The Boy from Reactor 4

CHAPTER 34





ON THURSDAY MORNING, Kirilo drove forty kilometers south of Kiev to the small village of Trypillia, population 2,700. He’d made inquiries with business associates at the SBU, the Ukrainian State Security Service, into the whereabouts of Damian Tesla’s old crew of thieves. Besides Damian, there were six of them. Three had disappeared, presumably to Western Europe or America, and the other three were dead. Buried in asphalt. One of the latter three, however, had remained close to his sister while still alive, in direct violation of the Vorskoi Mir, the Thieves’ Code. He might have confided in her about the $10 million Damian allegedly stole.

Kirilo’s driver guided the Audi along an unpaved road to a small house with a thatch roof. A sculpture, carved from the trunk of a massive oak tree, confirmed it was the right home. It featured a woman in helmet and full body armor, leaning on a staff with a serpent coiled at her feet.

In April, wheat looks like grass. It undulated like an ocean wave beneath the cool morning breeze throughout the prairie that surrounded the house. A hearty babushka chopped wood beside an apiary of bees.

Another woman greeted Kirilo at the front door. This one was middle-aged, with lustrous brown hair, deep-set oval eyes, and a shockingly thin waist. She wore a golden leather vest over a billowy white shirt and painted-on auburn pants.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Kirilo Andre?”

Kirilo had to pull his eyes away from her torso. “Pardon? Oh, yes.”

“May I see some identification?”

It was a common request in Ukraine. He showed her his domestic passport.

She nodded. “My name is Zirka.” It was the Ukrainian word for “star.” “The militsiya called and told me you’d be around. Come in.”

A stifling heat greeted him in the small living room. Kirilo looked around. The windows were nailed shut. He knew the reason: every breeze was a potential source of colds and influenza. Sweat trickled inside his shirt down his armpit. Damn the peasants. Damn their superstitions.

Zirka served them tea in cups that matched a collection of wall plates, a vase, and a serving bowl filled with apples and chestnuts. They were all variations of the same wild geometric patterns, each with swirls of red, black, and white. It was similar to a traditional Ukrainian pattern, yet entirely different, more extreme.

The sound of manual labor echoed through the walls: wood splintered, an ax thumped, the babushka paused. Splinter, thump, pause. Splinter, thump, pause.

“What is that statue in front?” he said. “The woman in armor.”

“That is Athena,” she said. “The goddess of wisdom and weaving.”

Kirilo frowned. “Who?”

“Athena. The Greek goddess. The goddess of wisdom and weaving. Also the goddess of heroic behavior.”

“Well, you don’t see that every day,” he said.

“It’s not every day you’re in Trypillia.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t know about Trypillia?”

“Should I?”

“Trypillia is an ancient culture dating back to 5000 BC. It originated right here, in Trypillia. In Ukraine. At one time, it spread through Moldova and the Black Sea, halfway into Romania. It was a matriarchal society. Women took care of the agriculture, made the pottery, and ran the household. Men hunted, kept domestic animals, and made tools. Do you know how to make tools, Kirilo?”

Wood splintered, an ax thumped.

Kirilo spit tea out of his mouth. “I…I know how to use one or two, but I’ve never made one.”

She wasn’t smiling or laughing. Instead, she measured him up and down. “It’s never too late to learn.”

Unsure if she was serious, he fidgeted in his seat. “As the police may have told you, I’m conducting an investigation into a swindle your brother was involved in before he died. I’m sorry to bring up bad memories.”

“It’s all right. That was a long time ago. You know the communists killed my brother by burying him alive in asphalt?” She said it in a detached manner, as though she were describing an innovative way of road building.

Kirilo wiped his brow with the back of his shirtsleeve and took a deep breath. “Yes. Again, I’m sorry to bring this up.” He described Damian’s alleged theft of $10 million. “Did your brother ever tell you about this?”

“It was the reason he was killed. He did more than tell me about it. He and Damian hid the money here.” She eyed his Patek Philippe watch. “Are you married, Kirilo?”

“Married?” Kirilo said. He was vaguely aware that the rhythmic sounds of the babushka’s work had ceased. “No. I’m not the marrying kind.” Had he heard her correctly? He leaned forward. “They hid the money here? My God. Here?”

“Yes. They buried it in a box in our vegetable garden.”

“Where is the money now?” Kirilo took a deep breath.

A shuffling noise directly behind him.

He turned.

The babushka stood a foot away, left hand curled beneath the head of the ax, right hand gripping the bottom of the handle, ready to rear back and swing.

Kirilo ducked. His instincts told him to run, but he couldn’t move. Who had put the lead in his shoes? It was so damned hot.

“Is your guest staying for lunch?” she said to Zirka. “You want me to prepare a fresh chicken?”

“No, no. No lunch, thank you, Babushka,” he said. His kingdom for his cattle prod and an air conditioner.

Zirka tried to change his mind, but he told her he had appointments. Many, many appointments.

She shrugged. “No, thank you, Mama,” she said, and the babushka left the room.

“Where were we?” Kirilo said. “The money. What happened to the money?”

“The KGB came and took it,” Zirka said.

“KGB? You’re certain of this?”

“Of course. I was here.” Zirka thrust her shoulders back slightly and shifted her hips on the edge of the sofa. “Did you grow up in the city or the countryside?”

“Countryside,” he said. “But then I ran away from home, so no, city.” He gritted his teeth and shook the cobwebs from his brain. “You saw KGB agents take the ten million dollars? You actually saw them?”

“Better than that. My brother bought me a camera because I wanted to be a photographer.” She chuckled. “I say bought, but he probably stole it. I hid in the cellar and took pictures through the window with a telephoto lens.”

Zirka went to her bedroom and came back with black-and-white photos. One showed two men in shirts and ties digging a hole beside the house. A second showed two others, counting hundred-dollar bills. A third showed them leading her brother away in handcuffs.

“There really is no ten million dollars,” Kirilo said under his breath.

Zirka poured him a second cup of tea. “Are you a hunter, Kirilo?” She parted her lips slightly. “There is good hunting here, in the land of Athena.”

He started to answer her with tall tales of elk and bear hunts, her remarkable body exercising some sort of magnetic pull on him yet again, when a crack and a thud broke his spell. Wood splintered, an ax thumped.

Kirilo offered excuses, made apologies, and dashed out the front door, pictures in hand.

“Get me the hell out of here,” he said to his driver after jumping into the backseat. “Fast.”

They tore down the dirt driveway away from Athena, Zirka waving good-bye in the rearview mirror, the thud of the babushka’s ax echoing in the background.

“This isn’t about Damian’s ten million dollars,” Kirilo said to Misha when he got him on his cell phone. “The KGB confiscated the money. I saw pictures.”

“So it’s about a different pot of money. Or something else. Something that’s worth millions.”

“Has she gone back to her hotel?”

“No.”

Kirilo grunted. “She’s too smart for that.”

“Where will you be?”

“Kyiv today, Yalta tonight. I have a breakfast in less than twenty-four hours with a wedding planner. And my daughter. She’s getting married. My daughter, Isabella.”