Music or restaurants?”
Katya gave a dismissive snort. “Probably where you are staying now. Planeta Hotel, yes?”
“That’s right. We’re there for the next few weeks. You should come one night. We can meet for a drink, and you can tell me more about Minsk. It’ll be my treat.”
Katya’s gaze became more guarded. Her hip rested against the sink in a casual way, but she had crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Have you been at night? To the nightclub?”
“No, not yet. We only arrived this morning.”
“You should be careful there. A very dangerous place. Don’t go alone.”
“Dangerous?”
“The women who go there? They are all prostitutes. And the men? They are all looking for prostitutes.”
“Oh,” Mel said, as though this news surprised her. She’d had enough Agency training to spot the obvious honey traps in hotel bars. “Most of the men I’ve seen at the hotel are Swiss and German. They don’t look very scary.”
Katya shook her head in a pitying way. She leaned in closer to Mel. “Women go missing from that place. And from other places too in Minsk.”
“Missing?” Mel turned toward Katya, her eyes wide, maintaining the appearance of a naïve American. “You mean, kidnapped?”
Mel had been warned that there’d been a tremendous rise in sex trafficking over the past year in Minsk, as well as in other Eastern European countries. With the dissolution of the Soviet Union, factories and farms were closing down. People were not being paid. Vital supplies of food and medicine were drying up, leaving the black market room to thrive. People were turning to more desperate measures in order to survive. And for women, that desperation often came at a heavy cost.
“Not just kidnapped,” Katya said. “Killed. At least six in past year.”
This was news to Mel. They’d been briefed on the rise in crime and in retribution from the Russian Mafia—also known as the Bratva, the Brotherhood. But she hadn’t heard of women being killed. “Prostitutes are being killed here in Minsk?”
“Not just prostitutes. Regular women”—Katya made a frustrated whooshing sound, her eyes wide—“some just disappearing—”
The door banged open, startling them. Elena walked in, a strained look on her face. She peered carefully first at Mel and then Katya.
“You’ve been gone for a long time,” she said accusingly.
Mel finished drying her damp hands by wiping them on her slacks. “I wasn’t feeling very well. Katya was kind enough to stay with me.”
The receptionist turned away quickly, hiding her relief.
“Are you ill?” Elena asked. She looked worried, but Mel guessed it was more out of self-preservation than genuine concern for her charge’s well-being.
Mel rubbed at her lower abdomen. “I think it was the mushrooms.”
The three women walked back to the minister’s office, where Mel slipped into her seat and resumed her note-taking. Within another twenty minutes the meeting concluded. Everyone shook hands, briefcases and purses were collected, and Elena ushered the group of four back through the receiving area. Mel looked briefly at Katya, who gave her the ghost of a smile, nodding her thanks. She had applied the lipstick Mel had given her. A dark slash of coral against her delicate skin.
Walking down the hallway, Dan quietly asked, “Anything?”
Mel waited for Elena to stride ahead, eager to press the elevator button. They were running late. “Six women in Minsk within the past year have been killed,” she whispered. “And more have gone missing.”
“The Bratva?”
“I don’t know,” Mel answered. “The receptionist looked scared, though.”
“Well, fortunately our job description does not include avenging dead prostitutes.”
His callousness caught her off guard. “Do you know what some American police note in their duty statements when they come across a dead prostitute? ‘NHI.’ No Human Involved. Does that sit right with you? You’ve got two women on your team.”
“Oh, Christ,” he huffed. “We’re not here on a rescue mission.” He caught Mel’s expression and, to his credit, softened. “Look, see if you can get her to talk some more. We’re here for a month. She might provide some useful information about the minister.”
The Byelorussian Heat and Mass Transfer Institute was only a fifteen-minute drive from the finance ministry building. Elena continued her running commentary with the official history of the institute.
“There they are making progress for robotics, shock absorbers, and polishing aspherical optics for space program. And, of course, for making civilian life more—” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Comfortable?” Dan offered.
Elena brightened, having found her word. “Productive,” she said.
