“I allowed you to be with me in Moscow when you felt you needed to. I’m begging you now to do the same.”
“You saved my life by keeping me next to you. I can only save your life by keeping you as far from myself as I can. I’m settling the debt I owe you, Eugene. Accept it.”
“You never owed me anything.”
Asiyah had made the decision long ago, and no words could dissuade her from effecting her suicidal plot.
But he had no other leverage. Bitter futility choked him.
Sokolov turned back without casting another glance at her.
10
The only reason Sokolov stormed off was to get a head start on Asiyah. Pondering his options, he decided to take the initiative into his own hands. In truth, Asiyah’s logic was valid. She had to avoid a confrontation with Grishin, and God only knew what fate awaited her in Moscow — to Frolov, she was an inconvenient witness he no longer had use of.
The revelation of a functioning installation in Kantubek was unexpected. Sokolov doubted that she had lied just to ward him off. But even if Kantubek was abandoned and she was heading there only to hide from the FSB team, she still had no escape from the Aral afterwards. On her own, she would never survive a trek through the desert to the mainland.
He’d be damned if he betrayed her. He would never leave her to die only because she wanted him to.
Reaching Kantubek was his first priority. Asiyah was traveling along what used to be the road from the research complex, taking the most direct path to Kantubek’s southern outskirts. Sokolov chose to approach from the flank to the east of the airfield.
He was moving inland, and the terrain became tougher to cross on foot closer to the center of the island. In addition to the island’s natural incline, he had to pick his way past rocks, troughs, mesh of dry grass and impeding shrubs that clung onto his uniform with their desiccated stems. He measured his progress relying only on the memory of the island’s map and his sense of direction. Every second counted, and in the last five hundred meters he definitely hadn’t gained any pace on Asiyah.
His bending detour finally took him to the old gravel road, similar to the one that led from the polygon to the research complex. Over the decades of erosion it had deteriorated so much that it corrugated out of shape, slowly erased by the island. Wind had blown away pebbles, forming cracks, and strewn bigger stones over the road’s surface. But despite the potholes, it was flat, straight and free of large obstacles. Sokolov upped his rhythm, making up for lost ground.
The town came into view, drawing him like a magnet.
The clear, dry weather provided for excellent visibility. Even from afar, Sokolov could make out individual houses of the former Soviet settlement.
But all that could change in a blink. A hot gust came in, sweeping particles across the road, and died away.
The Aral acted as a cauldron for raging winds. During the active years of Aralsk-7, air currents tended to blow north to south, hence the southernmost location of the aerosol polygon in relation to the lab and Kantubek. But as the region’s ecosystem suffered annihilation, the weather fronts became totally unpredictable in their strength, direction and timing. Stirring in the Aral, they produced dust storms that travelled thousands of kilometers. A storm could start in seconds, shrouding everything in an impregnable pall, and last hours — or end as suddenly as it came.
Getting caught by the storm in the open, he — and Asiyah — would be as good as dead. All the more reason to hasten towards the shelter that Kantubek provided.
Pebbles of stone and sand crunched under his boots. Sweat rolled down his nape, the shirt’s fabric sticking to his back. The three kilometers he had to cover between Aralsk and Kantubek felt like ten, handicapped by the oppressive heat and his load of armor and weapons.
The road swerved, turning into Kantubek’s main street.
Lenin Avenue.
An apt name, Sokolov thought, for a pathway traversing a ghost town.
The scene before his eyes could only belong to a vision from apocalypse.
The layer of pavement had disintegrated to crumbs.
Rows of rust-colored scrubs and bunchgrasses lined the road. Their rigid twigs shivered at a gust of wind. A solitary dead tree stood nearby, pointing out its skeletal branches.
The street’s lampposts had broken off, lying athwart the road. Each had snapped above its base like a matchstick and toppled. The fallen concrete masts were only joined to their stumps by twisted innards of metal rods.
The surrounding houses had become meaningless monuments. Most were roofless, missing stolen or collapsed tiles, revealing naked joists beneath. Wooden window frames had rotted and fallen out. Years of extreme conditions had faded and stained the bricks.
Sokolov could not fathom that the ruins around him had once belonged to a quiet seaside neighborhood. One of these structures had been brought back to life by Kasymov to accommodate his sanctuary. The idea seemed even more striking than before, but he knew it was possible.
But where could it be located?
Unlike the restored Aralsk-7 complex, the town appeared as if no human being had set foot on its soil in decades. The last men who had left behind a visible mark were looters. Outside the garage of Kantubek’s motor pool, two carcasses of military trucks stood slumped on their chassis. Their wheels had been removed and stolen. The bonnets had been wrenched open and engine compartments gutted clean. Any part that could be torn off had been plundered, down to rearview mirrors, headlights and door handles. The rest succumbed to corrosion.
And where was Asiyah?
Sokolov noticed a triangular road sign. Rust had blotted it out, as if replacing the warning with a new alert signal. This was a place best avoided by strangers.
Sokolov paid no heed to premonitions. He unslung his AK and followed Lenin Avenue into the heart of Kantubek.
11
Asiyah recognized the graves.
It was an old burial ground for the animals — mostly primates — killed at the polygon during field tests up until 1987, when the practice ceased due to erratic wind patterns. In several locations on Renaissance Island, the Red Army soldiers had dug deep pits, dumped the cadavers and filled the holes with chlorine and sand. Once a row of sand mounds extended too far, another site was chosen. In total, there were four or five burial sites, numbering over a hundred animal graves. All were scattered in the vicinity of the lab or the polygon. This particular gravesite was located the closest to Kantubek. From then on, finding her way was a straightforward affair. She pushed on, aiming for the water reservoirs that appeared in view, now empty and rust-ridden, and then she suddenly reached the outer buildings of Kantubek.
Her physical and mental fatigue from the last few hours had evaporated.
She crossed the residential district. The two- or three-storied apartment blocks, warehouses, boiler plant, mess hall, and even the kindergarten embodied depression. It was a maze of ugly brick boxes, featureless in their plight.
The military headquarters could not be far away.
Adrenaline surged in her system.
Asiyah rounded a corner and faced a group of three Batyr teenagers on the prowl. Their Oriental complexions were darker than normal, tanned for months by the Aral sun. The youth in charge had intricate tattoos on his neck and arms. Following in tow were a burly guy with a headband around his shaved scalp, and the youngest of the three, whiskers shading the corners of his upper lip.
They were alone. She had them at her mercy.
Seeing her emerge out of the blue, the young soldiers froze. The leader swung up his AK-47, pointing it at her, but his eyes showed panicked indecision. His whiskered comrade followed suit, lining up his rifle at her. The burly teen just stood gaping at her in confusion.