Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

He finished his breakfast and tried to motivate himself to deal with the horror that awaited him in the other room. First however, the phone call that would deliver him good news.

It came at 9:05 a.m. Sevastopol time.

“You’re five minutes late,” the General said. “I hate tardiness.” Saint Barbara knew that, and still he hadn’t called on time.

The General’s former protégé had been a colonel in the Russian army. The colonel had earned his nickname in the Chechen republic of Ichkeriya in 1999. Article 148 of the local criminal code forbid anal sex between people of any sexual persuasion. First and second time offenders were caned. Third-time offenders were beheaded or stoned to death. These local laws were against Russian law. When the colonel personally intervened to prevent a mute prostitute’s murder, the General began to call him Saint Barbara, the patron saint of delivery from sudden death.

“Don’t blame me,” Saint Barbara said. “Blame the woman in front of me that ordered five lattes to go.”

“You should have allowed yourself a larger margin for error. A great hunter allows for error.”

Saint Barbara didn’t answer but the General could picture him rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. Insolent child. But what was he expecting? Saint Barbara was only forty-nine. This younger generation was for shit. No wonder Russia was falling apart.

“Some punks tried to steal her luggage,” Saint Barbara said. “I made an executive decision and stepped in. Otherwise she’d be wasting time replacing her things instead of getting on with her search.”

The General paused to think. “I agree. And even worse, it would ruin her disposition. We can’t have that. We need her to be happy. Optimistic. Until it’s time for her to be realistic. Good decision.”

“Thank you.”

“She saw your face?”

“They both did.”

“Both?”

“She’s traveling with her brother.”

The General thought about this development. “I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. That there are two of them now.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“And as for seeing your face, that doesn’t matter. As long as you don’t let her see it again. Until the time comes when it’s the last face she sees.”

“The brother’s at the Central State Historical Archives this morning. And she’s at Simeonovich’s offices.”

“Keep me informed.”

The General hung up and rubbed his hands together. It was going to be a good day after all. Then he remembered his appointment. His semi-annual horror awaited him. And now he was ten minutes late. He cringed. They would make him suffer for being tardy, especially since he’d reamed them new assholes for keeping him waiting five minutes one time.

The General reached into his desk drawer and grabbed the only weapon that would work against the enemy he was about to face. Stormed out of his office determined to dispose of it within five minutes.

He walked down the hallways and burst into the grand living room. There they were. The liberals. Three of them, all women, none over the age of thirty-nine. Or so they said. Pride, Prejudice, and Prada.

“There you are, General,” Pride said. She glanced at her watch. “We were beginning to worry your clock might have stopped.”

The General bowed. “My apologies, lovely ladies of the Siberian Environmental Protection Committee. Some issues at one of my aluminum plants. Let’s see if I can make it up to you. Look.” He brandished his weapon and held it like a hatchet. “I’ve brought my checkbook.”

NADIA SCRUBBED BOOKS all morning. The Orel Group’s acquisition target had some problems. Serious problems. Normally, this was good news. A forensic security analysis was similar to an IRS audit. The analyst needed to prove his worth, and this was best accomplished by finding something was wrong. The discovery of some minor accounting irregularities that didn’t threaten the client’s agenda secured victory for everyone. The analyst proved his worth and justified his fee.

Except in this case the irregularities weren’t minor. Nadia’s findings might deal a blow to Simeon Simeonovich’s ambitions. Clients didn’t react rationally to such news. Especially the rich and mercurial. Sometimes they blamed the person delivering it. They might not admit it to the analyst’s face, but they might withhold a recommendation. A positive referral from one of the world’s richest men could make her career. A negative one could kill it. Prospective clients would question the absence of one.

When she arrived in the morning, Simeonovich invited her to lunch at his favorite Kyiv restaurant, Spotykach. Nadia quickly looked it up online and found it was the top-rated Eastern European restaurant in town. An old-school Soviet brasserie serving gourmet Ukrainian food. Nadia had been eating Ukrainian food from the womb. The thought of a top chef producing a twist on varenyky whet her appetite. Once they got in his Bentley, however, he told the driver to take them to his private club in Podil. Nadia hid her disappointment. He offered no explanation. Instead he served as her tour guide.

Podil was the oldest section of Kyiv. A winding thoroughfare revealed monuments, castles, and cobblestone streets. He pointed out a section called Zamkova Hora , or Castle Hill. It was one of several parts of Ukraine known as lysi hory, or bald mountains, inexplicably bare peaks surrounded by dense forest. According to Ukrainian folk mythology, ravens, black eagles, and other paranormal creatures gathered at Zamkova Hora for their “Sabbath.” Local satanic groups also gathered there to conduct their rituals since Ukraine proclaimed its independence in 1991. A special place for ritual sacrifice still stood.

Simeonovich also pointed out the funicular train that connected Podil to central Kyiv along a steep descent. Nadia didn’t tell him she’d jumped onto the funicular to evade one of her pursuers last year. The porker beside her had reeked of garlic and the experience had increased her sympathy for sardines. But the chase electrified her. The funicular had given her a twenty minute lead on her pursuers.

Simeonovich escorted her to an art deco salon at the River Palace, a members-only casino. Geometric abstract art hung on the walls. A team of attractive waiters and waitresses provided impeccable service. Nadia had her heart set on Ukrainian food but none was available. She ordered the lake trout from the Carpathian Mountains instead. He ordered the lamb chops and a bottle of 2000 Château Lafit Rothschild from his personal wine cellar. He offered Nadia a selection of white wines but she passed. He tried the wine, deemed it satisfactory, and waited for the sommelier to decant it before asking about her analysis.

“I’m afraid it’s not good,” Nadia said.

“Why?”

“If you deconstruct the changes in cash, working capital, and receivables over the last five years, they don’t jive with the changes in actual cash in the bank statements. There’s slippage.”

“Meaning?”

“Someone’s tapping the bank account.”

“Embezzlement?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken to the chief financial officer about this?”

“His signature is at the bottom of the financial statements.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

“You’re not surprised.”

Simeonovich didn’t answer.

“Of course not,” Nadia said. “Why would you be surprised if you knew it all along?”

He maintained his poker face.