“What about nuclear energy?” Ben asked, his face a mask of innocence.
“In the 1980s we had been building our own nuclear plant for heating and power about fifty kilometers south of Minsk,” Elena said. “But, as you know, following the accident at Chernobyl, these plans were stopped.” She paused her narrative to look suitably downcast.
Anton muttered something from the driver’s seat.
“What was that?” Dan asked.
Elena made a dismissive gesture, giving Anton a cautioning look. But Julie translated into English. “He said, ‘Now, with sovereignty, we can be a nuclear power again.’”
Ben chuffed air through his nose and looked out the window. “Yeah, good luck with that,” he said under his breath.
Mel turned to her own window and thought, Here we go. Stepping inside the institute, potentially filled with visiting scientists, would be the true beginning of her private mission.
To no one’s surprise, the institute was another gray, blocky building. The group was greeted just past the security checkpoint by the director, Oleg Shevchenko, a bulldog of a man. Despite having the face of a retired prizefighter, he’d earned a PhD in mathematics and now held the Communist Party title of academician, the highest honor in Soviet sciences. He gave a gruff hello in Russian before turning on his heel and marching away, not looking to see if the Americans followed. Elena beckoned and they rushed to keep up with him.
The director led them through a warren of offices and cramped workshops and labs, pausing only to give a brief explanation of each of the ongoing projects. Mel passed dozens of scientists and support staff, peering intently into each room, looking for any familiar faces. And though she quickly committed to memory each face, she didn’t recognize any of them. Dan’s camera had, again, been held by security, but Ben’s briefcase would hopefully pick up anything Mel missed.
They were finally taken into the director’s office, a large room with dark paneling, the walls covered in portraits of Soviet heroes. It contained an oversized desk and a conference table with a dozen chairs. The Americans were introduced to five scientists representing different branches of research at the institute—four men and one woman, all wearing white lab coats. Each went on to give a brief speech about their areas of expertise: thermophysics, chemistry, heat exchange, mathematical modeling, and plasma physics. Mel took particular note that the woman had a PhD in quantum physics. When they were all finished, the director turned to the woman and snapped something terse in Russian.
The scientist meekly left the office, returning ten minutes later with a large samovar and delicate china teacups. She served tea for everyone before returning to her seat. Mel caught the woman’s eye and nodded her thanks. Things were not perfect in the States for women, but she thought of how humiliating it must be for a dignified, educated woman to be treated like a maid. And in front of her colleagues.
“And in which department do we find your nuclear experts?” Dan was looking down at his notes when he asked the question, as though it were of little consequence.
After Julie translated, the director gazed around the room with an exaggerated movement of his head. “I think you’re in the wrong republic. The Ukraine is several hundred kilometers to the south.”
Dan smiled. “Surely you still have scientists who are working on future nuclear-based projects?”
Shevchenko shrugged. “Byelorussia is too poor. Which is why I think you’re here. To give us funding for our projects.”
“But not for nuclear reactor development. Or for uranium refinement,” Ben added quietly.
Shevchenko looked at Ben, his expression one of distaste. He murmured something under his breath, causing his translator to pause in uncomfortable silence. Elena and several of the scientists shifted in their seats and stared down at their hands. Julie’s mouth tightened and she stole a look at Ben.
“Director Shevchenko assures everyone that there is no nuclear development within the institute,” the translator said in English.
Ben nodded, giving Shevchenko a celebrity-style grin, with lots of teeth showing. But the good humor stopped short of his eyes.
“Good, that’s good,” Dan said, rushing in to quell the tension. “Then you won’t mind giving us a broader tour over the next few weeks.”
Shevchenko crossed his arms and leaned back. “I was led to believe you are accountants. The supply and order books I can give you. Take all the time you need to study them. But we have magnetorheological polishing laboratories for high-end optics, which must remain pristine.” He held one fat thumb tightly against a stubby forefinger. “One speck of dust, one grain of sand, will destroy the lens surface.” His face was flushed as though he could barely contain his outrage at the prospect of clumsy Westerners ruining months of work.
