The Boy from Reactor 4

CHAPTER 44





KIRILO, MISHA, AND Victor sat at a triangular table in the middle of Kozak Egoiste. The air smelled of spices and flesh. A young waiter served their entrées. Blood oozed from Kirilo’s steak as he set it before him. The tall, golden-haired waiter looked vaguely familiar to Kirilo, but he couldn’t place him.

Kirilo tore a bite out of his kovbanos, a thin kielbasa served as a cold appetizer. It was tough, narrow, and veined, like Victor the Bitch’s neck across the table from him. Soon he would have his hands around it, and this time he would not let go. He could feel his fingers crushing his cousin’s airway, see Victor’s final breath—

He cursed himself. Isabella was close. She had to be near. He had to get her back first. Nothing else mattered. He’d scoured Kyiv through all his contacts, but no one knew where Victor was keeping her.

After an hour of prodding with no further revelations, Lalo the Cook proved to be speaking the truth. He didn’t know why Victor had chosen his restaurant. But there was a reason, Kirilo was sure. Before lunch was over, he was certain, he’d find out one way or another. As a result, he’d brought maximum security.

Two of Kirilo’s men guarded the front door, two secured the rear. Four other men watched Lalo and the other cooks in the kitchen. Four more sat at the bar, watching the dining room. Misha had also brought four men with him. Two sat at the bar, including the impressive American, Specter, while the others guarded the front and rear entrances with Kirilo’s men. How was Victor planning to kill Misha with sixteen men watching?

The waiter served Victor a bowl of borscht with mushroom dumplings, and Misha a plate of stuffed cabbage with pickles on the side. Victor looked inscrutable and the moscal aloof as always.

They dug into their food. Kirilo sliced a tiny piece of steak and stuck it in his mouth. He checked his watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. It was 1:47. How long would it take these bastards to finish? Would they insist on coffee and dessert? Where was Isabella? Where was she right now?

Victor slurped his stew. Misha crunched away. Kirilo nibbled on his steak to stay busy and keep his knife occupied, lest he stab Victor in the left eye out of frustration. Victor and Misha ate their entire entrées without saying a word.

“So,” Misha said to Victor when he was done. “You came to Kyiv and you called this lunch. What’s your agenda?”

Victor shrugged as though it were obvious. “Nadia Tesla.” He looked from Misha to Kirilo and back to Misha. “So where do we stand?”

Misha gave him a summary of how they had lost Nadia in the Pecherska Lavra and her subsequent discovery of the GPS device.

“Outsmarted by a woman?” Victor said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Misha laughed the way a man did to hide his fury. “Hey, it’s not my country.” He turned to Kirilo.

“There’s been a development,” Kirilo said. “We found the owner of the taxi company. The one the driver works for. The driver that helped her.”

Misha stopped noshing on another pickle and blinked at Kirilo. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Kirilo glared at him. “I’m telling you now. Two of my men just had a conversation with the owner before I got here. The driver’s name is Anton Medved. He’s a professor of sociology at Kyiv-Slavonic. Lives in Chorna Hora. He wasn’t home, but two of my men are waiting for him at his apartment as we speak.”

“And the ten million dollars?” Victor said.

Kirilo shook his head. “There is no ten million dollars. The KGB caught them and took it back. I have pictures to prove it.”

“Pictures?” Victor said.

“A woman took them from her hiding place. The day the KGB came. It’s a long story.”

“No matter,” Misha said, reaching for another pickle. “A guy gets shot on the street in New York after whispering something in the Tesla woman’s ear. She comes to Kyiv and gives us the slip. Whatever she’s after is valuable. I can smell it.”

Kirilo grunted his agreement. Were they done? Could he ask for the check? He waved to a waiter.

“About that man who was shot on the street in New York,” Victor said. “Someone shot him. Someone took him away. So presumably, someone else knows she’s pursuing something valuable.”

“Yeah. And?” Misha said, between bites.

“I was just wondering if you’d run into anyone else looking for the same thing you are. If anyone else is following Nadia Tesla.”

Misha shook his head. He looked at Kirilo, who did the same.

The waiter arrived with a vase filled with tulips in his left hand. “Coffee? Tea? Dessert?” he said.

“No,” Kirilo said, before anyone else could answer. “Check, please.”

The waiter pulled a black folio out of his apron pocket with his right hand and slid it beside Kirilo. He placed the vase in the middle of the table and left.

Kirilo glanced at the bill. He tried to check every line to make sure they weren’t padding it, but he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he threw his Visa card in the folio and shut it, vaguely aware that Misha was raising his voice to Victor.

“You made us come to this shithole because you wanted an update on the Tesla woman? That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”

Kirilo noticed the tulips the waiter had left. They were yellow. In Ukraine, yellow flowers mean separation.

“No,” Victor said. “I admit it. That’s not all I wanted. I had another agenda.”

Misha glared at him. “Yeah, well, what is it?”

Kirilo counted the flowers. There were ten of them. Ten. An even number. An even number of flowers was given only at funerals.

Someone was about to die.

“I came to say good-bye to you,” Victor said.

“Oh yeah?” Misha said. “You leaving the country?”

Kirilo pushed his seat away from the table. Stuck his right foot out in case he needed to run.

“No, Misha,” Victor said. “You’re leaving this world.”

Misha darkened before his shit-eating grin reasserted itself. His laugh echoed with uncertainty. “Oh yeah? Where am I going, Old School?”

“To the afterlife.” Victor put his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin. “How were the pickles, Misha?”

Misha stopped chewing.

“A friend of mine knows a woman who grows them in a black village outside Chernobyl. Was the finish a bit salty? Did you detect the aftertaste of cesium-137?”

Misha’s lips parted in shock. A few seconds later, they slowly spread into a smile. He shook his index finger at Victor. “You had me for a second, there, Old School. You had me real good. It would be just like you to pretend to poison me to get me thinking about it. To get me to die from the stress. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s not gonna work on Misha.”

Victor pursed his lips and nodded, like a doctor who was used to his patients’ disbelief. “The sugar she adds to the pickles acts as a delivery device. It propels the cesium into your bloodstream quickly.” He picked up a saltshaker. “If you dilute this with water and force yourself to throw up before you’ve digested all of them, you might live ten days instead of five, like the last two people who ate them.”

Misha grinned and stared at Victor, head bobbing up and down in mock agreement. Victor stared back. Five seconds passed, and then five more—

Misha grabbed the saltshaker. Unscrewed the cap. Dumped half its contents into his water. Stirred with his finger and drank.

Five seconds later, he vomited on the floor.

While Misha hacked and spit, the waiter returned with Kirilo’s credit card bill. In the background, another waiter wheeled out a dessert tray toward the bar where the bodyguards sat.

Kirilo signed the bill, threw the pen on the table, and leaned over.

“Are we done here?” he whispered to Victor.

“Yes,” Victor said.

“I want my daughter now. Where is she?”

“In a better place than Misha.”