Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

To get the name and address of the owner of the blue Porsche Macan Turbo that had whisked the mystery lover to safety, I needed to deploy humility for the second time in an hour. That was bordering on dangerous behavior, because a woman must maintain a sliver of ego or risk becoming a door mat for family, friends, clients and especially, would-be lovers. The probability that Simmy would ever be the latter had dropped faster than De Vroom had transformed himself into the prince of darkness. Still, a woman never stops dreaming, even about outcomes she’s not entirely sure she wants—Ukrainians and Russians don’t always mix easily or well.

I called Simmy on his cell phone, a number only six people possessed: his assistant, ex-wife, two children, the coach of his professional soccer team, and I. Or so he’d told me.

I asked him if he’d traced the plate.

“What happened to your fatal flaw?” he said.

“You mean the one where my vast arsenal is effective only if I work alone?”

“No. The one where you’re arrogant enough to allow yourself to believe it.”

“It’s trumped by one of my greatest virtues.”

“Really? I don’t think I remember this virtue. Refresh my memory.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. It’s the one where I get the job done no matter what.”

“Oh, yes. That one. I knew there was something about you that I liked. As a matter of fact I just received some information from my man in Brussels. I was about to call you. You have a pen, pencil, or a needle to draw some blood?”

“I used my needle to thread my way into the crime scene but I’ve got my trusty lipstick. Go ahead.”

He gave me an address in Bruges that belonged to a woman by the name of Sarah Dumont. I made a note of it on my mobile phone.

“Do you have a phone number?” I said.

“Aren’t you the detective?”

“Weren’t you the one who said I should ask for help when I need it?”

“No, I don’t have a phone number. There’s no trace of this woman other than her name on that motor vehicle registration. Which is, of course, impossible.”

“She’s probably the boy’s mother. The odds are low she’d be forthcoming over the phone.” I didn’t bother to finish up my thought process, as I was sure Simmy knew where I was leading.

“Have you been to Bruges?” he said.

I remembered pictures of a medieval city that looked like a theme park but was actually the real deal.

“No.”

“Then there’s something you should be aware of before you go and try to blend in.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“The local authorities frown on prostitution.”

I cringed. What a disappointment. I wondered why I’d ever been attracted to him. “Thank you for confirming my theory.”

“Oh, yes?” His tone acquired an edge. He sounded as though he were picking a fight. “What theory?”

“The bigger the bucks, the badder the revelations.”

I ended the call before he could answer, and then cursed at myself. I had to take three deep breaths just to recover. He was a paying client. In fact, he was my most important paying client. I’d indulged my emotions which meant I was not on top of my game. This realization sobered me up. I had no choice but to produce results or my entire livelihood would be threatened. One bad recommendation from my most important client would ruin me.

I went back to the hotel and made arrangements for a quick trip to Bruges. A little over an hour later I hopped on a Thalys high-speed train to Brussels, switched to a Belgian local, and arrived in Bruges just before 7:00 P.M. I took a taxi to the Hotel Dukes’ Palace, checked in and got a map to get myself acclimated.

A promotional pamphlet for the Bruges Beer Museum in the hotel lobby reminded me of the contents of Iskra’s refrigerator. Among them were four bottles of a Bruges beer, not the most common selection in a country that produced Heineken, Grolsch, and Amstel. That suggested she’d acquired a taste for it coincidentally, or at the suggestion of her mystery lover. I suspected it was the latter. Objectivity defined the investigator’s vision, but optimism greased the wheels that propelled her to the solution.

Perhaps the path to finding the solution was in Bruges.

The growling in my stomach drowned out the echo of De Vroom’s ominous warning. I needed nourishment but I wanted answers even more. I had a quick chat with a courteous man at the front desk about the layout of the central square and beyond. Afterwards, he called a taxi for me. Five minutes later I was seated in the back of a Peugeot with my cell phone displaying a map of the local area.

The weary driver spoke good English. He told me Bruges was called the “Venice of the North,” which was funny because that’s what the cabbie in Amsterdam had said about his hometown. Both cities were built around canals, but that’s where the similarities ended. Whereas Amsterdam offered a contemporary urban vibe in a historical city, Bruges looked like history itself surrounded by contemporary trappings.

The drive through the Markt and Burg areas was an exercise in medieval architectural time travel. Spotlights attached to vaulted rooftops illuminated gabled and gilded buildings from centuries past. In the background, a fourteenth century bell tower loomed with an octagonal-shaped lantern on top. There were no sword-wielding, armor-clad warriors on horseback, but the city center’s authentic aura made it easy to picture them thundering around the corner. In their place, tourists ambled along winding cobblestone streets filled shoulder-to-shoulder amidst chocolate shops, boutiques, and restaurants.

The ever-present canals connected the various neighborhoods, murky waterways that disappeared now and then under the curved arches of the bridges above. Homes carved from stone or assembled with bricks faced the water. I’d travelled one hundred fifty miles but I was still surrounded by canals. If I’d been on vacation, I might have focused on their aesthetics. Nothing promotes a sense of serenity like a calm body of water. But a girl had been crucified and slaughtered in one of the Venices of the north, and my investigation of her murder had taken me to the other. Instead of beauty, I saw hidden depths, untold mysteries, and gentle black ripples that belied a stirring beneath the surface.

We drove past the city center into a calm residential neighborhood located across a canal called St. Gilles. Two miles further the driver came to a fork and stopped in front of a road that disappeared into a densely wooded area. The car’s headlights provided sufficient light for me to see that the road had been recently paved. There were no cracks in the asphalt and the curbs stood firm and round above ground level.

The driver’s voice fell a few octaves. “This is the address.” He pointed down the road, then pulled his finger back and looked away as though he was afraid someone might have seen him.

“You mean this is a private road?” I said.

“Yes.”

“And there’s only one house in there?”

I spied the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. His eyes bugged out. “You do not know this? I assumed you had an appointment with the owner.”

“Who is the owner?” I said.

“If you don’t know that, you don’t belong here. And if you don’t belong here, I don’t want to be here.”

He started to turn the car around.

“Stop.” I slammed the seatback in front of me with an open palm.

The car jerked to a halt.

I pulled my wallet out and handed the driver twenty euro. “Who lives here?”

The driver glanced at the money uncertainly, as though he was almost tempted. I added another twenty. He snatched the bills from my hand.

“A very successful woman,” he said. “She’s a theater person, famous in the theater. You’re from England. You know the type, I’m sure.”