The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

  The Ammunition had called the actor two hours ago and e-mailed him pages from a make-believe script. Given him no time to check on anyone’s background, not that it would have mattered. There was nothing on the computer about the Ukrainian film industry. The only thing he’d done to whet the actor’s appetite was to plant a fictitious newspaper article online about Carpathian Film Productions’s plans to produce a Ukrainian-American gangster film. The article mentioned co-producing partner Peter Slava had arrived in New York last week to begin casting. The Ukrainian actress Mila Kunis was rumored to be auditioning for the role of the loving daughter.

  They drove to the Ukrainian butcher’s shop on Second Avenue in the East Village.

  When they got out of the car, the actor saw the store, smiled, and nodded.

  “The director prefers to audition on the real set,” the Ammunition said. “It leaves nothing to chance.”

  “Authenticity,” the actor said. “I love it.”

  A butcher in a blood-stained apron came out and unlocked a pair of steel doors in the sidewalk. He opened them to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the basement. Victor led the way. The actor followed. After the twins descended, they guided the actor to the meat locker. Victor waited to make sure the butcher locked them in before joining the others.

  Slabs of beef hung from hooks. Kielbasa dangled from the ceiling. The chill cleared Victor’s sinuses. Puffs of steam formed at mouths and noses. The biggest one hovered near the actor. Of course it did, Victor thought. He was the most nervous.

  A chair occupied a vacant space front and center. It was a special chair Victor had designed to his personal specifications twenty-five years ago. It was an exact replica of the one he’d experienced in the forced labor camp in Siberia, the gulag, whenever some of the grain in the kitchen went missing.

  “The director will begin the audition immediately,” the Ammunition said. “Time is of the essence. He has an appointment in an hour with the Ukrainian-American actress Vera Farmiga. She’s reading for the part of the psychotic daughter.”

  The actor closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. “Ready,” he said.

  “We will save the script for later,” the Ammunition said. He snatched the sheet of paper from the surprised actor’s hands. “The director likes to start with a little improvisation.”

  “Improv?”

  “Yes. There’s no substitute for it. Instead of the part of the mobster interrogating the liar, you will play the liar. The director calls it role reversal.”

  The actor blinked as though trying to catch up. “I get it. To help me associate myself with the other side.” He smiled. “So I can understand the liar’s mentality.”

  “Exactly. It’s important you understand what it means to be a liar.”

  “I get it. I can do that.”

  The Ammunition motioned toward the chair with an open palm. “To sit here, please,” he said.

  The actor sat down. Fidgeted until he was comfortable. Rotated his neck in a circle to loosen up. “Bring it on,” he said.

  The Gun approached the chair from the left.

  “To make the scene authentic,” the Ammunition said, “the director prefers to use the same props he uses during the shoot.”

  “What props?” the actor said.

  “Please put your hands on the armrests and your feet against the legs.”

  The actor appeared confused but obeyed. Of course he obeyed. A man who dreamed of seeing his name in lights would do anything.

  The Gun slammed the left armrest. A steel cuff sprang from beneath. It wrapped around the actor’s wrist and secured it to the chair. The Gun kicked the chair’s leg. A leg iron snapped around his ankle. The Ammunition did the same on the right side.

  Shock flashed in the actor’s eyes.

  The Ammunition touched his shoulder. “Not too tight, are they? We can loosen them if you want.”

  The actor started to answer.

  “Action,” Victor said in Ukrainian.

  The Ammunition repeated the word in English.

  The actor closed his mouth.

  The Ammunition circled to the back of the chair. Leaned into the actor’s ear. “Did you really think you would get away with it?”

  The actor frowned. “Get away with what?”

  “The murder.”

  “What murder?”

  “The murder of the businessman.”

  Confusion washed over the actor’s face. He wasn’t half bad, Victor thought.

  “What businessman?” the actor said.

  Victor stepped forward. “The British businessman,” he said. “The man who went by the name of Jonathan Valentine.”

  “You speak English—” The actor grimaced. “Damn. Sorry. I didn’t know you spoke English. That caught me off guard. Can we take it from the top?”

  “No need to,” Victor said. “We can pick up where we left off.”

  The actor nodded. “Where was that again?”

  “The British businessman in the Meatpacking District,” Victor said. “Jonathan Valentine. Why did you kill him?”

  The actor blanched. Recognition shone in his eyes. “Who…who are you?” he said.

  Victor remained mute. The actor was the witness to the killing. The twins had gotten his name from Johnny Tanner’s file. Victor had no reason to suspect the witness was the murderer. But the suggestion flowed with the script. It elevated the stakes and served notice to the man he was in trouble.

  The actor glanced from Victor to the twins and back to Victor. He tried to stand. The shackles clattered. He snapped his wrists. The cuffs restrained him.

  “You’re no director,” he said.

