The Boy from Reactor 4

by Orest Stelmach

  Anton bent at the knees, reached down, thrust his arms between her legs, and cupped her buttocks. She grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling backward.

  “Anton, what are you—”

  As he straightened, she teetered. Her hands went around his neck. He lifted her off the ground. She urged him on. He stepped forward, slid her butt onto the granite kitchen countertop, and released his grip. Her legs were splayed, and his hips pressed against her.

  He kissed her, letting his lips sink into hers barely enough to make an impression before sealing them and kneading her gently. He tasted of apples and lemon. When he parted, Nadia lost her breath. What was she going to ask him? What was her problem now?

  His left hand pressed against her lower back. His right hand massaged her shoulder, her spine, the back of her neck. The lips—those big, juicy fucking lips—caressed and nuzzled the rest of her neck, seemingly forever, slowly sucking on every pore between her head and shoulders, sending blood rushing to her face and turning her brain to mush. He finally, mercifully, slid his lips to hers and kissed her again, this time more urgently.

  “Bedroom,” he said.

  Even though her hip bone ached, Nadia slid her hands through his hair and clumped it in her fists. “No,” she said. “Right here. Right now.”

  They tore at their clothing and unleashed themselves on each other. Ten minutes later, Anton carried her into the bedroom. They rolled for over an hour in the cool gray sheets. When they finished the second time, Anton held Nadia in his arms and sang a tragic Ukrainian folk song about the maiden, the Cossack, and their unrequited love.

  The popular song reminded Nadia of her childhood, when her father would play it on the stereo in the living room and light his pipe, and she knew that they were safe from his tirades for at least a few hours. She curled away from Anton and dabbed at the moisture in the corners of her eyes, lest he ask her why she was crying.

  Anton lived in an old Soviet high-rise, a bland cement structure that explained a nation’s unquenchable thirst for vodka on first sight. His penthouse loft, however, was an entirely different matter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the gourmet kitchen, and sterling silver antiques complemented a huge bureau full of first-edition books in the living room. The quality of his possessions didn’t jibe with a man holding down two jobs in Kyiv, Nadia thought.

  “What’s this?” she said, holding up a silver box.

  Anton stirred the pot of borscht in the kitchen. “An English tea caddy. My entire collection is English. That one’s Victorian regency.”

  Nadia replaced it on the antique mahogany sideboard. “You have impeccable taste, Anton. This is quite a collection.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t steal anything. Most of it belonged to my parents. My father was a renowned professor back in the day when the communists rewarded their academics. My mother was a translator in the diplomatic corps. I inherited the apartment from them. As for the kitchen, I had everything updated because I’m a fiend for gourmet cooking. Thus the second job.”

  Two candles lit the kitchen table while they wolfed down dinner: borscht, mushroom dumplings, cheese, and black bread.

  “I want to tell you why I’m really here,” Nadia said. “I want you to know everything.”

  “Don’t. Please. I don’t need to know anything more.”

  “But I trust you.”

  “No. No, you don’t. And you shouldn’t trust anyone in this country. Why should you? If you need something and I can help, I will. No questions asked.”

  “But—”

  He raised his hand for her to stop. “Please. There’s been no one for me since my wife died. These moments…You can rely on me unconditionally while you’re in Kyiv.”

  Behind the circle of candlelight, his eyes seemed enormous, even moist. Nadia was already recovering, though, from her moment of naive passion. He was right. She didn’t know him at all, so why was she being such a sap?

  “That’s incredibly sweet, Anton. I don’t know what I would do without you. Really.”

  He smiled and stabbed a dumpling in his borscht.

  “So tell me about this friend you have who knows Chernobyl,” she said.

  Anton tore the slice of bread in half. “His name is Hayder. I’m going to call him tonight. He owes me a favor and he’s an honorable man, so I think he’ll help. But there’s something you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s a Crimean Tatar. From Crimea. It’s an autonomous republic in the south of Ukraine.”

  Nadia shrugged. “Great. Why is that something I should know?”

  “Because he’s a Sunni Muslim. And he hates Americans.”

  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. Me
n 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.”

  CHAPTER 35

  AT 7:00 ON Thursday night, Anton sped north from Kyiv up the expressway along the Dnipro River in Radek’s van. Nadia sat upright in the backseat while Hayder slouched in front beside Anton. He had ebony skin with rich Turkish features. He wore a dark turtleneck, blue jeans, and a mid-length black coat, with a thin black scarf wrapped around his neck.

