The Boy from Reactor 4

CHAPTER 39





KIRILO MARCHED DOWN the pier at the Yalta Yacht Club flanked by the two bodyguards who had accompanied him on the helicopter from Kyiv. Splashes of moonlight shimmered on the Black Sea.

A pair of identical twins chatted up a trio of girls beside his neighbor’s yacht. They were tall, with golden hair and sparkling smiles, young posers who would benefit from a conversation with his cattle prod, like his scumbag future son-in-law.

He boarded his eighty-two-foot yacht and took a deep breath. “Isabella?” he called.

Pavel appeared on the main deck. “Still no sign of her, Boss.”

“Something’s wrong. Something’s happened to her.”

“How can you be sure, Boss? She might be out with friends or at a movie.”

“We have a pact. She never turns her cell phone off. And if she’s late, she always calls.” He glanced at his diamond-studded watch. “She was supposed to be here at nine o’clock for a late supper. To discuss the meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow. She’s an hour late. Did you call her best friends? Ivanka and Marta?”

Pavel shook his head.

“Why not? Call them. Call them now, dammit.” He started toward his office and stopped. “Anything on the taxi driver?”

“Not yet,” Pavel said. “We’re working on it.”

Kirilo looked out at the water. A green dinghy floated freely ten meters from his yacht.

“Look,” Kirilo said, pointing at the rowboat. “Those idiots at the club let one get away again. It’s going to hit us.” When Pavel didn’t react, he said, “It’s going to hit us, I tell you. Is anyone on this boat awake, or should I just have all of you shot and thrown overboard?”

Pavel and a crewman rushed starboard. Kirilo stomped to his office port side and locked the door behind him. The stereo dispensed a soothing dose of Mozart. The television monitor, linked to his computer, projected a portrait of Isabella at age sixteen. Reluctant eyes and unblemished cheeks, hands demurely folded in her lap.

Pictures lied. Isabella wasn’t all that. Daughters lied. She hated the pearls, thought they were a joke. Mozart lied. Life was no symphony.

Kirilo removed his coat with the cattle prod tucked in its lining and hung it on the rack in the corner. Released the latch to his bathroom.

The stench hit him. It couldn’t be. He sniffed again. Did one of the crewmen have the gall to use his private bathroom? If he found out which one, he’d kill him tonight.

Kirilo opened the door. A withered old man sat fully dressed on the toilet bowl, arms folded across his chest. He looked like a cigarette butt that needed to be stomped out.

Kirilo froze. Victor? Victor Bodnar? On his yacht? In his bathroom?

“Greetings, cousin,” Victor said. “My men have your daughter. Isabella will die if I don’t walk off this boat unharmed within thirty minutes. Do we understand each other?”

Kirilo burst inside and wrapped his hands around Victor’s neck. Lifted him up and off the toilet bowl. Victor’s feet dangled six centimeters in the air. Kirilo squeezed with all his might.

“Your father was a bitch, and so you are you,” Kirilo said through clenched teeth. Victor grabbed Kirilo’s wrists, but it was no match. His cousin had the grip of a daisy. The bitch was as good as dead.

Victor’s cheeks inflated. His face turned purple.

Kirilo eased his grip a bit. Victor gulped air.

“Breathe, bitch. Breathe,” Kirilo said, struggling to catch his own breath. “Don’t die just yet. No, no. I’m going to enjoy this over a span of an hour, or two, or seven. Only then will you die.”

Victor opened his mouth. “Isabella,” he said.

Kirilo’s eyes fell on the television monitor outside the bedroom: Isabella. Victor had her.

Kirilo released his grip.

A knock on the office door.

“Everything okay in there, Boss?”

Kirilo hustled to the door and unlocked it. Pavel stepped inside.

“Help me get this man to the sofa,” Kirilo said.

They rushed to the bathroom, where Victor lay on the tile, panting.

“Who is he, Boss? Where did he come from? How did he get on board?”

Pavel and Kirilo lifted Victor by his shoulders and carried him to the couch.

“He snuck on board when you were or weren’t watching,” Kirilo said. “You wouldn’t have seen him either way. He’s a pickpocket. He’s a thief. He’s the shadow on the street.”

While Victor recovered, Pavel brought them tumblers of single-malt scotch and tall glasses of ice water. He closed the door behind him as Kirilo instructed.

“Here, cousin,” Kirilo said, handing him the water and the scotch. “Drink. Drink.”

Victor drank the water and sipped the scotch. He coughed and repeated. Reclined on the cushions and sighed.

“Where is Isabella?” Kirilo said.

“She is safe,” Victor said.

“Safe? What does that mean, safe? Where are you hiding her? Has someone touched her? Is she hurt? Has anyone looked at her the wrong way?”

“She hasn’t been touched. I’ve been gone a long time, but even an old man has friends in his homeland. The men who are helping me are professional.”

“Why have you done this?”

“Why did you send an assassin to kill me?”

“You know why.”

“Why now? After all these years?”

“Think of it as a gift to myself on my daughter’s wedding. I don’t want you to die a natural death.”

“Well, I do want to die a natural death. That is one of the reasons I’ve taken your daughter.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“You’ve met my business partner, Misha Markov. He intends to cut me out of this money we’re chasing. I want us to put our animosities aside—for now. I want you to keep me involved in this Tesla thing.”

“That’s all?”

Victor sipped his scotch and then cracked a smile. “Almost. I want you to also consider a simple mathematical fact.”

“What?”

“Ten million divided by two is greater than ten million divided by three.”

“You want me to kill your business partner?” Kirilo knocked back some scotch, put his tumbler down, and scratched his chin. “No, that I cannot do. I have no love for him. After all, he’s a moscal. But it would not be good for business. He’s an important man with important contacts. Someone could be out revenue because of his death, and I don’t need the aggravation. No, there has to be a good reason to kill him, and there isn’t one. And besides, I’m not a barbarian.”

“Of course not,” Victor said dryly. “When you die, they’re going to bury you with the saints in the Caves Monastery.”

A spasm ripped through Kirilo’s back. “Don’t even mention that place to me. Back to my daughter.”

“Isabella will be returned to you unharmed.”

“How do I know you won’t kill her after you get your money?”

“You have my word. A thief doesn’t lie to another thief.”

“I need proof that she is well.”

“You have my word.”

“I need proof.”

“My word is good. You know that.”

Kirilo grunted. It was true. Victor was a thief. Under the certain circumstances, he could become a killer. But he would never lie to another vor.

“Where is the Tesla woman?” Victor said. “Where do we stand?”

The impulse to strangle the bitch seized Kirilo again. He took a deep breath to calm himself before briefing Victor. He had no choice. Isabella’s rant about her mother’s pearls faded to a distant memory. He longed only to hold her in his arms again.