Gold Digger (17 page)

Vadim shook his head. “Doesn’t take a therapist.” He finished up his breakfast. “Well. I believe we have a museum to conquer.”

No emails from Henri (poor guy was probably suffering horrendously on another twenty-hour flight), but his mother had sent one.
Bird’s-eye view.
However far and high he went, she always had a way to catch him. But this email was short and polite, and it contained contact information for Lizabeta. The implication was clear. Why else would she do that if she didn’t expect him to intervene on Anya’s behalf? He’d never volunteered to get involved, and relationship troubles between women could get just as messy as between a heterosexual couple. Especially if a child was involved.

But his father had asked him to make sure she’d be all right. Whichever way he turned it, he should get in touch. Now, email her or phone her? He had no clue where she was, only that she’d left, but in what direction he had no idea. In her stead, he’d likely run back home, so that would be Poland. He left the email for the moment, then typed up the information Henri had given him and sent that to Ruslan.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone rang.

“Ruslan, hi, how are you?”

“Just got out of a meeting with
two
analysts,” Ruslan grouched, as if one was already too much.

Those meetings tended to put him in a bad mood, but as a small cap, Cybele had to be grateful for every piece of coverage they could get. Analysts might write up a buy recommendation and increase their target prices, so they really ruled supreme. And even though Cybele received some really good coverage in various mining magazines and on investment websites, nobody was beating down their door to sink a few more million into it. Since there were only four banks and brokers covering Cybele at all (rather than a dozen or two dozen), their analysts could literally demand face time with Ruslan on a whim, much as he hated it. He really might not be the best CEO once they’d grown much further. Nikolai rather hoped that Ruslan would change with the company rather than get booted out.

“Was it very bad?”

“Ah, well, you know. Emerging markets are out of favor. And Eastern Europe and CIS . . . forget it.”

Nikolai huffed. “They keep trying to write off the East.”

“China telcos are the big thing at the moment.”

“Well, then buy some.”

Ruslan growled. “I’ve looked at the list you’ve sent me. I have a phone conference with the Aureus people on Friday.”

“I’ll likely be somewhere between time zones.”

“It would be good to have you, but I can manage.”

“I can get back sooner.”

“No. You take your holiday. You’ve been working like a mule the last few months. Relax. Spend time with your father.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem. There’s just one thing, and I think you should know it. Our share price is up five percent on last month. Daily trading volume is significantly up.”

“Let me guess, since Monday?”

“Yes.”

“The bastards are starting to buy us.”

“It looks like it. Somebody is building a significant position in Cybele. My guess is, LeBeau was on the phone to his brokerage and a few banks and gave them a big order of our shares.”

“Looks like it. Damn. I’m so sorry.”

“I better get on the phone with a rescuer, then.”

“If you need me to help . . .”

“You stay put,” Ruslan ordered in no uncertain way.

“Yes, sir.” Nikolai bit back a grin. Laid-back Ruslan giving in-your-face orders was just so out of character. “I hope the lead works out.”

“It should. Anyway. Keep an eye on the share price, but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s driving it.”

“It might attract attention.”

“Or people might start wondering about a consolidation game. Doesn’t really matter for us. We can’t buy back significant quantities of the stock; the money is all tied up. But we do have a couple large investors who should be happy to keep the stock, unless they’re happier to take the profit and exit emerging markets gold exploration to switch the money into China telcos like everybody else is doing. It’s all a gamble at this stage.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ditch my Apple stock when Jobs died, that’s all I know about tech stocks.”

“That was a good market call,” Ruslan said. “You could always change horses and become an analyst.”

“I’d rather keep your respect.” They laughed, and Nikolai ended the call. He headed back into the living room where Vadim was following the news, but looked up when Nikolai came closer. Nikolai sat on the couch next to him and leaned back. “I hate politics.”

Vadim lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a statement from somebody who’s no good at it.”

“I just hate people destroying other people’s dreams, you know. Like the world’s not big enough for everybody’s plans and dreams. Buying Cybele is now just revenge.”

“You said it’s an opportunity.”

“Yes. Lots of gold involved.”

“Then it might be just about the money.” Vadim muted the television.

“I told the CEO to go fuck himself. I imagine that made it personal for him. Well. Maybe we’ll get bought by a different company; that should solve that problem.”

Vadim glanced at him. “So you think they might do it to get back at you?”

“Maybe. Yes.”

“You can always sell up and leave if it’s about you.”

Or maybe it wasn’t. Hard to say what was driving the older LeBeau. Building and consolidating an empire to hand over to Henri. In a plan of that scale, Nikolai probably didn’t figure at all. Vadim had put it all back into perspective. “Way to pull me back to earth.”

“Wars always feel personal, but they aren’t.”

