The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

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.