The Boy From Reactor 4 (9 page)

Kyiv 01021

Ukraine

Phone: 244-3683

It was I who first kissed you beneath the apple cart when you were twelve, not my brother. You kissed me back, and then slapped my face and ran off. You stepped on my ankle as you ran. I limped for the next two weeks.

I am not dead, Vera. I am alive. Please help my boy.

I eagerly await news of your response.

With respect,

Damian

Nadia slid the letter back to her mother. The prospect that her uncle was still alive, that she had family in Ukraine, struck a chord inside her. She wondered if he looked like her father and what he could tell her about him. The thought of a younger cousin was even more exciting. What was his daily life like? What were his dreams and aspirations?

“That was the first one,” Nadia’s mother said. “I got two more after that.”

The second letter was the same as the first one, except the tone was more urgent. The envelope contained a grainy picture of a boy in gray sweats and skates on a pond. His face was a contrast with his thin upper body: full cheeks, hearty eyes, and an unusually dark complexion. A red-and-white chimney encased in scaffolding and the top of a cement tomb loomed above the trees on the horizon.

Nadia’s mother grabbed the picture and bristled. “Look at this boy. He doesn’t even look Ukrainian. He looks more like one of those Mongolian reindeer people. Pathetic. You’d think whoever’s trying to pull this scam on me would have put a nice-looking Ukrainian boy on ice skates. Like Wayne Gretzky.”

The third letter was dated April 2. That was two weeks before the man posing as Milan had called Nadia to set up a meeting. The handwriting was so weak it was almost illegible.

Dear Vera,

A friend of mine has some very important information that he must share with someone who can be trusted. We are surrounded by scavengers, killers, and thieves. I am told by an old friend in America that your daughter is a person of integrity. That she can be trusted. Please ask her to call Clementine immediately. I beg you.

The fate of the free world depends on it.

Damian

He had scribbled Clementine Seelick’s address and cell phone number again at the bottom of the note.

“There’s no mention of his son this time,” Nadia said, hearing the disappointment in her voice. “As though that was just a pretense to start a dialogue with you. And there was no more time for games.”

Her mother scoffed. “There is no Adam. There is no Damian.
Fate of the free world
? Spare me. I can see it now. Once you get there, they’ll tell you they need fifty thousand dollars in fees to release the money or something Nigerian like that. It’s a scam, Nadia. Don’t get sucked into it.”

Nadia wasn’t so sure. “What about the kissing under the apple cart? Did that really happen?”

“Well…” Nadia’s mother swallowed, blushed, and looked away. “It just can’t be him.”

“Who else would know a detail like that? Who would remember it?”

“Someone Damian confided in as a boy. Some other con artist.”

“Who surfaces now? Fifty years later?”

Nadia’s mother stared into space for a second. “Maybe it’s him, then.” She turned back to Nadia with a fierce expression. “And
he’s
the one that’s going to rip you off.”

Nadia knew there was only one way to be certain. “Do you have a pen and some paper? I need to copy this woman’s name and phone number.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Why?”

“I already called it. Three times.”

“And?”

“It’s a beauty salon. They’ve never heard of any Clementine Seelick. I spoke with a hairdresser, the bookkeeper, and the owner. Nothing.”

Nadia shook her head. “That makes no sense.”

Her mother wasn’t so cynical now, though. “You came here asking about Damian. It’s too much of a coincidence. Why? What’s this business with Victor Bodnar?”

“Do you know anything about the ten million dollars Damian stole?”

Nadia’s mother’s eyes shot up. “Ten million…” Her breath expired before she could finish the sentence. “He stole
ten million dollars
?”

Nadia pulled out her checkbook. “I’m writing you a check for fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Finally.”

“Get out of town. Take one of your many male suitors and go on a vacation. Preferably out of the country. I don’t want to scare you, but it may be dangerous for you to stay here. I did the same for Marko, but he tore it into pieces.”

She took the check, folded it in half, and stuffed it deep in her bosom.

Her mother was always practical. “Your brother’s an idiot,” she said. “My daughter’s wish is my command.”

CHAPTER 17

A
RESTLESS CROWD
watched the Amtrak departure board overhead at Penn Station. Some carried briefcases, others dragged suitcases. None looked happy.

The bars on the board spun forward and rotated. The revolving numbers sounded like a giant roulette wheel. One of the bars landed on the 8:45 a.m. Empire State to Albany. It was now boarding at Gate 13A.

Victor handed Tara a fanny pack. “Wrap this around your waist under your coat. There’s two thousand dollars in it. Another seven thousand was wired into your bank account this morning.”

“Victor—”

“A woman will meet you at the train station. She will take you to her home in a town called Voorheesville. When it is safe for you to come home, your aunt will call you from New York. Until then, you must not speak to anyone. Otherwise, Misha will find you, and you will never be free from him.”

“Okay, I understand. But what about you? Here,” she said, pushing the fanny pack into his chest. “This is too much.”

“No, it’s not. You see…I need you to do me a favor.”

Tara hesitated. “What kind of favor?”

Victor reached down and picked up what looked like a small duffel bag. One end was vented. He unzipped the other. A
black-and-white cat poked its head out and chirped like a parakeet at Tara.

