The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  Joss led her into a room off the corridor. There was a large bed with a fur throw; a television lowered itself from the ceiling when he reached to dim the lights.

  ‘Norah never mattered, Stevie. There was only ever you.’

  Joss reached out and stroked her cheek. Stevie couldn’t help it.

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘I can’t stay.’ She would count to ten then tear herself away forever, she promised herself.

  ‘I’ve planted primroses all through my garden, Stevie, to remind me of you.’

  Stevie’s eyes flew open. ‘You did the same thing for Norah—you gave her a primrose. I saw it on the bed.’

  ‘I did,’ Joss said carefully. ‘I admit it. This sounds stupid . . .’ He ran a hand nervously through his hair. ‘But you’d been away for weeks. I was missing you. I guess I was trying to recapture some of the magic you and I had, but it wasn’t the same with Norah. I need you.’

  Words Stevie had longed to hear. The moment should have been the sweetest, but Stevie felt uneasy.

  ‘How am I supposed to trust you?’ She realised she was still whispering, hated herself for even answering him. ‘You don’t even have a garden.’

  ‘I know . . . I know, I’m so sorry,’ he cooed, his hand creeping up Stevie’s leg, the other undoing his shirt buttons. His eyes bored into hers and she felt herself falling back into the pillows.

  The sound on the television was barely audible, but Stevie could tell the channel was a Russian one. Yudorov had installed satellite. Televised images of oilrigs in Baku blended in Stevie’s mind with Joss’s dark eyes, his full mouth as he kissed her, over and over again.

  Joss slid her jumper over her head and cast it aside.

  Would it be so dreadful to give in to him? Stevie half-wondered. Perhaps he had changed—people did—realised he truly loved her.

  Could she really believe Joss wanted her back? That Norah had been a blip? A part of her wanted to believe so much . . . Her eyes searched the ceiling for answers and caught the television screen.

  She sat up like a missile. Kozkov’s face was staring down at

  her—images of a black Mercedes in a car park with swarms of militzia— what was going on?

  Stevie leapt over the half-naked, bewildered Joss and grabbed the remote on the night table.

  The Russian commentator’s voice became audible:

  ‘—police say Valery Nikolayevitch Kozkov was gunned down this evening after attending a local soccer match. The killers apparently at first mistook his driver for Kozkov and shot him twice in the head as he sat behind the wheel of his car. Realising their mistake, the assailants waited in the shadows for the real Kozkov to emerge, gunning him down as he reached his car. Five shots were fired, three to the head.’

  Graphic images of a body lying on concrete, the upper half swimming in a pool of dark red blood.

  ‘It was well known that Kozkov never travelled with security guards.

  Police are not commenting on who they suspect was behind the assassination but the pressure will undoubtedly be on them to catch the killers.’

  The television showed a couple of militzia cordoning off the area, others standing around in the background looking lost. The reporter’s voice continued:

  ‘Kozkov was a fierce anti-corruption crusader and many speculate that his tough stance on money laundering may have been the provocation behind the killings—’ Stevie put her hand to her mouth. It was unbelievable. She had only just left him—a family man, a man full of ideals and energy and warmth. And now he had been gunned down like a tin rabbit at a country fair. It was all over and all the good he might have done for Russia would remain undone.

  A horrible thought struck her.

  Anya.

  If Kozkov was dead, her kidnappers would have no use for her and Stevie feared terribly that they would not hesitate to kill her.

  She jumped off the bed in a single bound and was out the door.

  ‘Stevie,’ Joss called to her. She turned back for a second.

  ‘Put some clothes on.’

  In her shock, Stevie hadn’t realised she was still in her bra. He threw her jumper across the bed and she grabbed it, pulling it over her head as she ran.

  12

  The phone rang in Moscow but no one answered. The first and only thing she had thought of doing was calling Henning. Now, standing on the balcony, she wondered what needed to be done.

  What could anyone do? What could she do? She was off the job, and in any case the client was dead, his daughter was still missing and would soon be dead. Run about as she might, she would achieve nothing.

