Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“My girlfriend likes to order for me,” he said, as they perused the menu. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s your girlfriend for a reason.”

“For starters?”

“For starters, she’s obviously gorgeous and socially skillful. That was clear when we met on your yacht. But perhaps the real allure is that you like the company of a strong woman. One who can make the proper choices for you.”

He looked up from the menu. “No. I meant, for starters. As in appetizers. What looks good?”

“Oh.” Nadia buried her head in the menu. “They have caviar.” As soon as she blurted the words she saw the price per person. It was a thousand hryvnia . More than a hundred dollars per person. Even worse, it was the most expensive item on the menu. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but a polite guest wouldn’t have suggested it.

“Perfect,” Simeonovich said. “What about the main dish?”

“Meat or fish?”

“You don’t know?”

Nadia studied him. He showed no emotion. “Your girlfriend would order the T-bone. It’s the best cut of beef on the menu. Standard oligarch fare. But I recommend the sea bass filet.”

“Why? Less cholesterol?”

“No. More nostalgia. For a man with roots in Siberia. Fishing capital of Russia.”

His eyes twinkled. He called the waiter over and ordered their dinner, a bottle of ice cold vodka to go with the caviar, and a white Burgundy wine for the entrees.

“Where is your brother?” Simeonovich said. “I meant it when I said he was welcome to join us.”

“Thank you. He’s out with a friend.”

“He has friends in Lviv?”

“Marko makes friends wherever he goes.”

“You’re very close, yes?”

“We were very close. Growing up. He was my big brother. Then we drifted apart. I went to college. He went… wherever. When we got back in touch we realized we don’t have that much in common.”

“Except that you’re family. What more can two people have in common?”

“He saved my life once.”

“This is interesting. Tell me more.”

“We were both part of PLAST, the national Ukrainian scouting organization. It’s big in America. It was especially big when Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. Our parents wanted to keep the Ukrainian language and customs alive. PLAST was a way to cultivate a Ukrainian-American community. There were weekly meetings but summer camps were the focal point.”

“Did you enjoy them?”

“No. I hated them. And the closer to eighteen you got, the more brutal they became. It was a strange mix of socialization, cultural brainwashing, and survival training. We had Vietnam veterans teaching us hand-to-hand combat in a green field with the priest and the babushkas from the kitchen watching. Then the counselors would set trip wires all over the hills and wake us up for maneuvers in the middle of the night. Trip the wire, you stood guard the next night.”

“I’m not sure you should complain. Look at you now. There’s a strength and resilience about you. When I visit America, I don’t see it so much. Your society has become too rich. Your children are spoiled.”

“I don’t have any children.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t disagree. The most coveted merit badge was the survival badge. It had to be earned. It was reserved for older scouts, kids fourteen and up. But my father, in his infinite wisdom, decided that his daughter had to be the youngest girl in America to pass the test.”

“What was the test?”

“Three nights alone on a wilderness range called the Appalachian Trail.”

“Alone? At age twelve?”

“You have to understand these were Ukrainian immigrants. Many of the older people had suffered the Nazis. Everyone had lived under Soviet oppression. They knew a different way of life. In their minds, only the strongest survived and proper training had to begin at an early age. Plus, unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t alone.”

“Of course. Your brother was guarding you the entire time.”

“Which didn’t help when my fire went out and some animal ran over my sleeping bag. Or when rain poured through my lean-to and I caught a fever. Or when a hiker broke his ankle and his brother came looking for help.”

“What did you do?”

“I made a splint out of two sticks, a stretcher out of two tree limbs, my poncho, and what rope I had left, and pointed them in the direction of the nearest town with my compass. Cell phones were luxuries back then.”

“When did your brother help you?”

“A pair of hikers kidnapped me. A man and a woman. Turned out they had a history of doing unpleasant things to children. Marko stalked us. Circled around and got ahead of us on the trail. Jumped out of a hollowed-out tree and took them out with a club he’d carved out of wood. Carried me on his back six miles to safety.”

Simeonovich studied Nadia. She felt her cheeks burning, her heart pulsating against her chest. She couldn’t tell if he was regarding her with respect, compassion, or dare she think, something more. Whatever it was, though, it felt like a positive vibe.

“I take it back,” he said.

“What? That all American children are spoiled?”

“No. That there’s no greater bond than family.”

Nadia’s phone buzzed. She checked the number. Obon.

“Would you excuse me?”

She stepped out into the foyer and returned Obon’s call. He picked up on the first ring.

“I have your answer,” he said. “A group of senior Russian Chekists—administrators at the highest rung of Soviet authority who reported directly to the Politburo—formed a cabal in 1992. They formed this club to pool their resources so they could profit from the fire sale of Soviet companies. The larger the underlying entity, the more power it had to accumulate vouchers or bid for shares. It was a common tactic among apparatchiks . There were seven of them. They had special rings made. Gold with an onyx inlay. But it’s not the number three that you saw in the middle. It is the Cyrillic letter Z. They’re similar, as you know. In this case, the jeweler took the hard edges off the Z for stylistic purposes. In the process he made it look like a three.”

“What’s the significance of the ‘Z’?”

“The origin of the club’s name was based on something else the men had in common. They were passionate hunters. Have you ever heard of a short story called ‘The Hounds of Zaroff’?”

Nadia searched her memory. “No.”

“It’s the story of a big game hunter who gets shipwrecked on an island owned by a Russian Cossack. It was published under a different name in America.”

“What was that?”

“ ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’ In the story, the big game hunter becomes the hunted. He must kill the Cossack to stay alive. The Cossack’s name was Zaroff. The ‘Z’ is for Zaroff. They called themselves the Zaroff Seven.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I found them in a book about Russian hunting societies circa 1999. Posing in the Yakutia Republic beside a Siberian bear. Six men and one woman. Vanity trumped prudence. They couldn’t resist seeing themselves in print.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I placed a call to a friend who was a secretary for a man in Yeltsin’s cabinet. She said they had a reputation for ruthlessness. They sent enough dissidents and enemies to the gulags in Siberia to pave the Road of Bones themselves.”

“If I give you my e-mail address, can you scan the picture and send it to me?”

“I’m afraid all this technology is beyond me. But Boris, the university student who works part time for me, can probably do that.”

“Do you think you can get names to match the faces?”