Belly of the Beast (4 page)

“And for why you not use front door?”

“The gate was locked.”

The man with the stainless-steel tooth shook his head. “In Russia one knows to use gate buzzer.” His lines softened. “Your mother, eh?” he closed his eyes. “I wonder where is my mother . . . best not to know.”

“I don’t need to know either. I’ll just leave.”

“I scare you. Best be scared, but not from me. You speak Russian, you look for mother. I believe.” He nodded toward the building. “Perhaps they know something. They know everything. They know nothing. I am Fedor. Follow me.”

“
Spahsebah
,” said Niki in appreciation.

“Best to not speak Russian. They will dismiss you. Be enduring. I will open gate.”

Inside, a heavy wooden desk blocked the main corridor. A broad-shouldered woman manned it like a tank commander.

“Miss Fullcharge,” whispered Fedor with a wink.

“Fedor,” yelled Miss Fullcharge, “you are tracking the floor.” She flicked her fingers toward the door. “Go back where you belong.” Only slightly less coldly, she said, “May I help you, Miss . . .?”

“Michaels. I’m trying to find my mother,” Niki said in English, “she was—”

“Sign the register.”

The door closed as Fedor retreated. Niki did as she was told, then repeated, “I’m trying to find my mother, she—”

“No one can see you now.”

“I’ll wait.”

It was warm inside. Niki backed against a wall in the
chairless
entry and tucked her hands under her arms. “I don’t suppose there’s a phone I could use?”

Miss Fullcharge tapped her watch. “Four-thirty. We are closed.”

Niki acted as if she hadn’t heard and stared at the opposite wall. Two portraits stared back: Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin. Their frames sat on the tile floor below a single hook on the wall.

Distant voices echoed from somewhere. Niki picked up a sentence or two about Boris Yeltsin and the new government. They were punctuated with obscenities.

“You are wasting your time,” said Miss Fullcharge as she eyed Niki’s muddy clothes. “If you do not leave, I will have to—”

“Please, let me talk to someone.”

“There is no one here.”

“I hear voices. Do you think they are in my head?”

“Your problems are nothing to us,” the woman huffed. “Everyone is busy. We do not know which flag to fly, which portrait to hang. Moscow is in turmoil. I cannot wait to return.”

“I’m sure it won’t be soon enough. Please, I just want to ask some questions about my mother, Lana Michaels.”

“Svetlana?” the woman mumbled to herself. She picked up her phone and whispered something without taking her eyes off Niki, then hung up. “You are to stay where you are,” she ordered. “Someone will speak to you.”

The sharp snap of cleated heels echoed down a corridor. A man rounded the corner, black suited and red tied. His mustache almost hid his thin upper lip, down at the corners. His eyes were dark, too close together, Niki thought.

“So, you are looking for Svetlana Mikhailovna. We have never heard of her.”

“No, Lana Michael—”
The words had not fully spilled when Niki realized the similarity.

The man’s eyes flashed. “Whatever. When did you see her last?”

“When did
you
see her last?” Niki shot back.

The man clenched his jaw, then forced his thin lip into the semblance of a smile. “We are not a bureau for missing persons, but of course we attempt to accommodate you Americans. Should we discover something, we will contact you.”

Miss Fullcharge pointed at the register. “She is staying at the Sinbad.” Warmth left the room like water down a toilet.

“Yes, call me at the Sinbad when you know something,” said Niki looking for the exit. Worse than the thought of confronting her mother was the thought that the lying, narrow-eyed man knew where she was staying.

Niki turned her back to him and quickly walked away, wondering who her mother really was, wondering if she would be shot before she reached the door.

Outside, the air was thick, the smells strong. Looking back, Niki ducked off the main street and down the sidewalk along Baker, the hedge to her left, the consulate to her right.

Water rippled down the concrete as it made its way to the bay. Between the drone of foghorns sounded the click of heels behind her.

Niki turned toward the sound of the footsteps and saw nothing on the fog-draped street. Silence, but for the pounding of her heart.

Another five steps.

A foghorn droned, a motor whined, and a garage door rattled as it started to open to the basement garage of the Russian Consulate.

A hand grabbed Niki’s shoulder. As a scream found her lips, Fedor’s hand found her mouth. He yanked her from the sidewalk, throwing her to the ground in the dense hedge. “Hush. I am to help,” he said after her. Fear bled through his thick accent.

Niki was more stunned than hurt, more surprised than frightened. Fedor stood on the sidewalk in front of her. Through the space between his legs, Niki saw a black Mercedes Benz emerge from the bowels of the embassy and stop at the street. The tinted side window slid open just enough to let a Russian voice escape. “Which way did the girl go?”

“Towards the bay,” Fedor answered in Russian as he pointed down Baker Street. The car turned right, its tail lights quickly consumed in the thick air.

“Fog is friend to Miss Michaels,” Fedor whispered to Niki.

