The Boy From Reactor 4 (18 page)

“Is there a train or bus that goes there?”

“No. You have to go with a licensed tour, and you have to have a guide with you at all times. Technically, you can apply for a pass from the government, but it would take several weeks and good luck getting one. When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

Anton laughed. “There is no way. Even if you broke away from the tour—which is impossible—everyone is back on the bus by midafternoon.”

“That means I have to sneak in somehow.”

“That is not a good idea. There are checkpoints with armed militia. No one gets in and out without permission. No one stays overnight except licensed workers. Children under the age of sixteen aren’t even allowed to visit more often than once a year. You don’t want to stay overnight.”

“Great. Surefire proof the risk of contamination is low. Do you know anyone who can help me get in there tomorrow night?”

Anton didn’t answer.

“Do you?”

“I might know someone.”

“Can you introduce me to him? Please?”

Still he didn’t answer.

Nadia squeezed his arm. “Please?”

Anton sighed with exasperation. “Have I ever refused you anything, Half of Paradise?”

CHAPTER 32

V
ICTOR
B
ODNAR SAT
in the back of the old Land Cruiser, studying the diamonds in the display window of the jewelry store across the street through Russian battlefield binoculars. The airplane’s engines droned in his clogged ears as though he were still in flight. He’d been in constant motion since landing at Boryspil twelve hours ago; he was afraid to lean his head on the window for fear of nodding off.

The Timkiv twins sat up front, eyeing the shiny gold and silver watches in an adjacent display window. They’d told him their first names when he met them, but they were identical, so he’d forgotten them as soon as he heard them. They looked like volleyball players who liked the lens of a camera, with short blond hair that brushed against the truck’s ceiling and easygoing blue eyes.

When Victor first shook their hands, however, their sleeves were rolled up. The tattoos on their forearms told him they were not into fun and games. The brother in the driver’s seat wore the markings of a gun beside the ace of spades, a bottle of vodka, a ten-ruble note, and the profile of a girl with serpents for hair. He was the gun. His twin boasted the same backdrop, but instead of the gun, his tattoo featured three bullets. He was the ammunition. The pictures meant the brothers had spent time at Corrective Labor Colony 4.

The tattoos also meant that separated, the brothers were vulnerable, but together, they were invincible. A powerful
vor
must have made this assessment in prison and labeled them as such forever.

A beefy security guard in a black suit opened the door to the jewelry store from the inside and allowed a woman to exit. She carried a small white bag, purse, and matching poodle. She disappeared down the boulevard.

“So how exactly are we going to get the merch?” the Gun said.

“We should do it strong,” the Ammunition said before Victor could answer. “We have the weapons, the manpower, and the element of surprise.”

Victor said, “A thief who uses a gun is not a thief.”

The twins exchanged glances and smiled. “What is he, then?” the Gun said.

“Incompetent,” Victor said.

They laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” the Gun said. “If we don’t do it strong, we could create a diversion instead. A violent one.”

“No one wants to be in a car wreck,” the Ammunition said. “But everyone slows down to watch one.”

“Exactly,” the Gun said. He turned around to face Victor and pointed at the convertible parked a few car lengths away from the jewelry store. “I could ram that Jaguar with the truck. Everyone comes out. All eyes on my brother and me, you and the guys in the van take down the merch.”

Victor sighed. “A diversion like that is no diversion at all.”

“It’s not?” the Gun said, visibly disappointed.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” the Ammunition said.

“A summons for the police.”

The cabin remained silent for a moment.

The Ammunition turned to face Victor also. “Okay. What do you suggest we do?”

“We use the greatest advantage we have at our disposal.”

“Which is?” the Ammunition said.

Victor smiled. “You and your brother’s natural good looks.”

Victor outlined their strategy. When he was done, the Gun called the driver of the van behind them and shared the plan.

Twenty minutes later, three girls burst from the jewelry store, dancing and shrieking down the steps toward the Mercedes. A lithe, dark-haired beauty waved a jewelry box with her right hand.

“I knew it,” she shouted. “They’re worth a fortune.”

Before the girls could climb into their car, the Timkiv brothers strutted down the opposite side of the street. One of them held a map of Yalta in his hand. They waved to the girls.

“Excuse me, gorgeous,” the Ammunition said. “This is Malisleva Street, right?”

The girl with the jewelry box seemed reluctant, as though she didn’t like the attention being diverted from her and her newfound wealth. But her two friends swung their hips eagerly across the street and offered to help with directions.

The girl with the jewelry box started to cross the street to join them. A white van pulled up alongside her Mercedes. Its body shielded the girl and her car from her friends and the Timkiv brothers.

The passenger window was rolled down. A colleague of the Timkiv brothers nodded at the keys in her hand. “Are you leaving? We could sure use your parking spot. We have a delivery to make.”

The girl frowned. “Oh. Okay. Let me pull out.” She turned and lifted the door handle. There was a loud clicking noise as the doors came unlocked.

