The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

  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

  LAUREN PLAYED MONOPOLY 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.<
br />
  “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.”

  Lauren put her hand on his shoulder again. “It’s okay, Mr. Obon. Thank you for trying. Who’s your friend?”

  He frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Your friend. The one you played chess with when Bobby Kungenook’s name came up. I’d like to talk to him.”

  His face lit up. “Of course. That’s a brilliant idea.” He retrieved a pencil and some paper. “He’s a wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoon. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He lives a few blocks away. This is his address.”

  Obon slid a piece of paper to Lauren.

  “What’s his name?” she said.

  “Bodnar. His name is Victor Bodnar.”

  CHAPTER 30

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, Nadia hired a hotel car to drive her to the city of Korosten, Bobby’s hometown, ninety-eight miles northwest of Kyiv. Nadia mentioned that she was working on a sensitive business matter, feared being spotted by a member of the financial press, and didn’t want to exit via the front door. Instead, she preferred the driver pick her up in the hotel garage at 7:30 a.m.

  She took an otherwise empty elevator directly to the garage. An attendant was driving a car out as she walked in. No other people in sight. There were only fifty-five parking spots. Forty-eight of them were taken. She weaved through the lot and glanced inside each vehicle. They were empty.

  After the driver picked her up, Nadia dropped some papers in the foot well of the adjacent rear seat. She ducked beneath the front seats and hid from view as the car pulled onto the street. Didn’t rise for air until he’d made two turns. To her knowledge, no one had seen her in the hotel or the garage. She had no tangible reason to suspect someone was watching her but she assumed the worst. Last year her pursuers had planted a GPS device in her bag at the airport. From then on, paranoia served her well. If someone was watching the vehicles exiting the garage an empty car had pulled out.

  Bobby’s hometown was an industrial city with a population of 66,000. It was famous for its potato pancake festival and its close proximity to Chornobyl. After the nuclear disaster on April 26, 1986, Korosten was declared a zone of voluntary evacuation.

  Nadia had debated the prudence of going there. On the one hand, she knew little about Bobby’s background. Perhaps an inquiry would reveal some clue pertinent to his relationship with the Valentins. On the other hand, she didn’t want to encourage anyone else to start asking questions. She didn’t want to reveal herself.

  Nadia decided to compromise. She would limit her inquiries to his school and the hockey coach who’d raised him. She would approach no one else. Furthermore, where the school was concerned, she would not reveal her true identity.

  The driver dropped her off in front of Secondary School Number Four. Bobby had told her which school he’d attended, and Nadia had made an appointment with the administrator yesterday. She was a soft-spoken middle-aged woman named Hanna Figura. She sat behind a bare metal desk with a bouquet of wilting sunflowers. Nadia reminded herself they knew Bobby by his real name here. They knew him as Adam Tesla.

  “What is your relation to Adam?” the administrator said.

  “I’m his aunt.” She was actually his cousin but they shared a long-running joke that she was his aunt. She liked the idea of being an aunt, she’d told him. Aunts possessed authority with minimum responsibility.

  “From?”

  “Canada.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. She nodded. “I was going to guess western Ukraine. Or Poland. Not North America. Who taught you to speak?”

  “My parents. The community in Toronto.”

  “You’re an aunt on the mother’s or father’s side?”

  “Father’s side,” Nadia said, sticking to the truth as much as possible. “Not that I ever met him. Or any other relatives in Ukraine. That’s why I’m here. I was researching my family tree. And it seems everyone’s gone. Except perhaps Adam. That’s why I was so disappointed when I called yesterday and you said he disappeared one day.
”

  Hannah’s smile vanished. “I called his guardian several times. He said the boy ran away. Vanished. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s a child of Chornobyl. You know that, right?”

  “No,” Nadia said, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Where to begin.” Hanna took a deep breath and exhaled. “I only met his guardian once. A surly old brute who played on the Russian Olympic hockey team. He told me some things about Adam’s parents.” Hanna softened her voice. “Did you know Adam’s father?”

  “No,” Nadia said. In fact, she’d met him last year a week before he died. “I heard stories, though.”

  “That he was…”

  “A criminal. A thief. A con man.”

  Hanna appeared relieved she wasn’t the one who’d had to use the words. “Adam never mentioned him. And the teachers knew not to ask about him. Some said he’d died. Others said he was in jail. But he must have ended up living off the grid in Chornobyl because that’s where he met Adam’s mother.”

  “Who was his mother?” Nadia said. She knew the answer.

  Hanna shrugged. “Again, what I’m giving you came from his guardian and I only spoke to him once. According to him Adam’s mother was an American woman who came to Russia to be a—how shall we say it—a professional hostess. The riches she was promised didn’t come to fruition. Instead she became addicted to drugs, moved to Kyiv, and ended up servicing the men who worked on building the shelter in the Zone. The shelter is what they call the sarcophagus built around the reactor that exploded. I’m told the pay was high because one never knew if a man had been exposed to too much radiation.”

  “And my uncle was supposedly there at the time.”

  “That’s what Adam’s guardian told me. Of course gossip spreads in school. It always does. Adam was born in a hospital, here, in Korosten. But the children spread rumors that he was actually born in Chornobyl. That his mother is the only person to give birth to a child within the Zone of Exclusion. Even worse, they said he was born inside the sarcophagus. Behind his back they called him ‘the boy from reactor four’.”