Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“That’s nice.”

“As a matter-of-fact he called yesterday,” Maria said. “Said he was going away for a couple of nights to take his mind off things. Who can blame him? The poor boy, he loved Iskra so much. He called because he wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. He’s hopeless, that Sasha, but he’s a good soul.”

She took a quick sip of tea.

“I’ve taken enough of your time. I should be going,” she said, and reached into her bag for her wallet

“No, no,” I said. “Please. It’s my pleasure.”

Maria thanked me and stood up. “I just wanted you to see this picture.” She took her folio but instead of putting the frame back inside, she slid it toward me. “You should keep it. I think it’s important… it’s important that you keep it.”

She spoke slowly, emphatically but most noteworthy was the magnitude of pain in her expression. I slid the picture toward myself, inspired by the resurrection of the possibility that it held a clue regarding Iskra’s murder, as did the inconsolable look in Maria’s face. She really had needed to tell me something, I realized, and she was doing so now.

My eyes fell on the young man in the photo once again.

“Where did you say Sasha was going?” I said.

Her eyes widened for no more than a split second, but it was enough to let me know that I was asking the right question.

“Bruges,” she said.

When the word escaped her lips, she closed her eyes and took a barely audible breath, the kind that sounded like relief.

She turned and left, but by then my mind was focused on Sasha’s choice of vacation destinations and his image in the picture. I studied him repeatedly. Then I looked at the Romanov family individually, and returned my attention to Sasha.

Then the truth hit me. The clue was right there in front of me all along from the moment Maria Romanova had handed me the picture, but I’d been preoccupied by the faces to see what really mattered.

I whipped out my cell phone and found Simmy’s private number. My means of stabilizing my mobile communications device echoed my discovery in the photograph.

It was all in the wrist.

Simmy picked up on the third ring.

“I need your help and I need it now,” I said.

He didn’t answer right away and I knew why. I hadn’t started the conversation by trying to be clever. I was purposefully blunt and direct. Based on our experiences in Siberia tracking my cousin, I knew he’d read me correctly.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I need to get to Bruges now. I need someone serious to go with me. I’m not one hundred percent sure but I think it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Whose life and death?”

“The girl. Iskra’s lover. Sarah Dumont.”

This time there was a slightly longer pause.

“I’ll drive you myself,” he said. “No bodyguards. Just you and me. We’ll be less conspicuous.”

I’d never seen Simmy drive a car let alone travel without his bodyguards. “You know how to drive a car?”

He sighed. “I’ve driven in the 24 Hour Le Mans three times under a different name. In case you don’t know, that’s the most prestigious endurance race in the world.”

“That’s incredible… Wait, why under a different name?”

“To hide the results… Because I’m no good at it and I don’t want my weaknesses to give confidence to my adversaries… To protect my business and my ego… To serve my vanity as in all matters.”

His confession was so obviously real and true, no further words were needed.

“Where am I picking you up?” he said.

“At my hotel,” I said. “And I have another request, Simmy. But I’m hesitant because I don’t want to offend you.”

“When you put it like that, there’s not much chance I’ll say no, is there?”

“Bring the bodyguards,” I said, and hung up.

I wanted the bodyguards to accompany us because I could smell his testosterone over the phone. There was no reason to worry about being conspicuous. We were going to one and only one house and it was secluded. And I didn’t need Simmy to be my hero. I wanted us to survive the trip.

Afterwards, I called Sarah Dumont. She answered on the second ring. I identified myself and she sounded understandably surprised to hear from me.

We exchanged hellos.

“I don’t want to alarm you.” I said, “but I think the person who killed Iskra is coming to Bruges.”

“You know who killed her?” she said.

“Not for certain. But I think I do.”

She chuckled like a supervisor criticizing an overly confident subordinate. “You think you do?”

“Thinking usually precedes certainty. Yes, I think I do, and when I have this kind of conviction, I’m usually right. If I’m right, the killer is a very resourceful and dangerous person.”

“And you think the killer’s coming here? For what reason?”

I stayed quiet, knowing she’d answer her own question.

“To kill me, too?”

I remained mute.

“No one would dare try to kill me,” she said.

Sarah Dumont had seemed a bit entitled and aloof when I’d met her, but never this arrogant or delusional.

“Why wouldn’t anyone dare to kill you?” I said.

“Because… because I have the best security service in Amsterdam.” She sounded as though she’d searched for a convenient answer and found one at the last second.

“Are your men there now?” I said.

“Of course they’re here. If they weren’t here, they wouldn’t be the best service in Amsterdam, would they?”

“How many are there? Is it just the two men at the gate? Or is there a third one?”

She chuckled again. “Talking to you is like talking to my mirror. You’re a bit of a control freak, aren’t you? Now, are you going to answer my question or should I just hang up?”

I backtracked, remembered her question, and told her why I thought Iskra’s killer was going to try to kill her. In doing so, I identified the killer.

She didn’t chuckle this time. “You cannot be serious.”

“If talking to me is like talking to a mirror, do I even need to answer that?”

She considered my comment. “And you think he’s coming here today?”

“He may already be there. I think you should consider calling the police—”

“No police.”

Her firmness suggested she had other reasons she didn’t want the police involved. I wondered what they were.

“I won’t be intimidated on my own property,” she said. “I worked too hard for it. My father worked too hard for it. I have my security guards. There’s two of them. They’re trained. Highly trained. I’ll tell them what you told me.”

I told her I was on my way to Bruges and that I’d call when I got there. In the meantime, I asked her to call me if any visitors arrived, even if they were people she knew. She ended the call without promising to do so.

Simmy and his bodyguards met me in front of my hotel an hour later at 11:30 A.M. They came in two Mercedes Benz vehicles. One was the conservative-looking black sedan that I’d found waiting for me outside of jail. The other was a steroid-injected beast in gunmetal gray. The wheels filled their wells, the front bumper looked ravenous, and steam poured from four tail pipes in the rear.

Simmy arrived driving the latter.

“And you wanted to be less conspicuous?” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Simmy said. “This is a masquerade. A sports car disguised as a sedan. If I wasn’t behind the wheel, you wouldn’t have looked twice at this car.”