The Boy from Reactor 4

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…”

“I appreciate it, Johnny, but my mind is made up. I’m going to get that money before anyone else does.”

“Your next meeting with your probation officer in Jersey is in twenty-five days. Be sure you’re back by then.”

“Twenty-five days? Please. In twenty-five days, I’m treating you to a hamburger and fries at the fast-food restaurant of your choice.”

Johnny managed a smile. “You big spender, you.”

The carousel spun round and round. The little girl stayed two lengths behind her father, unable to catch up to him no matter how much she willed her horse to run faster.

CHAPTER 19

VICTOR SAT AT his usual table, watching exhaust billow from a black SUV through a window beside the entrance to Veselka. Two of Misha’s men sat in the front seats, pounding raspberry blintzes. Inside the restaurant, two other bodyguards sat at the counter across from the dining room, downing pints of pilsner. They blended in with a cross section of New York City: students, artists, lawyers, bureaucrats, and businesspeople.

“Amazov can’t make it,” Misha said, reading from his infuriating little electronic device. “He wants me to fill him in later.”

Misha put the device aside. A sizzling kielbasa appetizer cooled on his plate. He reached for a pickle and studied its texture and color as though judging a contest. He bit off the end and chewed quickly.

“Not bad,” Misha said. “Good garlic. Good crunch. They must have aged it in cold water, not hot. Good spices.”

Victor grimaced. “You eat pickles with kielbasa?”

“I eat pickles with everything, man. Major flavor with zero calories. You can’t beat it with your rhythm stick.”

Victor shook his head and sipped his coffee. They were seated at a table for four in the far corner, Victor with his back against the wall. Misha’s plate smelled of spicy pork and garlic. Victor hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and still wasn’t hungry.

Misha said, “I have an appointment with the money manager, Steen, in Kyiv tomorrow afternoon. I leave on the seven o’clock tonight.”

A pang struck Victor. “Are you sure it’s wise for you to go? I know the city better. I can go in your place, if you’d like.”

Misha grinned. “So you can accidentally disappear with ten million dollars? A sudden attack of Alzheimer’s? I don’t think so, Old School. If Damian has ten million on account that is due his niece—his rightful heir—I’m going to tell him she’s ready to accept delivery of the money. In no uncertain terms.”

A man entered the restaurant and looked around. He wore his hair pulled back in an elastic band like a schoolgirl but had the build of a man who once really worked for a living. The women in the diner looked up from their soups and salads to check out his black suit, which seemed like something an Italian fashion designer or a mortician would wear.

The man dismissed the hostess with a glance and wound his way through the tables toward them.

“Victor Bodnar? Mikhail Misha Markov?” he said, glancing at each of them.

Misha’s men approached quickly from the counter, hands under their coats.

Victor and Misha remained mute.

“There’s been a change in plan. Nadia won’t be joining you for coffee today. My name is Johnny Tanner. She sent me in her place. May I?” He motioned to the chair beside Misha, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down without an invitation. “So, what’s good here?”

Misha motioned for his men to return to their beer.