Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

Natasha walked to the front and sat in the front row. She wore a somber expression but her eyes weren’t puffy or tear stained. Her black dress didn’t hide her curves. She was a woman who insisted on maximizing her sex appeal in all situations. Always hoping to make an impression. Even at her husband’s funeral. There was information there, Nadia thought. Information she could use to secure the meeting she was hoping to arrange.

Men in Savile Row suits had already formed a line to offer her their condolences. A group of fifteen to twenty people sat at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the crowd, close to Natasha and the grave. They were older and appeared more formal in attire and posture.

“Who are the people off to the side?”

“Lesser royals.”

“Royals? As in royalty?”

“Yes. The Dukes and Duchesses of Ancaster, Kesteven, and beyond.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. Some of the Russians with money are obsessed with integration into British society. The older Valentine—the older Valentin—was one of them. They’re transfixed by a royal title, however obscure. I better go pay my final respects before the priest arrives.”

“I’ll do the same,” Nadia said.

“I thought we discussed this. What can you possibly hope to gain by meeting Natasha?”

“An invitation to afternoon tea.”

Darby frowned. Nadia pulled out a business card. She slid her arm through the crook in Darby’s elbow. They walked together to the grave.

They waited in line. After Darby offered his condolences, Nadia stepped forward. Natasha looked more like a queen holding court than a bereaved parent. She appraised Nadia with large brown eyes. Nadia extended her sympathies. Then she handed Natasha her business card and whispered two words in her ear.

“I’m flying back to New York tomorrow,” Nadia added. “There’s no time to waste.”

Nadia got the call on her cell phone two hours later.

Tea was at 3:30 p.m.

LAUREN SAT IN her bra and underpants on the cold metal chair wondering how a story about a teenage hockey player could have landed her in a Russian jail cell. It wasn’t a story about a teenage hockey player, she thought. There was no doubt whatsoever. It was so much more.

Hard plastic cuffs dug into her wrists. Leg irons bound her feet. They’d shuffled her into the little man’s office as though she were a trained assassin. Her teeth chattered. She tried to stop them but couldn’t. Lauren wondered if the little man could hear the clicking noise behind his desk. She prayed he couldn’t. It was a sign of weakness. Whether they tortured, imprisoned, or eventually killed her, one thing was certain. She’d be damned if she showed any weakness.

He said his name was Krylov. Deputy Director of the FSB, he said, the Russian federal security service. He looked like the passive-aggressive type. Soft voice and proper manners, even poured her a cup of tea and cut her a piece of coffee cake, though he didn’t loosen her restraints. What would he be like when he didn’t get the answers he wanted? Based on her ample experience, not so nice. Short men were the worst when they didn’t get their way. A short Russian man? That had to be a nightmare.

They had searched and blindfolded her before shoving her in the jeep. Removed the blindfold once they got to the prison. Everyone wore a uniform as though the island housed a military operation. A man with several gold stripes on his collar tried to speak with her in Russian. Once he realized she only spoke English, they brought her back to her cell and fed her dinner. Soup with cabbage and meat. No surprise. The entire place smelled like boiled cabbage. She didn’t touch the soup though the black bread was delicious. She drank her water. Prayed it was bottled or boiled. What else would they be drinking on an island? She banged on the cell door. Demanded more water. That was the most shocking revelation of her thirty-six hour ordeal in prison. The measure of true fear was how quickly your throat went dry. And stayed dry.

“You cannot possibly expect me to believe your fantastic story,” Krylov said. “You are a journalist. You come to Gvozdev—you call it Big Diomede—to do research on polar bear hunting and after some drinking the local men play a trick on you, and send you on a snowmobile trip to Russia.”

“And you can’t possibly believe I’m a spy,” Lauren said. “What is there to spy on here? And what idiot would go about it like this?”

“I didn’t suggest you were a spy.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“That you are not telling me the truth. I was stationed in East Berlin from 1984 to 1989. I met many accidental tourists. People who needed to cross the border for one reason or another. I can always tell when someone is lying to me. And you, madam, are lying to me.”

“Did you check the snowmobile?”

“We did.”

“And?”

“It is as you say. The brakes and the steering were disabled. The throttle was locked in place.”

“There you go. That proves it, doesn’t it?”

“That proves you arrived by the means you say. It says nothing about your motive for coming here. Which is the essence of your lie. Rest assured, madam. You will tell me the truth before all is done. One way, or another.”

“Did you go on a computer and check the Sports Network like I told you? My picture is on their website. Google me. You must have Google in Russia. You’ll get a million hits. A million. Why would any journalist come to this Godforsaken place to spy? Why? Answer me that one question.”

“We are checking your credentials—”

A prim woman in uniform knocked on the door. She held a laptop computer in her hand. She said something in Russian. Krylov waved her in. As she approached, she glanced at Lauren. Lauren knew that look. It was the look sports fanatics gave her when they recognized her on the street. She wasn’t a household name. It was always a thrill when someone was wowed by her presence.

The female soldier hit a few keys. The speakers came alive. Krylov and the soldier peered at the monitor. Lauren heard her own voice, reporting at a World Cup skiing event. Krylov alternated glances at her and the monitor. He asked a question. The woman hit a few more keys. They studied the monitor some more. Probably the Sports Network’s website. The clatter of her teeth subsided. They knew who she was.

Krylov dismissed the soldier. After she left, he spoke with someone on the phone. Ten seconds later, the guards reappeared.

“You will be taken back to your cell now. Your clothes will be returned to you with my apologies. You will be given all the food and water you desire. I will make some phone calls. I’m sure you’ll be departing the island as soon as proper arrangements can be made.”

“I’d like to repeat my request to be taken to the nearest American consulate.”

“Your request is noted. It’s just a matter of time until it is granted. Now that it’s clear you’re Glienicke Bridge material.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a Cold War term. The Glienicke Bridge connects Potsdam and Berlin. Potsdam was part of East Berlin. The bridge is the place where prisoner exchanges took place.”

“Prisoner exchanges?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not suggesting you’re going to Glienicke, or that you’ll be exchanged for another human being. But all good business depends on quid pro quo , doesn’t it? I’m sure your embassy in Moscow will be pleased to strike a deal on your behalf.”

The Russians would tell the American government a drunken journalist had taken a snowmobile ride to Big Diomede. The American government would tell the Sports Network one of their reporters had created an international incident. They would have to engage in quid pro quo to secure her release.