The Boy From Reactor 4 (45 page)

Nadia stood up. Her body trembled. She looked around. An agent was tending to a wounded colleague near the front door. Yuri and Simon were sitting on the floor, unscathed. Another agent was checking the pulses of Stefan and the other bodyguard. But there was no sign of Victor.

“These two are dead,” the agent said.

“He must have slipped away,” Nadia said. “You’re going to get him, though, right?”

“Did he have a gun? Did you see him shoot anyone?”

Nadia remembered Victor standing beside his bodyguards with his hands by his sides. “I don’t think so.”

Specter frowned. Raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the formula?”

Adam stood up.

“There is no formula,” Nadia said.

“Nadia, please,” Specter said. “The formula is a matter of national security. You must hand it over to the federal government. Let me put it to you this way. You will hand it over to us one way or another.”

“There’s no formula, Specter,” Nadia said. “Adam, show this man what was in the locket. Show this man what this was all about.”

Adam held the picture of the Statue of Liberty in his left hand. He extended his arm so Specter could see it.

Specter frowned. “What’s this? Is this a joke? Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for this? Where’s the microfilm—”

Adam was staring with disbelief at a purple stain on his sports jacket. It was near his upper chest on his left side.

“He’s been shot,” Nadia said. “Specter, you shot an innocent child.”

“Stray bullet,” Specter said.

“Get an ambulance. Now.”

Adam’s knees wobbled. Nadia caught him. Specter helped her ease him back to the floor and peeled his jacket back. His white shirt was stained with blood, like Yuri’s the night he’d pretended to be Max Milan. Only this time, the blood was real.

Specter barked orders for a second ambulance and a first-aid kit. When it arrived, he opened a sterile bandage and told Nadia to apply direct pressure on the wound.

“It’s the upper chest,” he said. “Near the deltoid-pectoral tie-in. Nothing vital. Worst case, a muscle got hit. He’ll be fine. Ambulance is on the way.”

Adam, near the border of consciousness, studied Specter and turned to Nadia. “Government man,” he said. “Can’t trust a government man.”

“No,” Nadia said, giving Specter an evil eye. “No, you most certainly cannot.”

Nadia followed Adam’s gaze to the paper in his hand. The glossy newsprint and its dimensions struck a chord within Nadia. The hockey magazine. Adam had held up a page when she first asked about it on the Trans-Siberian. The page had a hole in it. It was the page for the New York Rangers. He’d torn the picture of the Statue of Liberty out of the magazine and put it in the locket.

Adam nodded at the picture of Lady Liberty. “Downtown?” he said.

Nadia nodded. “Downtown. I’ll take you to see her.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Adam smiled.

Nadia continued to press her hand to his wound gently. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. But no more lies between us. Okay, Bobby?”

He took a second to absorb the comment. “Okay. No more lies, Auntie.”

CHAPTER 87

S
HE WAS THE
mighty woman with the torch.

Back in school in Korosten, Adam had badgered a teacher into translating the poem with which the Mother of Exiles greeted new arrivals:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your masses that want to breathe free,

The human garbage that washed upon your shore.

Send these, the beaten and homeless to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Those were the lines he liked the most. Those were the phrases he recited before he went to sleep.

Now that he was here in person, though, she seemed to have more to say. It was a simple message. The wind carried it across the harbor and onto the bridge. It echoed in his ears over and over again:

Anything can happen in New York City.

Any dream can be fulfilled.

EPILOGUE

E
ARLY IN THE
third period, Fordham Prep cut its deficit to 2–1. The pace quickened, play sharpened. The teams traded power plays and numerous quality scoring chances. With five minutes left in the game, Coach Terry Hilliard tapped Bobby Kungenook on the shoulder for the first time since benching him.

With two minutes left to play, Iona broke in on a two-on-one. A third goal would put the game out of reach and end any chance of Fordham continuing its undefeated season. Bobby Kungenook skated backward as the two Iona forwards converged on the goalie. He moved his stick toward the puck carrier and shifted his body as though he were going to lunge for him. The Iona forward assumed he was about to get hit and shuffled the puck across to his teammate. Bobby pushed off with his back skate, righted himself, and intercepted the pass.

He exploded up ice. One stride. Two strides. Bobby blew past the third Iona forward at full speed. He shoveled the puck to his center. An Iona defenseman leaned toward the center, who left a drop pass behind his back. Bobby collected the puck again a second later and streaked by them.

His black hair flowed behind his helmet as he rushed toward the net, gleaming like a bat’s wing under the arena lights. He faked right, slid the puck between the second defenseman’s legs,
collected it, deked the goalie low, and tucked the puck into the upper-right-hand corner of the net.

The crowd erupted. Goose bumps sprouted on Lauren’s neck. She realized she was standing and clapping, though she never remembered having risen to her feet.