Two large men came up behind her. One slid a strip of duct tape over her head and covered her mouth. The second corralled her legs and taped them together. They lifted her and tossed her gently into the back of the open van. A third man slammed the door shut from inside.

She shimmied to the wall of the van and twisted to a semi-seated position. Her eyes stretched their sockets as though she were a wounded animal.

“Hello, Isabella. Don’t be alarmed. You will not be harmed. It is so nice to meet you. My name is Victor. I am your uncle.”

CHAPTER 33

S
TEAM BILLOWED FROM
the boiled dumplings in Anton’s kitchen. The cover to the simmering pot of borscht rattled in place as though the slightest increase in heat would make it blow. They’d already shared half a bottle of an Alsace wine, during which time Nadia’s desires had become inexplicably carnal. Anton began to grin with increasing frequency during their conversation, as though he could tell where her mind was drifting based simply on her body language. When he finally put his glass down and approached her, Nadia didn’t run.

Anton bent at the knees, reached down, thrust his arms between her legs, and cupped her buttocks. She grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling backward.

“Anton, what are you—”

As he straightened, she teetered. Her hands went around his neck. He lifted her off the ground. She urged him on. He stepped forward, slid her butt onto the granite kitchen countertop, and released his grip. Her legs were splayed, and his hips pressed against her.

He kissed her, letting his lips sink into hers barely enough to make an impression before sealing them and kneading her gently. He tasted of apples and lemon. When he parted, Nadia
lost her breath. What was she going to ask him? What was her problem now?

His left hand pressed against her lower back. His right hand massaged her shoulder, her spine, the back of her neck. The lips—those big, juicy fucking lips—caressed and nuzzled the rest of her neck, seemingly forever, slowly sucking on every pore between her head and shoulders, sending blood rushing to her face and turning her brain to mush. He finally, mercifully, slid his lips to hers and kissed her again, this time more urgently.

“Bedroom,” he said.

Even though her hip bone ached, Nadia slid her hands through his hair and clumped it in her fists. “No,” she said. “Right here. Right now.”

They tore at their clothing and unleashed themselves on each other. Ten minutes later, Anton carried her into the bedroom. They rolled for over an hour in the cool gray sheets. When they finished the second time, Anton held Nadia in his arms and sang a tragic Ukrainian folk song about the maiden, the Cossack, and their unrequited love.

The popular song reminded Nadia of her childhood, when her father would play it on the stereo in the living room and light his pipe, and she knew that they were safe from his tirades for at least a few hours. She curled away from Anton and dabbed at the moisture in the corners of her eyes, lest he ask her why she was crying.

Anton lived in an old Soviet high-rise, a bland cement structure that explained a nation’s unquenchable thirst for vodka on first sight. His penthouse loft, however, was an entirely different matter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the gourmet kitchen, and sterling silver antiques complemented a huge bureau full of first-edition books in the living room. The quality of his possessions didn’t jibe with a man holding down two jobs in Kyiv, Nadia thought.

“What’s this?” she said, holding up a silver box.

Anton stirred the pot of borscht in the kitchen. “An English tea caddy. My entire collection is English. That one’s Victorian regency.”

Nadia replaced it on the antique mahogany sideboard. “You have impeccable taste, Anton. This is quite a collection.”

“I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t steal anything. Most of it belonged to my parents. My father was a renowned professor back in the day when the communists rewarded their academics. My mother was a translator in the diplomatic corps. I inherited the apartment from them. As for the kitchen, I had everything updated because I’m a fiend for gourmet cooking. Thus the second job.”

Two candles lit the kitchen table while they wolfed down dinner: borscht, mushroom dumplings, cheese, and black bread.

“I want to tell you why I’m really here,” Nadia said. “I want you to know everything.”

“Don’t. Please. I don’t need to know anything more.”

“But I trust you.”

“No. No, you don’t. And you shouldn’t trust anyone in this country. Why should you? If you need something and I can help, I will. No questions asked.”

“But—”

He raised his hand for her to stop. “Please. There’s been no one for me since my wife died. These moments…You can rely on me unconditionally while you’re in Kyiv.”

Behind the circle of candlelight, his eyes seemed enormous, even moist. Nadia was already recovering, though, from her moment of naive passion. He was right. She didn’t know him at all, so why was she being such a sap?

“That’s incredibly sweet, Anton. I don’t know what I would do without you. Really.”

He smiled and stabbed a dumpling in his borscht.

“So tell me about this friend you have who knows Chernobyl,” she said.

Anton tore the slice of bread in half. “His name is Hayder. I’m going to call him tonight. He owes me a favor and he’s an honorable man, so I think he’ll help. But there’s something you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s a Crimean Tatar. From Crimea. It’s an autonomous republic in the south of Ukraine.”

Nadia shrugged. “Great. Why is that something I should know?”

“Because he’s a Sunni Muslim. And he hates Americans.”

CHAPTER 34