The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (14 page)

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

N
ADIA 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.”

Otto brought a bottle of chilled Bollinger. He poured two glasses and left.

“To freedom,” Natasha said.

Nadia thought of Bobby. “To freedom.”

They clinked their glasses and drank.

“How do you like the décor?” Natasha said.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s Candy & Candy, the top interior designers in London.”

“In a masculine way.”

“I’m a devout heterosexual. Masculine is gorgeous to me. My husband. One thing I can say about the bastard—may he rest in peace. He only wanted the best.”

“I’m sorry about your loss. I mean, where your husband is concerned.”

“Don’t be. You know what they say in London? You want a romance, date a Russian. But if you want a good marriage, marry an Englishman.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through a dating service. He was older, you know? He knew how to treat a woman. He bought me gifts. Flowers, jewelry. We didn’t have sex until our fourth date. Next day, he bought me a Mini Cooper. Who does that?”

“A gentleman.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“No?”

“The night of our wedding, when he was finished with me, he sent his son in for sloppy seconds.”

Nadia wondered if she’d heard correctly.

“He said it was an old tribal custom from the village where his ancestors came from in Russia.”

“Oh my God.”

“By then I was so drunk, I couldn’t fight him off. He wouldn’t stop. It went on for hours. And became a regular thing.”

“Why didn’t you leave? Or call the police?”

“Because Ivan would have killed me. So I stayed. And now I’m single and rich. I earned my money.”

“Yes. I should say so.”

“And today I buried the father of my child. May he rot in hell.”

“I’m sorry for your suffering,” Nadia said.

“Honestly, I’m glad I have someone to talk to. Sometimes it’s easier to pour it all out to a complete stranger. Once you get to know someone, you care too much what they think of you.”

“I was thinking the same thing recently.”

“You know what my husband said to me on his deathbed?”

Nadia shook her head.

“Bury me at Harrods. That way I know you’ll visit me at least once a week.” Natasha tightened her jaw. “I didn’t bury him at Harrods.”

They drank more champagne. A petite young nanny came downstairs with a baby girl. Natasha held her baby and fell into a trance. She carried her around the living room for ten minutes. She sang a lullaby. Afterward, she told the nanny to give her a bath.

“What do you know about your late husband’s life in Russia?” Nadia said.

“Not much. I know he owned a lumber company in Siberia.”

“Siberia?”

“That’s what he told me. That’s where his money came from. He got dividends every year. Supposedly I’m going to inherit the company. But it’s Russia, right? We’ll see if I’m so lucky. No matter, Ivan accumulated a big bank account for me here.”

“Do you know how he came to own the company? Russia was part of the Soviet Union during most of his life. It was a communist country. He couldn’t have owned the company back then.”

“Yeah. He told me a story about those days. He said he put in an order for a new car once. A month later the salesman called and said, ‘Good news. Your car will be delivered exactly six years from today.’ Ivan said, ‘That is great news. Do you know if it’s going to be delivered in the morning or the afternoon?’ The salesman said, ‘Why?’ Ivan said, ‘Because I already have an appointment with the plumber in the afternoon.’ ”

“My father told me the same story about life in Ukraine.”

“He did? Damn. I should have known. Ivan wasn’t the creative type. He was a general manager before he owned the lumber company.”

“A general manager? Of the lumber company?”

“No, for some government office. He said he was an administrator for the government.”

A government official, Nadia thought. A Soviet bureaucrat. An
apparatchik
.
Apparatchiks
controlled the former Soviet Union, including Ukraine. Was there, perhaps, a connection between the old man and Bobby’s father? They were of the same generation, probably similar in age. If only his father were alive to answer that question.

“Let me show you a picture,” Natasha said.

She retrieved a photo album from a cabinet. She flipped to a family portrait of her, a vigorous-looking man twice her age, and his handsome son, Jonathan Valentine. The older man looked imperial, the younger one entitled. The older one sported a huge gold ring with a black gemstone carved into the number three.

“There we are,” Natasha said. “The threesome. Together. And that wasn’t the only time and place we were a threesome.”