After the goal, Bobby circled the net but didn’t raise his hands in jubilation as most hockey players do. Instead, he rounded the corner of the rink and stopped in his tracks. As his four teammates mobbed him, he kept his hands by his sides and stuck his head out to receive their congratulations, like a cat eager to butt heads with its owner. They hugged him and rubbed their gloves over his helmet, and when he skated to his bench to butt fists with his other teammates, he looked like a long-lost boy who’d finally found his home.

After the game ended in a tie, Lauren waited alone in the visiting coach’s office. Ten minutes later, a woman came in and closed the door behind her. She was stylish but not flashy, a classy dresser in a simple black suit. She wore a ruby ring and a Timex sports chronograph—no other jewelry. She had what Lauren called active eyes, the type that shone with a special light because the people behind them were readers and interpreters and not just lookers.

“Nadia Tesla,” she said.

“Hi. Lauren Ross.”

They exchanged cool smiles and still-cooler handshakes.

Nadia circled her way to the coach’s desk and assumed the seat of authority. Lauren sat down in front of her and opened her pad.

“So you’re Bobby’s guardian.”

“That’s right.”

Lauren scribbled on her pad. “Coach Hilliard told me your relation, but I forget. You’re Bobby’s…aunt, is it?”

“I’m his guardian.”

Lauren smiled. “No. I understand that, but—”

“Bobby’s not going to be joining us today.”

Lauren shifted in her seat. “Oh? Why? Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine. But it’s not realistic for him to be interviewed right now. He’s adjusting to a new life. New home. New friends. New school. This race in Central Park has caused a bit of a hullabaloo, but it will blow over in time.”

“Okay, fine. But you understand that this is a story. My guess is it’s a big story. It’s my job to dig. And I’m going to do my job.”

“You’ll fail,” Nadia said. “The more you dig, the less you’ll find. Say you go to Kotzebue and ask questions. All you’ll learn is that there are more questions to ask. And that will be it. You’ll hit a dead end. You’ll have your wasted time, and you won’t have a story.”

“You seem very sure of this.”

“I am. I’m Bobby’s guardian.”

“Well, no good journalist is going to resist the challenge just because someone tells her it’s a dead end. If anything, you’ve only piqued my curiosity even more.”

“Of course, there’s an alternative course of action.”

Lauren raised her eyebrows.

“Give Bobby until June of next year. He’ll be done with his first year at Fordham. He’ll be substantially fluent by then—except for certain humor and inside jokes that take forever. If you leave him alone until June of next year, we’ll sit down with you together and give you an exclusive story.”

Lauren chuckled. “You’re telling me this is something worth waiting for?”

“I think so, but you’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“This is about…more than hockey?”

“Hockey is about more than hockey. But yes, it’s about more than hockey.”

“And you won’t talk to anyone else in the meantime?”

“As long as you keep your word and leave the story alone until then.”

“I like what you propose. But I’d like to think about it overnight. Do you have a business card?”

Nadia handed her a card with her name, a 917 area code cell phone number, no address, and a title.

“What’s a forensic investment analyst?”

“Someone who digs until they find the truth. You might say I’m following in my father’s footsteps.”

Lauren chuckled again and put the card in her purse. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can have lunch soon, and I can give you my final decision.”

“All right.”

Lauren stood up to leave. “Just tell me one thing. That necklace that fell off Bobby’s neck during the game. What’s in the locket?”

Nadia’s lip quivered for a split second. “The Statue of Liberty,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A folded-up picture of the Statue of Liberty. Bobby was named after Robert F. Kennedy. He’s very patriotic.”

Adam sat in the bathroom stall, studying the indent on the back of the locket. He’d accidentally scraped it with the edge of his skate blade, removing some of the gilding. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. The indent was still there.

It was the shape of a hexagon, the kind chemists used to write formulas. The scientist Arkady had given his father the locket shortly before his death as a token of appreciation for their friendship. His father, in turn, had passed it on to him so he could keep the mighty woman close to his heart during the
trip to America. Were there more symbols beneath the rest of the gilding?

Adam’s next thought was to confide in his aunt. She had taken care of him and proven herself beyond any doubt to be someone he could rely on. Still, it was probably best not to rush into any course of action. Adam came to this conclusion by remembering his father’s final words to him.

With foxes, we must play the fox.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
HE FOLLOWING BOOKS
served as reference: Svetlana Alexievich’s
Voices from Chernobyl,
C.C. Bailey’s
The Aftermath of Chernobyl
, R.F. Mould’s
Chernobyl Record,
Adriana Petryna’s
Life Exposed
, James Forsyth’s
A History of the Peoples of Siberia
, John Ziker’s
Peoples of the Tundra
, Ian Halliday’s
Native Peoples of Alaska
, and
Russian Criminal Tattoo Encyclopaedia,
Volumes I and III.