Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Simeonovich,” Romanov said.

I waited for him to say more but he didn’t.

“What about him?” I said.

“It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“Obviously not to me. According to you, I’m infatuated with him.”

“You admit it.”

“I said ‘according to you.”’

“But you didn’t fool either of us,” Romanov said. “Has it occurred to you that Simeonovich could be responsible for the attack on you today?”

I stared at Romanov for a moment, then looked away. I didn’t want to insult the man who’d saved me by informing him that was the dumbest suggestion I’d heard in a long time.

“No, no,” Romanov said. “I’m not suggesting he had a hand in it. Good God, no. I’m sure he has all the respect in the world for you. No, I mean has it ever occurred to you that these men attacked you because of something Simeonovich wants?”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, but my voice trailed off as I followed Romanov’s logic.

Someone had sent Russian thugs to get me out of Amsterdam, I thought. If that person was actually trying to impede Simmy’s agenda, that meant he would gain by my departure. The only agenda Simmy and I shared in Amsterdam was Iskra’s murder. This suggested that the person behind the attack on me would benefit from Iskra’s murder not being solved. That in turn implied that solving Iskra’s murder would somehow help Simmy above and beyond doing a favor for an old friend.

“Maybe, “Romanov said, “for reasons beyond our comprehension, Simeonovich’s future depends on the resolution of Iskra’s murder. He’s under political pressure, yes? Maybe my daughter’s death and his future are connected.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

Romanov shrugged. “You’re probably right. Note that I said ‘probably.”’

“So noted,” I said.

Romanov motioned through the window for his driver to return.

“If anyone can find out the truth for certain,” Romanov said, “I’m sure it’s you.”

Simmy met me at the Art’otel’s swanky contemporary bar. Plush velvet chairs and sofas were arranged in secluded areas for maximum privacy. Dim lighting and a haunting tune from a Scandinavian female duet added to the seductive setting.

We ordered our drinks. Simmy made a predictable choice, opting for a single malt scotch that reeked of exclusivity and masculinity. I ordered a beer, a Heineken, to be specific. I hadn’t had one in ages due to my fear of carbohydrates and love of the taste.

Simmy cast an equally predictable look of disapproval at me after the waiter left with our orders.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “A woman should never drink beer. It’s not ladylike.”

“It most certainly is not,” Simmy said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not provocative. When a woman participates in a masculine activity, it can be… how shall I put it?”

“Sexy?” I said.

Simmy gave me the slightest shrug in agreement.

“And drinking beer is a masculine activity?” I said.

“The laborers who built the Egyptian pyramids drank beer at the end of the day. Those laborers were not women.”

“So doing as the Egyptian laborer did when he built the pyramids makes me look sexy. Okay. Then explain that look you gave me when I ordered my beer.”

“Heineken?” he said. “Nadia Tesla drinking the most popular beer in the world? Where’s the iconoclast? Where’s the originality? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m blending in. Doing what the locals do, you know?”

“You’ll never blend in,” Simmy said. “You’re too intense. Have you had a chance to examine the matryoshka ?”

The Russian nesting doll had never been far from my mind since he’d given it to me, until today. It had been lurking, right behind whatever was consuming me at any given moment, holding the promise of future revelations and excitement with my favorite client. But once I’d been lifted off the street and my clothes had been removed and I’d been politely told to get the hell out of town, I’d forgotten all about it.

“It’s incredibly beautiful, Simmy,” I said. “The workmanship… the design… and the painting…”

“Meaning I’ve gotten the better of you so far, and you’ve discovered none of the meaning I told you they hold.” A look of delight spread on his face as though I’d made his day.

“You seem pleased about that,” I said.

“Do I? A friend of mine recently introduced me to this new concept called delayed gratification. Any time I get to practice it, I feel as though I’m evolving.”

I shifted in my seat. “A friend, huh? I thought you didn’t have any friends.”

“I didn’t. Now, I’m not so sure. New horizons, as we discussed last time, you know?”

“You’re full of surprises,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Keep studying the matryoshka ,” Simmy said. “Individually, and collectively. Break it apart so you can see each doll. Weigh their individual consciences. Each doll has its own personality. To understand the Russian nesting doll is to the key to understanding a Russian man, which is the key to understanding life.”

“Ha.” I suppressed a belly laugh. “The key to understanding life?”

Simmy remained stoic. “That is correct.”

“Okay, then, boss, I’ll get right on that,” I said. De Vroom’s assertion that he was certain a Russian man had killed Iskra echoed in my ears. “I do want to understand the Russian man. Speaking of which, have you made any progress on the political front?”

Simmy played with his glass. “He hasn’t returned my call yet. Not that this is entirely unusual. He’s been traveling throughout Europe on diplomatic matters so obviously he’s busy.”

Simmy looked around as though making sure no one had crept up within earshot.

“You always do that,” I said.

“What do I do?”

“Get paranoid when you’re talking about Putler, even when we’re in Amsterdam, or New York City, for that matter.”

Simmy repeated the exercise. I got the sense that this was an instinct that he couldn’t control.

“It pays to be paranoid,” he said. “Perhaps I’m wrong about the reason he hasn’t returned my call. Perhaps I should be concerned there might be poison in my food.”

“As in, tonight?” I said.

“As in every night.”

I waited for him to crack a smile or give me some sign he was joking but he simply sat there looking serious. As the pause in our conversation lengthened, my expression must have betrayed my concern.

Finally, he chuckled. “Relax, I’m kidding. Like I said, this isn’t unusual. I’m sure we’ll talk soon. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he summoned me for a face-to-face in Europe any day.” Then he turned philosophical. “But if it ever got to that point, poison would be the primary concern.”

“You’re serious now.”

“It was the Soviet way and the current ways are anchored in the Soviet ways. In 2006, a politician by the name of Anatoly Sobchak was killed in Russia when he breathed in a poison that had been sprayed onto a light bulb. He turned the lights on, the electricity heated the bulb and vaporized the poison. Later in 2006, an FSB whistle-blower named Alexander Litvinenko was poisoned in London. The assassin put polonium in his teapot. That was a stupid move because polonium is radioactive, so the police were able to trace it and find the assassin’s name. He later became a member of Russian parliament, by the way. And back in 1959, there was the murder of the famous Ukrainian politician, Stepan Bandera. Death by cyanide poisoning. Delivered by a poison atomizer mist gun. Basically, the assassin sprayed cyanide in Bandera’s face, and got the hell out of there before he breathed some himself.”