“The hockey games. Hockey is the main sport in Pripyat. There is a winter league for all the workers in the Zone. Coach brings my son to the games. He is the best player in the league. He is a defensemen. Defensemen usually don’t score many goals. But when he scored his first goal, at age thirteen, he got hugs from his teammates. They do that in hockey. So he started scoring more goals. Lots and lots of goals. But now that won’t matter so much. Because you are a woman. And you will give him proper hugs.”
Nadia needed to stop this fantasy before it went any further. “Uncle, I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.” Rather than discuss the dangers with a dying father, she tried to point out, “He doesn’t even speak English…How would he manage in America?”
“Once you sell the formula, you can use the money to help him build a life.”
“Excuse me?”
“The formula. Karel told me he took you to his laboratory.”
“And he told me Arkady never gave him the formula.”
“He didn’t. He gave it to me instead.”
“He what? He gave you the formula?”
“Yes.”
“Why you?”
“Because he trusted me.”
“Why?”
“Because I made him my willing accomplice.”
The gears in her head started to whirl. “Where is it? Is it here? Is it written down or stored on an electronic device? You must have several copies.”
“Arkady was an old Soviet scientist—he wrote it on a piece of paper and reduced it to a strip of microfilm. Then he burned the paper.”
“You mean there’s only one copy?”
“Yes. There is one, and only one, copy.”
Nadia nodded and let a few seconds pass. “Where is the microfilm?”
“In a locket. On a necklace. Around my son’s neck.”
Nadia straightened to her full height. The calculations weren’t hard to make. Hell, for the money this kind of trade secret would bring, she could buy her way out of trouble. She could hire an English language instructor and tutors and send him to private schools.
“Don’t share any of this with Oksana,” Damian said. “She takes care of me because she thinks there are ten million American dollars buried in the house somewhere.”
“The money you stole fifty years ago from the Soviet apparatchik?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“From a thief named Victor Bodnar.”
He cracked a wistful smile. “Victor Bodnar. The pickpocket lives.”
“Whatever happened to that money?”
“The KGB found it. After they tortured and killed three of my men.”
“I heard about that, too.”
“I have no money. What little I had I gave to Oksana for her to take care of me.” The creases in his face deepened. “Wait a minute. Are you in debt to Victor Bodnar?”
“He thinks so,” she said. “So does one of his associates. A young avtoritet originally from Moscow. And now there is another man from Kyiv with them. Older, distinguished.”
“These men are following you?”
“Yes.”
He paused and stared at Nadia. “This is not good. This was not part of my plan. If one of the men is from Kyiv, he must be both thief and government. They are one and the same. They have all the country’s resources to find you. You should assume they are close.”
“Oh, I don’t think so—”
“You will never get through customs if you try to leave Ukraine the way you came in. The man from Kyiv must have people waiting for you at the airport.” He seemed to make a decision. “I will get a message to my son that the time has come. He will meet you in Kyiv tonight.”
“You can’t be serious. Then what?”
“The formula must get to America. You will figure out how to sell it once you are there. You will sell it to men of science. Not to your government. Promise me that.”
“Uncle, the American government and the Ukrainian government are not the same—”
“Promise.”
“Okay, I promise not to give the formula to the government.”
“Good.” A cunning look came into his eyes. “The only way you will escape the men who are following you is by going where they will be least expecting you to go.”
“And where’s that?”
“Along the route I arranged for my son once I gave up hope you would come. Before, I didn’t know how he would sell the formula once he got to America, but now that won’t be a problem. Now there will be two of you, and you will help each other.”
Nadia didn’t want them to get ahead of themselves. “Tell me more about this route you’ve planned.”
“My son knows everything you need to know.”
“Look, if I’m going to be taking care of him, I think I deserve to know details.”
The old thief shrugged. “My son has all the details.”
“Can you at least give me a general outline?”
He stared at her with a blank expression.
Nadia sighed. “Okay. I get it. Where and when do I meet him?”
“He is coming from the north. There is a metro stop at Dorohozhychi. He will meet you across the street. At the new bronze statue at Babi Yar.”
“When?”
“Six o’clock. And now I have a question for you. The stranger who delivered my message to you in New York City. What happened to him?”
Nadia told him the story.
“Was he a friend of yours?” she said.
“Yuri Banya. He was one of my men. One of the three who escaped to the West before the KGB caught the rest of us. He pretended to be this Max Milan, an upstanding member of the community, to make sure you met with him. He was supposed to send me a message after he met you, but I never heard from him. You say he was shot, but later, when the police went to look, there was no body?”
“And he still had a pulse when I left him. Did you tell him about the formula?”
“No. He only knew words. But if someone interrogated him—”
“Find Damian. Five-androstenediol. Fate of the free world.”
“Or had heard them already and didn’t want you to hear them,” Damian said.
“What if Yuri shared the message with someone else? Someone who realized what ‘five-androstenediol’ and ‘fate of the free world’ implied?”
Damian’s expression tightened. “Three things are certain. Someone shot him, and someone lifted him off the street. And someone has yet to reveal himself to you.”
