Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“To most Americans, that would sound like the stuff of fiction,” I said.

“Well, we Russians know better. There’s actually a rumor that someone tried to kill Putler that way.”

“Really?” I said. “When?”

“Within the last six months. They say that’s why he’s become so cautious, rarely appearing in public. That may be one of the reasons I haven’t heard from him. Who knows? Supposedly it was an old-school coup attempt by an assassin unknown using the old-school poison mist gun they used to kill Bandera. The rumor is Putler is so sharp, so focused, and so suspicious that he saw it happening. And he’s so physically fit, so quick for his age, he darted out of harm’s way. His secretary wasn’t so lucky. She died almost instantly. But not instantly, you know? There was just enough lag for her to realize what was happening to her before she went.”

Simmy shook his head, looking genuinely horrified.

“That’s terrible,” I said, picturing the woman struggling for her last breath.

“It’s common knowledge in our circles in Russia. When you see a suspicious death, if there’s a bodyguard or secretary lying on the ground, too, you can bet it was poison.”

“No wonder Putler’s so careful,” I said. “No wonder he’s the man he is.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How am I wrong? You yourself just said he’s paranoid—”

“Putler’s not a man,” Simmy said.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s not a single man. He’s whatever he needs to be to get what he wants. He’s not one man, he’s not two men. He’s a collection of personalities, any of which he can use to pursue his personal agenda. He’s a statesman, a sportsman, a father, a liar and a thug, but above all else, at the very core of the man is an insecure boy.”

I thought of my father, brother and deceased husband.

“I’ve known a few of those,” I said.

“He was born in Leningrad–now St. Petersburg –after the siege of World War II. The city was in ruins. He grew up in poverty and hopelessness, in the courtyards surrounding the apartment buildings, where drinking, smoking and fistfights were the norm. He was short and skinny but he never backed down in a fight, and even though he was the runt of the litter he was the enforcer among his group of friends. He had a vicious temper but what made him so effective as a leader among children, what made him so dangerous, was that he could control it.

“He was the type of kid who would see a friend getting abused, walk over, help break it up, and smooth things over. Then, after a few hours passed and all seemed to be forgotten, he’d come back, find the thug that beat his friend, and hurt him. He was calculating that way. He would wait until the field was tilted in his favor before he got his vengeance.

“When Valery joined the KGB after university it was overstaffed and the Soviet Union was falling apart. He ended up stationed in Berlin cutting newspaper articles and filing useless reports. But he stayed true to himself. He controlled his temper and he didn’t make enemies. And he let his greatest attribute of all get him promoted.”

“Which was?”

“He didn’t offend anyone. He didn’t intimidate anyone. He appeared accessible, average, and totally malleable. He was polite. He remembered the birthday of the wives of men senior to him. If a man fell out of favor, and he was a friend, Putler didn’t abandon him. He didn’t shun him like a disease the way most KGB officers did. At least not right away. That’s why his predecessor’s inner circle chose him to be Prime Minister. To people in the field, Putler seemed average, but to the leaders of the country he appeared amazing. He had redeeming qualities they didn’t see in themselves. He even looked different. He was fit and wore stylish European suits. He wasn’t fat and bloated like most Russian politicians.”

“And now the west considers him the embodiment of evil,” I said.

“The west sees Valery as the embodiment of evil because that’s exactly how he wants the west to see him.”

“And he wants to be perceived as the root of all evil in the west because…”

“Because it makes him the most popular man in Russia. It’s the world against Russia. Russia against the world. Russians crave a return to their former imperialist ways because it gives them a source of joy. It gives them something to believe in. Valery embodies that hope.”

“But they need something to believe in because he runs a repressive regime,” I said. “There’s no political, economic, or personal freedom.”

“But in his mind, if it weren’t him, some other man would be doing the exact same thing. He knows no other form of government. And to him and his ilk, America and the west are hypocrisies. You have social problems. Inequality of income, persecuted minorities. Your system of governing creates far from perfect results.”

“We elect our senators and representatives, our governors and our mayors. Our president doesn’t appoint them to suit his needs. I’ll stick with our system of government, thank you very much. There’s a reason Russian oligarchs park most of their money in London, isn’t there?”

He shrugged. I detected uncertainty beneath his bravado. It was intangible and might have been invisible to anyone who hadn’t spent a certain amount of time with him. But it was there, in his heart and soul. I could feel it.

I thought of Romanov and his thesis yet again, and wondered if this insecurity and his quest to find Iskra’s murderer could be related.

“Simmy,” I said, after we sipped our drinks, “you hired me to look into Iskra’s death because Maria Romanova is a close friend of yours.”

“Was a close friend. Is an old friend. Semantics, yes?”

“How did that come about? Did you learn of Iskra’s death and contact Maria, or did she call asking for help?”

Simmy looked confused.

“Humor me,” I said. “There’s a reason I’m asking.”

“I heard about it through normal channels. The expat community is a small one, where my social circle is concerned. Then I called Maria and spoke to her—and George—and offered to help.”

“Offered?”

“Yes,” Simmy said. “Good point. George wasn’t too keen on getting any assistance from me but I insisted anyways.”

“And this is the only reason you hired me?”

Simmy frowned. “I don’t understand. What other possible reason could there be?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Where is this coming from? Why are you asking me this question?”

“The odds are high that a Russian national killed Iskra. I’m just trying—”

“Why do you say this?” Simmy said. “Do you know something? Do you have new information?”

“Call it instinct,” I said, “based on some new interviews I had today.”

“With whom did you have these interviews?”

I motioned with my hands for him to calm down. “Let me do my job. When I have tangible news, you’ll be the first person I call. But it’s important that I know you’re being completely honest with me.”

Simmy sat back in his chair and reflected on my question for a brief moment.

“I hired you as a favor for an old friend. Beyond that, if I’m keeping anything secret from you,” he said, his voice back to the soft and supple one with which he’d started the evening, “the matryoshka will inform you.”

When I got back to the hotel, I changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and snagged a Diet Coke from the minibar, except they don’t call it Diet Coke in most of Europe. They call it Coca-Coca Light because most Europeans have never heard of a “diet” food. And yet America is the one with the obesity problem. Is there any doubt the two are related?