Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“But he was happy,” I said. “At least for a while, wasn’t he?”

Romanov didn’t blink or blanch. “If you mean while he was working for Iskra and getting paid in a manner that would shame any father, I’m sure he was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him when we had lunch?”

Romanov seemed genuinely perplexed. “For what reason? He liked my daughter. I met the man. I spoke with him. He was employed by the people who run the room she rented. As disgusting as it all was, he was a professional.”

“That you went back to see privately and had words with—”

“You can’t possibly be thinking he’s a suspect.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a good man.”

Romanov’s words caught me by surprise.

“The Turk is a good man?” I said.

“Absolutely. I went to his work place, which is to say I went to Iskra’s old office and had a discussion with him.”

“A discussion?”

Romanov nodded. “A father to friend-of-his-daughter type of discussion.”

“After which you paid him to go away.”

Romanov shook his head. “On the contrary. That’s what I told Maria to simplify matters for her and to get her to stop worrying about him.”

“You mean you didn’t have a confrontation? You didn’t pay him to go away?”

“Why would I pay him to go away when he was protecting her? My impression is, he takes his job seriously. You’ve met him. What do you think?”

“That it’s a shame he wasn’t with her twenty-four seven or she might still be alive.”

“Then we’re agreed on that.”

“You did a great job. Maria was so convinced you paid someone off to stay away.”

“I didn’t pay anyone, but I had a discussion with someone. It just wasn’t the Turk.”

I leaned forward. “Who was it then?”

“The cop that was totally obsessed with her.”

“A cop?”

“The one that was paying for her services and stalking her at all hours.”

“A cop was doing that?” I said. “That’s incredible. What’s his name?”

“He’s the detective. The one investigating the case.” Romanov’s face contorted into a mask of pure hate. “You met him at Iskra’s apartment. Goes by the name of De Vroom.”

Icalled De Vroom and told him I had valuable information pertinent to his investigation of Iskra’s murder. That was not a lie. That my discoveries concerned him and his alleged relationship with Iskra didn’t render them any less relevant. De Vroom insisted I meet with him right away even though it was his day off.

As I headed for our rendezvous, I experienced doubts about my personal safety for the first time. I’d been nervous when the police had slapped the cuffs on me and locked me in a cell, but I’d never feared my life was at risk. The prospect of dealing with a cop that was anything less than one hundred percent scrupulous, however, left me believing that I should be legitimately shaken up. But I wasn’t, and that in turn, is what really shook me up. Deep down, I knew I should have been more reluctant to pursue my investigation but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

The mitigating factor to my concern was De Vroom’s choice of venues. He couldn’t have proposed a safer place to meet excluding the United States Embassy and Simmy’s armored yacht. That included the police station, since I was no longer entirely certain I could trust the damn Dutch cops.

The Cupcake Whisperer doubled as a cake store that also offered lessons in baking. Among their curricula were family-oriented sessions including one for cupcake decoration. I waited for De Vroom outside the gingerbread-like building, studying the scene through the front window. A swarm of mothers surrounded a room full of enchanted children, frosting and candies all over the place. Among the mothers sat one solitary and disturbingly handsome police detective, flanked by identical twin daughters in pink dresses.

I wasn’t any good at guessing little kids’ ages. All I knew for certain was that they were young enough to be totally adorable and not nearly old enough to fathom what one human being was capable of doing to another.

I texted De Vroom to glance out the window, and enjoyed watching him read my message, knowing that he was about to glance my way any second. But he didn’t, cool and handsome bastard that he was. Instead, he read the note and strolled over to a sweet-looking mother and exchanged a few words with her. The mother glanced at De Vroom’s girls as though he’d asked her to watch over them and nodded with a dazzling smile thrown in to-boot. As he headed toward the door, the woman sauntered over to the girls and chatted with them about their cupcakes. The woman and De Vroom’s children’s warm facial expressions and relaxed mannerisms suggested they knew each other. Given the woman’s classic beauty, I wasn’t surprised De Vroom was acquainted with her.

He arrived looking formidable and alluring at the same time.

“I thought I told you to leave Amsterdam,” he said.

“For my own safety,” I said. “And you were very thoughtful when you said it, as though you cared about me.”

“I do care about you. It’s my job to care about all people in Amsterdam, including the tourists. But you’re still here, which makes me wonder if you care about yourself.”

“I care about my job more than I care about myself. That’s what’s known as being a professional.”

“No,” De Vroom said. “That’s what’s known as being an American. Can we go for a walk? Before my girls start wondering if I’m interviewing new mommies for them. And for the record, that’s their choice of language.”

We strolled along the sidewalk on the shady side of the road. Cars passed us at a brisk pace. There was no one walking within earshot but a few pedestrians could be seen on both sides of the street. I took comfort from my observation that we weren’t alone.

“Where’s their real mommy?” I said.

“She’s dead,” De Vroom said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh my God,” I said under my breath, without even thinking, horrified by my presumptuousness and stupidity. “I’m so sorry, Detective.”

“The name is Erik.”

I’d just assumed he was divorced. He was an attractive man with an incredibly stressful job. He and his twin girls were a magnet for the bevy of Dutch beauties at the cupcake place. If he’d been married before but wasn’t married anymore, he had to be divorced. He was too young to be a widower.

Except he wasn’t. Anyone old enough to be married was old enough to have buried a spouse. No one knew than better than I did.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Eric.”

I wondered if she’d died from an illness, or an unfortunate accident of some kind.

De Vroom was a detective. He didn’t need me to ask the question to know what I was thinking.

“Malaysia Airlines flight seventeen,” he said.

I was even more stunned than when he’d told me his wife was dead. I’d mentioned the airplane tragedy at the police station to convince him I could help him gather intelligence about Iskra’s murder from Amsterdam’s Russian community. During our conversation, De Vroom had remained mute. I thought he’d stayed mum in the spirit of the negotiation we were conducting about the terms of my release from custody. It had never occurred to me that he’d suffered a personal loss in the tragedy.

“Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur,” he said, repeating the words I’d spoken to him. “One of those two-hundred and eighty-three passengers that the Russians killed was my wife. She was a vice president for an agricultural technology company on a business trip to Malaysia. She’d struck a deal with the country to advise them on stepping up their agricultural production. Vegetable seedlings—that was her specialty.”