The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 26

THE SCENE AT Passport Control at Terminal F at Boryspil Airport resembled a rugby scrum. Arriving passengers jockeyed for position among six lines. People argued in Russian and Ukrainian. Nadia had negotiated the scrum last year during her first visit to Kyiv. It took her two and a half hours to pass through immigration and find her baggage at another terminal.

She sliced her way between two lines to a desk surrounded by two columns. Grabbed two customs forms and turned to Marko. She had Johnny to thank or blame for Marko’s company. She wasn’t sure which word applied yet. He’d been her big brother when they were kids but as adults they’d grown apart. She worked as a financial analyst, he owned a strip club. More importantly in this situation, she prided herself on proper conduct while traveling in a professional capacity. She was concerned her brother wouldn’t share that philosophy. Still, having him with her made her feel more secure. And two people could investigate faster than one.

She caught his eye and motioned toward an empty line without a border official. “That’s us,” she said.

Marko stood staring at the scrum. “This is a joke, man.”

“Marko.” She nodded toward the vacant line. “Move. Before someone else gets there first.”

“That line’s closed.”

“It’s VIP. It was recently added for government officials, dignitaries, and other important visitors.”

Marko raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“You’re underestimating your sister. Let’s go.”

He followed her toward the vacant line.

Nadia and Marko had spoken Ukrainian since childhood. In Nadia’s experience, the choice of language defined a relationship. Switching to English would have felt awkward. Yet that’s exactly what they’d agreed to do once they landed in Kyiv. It reduced the risk of eavesdropping. Now that they’d exchanged words in English for the first time in their lives, Nadia realized the experience wasn’t as strange as she thought it would be. It was far worse. Changing languages removed intimacy. It was as though they’d have to get to know each other all over again.

The border officials wore pale green uniforms. They looked like relics from the Soviet era. Nadia had heard stories ad nauseam from her father about the KGB. For her, the uniforms echoed with the sounds of persecution, detention, and torture.

Nadia caught the attention of one of the officers. She gave him a set of VIP credentials, faxed to her by someone from the Orel Group. He studied them and called a supervisor over. The supervisor reviewed the documents. Meanwhile, Nadia and Marko filled out the forms she’d picked up from the desk.

The last time she’d entered the country she was asked a variety of intrusive questions, including her parents’ birthplaces and her political affiliation. This time the border officials didn’t ask any questions. Instead, the supervisor took the forms, stamped Nadia’s and Marko’s passports, and welcomed them to Ukraine.

Nadia and Marko collected their luggage and exited the baggage claim area. Nadia powered on her cell phone to see if she had voice mail. On the other side of the window, the taxi area looked like a bumper car racetrack.

“The taxis are ugly, too,” Marko said. “I read they try to rip you off. Charge you three hundred hryvnia for a trip to Kyiv when you should be paying one-sixty. I may have to kick some ass.”

“No. There will be no ass kicking in Kyiv. I’m here on business. Working for an important man. Your behavior will reflect on me, Marko. Please remember that.”

“You always did take yourself too seriously. But don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you. At least not too much.”

Nadia rolled her eyes. She’d feared having him along was a bad idea and now she was certain it was a mistake. She scanned the crowd of drivers holding signs. A meticulous woman in a corporate suit barged forward. She held a piece of white cardboard with Nadia’s name printed on it in perfect font. Nadia walked over and introduced herself.

“On behalf of the Orel Group,” she said in Russian, “Welcome to Ukraine. Your car is waiting outside.”

Nadia glanced at Marko. Waited for gratitude or a compliment.

“Lucky for you they know who I am over here,” he said.

Nadia rolled her eyes. On the way to the car, Nadia noticed she had a voice mail. She pressed the phone to her ear, turned the volume low, and listened to a message from Johnny.

“Bobby went ape-shit when I showed him old Valentine’s picture,” Johnny said. “Ape-shit. Said you should turn around and come back home immediately. Said your life is in danger. Call me as soon as you get there. I don’t care what time it is.”

She hung up. Marko looked at her, his eyes asking her what the call was about. She had updated him on the basics concerning Bobby’s situation on the plane.

“Johnny,” she said. “According to him, we’re back on the Appalachian Trail.”

Marko nodded. He understood immediately what she meant. Their lives had been in danger on the Appalachian Trail when she’d taken her Ukrainian Girl Scout survival test.

They sat in the back of a stretch limousine. The woman who greeted them slid beside the driver, a fresh-faced male equivalent.

“Evgeny was the finest driver on the Kyiv police force,” the woman said. “Until the Orel Group hired him away. He is very fast, but very safe. We will have you at the Intercontinental in no time.”

The driver guided the car out of the airport. The woman pointed out the bottles of spring water, vodka, and Scotch.

“First time in Ukraine?” she said.

“Not for me,” Nadia said in Russian. She motioned toward Marko. “Yes for him.”

“We were born in America but this is our parents’ homeland,” Marko said in Ukrainian. Unlike Nadia, he didn’t speak Russian. Although some basic words sounded the same, it was impossible to have a deep conversation using both languages. “We were raised in a Ukrainian community. We went to kindergarten speaking only Ukrainian.”

“Your language is amazing,” the woman said, with a crude Ukrainian accent. To a Ukrainian-American, it sounded like ghetto. “Textbook Ukrainian. Like they speak in Lviv. In Western Ukraine.”

“So let me ask you a question,” Marko said.

