The Boy From Reactor 4 (16 page)

“I’m sorry,” Nadia said. “I’m not well. I have to get out. Now.”

Feeling like a thief herself, she dropped to her knees and began to crawl through the tour group’s legs. As women yelped and protested and the occasional man asked if she was okay, Nadia gave thanks to the babushka outside the Lower Lavra entrance. She’d told Nadia that the black side of the shawl might come in handy in the event of a funeral. In fact, it might have helped postpone hers, for at least a few hours.

After she crawled through her thirty-third pair of legs, Nadia tried to stand up but couldn’t straighten her back. She had to lean against the wall and let her vertebrae recover. She would bet her uncle never had to do this.

She heard men shouting from the direction she’d come from. Misha, Specter, and a third man had figured out what she’d done. They were trying to pass the tour group themselves. Impossible. There was no way they were going to crawl on their hands and knees, and even if they tried, they were too big to maneuver through and around people’s legs.

Nadia took off toward the churches, looking for signs for the exit. As she wound her way through the underground city, the voices and footsteps behind her faded. She found the exit and emerged near the Church of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin.

Hiding behind a nook in the far wall of the church, she pulled out her cell phone and hit the redial button.

An energetic masculine voice answered above the din of traffic. “Yeah?”

“It’s Nadia.”

“Hey,” Anton Medved said, with a burst of enthusiasm.

“I’m being followed by at least three atheists. I need a taxi driver who can make them believers.”

A bellow of laughter cut short. “Are you all right?”

Nadia started to answer honestly but caught herself. “Yes.”

Anton paused, as though translating the rhythm and tone of her reply into words. “Where are you?” he said.

“Caves Monastery. Far Caves exit. Near the Church of the Blessed—”

“Walk two blocks north to the access road to Dniprovsky Uzviz. Wait on the southeast side.”

“Okay.”

Nine minutes later, Nadia climbed inside the car. The taxi smelled of sautéed mushrooms and musk. Motown blared from the speakers. Anton lowered the volume.

“What happened?” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. Thank you, Anton. Thank you so much.”

He whipped the car into a U-turn before Nadia could fasten her seat belt. Slammed the brakes at a red light.

He wore a rumpled white button-down shirt with blue pinstripes. A stylish day’s growth covered his face. His bloodshot eyes reminded Nadia that he worked two jobs to survive.

“Who’s following you? Where are these three men? What kind of car are they driving?” Anton searched in the rearview mirror.

“They’re not in a car. They were behind me in the Far Caves.”

“
In
the caves?”

“Trapped behind a tour group of thirty-three people. It should be at least a half hour more before they get out.”

The light turned green. Anton swerved right onto Naberezhne Expressway, headed south along the Dnipro. He merged into the far right lane and drove calmly with traffic.

“Why were you in the caves?” he said.

“The woman told me to meet her there.”

“The woman you’re looking for?”

“Yes. She sent a boy with a note. It said to meet her in the Far Caves near the body of Saint Damian. But there is no Saint Damian. And she wasn’t there. I tried calling her on her cell while I was waiting for you but got voice mail. Why would she lie to me? Why would she send me down there?”

“Maybe she saw you were being followed and assumed you were setting her up.”

Nadia shook her head. “I lost my tail. On the funicular to Podil. I’m a hundred percent sure of it. How could these men know where I was?”

“What men? Who are these men?”

“Some men I’m in trouble with in America. I busted up an art-theft ring of theirs last year. They think I owe them for that, and that this woman can lead them to money.”

“And can she?”

“No. She can lead us to my uncle. He may have money…or something of value…or not. I don’t know for sure.”

Anton murmured something about Jesus under his breath. “Do these men do any business in Ukraine or Russia or the other former Soviet states?”

“One of them was suspected of selling a Soviet submarine to the Colombians. There was a third man with them in the caves. I assume he’s their local connection. Why?”

“Because that explains why you were and still are being followed.”

