Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“What about your relationship with her? If her identity is such a secret, how is it you’ve known her almost her entire life?”

Simmy’s eyes danced all over the place, from me to his beer glass and to the widescreen television resting on a black lacquer bureau along one side of the plane. After giving me sufficient time to answer the question myself, they settled squarely on me again.

“Oh, my,” I said. “You really are the son the President never had.”

“First time I met her was right here in Amsterdam. She was seven years old. I was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and Valery asked me to deliver a gift to a friend and her daughter. He gave me a sealed envelope, a big and thick one, like an accordion file, and told me to give it to the mother. When I asked him who the mother and girl were he told me he would take it as a personal favor if I would treat them as though they were my family.”

“And you knew from that moment who they really were?”

“I didn’t know, but I suspected. I did some due diligence of my own. You know, just out of curiosity. Sarah’s mother was a Belgian born woman by the name of Stephanie Dumont. She was a dancer. When Valery was stationed in Berlin as a KGB agent in late nineteen eighties, she was performing in a revue at the Friedrichstadt Palace. He was married at the time, but I think he fell in love, for real.”

“Where is her mother now?”

“Portofino, Italy.”

“And the man she refers to as her father? The one who made all the money in construction?”

“Doesn’t exist. The mother, Stephanie Dumont, never married. It turned out she can fall in love with a man or a woman, but her preference is the latter. That’s why she was in Berlin in the first place. It was the world’s most friendly place for those kinds of people back then.”

“Those kinds of people?”

“You know what I mean.” Simmy blushed. “The gay people.”

“Did you ever find out what was in that file you gave Sarah and her mother?”

“I assume it had some form of currency in it. Cash, bearer bonds, something like that. This was in 1999. He’d just taken office for the first time and he didn’t know the banking system the way he does now.”

“Spoken like the prodigal son,” I said.

“Okay, he didn’t control the banking system the way he does now.”

“Spoken like a man searching for the truth.”

“I’m trying. I met Sarah and her mother half a dozen more times during the next three or four years. They had my number if they needed anything. And then a few years later, Valery told me he would no longer need my help in this matter.”

“Did he ever confirm Sarah was his daughter?”

“He did,” Simmy said.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night?” I remembered Simmy pacing, mobile phone pressed to his ear, looking increasingly more relaxed as the hours passed. “You talked to Putler last night? While we were at the police station?”

“Of course I talked to him. His daughter was attacked. He deserved to know immediately.”

I waited for Simmy to follow-up with the obvious, an admission of his personal reason for calling his mentor, who he feared had grown suspicious of his protégé’s political aspirations. But no such confession followed. So I decided to keep staring at him until it did.

“What can I say,” Simmy said. “You did me an enormous favor. You probably saved my business, and maybe even kept me out of jail.”

“He’s pleased?”

Simmy appeared incredulous. “Pleased? The man is overjoyed. I saved…” He cleared his throat. “We saved his daughter’s life. No matter what else he is or is not, there is no doubt that Valery is a devoted father.”

I remembered what George Romanov had told me, that Simmy had an ulterior motive for wanting to solve Iskra’s murder and bring her killer to justice.

“Simmy,” I said, and waited for him to give me his undivided attention.

He blinked casually and then froze. He knew me by now. He could tell by my curt tone and the intensity of my expression that I was perturbed by something, and that this something concerned him.

“What is it, love?”

He meant it in the British sense, I was sure. He lived in London and friends called each other “love” all the time, didn’t they? Still, his choice of words distracted me.

What was my problem again? Oh, yes. That.

“Did you know Iskra’s lover was Putler’s daughter from the beginning? Is this why you hired me to find Iskra’s killer in the first place?”

“Absolutely not.” He answered firmly, emphatically, and without hesitation. “Iskra’s mother is an old friend of mine, just like I said. We went to university together. Yes, we were more than friends for a few semesters but that was a long, long time ago. I was just as surprised that Sarah Dumont turned out to be the secret lover as you are to learn her father’s identity.”

“But once you got the license plate of that blue Porsche Macan,” I said, “you knew.”

“Yes. Then, I knew.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Simmy said.

“Who she was. Who her father was.”

“That would have been imprudent.”

“Meaning you were afraid that her father being the Russian President might affect my performance. That I might be a bit less enthusiastic.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“You didn’t trust my professionalism or my ethics. A person isn’t responsible for her father’s actions.”

Simmy glared at me. “Are we done?”

I pressed my lips together and returned his stare.

Simmy ate some duck, took a sip of beer and cleared his throat. “Sarah Dumont’s father’s true identity had no bearing on who killed Iskra Romanova. None whatsoever. Surely we can agree on that.”

“I needed to tread lightly around her for my own personal safety, given all her security and her father’s history of—how shall we put it—disposing of those who displease him?”

“Nonsense. I trusted your professionalism and your ethics completely.”

I played with the shrimp on my plate. “You’re my client. You don’t owe me anything other than clarity and fair pay. But it would have been nice if you’d trusted me just a little bit more.”

Simmy considered my comment for a moment and then gave me a quick, barely perceptible nod.

“Agreed. I’m trying to be a better man. I’ll do better next time.”

“Next time?” I said, peppering my voice with some moxie. “You mean you’re going to hire me again?”

“You’re soon going to discover that I’ve been withholding even more information from you.”

The mischief in his eyes suggested he was playing with me. And then I remembered the Russian nesting dolls and the key that I’d found. Amidst the attack on Sarah Dumont, Romanov’s death and our quick departure, I hadn’t dwelled on it. I’d pushed it aside as a pleasant mystery to contemplate once we reached London and my life normalized a bit.

“The matryoshka ,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve fully grasped all its knowledge yet.”

Simmy shrugged. “Obviously.”

“Why is that so obvious?”

“Because if you’d solved its mystery and absorbed all its knowledge, I would know with a simple glance at your face.”

“Really,” I said. “That’s a bold statement. Here’s how I see the situation. My sense is that by giving me the matryoshka , you’ve given me a key, metaphorically speaking, and it’s up to me to figure out what it opens. Does that sound right?”

I spied a twinkle in Simmy’s eyes. “Well, that’s an interesting way to put it. Perhaps you’ll make some headway in London.”

“Speaking of our arrival in London. You said you need a favor…”