Niki stood up. “What the hell is going on? I was just trying to find my mother. How did they know about her?”

“Please not to underestimate what they know—or don’t know.”

Niki took a step backward. “Wait a minute. How did you know they were looking for me?”

Fedor tapped his earphone. “This is not Walkman. You best to go now.”

Niki didn’t move. “Why did you help me?”

Fedor shrugged. “Do not trust Fedor. If they saw you, I say I catch Niki. Go before I change mind.”

“I’m going, but if they wanted to ask me questions or something, why didn’t they ask while I was inside?”

“It is not good for people disappear at embassy.”

“Disappear? This is America, not Russia.”

“Everyplace is Russia to Russians.”

“What do they want from me?”

“If Fedor knew answers, Fedor would work inside.” He looked about nervously. “Please, go.”

Niki looked the big man in the eye. “I need to know what’s going on.”

“And I need Fedor not disappear. Go.”

“I’m trying to save my son’s life. There must be someone who could help find my mother.”

Fedor looked about again, then whispered, “Perhaps Yuri to help, 921-5555.” He turned his back. “If I to see Niki when I turn back, I call black car.”

Niki ran uphill, crossed Green Street, and scrambled up the sidewalk stairs along Baker Street. At a doorway, she ducked out of sight. The only sound was her heavy breathing, her racing heart. She repeated “921-5555” in her head, then pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket and wrote it down in the fading light.

Headlights pierced the murk. Niki flattened herself against the doorway. A car labored up the hill. As silence returned, Niki peered out.

A dark sedan sat uphill not two houses away. The Russian Consulate was below. Niki thought about home and the deer that waited until dusk, then walked invisibly across open fields. To run would draw attention.

Niki waited for darkness to deepen before she walked from the doorway back down to Green Street. The consulate poked its nose through the fog just across the street. Niki turned and walked toward Divisadero Street as if she did it every day.

A form stood in front of the consulate, perhaps Fedor. He seemed to stare right at Niki, then walked around the corner. There were no alleys, no yards to dash through. Niki walked slowly for a block, but broke into a run when the consulate was out of sight.

Twenty minutes later, Niki stood again at the only safe haven she could imagine, the UCSF Medical Center, Mt. Zion Pediatric Oncology. The doors opened. This time she stepped inside. Out of breath and more bedraggled than ever, Niki talked to a white-haired receptionist.

The kindly woman listened attentively, then looked at her watch. “It’s ten after six. Most of our counselors won’t be back until after Christmas. You should have come by earlier. You should have called.”

“I called twice a week for two months, but it was doing no good. My son is dying. I’ve come all the way from Colorado. There must be someone here who could help me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Dr. Leslie Baxter’s office was sterile, save several wood-framed diplomas on the wall and a miniature Golden Gate Bridge business card holder that sat on a wood-grained Formica desk. Dr. Baxter, old enough to be Niki’s mother, was preened and proper. Niki was bedraggled and beat. Dr. Baxter thumbed through a file, then peered over half-moon glasses.

“All the way from Durango? Does that little steam train still run to the mountains?”

Niki nodded.

Dr. Baxter smiled distantly. “I took my daughter there a long time ago.” The smile faded and Dr. Baxter came back to the room. “I haven’t been on a vacation in years, but you’re not here to hear that. Sorry you had to wait so long. We’re short-staffed during the holidays. You know, you could have called.”

Niki sat nervously on the edge of a chair in front of the doctor’s desk. “I did, twice a week since we learned Alex needed a transplant. They said there was nothing they could do until they found a donor, but it’s taking too long. He was diagnosed almost a year ago. It’s not like someone has to die just to donate bone marrow.”

“It must be incredibly frustrating for you, Ms. Michaels.” Dr. Baxter glanced at the medical file. “It looks like you’ve had some nursing experience. You are used to helping people, and now there is nothing you can do.”

“I work in a nursing home. I’m used to seeing old people die. Alex is only twelve. He can’t die. You have to do something. How hard is it to find some bone marrow?”

Dr. Baxter thought for a moment before replying. “You know it’s a relatively new procedure. The National Marrow Donor Program is less than five years old. We’ve only been able to find suitable donors for thirty percent of our patients.”

 Niki stared blankly. “Thirty percent. Nobody told me thirty percent. What about the seventy percent who don’t get transplants?”

“We’re doing everything we can for your son. As donors are added to the list, we compare their antigen markers to your son’s. That’s all we can do. Niki, you’ve got to accept that Alex is very ill. Even if we find a donor, he may die. I’m sorry. I assumed someone had told you this.”

“I suppose they did.” Niki moved closer. “But Alex is different. He’s strong. He skied to the top of a mountain with me to watch the sun come up. I brought photographs to show you what he’s like, but they’re lost at the airport. I could show you tomorrow.” Niki pulled the mud-streaked photo from the envelope in her pocket and laid it on the desk. “I only have this one with me. Isn’t Alex beautiful? And he’s smart, straight A’s except for English and Social Studies.”

