Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Putler Arrives in Berlin for Economic Summit,” the caption read. And in the bottom of the right corner of the screen, an additional word in italics informed the viewing public: “ LIVE .”

I glanced back to Simmy. While his bodyguard cleared the way for him, a random customer beside me addressed one of the bartenders with a booming request for a black and tan. His mellifluous baritone drew my attention. When I looked over, an unremarkable bald man rose from his seat beside the man with the baritone.

The balding man left the bar and brushed by Simmy.

A mist formed in the air.

Simmy froze. His entire face seemed to seize up.

Our eyes met.

I saw only horror.

He fell to the ground.

The bodyguards fell with him.

I remembered what Simmy had told me, that when bodyguards fall it means the man they’re guarding has been assassinated, and that they too, have been poisoned.

My heart urged me to rush forward, but my survival skills prevailed. I counted three more suits on the floor. Instead of moving forward toward the man whose ring I was wearing, I retreated. My feet felt like cinderblocks, the floor like quicksand. But what I was learning now was that sometimes your only salvation is to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, place one foot backward, drag the other one to it, and repeat.

In the background, a man continued delivering an impassioned speech on the television.

He was the man who’d expressed his gratitude in person for saving his daughter’s life by giving me a business card that granted me one special favor.

If only I had used it. It had never occurred to me that by granting me one favor, Putler had given me a chance to save Simmy’s life.

I escaped the bar, stepped outside the hotel, and dialed the number Putler had given me. No one picked up for obvious reasons. So I walked around the hotel and kept dialing continuously. Sirens sounded and brakes screeched in the background. I don’t know how many loops I made or how much time passed, but eventually someone finally picked up my call. I froze in place on the sidewalk, but there was no sound on the other end of the line. An awkward pause followed, and I feared I was so distraught that I’d been misdialing the entire time.

And then I heard his voice on the other end of the line.

“If you’re calling me to ask for the resurrection of your fiancé,” Putler said, “I haven’t acquired that skill yet. But my scientists are working on it. They tell me they’re getting close.”

“What a fool believes,” I said.

He paused and sighed with great delight. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

I took a breath to compose myself. “You do still owe me a favor, though, don’t you?”

“I’m a man of my word. Just understand that drinking from the cooling pond in Chernobyl and that sort of thing doesn’t qualify. It has to be a reasonable request.”

I couldn’t believe he’d mentioned Chornobyl. It simply couldn’t be a coincidence. Somehow, Valery Putler— the President of Russia —knew that I’d snuck in there illegally two years ago.

“It’s agreed then,” I said. “We’ll speak again.”

“I look forward to it, my snow leopard.”

He ended the call.

I thought of the matryoshka .

It contained seven dolls. Simmy had told me that I needed to know all seven dolls to understand a Russian man.

Now I understood the one who’d outsmarted me.

He was a powerful statesman, an avid sportsman, and a devoted father. He was also an insecure boy, a thug, a liar, and a murderer.

He was whichever of these men he needed to be to meet his objective.

He was all the other men, too.

The Boy from Reactor 4

The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark

The Altar Girl

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2017 © Orest Stelmach

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

www.oreststelmach.com

ISBN-13: 978-0997253-0-6

Cover design by David Drummond