Grigory put the Volga into gear and drove down the deserted avenue to the main gate. The convoy sat in a parking lot just inside the guard posts, the Ural trucks glowing under neon arc lights. The Volga looked like a toy beside the BTRs and Urals. Grigory parked beside the convoy and stepped out. A trim man wearing the single silver star of a major greeted him. Despite the cold, he wore only a thin wool coat and a hat with fur earflaps. He extended a hand.
“Major Yuri Akilev.”
“Grigory Farzadov. You’ve had a long trip.” Grigory’s heart was pounding, but his voice sounded normal.
“The cards turn ugly and the bottles go dry,” Akilev said. “No reason to expect anything else.”
“A man after my own heart,” Grigory said. “That’s it. A thousand years of history right there.”
“Even so, I’d like to get my men inside.”
Grigory pointed down the security fence at a squat two-story concrete building a few hundred yards away. “Our overflow barracks. You can send the BTRs and Tigers there while we unload.”
“Is there food?”
This major was a good commander, concerned about the welfare of his men, Grigory thought. “Not at this hour, but they’ll have hot showers and warm beds.”
“That’ll do.”
“But make sure you bring a couple of extra men with you to unload the crates.”
Akilev passed along the order to his sergeant. A moment later, the armored personnel carriers and three of the Tigers rumbled off, leaving just Grigory’s Volga, the commander’s Tiger, and the four Urals that held the bombs.
“Follow me.”
Grigory stopped the Volga at the guard post that protected the entrance to the special area. The post hut was made of thick concrete blocks, hardly bigger than a tollbooth, and had entrances on both sides of the restricted zone. The guards inside the hut theoretically would be the last line of defense in case of an all-out assault on the plant. In reality, the hut was the most boring place to work at Mayak, especially at night, when the special area was locked down and empty. Between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m., the post was staffed by a single guard, who slept most of the shift.
Through the thick window of the guardhouse, Grigory saw cheap black boots resting on a desk.
“Who’s on duty tonight?” he said to Tajid.
“Roster said Boris Hiterov.”
“With the hair.”
“Yes.”
Boris Hiterov. A lifer. No better or worse than the average guard. With any luck, he’d have taken a couple of shots of vodka to help him sleep. Grigory cranked down his window. The second test was about to begin.
BEEP!
Grigory leaned on the Volga’s horn. Inside the hut, the boots kicked up with almost comic speed. Hiterov opened the window, just a crack. He was a big man, though not as big as Grigory, with dark brown hair that he wore up in a sort of pompadour. He was very proud of his hair.
“Boris!” Grigory yelled. “We’re here.”
A puzzled look settled on Hiterov’s face. “Who’s that?”
“The convoy! Let us in, you damned fool!” The insults were key here. Grigory wanted to remind Hiterov of his place in the plant’s hierarchy.
“Yes. But Grigory, you know the rule.”
Indeed Grigory did. Even if he hadn’t, the black-lettered sign in front of him was clear.
No private automobiles. Official vehicles only.
“If you think I’m leaving this car and walking, you’ve drunk away the last of your brains.” The north warehouse was about three hundred yards away, not really a long walk, but the cold night was working to Grigory’s advantage.
“Why don’t you ride with the convoy?”
“The commander’s Tiger is full. Maybe you’d like me to sit on his lap.”
“But if anyone finds out—”
“No one will. Open the gate and go back to sleep, you wretch.”
Hiterov slammed the window shut. The electrified gate slowly rolled back, its wheels screeching in the cold.
Second test passed.
TO KEEP AMERICAN SPY SATELLITES
from seeing their exact locations, both the north and south warehouses had been concealed under metal sheds as big as airplane hangars. Grigory drove into the north shed now, followed by Akilev’s convoy. Inside, the shed was bright as a sunny afternoon, thanks to arc lights mounted high on its girders.
The weapons depot, a windowless concrete building one hundred feet long and sixty feet wide, sat in the northeast corner of the shed. The entrance to the depot was a wide steel door with no visible locks or opening mechanism. Four surveillance cameras focused on it. A half-dozen others watched the rest of the shed. But the cameras couldn’t see everything, Grigory knew. He parked near the door to the shed, got out of his Volga, and turned to Akilev.
