The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

by Orest Stelmach

  They stuffed me into one of the garbage bins, threw my cell phone and handbag inside, and wheeled me out into the alley. The sound of a bolt slamming shut and a key turning in a lock followed, and then I heard several sets of footsteps grow increasingly faint until the alley turned quiet.

  I sat curled in the garbage trying not to vomit from the rancid smell of decaying foodstuff. Once I couldn’t hear footsteps I counted to ten for good measure—as slowly as I could but undoubtedly faster than I realized—and then pushed up with all my might.

  The hard plastic cover swung up and over the side. I stood up straight but there was no way for me to extricate myself from the bin—it was too tall for me to climb out, too narrow for me to swing my legs up. The air felt frigid against my naked, sweaty body. I could see daylight down at the end of the alley where a strip of sidewalk was visible. The thought of someone walking by and catching a glimpse of me, a living monument to disposable refuse, induced new found levels of self-loathing.

  I deflected a bolt of anxiety and realized what I needed to do.

  I rocked sideways back and forth until the bin toppled to the ground. I kept my head up, sustained a blow to my side and ribs, and slithered out of the can still breathing and without harming myself. Then I quickly closed the bin, rolled it against the wall and took cover behind it. Yes, I was squatting so that nothing other than my feet touched the concrete. No, there were no cardboard boxes, plywood remnants, or swaths of stray cloth conveniently available so that I could kneel, let alone an empty garbage bag that I could use to cover my body. The Dutch kept their country clean, even the back alleys.

  Tears spilled from my eyes. Some women might have been embarrassed about this, but I was used to it. My brain released the water behind my eyes at a rate commensurate with my flow of adrenaline under adverse emotional circumstances. It didn’t make me any less capable of conquering them. And as for appearances, any woman with a fresh face suffering my current fate was either professionally trained to handle such a situation or deeply troubled.

  My decision tree flashed before me. The imaginary branches sprouted with alternative courses of action.

  The mere exercise calmed my nerves and helped steady my breathing. Analyzing problems and finding solutions was my joy. This was home.

  I always started from scratch, always began by avoiding the simplest of assumptions. I ruled out nothing.

  Q1: Run out into the street naked and hope a kind person helps me?

  A: High probability police are called no matter what explanation I give. If the police get involved, my mental health could be questioned given I’ve already been arrested for prostitution. Deportation possible to probable, interruption of my investigation highly likely.

  Negative.

  Q2: Call Simmy for help?

  A: He’s my client and he’s Simmy. I’d rather die.

  Negative.

  Q3: Call De Vroom for help?

  A: He’s a cop accountable to his hierarchy with two kids who depend on the income his career provides. This time he might really have me thrown out of the country.

  Negative.

  Q4: Call hotel for help?

  A: Hotel would need to cover its ass in case I’m a risk to myself, their other guests, or Amsterdam. High probability cops get involved, which is unfortunate because this solution is the easiest on my pride and ego.

  Negative.

  Q5: Who the else can I call?

  A: The contrarian’s solution. So unimaginable it must be the right move. The only person I know in Amsterdam whose opinion of me is irrelevant to me, and also someone I can be certain will not go to the police.

  Analysis complete.

  Solution found.

  The only remaining question was whether my potential savior was still in the city.

  CHAPTER 19

  My hands shook as I checked my recent calls so I could reach out to the only man I was willing to ask for help. The odds were against me not only because he was scheduled to leave town but because that’s how life is. The minute you start to want something desperately, it immediately becomes commensurately more difficult to obtain.

  But sometimes you can get lucky, too, especially if you’re the owner of a wicked losing streak.

  My best friend in Amsterdam picked up on the third ring. I gave him the abbreviated truth without edits. He swore in Russian and told me he was on his way.

  Twenty minutes later he appeared in the alley, rich leather overnight bag slung over his shoulder, dressed in a gray turtleneck and black driver’s jacket. When he spoke my name I raised my hand so that he could see it over the garbage bin. Then I closed my eyes and tried to suppress my ego so that I could endure the humiliation of him seeing me in my current state.

  But Romanov surprised me. He cringed when he found me behind the bin, averted his eyes, and began to remove the contents from his bag, all the while making soothing noises as though I were his daughter and he were my guardian, here to comfort and protect me. His emergency clothing kit was my dream ensemble for my predicament—a navy warm-up suit made of Italian cashmere and matching blue socks to boot. The New Balance shoes were a size too big, but in the grand scheme of things, more than useable. After I finished tying the laces, I stood up and marveled at how well the clothes fit. Only when I glanced at Romanov did I realized why—the former Olympic caliber diver and I were of similar stature.

  He tried to wrap a blanket around me for added warmth before we left.

  “No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Your teeth say otherwise,” Romanov said. “They haven’t stopped chattering since I found you.”

  “My teeth lie. Soon as I get home I’m going to have them replaced.”

  “You’re in shock. Your body has been focused on staying alive. That means your immune system is compromised. You’re susceptible to catching a cold, or worse. Put on this blanket. I will not have you getting sick on top of all you’ve been through, which you’re going to tell me about in my car.”

