The Boy Who Stole From the Dead Page 10

  “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

  THE 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

  LAUREN 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. T
here 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.

  They had searched and blindfolded her before shoving her in the jeep. Removed the blindfold once they got to the prison. Everyone wore a uniform as though the island housed a military operation. A man with several gold stripes on his collar tried to speak with her in Russian. Once he realized she only spoke English, they brought her back to her cell and fed her dinner. Soup with cabbage and meat. No surprise. The entire place smelled like boiled cabbage. She didn’t touch the soup though the black bread was delicious. She drank her water. Prayed it was bottled or boiled. What else would they be drinking on an island? She banged on the cell door. Demanded more water. That was the most shocking revelation of her thirty-six hour ordeal in prison. The measure of true fear was how quickly your throat went dry. And stayed dry.

  “You cannot possibly expect me to believe your fantastic story,” Krylov said. “You are a journalist. You come to Gvozdev—you call it Big Diomede—to do research on polar bear hunting and after some drinking the local men play a trick on you, and send you on a snowmobile trip to Russia.”

  “And you can’t possibly believe I’m a spy,” Lauren said. “What is there to spy on here? And what idiot would go about it like this?”

  “I didn’t suggest you were a spy.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “That you are not telling me the truth. I was stationed in East Berlin from 1984 to 1989. I met many accidental tourists. People who needed to cross the border for one reason or another. I can always tell when someone is lying to me. And you, madam, are lying to me.”

  “Did you check the snowmobile?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “It is as you say. The brakes and the steering were disabled. The throttle was locked in place.”

  “There you go. That proves it, doesn’t it?”

  “That proves you arrived by the means you say. It says nothing about your motive for coming here. Which is the essence of your lie. Rest assured, madam. You will tell me the truth before all is done. One way, or another.”

  “Did you go on a computer and check the Sports Network like I told you? My picture is on their website. Google me. You must have Google in Russia. You’ll get a million hits. A million. Why would any journalist come to this Godforsaken place to spy? Why? Answer me that one question.”

  “We are checking your credentials—”

  A prim woman in uniform knocked on the door. She held a laptop computer in her hand. She said something in Russian. Krylov waved her in. As she approached, she glanced at Lauren. Lauren knew that look. It was the look sports fanatics gave her when they recognized her on the street. She wasn’t a household name. It was always a thrill when someone was wowed by her presence.

  The female soldier hit a few keys. The speakers came alive. Krylov and the soldier peered at the monitor. Lauren heard her own voice, reporting at a World Cup skiing event. Krylov alternated glances at her and the monitor. He asked a question. The woman hit a few more keys. They studied the monitor some more. Probably the Sports Network’s website. The clatter of her teeth subsided. They knew who she was.

  Krylov dismissed the soldier. After she left, he spoke with someone on the phone. Ten seconds later, the guards reappeared.

  “You will be taken back to your cell now. Your clothes will be returned to you with my apologies. You will be given all the food and water you desire. I will make some phone calls. I’m sure you’ll be departing the island as soon as proper arrangements can be made.”

  “I’d like to repeat my request to be taken to the nearest American consulate.”

  “Your request is noted. It’s just a matter of time until it is granted. Now that it’s clear you’re Glienicke Bridge material.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a Cold War term. The Glienicke Bridge connects Potsdam and Berlin. Potsdam was part of East Berlin. The bridge is the place where prisoner exchanges took place.”

  “Prisoner exchanges?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not suggesting you’re going to Glienicke, or that you’ll be exchanged for another human being. But all good business depends on quid pro quo, doesn’t it? I’m sure your embassy in Moscow will be pleased to strike a deal on your behalf.”

  The Russians would tell the American government a drunken journalist had taken a snowmobile ride to Big Diomede. The American government would tell the Sports Network one of their reporters had created an international incident. They would have to engage in quid pro quo to secure her release.

  Bile rose up Lauren’s throat.

  “I’m sorry to have doubted your journalistic credentials, Ms. Ross,” Krylov said, as the guards took her away. “You see, there was a situation with another American woman last year. A woman and a boy. I thought perhaps…But no. It was my mistake.”

  CHAPTER 19

  NADIA TOOK A taxi to Natasha Valentin’s white stucco mansion in Lowndes Square, a residential section in a part of London called Belgravia. The mansion had been broken up into condominiums. A stocky butler let Nadia in and guided her to a modern living room. Dark paneling covered the walls. Nadia took a seat on a rich burgundy sofa flanked by glass tables with gilded frames.

  Natasha, boobs overflowing in a leopard skin jumpsuit, bounced down a leather-clad staircase.

  “There she is,” Natasha said. “The girl who whispered the magic words.”

  “Simeon Simeonovich.”

  “How did you know I’d care?”

  “I didn’t. But he owns a soccer team and I figured you might be a fan.”

  Natasha cracked a smile.

  “And he’s one of the world’s most eligible bachelors,” Nadia said.

  Natasha chuckled. “You work for him?”

  “He’s my client.”

  “And this is a matter of life and death?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I can help?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I help you I’d be helping Simmy?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means you’d be helping me tremendously, which means I’ll be better emotionally prepared to do a good job for him. Which means your help will be beneficial to him.”

  Natasha frowned. “So this isn’t about Simmy?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Big mistake. Let me give you some advice. Never underestimate the pretty girl. Now, should I call Otto in here, or do you want to tell me who you are and why you’re here?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How close were you to your deceased stepson?”

  Natasha studied Nadia. Shock registered on her face.

  “Oh my God,” Natasha said. “You knew him. In the Biblical sense. You’re his type, aren’t you? A little older, but still attractive. Smart—and more importantly—you weren’t interested. Nothing turned that boy on more than
a challenge—”

  Nadia decided to speak the truth. Natasha struck her as a plain-speaking woman who would not respond well to a lie. It was a gamble, she knew, but at least she’d be speaking from the heart.

  “No, Natasha. That’s not it.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. I could make up a story and pretend what you said is true. But I won’t do that. I’m going to tell you the truth, and then if you want me to leave, I’ll do so immediately.”

  “This is getting interesting.”

  “I’m the legal guardian of the boy who’s accused of killing Jonathan.”

  Natasha’s eyes widened.

  “It’s true. He’s a great kid, but he refuses to tell me what happened. I came here because I know Jonathan was here for his father’s funeral two to three weeks ago. That’s exactly the time when my boy got a call on his cell phone from London. A week later they met on a street and somehow Jonathan was killed.”

  Natasha remained speechless.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  Natasha considered the question. “Do you have a picture of the boy?”

  “Do I have a picture? Yes. I have a picture of Bobby. Why are you asking?”

  “Let me see it.”

  Nadia opened her wallet and pulled out two photos of Bobby. One was his Fordham Prep hockey team picture. The other one was of the two of them at the Statue of Liberty. She showed them to Natasha.

  “Same picture I saw on his sports team’s website,” Natasha said.

  “You saw Bobby’s picture online?”

  “The story made the papers here. I was told about the arrest. I looked him up.”

  “I’m confused. Why did you ask to see a picture of Bobby if you already saw one?”

  “To make sure you are who you say you are. Forget the tea. Let’s have a spot of champagne. Johnny boy is dead. That’s a cause for celebration if there ever was one.”