My alarm goes off at 8 a.m. sharp. A pitched wooden ceiling, stylish furniture and the smell of fresh espresso from downstairs reinforce my impression of local Italian color.
My neck still hurts like hell, my leg is still in a cast and there are butterflies in my stomach. But a smile comes to my face as I recall seeing the giant cranes working on putting a shield over the reactor … holding Elena’s hand as she waits in line to get her blood and lungs checked … watching them getting pomegranates, meat and red wine from the aid trucks … hearing Nadya tell me my father would be proud of me - and all the tears and warm, touching hugs before Igor took me to the airport.
In the shower, the splash of cool water on my sleepy head and down my back helps to revive me after my exhausting fifteen-hour journey. There is just one more thing left to do … this is my last chance to make things right … for my dad … whatever the cost. Richard will help – that is the main thing.
Having absolutely no idea how exactly to set about finding this container of Caesium, which could be anywhere in Genoa, I just decide to look pretty and go with the flow.
Seek and you shall find.
To get myself into a light-hearted mood, I blow-dry my locks into a playful, sexy style and put on a white pencil dress with an open push-up cleavage, which I bought during my second layover in Rome.
The contract and the waybill have been duly printed out in the airport business lounge and safely put into my purse. I hold tight to it, leaning on just one crutch to look more glamorous as I make my way down a spiral staircase, which ominously reminds me of Elena’s nightmare. Gradually, dragging my braced leg, I reach a small yet chic vestibule, with massive barred lower windows.
The smell of coffee intensifies. Freshly-baked croissants are laid out on a cozy little table, but I feel too stressed to have any food now.
When I step outside, I fall under the charm of a paved alley running between terraced gardens and green arches, infused with the luscious smell of the jasmine and honeysuckle vines that climb up to the gray slate roofs under the gentle sun.
‘Buongiorno,’ says the driver of a white taxi that I am waving at to stop.
‘Al porto, per favore,’ I say, rolling the Rs and opening the vowels to sound like the locals.
‘Terminal?’ he asks.
‘The cargo terminal?’ I ask, ineptly getting into the car in my tight dress, with the aid of just one crutch.
‘Tanti cargo terminali: Voltri, Sech, San Girogio … tanti!’ he exclaims, his gaze immediately homing in on my cleavage. ‘Which one you need?’
‘Hmm, I don’t know. The one for ships departing to Libya,’ I ask hopefully.
‘Aha, Ponte Libya,’ he says, coasting into a wide perspective of broad streets endlessly flanked by the facades of grand palaces.
Soon we are greeted by an amazing view of the deep blue sea intermingling with the cobalt sky, and we drive towards the harbor with its distinctive smell, a blend of Mediterranean air and fuel oil.
We pass through the funky modern architecture of the passenger marina, with its alluring seaside cafes, and drive onwards to the remote container terminal.
‘Eccolo qua,’ says the friendly driver, stopping next to a dark brown building at the edge of the huge industrial zone full of massive containers and cranes.
‘Grazie,’ I say, giving him twenty euros. I take a deep breath and do my best at a glamorous exit.
Trying not to lean too much on the crutch, in order to hold my posture and even achieve a certain degree of hip undulation, I walk towards the gray metal doors of the building, praying for them to be open, which is not impossible in Italy.
‘Ciao, bella.’ Predictably, I hear wolf-whistles from the unshaven port workers, who are having a smoke under the orange-tree grove.
‘Director?’ I ask in a sing-song voice, flashing them my most charming smile.
‘Si, si, direttore,’ they laugh, making lewd movements with their lower bodies.
‘Ma dai,’ I grin.
‘Tutto dritto,’ says the one with the most stubble, pointing through the gray doors.
‘Grazie,’ I nod, smiling courteously.
A red fire extinguisher on the white tiled floor, propping open the metal doors, makes it very easy to get in.
Pep-talking myself into a positive, winner’s mindset, I hobble down the chilly corridor until I reach a white door marked ‘Direttore’.
Taking a deep breath, I plump up my hair and slap my cheeks for courage and a natural blush, and knock on the door.
‘Buongiorno,’ I say with my nicest smile, entering a light and airy office where a good-looking brunette in his forties with gelled hair, deep brown eyes and an aquiline nose sits behind a messy desk.