  “No blanket,” I said, and started to walk away from him. “If there’s a cop and he sees me walking out of the alley, I might look strange. It could attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  In fact, I had no such worries. My refusal to drape the blanket over my body was simply a matter of pride.

  I hurried toward the light at the end of the alley, leaving Romanov behind me. He caught up to me in a flash, leather bag in hand, and guided me toward his Mercedes SUV. It looked like a military jeep custom-made for the general who’d absconded with the treasure. I recognized the driver as one of the masseurs from the spa. He opened the back door and we climbed inside. Even after we were comfortably ensconced, however, the driver didn’t get back behind the wheel. Instead he lit a cigarette and found a comfortable spot near an empty storefront. He remained near enough to watch over us but not so close as to be able to eavesdrop.

  Romanov gave me a bottle of water, and I promptly drank half of it. Then I thanked him for coming to my rescue.

  He waved his hand. “No need to thank a friend, especially not one who shares your ancestral heritage. But I can’t believe the men who did this to you were Russian.”

  “They were.”

  “Well they weren’t from Amsterdam, or even Holland. That I can promise you.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I said.

  “Because I would have known. Nothing happens in my community without my knowing about it.”

  “Then they weren’t from your community.”

  Romanov nodded once with conviction, leaving no doubt that his local stature was very important to him. “I’m glad you agree with me, because my next conclusion … you aren’t going to like that one very much.”

  “Now you’ve really got my attention,” I said. “Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know. That’s because you’re a bit blinded.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Infatuation can do that.”

  “What?”<
br />
  “When a woman is infatuated with a man, she loses proper perspective. Even a woman of discipline and intelligence like you—”

  “Whom exactly am I supposedly infatuated with?”

  Romanov pulled his head back and pinched his lips as though I’d insulted him by not being open and honest with him.

  “I’m not kidding,” I said.

  That was a lie, of course. I knew who he was talking about. I was just mortified that a relative stranger had inferred I had feelings for my client, or anyone else, for that matter.

  “Simeonovich,” Romanov said.

  I waited for him to say more but he didn’t.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Obviously not to me. According to you, I’m infatuated with him.”

  “You admit it.”

  “I said ‘according to you.”’

  “But you didn’t fool either of us,” Romanov said. “Has it occurred to you that Simeonovich could be responsible for the attack on you today?”

  I stared at Romanov for a moment, then looked away. I didn’t want to insult the man who’d saved me by informing him that was the dumbest suggestion I’d heard in a long time.

  “No, no,” Romanov said. “I’m not suggesting he had a hand in it. Good God, no. I’m sure he has all the respect in the world for you. No, I mean has it ever occurred to you that these men attacked you because of something Simeonovich wants?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said, but my voice trailed off as I followed Romanov’s logic.

  Someone had sent Russian thugs to get me out of Amsterdam, I thought. If that person was actually trying to impede Simmy’s agenda, that meant he would gain by my departure. The only agenda Simmy and I shared in Amsterdam was Iskra’s murder. This suggested that the person behind the attack on me would benefit from Iskra’s murder not being solved. That in turn implied that solving Iskra’s murder would somehow help Simmy above and beyond doing a favor for an old friend.

  “Maybe, “Romanov said, “for reasons beyond our comprehension, Simeonovich’s future depends on the resolution of Iskra’s murder. He’s under political pressure, yes? Maybe my daughter’s death and his future are connected.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said.

  Romanov shrugged. “You’re probably right. Note that I said ‘probably.”’

  “So noted,” I said.

  Romanov motioned through the window for his driver to return.

  “If anyone can find out the truth for certain,” Romanov said, “I’m sure it’s you.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Simmy met me at the Art’otel’s swanky contemporary bar. Plush velvet chairs and sofas were arranged in secluded areas for maximum privacy. Dim lighting and a haunting tune from a Scandinavian female duet added to the seductive setting.

  We ordered our drinks. Simmy made a predictable choice, opting for a single malt scotch that reeked of exclusivity and masculinity. I ordered a beer, a Heineken, to be specific. I hadn’t had one in ages due to my fear of carbohydrates and love of the taste.

  Simmy cast an equally predictable look of disapproval at me after the waiter left with our orders.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “A woman should never drink beer. It’s not ladylike.”

  “It most certainly is not,” Simmy said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not provocative. When a woman participates in a masculine activity, it can be … how shall I put it?”

  “Sexy?” I said.

  Simmy gave me the slightest shrug in agreement.

  “And drinking beer is a masculine activity?” I said.

  “The laborers who built the Egyptian pyramids drank beer at the end of the day. Those laborers were not women.”

  “So doing as the Egyptian laborer did when he built the pyramids makes me look sexy. Okay. Then explain that look you gave me when I ordered my beer.”

  “Heineken?” he said. “Nadia Tesla drinking the most popular beer in the world? Where’s the iconoclast? Where’s the originality? Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m blending in. Doing what the locals do, you know?”

  “You’ll never blend in,” Simmy said. “You’re too intense. Have you had a chance to examine the matryoshka?”

