Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“You wanted me to confirm what you already knew.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“There’s embezzlement. And yet you still paid an analyst to look at it. That means you want this company.”

“Why do I want it?”

“The oil reserves have peaked. The natural gas reserves are unremarkable. But their shale gas reserves are huge. With current advances in horizontal drilling, if you can keep the environmentalists at bay about leakage rates and methane release, there could be massive upside.”

“If the company was purchased at the right price.”

“And if an independent securities analyst with a decent reputation—was that too pompous?” Nadia said.

“It was an understatement.”

“Thank you. If an independent securities analyst with a good reputation confirms there are accounting issues, the stock price is going down. The price will be right.”

“I hope so.”

“All perfectly legal.”

“To say the least. The existing shareholders should know what they own. But I didn’t hire you to confirm what I already knew. I need you to go deeper to make sure there isn’t anything else I’m missing.”

“If the independent appraisals on the shale reserves were overstated—”

“The appraisals are fine. The shale is there. My team knows the fields inside out. I just need you to continue what you’re doing.”

“Okay. That’s no problem. I have about a day’s work left and I’m done. I was thinking about doing some sightseeing for a couple of days with my brother before going back to New York. I can work on the report on the train and at night. I can have it to you within three days.”

“That will be fine. Where do you plan on going?”

The truth was they had no agenda yet. It depended on what Marko discovered at the archives. For all she knew they’d never have to leave Kyiv.

“We’re not sure. I’ve always wanted to go to Odesa.”

“Smells like petrol but has a wonderful sense of humor. Perhaps you’d like to borrow my plane. One of my men could fly you over. Another could act as your escort. It never hurts to have a local at your side in Ukraine. Especially a reliable one.”

It was tempting, Nadia thought. A private plane and a guide would eliminate logistical concerns. But they would also compromise her privacy. She knew from last year’s experience she couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

“That’s kind of you Mr. Simeonovich, but my brother and I can take care of ourselves. We like to rough it.”

“Call me Simmy, please.”

“How did you get your start in business, Simmy?”

“I bought my first factory in Siberia in 1994. It was a copper smelter. Russia was still wild back then. Capitalism was just taking hold. Many of the people who ran the old country felt they were entitled to own part of the new one. The laws were weak, and they didn’t think those applied to them. They used intimidation to take over small businesses. This may be hard for an American to understand.”

“Not an American with Ukrainian parents. If you told me the KGB and apparatchiks didn’t intimidate to fill their pockets, that would surprise me.”

“When I bought my smelter there were two other people in my company. A professor and another metals trader. We’d gone to university together. And we’d served in the army. So we knew how to protect ourselves. A man came by during the first month and made me an offer. I refused. From that day on we started sleeping at the smelter. One day I had to go overnight to Kharkiv to meet with a customer. When I came back the next day, both my friends were hanging by a rope from a chute.”

“That is awful. Did you ever find the people responsible?”

“Finding is not the issue. I can find anyone I want. Patience and prudence are the issues. A man in my position has to be careful. An impulsive action can create a reaction from powerful people. Like I said, I prefer to fight war on economic terms. The guilty parties are known to me. When the time is right, I will see to it they pay with their fortunes.”

“I’m sure you will.”

A team of waiters arrived with their entrees.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to take my plane? I’d be more comfortable knowing one of my men was with you. American tourists tend to stand out, especially the ones who go around speaking fluent Ukrainian.”

“We don’t mind standing out. We are tourists.”

Simmy smiled. “Then please keep my phone number handy. Just in case.”

LAUREN PLAYED MONOPOLY with her mother and sister growing up. She had mixed feelings about the Monopoly man himself. She hated him when she won ten dollars for second place in a beauty contest. Who was supposed to be happy with second place? She loathed him when she had to pay for repairs on hotel-laded streets, and despised him when she had to pay each player fifty dollars because she’d been elected Chairman of the Board. What kind of nonsense was that? She was made CEO and she paid others? Clearly the folks at Hasbro had an ass-backward view of corporate America.

And yet when she got a Get Out of Jail Free card, the sight of the Monopoly man elated her. She loved that card. Tucking it under her side of the board, knowing it gave her flexibility. Under certain circumstances she might want to hide in jail. Let others land on houses and hotels and pay the rent. In other circumstances, she might want to get out quickly and attack.

Like now.

The man behind the front desk at the Duma bookstore on Seventh Street didn’t resemble the Monopoly Man. He was the Monopoly Man. When Lauren crossed the street from St. George’s Ukrainian Catholic Church and walked into his place of business on Wednesday morning, his glasses fogged up. Of course they did. She was wearing her Emma Peel outfit. A black cashmere turtleneck and black jeans that clung to her curves. Add a flip hairstyle and a perfect make-up job and she was a weather-controlling machine that no man could refuse.

“Are you Mr. Obon?” Lauren said.

Still staring at her torso, looking dazed. An affirmative noise escaped his lips.

“My name is Lauren Ross. I’m a reporter. I just met with Father Bernie across the street.”

She was following up every possible lead on Bobby Kungenook. The story consumed her mornings, afternoons, and nights. Someone else in Nadia’s circle of friends might know something about Bobby. A phone call to the priest had confirmed she was a member of his parish. A visit had produced a reference to her lifelong friend, the bookman.

Her words jolted him. “Reverend Bernard,” he said. He followed up with a nod and a smile, as though he wanted her to know he wasn’t trying to be a jerk.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Reverend Bernard. I was asking about a woman by the name of Nadia Tesla. He didn’t know her well but said you might. He said you were the man to go to about all things Ukrainian in New York City.”

Obon beamed. “I don’t know about that. The reverend is too kind. I’m just a bookman.”

He spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent but Lauren had no problems understanding him.

“Do you know a woman by the name of Nadia Tesla?” she said.

He brought a finger to his lips. “Hmm. Nadia Tesla. No. I don’t think I know anyone by that name but let me think about it for a moment. A man reaches a certain age, there’s so much information stored in his brain, it becomes confusing at times. And sometimes people use nicknames and we know them by another name. I have some rare books that need binding. Would you mind?”