‘Buongiorno,’ he says politely, looking at me for a moment from behind his big, old-fashioned monitor, before swiftly getting up. He strikes me as quite a tall man. ‘Prego, signorina. Sono Marco, il direttore, cosa posso fare per Lei?’ he says, offering me a molded plastic seat to accommodate my injured leg.
‘Grazie.’ I humbly sit down just in front of the window, which overlooks an upturned lifeboat. ‘My name is Katerina, I would like to see this container,’ I say graciously, passing him my waybill and the contract.
‘Madonna,’ he exclaims, checking out the documents. ‘Not this cargo again!’ He starts fiddling with the buttons of his tall shirt collar in irritation. ‘Every day they want fast delivery to Tripoli. How do I make a fast delivery, I am asking you? I don’t know magic. The ferry to Tripoli one time every two weeks,’ he proclaims theatrically.
‘I don’t want fast delivery,’ I reassure with a winning smile. ‘I just want to have a look at it.’
‘No, basta di problemi con questo cargo!’ He unambiguously cuts the air with his arm.
‘I just want to see it,’ I say, flirtatiously waggling my eyebrows. ‘Please,’ I implore with a naughty smile, parking my pushed-up cleavage on my crossed arms on the table, which I know will magnify its size. ‘Sei un bell’uomo,’ I seductively wink, like Sex and the City’s Samantha Jones in action.
‘Oh Katerina, bellissima,’ he says, voraciously moving in on me, almost putting his hand on my neck.
‘Primo il container,’ I say, filing the papers back into my purse.
‘Dai,’ he loudly exhales, fixing his gelled hair. ‘OK, wait,’ he says, getting back to his computer. ‘What is the number on the waybill?’
‘33–9674K,’ I read - the figures corresponding to the small container.
‘OK, L venti …’ he mumbles, and after a few seconds: ‘Andiamo.’ He lets me through the door, ostentatiously sniffing my perfume as I pass by.
Once outside, Marco lights up a cigarette, tainting the dazzling scent of orange trees. ‘Prego, signorina,’ he mischievously smiles, swiping his card against the reader and opening the gate into the giant port, whose scale makes me feel like a little ant.
Just as I start worrying about the long walk to the container, Marco chivalrously invites me into a white Fiat parked right nearby.
‘Magnifico!’ I exclaim, getting into the car as elegantly as possible, disregarding the pain and stiffness in my knee.
He carelessly drives us through the stacks of massive orange and blue containers which are being piled on top of one another like oversized Lego bricks, and then noisily loaded onto the ships by huge cranes, which traverse the terminal on rail tracks.
Marco skillfully maneuvers between the highway carriers, stackers, forklifts, and tractors bringing the containers to the designated storage area, where machines scan the barcodes, before allowing them to be loaded onto a ship.
‘Ecco, your containers,’ Marco announces, stopping in front of a mountain consisting of four huge white containers, each the size of a London bus.
‘You’re such an amazing driver,’ I flatter, scanning the scene for a small blue container. ‘You know, the fifth container?’ I mime “small” with my index finger and thumb.
‘Qua,’ Marco says, pointing at a flowerbed behind the containers, where smaller containers are thrown one on top of another under the lemon trees, with lazy bees flying over them.
‘We do not like piccolo in Italy,’ he jokes, proudly spreading his hands as if recounting a particularly successful fishing trip.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ I say with a suggestive smile, hobbling towards the blue container marked ‘hazardous’. I check the numbers on its stickers against my waybill: they match.
I bend over the container looking for a hole to see through, all the while conscious of the erotic spectacle I’m putting on for Marco, who is undoubtedly staring at my back. The container is properly locked and sealed, and there is no peephole to be found. There is no way on Earth I could open it … But what if I removed all the stickers? Then they wouldn’t be able to scan the barcodes, nor load it onto the ship …
‘Tutto bene?’ Marco asks, stroking my back as I try to tear off a sticker on the side.
‘Si, I’ve just … lost my earring.’ I hope my excuse will buy me some time. ‘Can you see if it’s here?’ I point down at the grass.
‘Non vedo niente,’ he says, staring at the ground whilst I move to the other side and tear off another sticker.
‘Maybe it’s in the flowers or something?’ I ask, pretending to search for it whilst removing two more stickers and squeezing them into my purse.
‘Show me the other one,’ he asks.
‘Here,’ I murmur, moving closer to him, showing him my ear, playfully shuffling all my hair to the other side.
‘Che bella,’ he says, gently caressing my neck - and I give in to my sensual impulse.
