The Boy from Reactor 4

“Chernobyl is an old village. It’s also the name of the power station. Pripyat is the name of the town built right next to the reactors to house the workers. The Zone is the Exclusion Zone. It’s a thirty-kilometer radius around the power plant. They set it up right after the disaster. The Zone is radioactive.”

The lure of the money and meeting her uncle helped push the thought of radioactivity out of her mind. “Where and when do I meet him?”

“Give me the money first.”

Nadia considered her options and handed her the checks.

“Tomorrow. Thursday,” Clementine said, backpedaling toward the exit. “Nine p.m. Hotel Polissya. Go to the check-in desk for instructions.”

“Sounds very civil.”

“Remember you said that when you see it.”

They left in opposite directions. Nadia jumped into the passenger seat of Radek’s van, a block away from the museum.

“Radek called,” Anton said. “The truck broke down.”

“What truck?” Nadia said.

“The beer truck where you threw the tracking device. It broke down at the car wash. And Radek stayed to have a drink with the girls instead of leaving right away. They found him. They punched him.”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Anton. Is he okay?”

“He has a broken nose. He’ll live. They found the tracking device. Radek and his girls got away in the taxi while they were looking for it.”

Anton powered onto the expressway.

Nadia summarized the meeting with Clementine. Anton remained mute when she told him she was supposed to meet Damian in Pripyat.

“You’re not saying anything,” Nadia said.

“There is nothing to say,” Anton said quietly. “That is not a place we talk about.”

“Is it even safe to go there at all? Do I risk contamination?”

Anton lowered his voice. He did not turn to look at Nadia. “If you talk about it, if you ask questions about radioactivity, no. It will not be safe for you. You may get sick. But if you don’t talk about it, if you don’t ask questions and you follow the rules there, you will be fine.”

“I…I don’t understand. Why won’t it be safe if I ask questions about it?”

“That’s how it is. You talk about it, things go bad. You keep quiet, everything is fine. Trust me, it works.”

“Is there a train or bus that goes there?”

“No. You have to go with a licensed tour, and you have to have a guide with you at all times. Technically, you can apply for a pass from the government, but it would take several weeks and good luck getting one. When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

Anton laughed. “There is no way. Even if you broke away from the tour—which is impossible—everyone is back on the bus by midafternoon.”

“That means I have to sneak in somehow.”

“That is not a good idea. There are checkpoints with armed militia. No one gets in and out without permission. No one stays overnight except licensed workers. Children under the age of sixteen aren’t even allowed to visit more often than once a year. You don’t want to stay overnight.”

“Great. Surefire proof the risk of contamination is low. Do you know anyone who can help me get in there tomorrow night?”

Anton didn’t answer.

“Do you?”

“I might know someone.”

“Can you introduce me to him? Please?”

Still he didn’t answer.

Nadia squeezed his arm. “Please?”

Anton sighed with exasperation. “Have I ever refused you anything, Half of Paradise?”

CHAPTER 32

VICTOR BODNAR SAT in the back of the old Land Cruiser, studying the diamonds in the display window of the jewelry store across the street through Russian battlefield binoculars. The airplane’s engines droned in his clogged ears as though he were still in flight. He’d been in constant motion since landing at Boryspil twelve hours ago; he was afraid to lean his head on the window for fear of nodding off.

The Timkiv twins sat up front, eyeing the shiny gold and silver watches in an adjacent display window. They’d told him their first names when he met them, but they were identical, so he’d forgotten them as soon as he heard them. They looked like volleyball players who liked the lens of a camera, with short blond hair that brushed against the truck’s ceiling and easygoing blue eyes.

When Victor first shook their hands, however, their sleeves were rolled up. The tattoos on their forearms told him they were not into fun and games. The brother in the driver’s seat wore the markings of a gun beside the ace of spades, a bottle of vodka, a ten-ruble note, and the profile of a girl with serpents for hair. He was the gun. His twin boasted the same backdrop, but instead of the gun, his tattoo featured three bullets. He was the ammunition. The pictures meant the brothers had spent time at Corrective Labor Colony 4.

The tattoos also meant that separated, the brothers were vulnerable, but together, they were invincible. A powerful vor must have made this assessment in prison and labeled them as such forever.

A beefy security guard in a black suit opened the door to the jewelry store from the inside and allowed a woman to exit. She carried a small white bag, purse, and matching poodle. She disappeared down the boulevard.