The Boy From Reactor 4 (33 page)

Kirilo raised his hand to strike her. “Don’t make me ask you twice, old woman.”

The babushka didn’t flinch. “The bedroom,” she said.

Kirilo motioned for his driver to go first. Kirilo followed, his bodyguard’s flashlight illuminating the path.

Kirilo marched into Damian’s room, confident he could get the old man to talk. He had a son. That meant he had a weakness
Kirilo could exploit, just as Victor had done with him. Kirilo’s driver found a lantern and lit it.

They found a shambles. Thieves had ransacked the room. The mattress was pulled off its box spring. It was sliced in four places, the lining ripped out and strewn all over the room. A bureau sat empty, its drawers pulled out and overturned. Clothes lay scattered. Among them lay the corpse of a small old man. His lips were curled into a slight smile. Blisters festered on his face.

Karel ran in to take his pulse, even though it was clear he was dead.

“Is that him?” Kirilo said.

Karel nodded.

“Huh. I never met the man, but I certainly heard of him,” Kirilo said. “And so I have to ask: How could he end up dead in squalor in a nuclear ghost town? Couldn’t a thief steal a better ending for himself?”

“Maybe he was more concerned about someone else,” Victor said.

Kirilo glanced at the doorway. Misha and Victor had slipped inside.

“You mean he has a son,” Kirilo said.

“Just as you have a daughter,” Victor said.

Whom I am going to find within the hour, you bitch
, Kirilo thought.

As Kirilo scanned the wreckage in the room, Victor walked around examining its contents.

“What’s this all about, though?” Kirilo said. “It’s as though someone else is looking for the same thing we are. Where is that babushka?”

A bolt slammed shut. Kirilo recognized the sound of a bullet entering a chamber.

The babushka stood in the doorway with her rifle pointed at Kirilo.

“You’re a rude city bastard,” the babushka said. “I have a place reserved for you beneath my root cellar next to a couple of pet hunters from Kyiv. Come. Let me show it to you.”

She pressed the stock into her armpit and tightened her lips. Kirilo realized she really was going to shoot him. The crazy old woman was going to shoot him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A pair of massive hands reached over the babushka’s shoulders and ripped the weapon out of her hands. Misha’s bodyguard towered over her, his massive frame spilling outside the doorway.

Kirilo exhaled and nodded his thanks. The man nodded back.

Kirilo glared at the babushka. “That wasn’t very hospitable. Fortunately for you, you have some information I require. So let’s all go to the kitchen and talk like civilized people, shall we?”

When Kirilo turned to look at Damian one last time, he saw Victor’s hand on a side table on the opposite side of the bed.

“What’s there?” Kirilo said. “Did you find something?”

Victor picked up a cassette tape. “Petula Clark,” he said in English.

“Who?”

“Petula Clark. English singer. Very popular in America when I first arrived in ’65. You know the song ‘Downtown’?”

“No, but I’ll make sure it’s played at your funeral. Get in the kitchen. Now.”

The babushka turned on a lantern and lit four candles in the kitchen. Kirilo, Victor, and Misha joined her at a wooden dining table.

“What is your name, Babushka?” Kirilo said.

“Oksana Houk.”

“Oksana. Good. I’m sorry to barge into your home in the middle of the night. I understand if you think I’m your adversary. How can you not? But it’s not true. In fact, not only am I not your adversary, I can be your friend.”

Kirilo pulled his billfold out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table. Oksana’s eyes widened when she saw it was stuffed three inches thick with bills.

“Why did you turn the bedroom upside down?” Kirilo said. “What were you looking for?”

Oksana glanced at the billfold.

“Money,” Kirilo said. “You were looking for money. Were you looking for the ten million dollars Damian stole many years ago?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. That money was confiscated by the KGB when they killed three of his men. There is no ten million dollars.”

“Then what
are
you looking for?”

“A piece of microfilm,” Kirilo said. “With some very valuable information on it.”

Oksana considered his statement and shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any microfilm.”

“Damian didn’t tell her anything,” Karel said. He stood between the two bodyguards. “He only told people what was necessary to get their help. Never enough for them to fully understand what he was planning.”

Kirilo turned his attention back to Oksana. “Did Damian request your help with anything before he died?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. He asked me to clean and polish a locket and necklace that he gave to his son as a keepsake. Other than that—”

“A locket, you say?” Kirilo said. “Interesting. Did he put anything in the locket when you gave it to him?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Kirilo glanced at Victor. They communicated without speaking. They both knew the locket held the microfilm and it was hanging around Damian’s son’s neck.

“What is Damian’s son’s name?” Kirilo said.

“Adam,” Oksana said. “He is from the Zone, so he doesn’t have many friends. But he’s a good boy.”

“I’m sure he is,” Kirilo said. “Where has he gone? Where have he and Nadia Tesla gone?”

“I don’t know.” Oksana’s eyes fell to the billfold again. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

Kirilo tapped her palm with an open hand. “I understand, Babushka. I understand.” He counted ten thousand hryvnia and handed it to her.

Oksana wet her lips and snatched it from him. “Thank you, kind sir. Thank you.”

“We’re going to search your home before we leave just in case there might be an item of interest. Do you mind?”

Kirilo insisted that they attack one room at a time so that he could keep an eye on Misha and Victor the entire time. When they returned to the bedroom, Kirilo cornered Misha’s bodyguard, blocking the others’ view with his back so Misha couldn’t see their hands or hear their discussion.

“Thank you for your help with the rifle, my friend,” Kirilo said. “What is your name?”

“Stefan,” the man said. “My name is Stefan.”

“Stefan,” Kirilo said. “I’ll have to remember that.” Kirilo offered him a wad of bills. “I’d like to discuss some business with you later.”