His mouth is slightly open, and his lustful breathing, too close for comfort, makes me succumb to his lips - tasting of cigarettes and espresso - in a passionate kiss.
I lean on the container and intuitively slip my fingers over the barcode sticker underneath me. Loudly moaning, I tear it off and shove it in my purse.
‘Sei incredibile,’ Marco says, gently rubbing the rock-solid front of his jeans against my crotch.
‘Mm,’ I groan, tilting further backwards, and taking off the last sticker on the side.
He avidly grabs my breasts, kissing and squeezing and trying to get them out of the dress, but I thoughtfully stop his hand.
‘Ma dai,’ he pleads, displeased.
‘Let’s do it later,’ I whisper, pleased with my sticker performance.
‘Ma perche?’ he asks, disappointed.
‘I need to go now … but we can meet later,’ I say, leading him away from the container and kissing his neck, so he does not look back.
‘We can meet for lunch … Cazzo!’ he animatedly exclaims, when we get into the car. ‘I need to prepare a freight forward for tomorrow … the clerk is on vacation.’
‘What?’ I ask, perplexed.
‘A document with all the containers for tomorrow’s ship … and your containers too,’ he says, covetously touching my hair and face.
‘The ship to Tripoli is leaving tomorrow?’ I ask, panicking.
‘Around noon or something,’ he says, starting the engine. ‘I’d take you to the best place in the harbour, but I need to do this lavoro di merda,’ he shouts, slapping the steering wheel. ‘But we can meet later.’
‘Sure,’ I agree, urgently needing to call Richard. The ship is leaving tomorrow …
‘Genoa plays Napoli tonight. I’ll get you a ticket.’
‘What?’ I ask, confused.
‘Soccer,’ he says with gusto, parking the car. ‘We make bello tempo!’
‘That could be fun,’ I smirk.
‘Let’s meet at Rossoblu at five. It’s a bar by the stadium. OK, bella?’ he asks, getting out of the car.
‘OK, bello,’ I say playfully, kissing him, to shouts of encouragement from passing port workers.
‘Fantastico,’ he says, giving me yet another hot kiss before disappearing through the metal doors.
I walk down a funky pink plastic pedestrian walkway towards the highway, and text Richard:
‘Spot L20, Ponte Libya container park,’ and call him straight after.
‘The ship to Libya departs tomorrow noon,’ I frantically gibber. ‘I removed all the barcode stickers from the container, but it’s still listed on the freight documentation … Shit, I should have put those stickers on some other container. I guess they’d have found out at some point anyway, but we could at least have won some time …’
‘Wait, wait … are you sure that’s the container with the Caesium in it?’ Richard asks sternly.
‘Obviously it’s all sealed, but I’m sure it’s the one,’ I blurt, stumbling over my words. ‘It looks exactly like Igor described it and it matches the number on the waybill.’
‘So you have no proof there’s Caesium or any other harmful isotopes inside?’ he asks exactingly.
‘What proof do you want?’ I ask.
‘Well, some proof. I can’t write an article based on your assumption.’
‘You could only know for sure if you opened it and got it tested by an expert - and I can’t fucking do that on my own,’ I say, getting the feeling he is backing off.
‘As much as I’d like to help, there’s no case -’
‘There is!’ I interrupt. ‘There’s the waybill and my dad’s dead colleague … and the people of Seversk!’
‘None of that is hard evidence.’
‘What hard evidence do you need? A press release? And photos of the explosion as it happened? That would definitely be more newsworthy … but till then it’s just a non-issue, so we should all just carry on as if it’s not happening?’
‘That’s not the most accurate way to put it,’ he cuts in.
‘What is the most accurate way to put it, then? That you choose to take no action in your career and in your life, no risk whatsoever … just so you don’t have to see anything, any fucking evidence,’ I shout, enraged.
‘Look at that - the queen of venality, turned advocate for truth and justice,’ he sneers.
‘You wanted to write the story, to pull the strings … I trusted you, I came here to get you the freaking story!’ I argue.
‘I won’t even be able to convince my contacts to act on it, if it’s only based on what you think.’ His words are fading into the bitterness of disappointment. There will be no help. There is no one.
‘OK.’ I give up, oppressed by the shabby houses on the hill, obliterated by the stillness of time and the sea air … distressed by my pointless exertions. All this sacrifice for nothing. The sacrifice for truth. My dad died for nothing … The sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of all sacrifices.