The Boy from Reactor 4

by Orest Stelmach

  “Smarter than throwing it out the window,” Misha said.

  “More clever,” Specter said. “But in this case, too clever. Seventy-two percent of all Soviet-era cars break down every year.”

  “You were right about this woman,” Kirilo said with a savage edge to Misha. “I like her. I haven’t killed anyone in eleven years, but in her case, I may have to break that streak. Just to see the look in her eyes at the last second, when she gives up hope, you know?”

  Misha and Specter looked at him as though he were insane. Good. That meant they had some morals, which meant there were limits to what they would do, which meant they were vulnerable.

  Misha said, “The driver left his taxi here. Why?”

  “Your man on the expressway made him,” Specter said. “They know we know the car. And this is a safe place where the taxi company can come get it.”

  “Which means the driver is helping her,” Kirilo said. “What do we know about him?”

  They paused and looked at each other.

  “Phone number,” Specter said. “Of the taxi company. On the side of the car.” Specter and Stefan ran toward the parking lot on the opposite side of the building.

  “If they left the taxi here, how did they get away?” Misha said.

  “They got a ride or borrowed someone’s car,” Kirilo said.

  “Someone who got an F in mathematics?” Misha said.

  Kirilo and Misha hurried back to the bar. When they got to the second floor, Radek and the two women were gone.

  Specter burst inside as they descended back to the first floor. Stefan lagged behind, out of breath.

  “Anything?” Kirilo said, lungs heaving.

  Specter shook his head. “The taxi’s gone. You?”

  Misha shook his head. “They’re gone.”

  “It’s possible your man got the phone number off the car on the expressway when they lost him,” Specter said.

  “Find him,” Kirilo said. “The taxi driver. He’ll lead us to the girl.”

  CHAPTER 31

  NADIA WATCHED THE black-and-white images on the projection screen. They popped and crackled with distortion at the Chernobyl National Museum in Kyiv. Firemen piled up a stairwell toward the blaze in the reactor. They were never to return. Divers waded into the cooling ponds to seal the pipes. No one told them the water was contaminated.

  On April 26, 1986, the world’s worst nuclear disaster took place at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the Ukrainian SSR, an administrative region of the Soviet Union. It was the only Level 7 event on the International Nuclear Event Scale before Fukushima. A systems test caused a catastrophic power surge. An emergency shutdown caused a rupture in Reactor 4 and exposed it to air.

  The ensuing fire sent a cloud of radioactive smoke over the western Soviet Union and Europe. At least 350,000 people were evacuated after the central authorities realized what had really happened. At first, they thought it was a routine fire. Operator error was initially blamed for the disaster. A subsequent investigation concluded that human factors contributed to the explosion but design deficiencies caused it.

  The soldiers, coal miners, and construction workers who were assigned the task of ultimately containing the nuclear disaster were called liquidators. In English, the word conjures images of people facilitating a sale at bargain prices. For these liquidators, it was a bad bargain.

  The United Nations Atomic Energy Commission estimated that fifty deaths could be directly attributed to the explosion at the power plant, and the final death toll from radiation exposure would be less than four thousand. European parliaments, Greenpeace, and medical institutions in Britain, Germany, and Scandinavia disagreed. Of the two million people who were officially classified as victims of Chernobyl, five hundred thousand were already dead. The UN attributed the death toll to rising poverty and unhealthy lifestyles. Meanwhile, the Ukrainian Scientific Center for Radiation Medicine was overwhelmed with cases of cancer and genetic mutation.

  The names of five thousand liquidators hung on a wall at the museum. Pictures of children born after the disaster hung on another. It was a bad bargain for them, too. The incidence of thyroid cancer among children in the area rose twenty-two-fold over the next ten years. According to the World Health Organization, however, no increase in overall cancer mortality could be associated with radiation exposure.

  Nadia moved past the display of children’s pictures and checked her watch: it was 3:20. Anton was waiting in Radek’s Volkswagen van around the block. She heard a clatter of footsteps and turned.

  A woman nodded at her. It had to be Clementine. She’d seen Nadia at the Caves Monastery. Clementine’s heart-shaped face was the color of muddy water. Her unkempt hair fell to her shoulders in greasy black strands and contrasted sharply with narrow hazel eyes. A pink Juicy Couture warm-up suit hung loosely on her wire-tight frame. She had dark semicircles under her eyes but seemed more composed in person than she’d sounded on the phone, as though she’d had a fix. She bore a distant resemblance to the boy in the photo whom Damian had claimed to be his son.

  “You’re sure you weren’t tailed?” Clementine said.

  Nadia said, “I’m sure.”

  “Follow me.”

  They passed a pair of ancient computers salvaged from the plant. A sign said DO NOT TOUCH.

  “I knew this place would be empty,” Clementine said. “No one ever comes here. The tourists would rather go to church, and the locals don’t want to know it exists.”

  A banner across the top of an archway read, There is a limit to grief, but no limit to fear.

  The exhibit room contained a replica of Reactor 4. A red-and-white chimney enclosed in scaffolding towered over the plant. Nadia did a double take at the smokestack. It looked like the chimney in the background of the photo of the boy.