The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Why are you speaking Russian to me as though I’m in Moscow?”

Nadia kicked Marko in the shin. He’d always been a rabid Ukrainian nationalist within the American community. She understood he hated any sign of Russification but this was not the place to be demonstrative. He glared at her as though he had no choice but to make the comment.

The limo was so long the woman saw Nadia’s kick. “No, Ms. Tesla,” she said in Ukrainian. “It’s a good question.” Nadia had to give her credit. Russian was the woman’s primary language but she was speaking the language common to everyone in the car. “It’s a matter of history.”

“History didn’t make you speak Russian instead of Uke when you met us at the airport,” Marko said. “What are you talking about?”

Nadia kicked him again.

“In the 1970s, the leaders of the Soviet Union implemented a program called ‘Russification’,” the woman said.

“By ‘leaders of the Soviet Union’ you mean the Russians,” Marko said. “You mean that bastard Brezhnev.”

“Marko,” Nadia said.

“Yes,” the woman said. “The Politburo and Leonid Brezhnev. The Ukrainian language was forbidden in universities. Pro-Ukrainians were called nationalists. They were persecuted, arrested, put in jail. It got to the point where Kyivans had two choices: send their kids to Russian-speaking schools and tow the line, or move out.”

“Move where?” Marko said.

“Moscow.”

“No way.”

“There was more opportunity in Moscow for Ukrainians to speak Ukrainian than in Kyiv. By 1980, Russian was the only language spoken in Kyiv. Only since independence in 1991 has the Ukrainian language started making a comeback here.”

“Thank God I waited until now to come here,” Marko said.

“Yes,” the woman said. “For your sake, I am also glad you waited.” She turned forward, grabbed a clipboard, and started confirming tomorrow’s itinerary with the driver.

Nadia glared at Marko. “You cannot be this way.”

Marko appeared confused. “What way?”

“Sarcastic, argumentative, confrontational. In short, an asshole. You cannot be an asshole when you’re a guest in someone else’s country.”

“Oh, come on. You know me.”

“I’m here on business, Marko. I’m getting paid.”

He sealed his lips and looked out the window.

The driver turned on the radio. Modern interpretations of traditional Ukrainian folk music started up. A crescent moon hung in the sky. The limousine glided along the tarmac. Green pastures and clusters of forest rolled by.

Memories from last year’s trip flitted in and out of Nadia’s mind. The search for Clementine Seelick, Bobby’s aunt. Nadia’s escape from her pursuers in the tunnels of the Caves Monastery on her hands and knees. And then, Chornobyl, the locket, and the escape with Bobby back to New York.

They crossed the bridge over the river Dnipro. Lights from Kyiv’s skyscrapers illuminated the golden domes of its eleventh century churches and cathedrals.

When they got to the hotel, Nadia and Marko stepped out of the limo. The driver removed their luggage from the trunk. Two well-dressed young men were arguing about something.

“Evgeny will pick you up at nine a.m. to bring you to Orel Group offices,” the woman said. “If that is convenient.”

“Thank you,” Nadia said, “but I need to get started earlier. I need to be there by seven a.m.”

“Then he will pick you up at six forty-five a.m.” She glanced at the driver to make sure he understood. He nodded politely.

One of the young men struck the other in the face. The injured one screamed. Brought his hands to his nose.

A bell captain and two hotel doormen came running.

“What happened here?” one of the doormen said.

The injured man removed his hands from his nose. They were covered with blood. It streamed down his face from his nose.

“This man punched me for no reason,” the injured man said.

He pointed at Marko.

“What are you talking about?” Marko said.

“That’s a lie,” Nadia said.

She remembered her experience last year in Kyiv. Thugs pretended to be cops, planted dope on her, and tried to extort a bribe. This was a scam, too, she realized, but what was the angle?

Marko was going toe-to-toe with the assailant, threatening to stick his head in a blender for being a lying bitch. The driver and the woman were trying to back him up but there was too much screaming. It was chaos.

It was a diversion.

Nadia turned. Their luggage was gone.

“Our luggage,” she said. “Our luggage is gone. It’s a scam to get our luggage.”

She looked left. Nothing. Glanced to the right. Nothing. She swore. Looked around again. Further out this time. She was vaguely aware the two miscreants were running away. Who cared. She needed her luggage.

There. Across the street. A third young man wheeled their luggage toward a taxi. One bag in each hand.

“Thief,” Nadia said. “Stop him.”

She sprinted toward him.

A rawboned man in a tan suit appeared from nowhere and blocked the thief’s path. He didn’t touch the kid. He simply spoke to him. Three sentences. Maybe four. Nadia couldn’t hear what he said but the younger guy dropped the bags and ran away.

The rawboned man helped her retrieve their bags. Up close he appeared to be in his early fifties, with a military crew cut.

“Thank you,” Nadia said in Ukrainian. When he frowned she repeated herself in Russian.

His peppercorn eyes twinkled. “You’re welcome. I was in my car waiting for my wife.” He pointed to a white BMW with black rims. “I saw the whole thing happen.” He sounded quite pleased with himself. “You are a tourist?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“I love America.” He turned serious and wagged his finger. “Just remember when you go back to America to spread the word. Not everyone in Ukraine is corrupt and criminal.”

He returned to his car as Marko arrived, out of breath.

“He speak Russian or Uke?” Marko said. He waved to the good Samaritan, who smiled and waved back.

“Guess,” Nadia said.

“Damn. I wanted to like him so bad.”