Amber Widow

Chapter 1

Ignalina Nuclear Power Plant, eastern Lithuania—1990

Boris thought of his mother as he backed his off-road vehicle, a dented Lada, up to the loading platform at INPP. She had a place to live in the apartment block, food, and plenty of heat from the snake of pipes that provided steam all the way from the reactor to town. But she needed medicine, and the only way to get it was on the black market. So Boris needed money. Desperately. And fast.

Train tracks bordered the loading platform where Boris waited, the perfectly straight lines extending from the power plant to the storage facilities and beyond. Outside lights hung to the left and right of his position, providing cones of illumination and areas of shadow for the Lada to blend in, so that anyone passing through the long glass-walled corridor from the administration building to the reactors wouldn’t notice. Or so he hoped. He looked over his shoulder. No one was watching from inside, not even Misha, another Russian guard, who should be on break. Boris felt a drop of sweat run down the side of his face, and wiped it away with an unsteady hand.

He watched the oversized loading dock door, glancing back at the brightly lit corridor every few seconds. He couldn’t help himself. If another guard caught him, he was to say he had a message for his friend Tomas that his girlfriend was at home waiting and anxious. The men would laugh, and Boris would be told to move along. The worst that would likely happen was a reprimand in the morning by his supervisor, for people working inside weren’t to be disturbed. More likely, Boris would be mocked. He was often mocked by the other guards. After all, he had no wife, no prospects, and his best friend was his mother.

He flinched when the door opened to a massive interior space, dark and threatening. Tomas appeared dressed in the white work clothes they all wore inside the facility. Boris got out of the vehicle and followed Tomas back in. The two men came out a moment later, carrying metallic suitcases that contained nuclear waste taken from a large stack of similar cases that had been prepared for special use, some sort of experiment. Boris didn’t know anything about it, but Thomas had said it was an opportunity. They set the cases side by side in the Lada’s trunk. They went inside two more times, for a total of six suitcases. When they were done, they covered them with an old blanket and closed the trunk.

After a brief nod, Tomas went inside. Boris glanced up, noticing the top edge of a door that was opening at the far end of the glass-walled corridor. He considered waiting in the shadows, but couldn’t risk being caught, not now. He started the Lada’s engine, keeping the headlights off. He drove along the tracks as fast as he dared, crossing them to enter the parking lot containing the cars owned by the night shift workers. His gaze constantly went to the rearview mirror, his stomach in knots. Each moment seemed like forever until finally he was on the avenue leading to town.

He slowed down. At the sign with four smokestacks marking the entrance to Ignalinos Atomine Elektrine, he clicked on the headlights. Four smokestacks, what a joke! Construction of the third reactor had stopped, and plans for the fourth were scrapped after Chernobyl had blown up. Not that the Soviets cared what happened to the reactors here, but the world was watching.

Boris was sure Ignalina would be shut down soon. He would be out of work, and his mother would be even worse off. She’d be forced into the state-run clinics where cleanliness was a matter of opinion and medicine hard to obtain. He had no choice but to do this. Boris wiped his eyes with the back of a hand. He drove past the power lines and street lamps that brought a shine to the fat steam pipes lying alongside the road in a broad swath of land unnaturally devoid of trees.

He took a left at the four-way intersection and drove through the local town, passing the rows of identical apartment buildings where the workers at the power plant lived, and where Mother lay dying. He feared someone might be watching from the dark windows of the gas station. His speed increased. Twenty kilometers later, Boris was finally in the forest, outside the town of Visaginas. He turned onto the dirt road by the appointed marker, a tree that had been partially felled to form an upside down V.

Two kilometers down the bumpy road, he stopped the vehicle and cut the lights, his hands returning to the steering wheel. He flexed his fingers when they cramped, going back to their vise-like grip when the muscles relaxed. Fifteen minutes later, a light flashed through the trees once, then again. Boris shone his flashlight out the windshield, counted to three, and snapped it off. He got out of the Lada. It might be the Secret Police. It might be a trap. He could be dead in seconds. He stood with his hands in front of his crotch, quelling the urge to run.

