The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

Henning patted her hand but he turned back to the TV and said nothing. Stevie thought she might leave him alone with his thoughts for a moment and stepped into the corridor.

  With the tip of her nail, she dialled David Rice and hoped he wouldn’t answer.

  ‘Stevie.’

  He always answered.

  ‘Where the hell are you? Dovetail told me you were poisoned—’

  Trust Dovetail. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

  ‘—next I hear, Josie tells me you’ve vanished to some sanatorium. What the devil are you playing at?’

  ‘I’m fine now,’ Stevie tried to soothe the savage beast. ‘Someone slipped a little poison into my coffee. They sugared it to mask the taste but—’

  ‘You hate sugar in your coffee. Thank God for your fussiness, Stevie Duveen.’

  ‘By the time I came to, it was too late for the chopper.’

  ‘There are other ways down the mountain.’ Rice separated each word for emphasis. ‘You think your Russians can’t find you at a sanatorium?’

  ‘They can find me in London, too. And in Zurich,’ Stevie said quietly, voicing her fears at last.

  ‘We’ll find a way for you to disappear.’

  Stevie looked down at her feet. ‘It wouldn’t work, David, even if I wanted it to. How am I supposed to live in fear for the rest of my life, watching over my shoulder for Russian assassins? Trust me, I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought there was another way out. And then there’s the chance of getting Anya back . . .’

  ‘Ah. Anya.’

  Rice knew the story of Stevie’s parents—and of little Stevie—only too well and he had guessed the impact Kozkov’s assassination might have on her.

  ‘It’s not the same thing, Stevie.’

  ‘I know.’

  Neither said a word for what seemed like a long time.

  Stevie stood in the corridor of the east wing of the sanatorium and stared out of the window. Lights were burning through the small windows in the west wing. Dragoman’s quarters. The windows were too narrow to get a good view, but she saw shapes—people—passing to and fro.

  ‘You don’t have faith in me, do you, David.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of faith, Stevie. I promised your mother and father—in that godforsaken mudslide—that I would keep a hand on your shoulder if anything should happen to them.’ There was a pause. David continued, his voice hoarse now. ‘When something did, I tried to keep you safe without crowding you. It’s not been easy, especially not in this line of work. But either you worked for me, where I could keep an eye on you, or you worked for some other firm, where I could not.’

  Stevie was touched. He felt the bond, just as she did.

  ‘I can’t be responsible for losing you, too.’

  ‘David,’ tears pricked in Stevie’s eyes, ‘what happened to my parents wasn’t your fault. One day I will find the people responsible, count on that, but you are not one of them.’

  David coughed. ‘I could say the same to you about Valery Kozkov, about Anya . . . How much difference would that make to how you feel, Stevie? I loved your mother and father. And now I . . .’

  The silence of unspoken thoughts buzzed between them, faint static on the line.

  Stevie wished Rice would finish his sentence the way her heart wanted him to. Instead, she said, ‘Then let me make my own decision. Trust me enough, David.’

  There was another long pause.

  ‘Can I do anything from here?’

  Stevie’s heart flipped with gratitude. ‘Yes. Rosie’s trying to plant a story on Felix Dragoman for me at the paper—can you make sure it does get in and gets a lot of attention?’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘David . . . thank you.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed.’

  He rang off.

  Stevie, buoyed by her conversation, pulled out her mini-binoculars. The shapes at Dragoman’s windows were definitely people. She could see the backs of their heads. Was Dragoman among them?

  Stevie ran from window to window, trying to see more. Looking down, she saw the massive skylight that hung over what was once the castle courtyard and was now the main room of the sanatorium. It was made of glass panels, two metres by one metre, and held in place by steel frames like a giant patchwork quilt. Two storeys below, she could see the deep chairs, the bunches of lilies, the enormous turquoise curtains that hung to the floor.

  Looking up, she saw the crenellations of the four towers against the night sky, opaque with cloud. She needed a photo of Dragoman to go with Rosie’s story and for that, she had to get closer to his windows.

  It wouldn’t be much of a photo but she needed it quickly, and she knew from her time spent amongst paparazzi fodder just how much could be done with computers to even the poorest picture.

