The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

by Orest Stelmach

  I pictured Sasha unleashing his full verbal fury after a decade of unrequited love. Was that enough to propel Iskra into a state of perpetual fear? I didn’t think so. “Sasha is Sasha,” her father had said. That implied there had always been a certain immaturity to him, one that Iskra had undoubtedly seen and managed. Based on the Rosta-Russian man-boy I’d met, I didn’t see him inspiring fear any more than I saw him bringing a stud-finder to a meticulously planned crucifixion of the girl he’d loved his entire life.

  “Did she ever ask for your help outside of work?” I said.

  The Turk shook his head. “I walked her home after she turned off her lights. That’s it. Nothing else. If she had asked for more help, I would have given it to her. But she never did.”

  “When did this all start? When was the first night she asked you to walk her home?”

  “Two weeks before she died.”

  That jibed with the general time frame of when Sasha had discovered Iskra was moonlighting as a sex worker and seeing a woman.

  “Did you know that one of her clients was a woman?”

  “Of course I knew. I know everything that happens in the rooms that belong to the women I protect.”

  “Did Iskra ever talk about that woman?”

  “Never. And I didn’t ask her, either. That would have been against my professional code of conduct. The relationship between a woman and her client is a sacred thing. It’s business.”

  On that note, I opened my wallet and gave the Turk a hundred euro. Given we’d talked for less than fifteen minutes, it was an overly generous hourly rate. He didn’t complain or haggle one bit. Instead, he slid the bills gently into his wallet, walked over to the door leading to the streets, and opened it.

  “Was I right about why you’re here?” he said.

  I looked him in the eye but didn’t say a word.

  He nodded with approval.

  “One other thing,” I said. “Did she give you a key to her apartment?”

  The Turk dismissed the idea with an immediate frown. “Why would she give me a key? We were not friends.”

  In fact, it didn’t matter if she’d given him a key or not. The knew each other. Theoretically, he could have entered her apartment by knocking on the door. But I wanted to see the look on his face when I asked the question. He was clearly more intelligent than I’d assumed and he would have surely realized why I was asking. But he didn’t appear concerned that I might consider him a suspect at all.

  I walked back to my hotel frustrated yet energized. Sasha had told me that Iskra had said that the Turk was obsessed with her. That was a lie, but I couldn’t be certain if it was Sasha or Iskra had fabricated a story. My money was on Iskra. I suspected that one of her clients really was obsessed with her but that she didn’t want Sasha confronting him. By lying, Iskra was protecting her childhood friend from someone she considered powerful and dangerous.

  She had been scared, mortally so. She’d been afraid to return to her home alone at night. Surely the person whom she was afraid of was this person who was obsessed with her, the one who eventually killed her.

  I had an eerie feeling that I was close to the killer and that the most significant piece of information was already in my possession. This suspicion was based on an intuition similar to the one I’d experienced during dozens of corporate investigations. I’d seen all the necessary data points. I simply hadn’t visualized them in the proper order yet, which was to say I hadn’t spotted the definitive lie among them.

  Food was on my mind when I stepped into the hotel lobby. A woman at the front desk called me by name before I could get by.

  “There’s a gentleman waiting to see you,” she said, with a big smile.

  Alarm bells sounded in my head. It could only be De Vroom, I thought. He must have found out I hadn’t followed his orders and was still looking into Iskra’s death.

  “Where is this gentleman?” I said.

  Two other female hotel employees appeared out of nowhere and stood eyeing me and beaming beside her. I felt like the winner of a pageant I’d never entered.

  “In the bar,” she said, and motioned toward the glass stairs to my right.

  I passed a reading room and entered the restaurant on the left side of a corridor. The bar was positioned on the opposite side of the dining room, behind the kitchen. I took a deep breath and entered the lounge. I expected to see De Vroom sitting on a stool nursing a whiskey, looking like the model in a photo shoot for some beverage aficionado’s magazine.

  Instead I found Simmy Simeonovich sitting at a table for two. An outrageous bouquet of tulips rested on one side of the small circular table in front of him. Beside it stood a tantalizing box wrapped in glossy red and white paper with a matching bow. He rose to his feet as soon as he saw me, and the cumulative effect of his appearance and the loot on the table was to render me speechless.

  “Good evening, Nadia.”

  He delivered his greeting with a gentle enunciation and a slight bow, like the man I thought I’d befriended two years ago, not like the oligarch who’d chastised me when I’d been released from jail.

  “What’s in the box?” I said.

  “The box?” He glanced at the table. “Oh, that. Forget about that. That’s for later.”

  I was intrigued but reluctant to let him know how happy I was to see him, especially bearing gifts. Hence, I ignored the tulips and put my hand on my hip.

  “Why are you here, Simmy?”

  “To make amends,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “To make amends. To try to explain to you why I am the man I am and …” He pursed his lips as though asking me to save him from the embarrassment of having to display any more humility.

  “And?” I said.

  Even the Simmy I’d known prior to Amsterdam would have bristled at my refusal to cut him any slack. This, however, was not the Simmy I knew. This was someone entirely different.