  Hayder spoke Crimean, Russian, and English, but not Ukrainian. He spoke Russian with Anton but insisted on speaking English with Nadia.

  “What is your business in the Exclusion Zone?” Nadia said.

  “What?” Hayder twisted and glowered at her. “Why do you inquisition me about my business?”

  He turned to Anton and asked him a question under his breath. Nadia couldn’t hear a word except for kurba, the Russian and Ukrainian word for “whore.”

  “You want to know about my business?” Hayder said. “I tell you about my business. One, I’m in the import business. Two, I’m in the export business. And three, I’m in the ‘none of your fucking business.’ That’s my business.”

  Nadia looked away and let a few seconds pass. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry,” she lied. “I was just trying to get acquainted.”

  “Okay, okay,” Anton said. He murmured some soothing words in Hayder’s direction. “We’re all friends here, right?”

  “Tell him that,” she said.

  “Sure, we are all friends,” Hayder said. “My father can’t get the job in Crimea because he is Muslim. My brother, who was the best chef in Sevastopol, is kidnapped by American government and locked up in Gitmo for no reason when he go to Chicago to open restaurant. And here I am, the black man, in the car with the Ukrainian and the American. Oh, yeah. We are the best friends.”

  Nadia studied Anton’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Anton, are you sure about this?”

  Anton cracked a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Hayder likes to rant. But Hayder is good people. He went to the London School of Economics.”

  The most dangerous people in the world weren’t the extremists, Nadia thought; they were the highly educated and super-intelligent extremists. Hayder’s presence made her trip—in the dead of the night, to a radioactive wasteland, in search of a notorious uncle she’d never known existed—all the more surreal. Less than a week ago, she thought she was meeting a nice old man who’d known her father. And now, here she was.

  While Anton exited the expressway and turned right, Hayder handed her a small device the size of an old-fashioned transistor radio.

  “Dosimeter,” he said. “It measures your exposure to radiation per hour. After the explosion, the reading in the control room was three hundred sieverts. You died in one minute. Today the reading in the control room is thirty-four sieverts. You die in fifteen minutes. In States or in Moscow, normal reading is ten microsieverts. In Kyiv, the normal reading is twelve to sixteen micros. In the Zone, the reading is up to one thousand micros, depending how close to the reactor.”

  Nadia held the device gingerly. “That sounds like a problem.”

  Hayder shook his head. “No. That is not the problem. Exposure is not the problem. Accumulation is the problem. If you spend five hours in the Zone, you radiate
as much as if you spend two hours in the airplane or on the beach in Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Then why bother with the dosimeter?”

  “To avoid getting particles on the clothes or body. Reactor Four explosion released twenty nuclear substances. Most are not harmful anymore. Three are harmful: plutonium, strontium, and cesium-137. Cesium-137 is in the dust. If cesium-137 gets on body, accumulation is problem. You must scrub quickly or die. The particles are the very big problem.”

  The road curved through the night. A pine forest hovered over both sides. The truck’s headlights provided the only illumination. Hayder pointed at something up ahead and whispered to Anton.

  Anton swerved left onto a dirt road. Nadia bounced in her seat as the van rolled over uneven terrain. Ten minutes later, Anton killed the lights. They drove five miles per hour until they came upon a barbed-wire fence and stopped. Anton flashed his lights twice. A pair of headlights flashed three times from the other side of the fence.

  “Bingo,” Hayder said. “My man. Let’s go.”

  The barbed wire meant they were at the border of the Zone of Exclusion, thirty kilometers from the reactors, and thirty-three kilometers from the Hotel Polissya in Pripyat.

  “I would go with you,” Anton said, “but we can’t leave the car here unattended. It might not be here when we got back. And we can’t take the car inside the Zone. It would be too hot by the time we were done. Cars that go in the Zone stay in the Zone.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Nadia said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can,” Anton said. “I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”

  “You better be.”

  A steel pole stabilized the hole in the fence so that it opened and closed like a door. A covered military-supply truck was parked on the other side. Hayder opened the passenger door and told Nadia to get in. She slid next to a sullen driver in camouflage gear. The cabin smelled like diesel, cigarettes, and hair tonic.