He glanced at the TV and the mute horror of the Syrian civil war. Vadim didn’t even look; he’d have to have seen it all, which was ten kinds of depressing. Nikolai leaned back, and Vadim’s arm moved from the back of the sofa to rest on his shoulders. The weight and solidity was terribly reassuring, and although they never touched easily (and there was a nagging voice in his head that said Vadim wasn’t his biological father and hence what did a touch mean?), it felt good, paternal, caring. Maybe Vadim had exhausted what words he’d had and now just spoke by touch.

Nikolai smiled, moved closer, and leaned his head against Vadim’s shoulder. It might look weird on the outside, but it didn’t actually feel strange. Just one of the easy, casual (or really not casual at all), meaningful touches he hadn’t received as a child. Making up for lost time.

“There’s something I think you should have,” Vadim said when they were sitting in Vadim’s kitchen back in the house in Palmy with coffees and breakfast before leaving for the airport. “Come.” He stood, leaving the scrambled eggs to cool, and headed to the living room.

Nikolai followed, but stopped dead when he saw Vadim take a sword off the wall. It had hung between photos and frames and various mementos, but nothing that reminded anybody of the military years. Vadim kept those locked away somewhere, or maybe no outwardly visible tokens existed.

“I remember that.” Nikolai reached over and examined the handle more closely.

“It was Szandor’s. In his will, he left it to me.”

“Never draw me in anger, never sheath me in dishonor,” Nikolai quoted—the words he’d seen written on the sheath of Szandor’s training sword. He’d been impressed enough as a boy that those words came back immediately, more than twenty years later.

“The old gentleman’s duel.” Vadim nodded at Nikolai. “I want you to have it. I’m going to keep his silver medal for a while longer, but it’s waiting for you.”

Nikolai shook his head. “I don’t want to think about inheritances. Not just yet.”

“I’ll be around for a while. I just want you to have it rather than Anya. Though she might not want anything that’s mine.”

“Well, hate to break it to her, but she’s got the genes,” Nikolai joked, because not joking opened up too many potentially painful issues. “I’d love to have it. I really would. I admired him a great deal. But right now I have no place to put it, and I’d hate to hear what customs has to say about me carrying an antique sword all over the world. Least they’ll do is imprison me as the lowest-tech terrorist ever.”

Vadim lifted his eyebrows. “You might even go back to fencing.”

“Maybe.” Nikolai regarded the sword. Szandor would like that—he’d lived for the sport and the art of it, and while Nikolai might never get to a competitive level, he could still do what Vadim did and at least be a decent amateur. “Once I’ve settled down. The kit is too bulky for my two suitcases.”

“Good.” Vadim pressed his shoulder and took the sword out of his hands to re-hang it on the wall. “Send me an email when you have a place for it.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Nikolai couldn’t help but grin at his father’s bright smile at that. Always so serious, but when something really touched Vadim’s heart, he smiled like this, lighting up his face and the whole world around him.

It hurt to leave, though Vadim waited with him until he was ready to jump onto the plane, and Nikolai soaked up his silent, attentive presence. He should come down to New Zealand more often, and he promised he would. He meant it, too. It seemed like a great place to retire, too, far away as it was. Above all, it was where his father had found his own version of peace, and Nikolai kept that image of Vadim firmly in his mind, healthy and silently content.

“I expect you to keep me up to date.”

“Oh the hardship,” Nikolai countered, and let Vadim go after a tight, heartfelt hug. “Take care. I’ll be in touch.” He grabbed his carry-on and all but jogged the few meters to departures—really just a door leading out onto the airfield.

The hop to Auckland was easy, and he grabbed a coffee and a handful of fruit in the airport before he boarded the plane to Dubai. And then it was just sleeping and reading through the newest drilling reports on his laptop.

He drafted an email to Lizabeta, then rewrote it and rewrote it again, telling her that he understood if she wanted nothing to do anymore with the crazy Krasnoradas, but that he hadn’t been sent by his sister and only wanted to make sure she was okay and Szandor was okay, and that he’d help her in whatever way she could use. He didn’t want to be a stranger to the kid, though “Uncle Nikolai” was probably the best he could hope for. Nevertheless, that could mean something, considering that some of the best people in his life had been supportive semi-strangers.

He kept it all friendly and neutral, no pressure, no mentions of Katya or Anya. He didn’t even congratulate her on escaping—she likely still felt too raw to appreciate that sentiment. At some point, she had loved Anya, and might still, so it was way too early to touch that wound.

He sent the email from his hotel room in Dubai and promptly crashed, then awoke with a dehydration headache. He filled up on water, then checked his emails. One from Ruslan, telling him to change destinations and meet him in London for a chat with a South African bank and a number of emerging markets investors.

Nikolai groaned at the idea of traipsing around from meeting to meeting in London, but of course, Ruslan was doing it and he wanted backup. Which meant more running around in his suit and smiling and chatting and doing his presentation. Hobnobbing.

But hell, if it saved Cybele, he’d even do it with a smile.