“Have your trucks park here and unload the cucumber crates. I’m going to get you out of here as quickly as I can.” Grigory spoke firmly, as if he were the major’s superior officer. He had to be in control, give Akilev no room for questions. He felt sharp and strong, as if he’d burned through the first rapid-fire moves of a chess match and settled into the midgame. He’d arranged the board as he liked. Now he needed to press forward.
“As you say.” Eager to get some sleep, Akilev’s men quickly unloaded the warhead crates. Meanwhile Grigory called to headquarters to tell Arkady that he and Tajid would be entering the warehouse. The steel door to the depot was three feet thick and could be unlocked only from headquarters—another security measure.
Arkady picked up after five rings. “Sleeping, Arkady?”
“Of course not. Everything on schedule?”
“Cold as your wife’s tits. Otherwise fine.”
“My wife has no tits,” Arkady said. “Let me know when you’ve checked the crates.”
Grigory hung up and turned to Akilev. “Ready to be done with this?”
“More than you know.”
From his pocket Grigory unfolded the sheet that held the codes to unlock the warhead crates. He punched a twenty-two-digit code into the numeric keypad attached to the lid of the crate nearest him. The magnetic lock popped open and Grigory opened the crate. The warhead sat naked and sterile, a cylinder about two feet long and eighteen inches in diameter, held firm by the rubberized interior of the cucumber crate. A string of numbers and Cyrillic letters, painted in red, gave the warhead’s serial number and its specifications. Halfway up the cylinder, a control panel stuck out, a simple metal plate with three switches side by side: Armed/Not Armed; Full Yield/Half Yield/Low Yield; Airburst/Groundburst. Beside the plate, the warhead’s locking mechanism, two eight-digit combination locks and a circular keyhole. Everything about the bomb was simple and low-tech, designed for reliability and ease of use by frontline soldiers who were likely to be under attack as they readied the warhead for launch.
“Hardly looks like it’s worth the trouble,” Grigory said to Akilev.
“Harmless as a Gypsy curse.”
Grigory closed the crate, which locked automatically. They moved on to the second crate, the third, and on down to the eighth. All the boxes were full.
“Well done, Major.”
“You thought I’d lost one?”
Grigory grabbed the file that held his inventory receipts from the Volga. He dated and signed the papers and handed them to Akilev. “Sign here,” he said.
“But aren’t we supposed to wait until the boxes are inside the warehouse?”
Third test.
“If you like,” Grigory said. “But me and Tajid will need at least two hours to put the crates in their proper places. I thought you and your men might want some rest. Your choice.”
“Can we help you move the crates inside the depot?”
“I’m afraid not. Not that I don’t trust you—” Yes, Grigory thought. Turn back the question of trust on him.
“I understand. And you don’t mind if we leave. You’re certain.”
“Not a bit.”
“All right.” Akilev signed the papers and handed them back to Grigory. “Thanks for this. It’s been a very long day.” He whistled sharply to his men. They jumped into the Urals, which started with a heavy diesel thump. A minute later, the Tiger and the trucks had disappeared from the shed, leaving Grigory and his cousin alone.
Third test passed.
TO HIS SURPRISE,
Grigory felt no excitement. He was relaxed, yet hyperaware of his surroundings. The grain of the pavement beneath his feet, the cold air against his face, the hum of the arc lights above his head—he saw and heard everything at once. This must be how God feels, he thought.
He called Arkady. “The crates checked out.”
“Has the convoy gone? On the monitors—”
“I told them they could. No need to make them wait for us.”
“But how will you—”
“We drove in.”
“Grigory, you know that’s not allowed—”
“So write me up. But meanwhile open the damn door, so we can put them away and be done.”
Arkady hung up. A few seconds later, the big steel door creaked open. Grigory and Tajid hefted two crates onto a forklift beside the door. Grigory drove into the cool depths of the warehouse, Tajid walking slowly behind him. Dropping the crates off took twenty minutes. When they were done, they loaded two more crates and repeated the procedure.
Fourth test.
