The Boy from Reactor 4

“Good choice. You know, former Prime Minister Tymoshenko wears her hair in a braid as a tribute to Lesya.” Obon took the book and whirled to the register. “I do know someone nearby who can tell you more about Damian and the vor, if you care.”

“Really? Who?”

“A wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoons. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. Let me go in back, call him, and see if he’s available.”

A buzzer sounded. An old man with thick sunglasses sat in a wheelchair in front of the door.

“Ah. Be so kind as to let our friend in,” Obon said as he disappeared behind a corner curtain.

“Our friend?” Nadia said.

“Why, of course. Our friend. Max Milan.”

Nadia stood dumbfounded. “Who?”

The man in the wheelchair sounded the buzzer again.

Laughter emanated from behind the curtain. “For goodness’ sake, Nadia,” Obon said. “Look closely. It’s Milan. You met him yesterday, didn’t you? Let him in, please.”

Nadia unlocked the door. The man took his glasses off. He had smooth skin, black shoe polish in his hair, and a birthmark on his right cheek.

He bore no resemblance to the man she knew as Max Milan.

CHAPTER 10

THE CAT WAS a living, breathing feline tuxedo. Its lustrous coat shined like black satin under the exposed kitchen lightbulb. A splash of white adorned its chest. It studied Nadia with gypsy eyes from its perch on the windowsill, unsure if it wanted to tango or tussle.

An enormous man escorted Nadia to the tiny kitchen of the two-story apartment when she arrived at 2:00 p.m. The kitchen was ancient but immaculate. He might have been a strong man in a circus, or a Ukrainian solar system unto himself. He offered her vodka or tea. Nadia sat at a bare wooden table and declined politely.

She couldn’t stop thinking about her discovery at the bookstore. The real Max Milan was a retired insurance adjuster who’d emigrated from Ukraine twenty years ago. He’d never heard of Nadia or her father. Nadia had paid for the book and left without offering Obon further explanation. He appeared confused and concerned. Nadia didn’t want to discuss the shooting, her subsequent rescue and betrayal, and the missing body. She’d tried that with the cops. She didn’t need another exercise in humiliation.

Stairs creaked. The cat dove to the floor and skipped to the doorway, its tail vertical.

An old man sauntered into the kitchen and petted the cat. He was dressed in earth tones, with hair the color of ash. When he glanced at Nadia for the first time, a light flickered behind his eyes. It gave him the overall appearance of a cigar that had been lit a hundred years ago and could never be extinguished.

“Hello. My name is Bodnar,” he said, in a coarse Ukrainian tongue.

“Mr. Bodnar,” Nadia said, rising to her feet. “Nadia Tesla.” Why had she stood up? Something about his carriage reminded her of her father.

He didn’t offer his hand, and Nadia didn’t offer hers. It would have been presumptuous. He was her elder.

“Call me Victor,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “Please. Did Stefan offer you something to drink? Vodka. Would you join me?”

Nadia didn’t want to dull her reasoning, but it would have been rude to say no.

“Thank you,” she said.

He brought a bottle that was two-thirds full, sat down beside her, and poured two shots. They raised their glasses.

“Na zdorovye,” he said. He drank and swallowed in one motion, keeping his eyes on Nadia.

Nadia drank only wine but couldn’t afford to look like a weakling. She knocked back the shot and managed not to cough during the ensuing burn. She returned her glass to the table with a celebratory bang.

Victor smiled, revealing a mixture of decaying and gold teeth. “Don’t drink vodka much, do you?”

Nadia frowned. “I thought I fooled you. How could you tell?”

He chuckled. “I know things about people. So, Obon says nice things about you.” His eyes lit up. “I love young people. Indulge an old man. Tell me a little bit about yourself first.” Strangely, he glanced at her hands as he said this, as though he could have read her palms if she’d offered them.

“What would you like to know?”

“Where were you born?”

“Connecticut.”

“What was your father’s given name?”

“Maxim.”

“Maxim Tesla. Where was he born?”

“A city outside Kyiv. Bila Tserkva. Do you know it?”

“Yes. I know it. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes. One brother.”

Victor leaned back and folded his arms. “When you were a child, did you play with dolls or other girls?”

“Neither. Toy guns.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Whose voice from childhood do you miss the most?”

“My brother’s.”

He nodded and murmured his approval. “And if I offered you a clear conscience or ten dollars, which would you choose?”

Nadia considered the question. “That would depend.”

“On what?”

“On whether my brother and I were hungry.”

His lip curled upward.

The buzzer to the front door sounded three times in rapid succession.

Nadia said, “What can you tell me about the man named Damian?”

The cat popped its head out of its bed in the corner.