The Boy From Reactor 4 (5 page)

“Anya. My daughter. She is sick. That’s why I took this job.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has trouble swallowing and breathing. She needs thyroid surgery, or she will die.”

“I see.”

“Her father was a liquidator in Chernobyl. He bulldozed cars, trucks, and ambulances under the ground so the nuclear particles on top of them wouldn’t blow to Kyiv. They told us not to have children…but…these pictures of Anya…How did you get them?”

Victor glanced at the snapshots of a sad, malnourished girl playing on a swing with a babushka. “They were taken by the sons of an old friend of mine—twins, to be exact—and sent by computer. Young people. They know all about these things.”

“Where is she now?”

“She is wherever her grandmother has taken her. No one has touched her. And no one will.”

“She won’t be hurt?”

“Not only won’t she be hurt, I’ll arrange for her to have her surgery at the best facility in Kyiv, where they are experts on this disease. You have my word as a thief.”

Puma regarded Victor with disbelief. “You would do that? You would pay for my Anya’s surgery?”

“Yes.”

Puma’s eyes sparkled. She raised Victor’s hand to her lips, but he pulled it away before she could kiss it.

Victor squeezed her shoulder. “It’s time.”

She blanched. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Victor opened the door. Stefan and two of his men came in. Stefan saw the guns on the table. He looked at Victor, the guns,
Puma, and back to Victor again. They stared at each other without saying a word.

Stefan ordered his men to take Puma away. Victor nodded his head with approval as she left with the stoic expression of a true thief.

Stefan closed the door behind them. He walked over to Victor’s prized possession, the only painting in the room. A dove fluttered in the palm of a maiden dressed in a colorful peasant shirt as she danced in a field of wheat. The deceased artist, Edward Kozak, had arrived in New York on the same boat as Victor.

“The maiden and the dove, the dove and the maiden,” Stefan said. “I love them so.”

“Me too. Especially since that appraiser said it’s worth a hundred thousand.” Victor told him about the surgery for Puma’s daughter. “Find out how much it will cost. Then call Milanovich in Moscow and ask him for a loan.”

Stefan nodded at the painting. “You could sell…”

“Never. I’d rather die. Make the call.”

“We have no money, and now you’re going into debt with Moscow for sentimental reasons. You’re scaring me. I think you’re going senile and maybe I should leave you.”

“The day I stop scaring you is the day you should leave me.”

“We both have to truly believe the money situation is hopeless. Only then will we get a windfall.”

“Hopeless? By God, you
are
going senile. Why?”

“Because the greatest opportunities present themselves when all hope is lost. Now, I have to go,” Victor said, reaching for the beret and coat on the corner hanger. “I’m late for my chess match in the park.”

CHAPTER 9

N
ADIA JUMPED IN
a taxi on Sunday morning and arrived at St. George’s Ukrainian Catholic Church on Seventh Street at 10:00 a.m. When she got her job on Wall Street, she stopped practicing her religion, which is to say she changed her affiliation to the greenback. Sundays were for sleeping in after six consecutive twelve-hour days. Once she lost her job, however, Nadia started attending Mass regularly again, just like all the other pathetic people who worshipped only in times of need. The self-loathing this inspired was exceeded by the tranquility provided by her childhood sanctuary. She was learning to forgive herself. For losing her job, being childless, and living alone.

After the liturgy, Nadia stayed alert to her surroundings. An ethnically diverse crowd mixed beneath the warm sun on Second Avenue. Some headed to church in jeans, others to brunch in their Sunday best. The street teemed with pedestrians. No one could harm her without drawing attention to himself.

At Veselka on Second and Ninth Street, Nadia sat with her back to a wall, facing the entry to the Ukrainian soul food restaurant. She ate a plate of cheese-and-potato dumplings called
vareniky
and nursed a second cup of coffee until 1:00 p.m., when the Duma bookstore opened.

Paul Obon beamed when he saw Nadia and shook her hand with both of his. He was the living incarnation of the Monopoly Man, with a single strand of gray hair atop his bald head. He smelled of old books and rolled around the nooks and crannies of his cramped store with unfettered zeal.

“How did your meeting with Milan go?” he said.

Nadia had called Obon before meeting Milan, to confirm he was a legitimate member of the community.

“Fine,” Nadia said. “Have you seen him today?”

“Who, Milan?”

“Yes.”

“No. Why? Didn’t you get along?”

“Oh, yes. No, everything was fine. Just fine. I was wondering…Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Of course. I have some books that need protection. Would you mind helping?”

“My pleasure.”

They moved to a small table in the center of the room. A neat stack of old books sat beside a box of plastic book covers. Obon folded a sheet of plastic to fit the binding of the first book.

Nadia said, “Does the name Damian mean anything to you?”

“Damian. A fine name. Parents don’t choose it enough. Greek origin. Divine power. Fate.”

“No. I mean, is there a Damian in the community here?”

He slipped the front book cover into the plastic sleeve he’d created and paused. “Damian…Damian…No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. What about people you deal with outside New York? Anyone well-known in the broader Ukrainian American community by that name?”

He gave it some more thought and shook his head. “No. It’s an unusual given name, and I’m sure I’d remember anyone who answered to it. Why do you ask?”

He finished covering the first book and asked Nadia to put it in a glass-enclosed bookcase.
The Minstrel,
by Taras Shevchenko. Poet laureate, exiled for nationalism by the Soviet government.

