The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

by Orest Stelmach

“She’s his daughter.”

  I pictured her property, the luxury cars, and her restaurant in Bruges.

  “Her wanting to keep the police out of it makes sense now,” I said. “The desire for privacy and all that. So does her lifestyle. I appreciate she’s a successful artist, but she seemed to have more disposable income than I would have imagined.”

  “Sarah is set for life, as long as she remains discreet and respects her father.”

  “When you say discreet,” I said, “you mean doesn’t let anyone find out who her father is, or that she’s had at least one lesbian relationship.”

  “In Russia, a man is expected to be a man. His reputation is very important, with his family, in business, and especially in politics. In Russia, having an illegitimate child would hurt an elected official’s popularity.”

  I couldn’t suppress a laugh, nor did I want to. “Elected?”

  “Having a lesbian daughter would be even more unpopular. So as the saying goes, some things are better left unsaid.”

  I considered what I’d learned. “I guess I have to give Putler some credit, hard as that is to believe.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “At least he acknowledges she’s his daughter. At least he supports her, and I guess based on what you say, loves her to the best of his personal boundaries. That’s a lot more than George Romanov can say.”

  “Valery Putler is not one-dimensional. He is not evil incarnate and he is not a monster. The Western press likes to make him out to be without redeeming qualities because every story needs a villain and he’s a convenient one. But the truth is far more complicated. Do you know why he was tapped as to be president in the first place?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because he couldn’t be bribed. He was the only KGB officer, which is to say the only Chekhist that his predecessor had ever met who had a reputation for integrity, who refused to take a payoff.”

  “If that’s true, then his former reputation makes him all the more disappointing since he took office,” I said.

  “He’s been a positive influence on Sarah. He is, as you know, a Tae Kwon Do expert. He encouraged her to learn discipline and self-reliance through martial arts.”

  “Yeah, that didn’t look like the first time she’d swept a guy’s legs out from under him.”

  I remembered following Sarah Dumont to her gym where I saw heavy bags and men in training. I must have caught her on a day without martial arts practice. Had I followed her another day, I might have seen her sparring with those same men.

  “It turns out the blossom didn’t fall too far from the proverbial tree,” Simmy said. “She doesn’t look like him. Physically, she clearly takes after her mother. But she’s his spitting image in spirit.”

  “Meaning what, she wants to annex Ukraine, too?”

  Simmy rolled his eyes. “If Valery wanted to annex Ukraine, the tanks would have rolled by now and no one would have stopped him. The only sound you would have heard from Europe and the States would have been the huffing and puffing of your gutless politicians. No, I mean Sarah is just like him in personality. She casts a giant shadow, she never retreats, and she never, ever surrenders.”

  “What about the home invasion in Amsterdam? Obviously whoever did it had no clue who she was, but whatever happened to the criminals? Did the police catch them, or did they … disappear?”

  “It never happened.”

  “What?”

  “It was just a story she made up.”

  “Why make up something like that?” I said.

  “To justify the security guards—whom her father insists on, by the way. And to get some privacy. Her father may support her but Sarah is legitimately successful in her own right. People in town know who she is, partly based on her success in dance, partly based on her lifestyle, the home, the cars, the girl about town. If you tell people you were the victim of a home invasion, they might not think twice if you’re a recluse or a little bit odd.”

  “What about your relationship with her? If her identity is such a secret, how is it you’ve known her almost her entire life?”

  Simmy’s eyes danced all over the place, from me to his beer glass and to the widescreen television resting on a black lacquer bureau along one side of the plane. After giving me sufficient time to answer the question myself, they settled squarely on me again.

  “Oh, my,” I said. “You really are the son the President never had.”

  “First time I met her was right here in Amsterdam. She was seven years old. I was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and Valery asked me to deliver a gift to a friend and her daughter. He gave me a sealed envelope, a big and thick one, like an accordion file, and told me to give it to the mother. When I asked him who the mother and girl were he told me he would take it as a personal favor if I would treat them as though they were my family.”

  “And you knew from that moment who they really were?”

  “I didn’t know, but I suspected. I did some due diligence of my own. You know, just out of curiosity. Sarah’s mother was a Belgian born woman by the name of Stephanie Dumont. She was a dancer. When Valery was stationed in Berlin as a KGB agent in late nineteen eighties, she was performing in a revue at the Friedrichstadt Palace. He was married at the time, but I think he fell in love, for real.”

  “Where is her mother now?”

  “Portofino, Italy.”

  “And the man she refers to as her father? The one who made all the money in construction?”

  “Doesn’t exist. The mother, Stephanie Dumont, never married. It turned out she can fall in love with a man or a woman, but her preference is the latter. That’s why she was in Berlin in the first place. It was the world’s most friendly place for those kinds of people back then.”

  “Those kinds of people?”

  “You know what I mean.” Simmy blushed. “The gay people.”

  “Did you ever find out what was in that file you gave Sarah and her mother?”

