Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

Steen, Misha, and Kirilo reclined in crushed-velvet chairs in the soundproof VIP room, overlooking the seven gaming tables through a one-way window. The bodyguards, lubricated with bottles of vodka, busied themselves at the blackjack tables below.

Kirilo had the VIP room prepared for a business meeting beforehand. The temperature was cold enough to store fur, just in case tempers boiled over. A Eurasian minx in a conservative black suit served drinks. Kirilo chose horilka , Ukrainian whiskey. Misha drank vodka. Steen chose Coca-Cola Light and turned the color of a beet.

“I apologize, gentlemen,” he said. “I can’t consume any alcoholic beverages because of certain medication I’m taking.”

It was a lame excuse and a sign of weakness, Kirilo thought. The man couldn’t hold a single drink.

When they first arrived, Kirilo decided to sit back and enjoy the sparring for a while. Now, however, he sensed it was escalating toward physical violence. Just as well. Misha Markov reminded him of a handsome British television presenter he’d always wanted to pummel.

“Let’s see your client roster,” Misha said.

“That’s out of the question,” Steen said. “It’s confidential. Look, you’re obviously an important man. I respect you. The last thing I need is for you to make life difficult for me.”

Misha said, “You’re a Jew in Ukraine. You don’t need me to make life more difficult for you.”

“Hey.” Kirilo wagged a finger at Misha. “You’re a guest here. Watch your language.”

Misha’s grin widened, giving him the look of someone who needed psychiatric care. “Don’t wave your finger at me, doob .”

Kirilo’s ears rang. Doob was the word for “oak,” and Russian slang for “dumb Ukrainian.” Arrogant Muscovite pig. “Hey, moscal ,” Kirilo said. “Did you just call me a doob ?”

“What?” Misha exaggerated a look of horror. “No. You must have heard me wrong. I would never call you a doob . You’re the son of my father’s slaves. My father would never hire dumb slaves.”

Kirilo burst out laughing, trying his hardest to sound genuinely entertained.

“ Andreyu ,” he said to Steen, using the familiar version of his first name. “Would you step outside for a moment and give us some privacy?”

Kirilo escorted Steen to the door and closed it behind him.

Misha grinned as Kirilo circled around him, pretending to be going to the bar for a refill of horilka . Instead, Kirilo wrapped his arm around Misha’s neck. Secured it in a choke hold.

“Fight me and I’ll snap your neck in half,” Kirilo said.

Misha froze, the grin finally off his face. Kirilo applied pressure to the carotid arteries. Misha gripped the crook of his arm with both hands but didn’t fight him.

“You’re going to pass out in twenty seconds,” Kirilo said. “And then I’m going to teach you a lesson in manners, moscal .”

“Thank you,” Misha stammered.

Kirilo eased up on the pressure and laughed. “What did you say? Did you say ‘thank you’?”

Misha struggled to form words. “Thank you… for the privacy. I knew you’d come through for me.”

Kirilo reapplied the pressure. “Come through for you? What are you talking about?” Kirilo burst with laughter. “Listen to this moscal .”

Misha tapped Kirilo’s arm with his fingertips. The tapping was so gentle, born of such confidence, that Kirilo eased up out of sheer curiosity.

“Your cousin,” Misha managed to say.

Kirilo eased up some more. “What?”

“I know your cousin in America. He goes by the name of Victor Bodnar.”

Kirilo released his grip.

Misha took a deep breath and rubbed his neck. “The courier you sent with a gift didn’t do so well.”

“You know my cousin?”

Misha sat up. All traces of the shit-eating grin were gone. “He trusts me. I’m sure I could arrange an unexpected reunion between the two of you.”

Kirilo stepped aside. Let his pulse slow and digested Misha’s revelation. “Interesting,” he said, circling to Misha’s front. “You know, you are a resourceful young man.”

“So who is this Tesla you’re looking for?” Kirilo said. “What’s his first name?”

“Damian.”

“Damian Tesla? Huh,” Kirilo said. “I knew a man by that name once, but he died.”

“He’s alive,” Misha said.

“Impossible.”

“It’s true.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?”

“This Damian was well-known in certain circles. His business associates died in an accident involving a truckload of hot asphalt.”

Kirilo was struck dumb. “I’ll be damned. The ten million dollars.”

“Exactly. I know his niece. She was recently told Damian is dying and has ten million dollars for her. I can offer you ten percent to help me find it. And a reunion with cousin Victor.”

“Twenty percent.”

“Done. We just need to be certain that Steen is telling the truth.”

“He is. If he knew something, he would have told me.”

“There’s believing, and then there’s knowing.”

Kirilo sighed. He’d known Steen for close to ten years, but $2 million would pay for Isabella’s wedding and the disco in London.

He walked to his overcoat, removed the cattle prod from its pocket, and started toward the door.

“What can you do?” he said as he fired it up. “Accidents happen.”

VARVARA, THE DECORATIVE black pig with golden earrings, welcomed guests to Varenichnaya No. 1 from atop its podium near the entrance. In the dining hall, old wall clocks hung beside lace curtains. They mixed with porcelain knick-knacks to give the restaurant the feel of a pristine rural kitchen within a Ukrainian antique shop.

Nadia sank her teeth into a varenik sautéed in butter and bacon and filled with farmer’s cheese. As the oversized ravioli melted in her mouth, her eyes watered.

Anton Medved, the taxi driver, grinned from across the table. “They have twenty-one flavors. When you told me you were a fiend for vareniky —hey, why are you crying?”

“It’s so good,” Nadia said after swallowing. She glanced around the restaurant, still amazed she was here, in her parents’ homeland. “My best memories from childhood are the food my mother used to make. No one screamed or yelled or… Everyone was happy when they had a varenik in their mouth.”

A little after 9:00, the casual restaurant was filled with an eclectic mix of people. Regardless of age or demographic, they were all well dressed.

“The average annual salary in Kyiv is three thousand US,” Anton said, “but a Ukrainian will still put on his best clothes when he goes out for any reason.”

“I noticed,” Nadia said. “Even the criminals dress well.”

Anton stopped dipping his blueberry varenik in sour cream and raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

Nadia told him about her incident with the supposed drug dealer and police. She pretended Specter was a Good Samaritan who had helped her escape.

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” Anton said. “You’re from the States. You have police that protect people.”

“And what, you don’t?”

Anton sighed. “You know what the slang word for ‘police’ is in Ukraine?”

Nadia shook her head

“ Musor . You know what musor is?”

Nadia shook her head again.

“ Musor is ‘rubbish.’ That is the reputation of law enforcement in Ukraine. But hey, this is Kyiv, and in Kyiv, we have a saying: things will get better. In the meantime, you have to take care of yourself while you are here. Remember, Ukrainians are the greatest con artists in the world.”