  The men who had assassinated Kozkov had used amateur goons to distance themselves from the killing. That explained why they had accidentally shot the driver first. Professionals would never have made that mistake. But the goons were deniable, the blame would be laid at the feet of a street gang, or Chechens.

  Her thoughts turned to poor Irina, and to the pale and tortured Vadim whom she’d liked so much. What would this do to them? Were they, too, in danger?

  She tried to call them, but again no one answered. Feeling helpless, Stevie went back inside.

  Checking everything was in order with Dovetail and the Hammer-Belles, she strolled aimlessly from room to room, feeling in turns terrified for Anya, shocked for the death of her father, and a mass of confusion over what had happened up in the bedroom.

  What should she do about Anya? She could be anywhere. And what about Joss Carey? Was she throwing away his genuine attempt to make up with her, her one chance at true love? People did make mistakes— she herself wasn’t perfect . . . but would she ever really be able to forget his betrayal? His timing was terrible and she couldn’t seem to find clarity in any direction.

  Standing in a dark corner on the lower balcony, Stevie lit one of her black-and-gold cigarettes and stared out towards the woods, hoping to spot some of Yudorov’s security SWAT team on patrol. She tried to still her thoughts.

  Suddenly the door behind her opened and the fawn came out, followed by Joss.

  Stevie’s treacherous heart leapt. She stepped further back into the shadows and watched as Joss produced a bottle of champagne from under his jacket, and one glass from his pocket. As the cork popped— usually Stevie’s favourite sound—the fawn giggled. Stevie watched him reach into his shirt and produce a pale yellow rose. He handed it to her with all the gentleness in the world.

  ‘You know,’ he said in his caramel voice, ‘I find Russian women absolutely enchanting. I’d love to paint you.’

  It seemed Joss had moved on to easier game. Stevie crunched her cigarette under her heel, lit another, then folded her arms in the dark.

  The sulphurous flare of her match caught Joss’ attention. He turned and peered into the corner, seeing at first only the red glow of the burning tobacco tip.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asked, his voice sharper now.

  Stevie stepped forward and a shaft of light caught her face. She stared at him, saw the surprise on his face. Then he smiled at her, just as he had that day he’d walked in with Norah, and gave a small shrug.

  It came to Stevie as she struggled to recover from the sucker-punch to the stomach: this was not the man for her. For all his pretences to truth and passion, this was a shallow man, an empty man. She had misjudged him, for the second time. Tonight, though, she realised that the magic she had seen in Joss had been a conjurer’s cheap trick, that gentleness in manner did not always mean kindness. It was time to move the hell on.

  Stevie would have liked to take some spectacular, fiery revenge but she hadn’t the energy. In any case, it wasn’t worth the effort. Likely, Joss would turn it into a funny after-dinner story about the passions he unwittingly provoked in silly women. No, she would just drop him like an old sock from her life.

  Passing by the two of them to go back inside was not an option. Stevie swung a leg over the balcony rail and let herself drop one storey down into the snowdrift below.

 
In hindsight, jumping had been a rather foolish—if silent—exit. She now found herself buried in snow to the waist. Still, she thought, she didn’t have far to flounder to the road. She lay back into the snow, now hidden from view, and rested for a moment. It was a pity there were no stars.

  Stevie’s phone rang. It was Urs Willibitti from the Kantonspolizei with news: Sergei Lazarev had died in custody, despite having been only very slightly wounded in the right calf. This was, Willibitti explained, most unusual. They had never had a death in custody before.

  After the arrest at the polo field, the police had taken the precaution of retrieving the offending weapon—the walking stick. An examination revealed it had been modified by the insertion of a super-charged spring-loaded device designed to fire a projectile of some kind.

  Sergei Lazarev’s leg wound had been treated by the station medic upon arrival. There was no trace of a projectile in the man’s leg. The wound appeared to be merely a puncture and was patched with disinfectant and a bandaid. It had been assumed, by Willibitti and others, that the device had failed in some way, simply misfiring into Lazarev’s calf and so sparing Sandy Belle and her child from harm.

