The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  ‘Because the dog Henning saved was my favourite—had it been any of my other dogs . . . I will give you some advice from the heart, Stevie Duveen. Stay away from this. Dragoman has very close ties to the siloviki.’

  Stevie’s reaching hand froze in mid-air; she drew it cautiously back in. ‘I thought they were a myth, a conspiracy theory touted by fugitive oligarchs in London.’

  ‘Ha! So you have heard of the siloviki.’

  Stevie paused; this was a dangerous subject. ‘The story I know is of a secret power circle within the Kremlin dedicated to keeping the president and his men in power. As I understand it, the siloviki are basically waging a black-ops war against all dissent and opposition. Some of the members are ex-KGB and they’re rumoured to have been behind some of the wilder poisoning and assassination cases abroad, as well as numerous deaths and disappearances back home.’

  ‘Have you noticed the shift, Stevie Duveen?’ Maxim lifted his goggles and stared right at her. ‘There have always been too many homicides in the new Russia, only today, the guns are being pointed more and more at high-profile journalists, politicians and bankers—people of strategic importance.’

  ‘You think the siloviki are behind the new wave of violence?’

  Maxim shrugged. ‘I can only tell you it is not the mafiya making the orders. The government has re-empowered the security service to get the gangs under control. The Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti— FSB—has been flooded with cash; senior members of the intelligence community have been placed in positions of great power, in business, the Duma, other political posts. The president knows he can count on their loyalty, and they will support his use of strength—what is the West calling it now? Democratic fascism?—to pull our country together.’

  Stevie had seen the homicide figures and Maxim’s theory would explain the shift in targets. While organised crime gangs killed to protect their turf, advance their business, or for revenge, the FSB were motivated by ideology. They had the interest of the Russian state, and the politicians they served, firmly at the forefront of their minds.

  Maxim stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the Kalashnikov. ‘The murders are political.’

  Stevie’s eyes blazed now, as she put the pieces together in her mind. ‘And the siloviki fund their operations by joint ventures with organised crime—meaning the funds to wage their secret war are completely invisible and deniable. Is this how Felix Dragoman is involved?’

  Maxim downed his glass and nodded. ‘Dragoman makes “gifts” in return for political favours—blocking particular government legislation, pushing arms contracts his way, turning a blind eye to triple billing on these contracts. He in turn makes the siloviki directors of his companies, or consultants, and pays them exorbitantly. The right hand washes the left and everyone is clean.’

  ‘And you say this circle of siloviki really exists?’ Stevie’s green eyes were wide. ‘It’s always fervently denied whenever anyone dares to bring it up.’

  ‘Denied probably by the very people who belong to it. It exists—I know—and it is very powerful. The siloviki are dangerous.’

  Stevie sat back. ‘Coming from you, that’s . . .’

  ‘Stevie Duveen, I have nothing on their ruthlessness and power.’

  Stevie chanced a hand on Maxim’s arm. ‘Please, Maxim, where can I find Felix Dragoman?’

  But Maxim shook his head and held up his hand. The conversation was over, the debt to Henning had been repaid.

  Safely back in her hotel, Stevie sent a message to Josie at Hazard: Who is Felix Dragoman, The Man from Chernobyl? Then sat in the lobby and waited anxiously for Henning. When he finally appeared, Stevie’s stomach turned over: a huge red-and-purple welt throbbed on the side of his face, disfiguring his right eye. It was caked with dried blood.

  She jumped to her feet. ‘My God, what happened? Are you alright?’

  ‘Does it look that bad? It’s only a graze.’

  ‘Did they—’ Henning shook his head gingerly. ‘It wasn’t Maraschenko—they didn’t spot me. Let’s sit and I’ll tell you everything—or rather, nothing.’

  Stevie’s spirits fell. She realised all this time she had been hoping for a miracle.

  ‘Let’s go up to my room. It’s more private,’ her attention still on his face. ‘Do we need to get you to a doctor?’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  Stevie didn’t think he looked at all fine. She was surprised at how much the sight of his battered face affected her. She was not generally over-sensitive to blood and bumps.

