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.
“Damian?” Victor said. The cat skipped over and jumped into his lap. “Yes. Obon mentioned you were interested.” Victor stared into the cat’s fur and stroked its back for a moment. “Damian was a thief. A notorious con man. He once stole the entire milk supply for Kyiv. He struck a deal with a mortician to buy the uniforms of dead militiamen in exchange for future payment. Then he and his friends dressed up like the local police and emptied the warehouse. Sold it on the black market for a fortune.”
A commotion broke out in the background near the front door.
“How did he die?” Nadia said.
“Poorly. He stole ten million dollars’ hard currency from an apparatchik who’d embezzled it from the government. When the little bureaucrat found out, he had Damian and his crew buried alive in hot asphalt. Never did learn what happened to the money.”
The huge man who’d let Nadia in appeared in the doorway. “Misha,” he said.
Victor frowned. The huge man walked away.
Victor asked more pointedly, “Why are you asking about Damian? Obon said you heard the name on the street in conversation. Whose conversation? On what street?”
“Oh. Um…”
Victor handed her the cat. “Excuse me for a moment. I have another visitor. It won’t take long.”
“Of course,” Nadia said. She placed the cat on her lap and petted it gingerly.
“Because I thought you might be asking for a different reason,” Victor said, poking his head back in. “I thought you might be asking because you found out his last name was Tesla. Because you found out Damian was your uncle.”
CHAPTER 11
MISHA MARKOV BURST into a grin as Victor approached. It was the arrogant grin of the carefree and immortal that Victor would like to pound on sight. A gold necklace large enough to double as a tire chain for his silly British truck jangled around his neck. A thin black jacket of the finest Italian leather hung off naturally muscular shoulders that had never seen an honest day’s work. Victor heard that women swooned in his presence almost as much as he did in front of the mirror.
“Thank you for coming, Misha,” Victor said in Russian. “But you’re early.”
“Of course I’m early. I’m early because I wanted some wisdom from my mentor.” He spread his arms out. “I love you so much. Come here, man. Give me a hug.”
Misha buried him in a hug. Victor suppressed a wave of nausea. His head didn’t even touch the kid’s chin.
“You all right?” Misha said after pulling away.
“Yes. I’m all right,” Victor said. Misha was still smiling, but more like a lunatic now. “The question is, are you all right?”
Victor looked around for Stefan but couldn’t find him. He had to be around the corner, in the living room.
“I am fucking awesome, Victor. Awesome.” Misha moved to Victor’s side and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “Actually, I’m early because I wanted to show you something. Come into your living room with me for a minute.”
Misha guided him into the living room. Stefan sat in Victor’s reading chair, surrounded by three of Misha’s men, sportsmen who took chemicals to make their bodies bigger. Their right hands were buried beneath their black leather jackets.
Tara, the sweet child in a family way, sat on the couch to their left. An eggplant-colored bruise surrounded her left eye, which was barely open.
A vice clamped down on Victor’s lungs.
“You see?” Misha said to Victor, pointing at Tara’s eye with his free hand. “That is what happens to an ungrateful whore who talks about me behind my back. And now,” Misha said, looking at Tara, “I want to show you something, too, bitch.”