Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

They moved to a small table in the center of the store. A tall stack of old books without dust jackets rested atop it. Obon took a plastic cover from an open box and folded it around the binding of the first book.

“You’re a reporter?” he said. “For what newspaper?”

“Not newspaper.” This was the first time she was being asked about her credentials since she’d been fired. “I did work for a newspaper in college. No, television. I’m a reporter for a television network,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I don’t watch television. I have one. I used to watch it when the president talked to the country, but it doesn’t get any channels anymore.”

“You don’t have cable?”

“Too expensive.”

“You’re right. It is.”

“If you work for a television network, you must be a famous person. Perhaps I should have recognized you when you walked in.”

“No, no—”

“If that is so I apologize. What television network do you work for?”

“The Sports Network.”

Obon finished attaching the binding to the book and started a second pile. “Sports? Is this Nadia Tesla a sportsman?”

“A sportsman?”

Obon smiled and nodded. “Yes. A gymnast or an archer, perhaps.”

“No, she’s not that kind of sportsman.”

“Then why are you looking for her?”

“I’m looking for her because I’m doing a story on a young hockey player from Fordham Prep School. His name is Bobby Kungenook. She’s his guardian.”

Obon stopped working. “Bobby Kungenook? Now that name I’ve heard before.”

Lauren couldn’t believe it. “You have?” She touched his shoulder. He deserved some Emma Peel for the mere suggestion he knew the kid. “How? Where? And why?”

He laughed. “That’s too many questions at once for an old man.” He turned pensive. “I’m not sure where I heard the name.” He snapped his fingers. “No. I am sure. Yes I am. I was playing chess with an old friend in the park the other day when the name came up. But I can’t remember how it came up.”

“Think about it for a moment, please.”

He immersed himself in thought. His breathing turned heavy, his face darkened, and he looked as though he was going to be sick. “I wish I could remember the particulars of the conversation,” he said. “But I can’t.”

Lauren put her hand on his shoulder again. “It’s okay, Mr. Obon. Thank you for trying. Who’s your friend?”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Your friend. The one you played chess with when Bobby Kungenook’s name came up. I’d like to talk to him.”

His face lit up. “Of course. That’s a brilliant idea.” He retrieved a pencil and some paper. “He’s a wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoon. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He lives a few blocks away. This is his address.”

Obon slid a piece of paper to Lauren.

“What’s his name?” she said.

“Bodnar. His name is Victor Bodnar.”

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, Nadia hired a hotel car to drive her to the city of Korosten, Bobby’s hometown, ninety-eight miles northwest of Kyiv. Nadia mentioned that she was working on a sensitive business matter, feared being spotted by a member of the financial press, and didn’t want to exit via the front door. Instead, she preferred the driver pick her up in the hotel garage at 7:30 a.m.

She took an otherwise empty elevator directly to the garage. An attendant was driving a car out as she walked in. No other people in sight. There were only fifty-five parking spots. Forty-eight of them were taken. She weaved through the lot and glanced inside each vehicle. They were empty.

After the driver picked her up, Nadia dropped some papers in the foot well of the adjacent rear seat. She ducked beneath the front seats and hid from view as the car pulled onto the street. Didn’t rise for air until he’d made two turns. To her knowledge, no one had seen her in the hotel or the garage. She had no tangible reason to suspect someone was watching her but she assumed the worst. Last year her pursuers had planted a GPS device in her bag at the airport. From then on, paranoia served her well. If someone was watching the vehicles exiting the garage an empty car had pulled out.

Bobby’s hometown was an industrial city with a population of 66,000. It was famous for its potato pancake festival and its close proximity to Chornobyl. After the nuclear disaster on April 26, 1986, Korosten was declared a zone of voluntary evacuation.

Nadia had debated the prudence of going there. On the one hand, she knew little about Bobby’s background. Perhaps an inquiry would reveal some clue pertinent to his relationship with the Valentins. On the other hand, she didn’t want to encourage anyone else to start asking questions. She didn’t want to reveal herself.

Nadia decided to compromise. She would limit her inquiries to his school and the hockey coach who’d raised him. She would approach no one else. Furthermore, where the school was concerned, she would not reveal her true identity.

The driver dropped her off in front of Secondary School Number Four. Bobby had told her which school he’d attended, and Nadia had made an appointment with the administrator yesterday. She was a soft-spoken middle-aged woman named Hanna Figura. She sat behind a bare metal desk with a bouquet of wilting sunflowers. Nadia reminded herself they knew Bobby by his real name here. They knew him as Adam Tesla.

“What is your relation to Adam?” the administrator said.

“I’m his aunt.” She was actually his cousin but they shared a long-running joke that she was his aunt. She liked the idea of being an aunt, she’d told him. Aunts possessed authority with minimum responsibility.

“From?”

“Canada.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. She nodded. “I was going to guess western Ukraine. Or Poland. Not North America. Who taught you to speak?”

“My parents. The community in Toronto.”

“You’re an aunt on the mother’s or father’s side?”

“Father’s side,” Nadia said, sticking to the truth as much as possible. “Not that I ever met him. Or any other relatives in Ukraine. That’s why I’m here. I was researching my family tree. And it seems everyone’s gone. Except perhaps Adam. That’s why I was so disappointed when I called yesterday and you said he disappeared one day.”

Hannah’s smile vanished. “I called his guardian several times. He said the boy ran away. Vanished. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s a child of Chornobyl. You know that, right?”

“No,” Nadia said, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“Where to begin.” Hanna took a deep breath and exhaled. “I only met his guardian once. A surly old brute who played on the Russian Olympic hockey team. He told me some things about Adam’s parents.” Hanna softened her voice. “Did you know Adam’s father?”

“No,” Nadia said. In fact, she’d met him last year a week before he died. “I heard stories, though.”

“That he was…”

“A criminal. A thief. A con man.”

Hanna appeared relieved she wasn’t the one who’d had to use the words. “Adam never mentioned him. And the teachers knew not to ask about him. Some said he’d died. Others said he was in jail. But he must have ended up living off the grid in Chornobyl because that’s where he met Adam’s mother.”

“Who was his mother?” Nadia said. She knew the answer.