“No. You?”

“No.”

They drove in silence for five minutes, then Elena said, “Have you ever had borshch? Real Ukrainian borshch?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“I make wonderful borshch.”

“I’m not even sure what’s in it.”

“You start with pork stock, add beans, beets, lemons, vegetables, sorrel leaves, vinegar, strained rhubarb juice, garlic. . . . It’s delicious. I’ll make it for you.”

“Where do the vegetables come from?”

She smiled. “You mean do I grow them in the zone? No, they’re from from the outside. Kiev.”

“Okay.”

“It’s only a few hours befor sunrise. Do you want to go to the inner zone? I assume you’d rather do your skulking at night.”

Fisher had the documentation and cover story to explain his presence if apprehended, but he preferred to avoid all contact with the authorities. He’d allotted himself three days inside the Exclusion Zone. More than simply a safety concern, he needed to do the job and get out. With a U.S. Navy battle group on its way to the Gulf of Oman, events would begin moving quickly. Iran would send elements of its own Navy to meet the battle group. Tensions would mount; shots would be fired.

“How do you know I’m a skulker?” he asked her.

She glanced sideways at him. “You have the eyes of a skulker. Kind, though—kind eyes.”

“To answer your question: Yes, night would be best.”

“Good. We’ll go now. You really should see Pripyat. I can show you things you won’t see in pictures.”

Sightseeing wasn’t part of his mission, but he had the time—and the curiosity. “Drive on.”

ITwas only fifteen kilometers, or seven miles, but along the way they passed east of the village of Chernobyl on the banks of the Pripyat River, which at the time of the accident fed the plant’s cooling pond.

Elena arced around Chernobyl to the east, passing through dozens of villages, all abandoned save for a few hundred die-hard farmers who’d returned despite the government’s warnings. Elena translated the Cyrillic signs as they drove: Yampol, Malyy Cherevach, Zapol’ye—one by one they appeared and disappeared in the Opel’s headlights, wooden farmhouses and sheds and barns, many of them crumbling, overgrown with foliage and moss, fences so coiled in vines and underbrush they leaned at wild angles to the ground, structures so primitive Fisher had little trouble imagining himself transported back a hundred years.

“This is surreal,” Fisher said.

“This is nothing. Just wait.”

ASthey drew closer to the city, farmhouses and barns gave way to smaller buildings, made mostly of gray concrete and faded brown brick. The signs were all in Cyrillic, but there was something universal about the structures: a gas station, a grocery store; a bank. . . . Soon the scrub pines and marshland gave way to vacant lots and paved intersections.

They approached Pripyat from the west, so Fisher’s first glimpse of the city’s skyline was backlit by the first hints of sunlight on the horizon. Great rectangular blocks of buildings, tall and narrow, short and squat, rose from the terrain. In twilight they were dark and dimensionless, as though painted on the skyline by a movie set designer.

As they entered the city limits and the horizon brightened, details began to stand out.

Pripyat was in many ways a typical Soviet-era city. The structures, from apartment high-rises to four-story schools and office buildings, were built in gray cinder block. Everything had an almost Lego-like atmosphere, as though geometric blocks were simply dropped into the empty spaces between the streets and then given designations: Apartment Block 17; People’s Bank Number 84; General Office Complex 21. The only bits of color Fisher saw were faded murals painted on the sides of buildings, traditional Revolution-era scenes of Lenin or of iron-jawed, blond-haired men standing knee deep in golden fields of wheat, one hand clutching a sickle, the other shielding eyes that stared at some distant horizon.

What struck Fisher the most was the utter stillness of the place. If the outlying farms seemed trapped in the 1800s, Pripyat seemed frozen on that fateful day in April of 1986. Cars sat parked in the middle of intersections, their doors still open as though the occupants had simply gotten out and run away. Suitcases and footlockers and wheelbarrows piled high with clothes, pots and pans, and framed pictures lay strewn on the sidewalks.

Just like in Slipstone,Fisher reminded himself.

They passed an elementary school. The playground, once a clearing surrounded by trees, had been reclaimed by weeds and bushes. A jungle gym rose from the undergrowth, its steel frame choked with vines; a raised play-house in the shape of an elephant with a slide for a trunk was a nothing more than a rusted hulk. The school’s doors stood yawning—shoved open, Fisher imagined, by fleeing children and teachers. As the school disappeared in the car’s side window, Fisher glimpsed a child’s doll sitting perfectly upright on the rim of a sandbox.

This, he decided, is what nuclear Armageddon would look like.

“Is it all like this?” he asked.

“Yes. And it will be for the next three hundred years. It’ll take that long for the contamination levels to fade. I come here sometimes, just to remind myself it’s real. But never at night. I never come at night.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Next they passed a six-story apartment building, another gray cube lined with balconies that ran the length of the structure. With only a few exceptions, each balcony door on the sixth floor stood open. It took Fisher a moment to understand why. These apartments faced southeast—toward the power plant. The upper floor would have offered an unobstructed view of the reactor’s explosion and subsequent fire. He imagined women in housecoats and children in pajamas standing at the railing watching the spectacle, not yet realizing what had happened. Not knowing an invisible cloud of cesium was already falling on them. Below, many of the balconies a faded number had been painted in red or orange.

“What are those?” Fisher asked.

“It wasn’t until the next morning, after many of the children had left for school, that the evacuation order was given. People were told to mark their balconies with the number of their evacuation bus so if loved ones returned home, they would know.”

“My God,” Fisher murmured.

“Have you seen enough?”

Fisher nodded, still staring out the window.

32

THEYdrove south for ten minutes before Fisher saw the first sign they were approaching Chernobyl itself. In the distance an obelisk rose from the marshlands. It was the plant’s smokestack, Elena explained. As they drew closer, Fisher could see the stack was painted in faded red and white horizontal bands. Beside it stood a crane that he guessed was being used for nearly constant rebuilding of the Sarcophagus, which had over the years begun to crack and crumble.

Twelve kilometers from the plant, Elena veered off the paved road and onto a gravel track that wound through a copse of stunted pine trees. After a few hundred yards, she turned into a driveway. She pulled to a stop before a ranch-style bungalow painted a washed-out yellow. Like the farmhouses Fisher had seen in the outlying villages, the bungalow was encased in a labyrinth of vines that snaked up the walls, along the eaves, and around the front porch’s post, like snakes frozen in mid-slither.

“PRIA’s headquarters is just inside the inner zone,” Elena said, getting out. “Moscow built it about a year after the disaster. Of course, we all spend as little time there as possible.”