The Boy from Reactor 4

Karel stuck out his chest. “It’s one of the world’s best-kept secrets. The Zone is the greatest wildlife preserve in Europe, and the second best in the entire former Soviet Union.”

“You’re kidding me. How is that possible?” Nadia said.

“The common theory is that the absence of man has triumphed over the presence of radioactivity. We have formerly extinct species of wild boar and lynx. Wild horses roam the steppe. Storks nest low, unafraid of human predators. Insects, birds, wolves, rodents. We have species we never had before. Like the lynx. We have species the world hasn’t seen for a century.”

“That is amazing,” Nadia said. “Has word gotten out about this? Do you have poachers hunting for these animals?”

Karel’s right eye twitched. “Poachers? Here? No,” he said, swatting the idea away. “Sometimes a drunken idiot may go after a wild boar for sport, but that is all. There is no crime in the Zone.”

His brandy arrived. He knocked back a third right away and ended up pressed against the side of Nadia’s hip. She tried to retreat, but her back was already up against the wall.

“So what do you do, Karel? And who are all these people?”

“I am a zoologist,” he said. He gestured toward the newlyweds with drunken inaccuracy. “The others at our table are botanists and scientists who conduct ecological experiments for the government.” He motioned toward the men and women in camos. “Then there are the scientists who work in the Shelter.”

“The Shelter?”

“The sarcophagus that covers Unit Four. Here, we call it the Shelter.”

“Ah.”

“No one knows what those people really do in the Shelter. All we know about one another is that we are all volunteers. None of us have to be here. But there is no other place that we would rather be.”

Nadia looked around the café. The party was devoid of pretension. People were just plain having fun.

Nadia raised her beer. “To the Zone,” she said, and clinked her glass against Karel’s snifter.

“To the Zone.”

They finished their drinks. Nadia glanced at her watch. It was 10:17. Hayder was due in thirteen minutes.

Karel leaned into her unsteadily, his breath reeking. “I will share a secret with you, if you share one with me.” He pulled back and did a little jig in place with eager anticipation.

Nadia laughed. “Okay.”

He leaned forward. “There may be a little crime in the Zone.” He raised his right hand and left an inch gap between thumb and forefinger. “Just a little,” he whispered.

Nadia laughed again. “If there is more than one human being in a place, there will be crime. Now, let me think. What kind of secret can I tell you?”

Karel raised a drunken finger. “I have a suggestion.” He leaned into her ear one more time. “True or false. You are not really a reporter, are you?”

“What? Of course I am. Why do you say that?”

His voice shed its alcoholic tinge. “Because your name is Nadia Tesla and you have come to see a man named Damian about the fate of the free world.”

CHAPTER 39

KIRILO MARCHED DOWN the pier at the Yalta Yacht Club flanked by the two bodyguards who had accompanied him on the helicopter from Kyiv. Splashes of moonlight shimmered on the Black Sea.

A pair of identical twins chatted up a trio of girls beside his neighbor’s yacht. They were tall, with golden hair and sparkling smiles, young posers who would benefit from a conversation with his cattle prod, like his scumbag future son-in-law.

He boarded his eighty-two-foot yacht and took a deep breath. “Isabella?” he called.

Pavel appeared on the main deck. “Still no sign of her, Boss.”

“Something’s wrong. Something’s happened to her.”

“How can you be sure, Boss? She might be out with friends or at a movie.”

“We have a pact. She never turns her cell phone off. And if she’s late, she always calls.” He glanced at his diamond-studded watch. “She was supposed to be here at nine o’clock for a late supper. To discuss the meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow. She’s an hour late. Did you call her best friends? Ivanka and Marta?”

Pavel shook his head.

“Why not? Call them. Call them now, dammit.” He started toward his office and stopped. “Anything on the taxi driver?”

“Not yet,” Pavel said. “We’re working on it.”

Kirilo looked out at the water. A green dinghy floated freely ten meters from his yacht.

“Look,” Kirilo said, pointing at the rowboat. “Those idiots at the club let one get away again. It’s going to hit us.” When Pavel didn’t react, he said, “It’s going to hit us, I tell you. Is anyone on this boat awake, or should I just have all of you shot and thrown overboard?”

Pavel and a crewman rushed starboard. Kirilo stomped to his office port side and locked the door behind him. The stereo dispensed a soothing dose of Mozart. The television monitor, linked to his computer, projected a portrait of Isabella at age sixteen. Reluctant eyes and unblemished cheeks, hands demurely folded in her lap.

Pictures lied. Isabella wasn’t all that. Daughters lied. She hated the pearls, thought they were a joke. Mozart lied. Life was no symphony.