The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (20 page)

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.

“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.”

CHAPTER 29

L
AUREN PLAYED
M
ONOPOLY
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?”

They moved to a small table in the center of the store. A tall stack of old books without dust jackets rested atop it. Obon took a plastic cover from an open box and folded it around the binding of the first book.

“You’re a reporter?” he said. “For what newspaper?”

“Not newspaper.” This was the first time she was being asked about her credentials since she’d been fired. “I did work for a newspaper in college. No, television. I’m a reporter for a television network,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I don’t watch television. I have one. I used to watch it when the president talked to the country, but it doesn’t get any channels anymore.”

“You don’t have cable?”

“Too expensive.”

“You’re right. It is.”

“If you work for a television network, you must be a famous person. Perhaps I should have recognized you when you walked in.”

“No, no—”

“If that is so I apologize. What television network do you work for?”

“The Sports Network.”

Obon finished attaching the binding to the book and started a second pile. “Sports? Is this Nadia Tesla a sportsman?”

“A sportsman?”

Obon smiled and nodded. “Yes. A gymnast or an archer, perhaps.”

“No, she’s not that kind of sportsman.”

“Then why are you looking for her?”

“I’m looking for her because I’m doing a story on a young hockey player from Fordham Prep School. His name is Bobby Kungenook. She’s his guardian.”

Obon stopped working. “Bobby Kungenook? Now that name I’ve heard before.”

Lauren couldn’t believe it. “You have?” She touched his shoulder. He deserved some Emma Peel for the mere suggestion he knew the kid. “How? Where? And why?”

He laughed. “That’s too many questions at once for an old man.” He turned pensive. “I’m not sure where I heard the name.” He snapped his fingers. “No. I am sure. Yes I am. I was playing chess with an old friend in the park the other day when the name came up. But I can’t remember how it came up.”

“Think about it for a moment, please.”

He immersed himself in thought. His breathing turned heavy, his face darkened, and he looked as though he was going to be sick. “I wish I could remember the particulars of the conversation,” he said. “But I can’t.”