Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw

We’ve been tracking her for quite some time. We’ve had the task of carrying her completed works down from the High Castle Hill three times now. That’s her favourite killing place. You would have been her fourth. I’m amazed that she didn’t kill you there last night. We would have arrived too late to help. She’s a bloody criminal and a killer to boot,” he explained in a matter-of-fact tone. “She was scum … KGB!”

      Yarko began to shake uncontrollably. He was suddenly very cold. His soggy underwear and wet hair just made it worse. “But the KGB doesn’t exist any more!” he said, mustering the desperate courage to actually argue with the gunman.

      “Not true, my son. The KGB in Belorus still exists without so much as a name change. And they continue to serve Moscow as before. The Muscovite and Ukrainian KGB-sty continue to exist too, except under different names. Whether in the police, in the military, in the SBU – or in one mafia or another – they remain at their posts ready to serve the One and Indivisible Russian Empire. Even under Ukraine’s blue-and-yellow flags, with tridents on their caps, this scum awaits orders from their former masters in Moscow. You just won’t believe it.

      “For example, this departed one. She’s an officer of the Belorussian KGB, and a servant of Moscow. She makes a living off violent crime, as well as contract killings. I’ll bet she found some American currency on you. You’re probably carrying quite the wad, aren’t you?” The uniformed stranger spoke in a calm, almost deadpan voice.

      Yarko was still shivering, though his mind had started to function again. “Then explain how could a Lviv city cop manage to track down a pro like her?” He could see that behind the cop, high up in the crown moulding of the wall, there was a freshly splintered hole. Apparently the bullet from Dzvinka’s pistol had whistled past the cop’s left ear and lodged in the wall. Ever since this morning Yarko had been thinking that Dzvinka was somewhat less than angelic, but he had never expected this kind of threat at her hands.

      “The Lviv police never knew anything about her,” the stranger said. “They still don’t know, and they probably aren’t going to know … So don’t judge me by my uniform. Although I look like a cop – and although I am, in fact, a cop – damn it, how should I explain it to you?” For the first time the stranger was struggling for words. “I just don’t know if you’re smart, or just another dumb Canadian …”

      “I understand,” Yarko said, still shaking feverishly. The stranger’s intimate interest in the KGB meant only one thing to him. “You’re in an underground organization, aren’t you? Don’t worry, mum’s the word.” He stepped towards the stranger, offering his trembling hand. “I am Yaroslaw … Yarko.”

      As he did this, he had a closer look at the dead temptress. Blood trickled downward in a dark stream from between her breasts. It stopped at the level of her navel, where it had formed a horizontal stripe in a crease of skin, before continuing down to where it flooded the golden-haired triangle in sticky red. Her ankles were still entangled in a wisp of white lace.

      A violent cramp twisted Yarko’s gut. His mouth opened, but the only sound was guttural choking. Bent in half, he retreated to the washroom. Falling to his knees and shaking feverishly, he embraced that hated stainless steel bowl, noisily surrendering to it some of the finest of the Lviv Restaurant’s culinary art.

      “And I’m Vlodko,” replied the uniformed stranger with deadpan cool while Yarko still crouched in the bathroom. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Stay there – stay there Yarko, don’t worry. We’ll clean things up.

      “In answer to your question, though: Yes, I am a member of an organization. Such things are needed now. It’s even more dangerous for Ukrainians today than before 1991 – that is before independence. Presidential candidate Chornovil was killed in 1999. The Internet reporter Georgiy Gongadze was killed in 2000. The head of the National Bank was blown up by a car bomb in ’98. The secretary of the Rukh organization, Boychyshyn, disappeared back in ’94 and his body is yet to be found. The singer Ihor Bilozir was beaten to death just last year – right here in Lviv. Some are killed in staged automobile accidents, some are blown up, others are poisoned, but most are simply gunned down. Do you think the police, or the SBU – that’s the state security organization – or Berkut or any other state security apparatus even give a damn? They’re the ones doing it! Damn them all. They live off Ukrainian taxes, but continue to serve Moscow …”

      Vlodko continued his diatribe, but Yarko wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to hear any more of that long list of victims. He knew that historically the countries of the West had proven to be no safer for Ukrainian leaders. Stefan Bandera had been assassinated in Munich, Yevhen Konovalets in Rotterdam, and Symon Petliura in Paris. He did not need to hear justification for why a clandestine organization was needed. What he needed right now was for that painful cramp in his bowels to go away.

      In a while he was able to get up off his knees. The face in the mirror dripped with beads of cold sweat. The taps in the sink hissed their disobedience, so the tepid bath water had to do. He felt very cold. Still wiping his face in a towel, he stepped out of the washroom. All signs of the shooting were gone. There was no body. There was no blood on the carpet, just an innocent wet spot. The only remaining reminder was the splintered hole in the crown moulding. Vlodko was sitting at the table, finishing smoking a remarkably stinky cigarette. Yarko fished around in his backpack and pulled out a carton of Craven A’s.

      “Here, Vlodko, have some of these. They are no less unhealthy, but at least they don’t stink so bad … Myself, I don’t smoke. I brought these along just in case, you know – for bribes …” Quickly, he added, “But for you Vlodko, they are a gift.”

      Vlodko laughed. He opened the carton and lit one of the Canadian cigarettes. He offered one to Yarko. Yarko hesitated for a moment, then accepted the smoke. He understood that few people here could hope to reach an age where they would actually have reason to worry about lung cancer. He now felt very much a Ukrainian. He lit up and inhaled. His shakes were gone. He looked at Vlodko, and Vlodko looked back at him. Vlodko broke the silence first.

      “So what were you doing this morning on Koronska Street? We saw your bike there. We caught a couple of KGB-sty there from the same gang as your dearly departed Dzvinka. She must have been there with you. Her bike was next to yours. We arrested those two characters for carrying illegal weapons. They had plenty of them. Enough for a small war. I have a feeling that they were preparing a nasty surprise for you … We came back a half-hour later looking for their car, but it was gone, and so were your bikes …”

      Yarko remained silent.

      “Never you mind. But let me leave you with a little piece of advice,” continued Vlodko. “If you’re having some kind of trouble, or if you’re ever in need of somewhat more reliable company, then show up at the Café Pid Levom and order two coffees at once. Understand? Two coffees at the same time. For now, I’ve got to run. Lots of work, you know … Take care, my son.”