Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

If I’d been focused, I might have realized the truth then, that solving Iskra’s murder was merely the beginning of my true assignment for Simmy, a prerequisite to achieving his real objective, which was linked to the Russian girl’s murder in the most extraordinary way. If I hadn’t been distracted by my attraction to him I might have deduced that finding Iskra’s killer would only put me and all I held dear in even greater danger. But I was distracted, by money and power and all that one of the richest men in the world could offer, as a client, friend, and in my most private fantasies, an even more intimate companion.

The bodyguards re-entered the car and the driver took off toward my hotel. I sat quietly beside Simmy. As the minutes passed, I shifted closer to the window away from him. Memo to oligarch: none of the American men I’d known through the years would insult a woman by telling her she was classless to her face. Rather than sulk, however, I reminded myself of a certain philosophy that had served me well since I’d learned it in PLAST, the Ukrainian girl scouts.

When injured or in pain, don’t whine. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Put one foot forward toward your destination, drag the other one ahead of it and repeat.

A murderer was walking the streets out there, perhaps still in Amsterdam. Some pretty boy had run away from me and impeded my investigation.

I was going to find him.

Breakfast came with the room at my hotel, and they offered a royal buffet and eggs to order. This morning I ignored the magnetic pull of the chocolate croissant basket, the aged cheeses, and the fresh squeezed juices, and settled for an egg white omelet and four slices of cucumber. I still had my mind set on Thai food and sea salt caramel, and I was determined to wait until at least a partial celebration was in order.

I left De Vroom three messages before noon for him to call me back. He didn’t. I was sure he’d traced the license plate by now. With each passing hour, I imagined the mystery lover slipping further from my grasp. He was no fool. He’d bolted as soon as he’d seen me in Iskra’s office. He’d kept his cool on the sidewalk and he’d had a car waiting for him at a designated spot. The car was the latest Porsche model, priced at over one hundred thousand euro. The mystery lover was either loaded or had access to the wealth of his family or friends. He’d sat in the back of the Macan even though the front passenger seat had been empty, suggesting he might have had a driver. If he were fearful of being discovered or had another motive to leave town, I suspected he had the means with which to disappear quickly and effectively. My fear was that he was already gone.

In the absence of progress on that front, I turned my attention to something within my control. Iskra Romanova had lived in an apartment in the sleek and sexy Jordaan area in West Amsterdam. The northern part of Jordaan boasted a quaint row of shops and restaurants along Haarlemmerstraat, less than a mile’s walk from my hotel. I called and asked Iskra’s father, George Romanov, to meet me for lunch. He sounded curt and reluctant on the phone, but he finally agreed.

The phrase “Stout!” was a Dutch term used in reference to people who were misbehaving or calling attention to themselves. In this case, it was also the name of a cute café in Jordaan favored by thirty-somethings, and one of the few establishments in Jordaan that was open for lunch. I thought the restaurant’s name was perfect for my agenda in a contrarian way, as I was intent on behaving properly and calling no attention to myself. I feared Iskra’s father was more likely to do the restaurant’s name justice, given his unfriendly vibe on the phone. I pictured the prototypical ruddy Russian who drank the savings his wife didn’t spend on clothes she should have never been seen wearing.

How wrong I was.

I took a table on the elevated floor in the back of the restaurant. I counted fifteen couples eating lunch, and when Romanov stepped inside, all eyes went to him. He looked like a Russian athlete who’d never stopped training or crying after being left off the Olympic team twenty-five years ago. His face was a slum crammed with lines, pits, and pock marks where shadows grew and tears collected. His green suede jacket gathered at the tiniest waist and looked like a cobra’s hood around his torso. Above the neck, he seemed destined for assisted living. Below the neck, he appeared competition-ready.

He barely looked at me when he muttered hello, and his expression could have frozen the melted wax beneath the candle at our table. I detected a mixture of grief and anger so palpable I felt at risk of being assaulted if I said the wrong thing.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, in Russian. “I’m only here because my wife insisted. I’m here for my daughter. She said you come highly recommended by that egomaniac-friend of hers. If it weren’t for my Iskra and how desperately I seek justice for her murder, I would never be seen talking with you.”

“Why is that, Mr. Romanov?” I said.

“Because you’re an American whore.”

His charm and subtlety caught me by surprise. I assumed we shared the same objective, which meant our relationship would be civil. Obviously that wasn’t going to be the case. I managed a big smile, in keeping with the theme of maintaining a contrarian disposition while dining in an establishment called Stout!

“I’m not sure what you mean when you say I’m a whore,” I said.

He shrugged as though I’d asked him to explain why borsch was red. “You’re the product of a decaying society with no morals. American women are so revolting, they are so willing to spread their legs for anyone with money that their own men come to Russia and Ukraine to look for wives, to find women with virtue and grace. Take you, for example. My wife told me you rented yourself out as a prostitute last night. What self-respecting woman would do such a thing under any circumstances? Only a woman for whom it comes naturally. In other words, only a whore. You, Miss Tesla, are the lowest form of life from the lowest society on this planet. You are an American whore.”

His words started a fire inside me, and the implication that Simmy had told his wife about my methods in De Wallen only served to stoke them. I let the flames subside for a few seconds. Then I licked my lips and gave him my own shrug.

“Well, I’m insulted, Mr. Romanov. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I don’t know of any other woman who would have posed as a prostitute in an Amsterdam window to find your daughter’s killer, and I’m certain I was the only American working De Wallen last night. So please don’t insult me by calling me an American whore. I’m not an American whore.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m the American whore.”

Romanov blinked several times as though not believing what he’d heard me say.

“I’m the American whore. I’m the one. I’m the one that’s going to find the bastard who drove screws through your daughter’s hands and feet. I’m the one that’s going to find out who snuffed out your little girl’s life by letting her bleed to death.” I bared my teeth. “So the next time you decide to call me names, get it right, my self-indulgent Russian friend.”

Romanov appeared ready to launch himself across the table. “How dare you…”

A petite waitress with hesitant eyes had walked up to our table without my realizing it. She asked if we wanted something to drink. The question snapped Romanov out of his rage. He settled back in his seat like a coronary patient who realized he shouldn’t let his blood pressure rise. He ordered coffee. I chose still water. When she asked us if we knew what we wanted to eat, Romanov glanced at the menu.