The third set of crates had come from the truck that had been nearest the Volga. Grigory waited until the cameras mounted on the rafters of the shed were facing away from him. The cameras made long, slow loops around the warehouse. For Grigory, who knew the pattern, they were easy to avoid.
Quickly, Grigory popped the trunk of the Volga and pulled out a pair of steel toolboxes, two feet by two feet by three feet, each half-filled with hard rubber balls the size of large marbles.
Toolboxes in hand, Grigory strode over to the crates and again keyed in the codes to unlock them. He reached into the first crate and grabbed for the cylinder. He had never actually touched a warhead before. To save weight and space, the damn thing didn’t have handles, and Grigory wasn’t sure how to lift it. He wedged his fingers underneath and began to pull. The warhead slipped back, nearly breaking his hands, and he fired curses at his cousin.
“Come on, you oaf. Help.”
On the second try they lifted the cylinder and transferred it into the toolbox, arranging the rubber balls so that it wouldn’t roll around. Quickly, they repeated the operation with the second crate.
Grigory snuck a look at the cameras on the ceiling. Still safe. He and Tajid slipped the toolboxes into the trunk, one over each wheel well. The lightbulb inside the trunk was dead, and the trunk was dirty with old newspapers and bottles of antifreeze and a spare tire and wrenches and a jack. Grigory covered the toolboxes with blankets and slammed down the lid. A thorough search would spot the boxes, but a flashlight quickly shined over the trunk wouldn’t. So he hoped. He closed the Volga lid and looked around. The cameras were still pointing away.
Fourth test passed.
WITH THE WARHEADS
in his trunk, Grigory’s self-confidence began to flag. Until now he’d been playing a game, outsmarting Arkady and Boris Hiterov and Major Akilev, which wasn’t hard, since none of them knew they were playing at all. Bringing the Volga in was a technical infraction, nothing more.
Now, though, he’d crossed the border into something else. What if he’d been caught in some elaborate setup? What if the FSB had recruited Tajid to betray him? What if a force of agents waited outside the fence at this moment—
“Cousin,” Tajid said sharply, knocking Grigory from his reverie. “Let’s be done.”
So they went back into the warehouse, first with the two empty crates and then the final two. Grigory heart pounded in his chest. He was grateful for the cold air.
Then they were done. Grigory called Arkady, who answered on the second ring. This time he’d been awake, awaiting the call, Grigory figured. A bad sign.
“We’re done. Thank God. I think my balls have frozen.”
“Fine, then.” Arkady sounded annoyed. Grigory hung up and stepped away as the steel door slid closed. The shed was empty, the forklift beside the door. The place looked exactly as they had found it.
Grigory and Tajid slid into the Volga. Grigory hoped no one would notice that the car was sitting lower now. “Do you really believe we’ll get out of here, cousin?”
“
Inshallah.
It’s God’s will.”
“If you say so.” Grigory turned the key and the Volga started immediately.
BUT WHEN THEY ARRIVED
at the guard hut, the fence was still closed.
“Damn Boris.” Grigory honked. The rear door of the hut opened and Hiterov stepped out, holding a flashlight. Its beam caught Grigory in the eyes. Grigory felt his bowels tighten.
Grigory rolled down his window. “What’s this, Boris?”
“I have to check the car. Arkady’s orders.”
Fifth test.
This one unexpected. Grigory felt as he did playing chess when an opponent found a weakness and counterattacked, leaving him naked. Grigory opened the door, stepped out of the car. “Come on, Tajid. Into the cold while he finds the bombs we’ve stolen.” He hoped he had the right tone of sarcasm in his voice.
“You think I want to be out here?” Hiterov whined. Nonetheless he leaned into the car, shined the flashlight over the front seats, then into the back. “Now the trunk.”
Grigory unlocked the trunk. Hiterov poked the beam of his light inside.
“What a mess. Don’t you ever clean this thing?”
“Only on nights I’m screwing your wife in the backseat.”
With his free hand, Hiterov poked ineffectually at the papers and antifreeze bottles. Grigory imagined how he would explain the warheads to the police and the FSB. An experiment, a test of the plant’s security. Maybe he’d tell the truth, try to trade his life for Yusuf’s, though he’d still wind up in a Siberian jail until he died.