Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“You’re saying you’ll let me go if I release this filth?”

“That is what I’m saying,” Simmy said. “And my word is good.”

“Your boys will shoot me as soon as I take the knife away from her throat.”

“No they will not.”

“What assurances can you possibly give me? And spare me the lies about your word being good.”

“It’s quite simple. You’re going to take the knife away from her throat and put it against mine.”

I stared at Simmy in disbelief.

So did Romanov.

“You heard me,” Simmy said. “I’m going to trade you. My life, for her life.” He raised his hands in the air, placed his gun on the ground and stepped forward.

“Get back,” Romanov said.

Sarah Dumont swept Romanov’s feet from under him. It was a swift, practiced, and shocking move.

Romanov fell. His right hand continued gripping the knife. His left hand remained wrapped around Sarah Dumont’s neck. He pulled her atop him as he tumbled.

Simmy didn’t waste a second. Even before Romanov’s body hit the floor, he recovered his gun, aimed and fired.

Blood and brain matter flew from Romanov’s head. The knife fell from his grip.

Simmy rushed forward and lifted Sarah Dumont from atop him. She fell into his arms and embraced him as though she’d known him her entire life.

After we all regained our composure, I told Simmy I was calling the cops.

He said he wouldn’t have it any other way.

We waited for the police and an ambulance to arrive. Sarah Dumont sustained minor injuries. She thanked us both before she was taken to the hospital. She wasn’t any more sentimental than she’d been before, but I could tell her appreciation was heartfelt. I used to think that the eyes never lied, but Sasha and Romanov had proven that theory wrong. In Sarah Dumont’s case, however, her eyes spoke the truth when she channeled gratitude Simmy’s and my way.

The cops took us to the police station and we gave our statements. We stayed there deep into the night, repeating our stories over and over again. I gave them De Vroom’s number and told them to call their counterpart in Amsterdam to learn about Iskra’s murder and share news of its resolution. I also told them to tell De Vroom that Sarah Dumont had born witness to Romanov’s confession to his own daughter’s murder.

Eventually, De Vroom asked to speak with me.

“I told you the killer was a Russian,” he said.

“When you busted in on Romanov and me in Iskra’s apartment,” I said, “you knew we were there because you were following him. He was a suspect, wasn’t he?”

“Everyone who knew her was a suspect. We knew she was scared of someone, probably someone close to her.”

“Why did you warn me that my investigation could be dangerous? It happened after you ran the license plate and found the SUV was registered to Sarah Dumont.”

“Yeah,” De Vroom said. “I checked with Bruges police. They said she had connections.”

“What kind of connections?”

“They didn’t give me details. They just said she had juice. I pressed them but they refused to talk about it. Just told me to tread very, very carefully. So I did. And suggested you do the same. Lucky for us you didn’t.”

Throughout the night, I saw Simmy on his mobile phone time and again. With each successive call, his expression grew less tense, his carriage became more settled. When the cops finally released us, he looked like the man I’d grown fond of over a year ago, a gentleman and a scoundrel, simultaneously contented yet in search of his next quest.

The cops kept the gray Mercedes as evidence in the case. They let us take the black one. As the bodyguards walked over to the parking lot to retrieve it, Simmy and I waited by the station door.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were attacked?” he said. “When was this? Where was this? Exactly what did the men look like?”

“Forget it. It was part of the job. They didn’t hurt me. They just threatened me. If I can’t take care of myself under duress, I shouldn’t be taking these kind of cases.”

“You should have told me.”

I didn’t answer him.

“You should have told me just as I should have told you I was having Iskra Romanova’s office watched when you arrived.”

“Okay,” I said. “In the future, we’ll be more open with each other. How’s that?”

After a purse of the lips, his expression softened as though that had appeased him. “You exceeded all expectations,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“That may be true but you can certainly try,” I said.

His lips curled up a bit, which was another good sign he’d regained his emotional equilibrium.

“The important thing is that Sarah Dumont is safe and it’s all over,” I said.

“You solved the murder, but it’s not quite over for us,” Simmy said. “I need you to do one more little thing for me. It is the simplest, smallest favor a man could ask for.”

I started to ask him what exactly he wanted me to do but the car arrived and one of the bodyguard got out to open the door. As we slipped into the backseats, I realized this assignment wasn’t over from my perspective, either. I wanted to understand why Simmy had been willing to sacrifice himself for Sarah Dumont. I wanted to understand their connection and what it was about this case that I’d been missing from the beginning.

“When we get to Amsterdam, we’ll pick up your things at the hotel and head straight for the airport,” Simmy said.

“We will?” I said.

Simmy didn’t answer. Instead he looked thoughtfully out the window.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“We’re taking you home, of course, and making one quick stop along the way.”

“And I presume this stop is where you need me to do you this simplest, smallest favor a man could ask for.”

Simmy bowed his head in affirmation. “And even though it’s the simplest favor imaginable, I’m throwing in a special bonus if you help me. It’s something you desire at the current moment more than anything imaginable.”

“You’re telling me what I desire? This is some serious role reversal, Simmy. What is it?”

“Thai food. I’m having Amsterdam’s best—from the Thai House—delivered to my plane.”

My mouth watered.

“You know me too well,” I said.

We drove from Bruges to Amsterdam, slogged our way through the morning rush hour, and got back to my hotel mid-morning. I dozed in the car to some hypnotic classical music by the Russian composer, Dmitri Shostakovich.

When I woke up, Simmy told me a story that the famous Borodin String Quartet once went to the composer’s house to play his String Quarter No. 8 to get some criticism. Shostakovich had written the symphony after being diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig disease. The quartet’s performance evoked the composer’s inspiration so beautifully that he sat through the performance weeping with his head in his hands. When they were finished, the musicians took their instruments and snuck out of his home without saying or hearing a word.

After I packed and checked out, we drove to the airport and took off on Simmy’s Lineage 1000E. It was a penthouse in the sky with five cabin zones, each opulently appointed with furnishing and electronics. My favorite was the master suite, complete with bathroom ensuite and walk-in shower, which Simmy let me use in complete privacy. When I finished dressing and emerged, a Thai feast was waiting for me in the dining room.

Two sultry Russian cabin attendants served us tom yam soup, pad thai, king prawns in coconut curry and lemon leaves, and duck with ginger and black mushrooms. Simmy and I were both famished so we ate in silence. I told myself to enjoy the food and contain my curiosity about this favor he wanted me to do for him, and his connection to Sarah Dumont. It was, in fact, the latter that fascinated me the most. My instincts told me to be careful. This was the kind of revelation best made voluntarily, though a good investigator could always coax a subject into revealing what she wanted to learn.