The Boy from Reactor 4

“A woman will meet you at the train station. She will take you to her home in a town called Voorheesville. When it is safe for you to come home, your aunt will call you from New York. Until then, you must not speak to anyone. Otherwise, Misha will find you, and you will never be free from him.”

“Okay, I understand. But what about you? Here,” she said, pushing the fanny pack into his chest. “This is too much.”

“No, it’s not. You see…I need you to do me a favor.”

Tara hesitated. “What kind of favor?”

Victor reached down and picked up what looked like a small duffel bag. One end was vented. He unzipped the other. A black-and-white cat poked its head out and chirped like a parakeet at Tara.

“I need you to take care of him for me,” Victor said. “I have no one else.”

Tara froze, mouth open, as though she weren’t a cat person but didn’t want to admit it. “Why can’t you take care of him?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to be traveling soon. He answers to Damian, but you can call him whatever you want. He’s a good boy.”

Tara swallowed and forced a smile. “Okay. I’ll take care of him. Damian and my baby will be friends.”

“That would be… so nice. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He took a final look at Damian and zipped up the carrier. Tara reached out and grasped it by its strap.

“You have it?” Victor said.

“Yes, I have it.”

“Because he doesn’t like to be dropped.”

Tara laughed and tightened her grip. “Yes, Victor. I have it.”

Victor let go of the strap. His hand fell to his side, still clutching an imaginary strap. He handed her a second bag that contained some food, the cat’s favorite toys, and its vaccination history.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a porter to help you with your suitcases.”

Victor walked away. He resisted the urge to turn back. To tell her how much joy she’d brought him the three times he’d seen her. Instead, he found a man in a red cap pushing a trolley. He gave him twenty dollars and asked him to help Tara board the train early. Afterward, Victor did not return to say good-bye to Tara.

Instead, he circled the waiting area until he found an intense young woman in a business suit typing away like a nutcase into one of those small phone-like contraptions everyone is obsessed with these days. She was sitting in a corner against a wall. Perfect. Victor slipped behind a support beam, removed his right arm from its jacket sleeve, and replaced the coat around his shoulder.

He sat down beside the woman. She paid no attention to him. With the sleeve of his jacket hanging by her side as it normally would, Victor slipped his right arm around her waist. He dipped into her purse, rummaged around, and lifted her wallet. The entire exercise took ten seconds.

Victor tucked the wallet inside his jacket and sauntered out of the waiting area. He looked around. The police weren’t rushing from their booth toward him. No one sounded an alarm.

He wiped a trace of sweat off his brow. Just like the old days in Kyiv Central Station.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, after returning to the waiting area. “I think you dropped this.”

The startled young woman took her wallet and thanked him profusely. Victor bowed slightly and walked away.

He still had it. After all these years, he still had the edge. Good.

He was going to need it.

CHAPTER 18

NADIA CLIMBED THE hilltop to the carousel in Central Park at 10:00 on a crisp morning. A smattering of children gathered with their nannies and parents at the ticket window. A vendor sold popcorn and cheap T-shirts featuring a prancing horse. People crisscrossed the path below toward the skating rink or the zoo.

Nadia’s optimal course of action was obvious. Still, she was having trouble picturing herself on a plane, landing in Ukraine, and walking the streets of Kyiv. She spoke the language well enough, but she’d be a stranger in a foreign land. She needed the money to solve her troubles, though, and now that its mystery was wrapped in her family history, she couldn’t resist the temptation to see it through to her ancestral homeland.

She found her attorney, Johnny Tanner, waiting on a bench. She’d met him a year ago when she accidentally walked into an airport with a gun in her bag. Johnny had gotten the charges reduced to a misdemeanor. A fine and probation. He wore a ponytail, a black pinstripe suit, and a look of unequivocal dread.

He started reading from a file as soon as Nadia sat down.

“Misha’s full name is Mikhail Markov,” Johnny said. “Thirty-eight. Born in Moscow. Immigrated at age seven. Grew up in Brighton Beach. He’s been investigated for gasoline sales-tax evasion, prostitution, extortion, murder, and selling a Russian submarine to the Colombians. Two priors for assault. Did six months at Mohawk Correctional.”

“Extortion and murder,” Nadia said, swallowing hard. “What about Victor Bodnar?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Brad Specter?”

“Master’s degree in art history from Rutgers. Convicted of fraud for selling art forgeries. Did two years in Mohawk at the same time as Misha.”