  It seemed there was only one way to approach: over the skylight.

  Stevie slipped off her shoes. Nothing would be quieter or safer than bare feet. She opened the narrow window on her side. Three times she tried to fit through that tiny gap, then on the fourth she finally managed to wriggle out, head first. She stretched her hands out. It was freezing in the open air.

  The lights from the hall below had obliterated the glass panels in the dark. It took all of Stevie’s faith to trust they were still there.

  Slowly and silently she put one foot, then two, on the first glass panel, testing it would hold her weight. Then she stepped to the next. Panel to panel she crept along the freezing glass roof, one tender foot at a time, unable to stop herself looking down onto the small waiter leaning at the tiny bar below, the three Lebanese ladies drinking cocktails.

  The skywalk seemed to take forever, but finally Dragoman’s windows drew close. She peered in.

  The back of Dragoman’s small head protruded—just—over the back of a velvet armchair. He was watching television, his feet in velvet sandals, crossed delicately at the ankles. His shadow stood to the right of the chair, at least two other men—Stevie noted the neat suits—were in the room, also watching the screen.

  It was enormous and Stevie could see it very clearly. It was a news channel televising Kozkov’s funeral in Moscow. It was being held in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, on the banks of the Moskva river, just west of the Kremlin. Gold domes capped the white turrets, almost invisible in the snow.

  Stevie started as the faces of Irina and Vadim suddenly appeared, almost life-size on the screen. They looked so ghostly and alone, and Stevie’s heart went out to them. Masha Osipova stood by Irina, an arm around the widow, her eyes red from crying.

  The ticker tape at the bottom of the screen gave the bulletin as the camera swung slowly and showed the room. Irina and Vadim were walking with other mourners in a procession, down the marble aisle, towards the coffin. Pale faces like almonds in a sea of black dotted the cathedral. Stevie couldn’t hear the music through the window but the silent spectacle was moving enough.

  Generals in their full medallion stood, breasts out like tanks, along the aisle. Even the president was there, his fish-lids unblinking, perpetually outlined in red. Everyone looked very sorry, very sombre, very fitting. They would all be expressing their condolences to the widow and her son, saying the right things, and none of it would change a thing.

  Stevie thought of something Vadim had told her after Kozkov had left the dacha.

  ‘He has no real friends,’ he’d said. ‘People feel it’s too dangerous for them to be close to my father.’

  Stevie, out on the roof, wondered which of the faces wore only the mask of grief and regret . . . perhaps Kozkov’s enemies were amongst the mourners. In fact, it was more than likely.

  As one of the generals stood at the microphone, speaking gravely to the mourners, Stevie thought of Juvenal: Who guards the guards?

  The camera panned the retinue around the president, moving from face to face. The figures painted on the gilded walls seemed to also be watching the spectacle. Suddenly Dragoman pointed to someone on the screen, saying so
mething to the men in the room.

  Stevie looked at the face that had excited him. She did not recognise it. Indeed, it was a most unremarkable face, one that would slide through your memory without leaving a trace. Perhaps you might remember the eyes, dark—almost black—and cold as the bottom of a well.

  It would be too convenient, unfortunately, to assume that Dragoman had just pointed out his accomplice in the Kremlin in an act of j’accuse. He might have, but there would certainly be others, and it did not help Stevie or Anya’s immediate situation. All she could deduce was that Dragoman recognised the faceless man.

  Who was he?

  Dragoman and his men were discussing something avidly. Stevie pulled out her tiny telephone and readied the camera lens. She wished he would turn his head a little more towards her. Perhaps if she moved a little to one side and—

  Stevie stifled a yelp. Dragoman’s face had materialised at the window. Had she been seen?

  But Dragoman appeared to be staring into nothing, thinking. It was dark on the roof and the lights inside ought to make her invisible.

  Stevie cautiously raised her phone and took a photo. She sent it straight to Rosie on Fleet Street. Glancing quickly back up at the window, she saw to her horror that the face of the shadow had replaced Dragoman’s. He seemed to be staring right at her.

  Stevie quickly turned and began to creep back the way she had come.