Anton gritted his teeth, floored the gas pedal, and exploded into the left lane. He pulled the wheel sharply to the left and hammered the brakes. The car spun 180 degrees and slid into opposing traffic.

Nadia closed her eyes, unable to bear watching what would happen next.

Cars screeched. Horns blared.

The engine wailed again. The car lurched forward.

Nadia opened her eyes. They were going north on Naberezhne now.

Anton pointed at a black sedan stuck behind two cars on the south side. The driver eyeballed the taxi as they sailed by.

“There are more Mercedes in Kyiv than in Stuttgart, but I knew he was following us. I picked him up after you got in the cab.”

Nadia watched the driver get out of the car and take two steps toward them as they drove out of sight. “How the hell—”

“Technology,” Anton said. “GPS. A satellite tracking device. It’s either in your purse or on your clothes.”

A crude laugh escaped Nadia’s lips. “Oh, come on. You can’t be serious. This is the mafia shaking me down for money. Not the government in pursuit of state secrets.”

Anton mumbled under his breath. “So naive…”

“What?”

“Nadia, the mafia in Ukraine is not like the mafia in the United States. In the States, the mafia protects criminals from the government so they can steal. In Ukraine, they’re one and the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know who’s the only person a Ukrainian trusts less than a foreigner?” Anton glanced at her. “A fellow Ukrainian. You know which countrymen he trusts the least?”

“The government.”

“Precisely. When Gorbachev was in power in the eighties, the KGB siphoned off six hundred billion dollars into shell accounts—in places as far away as Ireland and Las Vegas—so the party bosses could control Soviet resources no matter what happened with
perestroika
. By the early nineties, the job got too big for them, so they went in with ex-military, ex-KGB, ex-government officials to help them manage all these businesses. The
mafiya
as it exists in Russia and Ukraine—the
avtoritet
—was born. You want a license to import goods into Ukraine? You pay. You want electricity turned on for your barbershop? You pay. Nothing gets done without the mafia, because in Ukraine, the mafia
is
the government. That gives the men who are following you access to any and all resources.”

“But there’s nothing in my pockets. I’ve been wearing this jacket, these shoes, the entire time. There’s nowhere to hide anything in my leggings. And my purse hasn’t been out of my sight.”

Anton weaved in and out of traffic. “There had to be a moment. Think.”

“I’m trying, dammit,” Nadia said, eyes closed.

Her purse was in the seat back in front of her the entire flight. It never left her eyes during the customs inspection. She carried it to 8 Yaroslaviv Val—

“Oh my God,” Nadia said, ripping it open. “That incident with the drug dealer and the phony cops.” Specter returned her purse to her. It was in his hands. “It was all planned to put something in my purse.”

Anton murmured his agreement.

Nadia removed her passport, wallet, hairbrush—

Her phone rang.

She answered. “This is Nadia.”

“Who are those men?” Clementine Seelick said.

“Why did you send me to the bowels of the Lavra? Why did you pretend there was a Saint Damian?”

“Because you lied. I saw them following you from the top of the Lavra Belltower. I saw them. I saw them. Three guys. Who are they? You were setting me up, weren’t you? You were setting me up.”

“No, I was not. I’m…I’m sorry. I thought I’d lost them.”

“Who are they?”

Nadia exhaled. “They know about Damian. How doesn’t matter. But they think he has something valuable. It’s dangerous for you. You should know that.”

“Oh, shit.” Clementine paused for a beat. Her lungs rasped. “I saw them go in the Far Caves after you. How did you get away from them?”

She wanted to say, “I’ve discovered I’m sneaky like my uncle,” but instead, she said simply, “I’m resilient.”

“Did you lose them?”

Nadia’s eyes fell on a narrow inside pocket she never used. The zipper was open, and there was a slight bulge to it. She slid her fingers inside and removed a rectangular device the size of a domino.

“Yes,” Nadia said, holding the tracking device up so Anton could see it. His eyes widened. “I’ve lost them.”

