The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (13 page)

Darby considered the question. “It’s not that I mind your asking, it’s more that you may mind my answering.”

“How so?”

Darby’s eyes drifted toward Nadia’s stomach.

“He got a girl pregnant,” Nadia said.

“My dear, this is a senior boarding school for boys only. There are no girls.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“Women, my dear. And note that I’m using the plural case. Women. One was a maid and the other was the music teacher.”

“And he got them both pregnant?”

“At the age of seventeen. Within the span of two months.”

Nadia sat speechless.

Darby nodded. “He ran a gambling operation out of his dormitory, stole gold from the chapel, extorted money from the weaker boys, and beat up the biology teacher.”

“And he wasn’t expelled?”

“He should have been. But he wasn’t.”

Nadia studied Darby. His face was the color of eggplant. The straight line drawn by his lips suggested it was a function of embarrassment and resentment.

“Parental influence?” Nadia said.

Darby shrugged. “Parental influence, a man’s instincts for survival. Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

Nadia let a moment go by. “I’m sorry. I can see you were put in a bad spot.”

Darby sipped his Scotch. “Damn Russians.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Damn Russians, I said.”

“What about them?”

“They came here because England offered legal sanctuary and a fair due process of law. Hypocrites. I’ve had men walk in here with bags of cash offering to build swimming pools, classrooms, and gyms in exchange for admission. One man landed his private helicopter on the cricket field. Asked if he could build his personal landing pad there. You can’t imagine the gall of these people.”

“I’m confused,” Nadia said. “What did the Russians have to do with Jonathan?”

“You mean he didn’t tell you?”

Nadia feared she was about to be found out. Her gut was telling her she was supposed to know something she obviously didn’t.

“Tell me what?” she said.

“That his parents were Russian. That he was born in Russia. That he was Russian.”

Nadia sat dumbstruck. “How can that be? He didn’t have a Russian accent. And his last name—”

“His father changed it. Legally. Used to be Valentin. He added a letter. That’s all it takes to go from Russian immigrant to English gentleman. One more letter at the end of a man’s name.”

“Why did the father change the family name?”

“When he immigrated, Jonathan was a baby. Oh, and his first name was Ivan, by the way. Ivan Valentin. His father wanted Jonathan to have every possible advantage. He didn’t want him labeled a Russian. It may be that he didn’t want him burdened by his own past, though I don’t know any details in that regard. That’s me speculating.”

“Is there a large Russian community in London?”

Darby appeared shocked. “You must be joking.”

“No.”

“There’s a long history between Moscow and London. Lenin was here six times between 1902 and 1911. The collapse of the Soviet Union led to several waves of immigration. The early wave in 1991 was mostly professionals looking for a better way of life. Work permits were scarce and visas were hard to obtain so their numbers were limited. The second wave in 1994 was a nastier mix of people. They started showing up to burn money on the weekends. Kremlin insiders, ex-KGB, Russian-based criminals. Then John Major created the investor visa. Anyone who invested 750,000 pounds in UK government bonds could apply for English citizenship after a five year wait.”

“Let me guess. That led to the third wave.”

“In 1991 there were a hundred visas granted to Russians. In 2006 there were two hundred and fifty thousand. The super rich poured in. We became the official bag carriers for the world’s financial elite. We can offer what New York and Hong Kong cannot—a superior tax haven. In England, a person can claim to be domiciled abroad and not pay taxes on income earned outside the U.K. Add to that London’s perfect location—five hours from Moscow, and its top boarding schools for the children, and you have…”

“Runaway property values,” Nadia said.

“And the headmaster to Moscow-on-Thames sitting humbly before you.”

“I had no idea.”

Darby glanced at her midsection again. “No, I dare say you didn’t. Again, I’m so sorry about your predicament. Better days ahead, I’m sure.”

“What can you tell me about Jonathan’s father?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Secretive sort. All of them are, to some degree. Said he made his fortune in the lumber business in Russia. Only spoke with him a few times. The entrance interview, of course. And then commencement and graduation. His wife did visit the boy now and then. I’m sure it was a struggle for young Jonathan to keep his hands off her.”

Nadia recoiled. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, no.” Darby laughed. “Second wife. He divorced the first wife, Jonathan’s mother, here in London. It was amicable. She got a generous settlement. The second wife is a former page three girl.”

“Page three girl?”

“One of our newspapers, the
Sun,
publishes topless pictures of glamour models on page three. This one was of Russian extraction. Natasha. Wayward girl. He was sixty-eight, she was thirty-six when they married. What does that sound like to you?”

“New York City.”

Darby drank.

“I understand the funeral is tomorrow morning,” Nadia said.

“Yes. You’re not planning to attend, I hope…”

“Why? Do you think that would be a bad idea?”

“There’s only Natasha and her baby. A girl. I don’t think there are any relatives in Russia. If she finds out you’re with child, she might consider you a threat.”

Nadia savored the moment. Darby had provided a quantum leap in her investigation. Valentine’s Russian heritage gave her hope there was a deeper connection between Bobby and him.

“Then we’ll have to keep it our little secret, won’t we, Mr. Darby? In fact, let’s agree on this. As far as the rest of London is concerned, I’m not pregnant at all.”

CHAPTER 17

T
HE MOURNERS CHANTED
psalms. The choir sang hymns. The priest swung his censer and filled the air with incense.

