Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

“She’s still in Russia,” Pavel said.

Kirilo rubbed his hands together.

Misha said, “Why didn’t anyone tell us earlier she left the country?”

Pavel shrugged. “This is Ukraine, man. That’s how things work.”

Misha turned to Kirilo. “Why didn’t you have her detained?”

“I don’t want to arouse suspicions, end up sharing the bounty from the formula, or worse. If she’d gone to an airport, she would have been detained. There would have been no choice,” he explained. “If she’s on a train, we can catch her. There’s no need to get the government involved.” He looked at Pavel. “Where is she now?”

“Her visa says she’s staying at the Hotel Ekaterina, but that’s a lie. She bought a ticket for the Trans-Sib. She had to show her passport and visa to buy a ticket. They’ve been flagged.”

“The Trans-Sib?”

Pavel nodded. “Nine twenty-five to Vladivostok.”

Kirilo checked his watch. “It’s midnight in Moscow. See if the jet is available. If not, charter another immediately. Three hours to Moscow, plus one to get through Customs and Passport Control. They have a six-and-a-half-hour lead.”

“We won’t get out tonight,” Pavel said.

Kirilo opened his mouth to shout but realized Pavel was right.

“Airport’s closing, pilot’s out on a Saturday night, we have to file flight plans with Moscow. Even if you make phone calls and pull strings, it will take you all night to find people. Get you nowhere.”

“Set it up for the morning, then. As early as you can make it happen. It’s seven days to Vladivostok. Four to Irkutsk if they wanted to throw a curve and go south from there. She’s not going anywhere fast. Check the train schedule. Find the airports along the way. Plot two courses to intercept. Best case and worst case. You never know with Passport Control in Russia.”

“Trans-Sib? Where the hell is she going?” Misha said. “Ferry from Vladivostok to Japan? Plane to Hawaii and on to San Francisco?”

“That sounds like the longest route possible for her to get home,” Pavel said.

“And the last place anyone would look for her, my friend,” Victor added. “The last place anyone would look.”

His bitch cousin was right, Kirilo thought as the car cratered in and out of a pothole. Everybody lurched inside the car. Victor and Karel remained quiet, but Misha groaned.

“I didn’t think it was possible for a head to hurt this much,” he said.

“How do you feel otherwise?” Kirilo said. “The nausea? The diarrhea?”

Misha shrugged. “Dunno. Not that bad, I guess.”

“Good, good,” Kirilo said, hiding his disappointment.

“But then again, I haven’t been eating.”

“You sure you don’t want something? Some pickles, perhaps?”

Misha glared at him.

Kirilo cackled and slapped him again. “Forgive me, my friend. I couldn’t resist.”

At last, the car pulled to a stop outside a farmhouse. “This is it, Boss,” the driver said.

“Okay,” Kirilo told the others, “we go in fast and we go in hard.”

Kirilo burst inside Damian’s house, pushing the babushka aside. A single lantern flickered in the kitchen.

“Where is he?” Kirilo said.

“Who do you think you are?” the babushka said. “This is my home. Get out. Get out now.”

Kirilo raised his hand to strike her. “Don’t make me ask you twice, old woman.”

The babushka didn’t flinch. “The bedroom,” she said.

Kirilo motioned for his driver to go first. Kirilo followed, his bodyguard’s flashlight illuminating the path.

Kirilo marched into Damian’s room, confident he could get the old man to talk. He had a son. That meant he had a weakness Kirilo could exploit, just as Victor had done with him. Kirilo’s driver found a lantern and lit it.

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.”