The Boy From Reactor 4 (10 page)

“I appreciate it, Johnny, but my mind is made up. I’m going to get that money before anyone else does.”

“Your next meeting with your probation officer in Jersey is in twenty-five days. Be sure you’re back by then.”

“Twenty-five days? Please. In twenty-five days, I’m treating you to a hamburger and fries at the fast-food restaurant of your choice.”

Johnny managed a smile. “You big spender, you.”

The carousel spun round and round. The little girl stayed two lengths behind her father, unable to catch up to him no matter how much she willed her horse to run faster.

CHAPTER 19

V
ICTOR SAT AT
his usual table, watching exhaust billow from a black SUV through a window beside the entrance to Veselka. Two of Misha’s men sat in the front seats, pounding raspberry blintzes. Inside the restaurant, two other bodyguards sat at the counter across from the dining room, downing pints of pilsner. They blended in with a cross section of New York City: students, artists, lawyers, bureaucrats, and businesspeople.

“Amazov can’t make it,” Misha said, reading from his infuriating little electronic device. “He wants me to fill him in later.”

Misha put the device aside. A sizzling kielbasa appetizer cooled on his plate. He reached for a pickle and studied its texture and color as though judging a contest. He bit off the end and chewed quickly.

“Not bad,” Misha said. “Good garlic. Good crunch. They must have aged it in cold water, not hot. Good spices.”

Victor grimaced. “You eat pickles with kielbasa?”

“I eat pickles with everything, man. Major flavor with zero calories. You can’t beat it with your rhythm stick.”

Victor shook his head and sipped his coffee. They were seated at a table for four in the far corner, Victor with his back against the wall. Misha’s plate smelled of spicy pork and garlic. Victor hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and still wasn’t hungry.

Misha said, “I have an appointment with the money manager, Steen, in Kyiv tomorrow afternoon. I leave on the seven o’clock tonight.”

A pang struck Victor. “Are you sure it’s wise for you to go? I know the city better. I can go in your place, if you’d like.”

Misha grinned. “So you can accidentally disappear with ten million dollars? A sudden attack of Alzheimer’s? I don’t think so, Old School. If Damian has ten million on account that is due his niece—his rightful heir—I’m going to tell him she’s ready to accept delivery of the money. In no uncertain terms.”

A man entered the restaurant and looked around. He wore his hair pulled back in an elastic band like a schoolgirl but had the build of a man who once really worked for a living. The women in the diner looked up from their soups and salads to check out his black suit, which seemed like something an Italian fashion designer or a mortician would wear.

The man dismissed the hostess with a glance and wound his way through the tables toward them.

“Victor Bodnar? Mikhail Misha Markov?” he said, glancing at each of them.

Misha’s men approached quickly from the counter, hands under their coats.

Victor and Misha remained mute.

“There’s been a change in plan. Nadia won’t be joining you for coffee today. My name is Johnny Tanner. She sent me in her place. May I?” He motioned to the chair beside Misha, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down without an invitation. “So, what’s good here?”

Misha motioned for his men to return to their beer.

Victor called in Ukrainian for the waitress to come over. He eyed Johnny Tanner’s ponytail uncertainly. Was a man who referred to himself as Johnny trustworthy in any way?

“Coffee?” the waitress said.

“No, thanks. I won’t be here long enough to enjoy it.” Johnny Tanner waited until the waitress couldn’t hear them. “So what have you guys learned about Andrew Steen?”

Victor looked at Misha, who returned his blank stare.

“Do I know you?” Misha said. “Because you’re talking to me like I know you. And I don’t. Just like I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Who are you again?”

“Johnny Tanner. I’m Nadia Tesla’s attorney. And friend. Her very good friend.”

“I know a Nadia Tesla,” Victor said. “The book man, Obon, introduced me to her yesterday. Nice girl. Very intelligent. I like her very much. She was looking for information about her uncle. A man named Damian. You heard of him?”

“Sure,” Johnny Tanner said. “He’s alive.”

Victor didn’t say anything. He couldn’t have if he’d tried. Misha paused to digest what the man said and licked his lips.

“Say again?” Misha said.

“Damian Tesla is alive.”

“Who told you this?” Victor said. “What proof do you have?”

“Nadia made some inquiries. That’s all she knows for now, but she’s working on it.”

“What do you mean, she’s working on it?” Misha said. “Why isn’t she here?”

Misha’s electronic machine sprang to life. It vibrated and danced in place. Victor bit his tongue. Misha picked it up and began to play with it.

“Where is Nadia now?” Victor said.

“On the way to Kyiv,” Johnny Tanner said.

Victor and Misha glanced at each other sharply. Misha resumed reading. The table remained silent for several seconds.

“You looked surprised to hear that, Victor,” Misha said, face down in his device. He turned toward Johnny. “KLM. Flight 8579. Newark to Amsterdam to Kyiv.” Misha glanced back at the screen. “She’s in 14E in the emergency exit aisle. And she’s
drinking red wine.” Misha started typing furiously with both hands.

Victor would have tipped his cap at Misha if he were wearing one.

“See, Old School?” Misha said. “The guy with the most money isn’t always the stupidest one at the table.”

Johnny Tanner showed no emotion, no tangible fear that his friend was in deeper trouble than she could have possibly imagined, until his Adam’s apple moved just a bit.

“Kyiv is no place for a woman on her own,” Victor observed.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Johnny Tanner said. “But Nadia is her own woman.”

