The Boy From Reactor 4 (7 page)

“We’re here to resolve a dispute,” Victor said in Russian. His choice of language meant one or both men didn’t speak Ukrainian. “One party has been wronged, another stands accused. The wronged party is demanding restitution from the accused for lost income. This is a courtroom. Verdicts are final and cannot be appealed. Punishment for noncompliance will be immediate and severe. Does each of you agree to abide by this proceeding? Its verdicts and its remedies?”

Both men grunted in the affirmative.

Victor nodded. “Very well.” He stood up, moved to the other side of the desk, and sat down in the empty chair between the two men, facing Nadia.

Nadia squirmed. What the hell?

“The three wronged parties sit behind this desk. Income was lost because our business of importing antiques and religious art from Ukraine was shut down in December by the FBI. The accused party is the one responsible for its being shut down.

“The accused party sits before us. The accused party’s name is Nadia Tesla.”

CHAPTER 13

N
ADIA GLANCED AT
the door. A narrow strip of light shone along the floor.

The door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed. She could run for it, but they were probably armed.

“You must forgive Obon,” Victor said. “He didn’t know what he was doing. He had no way of knowing we had business outstanding.”

Nadia barely heard what he said. Pepper spray. She put her hand in her bag. Rummaged for a canister.

“Last year, you made inquiries into your father’s past,” Victor said, “and stumbled on our business. You got the FBI involved. Now we’re out hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“And you’re gonna pay,” Misha said. “One way or another, you’re gonna pay.”

Nadia forgot. No pepper spray.

“We did a net present-value analysis,” the Wolverine said. “The number we came up with is five hundred thousand dollars.”

She’d left the pepper spray at home once the cop told her it violated her probation.

“That business was worth five hundred grand,” Misha said. “You owe us five hundred grand.”

The thin strip of light in the doorway beckoned to Nadia.

“Excuse me,” Nadia said. She stood up. Took aim for the light. “I have to go now.”

One step. Two steps.

“You are free to go,” Victor said, reaching for the manila folder in front of him. “The doors are open, and no one will stop you.”

Three steps. Four—

He wasn’t kidding. None of them budged to stop her.

Five steps. Six—

“Marko,” Victor said.

Nadia froze.

Victor tapped the manila folder. “I have pictures of Marko Tesla.”

Nadia turned toward Victor.

“Would you like to see pictures of your brother at his nightclub yesterday?”

Marko. Whose voice from childhood she missed the most. He’d been the ultimate big brother growing up. They played Wiffle ball in the park. Consoled each other when one of them got the strap for getting a B in school. As adults, they’d grown apart. Now, on the rare occasions they saw each other, he was often drunk, and she was always unforgiving. Was it really him?

Nadia edged up to the desk and glanced at the photos. A worn and weathered rider straddling a purple Harley, filling up the entire frame. An unlit neon sign read
BRASILIA
in the background.

It really was Marko.

Victor extended an open arm toward her chair. “Have a seat, Nadia. Please. Let’s discuss this like rational people.”

Nadia stumbled back to her chair.

“You wandered out of your kitchen and accidentally stepped into our bread and butter,” Victor said. “It happens. You’re guilty of nothing intentional, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But you’re accountable for our losses.”

“Go to hell,” Nadia said. “I owe you nothing. And even if I did, I’m broke.”

“You lost your job,” Misha said.

“You’re four months late on your rent,” the Wolverine said.

Victor smiled. “A friend of ours owns your apartment building. We know you’re broke.”

Misha said, “We thought you might have some valuable information.”

“Inside information?” Nadia said. “I don’t know anything about any deals.”

“That’s not what we had in mind,” Victor said.

“What did you have in mind?” Nadia said.

Misha leaned forward. “What did the dying man whisper in your ear?”

“What?”

“What did he whisper in your ear?” Victor said.

Light burst from the doorway. Brad Specter slipped into the room.

Nadia tried to remove her eyes from Specter but couldn’t. He regarded her without expression of any kind, like a man doing his job.

“We’ve been following you for the last two weeks,” Misha said.

“Why?” Nadia said.

“We weren’t sure you’d accept an invitation to meet us,” Victor said, “so we wanted to know your routine.”

Specter said, “What did the man say?”

Resistance was futile, Nadia knew. Her only hope was deception. The best deception was rooted in truth. “Find Damian. Find Andrew Steen.”

The Wolverine didn’t react. The names meant nothing to him.

Misha looked up with a blank stare. “Steen. Steen. I know that name.”

Victor nodded at Nadia. Now he understood why she was asking about Damian.

“That’s all?” Victor said. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“Well,” Nadia said, “he did say something else. But I’m not sure I heard him correctly. I could barely make out his words.”

“What?” Specter said. “What was it?”

“Millions of dollars,” Nadia said.

No one said a word.

“Damian’s millions,” Victor said.

