Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“My father told me the same story about life in Ukraine.”

“He did? Damn. I should have known. Ivan wasn’t the creative type. He was a general manager before he owned the lumber company.”

“A general manager? Of the lumber company?”

“No, for some government office. He said he was an administrator for the government.”

A government official, Nadia thought. A Soviet bureaucrat. An apparatchik . Apparatchiks controlled the former Soviet Union, including Ukraine. Was there, perhaps, a connection between the old man and Bobby’s father? They were of the same generation, probably similar in age. If only his father were alive to answer that question.

“Let me show you a picture,” Natasha said.

She retrieved a photo album from a cabinet. She flipped to a family portrait of her, a vigorous-looking man twice her age, and his handsome son, Jonathan Valentine. The older man looked imperial, the younger one entitled. The older one sported a huge gold ring with a black gemstone carved into the number three.

“There we are,” Natasha said. “The threesome. Together. And that wasn’t the only time and place we were a threesome.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed this picture?”

“What for?”

“I want to show it to Bobby. You never know. Maybe it’ll get him to talk to me.”

Natasha shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I’ll make a copy as soon as I get home. I’ll send you the original back in the mail.”

“Don’t. It reminds me of the night before that picture was taken. That’s one I’d rather forget. Like some others.”

Natasha took the photo out of the album and handed it to Nadia.

“Did you ever hear either of them talk about a boy in America?” Nadia said.

“No.”

“By the name of Bobby?”

“Never. But you have to understand. Ivan only spoke Russian to Jonathan. He changed his son’s name because he didn’t want him to be discriminated against in London. But he taught him Russian. When they got together, I didn’t understand much. That’s how they wanted it. And I didn’t mind.”

“Did Ivan have any business in America?”

“Not as far as I know. It was all in Siberia.”

“Why did Jonathan move to New York?”

“Because London wasn’t big enough for him. He said New York was the center of the world. And that’s where he was going to make his fortune. I did everything I could to encourage it, believe me.”

“I’m sure you did. I suspect his father wasn’t happy.”

“No, but he could never say no to his son. Jonathan wanted to be Donald Trump. Actually, he wanted to be one of Donald Trump’s sons. He worshipped them. He wanted to make his mark on the world in New York real estate. So he moved to New York and got a degree. And his father got him a job at some big real estate company through his contacts here. And bought him an apartment. Should I keep it or sell it?”

“Do you see yourself visiting New York often?”

“Are you going to tell Simmy about me?”

“If the opportunity arises, yes.”

“Then I’ll keep it. For now. And Bobby? How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“And they’re keeping him in prison?”

“Yes.”

“He must be scared.”

“Yes. But he never shows it.”

“And you believe he’s innocent?”

“He’s innocent, yes.”

“Then I hope he’s set free soon.”

“Me too.”

“As you go about trying to prove he’s innocent, if you run into Jonathan’s real killer, would you give him a message from me?”

“What’s that?”

Natasha took a deep breath and exhaled. “Tell him I said thanks.”

LIGHTS SHONE ON the Tower of London. Stars glittered. A ship with a mast passed under Tower Bridge.

A model in an embroidered Russian dress greeted Nadia on the slip at St. Katherine Docks. Two beefy men dressed as Cossacks flanked her. Laughter and Russian folk music flowed from Simeon Simeonovich’s gigayacht behind her.

The model cast a disapproving look at Nadia’s business suit. “Name?” She spoke with a Russian accent.

“Nadia Tesla.”

She checked her computer and frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t see it here.”

Nadia switched to Russian. “I was a last-second addition.”

The model’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She glanced at Nadia’s pants. “Yes. I guess so,” she said in Russian. “May I see your invitation?”

“I don’t have one.” Nadia handed her a business card. “But I do have an appointment.” She checked her watch. “Mr. Simeonovich is expecting me in his office in seven minutes.”

The model gawked. “You’re the one?” She tossed her head back and laughed.

“If you’re talking about his meeting with the forensic investment analyst he hired, yes, I’m the one. Why is that so funny?”

“It’s funny because he wouldn’t give me your name. All he did was describe you. And you’re not what I expected. In fact, I have to be honest with you. I was looking forward to meeting you all night, and now I’m so disappointed.”

“I’m going to make a wild guess it’s not the first time.”

“What, that he was mischievous with me?”

“No. That you were disappointed. How did he describe me?”

“As having the biggest set of balls he’s ever seen.”

Nadia climbed aboard the yacht. She’d read about the eight hundred million dollar boat in an online financial magazine. It featured a military-grade missile defense system, armor plating, and bulletproof windows. It also boasted two helipads, two pools, and a paparazzi-proof electronic anti-photo shield with a laser beam. There was some doubt in the press whether the latter worked, but no one had the pictures to prove it didn’t.

Crew outnumbered guests two to one. They poured vintage 1999 Bollinger champagne, Legend of Kremlin vodka, and 1989 Château Petrus. The women varied in ages but the men were all older. Everyone wore traditional Russian clothes except Nadia.

A crewmember escorted Nadia to a teak office. The only personal touches were the family photos aligned on a console behind the desk. Two children, a boy and a girl, pre-teens, and the girlfriend. The first wife had been a chemist. The girlfriend was a former violinist for the Vienna Philharmonic turned fashion designer.

Simeonovich was on the phone when Nadia walked in. He stood up as soon as he saw her. Cut the call short. When he greeted her, he extended his hand and bowed a bit. After they shook hands, he joined her in the seating area.

Nadia had decided ahead of time to speak English unless he did otherwise. If she started speaking Russian to him it might imply she thought his English was inferior.

“I didn’t realize it was a costume party,” Nadia said. “If I had known…”

“Yes? If you had known?”

“I’d be wearing the exact same suit.”

He chuckled.

Something stirred inside Nadia. The way he bowed and stood up when she came into the room reminded her of old school chivalry. And he was the thirty-seventh richest man in the world. Nadia wanted him to like her, and the realization surprised her. She had no time or energy to think about romance let alone engage in it.

“Why the Cossack theme?” Nadia said.

“My ancestors were Cossacks in southern Russia during the seventeenth century.”

“Mine were with the Ukrainian Cossacks that rebelled against Poland in the seventeenth century.”

“How did that turn out?”

“The leader of the Cossacks made a treaty with the tsar. After he died, Russia took over the country. Ukraine ended up under Russian control for the next three hundred years.”