The Boy from Reactor 4

“Many people die in old Russia. Now new Russia. No more Road of Bones. Kolyma Trakt now. We take new Kolyma Trakt. Old Kolyma Trakt no good. Too late.”

“Excuse me? What new Kolyma Trakt?”

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.