  “But you really are an actor,” Victor said. “You seemed like a good man a minute ago. But now you will tell us the truth, won’t you?”

  “Screw you, asshole. Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is what your motive was for killing Valentine. And why you accused an innocent boy of something you did.”

  “Innocent boy. Right.” Fury mixed with laughter. “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with, Trotsky? I’m an ex-cop. Did you know that? Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

  “You should look at your wrists and ankles again.”

  “Listen, asshole. If you hurt me in any way, that’s witness tampering. Any judge is going to see that.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you in any way. Why would I want to hurt you? I need you in perfect condition when you walk into the police station in one hour and tell them the truth about how and why you killed Valentine.”

  “I killed him?” The actor sounded and looked sincerely appalled. “That’s a joke, right?” He raised his chin. “I’ll make you a deal. Stop this now and I’ll let this slide. I don’t know who you are, maybe you’re the boy’s grandfather. Or godfather. I can respect that. Uncuff me and we’ll call it a day.”

  Victor smiled. “You don’t play chess, do you?”

  The actor frowned. “What?”

  “Chess,” Victor said. “You don’t play, do you?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Chess is to life as integrity is to a policeman. It helps you make the right decisions before you need to make them.”

  The actor stared at Victor. “You made more sense when you were speaking Russian. And I couldn’t understand a word you were saying then.”

  “Why did you kill Valentine? Why did you accuse the boy? Tell me now and I will spare you the worst possible agony a man can know.”

  The actor laughed. “That’s funny. You agreed you can’t hurt me or it’ll be obvious someone tampered with me. And then you told me yourself you’d never do me no harm. So you see, that threat doesn’t carry much weight. You got no play here.”

  “My play is in your wallet,” Victor
said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You will speak the truth in exchange for the safe return of the contents of your wallet.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m no Rockefeller. I got two credit cards, one’s maxed out, and about forty-three bucks in my pocket.”

  “It’s not a matter of money.”

  “Oh no? What then? The ten dollar cowhide?”

  “No. The picture I am certain I’ll find inside it.”

  The Gun reached into the actor’s front pant pocket for his wallet. He struggled to pull it out. The actor appeared stunned, as though processing the implications of Victor’s statement and realizing he couldn’t contemplate it. The Gun handed Victor the wallet.

  Victor searched the compartments until he found what he was looking for. A picture of two teenagers. A boy and a girl. The girl had her arm around a third person who’d been cut out of the picture. The mother. Another American divorce.

  “Keri and Tommy,” Victor said. “Did I get the names right?”

  The actor strained to free himself. “Don’t even think of touching my family.”

  “I’m not going to touch your family,” Victor said.

  The Gun showed the actor a computer that looked like a child’s sketching toy. He played videos of the actor’s two children leaving school an hour ago.

  “The men who took those videos will,” Victor said. “And there will be nothing you can do about it. Because it’s going to happen before you get home unless you go to the police immediately and tell them exactly what happened. If you place a phone call, try to alert a friend, do not comply with my demands in any way, you will never see your children alive again.”

  The actor exercised his ego. He spat, swore, and threatened. Victor let the words float by. The outburst was to be expected. When the actor exhausted himself, Victor let a moment of silence pass.

  “Before you became a part-time security guard and a part-time actor,” Victor said, “you were a policeman. A poor one, I’m told, but still you must have instincts. You know danger. I’m part of an international organization. I repeat. An international organization. Once you do what you need to do, your children will be safe as long as you forget this ever happened. Do we understand each other?”

  The actor stared at Victor for a moment, and then nodded.

  “Good. Why did you kill Valentine?”

  “I didn’t kill him. The boy did.”

  “In self-defense? Valentine attacked him?”

  “I don’t know how it started. How it went down. When I first laid eyes on them, the kid was stabbing the vic in the throat. Just like I told the cops.”

  Victor could sense when a man was lying. He’d been a liar and a thief his entire life. And he was certain the actor was telling the truth. At least on this point.

  “So what did you lie about?” Victor said.

  “What makes you so sure I lied?”

  “Because I know the boy. And he wouldn’t kill unless he was provoked. If you want to see your children again, you better tell me about the lie. The lie you told the police that might end up getting you in trouble.”

  The actor’s eyes widened with surprise.

  “Yes,” Victor said, patting him on the shoulder. “I guessed. Of course I guessed. It was about money, wasn’t it? Valentine was carrying something valuable and you took it. You had to have it, because you need the money. Part-time security guard. Part-time actor. Full-time financial misery.”

  The actor took a few breaths as though summoning his courage. He tried to speak but burst into a fit of coughing instead.

  “Your throat is dry,” Victor said. “That’s to be expected. We can help you.” He turned to the Gun. “Get this father of two a glass of water.”

  The Gun brought a glass of water. The actor drank half of it.

