Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

Nadia foraged for an honest and congenial answer. “That you are soulful. That you’re rich in family and tradition and, above all else, soulful.”

A murmur of approval surrounded Nadia. The woman glowed.

“A soul must work to survive,” a voice said.

The crowd murmured more approval. Those who were standing parted. A man sprawled at a booth in front of Adam with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass in front of him.

“Since they closed the collective farms in 1991, it’s all gone to shit,” he says.

“Papers,” a woman shouted.

Conversations ceased. Lips formed straight lines. A pair of heels clicked together at the back of the car.

People scurried about. Some escaped into the car ahead. Others returned to their booths or the bar.

A petite woman in a gray military uniform bustled up to Adam with a fierce look on her face, as though he’d trampled her garden. From the neck up, she resembled an aging porcupine, with spiked black hair that sprang from gray roots. A younger man accompanied her. He was tall, with a square face, gaunt cheeks, and a sidearm attached to his belt.

“Papers,” she screamed at Adam. “Where is your guardian?”

Adam lowered his head. He stuttered, “I… I…”

For the first time since Nadia had met Adam, he looked like a child and not a man, one reared to respect and fear authority, like Soviet citizens of the past. An unfamiliar sense of maternal protectiveness sent Nadia springing to her feet.

“Hey,” she said to the cop. “I’m the boy’s guardian. Who are you?”

The woman flashed a legitimate-looking police ID. “You are in Kirov Oblast. We are the police. Passport Control. Papers. Both of you. Do not make me ask you again.”

Nadia turned over her passport and told Adam to do the same.

“Your papers are out of order,” she said after studying Nadia’s passport.

“Why?”

“Because you must register with the local prefecture upon entering Russia. You are in Kirov Oblast. There is no stamp of registration.”

“I’m on a train, just passing through. How am I supposed to register?”

Instead of returning the passports, she clutched them by her side. “You will get off with us at the next stop. You will register at the local prefecture. And you will have to pay a fine.”

Adam shrank in his booth.

“A fine?” Nadia said. The lies of a thief sprang to her mind. “I see. Well, we cannot and will not get off this train. I’m on important business.”

The policewoman smirked. “Oh, really? What kind of business?”

Nadia whipped out her New York City library card. “You see this? It says New York Chronicle . That is the biggest newspaper in America. I went to Moscow to interview Aline Kabaeva. You know Aline Kabaeva? She’s the Olympic gold medalist who’s now a member of parliament and a very close friend of Prime Minister Putin. After writing a story on women in politics in Russia, I’m enjoying your beautiful countryside with my nephew. But you… You don’t want me to enjoy it, do you? You want me to write another story instead?”

The policewoman’s lips quivered as though she didn’t know if she should be angry or afraid. The soldier put his hand on his sidearm uncertainly. He looked from his partner to Nadia and back to her again.

After a momentary pause, she returned the passports. “But you must register,” she grumbled. Her partner followed her to the next car, the badge sewn on his right shoulder barely hanging on by a few threads.

When Nadia turned back, she found Adam staring at her with wonder. She led the way back to their compartment. Worn and weathered passengers loitered in front of their cabins. Smoking was prohibited, but a white cloud hung in the air and the corridor reeked of nicotine. Nadia savored the thrill of outwitting the cop. She was a thief’s daughter. She could wrangle her way out of any situation, couldn’t she? Equally thrilling was the thought that she’d impressed Adam and earned a modicum of respect.

“Was that… Was that all true?” Adam said, close on her heels.

“Was what true?”

“What you said back there. To that musor . Was that all true?”

“Of course it was true. Are you calling your aunt a liar?”

“You’re my cousin, not my aunt.”

“I prefer aunt. It gives me a sense of power with no real responsibility.”

“You’re not my aunt.”

“I disagree.”

“Are you really a reporter? Do you really know Aline Kabaeva?”

“No. But I read an article about her in a New York paper once.”

“Huh?”

When they got to their cabin, Nadia locked the door behind them.

“From now on,” she said, “we don’t leave the room unless we need to use the bathroom. And we watch each other’s back at all times. Agreed?”

Adam hesitated and then nodded. “Agreed.”

KIRILO SLIPPED A five hundred–ruble note to the bartender in the restaurant car.

“Car Three, Cabin Two,” the bartender said, snatching the bill from the counter and burying it in his pocket. “She and the boy.”

“The boy? What boy?” Misha said.

“Ugly boy. Not Russian. Face like a reindeer’s ass after Christmas Eve. Looks like he’s from the North. Not Yakut or Evenk. More like Chukchi. Smells like he’s from the Zone, though.”

“The Zone?” Victor said. “Why do you say that?”

“I worked in Kyiv for twelve years. You get a feeling.” The bartender shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

Misha’s neck buckled. Warned, Kirilo stepped away. Misha vomited. The bartender recoiled. Misha hurled again. Blood mixed with chunks of partially digested chips and nuts. The bartender groaned. A putrid smell filled the air. Kirilo gagged.

Misha straightened. Blood dripped from his nose onto the counter. He raised his sleeve to his ashen face. A red droplet seeped into the white cotton and spread.

His lips parted and his eyes widened. He glanced at Victor with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. “Did you really poison me, old man?”

Victor laughed. “Of course not. You really must have caught a bug or a parasite.”

Kirilo now knew Victor was lying. Misha looked worse every hour. But there was no sense in telling Misha. They couldn’t afford any delays to see a doctor, and even if they could, there was no hope for the moscal .

“You should really see a doctor,” Specter said.

Misha babbled incoherently for a few seconds before glancing at Specter. “What? Doctor? And let you guys make out with the formula? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Specter? No, no doctor.”

“Misha,” Specter said, “you’re not well.”

“The formula,” Misha said. A maniacal glint shone in his eyes. “All I need is the formula. Let’s go.”

They bounded down the corridor toward the third car. Kirilo let Misha, Specter, and the four bodyguards go ahead of him to put distance between the radioactive moscal and himself.

Kirilo checked his watch. It was 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday. It had taken them two and a half days to catch up to Nadia. When they had finally arrived in Moscow at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, some pipsqueak in Passport Control had flagged Misha as an undesirable based on his criminal record as a youth in Moscow. It didn’t help that Misha was sweating profusely, like someone who had something to hide. Kirilo explained that the deputy minister of the interior of Russia was an investor in his Black Sea energy project and would vouch for the American. The deputy was away at a conference in Prague, however, and couldn’t be reached until midnight.