The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (9 page)

In fact, Nadia had never said she was Jonathan Valentine’s aunt. It was actually Bobby who called her “Auntie,” a title she manufactured during their escape from Russia. Whenever she perpetrated a ruse, Nadia liked to stick as close to a truth as possible.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “Thank you for your condolences, and thanks so much for taking the time to meet me. I know how busy you are.”

Russell appeared confused by her answer but when he saw her hand extended the gentleman within him burst into action. He pushed off against the desk and rose to his feet. He smiled sympathetically and shook her hand. As Nadia turned to leave, his eyes narrowed again.

“I don’t think you mentioned your name,” Russell said.

“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” Nadia said. “I’ll be sure to extend your condolences to the rest of the family when I see them in London.”

When she got home, Nadia called the Stern School of Business. She asked to speak with the director of the placement office. She knew that Valentine had earned his MBA at NYU. Global Real Estate Partners’s website said so. Tens of thousands of students had earned their MBAs from NYU in the last few years. There was no chance the placement office would know Valentine was dead.

Nadia identified herself as a forensic security analyst, discussed her background, and said she was looking for an understudy. She told the director that Valentine had applied for a job and she wanted to verify his graduation. The director did so. To confirm they were speaking about the same Jonathan Valentine, she asked to verify his current and previous addresses. Nadia offered Valentine’s most recent address in the Meatpacking District. Johnny had procured it from the police report. The director verified it. Then she asked the director for Valentine’s previous addresses. He gave her the address for the University of Nottingham, and for a secondary school called Felshire. Nadia thanked him, hung up, and jumped on the computer to buy a plane ticket.

Maybe they would have loved Valentine in Texas, but they knew him in London.

CHAPTER 12

N
ADIA SAT AT
a circular table in the lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel on East Fifty-Seventh Street. Her potential client had arranged for an investment banker to meet her. Nadia presumed it was some form of an interview to measure her qualifications.

At noon, the Four Seasons became one of the hot spots where financiers gathered to discuss deals. This was ironic because the hotel itself was a monument to the peak of the Japanese real estate market and poor financial planning. The owners finished construction in 1993 at a cost of $477 million, or $1.3 million per room. They promptly went bankrupt and sold the hotel at a 60% discount. More than two decades later, the average cost for new luxury hotels was still less than $600,000 per room.

As Nadia watched the foyer, discount was not a word that came to mind. On the contrary. When a banker chose the Four Seasons he was sending a specific message. His client wanted to hire the best and was willing to pay top dollar. Oh, she’d have to work for it, there was no question about that. The days of mediocrity being rewarded were over. The market collapse of 2008 saw to that. But Nadia wouldn’t have had it any other way. She enjoyed earning her money and she desperately needed the gig.

Lunch was scheduled for 12:30 p.m. The banker showed up at 12:29 p.m. That was another promising sign. Deal oriented professionals usually raced from meeting to meeting and inevitably ran late. Punctuality implied the client demanded it. Such adherence to the client’s demands meant a lucrative revenue stream was at risk.

When the man in pinstripes carrying a black valise saw Nadia, he sighed with exasperation. He headed straight toward her as though he’d studied her website. He was tall and slim with a weak jaw and a slippery complexion. He introduced himself as T. Bradley Ehren. He dumped his briefcase on the table. He didn’t offer his hand or a business card. He didn’t sit down, forcing Nadia to look up at him.

“This is a complete waste of time,” he said. He flipped the briefcase on its end and worked the combination locks.

“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 corridor 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—”