Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“We’ll see what Nadia digs up. She’s flying to Kyiv on business. While she’s there, she’s going to look into the old man’s past.”

Bobby sat up in his chair. “No. She can’t do that.”

Johnny stepped toward him. “Why, Bobby? Why can’t she do that?”

“She just can’t. She must not. She must not do that.”

“Why?”

Bobby sprang to his feet. His cheeks swelled. “Because they’ll kill her. You’ve got to stop her. Are you listening to me? You’ve got to stop her now.”

“It’s too late. She got on the plane after she called me.”

Bobby collapsed into his chair. He didn’t say anything more.

Outside the prison, Johnny called Nadia and left her a voice mail about what Bobby had said. She would hear it when she landed in Kyiv. Then he left Rikers Island, two of his predictions fulfilled. First, the kid had spoken and left his mark. Second, concern had turned to dread. A boy’s past threatened a woman’s life. Her predicament struck fear in a man’s heart.

But it was Nadia, not Iryna, who was in danger. And it was Johnny who felt helpless.

THE SCENE AT Passport Control at Terminal F at Boryspil Airport resembled a rugby scrum. Arriving passengers jockeyed for position among six lines. People argued in Russian and Ukrainian. Nadia had negotiated the scrum last year during her first visit to Kyiv. It took her two and a half hours to pass through immigration and find her baggage at another terminal.

She sliced her way between two lines to a desk surrounded by two columns. Grabbed two customs forms and turned to Marko. She had Johnny to thank or blame for Marko’s company. She wasn’t sure which word applied yet. He’d been her big brother when they were kids but as adults they’d grown apart. She worked as a financial analyst, he owned a strip club. More importantly in this situation, she prided herself on proper conduct while traveling in a professional capacity. She was concerned her brother wouldn’t share that philosophy. Still, having him with her made her feel more secure. And two people could investigate faster than one.

She caught his eye and motioned toward an empty line without a border official. “That’s us,” she said.

Marko stood staring at the scrum. “This is a joke, man.”

“Marko.” She nodded toward the vacant line. “Move. Before someone else gets there first.”

“That line’s closed.”

“It’s VIP. It was recently added for government officials, dignitaries, and other important visitors.”

Marko raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“You’re underestimating your sister. Let’s go.”

He followed her toward the vacant line.

Nadia and Marko had spoken Ukrainian since childhood. In Nadia’s experience, the choice of language defined a relationship. Switching to English would have felt awkward. Yet that’s exactly what they’d agreed to do once they landed in Kyiv. It reduced the risk of eavesdropping. Now that they’d exchanged words in English for the first time in their lives, Nadia realized the experience wasn’t as strange as she thought it would be. It was far worse. Changing languages removed intimacy. It was as though they’d have to get to know each other all over again.

The border officials wore pale green uniforms. They looked like relics from the Soviet era. Nadia had heard stories ad nauseam from her father about the KGB. For her, the uniforms echoed with the sounds of persecution, detention, and torture.

Nadia caught the attention of one of the officers. She gave him a set of VIP credentials, faxed to her by someone from the Orel Group. He studied them and called a supervisor over. The supervisor reviewed the documents. Meanwhile, Nadia and Marko filled out the forms she’d picked up from the desk.

The last time she’d entered the country she was asked a variety of intrusive questions, including her parents’ birthplaces and her political affiliation. This time the border officials didn’t ask any questions. Instead, the supervisor took the forms, stamped Nadia’s and Marko’s passports, and welcomed them to Ukraine.

Nadia and Marko collected their luggage and exited the baggage claim area. Nadia powered on her cell phone to see if she had voice mail. On the other side of the window, the taxi area looked like a bumper car racetrack.

“The taxis are ugly, too,” Marko said. “I read they try to rip you off. Charge you three hundred hryvnia for a trip to Kyiv when you should be paying one-sixty. I may have to kick some ass.”

“No. There will be no ass kicking in Kyiv. I’m here on business. Working for an important man. Your behavior will reflect on me, Marko. Please remember that.”

“You always did take yourself too seriously. But don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you. At least not too much.”

Nadia rolled her eyes. She’d feared having him along was a bad idea and now she was certain it was a mistake. She scanned the crowd of drivers holding signs. A meticulous woman in a corporate suit barged forward. She held a piece of white cardboard with Nadia’s name printed on it in perfect font. Nadia walked over and introduced herself.

“On behalf of the Orel Group,” she said in Russian, “Welcome to Ukraine. Your car is waiting outside.”

Nadia glanced at Marko. Waited for gratitude or a compliment.

“Lucky for you they know who I am over here,” he said.

Nadia rolled her eyes. On the way to the car, Nadia noticed she had a voice mail. She pressed the phone to her ear, turned the volume low, and listened to a message from Johnny.

“Bobby went ape-shit when I showed him old Valentine’s picture,” Johnny said. “Ape-shit. Said you should turn around and come back home immediately. Said your life is in danger. Call me as soon as you get there. I don’t care what time it is.”

She hung up. Marko looked at her, his eyes asking her what the call was about. She had updated him on the basics concerning Bobby’s situation on the plane.

“Johnny,” she said. “According to him, we’re back on the Appalachian Trail.”

Marko nodded. He understood immediately what she meant. Their lives had been in danger on the Appalachian Trail when she’d taken her Ukrainian Girl Scout survival test.

They sat in the back of a stretch limousine. The woman who greeted them slid beside the driver, a fresh-faced male equivalent.

“Evgeny was the finest driver on the Kyiv police force,” the woman said. “Until the Orel Group hired him away. He is very fast, but very safe. We will have you at the Intercontinental in no time.”

The driver guided the car out of the airport. The woman pointed out the bottles of spring water, vodka, and Scotch.

“First time in Ukraine?” she said.

“Not for me,” Nadia said in Russian. She motioned toward Marko. “Yes for him.”

“We were born in America but this is our parents’ homeland,” Marko said in Ukrainian. Unlike Nadia, he didn’t speak Russian. Although some basic words sounded the same, it was impossible to have a deep conversation using both languages. “We were raised in a Ukrainian community. We went to kindergarten speaking only Ukrainian.”

“Your language is amazing,” the woman said, with a crude Ukrainian accent. To a Ukrainian-American, it sounded like ghetto. “Textbook Ukrainian. Like they speak in Lviv. In Western Ukraine.”

“So let me ask you a question,” Marko said.

The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Why are you speaking Russian to me as though I’m in Moscow?”

Nadia kicked Marko in the shin. He’d always been a rabid Ukrainian nationalist within the American community. She understood he hated any sign of Russification but this was not the place to be demonstrative. He glared at her as though he had no choice but to make the comment.