  “I assume it had some form of currency in it. Cash, bearer bonds, something like that. This was in 1999. He’d just taken office for the first time and he didn’t know the banking system the way he does now.”

  “Spoken like the prodigal son,” I said.

  “Okay, he didn’t control the banking system the way he does now.”

  “Spoken like a man searching for the truth.”

  “I’m trying. I met Sarah and her mother half a dozen more times during the next three or four years. They had my number if they needed anything. And then a few years later, Valery told me he would no longer need my help in this matter.”

  “Did he ever confirm Sarah was his daughter?”

  “He did,” Simmy said.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night?” I remembered Simmy pacing, mobile phone pressed to his ear, looking increasingly more relaxed as the hours passed. “You talked to Putler last night? While we were at the police station?”

  “Of course I talked to him. His daughter was attacked. He deserved to know immediately.”

  I waited for Simmy to follow-up with the obvious, an admission of his personal reason for calling his mentor, who he feared had grown suspicious of his protégé’s political aspirations. But no such confession followed. So I decided to keep staring at him until it did.

  “What can I say,” Simmy said. “You did me an enormous favor. You probably saved my business, and maybe even kept me out of jail.”

  “He’s pleased?”

  Simmy appeared incredulous. “Pleased? The man is overjoyed. I saved …” He cleared his throat. “We saved his daughter’s life. No matter what else he is or is not, there is no doubt that Valery is a devoted father.”

  I remembered what George Romanov had told me, that Simmy had an ulterior motive for wanting to solve Iskra’s murder and bring her killer to justice.

  “Simmy,” I said, and waited for him to give me his undivided attention.

  He blinked casually and then froze.
He knew me by now. He could tell by my curt tone and the intensity of my expression that I was perturbed by something, and that this something concerned him.

  “What is it, love?”

  He meant it in the British sense, I was sure. He lived in London and friends called each other “love” all the time, didn’t they? Still, his choice of words distracted me.

  What was my problem again? Oh, yes. That.

  “Did you know Iskra’s lover was Putler’s daughter from the beginning? Is this why you hired me to find Iskra’s killer in the first place?”

  “Absolutely not.” He answered firmly, emphatically, and without hesitation. “Iskra’s mother is an old friend of mine, just like I said. We went to university together. Yes, we were more than friends for a few semesters but that was a long, long time ago. I was just as surprised that Sarah Dumont turned out to be the secret lover as you are to learn her father’s identity.”

  “But once you got the license plate of that blue Porsche Macan,” I said, “you knew.”

  “Yes. Then, I knew.”

  “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Simmy said.

  “Who she was. Who her father was.”

  “That would have been imprudent.”

  “Meaning you were afraid that her father being the Russian President might affect my performance. That I might be a bit less enthusiastic.”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “You didn’t trust my professionalism or my ethics. A person isn’t responsible for her father’s actions.”

  Simmy glared at me. “Are we done?”

  I pressed my lips together and returned his stare.

  Simmy ate some duck, took a sip of beer and cleared his throat. “Sarah Dumont’s father’s true identity had no bearing on who killed Iskra Romanova. None whatsoever. Surely we can agree on that.”

  “I needed to tread lightly around her for my own personal safety, given all her security and her father’s history of—how shall we put it—disposing of those who displease him?”

  “Nonsense. I trusted your professionalism and your ethics completely.”

  I played with the shrimp on my plate. “You’re my client. You don’t owe me anything other than clarity and fair pay. But it would have been nice if you’d trusted me just a little bit more.”

  Simmy considered my comment for a moment and then gave me a quick, barely perceptible nod.

  “Agreed. I’m trying to be a better man. I’ll do better next time.”

  “Next time?” I said, peppering my voice with some moxie. “You mean you’re going to hire me again?”

  “You’re soon going to discover that I’ve been withholding even more information from you.”

  The mischief in his eyes suggested he was playing with me. And then I remembered the Russian nesting dolls and the key that I’d found. Amidst the attack on Sarah Dumont, Romanov’s death and our quick departure, I hadn’t dwelled on it. I’d pushed it aside as a pleasant mystery to contemplate once we reached London and my life normalized a bit.

  “The matryoshka,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve fully grasped all its knowledge yet.”

  Simmy shrugged. “Obviously.”

  “Why is that so obvious?”

  “Because if you’d solved its mystery and absorbed all its knowledge, I would know with a simple glance at your face.”

  “Really,” I said. “That’s a bold statement. Here’s how I see the situation. My sense is that by giving me the matryoshka, you’ve given me a key, metaphorically speaking, and it’s up to me to figure out what it opens. Does that sound right?”

  I spied a twinkle in Simmy’s eyes. “Well, that’s an interesting way to put it. Perhaps you’ll make some headway in London.”

  “Speaking of our arrival in London. You said you need a favor …”

  “Sarah Dumont’s father is overjoyed that his daughter survived this attempt on her life,” Simmy said, “an attempt to kill her in the most brutal and inhumane way. He would like to thank the person who saved her personally.”

  “Huh?”

