The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

by Orest Stelmach

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  “Shall we make a fresh start when we land?”

  “You bet.”

  I might have gone on to finish my dinner in a genuinely pleasant state of mind if I’d told him the complete truth.

  But I hadn’t.

  CHAPTER 28

  We landed at terminal five at Heathrow. A limousine picked us up and drove us a few hundred yards to an unmarked white door. It looked like an entrance for airport personnel or the door to a storage room for equipment, but in fact it was the portal to the Windsor Room, Heathrow’s VIP lounge.

  Inside, bonsai trees flanked white leather sofas and chairs beneath a bombproof glass roof. A man resembling the Dali Lama stood talking to a man resembling the actor, Tom Hardy, in one corner. A party from the Middle East, men dressed in dark business suits and white robes alike, occupied another.

  Russian President Valery Putler’s entourage took up center stage. Six bodyguards surrounded his sofa. All of them stood at attention with their hands by their sides and their eyes on the interior of the suite.

  As soon as he saw Simmy, Putler burst out smiling. He rose to his feet, ignored his bodyguards, and headed our way. He bounded more than he walked, with a strange hitch in his step. He looked like the kid in school who was determined to compensate for his diminutive stature by walking like a tough guy. He was compact, svelte and fit in a perfectly tailored suit but a bit puffy in the face, as though he’d attended one too many Botox parties.

  He embraced Simmy, kissed him on both cheeks and appeared to have tears in his eyes when he grasped Simmy by the shoulders.

  “Thank you, my friend. Thank you so much.”

  Simmy bowed his head. His face flushed and he seemed to be trying hard not to smile like a child who’d pleased an impossible parent. Then he quickly gathered himself and introduced me.

  “Mr. President, this is Nadia Tesla. This is the woman who is truly responsible for both our happiness. She’s the one who deserves your thanks.”

  “Thank you, Miss Nadia Tesla,” Putler said, “for your service on behalf of this girl, who is very special to me. I am deeply indebted to you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Putler beamed and looked me over. At first I was flattered—he seemed so genuinely grateful. I forgot his reputation and his misdeeds, real and alleged. He was a world leader and he was thanking me. How could I not be gracious? But then his expression seemed to morph from smile to grin, or perhaps that’s what it had been all along and I was just too naïve to realize it. There was a lasciviousness to the curl of his lips that gave me a creepy vibe that I’d just been measured, evaluated and appraised on the basest physical level.

  “Since you’re an American,” Putler said, turning serious, “I want to tell you something. Yes, I love cranes and tigers. And polar bears and snow leopards. Oh, how I love the snow leopard. But I love blue jays and butterflies, too. These lies that your American magazine spread about me … That I’m some kind of asswipe that takes pictures of the great carnivores to show that I’m in command of them … that is complete and total crap.”

  I was so stunned by his choice of words and his obsession about what some periodical had written about him that I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded, like a sympathetic asswipe.

  “If I wanted to be that guy … If I wanted to show the world that I can tame the beast, I’d take pictures of the T-Rex I’ve had genetically re-created at my compound from a pre-historic DNA sample.” He leaned toward me, eyes afire. “Jurassic Park,” he said in broken English, before switching back to Russian. “It is fiction no more. It is a reality and it is mine.” He pulled his neck back. “How would you like to show the world some pictures of that?”

  I had to take a moment to make sure he was joking, which his wink and grin finally confirmed.

  “At first I wasn’t sure if you were kidding,” I said. “You spoke with so much … conviction.”

  “As opposed to?” Putler said.

  “An American politician.”

  Putler let out a belly laugh and pointed at Simmy. “I see why this one likes you to order dinner for him. He told me you have Russian bloodlines, so it doesn’t surprise me that we get along well, you know?”

  “Not Russian,” I said without thinking. “Ukrainian.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My parents. And their parents. They were Ukrainian. Not Russian.”

  Only after I’d corrected Putler did I notice the cloud that had descended over Simmy’s face.

  Oops.

  Putler smiled and shrugged. “It’s the same thing, sweetheart. There’s no such country as Ukraine. Ukrainians are proper Russians. Always have been. Always will be.”

  “Then why are you bombing them?”

  A hint of irritation crossed Putler’s face, but it was quickly replaced with the thoughtful look of an experienced statesman. “I’m not bombing them. Someone has misinformed you. It’s my duty to protect and support all Russian people no matter where they live. If my support results in Ukraine re-joining the Russian empire, so be it. You see, you’re American, and you don’t understand something very basic.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Ukraine has no leadership because they’re basically Russian peasants. They need to be led by a Russian. Your Western press lies to you and tells you I’m bombing them. No, that is not true. What I’m doing is saving them. Putler leaned into my ear. “We’ll leave the bombing for the Poles. No one ever had any use for them.” He pulled his head back and winked. Then a lunatic’s smile spread on his face. “And after them, who knows?” He switched to broken English and sang softly. “Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light …” He stopped singing and winked again.

