“WHAT YOU ARE telling me is that they hunted us. They came here, and attacked the Burlaks. Then, finding us gone, they followed our hunting party and attacked us.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Anthony,” said Vladimir. “You can see what happened for yourself. While we were out there, they came here and did this. Then they found us and killed Konstantin. They will come back again, and finish us off.”
Vladimir was down in the cabin of the Burlak, with its red velvet curtains, its overstuffed seats, its polished walnut paneling. The brass sconces were still there, the parquet floor, the Turkmen and Azerbaijani carpets. Even the white doily on the table, and the book: A Journey into Mammoth Country: Your Guide to the Ice Age World.
But now a square hole was opened in the ceiling. Through it Vladimir could see the dark, scudding clouds of evening, threatening rain. Anthony’s boots clanked on the roof as he paced away and then came back. His face appeared against the clouds, sunburned and flushed.
“Why? Why would they do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. Why do you want to shoot one of them? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Where is Dr. Aslanov? I want to talk to him.”
“Go and talk to him, then. He’s still where we left him—up in the cab with his head in his hands. I’ve already tried talking to him. He’s … he’s just seized up.”
“Perfect timing.”
“His friend Konstantin is dead, Anthony. His staff—our drivers, everyone—they’re dead.”
“We need to find the keys to this thing. They will be on one of those bodies out there, most likely.”
“Be my guest.”
“No.” The face drew away from the square of sky and spoke from farther off. “No, I need to keep watch. And it’s you, Dima, who are my guest here. Not the other way around.”
Vladimir sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. It was the first time—the first time Anthony had ever reminded him about who paid. In all the years of their marriage, it had never happened. There had always been a pretense of equality, a sense that the money belonged to no one. That it was simply there, like a sidewalk or a tree or any of the other substances that made up the world.
Above him, the boots paced back and forth. There was absolute silence from the cab of the Burlak. Vladimir knew what he would find when he went in: Dr. Aslanov simply there, at the dead wheel of the Burlak, with his head in his hands.
Something in him had come loose. Something had broken.
Something in me is broken, too, he thought. And something in Anthony is broken. And maybe something in every single person is broken, and we just keep moving forward as if it were all normal—all of it—like insects with their heads torn off who keep crawling toward a shadow to hide in. Until that thing that has already destroyed us catches up with us, and we stop moving.
He stood up and walked to the door that separated the cabin of the Burlak from the cab. On the cabin side, the door was walnut-paneled, nineteenth century, polished to a glow. On the other, he saw it was industrial—metal covered in a textured, weatherproof black surfacing.
Dr. Aslanov still sat at the wheel, his head in his hands.
“Everyone here is dead,” Vladimir said. “And Konstantin is dead. And I think we will be dead soon, too, if you don’t help us get out of here.”
Dr. Aslanov did not move.
“This is your fault, isn’t it?”
Dr. Aslanov raised his head, and looked at Vladimir, blinking inflamed eyes.
“She won’t allow it.”
“Allow what?”
“The sacrifice that has to be made. To keep this place funded. To keep Moscow happy, and keep her and the other mammoths alive. It isn’t what I want—it is what is necessary. But she won’t allow it.”
“Who won’t allow it?”
“I should have seen this coming. She fought for her elephants in Kenya until the very end. She died for them. Died to save them. And I knew that, but I hadn’t thought of the rest of it. I pushed that away. I pretended as if it meant nothing.”
“The rest of it?”
“Yes. The rest of it. What happened the night before she died—when she walked into the poachers’ camp and sprayed their tent with clip after clip. She killed six of them while they were sleeping. And she did it alone. Then she just walked back to her own camp, and went to sleep. I thought—that isn’t the one we brought back—the one we brought back hadn’t done that yet. She was a different person. She hadn’t gotten to that point. I didn’t think…”
“What?”
“She hadn’t gotten to that point yet, because it was still coming. And now, that moment has arrived. This is her moment of rage. And she is standing outside our tent, with her finger on the trigger.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“Konstantin tried to warn me. He told me she wouldn’t allow it. I never listened.”
“Who? Who wouldn’t allow it?”
“Damira.”
Damira. That name, tinny as the buzz of a mosquito against a background of white noise. The last thought Konstantin had sent them.
It had been a warning.