“You guys got nothing to worry about,” Misha said. “She’s not on her own. She just thinks she is.” He leaned over to Johnny Tanner and lowered his voice. “Tell her I’m disappointed she wasn’t here like she said she would be. And tell her I’m on the seven o’clock from JFK tonight.”

Misha left the diner with his men. Johnny Tanner followed shortly afterward.

Victor’s stomach growled. All of a sudden, he couldn’t remember ever having been so famished. He called the waitress over and ordered a bowl of hunter’s stew and a bottle of Obalon beer.

Misha was on his way to Kyiv. It was the best possible news. Although Tara was safe for the moment, she and her unborn child would always be at risk until Misha was killed.

Victor considered that prospect. Getting away from New York would be good. His old stomping grounds would provide Victor plenty of opportunity to make sure Misha never returned home.

CHAPTER 20

N
ADIA COULD SLEEP
on planes at will, but not this time. She bolted upright every ten minutes, convinced someone was watching her. Yet when she walked the length of the coach cabin, no one paid attention to her. She even stumbled into business class, pretending to need to use the restroom, before getting kicked out by a flight attendant. She didn’t recognize anyone. Still, she couldn’t sleep.

She landed at Boryspil Airport after a twelve-hour flight with a stop in Amsterdam. As the plane taxied down the runway, Nadia adjusted her watch. It was 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, April 20, seven hours ahead of New York City. She checked for e-mails from Johnny on the GSM cell phone she’d rented.

Meeting as planned
, Johnny wrote.
Wolverine a no-show. Victor quiet. Misha headed your way. You have 7–8 hour head start. Phone is on 24/7. Call if you need me. J.T.

Misha was en route to Kyiv?

Nadia grabbed her suitcase from the stowaway bin and raced to Customs and Passport Control. The scene at Terminal B was reminiscent of any American airport, except the people spoke Ukrainian instead of English. Although Nadia had studied and spoken the language her entire life, she’d never been among so many native speakers. It was exhilarating.

The local process for queueing, however, was not as pleasant. People didn’t wait in orderly lines. They jumped and jostled for position. Nadia channeled her innermost New Yorker to conform. It took her twenty minutes to get to the head of the line. A suspicious young man interrogated her, searched her bags, and motioned for her to pass.

When she burst into the arrival area, a gang of gypsy-taxi drivers tried to rope her into their cars. Nadia ignored them and continued to the taxi stand. The sun shone on a mild day, but the air smelled of diesel. Peugeots, Fords, and Mercedeses purred in line. While twenty people waited for a ride, five men argued loudly in the yellow hut.

A thirtysomething driver with dirty-blond hair and cynical blue eyes stood beside his cab at the end of the line. “For every three Cossacks, there are five Hetman,” he said in Ukrainian, shaking his head with disgust. “Welcome to Ukraine.”

Nadia checked out his cab. Rust dangled from the body of a filthy white Fiat with Soviet stories to tell. Nadia couldn’t see through the indigo tint on the windows, but the phone number stenciled on the side of the door and the license on his dashboard confirmed he was a legitimate operator.

“Hotel Rus. How much?” Nadia said in English. She rubbed her fingers together in the international sign for money.

He put up four fingers and answered in Ukrainian. “Four hundred hryvnia,” he said. Fifty dollars.
Should be closer to thirty
, Nadia thought.

Nadia switched to Ukrainian. “I need an honest Hetman. One who’ll take this Cossack’s daughter to her hotel for two hundred hryvnia.”

His lips formed the trace of a smile. “I’m cutting the line. Big violation if they notice. But for a Cossack’s daughter returning to her homeland from America, three hundred hryvnia.”

Nadia stepped back. “How did you know I’m from America?”

He pointed at the KLM baggage tag on her suitcase. “Newark, New Jersey,” he said in broken English, smiling.

Nadia agreed to his rate. He took her bags, opened the door for her, and drove her out of the airport.

“First time here?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Are you a language professor? An academic?”

“No. I was born in America, but I was raised in a Ukrainian community. Ukrainian was the first language I learned. I went to night school for twelve years.”

“You speak it well. Where was your father from?”

“Bila Tserkva.”

The driver nodded. “Sure. My cousins live there. I visit all the time. What do you do for a living in America?”

Nadia hesitated. “Finance,” she said. “I work in finance.”

He moaned with approval. “So you are beautiful, and you make a good salary. You are half of paradise.”

Nadia blushed. She spied his handsome grin in the rearview mirror. “I beg your pardon?”

“In Ukraine, men say that paradise is an American salary, a Ukrainian wife, Chinese food, and an English house. You have the first two covered, so you’re half of paradise.”

“Oh.”

He glanced at her through the mirror. “You know what hell is?”

Nadia shook her head.

“Hell is a Ukrainian salary, an American wife, a Chinese house, and English food.”

Nadia chuckled. “Yes. Stay away from those American women. They’re selfish and spoiled.”

“Really? Ha. What do you know? Just like the men in Ukraine. That makes us two of a kind.”

An eight-lane highway cut through a countryside filled with birch groves and white brick farmhouses. A yellow neon sign
proclaimed
WELCOME TO KYIV
in English. The forest yielded to a sequence of billboards and neat rows of apartment buildings topped with satellite dishes. At first, the landscape was reminiscent of the approach to a regional American airport. Once they crossed the Dnipro River and the hills of Kyiv rolled into view, everything changed. A panorama of gilded church domes decorated the horizon. They blended with modern architecture to create a unique urban skyline.