Several men approached holding automatic rifles. More were probably hiding in the woods, ready to react if something wasn’t right, if any little thing seemed out of place. They had probably been there all along, watching him. Boris’s chest felt tight.

The tallest of the men advanced. His shoulders were slumped. A scarf covered his nose and mouth. Boris couldn’t make out any features in the dark. It bothered him that he couldn’t see the man’s eyes.

An urgent whisper in the dark. You have it?

Suitcases in the back, said Boris.

The tall man motioned to the others who opened the back of the vehicle and took out the six suitcases, lying them in a neat row on the ground.

Boris knew that nuclear waste could be used to harm people, but he couldn’t let himself give a damn what they did with it. He wouldn’t care if they blew up the rest of the world. Just as long as Mother lived. That was all that mattered.

The tall man handed him a wrinkled envelope. Boris put it directly into his pocket, noting the bulk, but not daring to count the money inside. Even if they shorted him, he wasn’t going to challenge half a dozen men with guns. He didn’t know where these people had gotten the money to pay him. They had probably stolen it. He didn’t care.

Boris stared at the man and swallowed hard. Will you need more?

We’ll let you know.

Each man picked up a suitcase and walked into the trees. When they were gone, Boris climbed into the vehicle, slowly backing up in the glow from the Lada’s taillights. He turned the vehicle around at a spot where the ditch wasn’t so deep. At the paved road he stopped, opened the door, and vomited into the gully. After spitting out the sour residue from his mouth, Boris drove home to his mother.

~~

In 1992, Boris and Tomas stole again. This time it was a long, cylindrical rod filled with fresh nuclear fuel that they clamped to the Lada’s undercarriage before driving off. Tomas was counting on proceeds from the sale to buy a house for his new bride.

Unfortunately, they didn’t realize the fresh fuel was useless to weapons makers, and their attempts to find a buyer went unanswered. Acting on an anonymous tip, Lithuanian authorities found the rod dumped in a river near the border with Poland. Upon interrogation, Boris admitted to the theft, and was sent to prison.

After Boris’s mother recovered from her illness, she spent the bulk of her days in the small apartment holding an icon of the Virgin Mother to her breast, praying for her son’s timely release.

***

Chapter 2

Visaginas, eastern Lithuania—1990

Tilda Partenkas waited across from a row of Soviet-style apartment buildings with concrete walls covered in black decay. Clouds smothered the moon, making the broad avenue look ominously dark. Wearing a trench coat, jeans, and a cap hiding her gray curls, she felt less like a noted nuclear physicist and more like an outdated version of a Cold War spy. Perhaps I am, she thought, although a little old for one.

Lights in the windows went out for the night like monsters closing their eyes. An old man walked a dog along the other side of the street. Is he watching me? The dog raised its hind leg and urinated on a cement message board covered in graffiti. He sat on his haunches as the man lit a cigarette. A few minutes later, the man threw the butt down and they went inside. Tilda relaxed a notch and put her hands in the pockets of her coat.

A dull orange Audi pulled up next to her, and her heart beat faster. The driver stretched across the front seat and rolled down the passenger window. She recognized him as Darius, the man she had met a few days before. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with brown hair, and big eyes. He was extremely thin.

I’m looking for Dominykas Simkus, he said. Do you happen to know his apartment number?

Tilda went to the car, leaning over to look inside the vehicle. Crumpled pages from a newspaper lay on the dashboard. Through the open window, she caught a smell of stale food. She used the passphrase indicating all was well. He’s at another location, but I’m going there now. Let me show you.

Darius unlocked the door. Tilda hesitated only a moment before getting in. The gears made a grinding sound as he shifted. They drove along the deserted boulevard, turning right at the next cross street. The smell of the food was stronger, making her feel sick. She opened the window a crack and took a deep breath. They went slowly toward another row of apartment buildings, driving between two of them onto another wide street. Tilda nervously clutched the door handle, sure the car was going to scrape against the walls, but it didn’t. They traveled several kilometers in silence before Darius clicked the headlights on.

Was anyone watching you? said Darius. The fingers on his right hand tapped the steering wheel as he drove.