“All right,” she said, her voice twitching. “Are you in a car?”

“Yes.”

“In Kyiv?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I have an idea where we can meet.”

CHAPTER 30

K
IRILO STUDIED THE
jalopy in the parking lot. The Soviet-era Zhiguli sagged in the middle, as though both axles were gradually succumbing to gravity. The taxi’s number was painted on the side door. The window tint had turned the color of eggplant.

“That’s it,” Specter said. “That’s the car my man was following on the expressway before it got away.”

Kirilo’s driver pulled up behind it.

“Don’t park near that piece of garbage,” Kirilo said. “It looks like the wheels might come off any minute. I don’t want its rust anywhere near my Audi.”

While the driver rolled forward across the lot toward BMWs and Mercedeses, Kirilo glanced over Specter’s shoulder. The light on his handheld GPS device blinked furiously.

“She’s here,” Specter said. He turned the receiver off and looked at the two-story bar attached to the car wash.

“What, no voice on that thing like navigation?” Misha said. “The bitch-whore you are looking for is…up ahead…on the left.”

A black 4Runner with Stefan and Misha’s other bodyguards pulled up beside them. A Pathfinder with Kirilo’s quartet of men followed in their wake. The men followed Specter, Misha, and Kirilo toward the front door.

“A bar at the car wash?” Misha said.

“It’s the safest place in Kyiv,” Kirilo said. “No one wants his car scratched. There’s an understanding. All grudges and beefs are left at the door.”

The first floor featured a long counter and a dozen booths and tables. Small groups of men drank, chatted, and laughed with one another. All were dressed similarly to the others in their group: black leather jackets and designer warm-up suits prevailed among most of them.

Specter asked the slinky bartender if she’d seen an American woman. The bartender reminded Kirilo of Isabella. He wondered what she was doing with her friends at this very moment. Wished he could go back in time and keep his pearls to himself so he could pretend she was good and sweet. But he couldn’t, and she wasn’t, was she?

“There’s an American woman upstairs,” the bartender said. “With a man and another woman.”

Misha and his crew charged upstairs. Kirilo rowed and lifted weights to stay in good shape and fight off aging, but the infernal caves had almost killed him. He had to pause halfway up. When he heard screams above, however, he hurried to the top.

Four broad-shouldered men with grizzled faces stood around a pool table, watching a scene in the far corner. Kirilo pushed past them.

Two pieces of a broken pool cue lay at an odd angle on the floor. A college-age girl consoled a grungy young man, with chains dangling from his jeans, on the floor. He looked like a poser, with carefully cultivated facial hair and a T-shirt with a picture of hippies holding guitars. Blood trickled down his cheeks. Another young girl, with purple streaks in her hair, stood by them, shouting in English. Specter stood between her and Misha as though keeping her from harm’s way. Stefan was rifling through both women’s purses.

“It’s not her,” Specter said, nodding at the girl with the ridiculous hair. “She’s a college exchange student.”

Kirilo gave Misha a stern look. “Didn’t you hear me? No violence in the car wash.”

Misha dismissed him with a quick glance and continued rummaging through the purses.

Kirilo glanced at the poser. He looked familiar. “Who are you?”

The poser sneered.

“I asked you a question.” Kirilo tried to place the face but couldn’t. “Who are you?”

“I’m the bastard who gave birth to Baba Yaga,” the poser said, referring to an evil witch from Ukrainian folklore. “What business is it of yours?”

Kirilo took a step toward the poser, and it hit him. He reminded Kirilo of Evan. The spoiled little turd of a fiancé of his bitch daughter. Both carefully cultivated their rat whiskers. Both wore the same shit-eating grins on their patronizing faces. Wouldn’t the world be a better place without both of them? A disco in London? It was Evan’s fault his daughter was a no-good, conniving little whore-thief who wanted to move far away from her father. It was all the poser’s fault—