The funeral service for Jonathan Valentine was held at the Cathedral of the Dormition of the Most Holy Mother of God and Holy Royal Martyrs, a Russian Orthodox Church. Nadia arrived early with Darby and stood in the back. When she went to use the ladies’ room downstairs, she was surprised to see the steps to the church overflowing with mourners.

Nadia was raised Ukrainian Catholic. Still, there were enough similarities between the two churches to transport Nadia back to her father’s funeral. The final hymn,
Vichnaya Pamyat
—
Eternal Memory
—could coax tears from the devil. Nadia remembered sobbing with the rest of the church, while wrestling with the guilt of having felt relief when she’d learned of her father’s death. He’d pushed her so hard to be the perfect child in school, church and the community. His death had lifted a burden from her shoulders which in turn had spawned guilt.

Luxury cars lined the winding access road to the cemetery. Bentleys, Jaguars, Range Rovers, and Mercedes sedans. Cliques of heavyset men smoked, chatted, and eyed each other warily. The crowd from the church seemed to have grown exponentially. It surrounded the burial site twenty rows deep.

Nadia stood beside Darby on a knoll overlooking the funeral procession. She searched for the widow Valentin but didn’t see a woman near the casket. A former glamour model who was thirty-two years younger than her deceased husband might not be overcome with grief, Nadia thought. She might, however, possess a wealth of valuable information.

“Why does this look like some head of state died?” Nadia said.

“Tribute,” Darby said. “From the old country. As are the arrangements here, at gravesite. The proximity of the Russians to the bereaved family is dictated by hierarchy. The more powerful the man, the closer they are to the mother—stepmother, I should say.”

The knot grew larger in the pit of Nadia’s stomach. She wondered whose son Bobby had killed.

“I’m shocked there are so many of them here,” Nadia said. “I assume that’s a reflection of the deceased’s family’s power.”

“Not necessarily. This is the customary community turnout for anyone of a reasonable social standing, which is to say a reasonable amount of wealth. Most of these men derive their income from the former Soviet states. Many of them are at war with each other, in a corporate sense. Their cumulative word is notoriously meaningless. There’s more
schadenfreude
than sympathy here, I’m sure.”

“That’s a relief. I’d hate to offend the wrong person.”

“Unless you hold the promise of untold fortunes, you don’t have to worry about these men pursuing you.”

Nadia thought of the locket, and the priceless formula she mistakenly thought it contained. She thought of the mobsters and government agents who’d pursued her around the world last year.

Darby nodded toward the grave. “Natasha, on the other hand, is quite the quarry. The widowers and recently divorced are already making their power moves.”

Natasha walked to the front and sat in the front row. She wore a somber expression but her eyes weren’t puffy or tear stained. Her black dress didn’t hide her curves. She was a woman who insisted on maximizing her sex appeal in all situations. Always hoping to make an impression. Even at her husband’s funeral. There was information there, Nadia thought. Information she could use to secure the meeting she was hoping to arrange.

Men in Savile Row suits had already formed a line to offer her their condolences. A group of fifteen to twenty people sat at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the crowd, close to Natasha and the grave. They were older and appeared more formal in attire and posture.

“Who are the people off to the side?”

“Lesser royals.”

“Royals? As in royalty?”

“Yes. The Dukes and Duchesses of Ancaster, Kesteven, and beyond.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. Some of the Russians with money are obsessed with integration into British society. The older Valentine—the older Valentin—was one of them. They’re transfixed by a royal title, however obscure. I better go pay my final respects before the priest arrives.”

“I’ll do the same,” Nadia said.

“I thought we discussed this. What can you possibly hope to gain by meeting Natasha?”

“An invitation to afternoon tea.”

Darby frowned. Nadia pulled out a business card. She slid her arm through the crook in Darby’s elbow. They walked together to the grave.

They waited in line. After Darby offered his condolences, Nadia stepped forward. Natasha looked more like a queen holding court than a bereaved parent. She appraised Nadia with large brown eyes. Nadia extended her sympathies. Then she handed Natasha her business card and whispered two words in her ear.

“I’m flying back to New York tomorrow,” Nadia added. “There’s no time to waste.”

Nadia got the call on her cell phone two hours later.

Tea was at 3:30 p.m.

CHAPTER 18

L
AUREN SAT IN
her bra and underpants on the cold metal chair wondering how a story about a teenage hockey player could have landed her in a Russian jail cell. It wasn’t a story about a teenage hockey player, she thought. There was no doubt whatsoever. It was so much more.

Hard plastic cuffs dug into her wrists. Leg irons bound her feet. They’d shuffled her into the little man’s office as though she were a trained assassin. Her teeth chattered. She tried to stop them but couldn’t. Lauren wondered if the little man could hear the clicking noise behind his desk. She prayed he couldn’t. It was a sign of weakness. Whether they tortured, imprisoned, or eventually killed her, one thing was certain. She’d be damned if she showed any weakness.

He said his name was Krylov. Deputy Director of the FSB, he said, the Russian federal security service. He looked like the passive-aggressive type. Soft voice and proper manners, even poured her a cup of tea and cut her a piece of coffee cake, though he didn’t loosen her restraints. What would he be like when he didn’t get the answers he wanted? Based on her ample experience, not so nice. Short men were the worst when they didn’t get their way. A short Russian man? That had to be a nightmare.