No. Tilda folded her hands on her lap so Darius wouldn’t see them shake. Isn’t the KGB out of the country by now?

We’re a free and sovereign nation, but old habits are hard to break. There are plenty of Russians living in the area. Most of them work at the nuclear power plant. The KGB is gone, or so they say. It’s been replaced by a new organization, the SVR, which is like a Russian CIA. And there are plenty of Russian soldiers here. Darius paused. The apartment you’re using is comfortable?

Yes, it’s lovely inside. Your friend was kind to let me stay there.

Are you sure no one was watching you?

There was a man with a dog. They went inside, though. Tilda leaned back against the fake leather upholstery, feeling the same fear she had forty-four years ago, when she and Mama had avoided patrols and bribed guards to get out of this country. What did this boy know of the old days and the real dangers? Soldiers could be out there in the dark, waiting to capture or shoot them.

When you asked about what happened to your father, I checked with some people. The bastards killed him, said Darius.

Tilda turned away and stared out the window.

When the Soviets realized you and your mother had escaped, they went after him. I’m sorry to tell you they kept Marius in prison for weeks. When he died, they left him outside a church in Utena, on the steps so everyone could see. That’s what they’re like, which is why we’re asking you to help us. Darius’s voice sounded strained and unnaturally high. My father fought them, and they killed him, too.

Tilda dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand, trying to stop herself from trembling. All these years she had suspected the worst, for they had never heard from Papa again after that morning in 1948 when they left Utena. She knew he was dead. But Darius’s words stabbed her heart for they removed the possibility that Papa had died peacefully in his sleep. For so many years she had longed to feel the gentle touch of Papa’s hand on her cheek and hear the sound of his voice.

Darius turned onto a dirt road leading deeper into a forest. Tilda braced against the dashboard and held onto the door handle as the vehicle bounced over ruts. They stopped in front of two large bushes. A tall man came out from the dark and opened the door. Tilda got out.

I’m from Baltic Watch, he said. Jonas.

Tilda couldn’t see his face, but had the impression from his slumped shoulders and slow movement that he was an older man. His posture reminded her of her late husband. She felt a little more at ease. I’m not familiar with the group.

We monitor and report on Soviet military activity that could indicate a pending invasion. We watch everything they do, and tell the people. Our members come from Latvia, Estonia, and Poland. But tonight it’s just Darius and me.

While Darius drove the car in between the bushes, Jonas continued. People know us from Baltic Watch, but they don’t know that tonight we put our lives in your hands. My father was a partisan, and he fought side by side with your father against the Soviets. They trusted each other like brothers, and now I’m trusting you.

Tilda tucked her hands into the pockets of her trench coat, holding onto the vial of pills containing Z-109, the crowning accomplishment of both her and her husband’s lives. She took a deep breath. The air smelled of pine. What in hell have I gotten myself into?

You knew Papa? She waited for Jonas to explain, but before he could, Darius joined them.

I’m ready, Jonas, he said.

Jonas took Tilda’s arm and led her through the trees. These men have eyes like cats, she thought, passing brushwood and low-hanging branches. Somehow her companions knew just when to duck, and when to hold her arm tighter so she wouldn’t fall into a depression or trip over a root.

Eventually they came to a cabin. Dark windows indicated the place was either deserted or its inhabitants were asleep. Darius unlocked a padlock securing the door and went inside first, turning on a halogen lamp hanging from the low ceiling. He let the others in, closed the door, and stood just inside the threshold. He began pacing. Tilda looked around. Fishing poles leaned in a corner. On a table in front of a stone fireplace sat a stout metal container that looked like a squat suitcase, more square than rectangular, and a generous half meter in each dimension.

Oh my God, said Tilda. She knew immediately what it was, as she had worked at the Three Mile Island Nuclear Generating Station in the United States before meeting her husband.

We need to know if it’s viable, said Jonas.

This is from the power plant at Ignalina, isn’t it?

"Before the breakup, no one knew what Glasnost would mean for their families, just that it would change things. Everyone was willing to take risks. People made a point of looking the other way, making it possible to get away with things like never before. Let’s just say the fall of the Soviet Union has been good for us in unexpected ways."