  The prisoner, however, had apparently grown quite agitated, shouting at the medic in Russian. No one could understand him so an interpreter was eventually sent for. By the time he arrived, the man was dead.

  Urs Willibitti assured Stevie, in response to her questions, that the cause of death had been unnatural—could not be attributed, say, to the strain of her chase, nor to liver failure. Twenty minutes after the arrest was made, the man’s skin had turned blue. He had begun to have trouble breathing and seemed to have severe pain in his calf. Cause of death was respiratory arrest.

  Urs Willibitti wished her a pleasant evening and promised to call back if new developments arose.

  Stevie sat stunned in her snow cave, trying to fit the pieces together. Lazarev had turned blue and died in agony. It made no sense.

  If Lazarev’s plan had been to kidnap Sandy, why would the walking stick have been intended to cause a horrible death? Wouldn’t a sedative have been more likely? If the target had been the child, surely the same applied? Neither the delayed demise of Sandy Belle, nor that of her son Kennedy-Jack, would achieve any objective that Stevie thought plausible: Lazarev was unknown to Sandy; their paths had, as far as anyone knew, never even crossed. A sophisticated, slow-release poison wasn’t the usual modus operandi of a deranged fan.

  Something wasn’t right . . .

  A text message arrived. Josie.

  Sergei Lazarev: nothing known. Searched all, hence delay. Files most

  likely sanitised. Prob. ex-KGB if not active FSB or like.

  And suddenly it became utterly clear.

  From under the snow, she dialled David Rice in London. Her fingers were trembling.

  ‘Stevie Duveen.’ The way David said her name always made it sound like an affirmation that she existed. ‘I hear you saved the Hammer-Belle bacon up in St Moritz. Well done.’

  ‘David, they were never in any danger.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like that from Dovetail’s report: attempted kidnapping.’

  ‘The man wasn’t a kidnapper.’ Stevie tried to keep her voice calm. ‘He was an assassin—’

  ‘Why would the Romanians want to kill the Hammer-Belles?’ Rice asked, the pleasure gone from his voice.

  ‘He was Russian, name: Lazarev—ex-KGB.’ Stevie took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘He wasn’t after Sandy, he was after me.’

  ‘What?!’

  Stevie heard his paces echoing on a marble floor—most likely the foyer in his club.

  ‘David, someone got Kozkov tonight—he’s dead. I think the same people are after me. My guess is they think I know something I don’t: the names of the members of the siloviki. Kozkov had compiled a secret list. He was going to use it to get Anya back. The attacker who was shot in the leg this afternoon died in custody. Sounds like poison—death by respiratory failure, blue-tinged skin—the venom of the Heloderma suspectum, or Gila monster, would match the symptoms. It makes sense.’

  ‘Hell,’ David cursed. ‘Stevie, get down from those mountains immediately. I want you in London and safely behind a desk.’

  Stevie bit her lip. ‘I don’t think I can, David. I can’t stop thinking of Anya. How can I abandon her? With Kozkov dead—’ ‘I don’t care!’ Rice’s fury could be felt through the phone. ‘It is not your job. This is exactly why I didn’t want you getting mixed up in the Kozkov affair. You’ll get yourself killed, you stupid girl.’

  Stevie’s boss paused; when he spoke again his voice was calmer. ‘Is that Henning with you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No. I think he’s in Moscow.’ Stevie suddenly missed her friend terribly. ‘It’s not his fault,’ she whispered.

  ‘It damn well is. I’m going to tear that man to pieces. There’s a chopper taking the Hammer-Belles to London tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be on it, Stevie.’

  The line went dead. Stevie felt suddenly very alone. It was cold and dark in the snow. Exhaustion overwhelmed her and she fought back tears. She had to get out of the pit.

  Practical concerns required she start digging some steps into the side of the snow hole with her boot. It took some effort and was a welcome distraction. Finally, she managed to drag herself free.

  Muffled music was coming from the chalet behind her and the lights looked warm and inviting. Stevie’s eyes glanced over the balcony, but Joss and the girl had gone. She set off for the front door, allowing the prickling on her neck to turn to fear as she thought of Lazarev. It fitted with what Stevie knew of the mysterious siloviki and their fearsome reputation for getting things done.