Dan held up his hands in a placating manner. “Okay, I get it. But American funding is dependent upon my bosses being certain that our money goes to civilian infrastructure and manufacturing. Not military.” He pinched his lips together as though deep in thought. “Tell you what, Oleg, we’ll take a look at your books. And you’ll let us physically inspect what’s safe and provide a building blueprint for the rest. We’ll also need the names and countries of origin of all the visiting scientists and engineers. This is not negotiable.”
Every scientist turned their gaze expectantly toward the director. Mel could sense their suppressed nervousness, like a heavy fog rolling across the conference table. She doubted they’d ever heard Shevchenko spoken to in such a demanding way, especially by a foreigner. Dan’s facile manner had disappeared, leaving in its stead an unwavering forcefulness.
Shevchenko stared at Dan for a count of five. “This must be approved by the minister of external affairs, and the Byelorussian Academy of Sciences. It can take many weeks to get this approval.”
Dan closed his notebook carefully and placed it in his briefcase. “Director Shevchenko, I’m sure that you’ll find a way to help us out. We’re here for a month. But if we cannot give assurances to our government that Byelorussia is free of nuclear research, we cannot recommend funding.” He stood up, signaling to his group to follow his lead.
Dan held out his hand for Shevchenko to shake, which he did reluctantly. Ben followed suit, refusing to move until the director shook his hand as well. Mel and Julie were the last to leave the office.
“What did Shevchenko say to Ben?” Mel whispered to Julie. She could tell from Ben’s rigid posture that he was still heated about the exchange.
“Technically, he called him a lackey, but it was much worse than that.” Julie turned to Mel with a bitter smile. “The only thing some Russians hate more than Jews are Black people.”
When they had all crowded into the elevator, Mel made sure she was standing next to Ben. The curious, suspicious stares of the local populace had taken an ugly turn.
“You okay?” she asked.
He looked at her for a moment, a complicated array of emotions washing over his face: disappointment, weariness, anger. “I’m getting there.”
As Elena led the way to the van, Julie and Mel walked briskly on either side of Ben, while Dan followed close behind—the three of them forming a protective barrier around their colleague.
Chapter 4
Thursday, August 2, 1990
When Mel entered her hotel room, it was five thirty and twilight was still four hours away. She stood in the entryway scanning for any changes. Nothing looked out of place, but when she examined the drawers in the dresser, there were subtle differences. She had purposely left a sales tag on a new sweater, price side down. It was now facing upward. Ben had been right about their rooms being searched. It would not be the last time.
She glanced briefly at the mirror. Being warned she’d be watched was different from the experiential creep factor of knowing that someone might, in that moment, be on the other side of the two-way glass. It wasn’t so bad in the daytime, but the thought of being observed while she slept made the hair on her arms stand up.
She had half an hour to freshen up, so she took a change of clothes into the bathroom and carefully closed the door. By now, the headache had taken firm root behind her eyes. She began to run hot water into the tub, and not knowing how thorough the cleaning staff was, she placed a small washcloth at the bottom to sit on.
When the bath was full, she turned off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, and eased into the water. She leaned back and closed her eyes. It would be so easy to drift off to sleep, but she’d trained herself to stay awake until she had completed her ritual. Taking a few slow breaths, she started counting backward from one hundred. Soon a procession of the faces she had seen over the past twelve hours began to flow rapidly behind her eyelids; the features of each momentarily sharp and clear, like a carousel projector spinning photographs on overdrive.
It was always this way, especially after a day spent in an unfamiliar place, confronted with crowds of strangers. As she filed each face away, the headache began to ease, the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxed.
She had started the ritual when she was young. Her childhood had been spent shuttling between her mother’s house in Texas and her father’s farm in Wisconsin. Perversely, the months spent in Houston fell during the summer, when the weather was at its most miserably hot and humid. The school year, including the biting, frigid winter months, was spent in Madison. Both extremes had driven her to spend long periods of time soaking in a bathtub—hot water for the winter months, cooler water for the summer. That was when she’d begun to realize its other valuable effects.
