The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Nadia said.

  He grunted. Popped the valise open. Pulled out a stack of papers and closed it.

  “Like I told you over the phone,” he said, “I’m conducting due diligence on behalf of my client. My client is contemplating certain transactions and he’s looking to hire someone.”

  “What kind of transactions?”

  “Obviously that’s privileged information. He’s interested in hiring the best financial analyst in the business but he needs a very particular set of skills. You come highly recommended. To him. Not to me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing he’s making the decisions.”

  “He’s looking for someone with a thorough understanding of financial accounting. An experienced analyst who can scrub the books.”

  “Yes.”

  “And someone who can speak Russian fluently. Passing knowledge of Ukrainian would be helpful, too.”

  “Yes,” Nadia said, though some technical vocabulary would be a challenge.

  “That reduces the candidate pool somewhat, though this is a global search. There are several excellent candidates in Europe.”

  “I’m confident I can compete.”

  Ehren laughed. “Industrials,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Industrials. The last requirement is that the analyst must have an intimate knowledge of global industrial companies. Your background is in energy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you see why this is a waste of time. I asked around. You have a good reputation and if you say you’re fluent in these languages I have no doubt you are or you’d be found out quickly. But the industrial expertise…”

  “Is of secondary importance,” Nadia said. “Financial statements are financial statements.”

  “Really? Let’s see about that.” He organized his documents into three stacks and dumped them in front of Nadia. “These are audited financial statements for three industrial companies. You can see the black magic markings at the top. The names of the companies have been redacted. All you have are the balance sheet, income statement, and statement of changes in financial position for the last five years. One is in English. Two are in Russian.”

  Nadia frowned. “Is this a homework assignment?”

  “No, Nadia. This is a test.”

  “A what?”

  “A test. A real time, live test.”

  “I’m a professional. I haven’t taken a test since interviewing for my first job.”

  “Great. I’ll tell my client his exercise was beneath you.” Ehren reached for the papers.

  “Wait,” Nadia said. “What exactly do you want? A statistical analysis? Fundamental ratios? My assessment of—”

  Ehren raised his palm and grimaced. “Please. Don’t insult us. I can get a girl fresh out of B-school to give me a ratio analysis and blow me at the same time.”

  “Then what?”

  “Name the companies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have to name the three companies. You have their financials. If you can understand financials and read Russian, and you know the industrial world, you should be able to name the companies.”

  Nadia knew she had no chance. None whatsoever. But her father had taught her survival skills in the Litchfield Hills when she was a child. Among the lessons: never underestimate your resourcefulness under pressure.

  “You see,” Ehren said. “It wasn’t personal when I said this was a waste of time. Shall we call it a day?” He started to collect the papers.

  Nadia slammed her hand on top of them. “Not so fast.”

  Ehren frowned.

  “How much time do I have?”

  Ehren checked his watch. “It’s twelve thirty-four. You have one hour. We’ll make it one thirty-five. Don’t say I’m not generous.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes. Are there any rules?”

  “The rules are to name the companies in one hour. You can use any and all resources at your disposal with one exception. You can’t discuss the financials with any other person.”

  “Understood.”

  “You sure you want to embarrass yourself?”

  “Yes. It’s a hobby of mine. It keeps me grounded.”

  Ehren shook his head. “Fine. Then I’m going to go meet my client as planned and leave you to it. If you come to your senses and realize the futility of the matter, feel free to order up some lunch.”

  Ehren started to leave.

  “How many other candidates have you seen?” Nadia said.

  “Nine.”

  “Anybody name all the companies yet?”

  “No. But my sister—she worked at Goldman for five years—got two of them.”

  Ehren turned and walked toward the front desk. A fresh-faced woman bustled to him out of nowhere. She looked like a recent college graduate. Probably an associate. She appeared to be vomiting information to him.

  Nadia pulled her computer tablet and financial calculator out of her bag. Fired up the computer, stuck the modem into the port, and turned to the financials. The two Russian companies had sales of $22.3 and $3.2 billion respectively. The American company had sales of $575 million. Nadia ran some ratios. The smaller companies were profitable but the bigger one had tiny margins.

  And it dawned on Nadia. Perhaps there weren’t three owners. Perhaps the smaller companies were owned by the larger company. Or, perhaps the smaller American company was a target of the man who owned the two Russian companies. The latter argument made sense. That would explain why Ehren’s sister identified the two Russian companies but not the American one. He didn’t own it yet.

  She needed to focus on the owner, Nadia thought. Not the financial statements. If she discovered the owner, she might be able to name at least two of the companies. Ehren said she could use all the resources at her disposal as long as she didn’t share the financials with anyone.

  Those resources included her eyes, ears, legs, and the Internet.

  Ehren also said he was going to meet with his client.

  His client might be the owner.

  Nadia checked her watch. It was 12:51 p.m. She had forty-four minutes left. She kept her tablet running but stuffed it in her bag. Left her calculator beside the financials. Tossed down a pen for good measure to make it obvious someone was still sitting at the table.