Stefan glanced over Kirilo’s shoulder to make sure Misha wasn’t watching and shoved the money in his pocket.

“Now, let’s finish this search so we can get out of this godforsaken place,” Kirilo said.

CHAPTER 55

T
HE CABIN ATTENDANT,
a surly chain-smoker with hips the width of the corridor, instructed Nadia and Adam on how to use the
blokirator
, a Club-like plastic device that secured the door handle in the locked position from the inside. This prevented even the attendant from opening the door with her key.

“When you leave your room,” she said, “let me know. I will lock it behind you. There are thieves on these trains, you know.”

Nadia slept fitfully, gradually drifting to the border of consciousness before bolting upright at each of the three stops they made through the night. Each time, she glanced at Adam’s cot to make sure he was still there; he was lost in the depths of sleep that only teenagers can find.

In the morning, she paid the attendant the US equivalent of three dollars to prepare hot water. Half an hour later, with Adam awake to secure the
blokirator
, she took her first shower in three days in a special carriage located beside the restaurant car. Unlike the dreaded bathroom she shared with other passengers, the shower room was surprisingly clean.

Returning to the cabin with a bounce in her step, she offered to pay for a shower for Adam, but he refused. When she asked him to do it for her as a favor, however, he got the message.

“Wait,” Nadia said. “I’ll get the attendant to lock the door behind us,” she said.

“Why?”

“I have to go with you. It’s too dangerous.”

“What? For who? For me? And what, it wasn’t dangerous for you?”

Nadia sighed.

“Oh. I get it. You mean it’s too dangerous for the locket.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean.”

The attendant locked the door behind them.

Adam emerged from the shower with his wet hair carefully combed to hide his ears. On the way back, they stopped at the restaurant car. Light poured in past teal curtains pulled to the side. A dozen booths with steel-blue upholstery lined both sides of the car, half of them occupied. Four men jammed in front of a semicircular bar made of cheap marble, smoke curling upward from the cigarettes in their hands. A television above the bar was tuned to a hockey game. The announcers chattered and buzzed.

Upon their entrance, everyone in the car turned to appraise them. Nadia ignored them and pointed to an empty booth. Adam rushed ahead and took the side that let him watch television. A sullen waiter dumped two menus in front of them. They were fifty pages long and weighed five pounds. Most of the items had a line drawn through them and were unavailable. The latest offerings were handwritten on the front page, as though the kitchen was picking up whatever it could along the way.

Nadia saw that other people at the booths had brought their own food in baskets and shopping bags.

“We can get good food on the platform,” Adam said. “When the train stops. Next stop, Balyezino.”

“When is that?”

He checked his watch. “Around one thirty. In about three hours. It’s a good stop. Twenty-three minutes long.”

“How do you know all this? You been here before?”

“I’ve never been anywhere except Korosten and the Zone,” he said. When she sat there waiting for the explanation, he relented. “My father used to work the railway. He gave me a train schedule. Told me some things.”

Nadia looked around and saw that everyone was watching them. “Then we should go back to the cabin. There’s no advantage in being here.”

“I’m sick of being all cooped up. You go back,” he said. He nodded at the television. “I’m going to watch the game.”

That was not an option. The
samovar
provided boiled water, so Nadia ordered two cups of tea and two bottled waters. Adam didn’t touch his. Instead, he stared like a zombie over Nadia’s shoulder at the screen.

As soon as Nadia began to sip her tea, an elderly woman with an overbite leaned over from a booth diagonally across the way and smiled.

“Your skin is incredible. Where are you from, dear? Italy? Greece?”

“No, America,” Nadia said, her hand touching her face.

The woman’s eyes widened with curiosity. “America. When I was a child, we used to fear this place, America.” She opened a plastic container filled with raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream. “Please,” she said. “To share. I wish I had meat to offer you, but my pension hasn’t arrived in four months. This is all I have. Please.”

Nadia thanked her profusely, but when the woman persisted, she slid over to her booth. Adam was ten feet away. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nadia passed on the berries and cream, and stuck to her tea and water.

“I was a stenographer for Brezhnev in the Kremlin,” she said, “until they accused me of helping circulate rumors that he was in bad mental health to help Andropov unseat him. For this I spent two years in a
gulag
.”

As the woman spoke of her struggle to survive a labor camp, people leaned in from adjacent booths. A small crowd gathered and began to participate.

“Tell me,” she said, “what do Americans think of Russians?”

Nadia foraged for an honest and congenial answer. “That you are soulful. That you’re rich in family and tradition and, above all else, soulful.”

A murmur of approval surrounded Nadia. The woman glowed.

“A soul must work to survive,” a voice said.

The crowd murmured more approval. Those who were standing parted. A man sprawled at a booth in front of Adam with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass in front of him.

“Since they closed the collective farms in 1991, it’s all gone to shit,” he says.

“Papers,” a woman shouted.

Conversations ceased. Lips formed straight lines. A pair of heels clicked together at the back of the car.

People scurried about. Some escaped into the car ahead. Others returned to their booths or the bar.

A petite woman in a gray military uniform bustled up to Adam with a fierce look on her face, as though he’d trampled her garden. From the neck up, she resembled an aging porcupine, with spiked black hair that sprang from gray roots. A younger man accompanied her. He was tall, with a square face, gaunt cheeks, and a sidearm attached to his belt.

“Papers,” she screamed at Adam. “Where is your guardian?”

Adam lowered his head. He stuttered, “I…I…”

For the first time since Nadia had met Adam, he looked like a child and not a man, one reared to respect and fear authority, like Soviet citizens of the past. An unfamiliar sense of maternal protectiveness sent Nadia springing to her feet.