  Clementine put her hand on her hip. “Okay, show me the money.”

  Nadia frowned. “What? What money?”

  “The money you’re going to pay me for telling you how to find Damian. Your uncle, right?”

  “No one ever said anything about money.”

  “Well, I’m saying it now. One thousand dollars.”

  “Show me your driver’s license first,” Nadia said. “I want to make sure I’m dealing with the right person.”

  Clementine hesitated before pulling a wallet out of her bag.

  Nadia checked the state of issuance. “Alaska?” she said.

  “The Last Frontier.”

  Nadia removed traveler’s checks from her wallet. “I can only give you three hundred. If your information’s good, I’ll send you the rest when I get back home. What’s your connection to my uncle?”

  “My sister had his child.”

  “So there really is a boy.”

  She was puzzled by the statement. “Of course there’s a boy.”

  “Your sister had his child? Where’s your sister now?”

  “She died. About eleven years ago.”

  “What was she doing here?”

  “She dropped out of school in Kotzebue and moved to LA to make it in Hollywood.”

  “School?”

  “Yeah, school. Community college,” Clementine said with a dollop of exasperation. “Her career in Hollywood took a different turn. She got in with the wrong people and couldn’t handle it. She ended up in Moscow, then Kyiv. It’s none of your business.”

  “And you? What are you doing here?”

  “Succeeding where she failed. What do you care? Five hundred.”

  “What does my uncle have that might be worth so much money?”

  “I don’t know, but I get five percent of whatever he gets when he sells it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Sells what? What does he have to sell?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. Just said it was something countries would pay money for. That sounded rich to me.”

  “He didn’t say anything about cash?”

  “Cash?”

  “Yeah, cash. Like ten milli
on dollars.”

  Clementine cackled. “Uh, no. I think I would have remembered that. No, no cash. He’s got something to sell. Or at least he says he does.”

  “Why couldn’t he meet me himself? Why did he have to get you involved?”

  “Because he doesn’t officially exist.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t officially exist?”

  “He lives here,” Clementine said, pointing to the wall of the exhibit room. “And you’re not allowed to live in the Zone, so he doesn’t officially exist. He has no address.”

  Nadia looked around and frowned. “He lives here? In the museum?”

  “No.” She shook her head as though Nadia were an imbecile. “Not here. Here. In the Zone. Near Pripyat.”

  “Pripyat?”

  “Chernobyl is an old village. It’s also the name of the power station. Pripyat is the name of the town built right next to the reactors to house the workers. The Zone is the Exclusion Zone. It’s a thirty-kilometer radius around the power plant. They set it up right after the disaster. The Zone is radioactive.”

  The lure of the money and meeting her uncle helped push the thought of radioactivity out of her mind. “Where and when do I meet him?”

  “Give me the money first.”

  Nadia considered her options and handed her the checks.

  “Tomorrow. Thursday,” Clementine said, backpedaling toward the exit. “Nine p.m. Hotel Polissya. Go to the check-in desk for instructions.”

  “Sounds very civil.”

  “Remember you said that when you see it.”

  They left in opposite directions. Nadia jumped into the passenger seat of Radek’s van, a block away from the museum.

  “Radek called,” Anton said. “The truck broke down.”

  “What truck?” Nadia said.

  “The beer truck where you threw the tracking device. It broke down at the car wash. And Radek stayed to have a drink with the girls instead of leaving right away. They found him. They punched him.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Anton. Is he okay?”

  “He has a broken nose. He’ll live. They found the tracking device. Radek and his girls got away in the taxi while they were looking for it.”

  Anton powered onto the expressway.

  Nadia summarized the meeting with Clementine. Anton remained mute when she told him she was supposed to meet Damian in Pripyat.

  “You’re not saying anything,” Nadia said.

  “There is nothing to say,” Anton said quietly. “That is not a place we talk about.”

  “Is it even safe to go there at all? Do I risk contamination?”

  Anton lowered his voice. He did not turn to look at Nadia. “If you talk about it, if you ask questions about radioactivity, no. It will not be safe for you. You may get sick. But if you don’t talk about it, if you don’t ask questions and you follow the rules there, you will be fine.”

  “I…I don’t understand. Why won’t it be safe if I ask questions about it?”

  “That’s how it is. You talk about it, things go bad. You keep quiet, everything is fine. Trust me, it works.”

  “Is there a train or bus that goes there?”

  “No. You have to go with a licensed tour, and you have to have a guide with you at all times. Technically, you can apply for a pass from the government, but it would take several weeks and good luck getting one. When is your meeting?”

  “Tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

  Anton laughed. “There is no way. Even if you broke away from the tour—which is impossible—everyone is back on the bus by midafternoon.”

  “That means I have to sneak in somehow.”

  “That is not a good idea. There are checkpoints with armed militia. No one gets in and out without permission. No one stays overnight except licensed workers. Children under the age of sixteen aren’t even allowed to visit more often than once a year. You don’t want to stay overnight.”

  “Great. Surefire proof the risk of contamination is low. Do you know anyone who can help me get in there tomorrow night?”

  Anton didn’t answer.

  “Do you?”

  “I might know someone.”

