“This is called Karl Marx Avenue,” Ninchenko said. “We haven’t entirely shaken off the past.”
Gage found no opposition protestors camped out in the main square, no opposition banners strung from building to building across the boulevards as in Kiev. Gage pointed at a dozen headstones draped in yellow as they passed a Russian Orthodox cemetery.
“They’ll be gone by morning,” Ninchenko said. “The president owns Eastern Ukraine. The graveyard is the only place out here where the opposition gathers. He orders the murder of opposition journalists and politicians who show their faces in his hometown.”
Gage thought back on the demonstrators in Independence Square encircled by police and soldiers. “Courageous people.”
“They don’t see that they have a choice but to take the risk if they’re going to change the country. The opposition knows it can’t win the election without carrying at least thirty percent of the vote out here, so they keep coming.”
As they drove past the cemetery, Ninchenko ceased speaking in a moment of respect for those who’d fallen in the cause, then pointed ahead. “We’re almost at the hotel.”
Gage made out the four-story, redbrick Astoria in the distance. The entrance was dark and the sign in front wasn’t illuminated. Clearly, walk-ins weren’t welcome.
“Has Slava decided whether to meet us out here?” Gage asked.
“His presence in Dnepropetrovsk could be viewed as a provocation.”
“I thought he had investments in the area.”
Ninchenko shrugged. “They don’t threaten anyone. They’re not viewed as a toehold, just a place to put money. A personal visit is another thing altogether. Especially with the country on the verge of chaos.”
Ninchenko swung around behind the hotel, stopping at a guarded gate that slowly opened, allowing him to drive into a parking area formed by the L-shape of the building. A beefy man in a ushanka and a knee-length leather jacket opened Gage’s door and handed him a room key anchored to a brass plate. He passed another one to Ninchenko, then removed their luggage from the trunk and followed them through the back door and into an elevator to their rooms.
He set Gage’s on a rack in the bedroom and left without waiting for a tip. Moments later Ninchenko appeared at Gage’s door.
“I didn’t need all of this,” Gage said, gesturing toward the heavy leather couch and chairs and satellite television in the living area. “Just a place to lay my head.”
“Slava said you should be comfortable.”
“Can we take a look at the plant tonight?”
“One of my local people is bringing over a surveillance van. Let’s get something to eat while we wait.”
Gage turned the face of his watch toward Ninchenko: 2 A. M.
“Hotel staff in Ukraine work twenty-four-hour shifts.” Ninchenko grinned. “They say it gives the guests more continuity but it’s really just a holdover from Soviet days. People slept on the job anyway, so the leaders found a better way to schedule their naps.”
Ninchenko and Gage walked down to the second floor restaurant, passed through it, then entered a private dining room. One of the four tables was already covered with plates of smoked fish, cheese, pickles, olives, tomatoes, and bread. Ninchenko walked over to the bar and switched on a radio to cover their conversation.
Gage reached his fork toward the smoked sturgeon, then drew it back. “Is this from the Dnepr River?”
“Only the poor eat fish from the Dnepr. It’ll be a million years before the Chernobyl radioactivity washes out. This is Siberian.”
Gage stabbed a piece and shook it onto his plate.
A bleary-eyed waiter in a wrinkled white shirt appeared with bottles of mineral water, filling both of their glasses, then slinked away.
“When will your helpers from Kiev arrive?” Gage asked.
Ninchenko glanced at his watch. “A few more hours. They’ll be staying on the other side of town. No reason for all of us to be seen together.”
Gage and Ninchenko ate in silence. The waiter reappeared with a customary bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. They waved him off simultaneously. He walked away bearing a mixed expression of disappointment and violated expectation.
“For the Ukrainian male, a meal without vodka is like Chinese food without rice,” Ninchenko said.
“A cultural impossibility?”
“Very close.”
Ninchenko’s phone rang. He looked at Gage after answering, forming the word “Alla” with his mouth. He listened for thirty seconds, spoke quickly and quietly, then hung up.
“Matson and Alla are confirmed on a commercial flight tomorrow morning.”
“She sound okay?”
“Nervous,” Ninchenko said, smiling. “She’s lost the fire she displayed when she was kicking at you.”
“Did she say where they’re staying?”
“The Grand Domus Hotel. I know it. Hadeon Alexandervich pried it out of the hands of the former owner through tax inspections. The Ukrainian Tax Authority is like your IRS except it’s a political and economic tool of the president. The government seized the hotel and auctioned it to the single qualified bidder.”
“And that would be?”
“Hadeon Alexandervich’s ninety-year-old great-aunt.”
“I take it she’s a spry old lady who possesses special skills in hotel management.”
“She possesses special skills at keeping her mouth shut and in staying alive. She’s already outlived the average Ukrainian by thirty years.”
“What’s the layout? We’ll need a plan to get Alla out of there. I don’t want her paying for Matson’s crime with her life.”
“It won’t be easy. The perimeter is composed of high brick walls and wrought-iron fences. She’s in good shape, but I doubt that she could climb over either, especially with them iced over.”
The waiter reappeared and whispered in Ninchenko’s ear.
“The van has arrived,” Ninchenko said, pushing his plate away.
Ninchenko led Gage down a staircase and out to the parking lot where a gray, long-haul delivery van was waiting. It bore red lettering and drawings of fruit and vegetables.
Ninchenko introduced Gage to their driver, Kolya, a slight, middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and the earnest expression typical of uncomplaining men devoted to executing the orders of others.
Ninchenko and Kolya engaged in a short conversation in Russian.
Kolya handed Gage a cell phone and charger and gave a thumbs-up. He then walked around to the back of the van and opened the swinging doors, inviting Gage and Ninchenko to climb in. Once inside Gage found a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor, along with a small refrigerator, a metal cabinet containing a monitor and recorder, and a case of mineral water.
Ninchenko turned on the video and picked up a joystick. The image on the screen scanned a full 360 degrees.
“Impressive,” Gage said.
“If we’re going to battle State Security, we need to match their tools.”
“What conceals the camera?”
“An air vent on the roof.”
Ninchenko knocked on the blackened divider and the van began to move. Gage sat down while Ninchenko pointed the camera toward the front of the van, giving them a wide-angled view of the road ahead, illuminated by the van’s headlights.
Gage watched the monitor as the van drove down Karl Marx toward the river, following it north past Lenin Street, across a bridge over the Dnepr, then southeast. Bordering the river on each side were aging factories that made the city the heart of the Ukrainian defense industry, starting in Soviet times.
The van slowed after traveling ten blocks. Ninchenko directed the camera toward a concrete two-story building half the size of a football field, then activated the zoom, first focusing on the plant sign, “Electro-Dnepr Joint Stock Company.” Razor wire glinted in the perimeter lights. Towers stood at the corners and a guardhouse