Dr. Baxter studied Niki for a moment. “Sweetheart, you’re shivering.” She picked up her phone.

A few minutes later, Niki was sipping hot tea, a hospital blanket wrapped about her. Dr. Baxter draped Niki’s green jacket about another chair to dry.

“I didn’t dress for rain,” explained Niki. “I thought California was supposed to be warm and sunny.”

“San Francisco is surrounded by water,” said Dr. Baxter, peering over her glasses again. “Its vapor condenses in the cold air. We have fog and rain all winter.” She picked up her phone again. “Hold my calls. I’ll be a while.”

“Why Alex?” asked Niki. “What did I do wrong?”

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. No one knows for sure, but we think leukemia is caused by DNA damage. Are there nuclear plants in Colorado?”

Niki shook her head. “No, but there’s a uranium tailings pile. I never should have moved to Durango.”

“Let’s look ahead,” said Dr. Baxter. “How is Alex now?”

“Weak. He’s getting worse.” Tears trickled down Niki’s face. “His white blood cell count is going higher.”

“Give me a few minutes.”

Niki remained on the edge of her chair while Dr. Baxter read through Alex’s entire file. It seemed hours before she took off her glasses, walked to the window, and looked out at nothing. “I don’t think my staff missed anything, but let’s review a few things.” She returned to the desk, remained standing, but looked down at the open file. “Your father is unknown?”

“There was a name on my birth certificate, but it turned out to be someone who died years before I was born.”

“And your mother is missing?”

“She left me when I was fourteen.”

“You have no brothers or sisters? No other relatives that you know of?”

“Just Rob’s.”

“I see his sister matched only two antigens. You matched three – not quite enough.”

“There must be someone on the donor register.”

“Not yet, Niki. There are six protein markers to match. The likelihood of finding a match from someone who’s not related is one in twenty thousand. Next best odds are with Alex’s ethnic group, then—”

“I think my mother was Russian.”

Dr. Baxter looked at the file. “That wasn’t listed.”

“I’m not really sure. She spoke Russian, but she spoke French and German too.”

Dr. Baxter sat back down. “Well, if she were Russian it explains part of the problem. Soviet subcultures don’t intermix much so there are hundreds of isolated gene pools, and few Russians are on the donor list. It’s ironic because our hospital is surrounded by a Russian community.”

“One of them could be a match for Alex,” said Niki. “There must be a law to make them get tested.”

“Perhaps if we lived in Russia. It’s a problem. Did you volunteer for the donor list?”

Niki looked at her shoes.

“Sorry. I’m not being judgmental, but you can see the problem.” Dr. Baxter closed the file and looked at her fingers. “I need to ask another question. Are you sure Rob is the father?”

Niki’s stiffened. “Of course. I never—I may be single, but I don’t sleep around.”

“I understand. I had to ask. I don’t know what else to suggest. The only loose end is your mother. Missing it says.”

 “It’s complicated. After she left, I thought she was dead. Years later, I thought she was alive and living in San Mateo, but I wished she were dead. Now I just don’t know.”

“I realize this must be difficult,” said Dr. Baxter, “but you have to pursue any chance of finding her.”

“I went to the Russian Consulate this afternoon. It seems they know her. Perhaps she is alive.”

Dr. Baxter stood as if to indicate the meeting was about to end. “I’ll do everything I can to help you,” she said, “but antigen matching is all about probability. The chances for finding a donor for Alex are very slim unless you find your mother. Ask the consulate to help you.”

Niki stood. “I did. I think they’d just as soon kill me.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“You don’t know,” Niki shot back. “And you couldn’t know what it’s like to have a son who is dying.”

Dr. Baxter stood quietly for a moment. “I didn’t study oncology until I was thirty-four. My daughter died of leukemia when I was thirty-three. She would have been about your age. My husband died of liver cancer before I graduated.”

Tears welled in Niki’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Alex is going to die too, isn’t he?”

Dr. Baxter moved to Niki and embraced her. “Go back to the consulate, hire a private detective, do what you can to find your mother—and get some rest. Things always look better in the morning.”

“If you make it through the night.”

Dr. Baxter held Niki for another moment, then let go. “Find your mother,” she whispered.

Niki traded the blanket for her coat. “I’ve taken too much of your time. Thank you, I’m really sorry about your daughter and husband.”

Dr. Baxter nodded. “We all have our burdens. May I call you a cab?”

Niki shook her head and walked to the door, but then turned. “I know you’re doing everything you can.”

“If anything on the donor list changes, I’ll call. Where are you staying?”

Niki thought about the smug woman at the consulate. “I don’t have a place yet,” she answered. “I’ll call you.”