  “Russian President Valery Putler … he’d like to thank you in person. He’d like to shake your hand.”

  My blood pressure rose for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to me. Sure, I considered the man to be a mass murderer and an evil despot, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t do a favor for a client and shake the man’s hand. Did it?

  “Okay,” I said. “No problem. You seem to think this is a big deal. Is there something you know that I don’t know?”

  Simmy narrowed his eyes. “This is an important moment for me, Nadia. I did good for him. He’s most grateful. It’s an opportunity for me to give him a hug, remind him of my loyalty to him. It’s a chance to shift any paranoia he may have about someone trying to usurp his power away from me.”

  “I get that,” I said. “What does that have to do with my meeting him so he can thank me?”

  “I can’t have you getting into it with him.”

  My jaw literally fell open. Fortunately, I wasn’t chewing any food at the time. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the strong Ukrainian woman—”

  “Ukrainian-American woman.”

  “Who’s proud of her ancestral heritage.”

  “And this is a problem because?”

  “Valery can be provocative. Sometimes he says things that can be shocking to a foreigner not used to his manner or his sense of humor. I can see him saying something that offends your feminist or ethnic or some other Nadia sensibility …”

  I feigned shock and mouthed the word. “Me?”

  “And I simply can’t have that,” Simmy said. “I need this to be a friendly meet and greet, filled with love, joy and fine manners all around.”

  I recalled George Romanov describing me as the American whore with Russian bloodlines. I had little doubt I was going to shake the hand of a man who would think of me in the same light, or worse. But what did I care what he thought of me?

  “Have you given thought to how you’ll describe me to him?” I said.

  Simmy frowned. “What are talking about?”

  “How you’ll introduce me to the President of Russia. Will you say I’m your friend—”

  “God no. Russian men don’t have female friends.”

  “Your investigator?” I said.

  “Better.”

  “Or your dietary whip mistress?”

  “Oh, he’d have a party with that one,” Simmy said.

  “And if I shake his hand and act like a European lady, that will help keep you in his good graces?”

  “God willing.”

  “Then it’s settled,” I said.

  We turned our attention back to our dinners. The attendants checked on us again. After they left I asked my one remaining question. I’d purposefully waited until our conversation seemed to have ended on a congenial note in hopes that Simmy would drop his guard and I’d be able to measure his body language when he heard my query.

  “Is there any truth to it?” I said.

  Simmy looked up from his plate, food in mouth, genuinely confused.

  “Did you ever whisper, even in the quietest tones, to the most trusted of friends, under the influence of adult beverages or not, that you could do a better job as President of Russia, even in jest?”

  Simmy glanced at me with a stoic expression and then averted my eyes, leaving me with the distinct impression that he’d made at least one such proclamation.

  “Since you asked a personal question …” he said.

  “You have one for me?”

  Simmy studied me. “I believe you’re a passionate person who loves life, but sometimes I get the sense that you’re incapable of trusting another human being, especially a man. And there is a melancholy about you. I see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice, and it leaves me wondering, what is it that caused you to become an isolationist?”

  I laughed, out of self-defense as much as confusion
over his choice of words. “A what?”

  “An isolationist. You are like the country that doesn’t want anything to do with any other country. You might conduct some trade, but you don’t want to be intimate. You look only inward. You never speak of men. You never speak of boyfriends. Why do you insist on being alone?”

  Deflections, excuses and lies flooded my mind. Anything but the truth, for I couldn’t stomach thinking about it let alone the humiliation of revealing it to anyone else. And yet I found myself reaching for words that at least broached the subject. A need propelled me, the same kind I’d heard in Simmy’s voice when he’d begged me to come here.

  “My first husband cheated on me,” I said.

  Simmy waited a beat. “I’m very sorry.”

  “We were living in New York. He commuted to his job in New Haven. One day he was giving a lecture in Hartford at Trinity College. My mother called me in an agitated state. She said her date was drunk and determined to take advantage of her. She refused to call the police because the guy was a fellow immigrant she’d known a long time. So I called my husband and told him to drive out to her house. The roads were slick from hail and he had this old Volkswagen with bald tires, and when he said it was too dangerous I told him to get his dick out of his little red-head’s mouth and go save his mother-in-law.”

  I stopped because I knew Simmy could figure out the rest for himself.

  “I remember you told me your husband died in a car crash. That was the night.”

  “That was the night.”

  Simmy took a moment to think about it. I considered speaking some more but I simply couldn’t go there.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Simmy said. “You blame yourself for his death, you think you’re unworthy of another man. You are too intelligent for that, Nadia. You must stop that kind of thinking at once.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Ever the oligarch issuing orders about what I should and should not think, but I still loved him for asking. No one else gave a shit, and he was right. I didn’t let them. In truth, I didn’t feel guilty about my husband’s death at all. It was his choice to drive fifty miles per hour around the bend to complete his errand and get back to his lover as quickly as possible.

  “We are alike then,” Simmy said. “We are both damaged goods.”