The Ghost War (55 page)

BOOK: The Ghost War

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Anyway, where would terrorists go even if they did manage to steal a bomb? The whole of the Russian army would be chasing them. In the last year, Aqilev had led convoys down this road a dozen times, so many that his cargo almost seemed routine. Russia moved its nuclear weapons frequently, far more often than the United States did. The Russians had no choice. The chemical propellant that fueled their missiles was toxic, prone to corroding warhead shells and missile cases. So Russia constantly needed to refurbish its arsenal, moving weapons from bases to the giant plant at Mayak, the heart of its nuclear complex.

Yes, the trip almost seemed routine. But not quite. Aqilev was always happy when he reached Mayak and his cargo became someone else’s problem.

Finally the tanker fire burned out and the local road crews—never known for their efficiency—roused themselves to clear the highway and free his trucks. The sun was already down by the time the convoy began moving again. Aqilev had hoped to reach the Mayak plant by dark. Instead he and his men would ride well into the night. They had to move slowly after dark. The highway was unlit and they couldn’t chance an accident.

Aqilev would rather have stopped for the night, but he had no choice. There were no bases between here and Mayak. Anyway, the convoy was due by midnight. Never mind that the plant would effectively be closed by then. The convoy was due, and as long as it arrived by 11:59 P.M., Aqilev would get credit for a job well done. If he crossed the gate at Mayak at 12:01 A.M., on the other hand ... Aqilev shook his head. No one had ever accused the Russian army of having sensible rules.

GREGOR FARZAD SAT IN HIS DECREPIT KITCHEN,
sipping peach brandy from a chipped glass, watching the LCD timer on his microwave tick toward zero. He wore no pants or shirt, only grayish underwear that billowed around his giant haunches. The temperature outside had fallen close to zero, but a film of sweat covered his belly and legs.

Gregor was a hulking shambles of a man, a cross between Frankenstein and Mr. Potato Head, with big soft hands and pitted skin. He’d never been married or had a girlfriend. He’d never even had sex without having to pay for it. He had been cursed with a fine mind and a fiercely ugly body. He wished every day for the reverse, but the choice wasn’t his to make. Fate made fools of men. He’d been born alone, and he’d surely die alone.

Beep. Beep.

Dinner was ready. Gregor lumbered up and extracted a pepperoni pizza from the microwave. He cut the slices into small bites, savoring each forkful. His movements were oddly dainty, in sharp contrast to his size—and his surroundings. Leaky pipes had discolored the kitchen’s walls and loosened the plaster from the ceiling. The rest of the apartment wasn’t much better. The electricity cut out sporadically, always when Gregor had just settled in to watch television. At least the heat worked, but too well. From November through April he kept the windows open, and still he sweated.

Worst of all was his next door neighbor, Mikhail, a worthless drunk who divided his time between watching pornography and battering his wife. One particularly ugly night a year earlier, Gregor had knocked on Mikhail’s door, threatening to call the police. A half hour later, he heard Mikhail outside his door, shouting. “Out, you fat coward!” The ranting continued until Gregor made the mistake of opening up. When he did, Mikhail pulled him into the hallway and jammed a pistol under his chin.

“If you ever interfere with me again, you elephant—” Mikhail shoved Gregor down and launched a glob of spit at his face. As Gregor curled on the concrete floor, Mikhail kicked him, his steel-tipped boots leaving bruises that didn’t fade for weeks.

Though Mikhail wasn’t a problem anymore, Gregor thought. No. His new friends had taken care of Mikhail. Gregor shivered, suddenly cold despite the overheated apartment, and poured himself another glass of peach brandy. Very soon he would need to make his decision. Though it was really no decision at all. He tossed the brandy down the sink. He would need to be sober tonight.

For this life, Gregor had trained in operations research for six years at Ural State University in Ekaterinburg. He hadn’t been at the top of his class. Those men went to energy companies like Gazprom. The middling students, like Gregor, weren’t so lucky. They became engineers for Rosatom, the ministry that controlled Russia’s nuclear weapons plants and storage depots. Gregor worked at the weapons depot at Mayak as a manager in the PC&A unit, responsible for the protection, control, and accounting of nuclear material. He lived in Ozersk, the “closed city”—protected by checkpoints and a barbed-wire fence—that surrounded Mayak.

