The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (29 page)

The actor exercised his ego. He spat, swore, and threatened. Victor let the words float by. The outburst was to be expected. When the actor exhausted himself, Victor let a moment of silence pass.

“Before you became a part-time security guard and a part-time actor,” Victor said, “you were a policeman. A poor one, I’m told, but still you must have instincts. You know danger. I’m part of an international organization. I repeat. An international organization. Once you do what you need to do, your children will be safe as long as you forget this ever happened. Do we understand each other?”

The actor stared at Victor for a moment, and then nodded.

“Good. Why did you kill Valentine?”

“I didn’t kill him. The boy did.”

“In self-defense? Valentine attacked him?”

“I don’t know how it started. How it went down. When I first laid eyes on them, the kid was stabbing the vic in the throat. Just like I told the cops.”

Victor could sense when a man was lying. He’d been a liar and a thief his entire life. And he was certain the actor was telling the truth. At least on this point.

“So what did you lie about?” Victor said.

“What makes you so sure I lied?”

“Because I know the boy. And he wouldn’t kill unless he was provoked. If you want to see your children again, you better tell me about the lie. The lie you told the police that might end up getting you in trouble.”

The actor’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Yes,” Victor said, patting him on the shoulder. “I guessed. Of course I guessed. It was about money, wasn’t it? Valentine was carrying something valuable and you took it. You had to have it, because you need the money. Part-time security guard. Part-time actor. Full-time financial misery.”

The actor took a few breaths as though summoning his courage. He tried to speak but burst into a fit of coughing instead.

“Your throat is dry,” Victor said. “That’s to be expected. We can help you.” He turned to the Gun. “Get this father of two a glass of water.”

The Gun brought a glass of water. The actor drank half of it.

“The benefits of the truth aside, we may need to modify the script a bit after all,” Victor said. “You may have seen Valentine attack the boy. The good news is you’re obviously a fine actor. I’m sure you’ll be convincing. Now, what did you steal from the dead man?”

CHAPTER 41

T
HE
G
ENERAL PACED
in the hospital waiting room. All these years he’d fantasized about being single again, free to bed whatever minx he wanted. Now, the thought of actually losing his wife horrified him. She was his constant companion. The woman who celebrated his successes as though they were her own and convinced him his failures meant nothing. She was the mother of his children. The queen of his manor. The only experience in life that fulfilled him as much as his wife’s mere presence was the hunt.

The hairdresser said she’d called for an ambulance as soon as his wife began clutching her heart and wincing with pain. But the ambulance took ten minutes to arrive. Ten minutes. One thing was certain, the General thought. If his wife died, the men in that ambulance would die, too.

His cell phone rang.

“They went from their hotel to a car rental,” Saint Barbara said. “As soon as they went in the office, our man bribed an attendant and made sure he put a GPS tracking device in the trunk of their car. From there they drove to Zarvanytsia.”

“Zarvanytsia? For what, to pray?”

“Not sure. Our man had to keep his distance. By the time they got there, the woman and her brother had probably been there for ten minutes. Our man caught up with them as they were leaving the Pilgrimage Center. They went into a church together, and then left.”

“Sounds like a typical tourist trip to the holy site.”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The brother went into the church wearing a priest’s cassock. But he came out wearing his street clothes.”

“He was dressed as a priest, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Disguise?”

“I think so.”

“Did our man see them talk to anyone?” he said.

“No. They went straight to the car.”

“Then they must have talked to someone at the Pilgrimage Center. But why would the brother disguise himself as a priest?”

“So he could approach anyone without suspicion. No one would suspect a priest of having an ulterior motive.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“They didn’t check out. Good. That means she didn’t find whatever or whoever she’s looking for.”

“We have a lead on who that might be.”

“Speak.”

“When she was here last year, she met a botanist in Chornobyl.”

“How do you know this?”

“The deputy minister of the interior told me. A man by the name of Kirilo Andre needed help to find him.”

“Kirilo Andre. I know that name. He was the lead investor on the Black Sea energy project. He vanished last year. His daughter inherited everything. What is this botanist’s name?”

“Karel Mak.”

“Let’s see what we can find out about him. Maybe that’s who she’s trying to find. Maybe that’s why she went to Lviv and Zarvanytsia.”

“Maybe she already met with him.”

“Then why didn’t she check out of the hotel?”

“Good point. If we can get a step ahead of them I’m sure we’ll be able to steer them where we need them to go.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

A doctor entered the waiting room with a dour expression on his face. The General didn’t bother telling Saint Barbara to keep him informed. He hung up.

“How is my wife, Doctor?”

“I’m sorry. We did everything possible.”

The General staggered to a chair and collapsed. He’d gotten what he wished for, he thought. He’d lost his soul mate, his conscience, his link to normal society.

For years he’d thought he’d have mixed feelings. That he’d miss her but would also be secretly excited about the freedom that awaited him. But it wasn’t so.

Instead, he sat in the chair and sobbed. His sole comfort was the knowledge that he still had one true passion to pursue. Fortunately, his friends from the Zaroff Seven had listened to his pleas and empowered him to be the one to deal with Nadia Tesla.

And make amends for the one that got away.