  He sounded unhinged, which was ironic because I felt as though I were coming unhinged, as though I knew I should play dumb and walk away but I simply couldn’t deny my urge to set his ass straight. Blaspheming motherfucker, I thought. And then I caught Simmy smiling out of the corner of my eye. It was a forced smile by a desperate man because I could see him begging me with his eyes …

  I reached out and brushed Putler’s arm with my fingers. “Just let me know ahead of time, Mr. President,” I said. “so I can escape to my ancestral homeland in time. Just me and my kitty. She looks just like a snow leopard, you know.”

  Putler grinned as though that bonded us for life. He proceeded to remove a business card from his wallet. Then he raised his hand over his shoulder, snapped his fingers, and made a writing motion with the same hand. In a flash, a bodyguard was slipping a pen into his hand.

  “A Russian man always pays his debts,” Putler said, as he scribbled something on the card. “As a token of thanks. I’d like to offer you a gift.” He finished writing and handed me the card.

  I took it.

  “I’ve granted you a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Yes. One favor. My private number is on that card. If there is ever anything I can do to help you, you can reach out to me. And if I can help you, I will.”

  I stared at the card. It fascinated, repulsed and electrified me. This had to be one of world’s ultimate get-out-of-jail free cards, and regardless of the morals of the man who’d underwritten the guarantee, it was mine.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Putler said, “I have to talk to this guy in private for a minute. Maybe he can give me some advice on how to make some money.”

  Putler punched Simmy playfully in the shoulder. Simmy cast a look of gratitude at me as he followed Putler to his leather sofa.

  I waited off to the side, pleased with myself. I could have gone off on Putler. In my younger, less prudent days, I probably would have done just that. But now I had clients to please and a man to impress. I hated to admit that, but whom was I fooling? And based on the look Simmy had given me before he’d walked away with his mentor, I’d succeeded.

  Less than five minutes later, Simmy returned, slipped his hand along the c
urve of my back and guided me toward the white door.

  “How did it go?” I said, as soon as we were outside.

  “Fantastic,” Simmy said.

  “Is he always that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Insane,” I said.

  Simmy chuckled. “I told you he can sound eccentric to people who don’t know him well. Maybe he was even a bit odder today, but who can blame him? The man’s been under a lot of pressure himself. In fact, the man’s under constant pressure.”

  “But the two of you?” I said. “You’re good?”

  Simmy allowed himself a grin, which was the equivalent of a full-fledged smile for most men. “He is so grateful. I reaffirmed my loyalty to him and he told me he wants us both to join him for Christmas Eve this year.”

  “Both of us?”

  Simmy patted my lower back. “I have to stop by my headquarters in London and take a meeting with some financiers. I’ll have my driver take you to the Grosvenor. You can check in, refresh yourself, and then I’ll meet you for lunch. We start with a drink at the hotel bar, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good. In the meantime, when you get to your hotel room, be certain to secure your valuables in the hotel safe. London is a crazy town. You can never be too cautious.”

  It was finally over. The murder had, indeed, been part of a more complex maze of problems that Simmy needed help resolving. And I’d helped him resolve them.

  All that was left was for me to collect my reward.

  CHAPTER 29

  After checking into the hotel, I took a long shower and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. I was about to lie down on the bed and check my e-mails when I remembered Simmy’s advice about using the safe. I always secured my valuables when I left the room, but I never worried about them when I was in the hotel, especially not with my door bolted shut from the inside. I saw no reason to do so this time, either, but decided to take a look at it and set the code for later use.

  I found the safe in a bureau near the mini-bar. To my dismay, a cardboard sign rested beside the safe. The note read “Out of Order” and had additional writing below it, but the print was so small I had to lift the sign and bring it closer to my eyes to read it. It said, “Please call the front desk to secure your valuable items.”

  I reached out to put the sign back in its place. A circle of shiny steel caught my eye. It was the slot for a master key to the safe, one that provided emergency access in case a guest secured a valuable and the locking mechanism failed.

  Simmy had insisted I use the safe. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, especially given how he’d phrased the suggestion, reminding me that London could be a dangerous city.

  Now his words sounded off.

  I tossed the sign onto the bed and hurried to my bag, fumbled with my purse and pulled out the key I’d found hidden inside the Russian nesting doll.

  Then I skipped back to the safe, placed the tip of the key into the hole and pushed. The key slid into its grooves, accompanied by a glorious metallic zipping noise. I turned the key in a clockwise fashion.

  The door popped open.

  A green velvet box beckoned.

  I pulled it out and opened it.

  A diamond ring shimmered inside. It was an Asscher cut, larger than your average marble and slightly smaller than the planet Mars. It scintillated like fire and ice.

  My first thought was nil. I stood paralyzed by a completely alien sensation. My second thought was that there’d been some sort of mistake. This ring could not possibly be for me. My third thought was the recognition of the alien sensation for what it was, unfettered and boundless joy.

  I ran to the bed, jewelry box in hand, grabbed my phone, and dialed his number.

  “Did you find it?” he said.

  I sniffed in the tears. “You’re a bigger fool than I am.”

  “I want all of you. I want the intelligence, the will, and the passion. I want the irreverence, the scars, and all your insecurities. I want to be the father of your children. You are the bravest, smartest, sexiest woman in the world.”

