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Outside Magazine December 2004

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A Message In Blood (Cont.)

BACK IN P.K., Russell landed hard. He knew that, unlike the international conservation groups, he didn't have the clout to get funding from the UN's Development Program. So he said to hell with that. To save Kamchatka's bears, he now was convinced, the program would have to be homegrown and Russian-run.

In fact, in the months he'd been gone, a new order had quietly emerged, one in which he'd have more of a chance. All winter, the locals joked, Kovalenkov had been in hibernation. There'd been an accident: In August 2003, an Mi-8 headed for the Kuril Islands, southwest of Kamchatka, came into heavy fog and crashed. On board was a VIP delegation led by Igor Farkhutdinov, the governor of Sakhalin. All 20 aboard were killed. Pending the inquiry, both Krechet's flying license and Kovalenkov's personal one were suspended.

In the meantime, a new force had emerged. A mini-oligarch had come to Kamchatka. If Kovalenkov embodied the old Soviet ways, Stanislav Belan personified the new breed of Russian entrepreneur—many of them fluent in Western finance, pedigreed with MBAs, and protected by foreign passports.

In 2002, Belan had created Bel-Kam-Tour, advertising it as a purveyor of "VIP tourism" on Kamchatka. Things did not get off to an auspicious start. Bel-Kam-Tour's first hotel burned down. But it had been rebuilt, and another, a Swiss-style hostelry with outdoor mineral baths, would open soon. Like a character in a 19th-century Russian novel, Belan seemed to have come from nowhere. The locals knew little about him, except that his two customized Mi-8P helicopters, the first of their kind on Kamchatka, had cost $2.5 million apiece and that his stated country of residence was Switzerland.

People talked of little else. Belan had brought the prospect of a changing order, the hope of a competitive market. Kovalenkov's camp, however, claimed there was nothing fair about the challenge. They had a point: While Krechet was temporarily grounded, Belan's company had suddenly gained exclusive flying rights in the region.

Kovalenkov himself had retreated further into the shadows, eluding my attempts to speak with him. I'd caught him one day on the telephone, but he wouldn't talk. Then, on my last day in Kamchatka, Roman came to me with stunning news. "On vyshel na svyaz," he announced—"He came on the radio."

It was just after dawn, but Roman was already frantic. The weekly flight from Anchorage had just arrived, and hunters would need to be serviced. Kovalenkov was doing something unheard of: calling the hunters in their territories, looking for scraps of information.

"Anyone got tracks?" the old boss had asked. "Anyone got kills?" The urgency had surprised Roman, but he understood. "They've taken his eyes," he said. Along with his license, Kovalenkov had lost his ability to spot trophy bears for his clients.

It was the Sunday after Victory Day, the celebration of the Soviet triumph over Hitler. The city was asleep, deeply hung over. Roman and I drove out of P.K. along the old route, past the shacks and the birches lashed with bouquets, the plastic memorials to those taken by the road. On the far side of the bay, we came to a sign shaped like a helicopter: KRECHET.

A tall wall enclosed the compound. A guard emerged from the watchtower, where a sizable Caucasian shepherd bared his teeth. Past the gates, I could see half a dozen European-style log dachas nestled along a private lane. The guard pointed at one and said, almost coyly, "Give it a try."

I walked down the lane, passing the big dachas until I came to one where, inside the square yard, a woman appeared. She nodded warily when I asked if this was where Kovalenkov lived.

The door opened. A figure, taller and leaner than I'd expected, took a hard look at me. It had been a long holiday. His face was covered with gray whiskers, his eyes bloodshot, his shirt half buttoned. But the flair was in evidence. His hair was raffishly long, and a hunting knife hung by his side.

We spoke for a bit, no more than a foot apart on the brick path between two rows of strawberries. I tried to tell him what I'd seen, where I'd been. But he knew it all already. He knew of our flight to the lake, and who'd taken us. He knew, he said, what I was "up to here."

When I asked about Russell's work, Kovalenkov looked right through me, as if to survey the fields at my back. "I know a thing or two about journalists," he said. "And I've no use for them."

He'd had enough. "Next time," he said, retreating slowly, almost sideways, "we can talk all about your favorite subject—tourism on Kamchatka, its history and troubles." It was a reference to our first conversation. A grin rose on his face. He seemed younger than a man in his sixties, a gray wolf who, even in the face of the changing tide, refused to give in.

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