This is crazy. The Russians must be searching for these.

Of course. But they blamed the theft on a Russian guard at the power plant who admitted to it. The Russians are confident they’ll find all the stolen material in due time, but we excel at hiding things. Jonas grinned. After the breakup, our Russian friends have become fine entrepreneurs. If we’d waited, we could’ve just bought what we needed from the black market and saved ourselves all this trouble. You can get anything today, if you have money and know where to go.

Even his voice reminded her of Tilda’s husband, gone now five years. Time had a way of passing slowly when you missed someone. Her shoulders were stiff. Are there more containers like these buried in the woods? She ran her hands over the metal. The casing seems to be intact. Did you bring the Geiger counter?

Jonas opened a gym bag hanging from a peg near the fireplace. He rifled through some clothing and pulled out the device. Tilda took it from him, turned it on, and held the probe to the container. It clicked a few times; nothing dangerous. She put the device down on the table and looked up at Jonas. His clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them. He had a kind face. Maybe she could trust him.

If there were leakage, the Geiger counter would register it. If you’re sure this contains nuclear material, it’s well-protected and should be viable, said Tilda.

Good, said Jonas.

Of course you did what I just did, and saw for yourself. So why did you bring me here?

Darius stopped pacing.

I don’t know what you’re going to do. Take me back to the apartment, please, said Tilda.

Help Darius build a bomb, said Jonas.

Tilda flinched, her mind racing. What does he know about building a bomb?

He learned from his father.

Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous. Besides, I’m a physicist. What makes you think I know how to build a weapon? Get someone else. I’ll have nothing to do with this. Tilda took a step toward the door.

Darius crossed his arms.

There is no one else who can help us, only you. Jonas gazed down at her. He didn’t look threatening, just sad.

Are you forcing me? said Tilda.

You’re the only one who can help us.

Tilda looked at the suitcase. What would you do with it?

Nothing. It’s just a precaution to keep the Soviets at bay. If they move to occupy our country again, we’ll use this as a bargaining chip to keep them out.

Why don’t you just lie to them? They won’t know if you have a bomb or not.

It never ends well when you lie to the Soviets.

Tilda had to agree with that, at least. She shrugged. Even if I were willing, I don’t have the right components.

Jonas pulled a box out from under the table. He opened the lid to a collection of items including blasting caps, dynamite, and coils of wire. We don’t exactly have a Radio Shack at our disposal, but these should do.

Tilda shook her head. This is insane. If they find out you’re behind this, it’ll be the end of your country, said Tilda.

"Our country, said Jonas. You were born here, too."

We’ll be criminals. Terrorists.

To our countrymen, we’ll be heroes.

Darius cut in. I told you what they did to your father. We should set it off in Moscow for what they did to him and all the rest.

Jonas gave him an angry look.

Tilda wiped her eyes. I remember what it was like here after the war. Even now, I have nightmares.

After WWII when the Soviets made it clear they weren’t leaving, the West ignored our pleas for help, said Jonas. "They thought we were lying. Lying! We just want to be able to defend ourselves in case the Soviets come back. This is all we can do. We are few, and the Soviets have an almost unlimited number of men. We have no money and they have billions of rubles and the means to build whatever weapons they want. Until we join NATO and the EU, we have no defenses. We have to be ready, because there’s only one thing we can be sure of."

And what’s that?

One day, the Russians will be back.

Tilda pressed her lips together as she fingered the vial in her pocket. If she were being honest, she had suspected something like this. It all added up: she being a nuclear physicist, the thefts at INPP, the secretive meeting with Darius two days ago. It’s only a precaution?

I give you my word no one will die. Will you do it? Jonas put a hand gently on her shoulder. Please.

Tilda took out the vial of pills. "This is what I developed with my husband: Z-109. The treatment from this medication keeps people from radiation poisoning. It protects the most vulnerable parts of the body: the brain, internal organs, and the gastrointestinal system. One day, we may develop it into a vaccine, or add it to public water supplies, or even spray it over crops. My life’s work has been to keep people safe from the effects of radiation. Now you’re asking me to terrorize them with a nuclear weapon that I build with