  “Can you introduce me to him? Please?”

  Still he didn’t answer.

  Nadia squeezed his arm. “Please?”

  Anton sighed with exasperation. “Have I ever refused you anything, Half of Paradise?”

  CHAPTER 32

  VICTOR BODNAR SAT in the back of the old Land Cruiser, studying the diamonds in the display window of the jewelry store across the street through Russian battlefield binoculars. The airplane’s engines droned in his clogged ears as though he were still in flight. He’d been in constant motion since landing at Boryspil twelve hours ago; he was afraid to lean his head on the window for fear of nodding off.

  The Timkiv twins sat up front, eyeing the shiny gold and silver watches in an adjacent display window. They’d told him their first names when he met them, but they were identical, so he’d forgotten them as soon as he heard them. They looked like volleyball players who liked the lens of a camera, with short blond hair that brushed against the truck’s ceiling and easygoing blue eyes.

  When Victor first shook their hands, however, their sleeves were rolled up. The tattoos on their forearms told him they were not into fun and games. The brother in the driver’s seat wore the markings of a gun beside the ace of spades, a bottle of vodka, a ten-ruble note, and the profile of a girl with serpents for hair. He was the gun. His twin boasted the same backdrop, but instead of the gun, his tattoo featured three bullets. He was the ammunition. The pictures meant the brothers had spent time at Corrective Labor Colony 4.

  The tattoos also meant that separated, the brothers were vulnerable, but together, they were invincible. A powerful vor must have made this assessment in prison and labeled them as such forever.

  A beefy security guard in a black suit opened the door to the jewelry store from the inside and allowed a woman to exit. She carried a small white bag, purse, and matching poodle. She disappeared down the boulevard.

  “So how exactly are we going to get the merch?” the Gun said.

  “We should do it strong,” the Ammunition said before Victor could answer. “We have the weapons, the manpower, and the element of surprise.”

  Victor said, “A thief who uses a gun is not a thief.”

  The twins exchanged glances and smiled. “What is he, then?” the Gun said.

  “Incompetent,” Victor said.

  They laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” the Gun said. “If we don’t do it strong, we could create a diversion instead. A violent one.”

  “No one wants to be in a car wreck,” the Ammunition said. “But everyone slows down to watch one.”

  “Exactly,” the Gun said. He turned around to face Victor and pointed at the convertible parked a few car lengths away from the jewelry store. “I could ram that Jaguar with the truck. Everyone comes out. All eyes on my brother and me, you and the guys in the van take down the merch.”

  Victor sighed. “A diversion like that is no diversion at all.”

  “It’s not?” the Gun said, visibly disappointed.

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?” the Ammunition said.

  “A summons for the police.”

  The cabin remained silent for a moment.

  The Ammunition turned to face Victor also. “Okay. What do you suggest we do?”

  “We use the greatest advantage we have at our disposal.”

  “Which is?” the Ammunition said.

  Victor smiled. “You and your brother’s natural good looks.”

  Victor outlined their strategy. When he was done, the Gun called the driver of the van behind them and shared the plan.

  Twenty minutes later, three girls burst from the jewelry store, dancing and shrieking down the steps toward the Mercedes. A lithe, dark-haired beauty waved a jewelry box with her right hand.

  “I knew it,” she shouted. “They’re worth a fo
rtune.”

  Before the girls could climb into their car, the Timkiv brothers strutted down the opposite side of the street. One of them held a map of Yalta in his hand. They waved to the girls.

  “Excuse me, gorgeous,” the Ammunition said. “This is Malisleva Street, right?”

  The girl with the jewelry box seemed reluctant, as though she didn’t like the attention being diverted from her and her newfound wealth. But her two friends swung their hips eagerly across the street and offered to help with directions.

  The girl with the jewelry box started to cross the street to join them. A white van pulled up alongside her Mercedes. Its body shielded the girl and her car from her friends and the Timkiv brothers.

  The passenger window was rolled down. A colleague of the Timkiv brothers nodded at the keys in her hand. “Are you leaving? We could sure use your parking spot. We have a delivery to make.”

  The girl frowned. “Oh. Okay. Let me pull out.” She turned and lifted the door handle. There was a loud clicking noise as the doors came unlocked.

  Two large men came up behind her. One slid a strip of duct tape over her head and covered her mouth. The second corralled her legs and taped them together. They lifted her and tossed her gently into the back of the open van. A third man slammed the door shut from inside.

  She shimmied to the wall of the van and twisted to a semi-seated position. Her eyes stretched their sockets as though she were a wounded animal.

  “Hello, Isabella. Don’t be alarmed. You will not be harmed. It is so nice to meet you. My name is Victor. I am your uncle.”

  CHAPTER 33

  STEAM BILLOWED FROM the boiled dumplings in Anton’s kitchen. The cover to the simmering pot of borscht rattled in place as though the slightest increase in heat would make it blow. They’d already shared half a bottle of an Alsace wine, during which time Nadia’s desires had become inexplicably carnal. Anton began to grin with increasing frequency during their conversation, as though he could tell where her mind was drifting based simply on her body language. When he finally put his glass down and approached her, Nadia didn’t run.