  The Russian nesting doll had never been far from my mind since he’d given it to me, until today. It had been lurking, right behind whatever was consuming me at any given moment, holding the promise of future revelations and excitement with my favorite client. But once I’d been lifted off the street and my clothes had been removed and I’d been politely told to get the hell out of town, I’d forgotten all about it.

  “It’s incredibly beautiful, Simmy,” I said. “The workmanship … the design … and the painting …”

  “Meaning I’ve gotten the better of you so far, and you’ve discovered none of the meaning I told you they hold.” A look of delight spread on his face as though I’d made his day.

  “You seem pleased about that,” I said.

  “Do I? A friend of mine recently introduced me to this new concept called delayed gratification. Any time I get to practice it, I feel as though I’m evolving.”

  I shifted in my seat. “A friend, huh? I thought you didn’t have any friends.”

  “I didn’t. Now, I’m not so sure. New horizons, as we discussed last time, you know?”

  “You’re full of surprises,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Keep studying the matryoshka,” Simmy said. “Individually, and collectively. Break it apart so you can see each doll. Weigh their individual consciences. Each doll has its own personality. To understand the Russian nesting doll is to the key to understanding a Russian man, which is the key to understanding life.”

  “Ha.” I suppressed a belly laugh. “The key to understanding life?”

  Simmy remained stoic. “That is correct.”

  “Okay, then, boss, I’ll get right on that,” I said. De Vroom’s assertion that he was certain a Russian man had killed Iskra echoed in my ears. “I do want to understand the Russian man. Speaking of which, have you made any progress on the political front?”

  Simmy played with his glass. “He hasn’t returned my call yet. Not that this is entirely unusual. He’s been traveling throughout Europe on diplomatic matters so obviously he’s busy.”

  Simmy looked around as though making sure no one had crept up within earshot.

  “You always do that,” I said.

  “What do I do?”

  “Get paranoid when you’re talking about Putler, even when we’re in Amsterdam, or New York City, for that matter.”

  Simmy repeated the exercise. I got the sense that this was an instinct that he couldn’t control.

  “It pays to be paranoid,” he said. “Perhaps I’m wrong about the reason he hasn’t returned my call. Perhaps I should be concerned there might be poison in my food.”

  “As in, tonight?” I said.

  “As in every night.”

  I waited for him to crack a smile or give me some sign he was joking but he simply sat there looking serious. As the pause in our conversation lengthened, my expression must have betrayed my concern.

  Finally, he chuckled. “Relax, I’m kidding. Like I said, this isn’t unusual. I’m sure we’ll talk soon. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he summoned me for a face-to-face in Europe any day.” Then he turned philosophical. “But if it ever got to that point, poison would be the primary concern.”

  “You’re serious now.”

  “It was the Soviet way and the current ways are anchored in the Soviet ways. In 2006, a politician by the name of Anatoly Sobchak was killed in Russia when he breathed in a poison that had been sprayed onto a light bulb. He turned the lights on, the electricity heated the bulb and vaporized the poison. Later in 2006, an FSB whistle-blower named Alexander Litvinenko was poisoned in London. The assassin put polonium in his teapot. That was a stupid move because polonium is radioactive, so the police wer
e able to trace it and find the assassin’s name. He later became a member of Russian parliament, by the way. And back in 1959, there was the murder of the famous Ukrainian politician, Stepan Bandera. Death by cyanide poisoning. Delivered by a poison atomizer mist gun. Basically, the assassin sprayed cyanide in Bandera’s face, and got the hell out of there before he breathed some himself.”

  “To most Americans, that would sound like the stuff of fiction,” I said.

  “Well, we Russians know better. There’s actually a rumor that someone tried to kill Putler that way.”

  “Really?” I said. “When?”

  “Within the last six months. They say that’s why he’s become so cautious, rarely appearing in public. That may be one of the reasons I haven’t heard from him. Who knows? Supposedly it was an old-school coup attempt by an assassin unknown using the old-school poison mist gun they used to kill Bandera. The rumor is Putler is so sharp, so focused, and so suspicious that he saw it happening. And he’s so physically fit, so quick for his age, he darted out of harm’s way. His secretary wasn’t so lucky. She died almost instantly. But not instantly, you know? There was just enough lag for her to realize what was happening to her before she went.”

  Simmy shook his head, looking genuinely horrified.

  “That’s terrible,” I said, picturing the woman struggling for her last breath.

  “It’s common knowledge in our circles in Russia. When you see a suspicious death, if there’s a bodyguard or secretary lying on the ground, too, you can bet it was poison.”

  “No wonder Putler’s so careful,” I said. “No wonder he’s the man he is.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “How am I wrong? You yourself just said he’s paranoid—”

  “Putler’s not a man,” Simmy said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s not a single man. He’s whatever he needs to be to get what he wants. He’s not one man, he’s not two men. He’s a collection of personalities, any of which he can use to pursue his personal agenda. He’s a statesman, a sportsman, a father, a liar and a thug, but above all else, at the very core of the man is an insecure boy.”