  He straightened his posture and arched his chin a bit. Cleared his throat like a man intent on making sure his words sounded real, true, and hit their mark.

  “And I’m here to apologize for my poor behavior, and to ask you to please forgive me.” He reached down, wrapped his hand around the bouquet and handed it to me.

  I took the flowers from him the way a robot would wash a windshield, mechanically, without any awareness of what I was doing. I knew my ears had not deceived me and that I had heard him correctly, but I didn’t believe a word of it. How could I? No man had ever spoken to me in such a heartfelt fashion, let alone one who’d made his vast fortune by eschewing humility and lived in a world where it was considered a weakness.

  “Will you have dinner with me?” he said. “Here? Tonight?”

  I nodded.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “I need to go upstairs and freshen up. Did you . . . did you want to come up and wait in my room?”

  He smiled and bowed again. “Thank you, but no. It would be more appropriate if I wait for you here.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said.

  I turned to leave but decided he deserved a reward for all that he’d said and done so far. I knew how to reward him because I knew it was my irreverent American ways that he enjoyed so much.

  “Can I ask you a question before I go?” I said.

  “Yes?”

  I donned my finest straight-man look and paused a beat for effect. Then I twisted an expression of great curiosity onto my face.

  “What’s in the box?” I said.

  Simmy smiled. “Knowledge.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The restaurant at the hotel was called 5&33 Flavors and it drew inspiration from a traditional Italian tasting plate. Simmy brought his fresh attitude, the mysterious box, and infinite possibilities to the table. I offered gamesmanship, wit, and a challenge for the man who had everything.

  But that wasn’t enough. No man had ever approached me to make amends over behavior he regretted. No co-workers or bosses, not my brothe
r, deceased father or husband. No, I thought. I would do more than be my finest self. I would try something novel this evening. I would try to channel grace and forgiveness, if he really meant what he said.

  My assessment of the prospects for the evening prompted me to make the obvious observation after we sat down at our table and received our menus from our waiter.

  “Where are your bodyguards?” I said.

  “Where they’re supposed to be,” Simmy said, without taking his eyes off the menu. “Where they can see you but you cannot see them.”

  I scanned the dining room. Twenty tables filled a narrow rectangular space. Solitary men occupied three of the tables. Waitresses with golden hair and tossed-back shoulders chatted up two of them. Various couples occupied six of the other tables. None of them resembled Simmy’s protectors. A rectangular fire pit provided a barrier between the dining room and a separate lounge area. I spied the bodyguards’ reflection in the stainless steel structure that housed the fire and savored the moment.

  Perhaps Simmy was right. Maybe I was in possession of some kind of investigative arsenal.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I can’t see them.”

  “Of course you can’t. That’s why they’re my bodyguards.”

  I knew he liked to study the menu and then ask me to order for him. But he also liked to peruse the wine list with an expert’s eye, and that selection he would make himself after I chose his entree. He liked to do this in silence, I knew, because the wine was the most important part of dinner for him, providing him far more pleasure than the food. I never intruded on his study of the wine list with small talk. I sensed that he appreciated my comfort with silence, and that it had been a key element of our instant chemistry.

  As soon as I knew what I was going to order for both of us, I set the menu aside to signal I was done. Simmy caught the waiter’s attention and motioned for him to come over. We’d followed this routine during our prior dinners, but it wasn’t until this evening that I realized how much I enjoyed this private dance. We are often unaware of our most sublime pleasures until faced with the prospect of their extinction.

  “The gentleman will start with the goat cheese ravioli with aubergine, pinenuts and basil,” I said to the waiter. “I’ll have the endive and beetroot salad—no parmesan, please. And we’ll have the grilled sea bass for entrees, the one that’s for two to share.”

  Simmy ordered a fabulous-sounding French Chablis and the waiter left.

  “Frankly,” Simmy said, “I’m disappointed.”

  I shook my head slowly in an exaggerated fashion. “I don’t think so.”

  He chuckled. “I love it. There is only one Nadia, isn’t there? I think I’m disappointed, but you know better.”

  “Of course I know better. That’s why you have me order in the first place.”

  “Please explain.”

  “You think you’re disappointed because I picked a fish that goes best with a light white wine. By selecting sea bass, I ruled out the chewy reds you love, and the juicy whites you crave, the Montrachets and Meursaults. Am I right?”

  He lifted his hand from his chin and twisted it open, palm-up. Obviously, he was saying.

  “But by foregoing the nectar of the gods, you’re practicing delayed gratification. Like me—I wanted the tagliolini with truffles but I won’t splurge until I solve this murder—you get to enjoy a nice meal but look forward to something even more special some day soon.”

  “Something even more special. That’s interesting.” Simmy lifted his eyebrows. “And we are both practicing this . . . what was it you called it?”

  “Delayed gratification.”

  “That’s a new concept to me. Russians are avid practitioners of instant gratification. In fact, it’s a national obsession. And since we’re both practicing this delayed gratification, we would enjoy this … this grand feast together, am I right?”