Nadia let his words sink in. Someone has yet to reveal himself.
“I’m fading,” Damian said abruptly, his eyes drooping. “I can feel it. You should go. Karel will help get you out of the Zone.”
Nadia looked at his emaciated frame. They’d had so little time to spend together. “How do I say good-bye to an uncle I just met and will never see again?”
“You don’t. Just take care of my boy.”
It was a surreal moment. She’d solved the mystery of Damian, discovered he was her uncle, and traveled across the globe to find him. Now here he was, on his deathbed.
She would never see him again. She should have felt an overwhelming sadness, but she didn’t. How could she? She’d just met him. Still, she had to do something. She couldn’t just walk away.
Nadia stepped sideways to the foot of his bed. His legs were covered in blankets. She gently grasped the meat of his left foot over the blanket, squeezed with both hands, and held it for a count of ten. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Nadia slid her hands up to his toes and did the same. His eyes closed. After the second ten-count, she lowered the left leg to the bed and performed the same routine on his right one. The pain in his expression evaporated. When she was done, she stepped away from the bed and let her hands fall to her sides.
“So you can dance with the angels,” she said. The words sounded ridiculous as soon as they left her lips. He was a thief, a notorious criminal. If there was an afterlife, odds were low he’d be wa
ltzing with celestials.
He laughed so hard he winced. Although he didn’t say anything, the pain in his face melted into an expression of gratitude.
She lowered her head and started for the door.
“Nadia?” he said, gravel in his voice.
She turned.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
His eyes opened to weary slits. “Remember what the hare said to the hen when he opened the barn door.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“With foxes, we must play the fox.”
CHAPTER 44
KIRILO, MISHA, AND Victor sat at a triangular table in the middle of Kozak Egoiste. The air smelled of spices and flesh. A young waiter served their entrées. Blood oozed from Kirilo’s steak as he set it before him. The tall, golden-haired waiter looked vaguely familiar to Kirilo, but he couldn’t place him.
Kirilo tore a bite out of his kovbanos, a thin kielbasa served as a cold appetizer. It was tough, narrow, and veined, like Victor the Bitch’s neck across the table from him. Soon he would have his hands around it, and this time he would not let go. He could feel his fingers crushing his cousin’s airway, see Victor’s final breath—
He cursed himself. Isabella was close. She had to be near. He had to get her back first. Nothing else mattered. He’d scoured Kyiv through all his contacts, but no one knew where Victor was keeping her.
After an hour of prodding with no further revelations, Lalo the Cook proved to be speaking the truth. He didn’t know why Victor had chosen his restaurant. But there was a reason, Kirilo was sure. Before lunch was over, he was certain, he’d find out one way or another. As a result, he’d brought maximum security.
Two of Kirilo’s men guarded the front door, two secured the rear. Four other men watched Lalo and the other cooks in the kitchen. Four more sat at the bar, watching the dining room. Misha had also brought four men with him. Two sat at the bar, including the impressive American, Specter, while the others guarded the front and rear entrances with Kirilo’s men. How was Victor planning to kill Misha with sixteen men watching?
The waiter served Victor a bowl of borscht with mushroom dumplings, and Misha a plate of stuffed cabbage with pickles on the side. Victor looked inscrutable and the moscal aloof as always.
They dug into their food. Kirilo sliced a tiny piece of steak and stuck it in his mouth. He checked his watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. It was 1:47. How long would it take these bastards to finish? Would they insist on coffee and dessert? Where was Isabella? Where was she right now?
Victor slurped his stew. Misha crunched away. Kirilo nibbled on his steak to stay busy and keep his knife occupied, lest he stab Victor in the left eye out of frustration. Victor and Misha ate their entire entrées without saying a word.
“So,” Misha said to Victor when he was done. “You came to Kyiv and you called this lunch. What’s your agenda?”
Victor shrugged as though it were obvious. “Nadia Tesla.” He looked from Misha to Kirilo and back to Misha. “So where do we stand?”
Misha gave him a summary of how they had lost Nadia in the Pecherska Lavra and her subsequent discovery of the GPS device.
“Outsmarted by a woman?” Victor said, with a twinkle in his eye.
Misha laughed the way a man did to hide his fury. “Hey, it’s not my country.” He turned to Kirilo.
“There’s been a development,” Kirilo said. “We found the owner of the taxi company. The one the driver works for. The driver that helped her.”
Misha stopped noshing on another pickle and blinked at Kirilo. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Kirilo glared at him. “I’m telling you now. Two of my men just had a conversation with the owner before I got here. The driver’s name is Anton Medved. He’s a professor of sociology at Kyiv-Slavonic. Lives in Chorna Hora. He wasn’t home, but two of my men are waiting for him at his apartment as we speak.”
“And the ten million dollars?” Victor said.
Kirilo shook his head. “There is no ten million dollars. The KGB caught them and took it back. I have pictures to prove it.”
“Pictures?” Victor said.
“A woman took them from her hiding place. The day the KGB came. It’s a long story.”
