“I don’t understand.”
“The first thing I look for is a catalyst. If I’m investigating a change in a company’s fortunes, trying to figure out how it fell into dire straits, I start by finding the catalyst. The catalyst is usually some company, industry or economic event that changes the normal course of business. It might be something legitimate, like competition, or something criminal, like fraud.”
“And what was the catalyst for Iskra’s death?” Simmy said.
“Her affair with Sarah Dumont. Or, more precisely, her lesbian affair.”
“How did you know it wasn’t when she became a window girl?”
“Because Iskra had been working a window in De Wallen for months before she got so scared of someone she hired the Turk to walk her home at night. The timing of when she hired protection coincided with when Sasha saw Sarah Dumont coming out of her office disguised as a man. Sasha ambushed her in her own apartment, lost his cool, and told her she was a lesbian whore.”
“And this put the fear of God into her?”
“No. Sasha, as the Romanovs were fond of saying, ‘was Sasha.’ He couldn’t put the fear of God into a mouse. The only person who could put the fear of God into her was her father. It took only one lunch for me to see he was fueled by hate. And there was nothing and no one he hated more than a homosexual. Well, except maybe for an American…”
“But,” Simmy said, in a tortured voice, “she was his daughter.”
“Not in his eyes. Not once she had sexual relations with a woman. You know the statistics about Russian attitudes toward gays. And Romanov’s wife, Maria, reminded me of something very important regarding her husband.”
“What was that?”
“Once a Chekhist, always a Chekhist. And Chekhists think they’re above the law. In fact, not only do they think they’re above the law, they think they’re above everyone.”
Simmy had never been a Chekhist. He had no background in Russian politics or the secret police, but many of his competitors did, and the politicians who greased the gears of his corporate vehicle were lifetime Chekhists. No one more so than his buddy, Valery Putler.
“How did Romanov find out his daughter was having an affair with Sarah Dumont?” Simmy said.
“Sasha told him. He was his lap dog, the son he never had, though hardly the warrior-type he dreamed of. Sasha knew Romanov would be livid. He knew the father would punish the daughter. He wanted Iskra to be punished. Did he know Romanov was going to kill her ? It’s possible. Maybe Sasha loved her so much he fell into a blind rage. But my guess is not. Romanov probably lured him under the pretense of giving Iskra a stern lecture, and once his motives became clear it was too late. Sasha would have been too weak to stop Romanov. Too weak physically, way too weak mentally.”
“But how did you know Sasha told Romanov? How did you know they were accomplices?”
“The watch,” I said. “Sasha told me the Penerai he was wearing belonged to his father, who died about six years ago. But when Maria Romanova showed me a family picture taken a recently, there it was around a man’s wrist. But it wasn’t Sasha’s wrist. It was George Romanov’s.”
“Romanov gave Sasha the watch. As what,” Simmy said. His elbows rested on the table, hands folded in the air. “A gift of thanks? A bribe for his silence? A token of their ever-lasting friendship now that they’d killed the girl they’d loved their whole lives?”
“All of the above.”
Simmy continued staring at me without emotion, but I could sense dismay, disgust, and anger emanating from his side of the table. His emotions were to be expected, I thought. He was a father.
We dug into the prawns and the duck. One of the attendants brought a second round of Singha beers. Simmy poured lager into my glass.
“I was impressed with Sarah Dumont,” Simmy said. “I thought she handled herself admirably. What did you think?”
There it was. My opportunity had arrived.
“I don’t think she handled herself admirably,” I said.
Simmy’s eyebrows shot up.
“She handled herself beyond admirably. She was the leg-sweeping, ice-in-her-veins, ‘I’ll settle the argument, bitch-goddess of the afternoon. Are you kidding me?”
Simmy didn’t react to my description. He was back to hiding his emotions, I thought. In the case of Sarah Dumont, that meant there were emotions to hide. A flicker of pride in his eyes increased my suspicion.
“She’s clearly had training in self-defense,” Simmy said. “A successful young woman on her own, you have to admire her for learning how to take care of herself.”
“Is that a guess, or is this something you know for a fact?”
Simmy frowned. “That she’s successful and on her own?”
“No. That she’s had training in self-defense.”
I stared Simmy in the eye, looking for a tell as I waited for his answer. But he gave me neither. Instead, he sipped his beer and ignored my question. I’d done the math in my head a thousand time already. If Simmy was forty-six and Sarah Dumont was twenty-four, he could be her father from a prior relationship. But they could just as easily have been lovers whose paths had crossed at some philanthropic or artistic venue.
“She said some interesting things to me earlier,” I said.
“Did she?” Simmy said.
“When I called to tell her that her life was in danger, she said that no one would dare try to kill her.”
“Hmm. That’s a strange thing to say,” he said. “Maybe you heard her wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe she meant to say that no one had a reason to kill her.”
“And she said she didn’t want the police involved. She said it emphatically.”
“Probably a matter of privacy, especially given that nightmare she lived through in Amsterdam. The home invasion. I’m sure she’s had enough attention and police to last a lifetime.”
Simmy was full of crap. I knew it now, as surely as I knew I’d just lost my appetite for duck, prawns, and carnal knowledge. The questions came to me quickly. I could sense myself going into beast-mode. I was about to interrogate my client. In a minute he would tell me the truth or be revealed to be a no-good, lying Russian dog-of-a-billionaire. It would be the latter, naturally. All men were deceitful shits, why should this one be any different?
“Speaking of getting enough attention,” I said, “I sure got your attention when I told you that the murderer’s next target was Sarah Dumont.”
“And what did you expect? It’s not every day a man is told a murder is about to be committed.”
“I got the distinct impression the target’s identity made all the difference in the world to you.”
Simmy hesitated, as though trying to recall our conversation. “Why do you think that? I don’t remember saying anything that would give you that impression.”
“It’s not what you said, Simmy. It’s what you didn’t say.”
He sighed, his first sign of irritation since we’d arrived. “What didn’t I say?”
“You didn’t say anything. There was dead silence on the line. It was one of those moments were you knew the person on the other end of the line had just had a ‘holy shit’ moment.”
“Fair enough. But be realistic. Your friend calls and speaks of murder… a man may need a moment to compose himself.”
“And there was the proposed trade,” I said, “where you offered yourself as a hostage to Romanov in exchange for Sarah.”
Simmy remained mute.
“Why would you be so concerned about a stranger?” I said. “The answer is, of course, you wouldn’t be. That, in turns, means she isn’t a stranger. Sarah Dumont is someone you know. You confirmed that about ninety seconds ago when you said she’d lived through that nightmare in Amsterdam.”