  “Theoretically,” I said. “I suppose it depends on what happens between now and then.”

  Simmy cleared his throat, placed his hands on the table and sat up straight. I reached for my water to hydrate and appear nonchalant. Simmy typically carried himself in a relaxed manner that was carefully cultivated to belie his true intensity. Now he looked stiff, formal and awkward, as though he had something serious to say.

  Even the water couldn’t wash away the bitter-sweet anticipation on the tip of my tongue.

  “Then in the spirit of turning the theoretically into the actual,” he said, “let me get down to the business at hand.”

  As I wondered what he was talking about, the extravagantly wrapped box of knowledge caught my eye on the ledge behind him.

  “What exactly is the business at hand?” I said.

  “Making amends.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Me … I …” He struggled to find the right words. “I must make amends to you for my poor behavior.”

  I sat there mute for longer than I should have. It was one of those moments comparable to finding a long-lost treasure in a long-forgotten hiding place based on sudden inspiration. It’s almost always a figment of one’s imagination. But this—this was really happening.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I said.

  “No, I most definitely was not. I shouldn’t have criticized you for pretending to be a window prostitute. I should have praised you for your ingenuity. I should have insisted you were fed that night I picked you up in jail. I should have told you from the start that my men were watching Iskra Romanova’s office and made you aware that this meant that they might end up watching you, too. Above all else, I should have put your good health and comfort above my own. I didn’t, and for that I humbly apologize.”

  I started to form a witty response. That was to be expected because repartee was the magnet that drew us toward each other. But then I remembered my pledge to be graceful and forgiving. Simmy was trying like no man had tried before. He deserved some respect and compassion. He deserved the sentiments I barely knew how to express.

  “You’re my client,” I said, “and you never need to apologize. But given the spirit of what you say, apology accepted.”

  He took a breath, not too deep but audible enough for me to know my words meant a lot to him.

  I considered changing the subject to save us both any further embarrassment. But that would have been weak, I decided. That would have been my strategy with my deceased husband, to always defer, to look for a way to appease his ego. Simmy had apologized. He had humbled himself. This was my opportunity to shine a flashlight into his eyes and see into his soul.

  I spoke as gently as I could, which was to say, I chose the flashlight with the dimmest possible light, albeit one whose brightness I could crank up on demand.

  “This was … this is not something I would have ever expected, Simmy. I’m just curious. If you don’t mind my asking … What brought this on?”

  “Not what,” he said. “Who.”

  I waited for him to answer his own question.

  He did so, but only after looking around to make sure no one was listening. Still, he whispered the answer. “My therapist.”

  I pulled my head back.

  “Actually, my acupuncturist. A young man from China, but he’s so spiritually evolved he might as well be my therapist.” He shrugged. “A man either evolves or falls victim to his afflictions. I choose the former.”

  “I couldn’t be more impressed,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere. “I had a boss who once said that seventy-percent of all businessmen in New York City were taking some sort of medication. And the ones who weren’t taking it were fools.”

  “It’s the same in Russia, except the medication is called vodka and its use isn’t limited to businessmen.”

  “When bribery is a way of life,” I said, “any person could be driven to drink.”

  I regretted the words as soon as they rolled off my lips. Not that I didn’t mean what I said—I just wished I’d managed to restrain myself and allow the feel-good to las
t a little longer. But that was probably unrealistic, I realized. Our moment of shared introspection was just that—a moment. A return to the verbal combat that defined us was inevitable.

  “I know you think all Russian businessmen are gangsters,” Simmy said, “but that is not the case. You can thank your free press and precious Hollywood for that misconception. I am a corporate raider. I bought my companies fair and square.”

  There was truth in everything he said. After serving his mandatory stint in the army, Simmy had earned his PhD in quantum physics at age twenty-five. He then traded metals on the Russian market to earn enough money to buy his first smelter. He slept near the factory furnace for the first six months to prevent thieves from ransacking his sole asset. He turned a profit, expanded into other commodities, diversified into industrials, and formed the Orel Group, his own conglomerate. At last count the Orel Group owned fifteen companies. Of those, two were Western European and eleven were American. All of them traded on public exchanges.

  “You’re putting words in my mouth,” I said. “I never implied you were a gangster. I just think there’s a criminal aspect to how business is conducted in Russia because bribes are commonplace and accepted. It’s hard to get the electricity to work without them, right?”

  Simmy looked away and shrugged, as though acknowledging a truth of which he wasn’t proud. “Thirty years ago we were a communist country. We’re not going to fix our thing overnight. It’s going to take time. Just like me. It’s going to take me time to change.”

  Once again Simmy’s words stunned me. Change came easily for billionaires, but usually in the form of increasingly extravagant living.

  “What exactly do you want to change about yourself?” I said. “Granted, I thought you may have been a bit harsh in your car when I got out of jail, but it’s not like you’re an unrepentant killer …” I laughed to try to make a joke of my words. “Are you?”

  My voice trailed off as I blurted out my question. I meant it figuratively, not literally, but given I was investigating a murder it certainly didn’t sound that way when the words left my mouth.