  Nadia signaled a waiter serving a table. He ignored her. She ran over to him and asked him to bring her an iced tea and a grilled chicken salad. Told him she’d be right back.

  Nadia knew the layout of the Four Seasons from several hundred company presentations. Executives pulled up in their chauffeured cars near the back entrance on Fifty-Eighth Street. The back entrance opened onto a stairwell that led downstairs to three meeting rooms. Companies looking for financing hosted presentations for professional investors in those rooms.

  Nadia bolted past the front desk and out the back door. A long line of shiny black cars idled by the curb. A driver chatted with the doorman. A police cruiser was parked farther up the street. No sign of Ehren.

  Nadia went back inside. A woman bustled down the stairwell. As she rounded the corner, Nadia caught a glimpse of her hair and face. Ehren’s fresh-faced associate. Nadia followed her to the basement.

  The corridor teemed with investors. Ehren’s associate disappeared into one of the meeting rooms. Nadia walked the length of the hallway three times, pretending to be waiting for a friend. Each time she stole a glance inside the meeting room. On her third try, she spotted Ehren’s profile. Her spirits sank. The company making the presentation might have been the client Ehren had referred to. If so, she was out of luck. It was an American bathroom parts supplier. Not a Russian conglomerate.

  Nadia walked to the back of the corrido
r and waited. Six minutes later, Ehren steamed out of the room, raced up the stairs, and exited via the back door. Nadia followed at a safe distance. Made sure Ehren wasn’t lurking before stepping outside the hotel.

  Ehren stood beside a Maybach farther west in front of Tao, a restaurant. A chauffer with granite shoulders opened the rear passenger door. A man in a gray business suit emerged. He was tall and athletic with boyish looks. He appeared to be in his forties. He waved his finger at Ehren as though scolding him. Ehren bowed his head and took the beating.

  An investment banker was yielding to another man. This client didn’t represent a lucrative revenue stream for Ehren, Nadia realized. He represented the mother of all revenue streams.

  They disappeared into Tao.

  Nadia pulled her New York City library card from her wallet. She slung her bag over her shoulder and carried her tablet computer in her other hand as though taking notes. She hustled over to the Maybach. The driver was reading a Russian newspaper.

  Nadia rapped on the window. The driver jumped. Glared at her. Nadia rapped again. He rolled the window down.

  “Nadia Tesla, New York Chronicle.” She flashed her library card and made it disappear just as quickly. “I’m doing a story on Russian oligarchs,” she said in Russian. “My cameraman just took a picture of your boss and I want to make sure I get his name right. If I get it wrong and he calls me on it, I’m going to tell him to speak with his driver. You see, this is a piece about the Russian oligarchs’ favorite charities. It’s about all the good their money is doing around the world. Now your boss, the man who just walked into Tao is Mikhail Prokorov, owner of the New Jersey Nets—”

  “No, no, no. Not Mikhail Prokhorov. Simeon Simeonovich. That is Simeon Simeonovich. How can you not know that? What kind of reporter are you?”

  “An incompetent one, I’m afraid.” Nadia fished her real business card out of her wallet. “Give this to Mr. Simeonovich. Tell him I look forward to working with him.”

  Nadia rushed back to the hotel lounge. An iced tea and a field green salad topped with grilled chicken awaited her.

  She found the Wikipedia page for Simeonovich. He earned a PhD in quantum physics at age twenty-five. He used his profits from trading metals on the Russian market to become the country’s first corporate raider. His first purchase was a smelter. He slept near the furnace for the first six months to prevent criminals from ransacking the factory. After expanding his holdings in commodity businesses, he diversified into industrials.

  He consolidated his businesses under the umbrella of the Orel Group. Orel, which rhymed with “propel”, was the Russian and Ukrainian word for eagle. He was the majority owner of eleven companies. Six traded publicly on the Russian stock exchange. A seventh traded on the Ukrainian exchange. Nadia subscribed to a global database of financial statements. She checked the most recent financials for the publicly listed companies in his portfolio. Nadia was certain he would never share private company financials with an outsider, let alone use them to test analysts. The two Russian companies had to be public.

  She was right. The small Russian company was a specialty steel manufacturer. The large Russian company was the consolidated corporate entity. That left the third company. The American one.

  The other candidates’ inability to identify the American industrial company perplexed Nadia. They were industrial analysts. They knew the American marketplace cold. If they couldn’t recognize the company, that meant it either wasn’t American, or it wasn’t an industrial. But it had to be an industrial. Ehren had emphasized his client’s obsession with industrial expertise. And if Simeonovich was looking to acquire an American industrial, it made sense to craft a test accordingly.

  That meant the company wasn’t American. It was a Russian company whose financials had been re-stated according to United States GAAP standards. That’s why no one could identify it. The company itself existed but its American financials were manufactured for the test.