  Suddenly there was a quick burst of gunfire. The shadow had smashed the double glazing with a round from his Kalashnikov and was now standing, silhouetted in the window frame, a terminator with a smoking gun.

  Stevie began to run.

  Another burst of gunfire. The panel on her right shattered under the rain of bullets. Stevie gasped and kept running, her feet numb from the cold. The panel right behind her shattered—then another one, this time on her right. She dodged right again, her back foot leaving the panel just as she felt it give way.

  Twice she stumbled, almost sprawling across the roof. The wall of the east wing was near, the window still open. But Stevie remembered how difficult it had been to crawl out. Getting in would take too long. She would be a sitting duck.

  A rain of bullets shattered the panels closest to the east wall, blocking her way to the window anyway. Stevie stood still for a second and took one quick, deep breath. This was no time to panic, suspended on a glass pane, surrounded by air.

  Then she saw the curtains below her. They were heavy velvet and lined against the cold. The rods holding them would have to be very strong.

  Holding onto the bare metal roofing frame with both hands, she swung herself down until she was hanging, like a child from monkey bars, by her arms. She began to swing gently, grateful for years of compulsory school gymnastic classes, then launched herself at the nearest curtain like a cat with its claws extended.

  More gunfire and a rain of glass. Hugging the blue velvet as if it were a large teddy bear, Stevie slid to the floor, six metres below.

  The staff and guests had fled the room at the first shower of glass. Stevie could hear shouting, people were coming. No doubt Dragoman’s men would be amongst them.

  Quick as a bird, Stevie ran over to the corner bar and grabbed an empty bottle of champagne that had been left sitting on the counter. She leapt into the nearest armchair and slumped over with her eyes closed, the bottle hanging from her right hand.

  The room filled with voices—Swiss-German, Russian, Lebanese, Stevie recognised the perfect French of the elderly lady in pearls—all demanding to know what had happened.

  A gentle hand shook her shoulder.

  ‘Fräulein Duveen? Fräulein Duveen?’

  It was the manager, Gunnar Gobb. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Then he caught sight of the empty bottle. Fräulein Duveen had obviously passed out drunk and missed the whole commotion. So much the better.

  ‘Fräulein Duveen, we must get you to your room. Where is—?’

  As if called, Henning appeared. He caught one look at his client and groaned.

  ‘Oh, Herr Direktor, she told me she was having a late massage!

  Really—how can this have happened?’

  ‘She must have taken the bottle from the bar,’ Gunnar Gobb said disapprovingly. ‘The barman would never serve alcohol to a green bracelet.’

  ‘The demon drink. Please,’ Henning placed a hand on the manager’s shoulder, ‘let’s keep this incident between the two of us. It is very important no one knows she was here. Her reputation, you see . . . word gets around. Can you promise me that?’

  Gunnar Gobb smiled magnanimously and assured Henning discretion was his watchword. He left to tend to the hysteria of the other guests.

  Henning knelt beside Stevie. Red streaks of blood had seeped unnoticed through the fingers of Stevie’s right hand and were now dripping onto the carpet.

  Henning gently unclenched her fingers and put the bottle on the floor.

  ‘My God, Stevie, what have you done?’ His voice was low and full of concern. He examined her hand, wiping the blood carefully with a clean handkerchief. ‘I thought you had just gone to look through the windows,’ he whispered. ‘Next thing I know, the roof is falling.’

  Stevie opened her eyes and smiled. ‘You mean I brought the house down?’

  ‘Not very funny,’ but Henning almost smiled. ‘You’ve cut your wrist and palm. I think you need a stitch or two.’

  Stevie sat up in alarm. ‘Oh no—I’m sure it’s nothing, just a small graze. See?’ The wound on her palm throbbed and disgorged a small gush of blood that ran quickly down Stevie’s arm.

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Henning wrapped the handkerchief tightly around her hand. He glanced quickly around. Men with guns had arrived, but it seemed everyone in the room was looking up at the roof.

  He took the champagne bottle by the neck and deftly smashed it on the edge of the table. The neck broke off. He cursed aloud.