CHAPTER 42

N
ADIA SECURED THE
services of an experienced cave guide through the Leopolis Hotel. The concierge vouched for him. Still, Nadia insisted on interviewing him over the phone. He was a global explorer who’d done work for
National Geographic
on cave explorations across three continents. He had a website with pictures to prove it. In his mid-forties, Nadia thought, with the smile of a twenty-one-year-old. A purist. A dedicated outdoorsman with no visible connection to any private or government security service. The odds he was on the payroll of whoever was following them were low. Also, he was intimately familiar with the Priest’s Grotto.

The guide picked them up in his jeep at the hotel on Thursday at 6:00 a.m. He’d balked about the time but Nadia wanted to get an early start. Every moment that passed brought Bobby closer to the inevitable verdict of life in prison. There was no time to waste.

The Priest’s Grotto was located one hundred forty-five miles from Lviv. They drove east to the city of Ternopil and south toward the village of Strilkivtsi. Marko sat in the front with the guide. Nadia absorbed punishment from worn shock absorbers in the back seat. They passed mile after mile of wheat fields and farms.

When they got near the village, the driver guided the jeep off the road. He stopped on a knoll overlooking a green field surrounded by a tree line on all four sides. It stretched hundreds of yards in each direction. Clusters of wildflowers and bushes sprang from valleys and sinkholes where water gathered.

The guide said the cave was officially known as “
Ozero
,” the Ukrainian word for “lake.” Locally, however, it was called
Popowa Yama
, or the Priest’s Grotto.

“It’s the largest of the caves that make up the Gypsum Giant,” the guide said, as he unloaded their supplies from the back of the jeep.

“Gypsum Giant?” Marko said.

“The Ukrainian system of natural caves. Not to be confused with the Caves Monastery in Kyiv, which was built by men. Five hundred fifty kilometers long. Second longest cave network in the world.”

Marko whispered in Nadia’s ear. “What’s with all the underground action in this country?”

“Maybe life has been less than kind above ground,” Nadia said.

“The Gypsum Giant is a crystalline structure,” the guide said. “The crystal cracks like glass. So you have precise arteries but with jagged edges. That means we know where we’re going but it can be dangerous.”

They put on yellow overalls, helmets with chinstraps and mounted headlamps, knee pads, and elbow pads.

“Are we really going to need these pads?” Marko said, as he worked one over his forearm.

“Probably not,” the guide said. “But in case your friend has gone farther than most folks, it’s best to be prepared.”

The guide handed each of them a knapsack containing two flashlights, spare batteries, bottled water, a pocket knife, a variety of plastic bags, a candle, a lighter, a roll of toilet paper, and an empty jar with a seal.

“The original entrance to the cave is filled with weeds and debris. We’ll use a secondary entrance instead.”

They hiked a hundred yards to a patch of shrubs and small trees. A shaft protruded four feet above ground. The guide strained to lift a manhole cover. Nadia and Marko peered inside.

Rusty metal pipes formed a ladder that disappeared into a black hole. A sense of dread gripped Nadia. She remembered her experience evading Kirilo Andre in Kyiv’s Caves Monasteries. She didn’t like tight places a quarter mile beneath the Earth.

The guide shined the light. “The ladder is made out of gas pipes,” he said. “There are three of them. Each one is two meters long. So we will go down one at a time, about six meters deep. I will be last. I will close the cover.”

“Can’t you take the lead?” Marko said. “I’ll go last. I’ll close the entrance.”

“I can’t let you do that,” the guide said. “I need to know you’re both on solid ground before the cover is closed. If I go first, I can’t be above ground to help you in the unlikely event something goes wrong.”

Nadia lowered herself onto the first horizontal pipe and descended into the shaft. She hugged the ladder as she stepped down, her face almost kissing the dirt between the rungs. The Caves Monastery in Kyiv had a staircase. A year ago that staircase had felt like a portal into darkness. Now it seemed like a resort experience.

She focused on her breathing. Counted the rungs. Each pipe measured three meters. That was about three yards. Nine feet. Nine rungs per pipe. Three pipes. Twenty-seven steps down.

Marko’s voice echoed down the shaft. “You counting in English or Uke?”

Nadia stopped. Her heart thumped in her ears. “What’s the difference?”

“Numbers are a little longer in Uke. You’ll make it down faster if you count in English.”

The dialogue caused her to lose count. She swore under her breath. Took a deep breath and continued. When her right foot touched ground she lifted it and dropped it again. To make sure she wasn’t imagining the sensation.

She stepped forward into a passageway. The walls were wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side but the ceiling was only four feet high. She had to stoop.

“Done,” she said, looking up into the light.

“Move into the cave,” the guide said. “So nothing falls on you.”

So
no one
falls on her, Nadia thought.

Marko descended next. After he joined her in the cave, the guide closed the shaft behind him.

Darkness enveloped them. They took turns aiming their headlamps at each others’ knapsacks and removed their flashlights. The guide scurried down the ladder with frightening speed, sliding down the last pole without touching a rung.

“Our destination is the “
Khatki
,” he said.

“
Khatki
?” Nadia said. “The Ukrainian word for ‘little cottage.’ ”