Free The Boy Who Stole From the Dead by Orest Stelmach Page A

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.