Gregor didn’t have many friends. But for most of his life he’d been close to his cousin Tajid. Like Gregor, Tajid lived in Ozersk and worked at Mayak, as a security guard. On the long cold nights when the very walls of his apartment mocked his loneliness, Gregor often found his way to Tajid’s. He always took a bottle of Stolichnaya and a fresh orange or two for Tajid’s wife, by way of apology for the intrusion. He and Tajid sat in Tajid’s kitchen and drank until Gregor staggered home.

But over the last three years, Gregor had been less welcome at his cousin’s apartment. Tajid had fallen in with a bunch of Kazakhs. They claimed to be taxi drivers, but they hardly worked, from what Gregor could see. They spent their time drinking coffee and reading the Quran. Tajid and Gregor had both been born Muslim, too, but they’d never practiced the religion growing up. In their youth, the Communists had frowned on organized religion. Today, the Russian government still discouraged Islam, though it wasn’t illegal. Employees at Mayak were warned against becoming overly involved with “foreign religious groups,” which everyone knew was code for Islamic fundamentalists.

“What do you want with those peasants?” Gregor asked his cousin one winter night. “They aren’t even Russian.”

“They follow the true path, cousin. Come, see for yourself.”

“Look at me. You think I have any reason to believe in God?” Gregor laughed. “A drink, cousin?”

“I told you I don’t drink anymore.”

“Suit yourself.” Gregor threw back a shot of vodka.

The next time Gregor showed up at Tajid’s apartment, Tajid wasn’t alone. One of the Muslims was there, too. Tajid looked at the bottle of vodka Gregor held. “Give me that,” he said, his voice low.

Gregor handed the bottle over and watched as Tajid tossed it out his window.

“Cousin—”

“Never bring alcohol to my home again.” The hate in Tajid’s eyes was unmistakable. “Go. Now. You bring me disrepute.”

Gregor hadn’t known what to say. Tajid was his oldest friend. His only friend, really, aside from the old men at the city chess club, who were as lonely as he.

He’d left Tajid alone for a few months. Then, finally, he’d worked up the courage to return to his cousin’s apartment—this time carrying no vodka, only a bag of dates. When he knocked on the door, Tajid hugged him, surprising him.

“I was just thinking of you, cousin.”

Over a cup of strong sweet coffee, he’d told Gregor why.

At first Gregor had believed, wanted to believe, that Tajid was joking. But after Tajid insisted he was serious a third time, and a fourth, Gregor had stopped arguing.

“It’s impossible,” he’d said to deflect his nervousness. “Can’t be done.”

“Of course it can,” Tajid said. “You’ve said so yourself many times.”

Indeed, Gregor and his cousin had often talked about the problems at Mayak. Rosatom had dramatically improved the defenses of its nuclear facilities since the 1990s, when guards didn’t show up and warheads were stored in warehouses protected only by cheap padlocks. But weaknesses remained, especially in the hours after new warheads arrived. Having finished the dangerous work of moving warheads, convoy commanders were eager to sign over their shipments and leave. Sometimes too eager.

“I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“But my friends already know about you. Your job at the plant.”

“Tajid.” Gregor felt a sinking sensation in his belly, a hopeless feeling that would become uncomfortably familiar. “What do they know?”

“Only your name and your position.”

“My name?”

“My cousin, you can do this.”

“Even if I could find a way—” Gregor broke off, hardly able to believe he was even pretending to consider the suggestion. “How do you know the men proposing this aren’t agents of the FSB”—the Russian Federal Security Service, the successor to the KGB—“or the Gumo?”

“My sheikh vouches for them.”

“That might be enough for you, Tajid, but I need more.”

“Your neighbor Mikhail, does he still bother you?”

“Today and every day. Worthless scum. Why do you ask?”

“We’ll talk soon, cousin.”

A WEEK LATER, GREGOR CAME HOME
to find his apartment unusually quiet. He soon realized why. No porn actresses were screeching in fake pleasure next door.

Mikhail’s body was found the next day, dumped on a back road outside Chelyabinsk. He’d been shot between the eyes. Worse, he’d been stabbed over and over, his ears and tongue cut off, or so the rumors went. Gregor heard the news and poured himself a glass of vodka, waiting for the phone to ring. The call didn’t take long.

“You heard what happened to your neighbor?”

Gregor was silent.

“When can we meet?” Tajid said.

“Whenever you like.”

“An hour, then. At the Moscow,” a rundown café on the edge of Ozersk.

Tajid hung up and Gregor threw back his vodka. The drink warmed his belly, but his mind was still cold. Tajid’s men had proven in the most emphatic way possible that they weren’t police agents. They’d also sent Gregor a lesson in what might happen to him if he didn’t cooperate. Two doves with one arrow.