  “The benefits of the truth aside, we may need to modify the script a bit after all,” Victor said. “You may have seen Valentine attack the boy. The good news is you’re obviously a fine actor. I’m sure you’ll be convincing. Now, what did you steal from the dead man?”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE GENERAL PACED in the hospital waiting room. All these years he’d fantasized about being single again, free to bed whatever minx he wanted. Now, the thought of actually losing his wife horrified him. She was his constant companion. The woman who celebrated his successes as though they were her own and convinced him his failures meant nothing. She was the mother of his children. The queen of his manor. The only experience in life that fulfilled him as much as his wife’s mere presence was the hunt.

  The hairdresser said she’d called for an ambulance as soon as his wife began clutching her heart and wincing with pain. But the ambulance took ten minutes to arrive. Ten minutes. One thing was certain, the General thought. If his wife died, the men in that ambulance would die, too.

  His cell phone rang.

  “They went from their hotel to a car rental,” Saint Barbara said. “As soon as they went in the office, our man bribed an attendant and made sure he put a GPS tracking device in the trunk of their car. From there they drove to Zarvanytsia.”

  “Zarvanytsia? For what, to pray?”

  “Not sure. Our man had to keep his distance. By the time they got there, the woman and her brother had probably been there for ten minutes. Our man caught up with them as they were leaving the Pilgrimage Center. They went into a church together, and then left.”

  “Sounds like a typical tourist trip to the holy site.”

  “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The brother went into the church wearing a priest’s cassock. But he came out wearing his street clothes.”

  “He was dressed as a priest, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Disguise?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did our man see them talk to anyone?” he said.

  “No. They went straight to the car.”

  “Then they must have talked to someone at the Pilgrimage Center. But why would the brother disguise himself as a priest?”

  “So he could approach anyone without suspicion. No one would suspect a priest of having an ulterior motive.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Back at the hotel.”

  “They didn’t check out. Good. That means she didn’t find whatever or whoever she’s looking for.”

  “We have a lead on who that might be.”

  “Speak.”

  “When she was here last year, she met a botanist in Chornobyl.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The deputy minister of the interior told me. A man by the name of Kirilo Andre needed help to find him.”

  “Kirilo Andre. I know that name. He was the lead investor on the Black Sea energy project. He vanished last year. His daughter inherited everything. What is this botanist’s name?”

  “Karel Mak.”

  “Let’s see what we can find out about him. Maybe that’s who she’s trying to find. Maybe that’s why she went to Lviv and Zarvanytsia.”

  “Maybe she already met with him.”

  “Then why didn’t she check out of the hotel?”

  “Good point. If we can get a step ahead of them I’m sure we’ll be able to steer them where we need them to go.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.”

  A doctor entered the waiting room with a dour expression on his face. The General didn’t bother telling Saint Barbara to keep him informed. He hung up.

  “How is my wife, Doctor?”

  “I’m sorry. We did everything possible.”

  The General staggered to a chair and collapsed. He’d gotten what he wished for, he thought. He’d lost his soul mate, his conscience, his link to normal society.

  For
years he’d thought he’d have mixed feelings. That he’d miss her but would also be secretly excited about the freedom that awaited him. But it wasn’t so.

  Instead, he sat in the chair and sobbed. His sole comfort was the knowledge that he still had one true passion to pursue. Fortunately, his friends from the Zaroff Seven had listened to his pleas and empowered him to be the one to deal with Nadia Tesla.

  And make amends for the one that got away.

  CHAPTER 42

  NADIA SECURED THE services of an experienced cave guide through the Leopolis Hotel. The concierge vouched for him. Still, Nadia insisted on interviewing him over the phone. He was a global explorer who’d done work for National Geographic on cave explorations across three continents. He had a website with pictures to prove it. In his mid-forties, Nadia thought, with the smile of a twenty-one-year-old. A purist. A dedicated outdoorsman with no visible connection to any private or government security service. The odds he was on the payroll of whoever was following them were low. Also, he was intimately familiar with the Priest’s Grotto.

  The guide picked them up in his jeep at the hotel on Thursday at 6:00 a.m. He’d balked about the time but Nadia wanted to get an early start. Every moment that passed brought Bobby closer to the inevitable verdict of life in prison. There was no time to waste.

  The Priest’s Grotto was located one hundred forty-five miles from Lviv. They drove east to the city of Ternopil and south toward the village of Strilkivtsi. Marko sat in the front with the guide. Nadia absorbed punishment from worn shock absorbers in the back seat. They passed mile after mile of wheat fields and farms.

  When they got near the village, the driver guided the jeep off the road. He stopped on a knoll overlooking a green field surrounded by a tree line on all four sides. It stretched hundreds of yards in each direction. Clusters of wildflowers and bushes sprang from valleys and sinkholes where water gathered.

  The guide said the cave was officially known as “Ozero,” the Ukrainian word for “lake.” Locally, however, it was called Popowa Yama, or the Priest’s Grotto.