  Nadia converted 2010 revenue numbers for the remaining company into rubles. She scanned the income statements of Simeonovich’s other companies. She checked five of them. None matched. She converted the sales numbers for the last company in Orel, a mining equipment manufacturer. Compared it to those of the third company. They were close, but didn’t match. The sales number on the Russian financials was higher. Then Nadia remembered they probably shouldn’t match. American accounting standards were notoriously strict. The Russian accounting system allowed sales to be recognized earlier. Revenue numbers might be higher under the Russian system.

  Close only mattered with horseshoes and grenades, Nadia thought. And Russian accounting standards.

  She scribbled the names of the three Russian companies on top of the financials. Stacked them together, flipped them upside down, and set them to the side. Sipped her iced tea and dug into her salad.

  Ehren arrived. When he saw her eating, he smiled. He nodded at the stack of financials and donned a sympathetic look.

  “You shouldn’t feel bad,” he said. “You were put in an impossible situation.”

  Nadia flipped the financials upright and slid them across the table. Ehren froze when he saw the first name. His jaw dropped when he read the other two.

  “This…this is impossible,” he said. “You couldn’t have…You…you cheated. You called someone.”

  “The best industrial analysts in the world couldn’t identify those three companies. Whom exactly do you think I called?”

  A cell phone rang. Ehren stood oblivious.

  Nadia speared a chunk of grilled chicken. “It’s yours.”

  Ehren fumbled with his pocket.

  “It’s Mr. Simeonovich,” Nadia said. “He’s calling to tell you to hire me.”

  Ehren’s eyes widened. He answered the phone. Stared at Nadia. He listened and interjected a few “yes, sirs.”

  After he hung up, he slipped into the chair across from Nadia. The dazed expression never left his face.

  “He wants to meet you as soon as possible,” he said.

  “I have some urgent business in London. I’m leaving tonight.”

  Ehren’s expression brightened. “How long will you be there?”

  “Today is Friday. I’m returning home Sunday. We can set something up for Monday.”

  “No. Mr. Simeonovich is based out of London. He’s only in New York City for the day. Let me see what his plans are. How is your schedule on Saturday? Could you meet with him there?”

  “I have some meetings in the afternoon but I’m free in the evening.”

  “Let me talk to him. Now, about your compensation.”

  CHAPTER 13

  JOHNNY TANNER WAS in the middle of his Saturday morning workout at the gym when his cell phone rang. His workout took an hour. Not fifty-five minutes. Not an hour and five minutes. One hour. The faster he worked, the more he revved up his metabolism. He’d been fat as a kid growing up—to ease the pain of his father’s beatings he hid in his room and ate. Skybars and salt water taffy, mostly. He never wanted to look that way again.

  He did a thirty-minute circuit of weight training, followed by twenty minutes on the treadmill at seventy percent of his maximum heart rate, and finished with ten minutes of stretching. He always checked the phone number when someone interrupted but he only answered if a judge or an ADA was calling. Or a certain woman.

  “Uh-oh,” Nadia said. “You sound out of breath…”

  Johnny’s heart skipped a beat as soon as he heard her voice. “You caught me mid-workout.”

  “I’m returning yours. It sounded urgent. You want to call me back?”

  “Nope. I got a call from a friend in the NYPD. There’s been a new development in Bobby’s case.”

  “Why does this sound like bad news?”

  “The cops went to Fordham and interviewed a few teachers and the hockey coach. Standard procedure. Everyone said
good things, without exception. No worries about his background. One thing, though. The Fordham hockey coach? He said there was an incident this past season after a game. Bobby got into a brief altercation with a random guy outside the locker room.”

  “Altercation?”

  “A shoving match. Nothing serious.”

  “What guy? He never told me about this.”

  “They showed the hockey coach a picture of Valentine. He confirmed it was him.”

  “What?”

  “There’s more. They interviewed the security guard at the rink. He said the same guy, Valentine, was hitting on a real cute Russian model in the stands during the game. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The guard swears he heard her say number four for Fordham was her boyfriend and she wasn’t interested.”

  “Iryna.”

  “They found her name on Facebook and interviewed her this morning. She confirmed the altercation.”

  “She didn’t tell me she’d met the guy Bobby supposedly killed when I spoke to her at the bakery the other day.”

  Johnny let a moment go by. “Is that a realistic expectation? She just met you. You expect her to bare her soul? Besides, don’t you think Bobby told her to keep her mouth Ziplocked about everything? He doesn’t want to talk to you. You think he wants his girl talking to you?”

  “No. You’re right. Bobby must have told her not to say a word about that to anyone.”

  “But the district attorney has motive now. Protecting his girlfriend’s honor, his own honor, whatever.”

  “How did Bobby and Valentine meet that night in the first place? The odds they bumped into each other on a Manhattan street is zero. One of them called or e-mailed the other to arrange it. My guess it was Valentine.” Nadia told Johnny about the call from London. “And it turns out Valentine was in London visiting his father on his deathbed.”

  “So he calls Bobby from London to set up a meeting because of a spat over a girl? That doesn’t jive.”

  “That’s why I’m in London. I took the red-eye.”

  “London? What the hell—”