The Boy from Reactor 4

The man swallowed deeply. He handed Specter the bag. Backpedaled slowly and joined Kolya and the woman. They turned and hustled toward the metro station.

“What are you doing here? When did you get here?” Nadia said.

Specter walked calmly to Nadia and returned her bag to her. “Please get in the car, Nadia. Your life is in danger.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. How did you know they weren’t cops?”

“Cops don’t hassle Caucasian tourists anymore. And if they did, they’d be wearing uniforms.”

“How did you get here so fast? I had a head start.”

“I was on the KLM flight with you.”

“What? But I… I searched the entire cabin. Even business. How could I have missed you?”

“I was in the backseat by the bathroom and the galley. I could duck into either when I saw you move. And you didn’t have a head start. I was tailing you the entire time. I saw you and your friend in Central Park. The guy with the ponytail.”

“Why did you stop to help me?” Nadia said.

Specter hesitated. “Just doing my job. Protecting Misha’s investment. Who lives at Yaroslaviv Val?”

“Ask the super.”

“I did.”

“Then you should know who lives there.”

“He wouldn’t tell me. I’m a foreigner, and I don’t speak Ukrainian. He said if I want to speak Russian to go to St. Petersburg and slammed the door in my face.”

“Yeah, he does that.”

“The man who got shot on Seventh Street,” Specter said. “He said something else to you, didn’t he? I could tell at Victor’s. I could tell you were holding back.”

Fate of the free world.

“No. I said it like it was.”

“Why did you run? Why did you piss Misha off? Don’t you understand that the way you’re playing it now, you’re dead no matter what?”

“Until he finds Damian, Andrew Steen, and the money, he needs me. I have the only lead. Which means you need me.”

“What did the man who got shot really whisper in your ear?” he persisted. “Who told you Damian is alive? Who lives at Yaroslaviv Val? If you tell me, I’ll help you get out of the country and get lost for a while. Eventually, Misha will move on to something else and forget about you. We’re like that. Sicilians, they remember and hunt. Ukes, we let go and move on. Tribal difference. Our ancestors suffered ten centuries of oppression. Letting go and moving on is in our genes.”

“Why would you do that for me? Why would you help me?”

Specter paused and looked away. “So I don’t have to do what I’m supposed to do once we find the money.”

“What are you supposed to do if you find the money?”

He turned back to Nadia with a blank expression on his face, the same one he’d shown her in Victor’s courtroom when he first walked in.

“Kill you.”

CHAPTER 23

ANDREW STEEN, THE gray-haired elder statesman who wore tailored British suits, didn’t rattle easily, in Kirilo’s experience, but he was fidgeting in his seat tonight.

“For the third time,” Steen said, “I don’t have any clients named Tesla. I have a very profitable business. Why would I possibly lie?”

The evening had begun well but was deteriorating quickly. After a pleasant dinner at a steak house, Kirilo invited Steen and Misha to an old section of Kyiv called Podil. Curved streets wound around churches, cathedrals, and antique merchant homes. The River Palace was a private casino in a fancy old mansion constructed with marble columns. Sculptures of crocodiles, frogs, and nymphs surrounded the house as though they’d crept out of the nearby Dnipro.

Steen, Misha, and Kirilo reclined in crushed-velvet chairs in the soundproof VIP room, overlooking the seven gaming tables through a one-way window. The bodyguards, lubricated with bottles of vodka, busied themselves at the blackjack tables below.

Kirilo had the VIP room prepared for a business meeting beforehand. The temperature was cold enough to store fur, just in case tempers boiled over. A Eurasian minx in a conservative black suit served drinks. Kirilo chose horilka, Ukrainian whiskey. Misha drank vodka. Steen chose Coca-Cola Light and turned the color of a beet.

“I apologize, gentlemen,” he said. “I can’t consume any alcoholic beverages because of certain medication I’m taking.”

It was a lame excuse and a sign of weakness, Kirilo thought. The man couldn’t hold a single drink.

When they first arrived, Kirilo decided to sit back and enjoy the sparring for a while. Now, however, he sensed it was escalating toward physical violence. Just as well. Misha Markov reminded him of a handsome British television presenter he’d always wanted to pummel.

“Let’s see your client roster,” Misha said.

“That’s out of the question,” Steen said. “It’s confidential. Look, you’re obviously an important man. I respect you. The last thing I need is for you to make life difficult for me.”

Misha said, “You’re a Jew in Ukraine. You don’t need me to make life more difficult for you.”

“Hey.” Kirilo wagged a finger at Misha. “You’re a guest here. Watch your language.”

Misha’s grin widened, giving him the look of someone who needed psychiatric care. “Don’t wave your finger at me, doob.”