“I need you to take care of him for me,” Victor said. “I have no one else.”

Tara froze, mouth open, as though she weren’t a cat person but didn’t want to admit it. “Why can’t you take care of him?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to be traveling soon. He answers to Damian, but you can call him whatever you want. He’s a good boy.”

Tara swallowed and forced a smile. “Okay. I’ll take care of him. Damian and my baby will be friends.”

“That would be…so nice. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He took a final look at Damian and zipped up the carrier. Tara reached out and grasped it by its strap.

“You have it?” Victor said.

“Yes, I have it.”

“Because he doesn’t like to be dropped.”

Tara laughed and tightened her grip. “Yes, Victor. I have it.”

Victor let go of the strap. His hand fell to his side, still clutching an imaginary strap. He handed her a second bag that contained some food, the cat’s favorite toys, and its vaccination history.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a porter to help you with your suitcases.”

Victor walked away. He resisted the urge to turn back. To tell her how much joy she’d brought him the three times he’d seen her. Instead, he found a man in a red cap pushing a trolley. He gave him twenty dollars and asked him to help Tara board the train early. Afterward, Victor did not return to say good-bye to Tara.

Instead, he circled the waiting area until he found an intense young woman in a business suit typing away like a nutcase into one of those small phone-like contraptions everyone is obsessed with these days. She was sitting in a corner
against a wall. Perfect. Victor slipped behind a support beam, removed his right arm from its jacket sleeve, and replaced the coat around his shoulder.

He sat down beside the woman. She paid no attention to him. With the sleeve of his jacket hanging by her side as it normally would, Victor slipped his right arm around her waist. He dipped into her purse, rummaged around, and lifted her wallet. The entire exercise took ten seconds.

Victor tucked the wallet inside his jacket and sauntered out of the waiting area. He looked around. The police weren’t rushing from their booth toward him. No one sounded an alarm.

He wiped a trace of sweat off his brow. Just like the old days in Kyiv Central Station.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, after returning to the waiting area. “I think you dropped this.”

The startled young woman took her wallet and thanked him profusely. Victor bowed slightly and walked away.

He still had it. After all these years, he still had the edge. Good.

He was going to need it.

CHAPTER 18

N
ADIA CLIMBED THE
hilltop to the carousel in Central Park at 10:00 on a crisp morning. A smattering of children gathered with their nannies and parents at the ticket window. A vendor sold popcorn and cheap T-shirts featuring a prancing horse. People crisscrossed the path below toward the skating rink or the zoo.

Nadia’s optimal course of action was obvious. Still, she was having trouble picturing herself on a plane, landing in Ukraine, and walking the streets of Kyiv. She spoke the language well enough, but she’d be a stranger in a foreign land. She needed the money to solve her troubles, though, and now that its mystery was wrapped in her family history, she couldn’t resist the temptation to see it through to her ancestral homeland.

She found her attorney, Johnny Tanner, waiting on a bench. She’d met him a year ago when she accidentally walked into an airport with a gun in her bag. Johnny had gotten the charges reduced to a misdemeanor. A fine and probation. He wore a ponytail, a black pinstripe suit, and a look of unequivocal dread.

He started reading from a file as soon as Nadia sat down.

“Misha’s full name is Mikhail Markov,” Johnny said. “Thirty-eight. Born in Moscow. Immigrated at age seven. Grew up in Brighton Beach. He’s been investigated for gasoline sales-tax
evasion, prostitution, extortion, murder, and selling a Russian submarine to the Colombians. Two priors for assault. Did six months at Mohawk Correctional.”

“Extortion and murder,” Nadia said, swallowing hard. “What about Victor Bodnar?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Brad Specter?”

“Master’s degree in art history from Rutgers. Convicted of fraud for selling art forgeries. Did two years in Mohawk at the same time as Misha.”

At the carousel, a homely girl and her young father climbed atop a pair of emerald-and-silver horses with cherry tongues hanging out of their mouths.

“I have to find the money to pay these people,” Nadia said. “There’s no running away from them.”

“You’re kidding yourself, Nadia. Once they start squeezing, they’ll never stop.”

“No, you’re wrong. The old man, Victor Bodnar, he’s different. I don’t know why, but I trust him. They just want to be compensated for their antiques business in their own sick and twisted way.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes. But I hear you. I may be wrong. So I’m going to try it my way. If I find the money to pay them and they keep squeezing, then I’m going to the cops. In the meantime, I have to follow this trail on my own. If they’re with me when I find the money, there’s too big a risk they’ll kill me and take everything. Whatever it is, cash or commodity, I have to bring it to America, make it my own, and then pay them. Otherwise, I’m as good as dead.”

An organ-based version of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” started up. The carousel began to turn.

Johnny said, “So you really want to go through with this?”

Nadia watched the carousel. “I have no choice.” It was a snap decision, the kind that had made her career on Wall Street, based on a decisiveness she’d inherited from her father.

“As your attorney, I have to advise against this. You should go to the police and the FBI and tell them what happened. That business with the stolen-art ring was dangerous last year. But this thing…with these people…”