Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

“Radek called,” Anton said. “The truck broke down.”

“What truck?” Nadia said.

“The beer truck where you threw the tracking device. It broke down at the car wash. And Radek stayed to have a drink with the girls instead of leaving right away. They found him. They punched him.”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Anton. Is he okay?”

“He has a broken nose. He’ll live. They found the tracking device. Radek and his girls got away in the taxi while they were looking for it.”

Anton powered onto the expressway.

Nadia summarized the meeting with Clementine. Anton remained mute when she told him she was supposed to meet Damian in Pripyat.

“You’re not saying anything,” Nadia said.

“There is nothing to say,” Anton said quietly. “That is not a place we talk about.”

“Is it even safe to go there at all? Do I risk contamination?”

Anton lowered his voice. He did not turn to look at Nadia. “If you talk about it, if you ask questions about radioactivity, no. It will not be safe for you. You may get sick. But if you don’t talk about it, if you don’t ask questions and you follow the rules there, you will be fine.”

“I… I don’t understand. Why won’t it be safe if I ask questions about it?”

“That’s how it is. You talk about it, things go bad. You keep quiet, everything is fine. Trust me, it works.”

“Is there a train or bus that goes there?”

“No. You have to go with a licensed tour, and you have to have a guide with you at all times. Technically, you can apply for a pass from the government, but it would take several weeks and good luck getting one. When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

Anton laughed. “There is no way. Even if you broke away from the tour—which is impossible—everyone is back on the bus by midafternoon.”

“That means I have to sneak in somehow.”

“That is not a good idea. There are checkpoints with armed militia. No one gets in and out without permission. No one stays overnight except licensed workers. Children under the age of sixteen aren’t even allowed to visit more often than once a year. You don’t want to stay overnight.”

“Great. Surefire proof the risk of contamination is low. Do you know anyone who can help me get in there tomorrow night?”

Anton didn’t answer.

“Do you?”

“I might know someone.”

“Can you introduce me to him? Please?”

Still he didn’t answer.

Nadia squeezed his arm. “Please?”

Anton sighed with exasperation. “Have I ever refused you anything, Half of Paradise?”

VICTOR BODNAR SAT in the back of the old Land Cruiser, studying the diamonds in the display window of the jewelry store across the street through Russian battlefield binoculars. The airplane’s engines droned in his clogged ears as though he were still in flight. He’d been in constant motion since landing at Boryspil twelve hours ago; he was afraid to lean his head on the window for fear of nodding off.

The Timkiv twins sat up front, eyeing the shiny gold and silver watches in an adjacent display window. They’d told him their first names when he met them, but they were identical, so he’d forgotten them as soon as he heard them. They looked like volleyball players who liked the lens of a camera, with short blond hair that brushed against the truck’s ceiling and easygoing blue eyes.

When Victor first shook their hands, however, their sleeves were rolled up. The tattoos on their forearms told him they were not into fun and games. The brother in the driver’s seat wore the markings of a gun beside the ace of spades, a bottle of vodka, a ten-ruble note, and the profile of a girl with serpents for hair. He was the gun. His twin boasted the same backdrop, but instead of the gun, his tattoo featured three bullets. He was the ammunition. The pictures meant the brothers had spent time at Corrective Labor Colony 4.

The tattoos also meant that separated, the brothers were vulnerable, but together, they were invincible. A powerful vor must have made this assessment in prison and labeled them as such forever.

A beefy security guard in a black suit opened the door to the jewelry store from the inside and allowed a woman to exit. She carried a small white bag, purse, and matching poodle. She disappeared down the boulevard.

“So how exactly are we going to get the merch?” the Gun said.

“We should do it strong,” the Ammunition said before Victor could answer. “We have the weapons, the manpower, and the element of surprise.”

Victor said, “A thief who uses a gun is not a thief.”

The twins exchanged glances and smiled. “What is he, then?” the Gun said.

“Incompetent,” Victor said.

They laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” the Gun said. “If we don’t do it strong, we could create a diversion instead. A violent one.”

“No one wants to be in a car wreck,” the Ammunition said. “But everyone slows down to watch one.”

“Exactly,” the Gun said. He turned around to face Victor and pointed at the convertible parked a few car lengths away from the jewelry store. “I could ram that Jaguar with the truck. Everyone comes out. All eyes on my brother and me, you and the guys in the van take down the merch.”

Victor sighed. “A diversion like that is no diversion at all.”

“It’s not?” the Gun said, visibly disappointed.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” the Ammunition said.

“A summons for the police.”

The cabin remained silent for a moment.

The Ammunition turned to face Victor also. “Okay. What do you suggest we do?”

“We use the greatest advantage we have at our disposal.”

“Which is?” the Ammunition said.

Victor smiled. “You and your brother’s natural good looks.”

Victor outlined their strategy. When he was done, the Gun called the driver of the van behind them and shared the plan.

Twenty minutes later, three girls burst from the jewelry store, dancing and shrieking down the steps toward the Mercedes. A lithe, dark-haired beauty waved a jewelry box with her right hand.

“I knew it,” she shouted. “They’re worth a fortune.”

Before the girls could climb into their car, the Timkiv brothers strutted down the opposite side of the street. One of them held a map of Yalta in his hand. They waved to the girls.

“Excuse me, gorgeous,” the Ammunition said. “This is Malisleva Street, right?”

The girl with the jewelry box seemed reluctant, as though she didn’t like the attention being diverted from her and her newfound wealth. But her two friends swung their hips eagerly across the street and offered to help with directions.

The girl with the jewelry box started to cross the street to join them. A white van pulled up alongside her Mercedes. Its body shielded the girl and her car from her friends and the Timkiv brothers.

The passenger window was rolled down. A colleague of the Timkiv brothers nodded at the keys in her hand. “Are you leaving? We could sure use your parking spot. We have a delivery to make.”

The girl frowned. “Oh. Okay. Let me pull out.” She turned and lifted the door handle. There was a loud clicking noise as the doors came unlocked.

Two large men came up behind her. One slid a strip of duct tape over her head and covered her mouth. The second corralled her legs and taped them together. They lifted her and tossed her gently into the back of the open van. A third man slammed the door shut from inside.

She shimmied to the wall of the van and twisted to a semi-seated position. Her eyes stretched their sockets as though she were a wounded animal.