Misha snapped his fingers. “Steen. Steen. I got it. Money manager in Kyiv. He’s connected to the top. To the top, I tell you.”

“Who was this old man, and why were you meeting him?” Victor said.

“He called out of the blue,” Nadia said. “He heard I was asking about my father and said he had answers. He told me his name was Max Milan. He checked out, and I agreed to meet him. When I saw the real Max Milan in Obon’s shop an hour ago, I knew I’d been duped.”

“Obon has nothing to do with this, or I’d know,” Victor said.

Specter said, “Then who killed the old man, and why?”

“Someone else who wants the money,” Victor said. “Whoever it was came back and removed the body to make sure there was no trace of it. To make sure no questions were asked.”

Misha said, “So there’s ten million dollars in play and two players. Us and someone else.”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Victor said. “Here’s what I propose. The three of us will find out what we can about this Andrew Steen in Kyiv. Meanwhile, you go home and ask your mother about Damian. And the money.”

“My mother?” Nadia said.

“Yes, your mother,” Victor said. “I knew her when I was growing up.”

“You knew my mother?”

Victor shrugged. “It’s a small community of immigrants. It was innocent, I promise you. As a child, she was like a squirrel always burying treasure. She probably has more secrets than the Kremlin. We meet again at Veselka in twenty-four hours. Three p.m. sharp.”

Victor looked at Misha and the Wolverine. They nodded. He picked up the pictures of Nadia’s brother, glanced at them, and looked at Nadia as though reminding her of his leverage.

As she squeezed out the door past Specter, Nadia’s shoulders brushed his arm. When she glared at him, she thought she spied compassion in his eyes.

Outside, Nadia wobbled down the steps. At ground level, a sign hung in the display window for a clothing boutique beneath the apartment:
CRY WOLF, NEW YORK CITY
.

“Ah, fresh air,” a voice said from the stairs above her.

Nadia turned.

Victor leaned against the rail.

Nadia studied him for a second. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“If I offered you ten million dollars or a clear conscience, which would you take?”

He considered the question. “Both,” Victor said. “I am a thief.”

The light flickered behind his eyes, but faded before he could finish his sentence.

CHAPTER 14

T
HE SUN CAST
purple streaks as it disappeared over the horizon. Shadows gathered along the perimeter of Tompkins Park.

After their usual Sunday dinner at the East Village Restaurant, Victor and Stefan strolled through the park, watching the dogs play.

“You believe her?” Stefan said.

“We know there was an old man,” Victor said. “We know there was a shooting, and we know the man whispered something in her ear. We know all this because we have a witness. Specter. As for what he said to her, it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? How can you say that?”

“Because one man shot another man in the street in broad daylight, and it had nothing to do with a woman. Since
perestroika
happened and capitalism came to our homeland, why do men shoot each other in the street?”

“Money,” Stefan said.

Victor grunted. “Exactly. Money. So whether the dying man told her about Damian’s ten million dollars—which he very well may have—or something a bit different…”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s money.”

“Yes. It has to be money.”

A petite woman in black tights with a perfectly formed ass walked a pug on a leash ahead of them.

“Two cloves of garlic,” Stefan said. “All they need is a loaf of bread and some salt.”

Victor let Stefan enjoy the view for a moment. “Bread costs money,” he said. “Have you wired that money out of my personal account to Tara yet?”

“How could I? Banks don’t open until tomorrow.”

“Change in plan. Wire her seven thousand. Get the other five thousand in cash. And I want to get it to her tomorrow so she can leave town before Misha does some damage she can’t walk away from.”

“I’ll take care of that and the girl’s surgery in Kyiv first thing in the morning. Speaking of Misha…”

“Yes?”

Stefan looked away. “He offered me a job.”

“Of course he did. And you accepted.”

Stefan regarded him with a look of surprise. “You don’t seem surprised. Or upset.”

Victor veered off the trail toward the wrought-iron fence, where darkness would hide the embarrassment on his face.

“The other day,” Victor said, “when you joked I was scaring you because I was senile and you said you might leave me, what did I tell you?”

Stefan kicked a pebble out of his way. “That the day you stopped scaring me is the day I should leave you.”

Victor stopped walking and faced his
sovetnik
of twenty-three years. “So tell me, Stefan. Do I still scare you?”

“No, Victor. You don’t scare me anymore.”

“Then it’s time for you to go,” Victor said.

They left in opposite directions.

When Victor got home, he sank to the floor in the corner of his dark kitchen. The cat meowed and jumped in his lap. He wrapped his arms around it and kissed its head.

“It’s just you and me,” he said. “It’s just you and me, Damian.”

CHAPTER 15

O
N
S
UNDAY EVENING
, long after most churches conducted their services, another form of worship began at 7:00 p.m. at Brasilia in Willimantic, twenty miles outside Hartford.