  I had to breathe deeply before I could answer in a manner that befit my whip mistress reputation. “And you are a man of impeccable taste.”

  “You really think I have good taste?”

  I glanced at my ring. It shimmered and sparkled, gaudy yet classy, outrageous yet desirable at the same time. Just like the man who’d given it to me.

  “It has potential,” I said. “Add the right woman’s touch …”

  “Speaking of your touch,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “The meeting went faster than I expected.”

  My joy was momentary. The dark cloud that hung over my existence reappeared and reminded me that I was still persecuted by my prior marriage.

  “There’s something you need to know, Simmy,” I said. “Something about my past.”

  “Whatever it is you have to tell me,” Simmy said, “if it’s about your past, then it’s in the past. It’s not going to change anything.”

  “I don’t want it to ruin this day.”

  “Then tell me now and set yourself free.”

  I took a deep breath, and the memories came flooding back.

  “My husband’s lover—the graduate student—came to his funeral,” I said. “She was breathtaking. If a cherry blossom were to turn into a woman, it would look like her. I wasn’t surprised he’d fallen for her. I never thought I quite measured up to his standards. When I walked up to her and told her I knew who she was and how dare she show her face, she expressed her condolences, for my husband’s death, and for how he’d deceived me. She did it very sweetly, with tears in her eyes, as though she was my little sister.”

  “I don’t understand,” Simmy said.

  I had to take a deep breath to continue, and much as I tried to fortify my voice, it crackled. “It turned out she wasn’t my husband’s lover. He wasn’t having an affair with her. He was having an affair with his male graduate assistant. He was gay all along. I was so fixated on having a Ukrainian-American husband, on pleasing my mother, on perpetuating Ukrainian-American culture the way my father had wanted, I lived in denial the whole time. I wasn’t his wife. I was just his beard.”

  Simmy asked me to explain what I meant by that word. I told him.

  “Your ex-husband was a coward,” Simmy said. “Unlike Iskra Romanova and Sarah Dumont, he didn’t have the courage to be his own man. I am very proud of you for sharing this with me, and I’m going to tell you something about myself and make you a promise.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not fond of facial hair. So you can rest assured that I will never grow a beard, and my wife will never be one.”

  I sniffed in some more tears and laughed.

  “I like it when you laugh,” he said, “but tell me. Why are you still talking to me? I’m going to beat you to the bar. You’re going to be late for the beginning of the rest of your life …”

  “Ha! We’ll see about that. “Come to me,” I said.

  “I’m on my way, love.”

  CHAPTER 30

  I ended the call, wiped the tears from my eyes, and changed into a sleek but understated blue cocktail dress that hugged my body. Then I flew downstairs, determined to beat Simmy to the bar so that I could see him enter. So that I could watch all eyes turn his way while I sat there thinking that’s my man.

  The tavern was dark, elegant and glorious, with paneled walls and gilded fixtures at the bar. Cliques of well-dressed folks drank in groups at small tables appointed with upholstered furnishings that were scattered around the room. Two grizzled bartenders tended to a bar area that buzzed with lunch activity. A television hung from a wall behind the bar.

  My hunger for some tasty food was exceeded only by my thirst. I wanted a tall drink, the kind with no bottom. I walked to the far side of the room to an empty stool and took a seat, eyes glued to the entrance on the lookout for Simmy. After the bartender took
my order for a glass of ice water, I glanced at the television monitor over the bar. Just as the image of Valery Putler appeared, I caught sight of Simmy entering the bar.

  One of his bodyguards was in front of him, the other behind him. Simmy’s eyes found mine. They looked at me adoringly and he gave me the slightest nod. I fought the urge to slice my way though the bodies and jump into his arms. Instead, the television monitor seemed to draw me in as though it had a power of its own.

  Putler was standing at a lectern next to the prime minister of Germany, surrounded by men in suits and overcoats. His lips were moving and he was gesturing with his hands.

  “Putler Arrives in Berlin for Economic Summit,” the caption read. And in the bottom of the right corner of the screen, an additional word in italics informed the viewing public: “LIVE.”

  I glanced back to Simmy. While his bodyguard cleared the way for him, a random customer beside me addressed one of the bartenders with a booming request for a black and tan. His mellifluous baritone drew my attention. When I looked over, an unremarkable bald man rose from his seat beside the man with the baritone.

  The balding man left the bar and brushed by Simmy.

  A mist formed in the air.

  Simmy froze. His entire face seemed to seize up.

  Our eyes met.

  I saw only horror.

  He fell to the ground.

  The bodyguards fell with him.

  I remembered what Simmy had told me, that when bodyguards fall it means the man they’re guarding has been assassinated, and that they too, have been poisoned.

  My heart urged me to rush forward, but my survival skills prevailed. I counted three more suits on the floor. Instead of moving forward toward the man whose ring I was wearing, I retreated. My feet felt like cinderblocks, the floor like quicksand. But what I was learning now was that sometimes your only salvation is to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, place one foot backward, drag the other one to it, and repeat.

  In the background, a man continued delivering an impassioned speech on the television.