The Boy from Reactor 4

It was a big old American sedan.

CHAPTER 3

VICTOR BODNAR SAT behind the simple wooden desk in his mock courtroom on Avenue A, listening to the sweet child. Back and hip aching, hemorrhoids burning like the time in the forced-labor camp—the gulag—when the guards chained him to a toilet bowl filled with kerosene-drenched rats and lit them on fire. None of the above killing him as much as the sight before him now.

“Once I gave Misha all my money,” Tara said in broken Ukrainian, “he never called again. When I told him I was pregnant, he said I had to get an abortion or he’d have me and my baby killed. That if I told anyone about it, he’d have me killed. I don’t want an abortion.” She started sobbing. “Victor, I don’t want to die.”

Victor pushed himself upright and gave her his handkerchief. “There, there, Tarochka,” he said. “How much money did you give Misha? And why did you give it to him?”

“When my uncle died, I got a hundred thousand dollars in life insurance. Misha said he could double my money in one year with no risk. Something about gasoline arbitrage.”

“And when you called to tell him you were in a family way, did you ask for your money back?”

“Yes, but he told me the thing with the gasoline had gone bad and he’d lost it all.”

Victor smiled like a cat that had just been told the wolf was dangerous. “Of course he did. Of course he did.”

Four years ago, she was the doe-faced belle of the debutante ball. Now she looked like a malnourished slab of Slavic cheeks dipped in mascara-colored tears.

“You have a job?” Victor said.

She shook her head. “I was working at Macy’s, but Misha told me to quit. He didn’t want his woman working. Now they’re not hiring.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt. In her apartment. On Avenue B.”

“Good. Go there. I’ll speak with Misha. I don’t think I’ll be able to get your money back, though. Misha is young, rich, and powerful. As you know.”

“But you’re a powerful man, too, Victor.”

“Thank you for saying that, Tarockha. But I’m afraid I’m a relic. The time for me and my kind has passed. Still, I promise that you and your baby won’t be harmed. That I guarantee.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, Victor.”

“Keep me informed. Now, wait outside for a few minutes. Stefan will make arrangements to send you some money to tide you over.”

Tara protested, but Victor insisted. She hugged him. The experience left him dizzy. He longed for her to return as soon as she left. Worried that New York was unsafe for a young woman, especially one carrying a child. Dreamed of putting a bullet in Misha’s brain.

Stefan, Victor’s most trusted adviser, came in. He’d been the open-weight alternate on the Soviet Judo Olympic Team of 1972, though no one in America knew that. In fact, there was no record of his existing in America. He’d snuck into the country on a freighter thirty-three years ago.

“Wire ten thousand dollars into her bank account,” Victor said.

“But the bank account is empty.”

“Empty? The hell you say.”

“We’re bleeding cash since they shut down our antiques business.”

“How much do I have in my personal savings account?”

“What?”

“How much?”

“About twelve thousand.”

“Send it all to her.”

“All of it?”

Eyes shut, Victor remembered Tara’s mother when he first saw her, fresh off the boat, groceries spilling from the bottom of her paper bag on Avenue A. “Her mother used to bake pampushki for me.”

“That will leave us with no money.”

“Don’t worry about it. When I was fifteen, I was the best pickpocket in Kyiv. Maybe I’ll go to Grand Central and rob bankers on their way home from work. Do you think they’d even arrest me if I got caught?”

“Hard to tell the thieves from the citizens these days.”

“Just like home. Who’s next?”

“The courier from Kyiv.”

“Ah. Right. The courier. Give me a minute to use the bathroom. And pat her down. Twice. Then send her in.”

CHAPTER 4

THE DOCTOR YANKED the wheel to the right and thrust the car onto Eleventh Street, toward the heart of Alphabet City. The later the letter, the tougher the neighborhood.

An SUV barreled down the street toward them.

“Wrong way,” Nadia said. “It’s a one-way street the other way.”

“I know.”

The doctor mashed the pedal. The car surged forward, and Nadia braced herself.

The SUV blared its horn and veered left beside a column of parked cars along the sidewalk. The doctor blew past it. He took a sharp right onto Avenue C and negotiated a maze of sequential turns. Nadia suppressed a wave of nausea.

They hit a red light at the corner of Houston. An ambulance sped by them toward Seventh Street, lights flashing and siren blaring.

No sign of the American sedan. There was no way that old heap could keep up. Nadia released her grip on the passenger door.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“Police station?” the doctor said, his hands loose around the wheel.

“Right. Fifth Street. Between Second and Third.”

“Got it.”

“My name is Nadia,”’ she said. “Nadia Tesla. Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome. I’m Brad. Brad Specter.”