  As she closed the hotel room door behind them, Henning groaned and Stevie instinctively shot a hand out to take his. She was rewarded with a big smile and felt suddenly self-conscious. She retracted her hand.

  ‘I think we need food. And some ice.’ She ordered blinis and a small bottle of vodka on ice, then looked expectantly at Henning.

  ‘It all began well. I flagged down a car outside The Boar and paid the driver an obscene amount to follow Maraschenko’s car. We could stay quite close behind him in the city, but the minute we got to the suburbs, the traffic thinned down to almost nothing and we had to keep our distance. We followed the car to a massive housing estate in the northwest of the city.’ Henning broke off. ‘Would you light me a cigarette, darling Stevie?’ She did as he asked, placing it gingerly between his lips. ‘It’s a monstrous place,’ he continued, ‘all concrete and dereliction of the most unexciting kind. There are five towers of apartment buildings—Soviet-bloc style—each would hold three or four hundred apartments. I was nervous about going in too close so we parked a little way off.’

  The waiter arrived at the door with the blinis, and the vodka in a silver bucket of ice. He seemed inclined to linger in the room, his eyes on Henning’s face. Stevie sent him on his way with some roubles and a rather fierce glare. She quickly folded a handful of ice into the linen napkin and handed it to Henning.

  ‘Thank you.’ He held the ice gratefully to his face. Stevie noticed the knuckles on both hands were swollen, some bleeding. She felt a lump grow in her throat.

  ‘Maraschenko and his mob went into the second tower block. I paid the driver another small fortune to wait for me and I followed as soon as I thought it was safe. But there’s got to be around twelve, fifteen hundred people in there, and it’s not the sort of place where people put their name on their letterbox: graffiti, clumps of wolfish teens, the smell of piss. I didn’t think knocking on doors would be such a good idea, just in case the word got back to Maraschenko that someone was looking for him.’

  Stevie considered a moment. ‘It sounds like the ideal place to hide a young girl. There’s no way she can climb out of a window or yell for help, for starters. If the place is teeming with people, one more or less is not going to be noticed.’ She poured out two small glasses of vodka. ‘What happened to your head, then?’

  ‘My ride, of course, had vanished by the time I got out. I was stranded, so I started walking towards the highway. I had to walk through an underpass and I was jumped by three guys—one hit me from behind with a bottle. That’s the face. Luckily I didn’t lose consciousness and I managed to get rid of them.’ Both of his eyes were now bloodshot.

  ‘You got rid of them, just like that?’ Stevie raised a neat eyebrow.

  ‘Well, it took a little rough stuff.’ Henning flexed his strong, damaged hands painfully.

  ‘You took on three guys armed with bottles with your bare hands?’

  Stevie’s horrified look seemed to have the opposite effect on Henning.

  He began to laugh. ‘Just because I try to dress well doesn’t mean I’m going to lie down and cry if three kids want to cause a bit of trouble.’

  Stevie didn’t share his merriment and Henning grew serious again.

  ‘What did Maxim have to say?’

  Stevie told all, keeping a very close eye on Henning. He looked awful. The welt was worse and dark circles had pooled under his eyes.

  ‘I still think a doctor might be a good
idea, Henning, indestructible dandy or not,’ she told him when she’d finished telling her story.

  ‘Stevie, I assure you—’ As he stood to emphasise his point, his leg gave way and he clutched the table.

  Stevie leapt to her feet and grabbed Henning tightly round the waist, supporting him. ‘You’re swooning like a maiden. I’m calling one.

  You don’t want to die of a brain haemorrhage before we find Anya.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to hospital.’ Henning scowled. ‘I’d be better off rolling around in rusty barbed wire.’

  ‘Come on.’ Stevie pulled on his arm. ‘We’ll call Kozkov on the way.’

  In less than an hour, Henning was lying in a bed in a private clinic under close observation. The doctors feared swelling of the brain. Henning feared the doctors. He looked over at Stevie, with her pale worried face by his bed.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.

  Have you looked in the mirror?’

