Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“You’re an American but this matters to you,” he said. “Your Ukrainian heritage is important to you.”

“You’re right, Mr. Simeonovich. I’m an American.”

“Call me Simmy, please. I’m not a fan of physical warfare. It’s a waste of life and energy. I served two years in the Russian army on the Chinese border. We had a few incidents that never made it to the press. And at those moments I used to think, I hope I do not die this way, over a petty border dispute. War is inevitable but it should be fought on the economic front. What do you think?”

“I agree. War is inevitable.”

“You are a warrior, aren’t you?”

“I’m just a woman trying to pay her rent.”

“I disagree. The test Ehren put you through to get this job. That was war, wasn’t it?”

“It was a battle.”

“What was your strategy?”

Nadia explained how she decided to focus on the owner of the companies instead of the financial statements. “I had to step out of my comfort zone to win.”

“You were the only candidate to name all three companies.”

“I got lucky.”

“And the only one to tell my driver to tell me she was looking forward to working with me.”

“I have your investment banker, Ehren, to thank for that.”

“Why Ehren?”

“He’s such a sweet and humble guy. He was desperate for me to win. I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

Simeonovich’s lip curled upward. “You didn’t disappoint, period.”

Nadia felt herself blushing. “So what’s the job?”

“Forget the industrial company for now. There’s a new development. I’m circling an energy company in Ukraine. It’s public, listed on the Ukrainian Stock Exchange, but so what? I have no confidence in the integrity of the financials. I need someone to turn them inside out. Also study the reserve analysis. Verify all outstanding indebtedness, triple-check the ownership structure, basically vet the entire enterprise top to bottom.”

“What’s your timetable?”

“Yesterday.”

“I understand. What’s your real timetable?”

“Seven days. Preferably less. You can get started on the financials in New York but you’re going to have to go to Kyiv at some point. I want you to meet their CFO in person. The sooner the better.”

Nadia had no idea how she would juggle the job and get Bobby out of jail but she had no choice. “I’ll have my initial scrubbing done within forty-eight hours. I’ll be in Kyiv within three days. I’ll be done with the entire project in one week’s time, assuming management is cooperative. Is that a fair assumption?”

“Sure. Management loves me.”

“They do?”

“Take a corporate raider, mix in ethnic tension, what’s not to love?”

“But they will talk to me, right?”

“They better if they value their jobs. As of today I’m the largest single shareholder.”

A knock on the door. A young woman entered. Nadia recognized her from the picture on his desk. The girlfriend.

“Young Rothschild might make a big donation if you come out and talk football with him,” she said in Russian.

Simeonovich cringed. He’d just bought one of England’s top professional soccer teams, the second oligarch to do so after Roman Abramovich. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Only if you don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I already put myself out there and told him you’d come out. Be a big boy now, would you please?” The girlfriend glanced at Nadia, dismissed her with a sour look, and closed the door behind.

“Donation?” Nadia said.

“I’m raising money for a hospital in Chukotka,” Simeonovich said. “You know Chukotka?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Nadia said. In fact, she knew it intimately. It was the northeastern-most part of Siberia. But that wasn’t the reason her blood pressure spiked. “It’s in Siberia, isn’t it?” Valentine had earned his fortune in Siberia.

“It is. My foundation is putting money into the region to modernize it. Raise the living standards. And the answer to your question is no. I didn’t know Ivan Valentin or his son. We were part of the same community, but we travelled in different circles.”

Nadia was speechless.

“You seem surprised. You didn’t expect me to do a background check on you? I know you’re guardian to a boy accused of Jonathan Valentin’s murder. I know you went to his funeral yesterday. I know you had coffee at the widow Valentin’s house.”

Nadia expected him to do a background check, and possibly be informed about her presence at Valentin’s funeral. But she didn’t expect him to deduce the reason she’d asked him if Chukotka was in Siberia. Nadia swallowed her shock and seized the opportunity to match wits with him.

“Her name’s Natasha. She’s actually very nice. She’s a big fan. She’d like to meet you.”

“That’s sweet, but she’s not my type.”

“Why? Too tough?”

“No. Too obvious.”

“Is my situation in New York with Bobby—the boy who was arrested—going to be a problem for you?”

“Look. I created a competition among the best analysts in the world with the language skills I need. You won. You’re the best. I don’t care what else is going on in your life as long as you get the job done. Are you going to get the job done?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I need to know. In a minute, my chief financial officer is going to come in here. He’s going to give you access to a secured website that will have all the financials you need to get started on your analysis. He’ll also give you his contact information in case you have questions.”

“I’ll start work immediately.”

Simeonovich grabbed a business card from a holder and scribbled something on the back. “This is my cell phone number. I want you to call me every day at four p.m. with an update on your progress. Not 3:59. Not 4:01. Four p.m. London time.”

“Done.”

“Also, you should know that we stress family values at the Orel Group. That’s very important to me because I’m trying to build a company that lasts, not make a quick buck. So while you’re my employee for the next few weeks, please consider yourself part of that family. Consider me at your disposal if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“Anything.” Simeonovich glanced at the photos of his children. Turned back to Nadia. “Anything at all.”

VICTOR BODNAR SMILED as the Sunday morning sun warmed his face in Tompkins Square Park in the Lower East Village. The Timkiv twins sat across from him eyeing separate chess boards. Victor was playing both of them at the same time.

They’d proven themselves to be invaluable in Ukraine last year and he’d arranged for them to join him in New York. The Gun wore a tattoo on his right arm. It featured a gun beside the ace of spades, a bottle of vodka, a ten-ruble note, and the profile of a girl with serpents for hair. The Ammunition wore the same tattoo on the same arm but his featured three bullets instead of a gun.

The tattoos were reminders the boys had spent time in Corrective Labor Colony Four. In Kyiv, the tattoos were a sign of strength. They generated fear and commanded respect. In New York City, they were liabilities. They drew attention to their owners and spoke of vanity, violence, and a life of crime. That is why Victor had instructed them to wear long sleeve shirts with collars the moment they arrived in the United States, six months ago. And now Victor’s prudence was the source of his problem. He couldn’t tell them apart.