“No matter,” Misha said, reaching for another pickle. “A guy gets shot on the street in New York after whispering something in the Tesla woman’s ear. She comes to Kyiv and gives us the slip. Whatever she’s after is valuable. I can smell it.”
Kirilo grunted his agreement. Were they done? Could he ask for the check? He waved to a waiter.
“About that man who was shot on the street in New York,” Victor said. “Someone shot him. Someone took him away. So presumably, someone else knows she’s pursuing something valuable.”
“Yeah. And?” Misha said, between bites.
“I was just wondering if you’d run into anyone else looking for the same thing you are. If anyone else is following Nadia Tesla.”
Misha shook his head. He looked at Kirilo, who did the same.
The waiter arrived with a vase filled with tulips in his left hand. “Coffee? Tea? Dessert?” he said.
“No,” Kirilo said, before anyone else could answer. “Check, please.”
The waiter pulled a black folio out of his apron pocket with his right hand and slid it beside Kirilo. He placed the vase in the middle of the table and left.
Kirilo glanced at the bill. He tried to check every line to make sure they weren’t padding it, but he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he threw his Visa card in the folio and shut it, vaguely aware that Misha was raising his voice to Victor.
“You made us come to this shithole because you wanted an update on the Tesla woman? That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”
Kirilo noticed the tulips the waiter had left. They were yellow. In Ukraine, yellow flowers mean separation.
“No,” Victor said. “I admit it. That’s not all I wanted. I had another agenda.”
Misha glared at him. “Yeah, well, what is it?”
Kirilo counted the flowers. There were ten of them. Ten. An even number. An even number of flowers was given only at funerals.
Someone was about to die.
“I came to say good-bye to you,” Victor said.
“Oh yeah?” Misha said. “You leaving the country?”
Kirilo pushed his seat away from the table. Stuck his right foot out in case he needed to run.
“No, Misha,” Victor said. “You’re leaving this world.”
Misha darkened before his shit-eating grin reasserted itself. His laugh echoed with uncertainty. “Oh yeah? Where am I going, Old School?”
“To the afterlife.” Victor put his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin. “How were the pickles, Misha?”
Misha stopped chewing.
“A friend of mine knows a woman who grows them in a black village outside Chernobyl. Was the finish a bit salty? Did you detect the aftertaste of cesium-137?”
Misha’s lips parted in shock. A few seconds later, they slowly spread into a smile. He shook his index finger at Victor. “You had me for a second, there, Old School. You had me real good. It would be just like you to pretend to poison me to get me thinking about it. To get me to die from the stress. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s not gonna work on Misha.”
Victor pursed his lips and nodded, like a doctor who was used to his patients’ disbelief. “The sugar she adds to the pickles acts as a delivery device. It propels the cesium into your bloodstream quickly.” He picked up a saltshaker. “If you dilute this with water and force yourself to throw up before you’ve digested all of them, you might live ten days instead of five, like the last two people who ate them.”
Misha grinned and stared at Victor, head bobbing up and down in mock agreement. Victor stared back. Five seconds passed, and then five more—
Misha grabbed the saltshaker. Unscrewed the cap. Dumped half its contents into his wa
ter. Stirred with his finger and drank.
Five seconds later, he vomited on the floor.
While Misha hacked and spit, the waiter returned with Kirilo’s credit card bill. In the background, another waiter wheeled out a dessert tray toward the bar where the bodyguards sat.
Kirilo signed the bill, threw the pen on the table, and leaned over.
“Are we done here?” he whispered to Victor.
“Yes,” Victor said.
“I want my daughter now. Where is she?”
“In a better place than Misha.”
CHAPTER 45
NADIA HELD ON to Karel’s hips as he guided his motorbike toward the center of Chernobyl. Despite the urgency of the situation, she couldn’t stop thinking about Damian’s revelation that her father had lied about his past. He was a thief, not a war hero. The freedom-fighter image she’d romanticized was just a figment of her imagination.
Much to Nadia’s surprise, however, it didn’t bother her. Her mother was right. Her father had moved to America. He gave her citizenship and set an example by working tirelessly collecting garbage for the City of Hartford. He took his family to church almost every Sunday and did his best to be a family man, even if it was clear it gave him no joy. So what if he had a past? So what if he wasn’t a doting father? He hadn’t been part of the stolen-art and antiquities ring she’d uncovered in Hartford. Wasn’t that evidence he’d changed?
Not only did Damian’s revelation about her father not disturb her, his proclamation that she was a thief’s daughter felt strangely empowering. Perhaps if her father hadn’t changed and become a better man, her new identity would have bothered her. Instead, much to her own surprise, Nadia hung on to Karel loosely, comfortable in the moment, more confident she could outwit any adversary who tried to prevent her from getting to New York with the formula.
It was only 2:15, but the sky looked like dusk. Purple clouds swirled overhead. A squall had given way to a steady rain. Karel skidded and slid along the path from Oksana’s house, kicking mud onto their pant legs, his headlight barely illuminating the way. When they emerged on the main road, Nadia pulled a hand away from his waist to wipe rain from her eyes.
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