“I overheard the name in a conversation between two people on the street,” Nadia said.

Obon studied the binding of the next book. “That sounds mysterious, Nadia. Of course, there was the infamous Damian, well-known in less savory circles, but I’m sure you’re not referring to him.”

Nadia’s ears perked up. “Really. Tell me anyways. Why less savory circles?”

“Because he was a
vor
.”

“A
vor
?”

“A member of
Vorskoi Mir
,” he said in Russian. He switched back to Ukrainian. “‘The Thieves’ World.’”

“Ukrainian and Russian
mafiya
?” Nadia said.

“If you are thinking of the crime groups that are popular in the press and films—Range Rovers, mansions, villas, and big-haired blondes—no. That is the
avtoritet
. ‘The authority.’ They are a younger generation defined by the pursuit of material wealth and consumption.”

He handed Nadia the second book.
Boa Constrictor,
by Ivan Franko. Jailed by the Soviet government for arguing Marxism was a religion of hatred.

“The
vor
is something entirely different,” Obon said as he began work on a third. “The literal translation of
Vory v Zakony
is ‘thieves with a common law.’ A loose organization of criminals that have their own set of social norms.
Vory v Zakony
was formed in prisons in 1682 under Peter the Great. Their members swear allegiance to an austere code of ethics. They cannot marry, have families, hold jobs, or assist the government in any way. Their stature is depicted by tattoos on their bodies. Earned in and outside of prison. They were traditionally known for their
anti-materialistic
behavior. Sometimes they gave back to the
poor in their communities. Like Robin Hood. Most
vory
were vicious, but some less so. Some were held in such high regard they resolved community disputes in private courtrooms.”

“
Vory v Zakony
still exist today?”

“Yes, but their numbers are dwindling. It’s old-school. Once the Soviet Union fell apart and capitalism came to Russia, allegiances among criminals went out the window. Young people just don’t care about the old traditions. It’s the same in prison as it is on the streets. Also, many
vory
died in the Bitches War in the 1950s.”

“The what?”

“The Bitches War. Stalin drafted criminals during World War II. Some
vory
left prison and fought for their homeland. When they returned to jail after the war, their former cellmates dubbed them ‘bitches’ for helping the government. The Bitches War broke out. Stalin encouraged it, hoping they’d all kill each other. But they didn’t. The bitches perished, the true
vory
survived.”

“And they’re in this country? In the United States?”

“They’re scattered everywhere. Estimates I’ve read, maybe five hundred to a thousand true
vory
left. Power is based on money, weapons, and willpower. The young
avtoritet
with global reach and connections have no interest in the old ways. A few
vory
did well during
perestroika
, abandoned their oath, and became
avtoritet
themselves. But for the most part, the only place where
vory
remain powerful is in prison.”

“And this Damian, the
vor
you mentioned,” Nadia said, “is he in this country? Is he in New York?”

Obon handed her the third book.

“No,” he said. “He died outside Kyiv some thirty years ago.”

Nadia cursed under her breath. She glanced at the book.
The Noblewoman,
by Lesya Ukrainka. First female activist. Nadia remembered reading it in Uke school, which she had attended two nights a week, from kindergarten through high school.

“I’d like to buy this,” Nadia said.

“Good choice. You know, former Prime Minister Tymoshenko wears her hair in a braid as a tribute to Lesya.” Obon took the book and whirled to the register. “I do know someone nearby who can tell you more about Damian and the
vor
, if you care.”

“Really? Who?”

“A wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoons. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. Let me go in back, call him, and see if he’s available.”

A buzzer sounded. An old man with thick sunglasses sat in a wheelchair in front of the door.

“Ah. Be so kind as to let our friend in,” Obon said as he disappeared behind a corner curtain.

“
Our
friend?” Nadia said.

“Why, of course. Our friend. Max Milan.”

Nadia stood dumbfounded. “Who?”

The man in the wheelchair sounded the buzzer again.

Laughter emanated from behind the curtain. “For goodness’ sake, Nadia,” Obon said. “Look closely. It’s Milan. You met him yesterday, didn’t you? Let him in, please.”

Nadia unlocked the door. The man took his glasses off. He had smooth skin, black shoe polish in his hair, and a birthmark on his right cheek.

He bore no resemblance to the man she knew as Max Milan.

CHAPTER 10

T
HE CAT WAS
a living, breathing feline tuxedo. Its lustrous coat shined like black satin under the exposed kitchen lightbulb. A splash of white adorned its chest. It studied Nadia with gypsy eyes from its perch on the windowsill, unsure if it wanted to tango or tussle.

An enormous man escorted Nadia to the tiny kitchen of the two-story apartment when she arrived at 2:00 p.m. The kitchen was ancient but immaculate. He might have been a strong man in a circus, or a Ukrainian solar system unto himself. He offered her vodka or tea. Nadia sat at a bare wooden table and declined politely.

She couldn’t stop thinking about her discovery at the bookstore. The real Max Milan was a retired insurance adjuster who’d emigrated from Ukraine twenty years ago. He’d never heard of Nadia or her father. Nadia had paid for the book and left without offering Obon further explanation. He appeared confused and concerned. Nadia didn’t want to discuss the shooting, her subsequent rescue and betrayal, and the missing body. She’d tried that with the cops. She didn’t need another exercise in humiliation.