The Boy from Reactor 4

They found a shambles. Thieves had ransacked the room. The mattress was pulled off its box spring. It was sliced in four places, the lining ripped out and strewn all over the room. A bureau sat empty, its drawers pulled out and overturned. Clothes lay scattered. Among them lay the corpse of a small old man. His lips were curled into a slight smile. Blisters festered on his face.

Karel ran in to take his pulse, even though it was clear he was dead.

“Is that him?” Kirilo said.

Karel nodded.

“Huh. I never met the man, but I certainly heard of him,” Kirilo said. “And so I have to ask: How could he end up dead in squalor in a nuclear ghost town? Couldn’t a thief steal a better ending for himself?”

“Maybe he was more concerned about someone else,” Victor said.

Kirilo glanced at the doorway. Misha and Victor had slipped inside.

“You mean he has a son,” Kirilo said.

“Just as you have a daughter,” Victor said.

Whom I am going to find within the hour, you bitch, Kirilo thought.

As Kirilo scanned the wreckage in the room, Victor walked around examining its contents.

“What’s this all about, though?” Kirilo said. “It’s as though someone else is looking for the same thing we are. Where is that babushka?”

A bolt slammed shut. Kirilo recognized the sound of a bullet entering a chamber.

The babushka stood in the doorway with her rifle pointed at Kirilo.

“You’re a rude city bastard,” the babushka said. “I have a place reserved for you beneath my root cellar next to a couple of pet hunters from Kyiv. Come. Let me show it to you.”

She pressed the stock into her armpit and tightened her lips. Kirilo realized she really was going to shoot him. The crazy old woman was going to shoot him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A pair of massive hands reached over the babushka’s shoulders and ripped the weapon out of her hands. Misha’s bodyguard towered over her, his massive frame spilling outside the doorway.

Kirilo exhaled and nodded his thanks. The man nodded back.

Kirilo glared at the babushka. “That wasn’t very hospitable. Fortunately for you, you have some information I require. So let’s all go to the kitchen and talk like civilized people, shall we?”

When Kirilo turned to look at Damian one last time, he saw Victor’s hand on a side table on the opposite side of the bed.

“What’s there?” Kirilo said. “Did you find something?”

Victor picked up a cassette tape. “Petula Clark,” he said in English.

“Who?”

“Petula Clark. English singer. Very popular in America when I first arrived in ’65. You know the song ‘Downtown’?”

“No, but I’ll make sure it’s played at your funeral. Get in the kitchen. Now.”

The babushka turned on a lantern and lit four candles in the kitchen. Kirilo, Victor, and Misha joined her at a wooden dining table.

“What is your name, Babushka?” Kirilo said.

“Oksana Houk.”

“Oksana. Good. I’m sorry to barge into your home in the middle of the night. I understand if you think I’m your adversary. How can you not? But it’s not true. In fact, not only am I not your adversary, I can be your friend.”

Kirilo pulled his billfold out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table. Oksana’s eyes widened when she saw it was stuffed three inches thick with bills.

“Why did you turn the bedroom upside down?” Kirilo said. “What were you looking for?”

Oksana glanced at the billfold.

“Money,” Kirilo said. “You were looking for money. Were you looking for the ten million dollars Damian stole many years ago?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. That money was confiscated by the KGB when they killed three of his men. There is no ten million dollars.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

“A piece of microfilm,” Kirilo said. “With some very valuable information on it.”

Oksana considered his statement and shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any microfilm.”

“Damian didn’t tell her anything,” Karel said. He stood between the two bodyguards. “He only told people what was necessary to get their help. Never enough for them to fully understand what he was planning.”

Kirilo turned his attention back to Oksana. “Did Damian request your help with anything before he died?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. He asked me to clean and polish a locket and necklace that he gave to his son as a keepsake. Other than that—”

“A locket, you say?” Kirilo said. “Interesting. Did he put anything in the locket when you gave it to him?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Kirilo glanced at Victor. They communicated without speaking. They both knew the locket held the microfilm and it was hanging around Damian’s son’s neck.

“What is Damian’s son’s name?” Kirilo said.

“Adam,” Oksana said. “He is from the Zone, so he doesn’t have many friends. But he’s a good boy.”

“I’m sure he is,” Kirilo said. “Where has he gone? Where have he and Nadia Tesla gone?”

“I don’t know.” Oksana’s eyes fell to the billfold again. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

Kirilo tapped her palm with an open hand. “I understand, Babushka. I understand.” He counted ten thousand hryvnia and handed it to her.