  An ex-KGB officer would also have access to unusual weaponry and poisons. And Stevie was now certain it had been Lazarev who had rifled through her room at the Suvretta House. It was also unlikely that he had been acting alone. Others would certainly come.

  Stevie had narrowly escaped the horrific death that had been planned for her. Would she be as fortunate next time?

  By tomorrow night, she would be in London. But would it be soon enough? And could she just give up on Anya? She had never heard David Rice so angry, but should she simply leave a young girl to die? Stevie felt torn between impossibilities.

  Inside the chalet, the party was raging, with dancing girls perched on sofas and coffee tables. Stevie needed information. Where was the young fawn?

  She caught sight of her by the DJ booth, dancing in hotpants, knee-high boots and a large cowboy hat, one eye firmly on Douglas Hammer across the room. Her top seemed to have been lost in the fray, along with Joss Carey.

  Stevie advanced, refusing to be put off by beautiful undulating bodies, and blocked her into a corner.

  ‘I’ll make you a deal, my kitten,’ Stevie said to her in Russian. The girl tried to push past her but Stevie held firm. ‘I see you recognise Douglas Hammer. I can tell you, he is a friend of mine.’

  The girl stopped struggling and started to listen.

  ‘I can also tell you that the man he is talking to is Arik Joel, the biggest movie producer in the world. I’m going to ask you some questions and if you answer them truthfully, I will introduce you to him and tell him he should put you in a movie.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. Stevie’s instincts had been correct. This was not a girl who would scare easily—she had been threatened too many times in her young life for that—but she would respond to incentive.

  Stevie played her final card. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go to Hollywood?’

  The girl crumbled completely and Stevie pulled her into the butler’s pantry, away from curious eyes.

  ‘Who are the men you came with?’

  ‘We only know they are called Sascha and Yuri.’ The fawn’s eyes flickered nervously. ‘We don’t know their last names but they are very rich.’

  Never mind, thought Stevie, she could get their names from Paul at the Palace.

  ‘So, how did you get to b
e here with them? Where did you meet them?’ she fired at the foul-mouthed fawn.

  ‘We are a gift from Yudorov.’

  ‘A gift?’ Stevie asked, unsure she had heard correctly.

  The girl shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Some men talked to us in Moscow at a club and then said did we want to meet rich men and so we said yes and then they took us on a private plane and we arrived in this place. They took us to a big hotel and told Sascha and Yuri that we were a gift from Yudorov.’

  ‘You don’t even know where you are, do you?’

  The girl blew a thick stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘You’re in Switzerland,’ Stevie told her. ‘Just for the record. Now, there are three men staying in the suites on the eighth floor. Was the third man—Sergei Lazarev—a friend of the other two?’

  The girl scowled—suspicion was at war with Stevie’s promise of stardom. Then her forehead cleared: the fantasy had prevailed. There was nothing more powerful than The Dream.

  ‘They didn’t speak,’ she said quietly. ‘Only one time I heard Yuri. Your man left and Yuri spat on the floor. I don’t think they were friends.’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘Does that happen often—men come up to you and invite you to a party and you just go?’

  The fawn made a face, rolled her eyes. ‘Men always invite us, promise things, offer money or a trip overseas to work as a model. It is the way it is at this club.’

  It was all sounding familiar . . .

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Stevie put a hand on the girl’s arm, ‘Which club were you in, when the men came?’

  ‘Zima.’

  The same club Anya and Petra had gone to the night before Anya disappeared. She was sure she still had . . . there it was. Stevie pulled the photo she had stolen from the nightclub wall from her back pocket. Pretty girls always remembered the faces of other pretty girls. She unfolded it and held it up for the fawn to see.

  ‘Recognise her?’

  The girl barely glanced at it. ‘No.’

  Stevie stepped in closer, her hand gripping the girl’s arm tightly. ‘Don’t mess with me, devochka. I am not in the mood. Look at her face. She is fifteen years old.’