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

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—”
    “No, no, no. Not Mikhail Prokhorov. Simeon Simeonovich. That is Simeon Simeonovich. How can you not know that? What kind of reporter are you?”
    “An incompetent one, I’m afraid.” Nadia fished her real business card out of her wallet. “Give this to Mr. Simeonovich. Tell him I look forward to working with him.”
    Nadia rushed back to the hotel lounge. An iced tea and a field green salad topped with grilled chicken awaited her.
    She found the Wikipedia page for Simeonovich. He earned a PhD in quantum physics at age twenty-five. He used his profits from trading metals on the Russian market to become the country’s first corporate raider. His first purchase was a smelter. He slept near the furnace for the first six months to prevent criminals from ransacking the factory. After expanding his holdings in commodity businesses, he diversified into industrials.
    He consolidated his businesses under the umbrella of the Orel Group. Orel, which rhymed with “propel”, was the Russian and Ukrainian