  Stevie got up and stared in the glass. Her cheeks were hot pink and, above them, her eyes were rimmed with white from where the goggles had protected her skin from the intense UV exposure. Even the parting in her hair had scorched.

  Laughter came from the bed. ‘You look like an angry raccoon.’

  Stevie had not slept after returning from the hospital, but she felt surprisingly alert. There was too much to do for sleep. In her room, she did some strength exercises—she called them her callisthenics—lunging until her legs shook, pulling herself up on the edge of the door frame, and stretching her whole body. Then she showered (only when pressed for time would she eschew the glories of the bath) and dressed quickly in a navy knee-length skirt made of heavy, swinging wool, a wide crocodile belt, pulled tight, and a crisp white shirt.

  Today was a day for pearl earrings, she felt, and put on her biggest single pearls, a gift from some Japanese clients with headquarters in Kawasaki. The rings around her eyes she could do nothing about. She looked like she had just spent a week dog-sledding across Alaska.

  Stevie cinched her belt a little tighter and, feeling sufficiently pulled together, called for a double breakfast of eggs and caviar and toast, and a large pot of coffee.

  She pulled out her tiny telephone and dialled David Rice in London. She hated the thing and had chosen the smallest model possible, hoping somehow to reduce its annoyance. It was the size of a matchbox and consequently often impossible to find in her handbag.

  ‘I hope you’re calling me with your flight details home.’ His voice was jovial—for Rice—and although London was three hours behind Moscow, Stevie knew she had been lucky enough to catch him during, rather than before, his early breakfast. ‘The Hammer-Belles are very pleased you’re joining them in Switzerland,’ he added.

  He would be sitting by the window in his robe, the Times folded into a neat oblong, a perfectly boiled egg waiting in its cup and a pot of hot coffee ready. In every way, his life was solid and elegant.

  Stevie sometimes wished she could belong in it, that she could get further than the polished hall of the lovely Chelsea flat. She also knew she never would.

  ‘I am ringing about the Hammer-Belles, actually.’ Then she told Rice about the Romanians and the possible kidnap plot. ‘This is just a rumour, but then, rumours in the underworld—’ ‘Are like rumours in the other,’ Rice finished abruptly. ‘But possibly worth paying attention to. Who gave you this information, Stevie?’

  ‘Maxim Krutchik.’

  There was a pause on the line.

  ‘Stevie, why do you know Maxim Krutchik?’

  ‘He’s a friend of Henning’s.’

  There was a longer silence.

  ‘I’m not sure I like this Henning chap.’ Rice’s voice had sharpened.

  ‘He seems determined to drag you into all sorts of trouble. Is he there with you now?’

  At half past eight in the morning? Stevie knew what Rice must be thinking and rushed to set him straight.

  ‘It’s not like that. No. He’s just a friend. He is in hospital actually.

  He was attacked.’

  Rice exploded. ‘For God’s sake, Stevie! What are you doing? Get out of Moscow at once! Don’t be a damn fool, girl. This is the last straw.’

  ‘David, I’m not in any danger. I’m not doing anything unconsidered. A fifteen-year-old girl has been kidnapped and no one is doing anything about it. How can I leave it alone?’

  ‘Just do,’ her boss bellowed down the line.

  Stevie kept her voice calm. ‘I’m only finding out as much as possible so I can give Constantine the best picture of the situation, when he gets here.’

  Silence on the line. When Rice spoke again, his voice had softened. ‘Constantine is already in Moscow. I sent him out with a team when I heard you had him on stand-by. I know exactly what you’ve been doing, Stevie. That’s why I’m so worried. We just couldn’t find out who you went to meet in that solarium.’

  ‘You’ve had me followed?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘We almost pulled you out when the shooters hit those men in front of you. We thought they were after you.’

  Stevie remembered the babushka who had knocked her flat. Her throat went dry. ‘I thought they were after me too . . . I can’t believe you had me followed. I don’t need nannies.’

  ‘You bloody well do, Stevie.’

  Stevie flushed with anger. Rice didn’t believe she could handle it. While a small part of her was touched that he cared enough, most of her was furious that he doubted her judgement. What she wanted to do was shout ‘Call off your dogs!’ Instead she said quietly, ‘I think I know who’s got her.’

