Nadia marched in the opposite direction, north by northwest, block by block, without consulting her map. She only had to travel a mile to get to her destination. She knew from memory she was heading in the right direction. It didn’t matter if she was off a block or two from the optimal course.
After ten minutes of walking, the neighborhood turned residential. Neoclassical apartment buildings lined one-way streets. Cars parked diagonally on one side of the road, bumpers pointed toward the curb. A smattering of pedestrians hurried to work. Nadia stopped near two mothers chatting beside a day care center to consult a map. There were no cars or pedestrians behind her. She was certain she’d lost both tails. She oriented herself and moved on.
She arrived on Yakova Rappaporta Street ten minutes later. A red-and-yellow brick castle with a silver dome towered over the other buildings. It looked like a mosque but contained etchings of the Star of David above some of its windows.
Yakova Rappaporta became Vilna Street. Vilna was the Ukrainian word for “free,” as in freedom. Karel’s apartment was located in a three-story stone building with a wrought iron balcony overlooking a grove of trees planted along the sidewalk. Blue and black graffiti marred the walls.
Nadia entered a foyer through a red wooden door. She found the name Karel Mak next to a buzzer for apartment #3B. She rang the buzzer several times. No one answered. She’d prepared for the possibility he wouldn’t be home, or answer his doorbell if the visitor didn’t have an appointment. Nadia rang the buzzer marked “office.”
A cranky woman answered. “Who’s there?”
“I’m looking for Karel Mak. I’m a friend of his.”
“Impossible. Karel has no friends. Go away.” The static died.
Nadia counted to ten. Pressed the buzzer again.
“Who’s there?”
“I really am a friend of Karel’s. I’m from America. I met him last year—”
“Impossible. Karel’s never been to America. Go away.” The static died again.
If the woman knew he’d never been to America, that meant they were friends. Nadia didn’t wait this time. She pressed the buzzer three times in rapid succession.
“I’m calling the police,” the woman said. Furious now.
“I didn’t meet him in America. I met him in Chornobyl village.”
A pause. Three seconds later a louder buzzer sounded. The door unlocked. Nadia walked into a foyer. A hallway led to apartments. A staircase led upstairs. There was no elevator.
A door opened down the hallway. A svelte old woman stepped out. She had sunken cheekbones and wary eyes. From a distance she looked middle-aged but up close she looked ancient. The lines in her face contrasted with her brown hair color.
She wiped her hands on an apron. “I’m making breakfast. Come, kotyku. Come.”
Kotyku was the endearment Nadia’s mother had used growing up. It meant “kitten.” The sound of the word slowed Nadia’s pulse.
She followed the woman to her apartment. A mezuzah was attached to the doorframe. Nadia had learned about it from her Jewish neighbors in New York City. It was a small case that contained a piece of parchment with a passage from the Torah. The mezuzah fulfilled the Biblical requirement to post the specified passage at the entry to one’s home.
Nadia stepped inside. The woman closed the door. She turned and pointed a pistol at Nadia with both hands. They shook lightly.
“I survived the Lviv ghetto. I’ll survive you. Now who are you and what do you want with my son?”
CHAPTER 35
THE GENERAL COULD barely contain his euphoria. He’d been waiting for this morning for a month since making arrangements for her arrival. He could tell from the website she was a temptress. A seductress. The man who had the privilege to hold her, use her, and possess her would realize new heights of pleasure. Of that he was certain.
His wife understood he had passions even age couldn’t extinguish. He had to give her credit for that. At first she balked when he told her he was building an enormous studio behind their mansion. It would look hideous beside the English garden, she said. But then he explained the benefits of its creation. He would travel less often. He’d get satisfaction in his home as opposed to seeking recreation outside it. This was the type of compromise that prolonged marriages, he explained. He told her he was going to sound-proof the studio. That he would host visitors, on occasion. And that she should never step foot into that building if she valued her life.
When he told her precisely what he’d be doing in the studio she finally understood. Marriage was not his primary fulfillment. He could see the look of resignation in her eyes. The realization that his trips abroad had not been merely business, but the source of the joy that kept him alive. Alive, by God, like a man was supposed to feel.
The General sipped his coffee at the desk beside the king-sized bed in the studio. The bedroom flanked the living room which opened up into a small kitchen. A wall separated the living quarters from the rest of the studio which was comprised of a single ballroom.
He stepped into the ballroom, cup in hand. Two partitions formed a triangle against a side wall. She was there, waiting quietly for him, the way a good mistress should. He loved this moment. The sense of anticipation. Prolonging that moment of rapture when he first put his hands on her—
His cell phone rang.
He cursed it. Walked to the kitchen, put his cup down, and answered it.
“We lost her,” Saint Barbara said.
The General heard the words but couldn’t believe the message. “Sorry. Say again? I thought I heard you say you lost her. We must have a bad connection.”
“You heard right,” Saint Barbara said. “We lost her.”
“Explain.”
“They checked in to the Leopolis. Then they went to breakfast at Rynok Square. They ordered food. Shared a laugh. Then she went into the bathroom and never came out.”
“What do you mean she never came out? Did your man check inside the bathroom?”
“He tried. But her brother collided with him. Made it look like an accident. By the time he checked the bathroom, she was gone.”
The General ground his teeth. “Then if she was gone, obviously she came out the bathroom. Come on, man. You’re smarter than this. Are you ill?”
“I didn’t mean she never came out. I meant they never saw her come out. Not the man in the front. Or the man in the back.”
“How can that be?”
“The man in the front found a bag in the bathroom. It had her clothes in it.”
The General chuckled. “Smart girl. She keeps this up I may fall in love with her.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t panic. She was in Ukraine and Russia last year, yes?”
“That’s what Border Control said.”
“And there was a watch list on her passport when she was in Russia. Who put it on and then took it off?”
“The deputy minister of the interior.”
“Call him. Tell him I said hello. See if you can trace her steps from the moment she landed in Kyiv last year. This time she didn’t go anywhere except Simeonovich’s office. Who else does she know in Ukraine? Whom did she meet with last year? Remember the urgency. She is the boy’s guardian. The boy killed Valentin’s son. She will pay. It is a matter of honor. Call me back in an hour.” The General glanced at the partitioned area. “Make it two hours.”
He hung up.
As a rule, the General shut his cell phone off whenever he was busy with the fulfillment of his dreams. This time, however, he kept it on. News of this Tesla woman was starting to qualify as such.