Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

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.

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?”

“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.