  She had Rice’s attention.

  ‘Have you heard of Felix Dragoman, or the siloviki?’

  ‘Stevie, this is getting worse and worse.’

  ‘Maxim says the siloviki exist, and that Dragoman has ties to them. I think Anya will be used to pressure Kozkov in some way over the banking reforms. Maxim implied the siloviki could benefit from this, too. I need to know more about them, and Dragoman.’

  ‘I’m surprised they bothered with something so subtle. Usually it’s a bullet to the head.’

  Stevie continued quickly. ‘Maxim was suggesting that Anya had been snatched by a thug who saw an opportunity. He’s holding an auction of sorts, selling his catch off to the person who wants her most.

  Anyway, it wouldn’t be easy to replace Kozkov—and an assassination would look pretty bad to the rest of the world.’

  ‘Never stopped anyone before.’ Rice cleared his throat, reluctant. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. But you, in turn, have to extricate yourself from this mess. Take on the Hammer-Belle job. I’ll send Kozkov some more men if he wants them, but I want you out.’

  Rice rang off without waiting for a reply.

  Stevie put her phone down on the table and sat back. She was angry that Rice treated her like a child, ordering her around like that. But she had to admit, she was also grateful she had him as an ally. She would think about the Hammer-Belles and David’s orders later. Right now, she had Maraschenko to deal with: did he still have Anya, or had he sold her on already? Stevie was tempted to order a private assault team. If Anya was passed on, it could be a lot more difficult to get her back.

  Her phone rang, making her jump slightly.

  It was Valery Kozkov. The kidnappers had made contact.

  9

  The black Mercedes crawled through the city, hunting for a way out.

  Irina had found a hand-delivered package in their mailbox that morning. She had known at once.

  Inside the package was a satellite phone and a polaroid of Anya.

  In it, Irina’s daughter was holding up the front page of the day’s newspaper— disputes over oil exploration rights in the Caspian—Irina had skimmed it only minutes before as she drank her early morning tea. Her legs had given way.

  Valery Kozkov had called Stevie moments later and she’d rushed over.

  The polaroid was in
tended as proof, Stevie had told the family, that Anya was alive and well and that whoever was holding her was willing to begin negotiations. It was, Stevie had stressed several times, a good sign.

  ‘And the newspaper tells us she’s most likely still in the country,’ she added, trying to offer comfort where there was very little.

  In the photo, Anya had her eyes half closed. She was wearing a gold bomber jacket.

  ‘It’s not hers,’ Irina had pointed to the jacket. ‘Anya doesn’t own a jacket like that!’ She repeated it several times, as if somehow the strange jacket negated everything.

  There was also a typed note inside. It ordered the family to their dacha—their summer house—and to wait for the satellite phone to ring.

  Constantine Dinov had arrived at their Moscow home ten minutes after Stevie’s call. The Kozkovs were driving through the outskirts of Moscow now. Constellations of massive tower blocks loomed on either side of the road, overlooking a frozen river.

  Valery sat in the front passenger seat; Constantine drove, wearing a chauffeur’s hat to avoid suspicion. Stevie had filled Constantine in on as much as there had been time for. Irina and Vadim sat in the back with her, Saskia the Borshoi at their feet, but they were silent. She was grateful for the chance to sit still and think. The action would come later.

  Once out of Moscow, they sped through a white landscape, mostly flat, interfered with here and there by a dilapidated fence, a concrete farmhouse, a smoking factory, a black copse of pines.

  They drove for hours until they were in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing but shades of white and grey taking on different shapes outside the tinted windows. Once they came across a huge red tractor trundling on the road, its vivid colour almost obscene in the absence of all others. It could have been the end of the world.

  Their destination looked like a large snowdrift surrounded by the silvery stalks of Russian birches, tall and naked and as fine as legs. Stevie shivered at the thought of having to get out of the car, into—was Koz-kov sure there was a dacha under there? But there was indeed a wooden house, a cupola on the roof, buried under all that white.