  ‘You’re a danger to yourself, Stevie. Come on!’ He scooped her up in his arms like a child and called for the manager.

  ‘We need a doctor here! She’s managed to cut herself on the champagne bottle.’ Henning held her up for the manager to see. ‘She’s bleeding. We need stitches.’

  As the medics rushed Stevie away, Henning called after them.

  ‘And no scarring—we can’t have scarring. She’s a celebrity.’

  Later, freshly bathed and stitched, Stevie was sitting in her room, feet curled under her, cosy in a fresh bathrobe and holding a glass of medicinal whisky. Henning was sitting on the corner of the bed in a red poloneck jumper of fine cashmere that not many men, Stevie thought, could have got away with.

  ‘What were you thinking, Stevie? You were almost killed—in quite a few ways.’

  ‘I needed to get a photo for Rosie’s story. It seemed like the obvious way was over the roof. From there, things, well, took on a life of their own.’ She sipped her whisky. ‘Looking back though, I am rather pleased with the grand finale, the slithering down the curtains. I think that was quite Errol Flynn of me.’

  Stevie saw from Henning’s face he was not in the mood for her flights of fancy.

  ‘They were watching Kozkov’s funeral on television.’ Her voice now serious, Stevie told Henning what had happened.

  His brow furrowed with concern. ‘Did the man at the window see your face? Will they guess it was you out there?’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think I could have been more than a dark shape.’

  ‘The man would be a well-trained killer. The fact that he missed hitting you each time he fired probably means you were, mercifully, almost impossible to see. And there’s not much of you at that.’

  Stevie nodded. ‘That was always my greatest advantage when I was fencing. My opponents used to complain that, by the time I had turned side on, there was nothing left to hit.’ Stevie smiled. ‘I think that’s the only reason I always seemed to make the team.’

  Henning stared at her. ‘Let’s hope you w
ere as invisible as you think . . . but in our favour, this might make Dragoman more certain that someone from the Kremlin is out to kill him.’

  Stevie thought for a moment. ‘I only wish I could have heard what they were saying. What did you think of the funeral?’

  ‘He would have hated it. The hypocrisy of all those who wanted him gone shedding crocodile tears.’

  ‘Did you notice the men with the president? One of them caught Dragoman’s attention.’

  Henning shook his head and reached for the television remote.

  ‘With these twenty-four-hour news channels, the footage is sure to be repeated.’

  They kept the television on in the background in case and rang the sanatorium dining room for some supper. Things in the kitchen were running like cuckoo clockwork, despite the bullets and the collapse of the roof. Henning ordered a Café de Paris steak with pommes frites; for Fräulein Duveen, the chef would prepare sustenance in accordance with the green menu.

  When pressed, the kitchen staff revealed that the green menu tonight consisted of a large bowl of blood soup. For dessert there was a bitter beetroot and bran pudding, steamed, then peppered with candied peel. Stevie was not amused.

  ‘Sounds delightful.’ Henning had cheered up considerably at the idea of Stevie being faced with blood soup. ‘Oh, and you had better make that two sides of frites—I’m rather hungry.’ He hung up and grinned at Stevie.

  ‘I can’t wait, can you?’

  ‘Dreadful man.’

  Henning shook his head at her. ‘I risked quite a lot ordering you contraband frites.’

  ‘You only ordered extra because you knew I would eat yours if you didn’t.’

  The funeral began to replay on the television screen as they sat down to eat. The camera panned the room and Stevie pointed: ‘Him.’

  Henning paused in thought before turning to Stevie. ‘Nikita Romanovitch Orlikov.’

  Stevie stopped, the silver soup dome in mid air. Her blood chilled.

  ‘Is that what he looks like?’ she whispered. ‘I could never find a picture.’

  ‘He never lets himself be photographed. I’m surprised he is on camera at the funeral.’

  Nikita Orlikov was the ex-head of the FSB, the Russian security service. He had been in the KGB at the same time as the current president, during the Cold War days, and had acquired a fearsome reputation as an utterly cold, utterly ruthless man. The service had trained him well. No one knew exactly what his official role was now, but he was certainly still active as an advisor to the new head of the FSB, as well as the president.