He kissed her, letting his lips sink into hers barely enough to make an impression before sealing them and kneading her gently. He tasted of apples and lemon. When he parted, Nadia lost her breath. What was she going to ask him? What was her problem now?
His left hand pressed against her lower back. His right hand massaged her shoulder, her spine, the back of her neck. The lips—those big, juicy fucking lips—caressed and nuzzled the rest of her neck, seemingly forever, slowly sucking on every pore between her head and shoulders, sending blood rushing to her face and turning her brain to mush. He finally, mercifully, slid his lips to hers and kissed her again, this time more urgently.
“Bedroom,” he said.
Even though her hip bone ached, Nadia slid her hands through his hair and clumped it in her fists. “No,” she said. “Right here. Right now.”
They tore at their clothing and unleashed themselves on each other. Ten minutes later, Anton carried her into the bedroom. They rolled for over an hour in the cool gray sheets. When they finished the second time, Anton held Nadia in his arms and sang a tragic Ukrainian folk song about the maiden, the Cossack, and their unrequited love.
The popular song reminded Nadia of her childhood, when her father would play it on the stereo in the living room and light his pipe, and she knew that they were safe from his tirades for at least a few hours. She curled away from Anton and dabbed at the moisture in the corners of her eyes, lest he ask her why she was crying.
Anton lived in an old Soviet high-rise, a bland cement structure that explained a nation’s unquenchable thirst for vodka on first sight. His penthouse loft, however, was an entirely different matter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the gourmet kitchen, and sterling silver antiques complemented a huge bureau full of first-edition books in the living room. The quality of his possessions didn’t jibe with a man holding down two jobs in Kyiv, Nadia thought.
“What’s this?” she said, holding up a silver box.
Anton stirred the pot of borscht in the kitchen. “An English tea caddy. My entire collection is English. That one’s Victorian regency.”
Nadia replaced it on the antique mahogany sideboard. “You have impeccable taste, Anton. This is quite a collection.”
“I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t steal anything. Most of it belonged to my parents. My father was a renowned professor back in the day when the communists rewarded their academics. My mother was a translator in the diplomatic corps. I inherited the apartment from them. As for the kitchen, I had everything updated because I’m a fiend for gourmet cooking. Thus the second job.”
Two candles lit the kitchen table while they wolfed down dinner: borscht, mushroom dumplings, cheese, and black bread.
“I want to tell you why I’m really here,” Nadia said. “I want you to know everything.”
“Don’t. Please. I don’t need to know anything more.”
“But I trust you.”
“No. No, you don’t. And you shouldn’t trust anyone in this country. Why should you? If you need something and I can help, I will. No questions asked.”
“But—”
He raised his hand for her to stop. “Please. There’s been no one for me since my wife died. These moments… You can rely on me unconditionally while you’re in Kyiv.”
Behind the circle of candlelight, his eyes seemed enormous, even moist. Nadia was already recovering, though, from her moment of naive passion. He was right. She didn’t know him at all, so why was she being such a sap?
“That’s incredibly sweet, Anton. I don’t know what I would do without you. Really.”
He smiled and stabbed a dumpling in his borscht.
“So tell me about this friend you have who knows Chernobyl,” she said.
Anton tore the slice of bread in half. “His name is Hayder. I’m going to call him tonight. He owes me a favor and he’s an honorable man, so I think he’ll help. But there’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s a Crimean Tatar. From Crimea. It’s an autonomous republic in the south of Ukraine.”
Nadia shrugged. “Great. Why is that something I should know?”
“Because he’s a Sunni Muslim. And he hates Americans.”
CHAPTER 34
ON THURSDAY MORNING, Kirilo drove forty kilometers south of Kiev to the small village of Trypillia, population 2,700. He’d made inquiries with business associates at the SBU, the Ukrainian State Security Service, into the whereabouts of Damian Tesla’s old crew of thieves. Besides Damian, there were six of them. Three had disappeared, presumably to Western Europe or America, and the other three were dead. Buried in asphalt. One of the latter three, however, had remained close to his sister while still alive, in direct violation of the Vorskoi Mir, the Thieves’ Code. He might have confided in her about the $10 million Damian allegedly stole.
Kirilo’s driver guided the Audi along an unpaved road to a small house with a thatch roof. A sculpture, carved from the trunk of a massive oak tree, confirmed it was the right home. It featured a woman in helmet and full body armor, leaning on a staff with a serpent coiled at her feet.
In April, wheat looks like grass. It undulated like an ocean wave beneath the cool morning breeze throughout the prairie that surrounded the house. A hearty babushka chopped wood beside an apiary of bees.
Another woman greeted Kirilo at the front door. This one was middle-aged, with lustrous brown hair, deep-set oval eyes, and a shockingly thin waist. She wore a golden leather vest over a billowy white shirt and painted-on auburn pants.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Kirilo Andre?”
Kirilo had to pull his eyes away from her torso. “Pardon? Oh, yes.”
“May I see some identification?”
It was a common request in Ukraine. He showed her his domestic passport.
She nodded. “My name is Zirka.” It was the Ukrainian word for “star.” “The militsiya called and told me you’d be around. Come in.”
A stifling heat greeted him in the small living room. Kirilo looked around. The windows were nailed shut. He knew the reason: every breeze was a potential source of colds and influenza. Sweat trickled inside his shirt down his armpit. Damn the peasants. Damn their superstitions.
Zirka served them tea in cups that matched a collection of wall plates, a vase, and a serving bowl filled with apples and chestnuts. They were all variations of the same wild geometric patterns, each with swirls of red, black, and white. It was similar to a traditional Ukrainian pattern, yet entirely different, more extreme.
The sound of manual labor echoed through the walls: wood splintered, an ax thumped, the babushka paused. Splinter, thump, pause. Splinter, thump, pause.
“What is that statue in front?” he said. “The woman in armor.”
“That is Athena,” she said. “The goddess of wisdom and weaving.”
Kirilo frowned. “Who?”
“Athena. The Greek goddess. The goddess of wisdom and weaving. Also the goddess of heroic behavior.”
“Well, you don’t see that every day,” he said.
“It’s not every day you’re in Trypillia.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know about Trypillia?”
“Should I?”
“Trypillia is an ancient culture dating back to 5000 BC. It originated right here, in Trypillia. In Ukraine. At one time, it spread through Moldova and the Black Sea, halfway into Romania. It was a matriarchal society. Women took care of the agriculture, made the pottery, and ran the household. Men hunted, kept domestic animals, and made tools. Do you know how to make tools, Kirilo?”