Stevie went through to the tiled area and into the end cubicle. She was counting on Anya heading for the same one, instinctively choosing the one furthest from her tormentors. The ceiling was tall and the old-fashioned cubicles did not reach all the way up. Stevie climbed onto the toilet seat and pulled herself up onto the top of the partitions. There she waited, flattened against the back wall, hoping that Sogol would not look up.
She knew enough about kidnap victims to guess what kind of state Anya would be in. The difficult part would be to get Anya to trust her. Everyone would be an enemy in her eyes and her fear would stop her listening properly. Her nerves would be shot and her mind blank; in that state, she might even scream and run back to the bodyguard.
Stevie needed to find the thing that would unfreeze her, something that would go straight through all her self-protecting zombie shells and reach Anya’s heart.
She heard Sogol the Barbarian enter. He wheezed like one of Heini’s pugs. He was checking the stalls. When they all appeared to be empty, he went to wait by the butterfly mirror, out of sight but not of earshot.
Stevie realised she couldn’t even afford to whisper to Anya. Sogol might hear. She pulled out her eyeliner. The old-fashioned water cistern above the seat would make a perfect canvas.
She hopped softly back down. She heard Anya’s heels clack towards the end stall and hoped she wouldn’t scream.
The girl’s fright was evident in her eyes when she found Stevie crouching like a water hen on the toilet seat, but fortunately her yelp of surprise died before it could get out. Stevie put her finger to her lips and pointed at the cistern.
Anya read the word Stevie had written there: Vadim.
Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, then her hands flew to her face and she began to weep. The sight of her brother’s name at the centre of this strange and terrible night brought a tiny comfort, but with that came all the pain in the world.
Stevie was relieved; Anya had understood.
Sogol’s voice came over the stalls. ‘No crying, eh, only pissing. I want to hear pissing.’ He snorted phlegm.
Stevie took the young girl’s face in her hands and held her close, trying to give Anya all her own strength in that small moment. Then, smearing the indigo letters with her sleeve, she swung herself up onto the top of the cistern and disappeared along the row of stalls.
Nothing would stop Stevie now.
Back in the ballroom, Stevie found that Henning had attached himself to Heini’s party, the birthday boy slapping him on the shoulder and insisting they drink a toast to ‘birthday girls’. The thought of them had Heini in very high spirits.
Clever Henning, she thought and watched him clink shot glasses with horrid Heini and down the contents. He really did have a knack for making the most unlikely friends.
She heard Heini chuckle. He went to clap Dragoman on the shoulder again but the shadow stepped in.
‘Don’t you worry, Felix. One drink won’t slow things down, heh. The cars are waiting and we will be ready.’
Were they moving out? Henning would have to find out. Where their night was going, Stevie could not follow. Henning alone would be able to get much closer to Heini and Dragoman, and with far less suspicion. No doubt there would be drinking, and cigars, and women in the background.
She was irritated to find she felt a twinge of possessiveness when one of the candy canes put her arm around Henning’s shoulders and playfully kissed him on the cheek.
It was not difficult for her to slip into the role of ‘tired and emotional film starlet disgruntled with the world because of lack of attention to self’. She bid Henning a rather terse goodnight, pouting sulkily as he blew her a distracted kiss, immersed in the merriment.
‘And you better call me before you go to bed,’ Stevie called crossly over her shoulder, hoping this would give Henning a good excuse to use his mobile phone if he discovered anything. She noticed with a shiver that Dragoman’s eyes were on her, steady as beads. She hoped to death that her charade was as good as she thought it was.
The question in her mind, as she padded up the flight of carpeted stairs, was where would they take Anya? Would she join the merry party? It was unlikely. Heini seemed too distracted tonight . . .
Her phone vibrated like a bumble bee in her pocket. Henning.
‘Stevie. They’re sending for a nurse to drug Anya—“my niece is nervous of flying” and so on. They’ve got her in Heini’s rooms, I’m pretty sure. Heini’s planning to drive into Lichtenstein with her. I’m stuck here with them in the spa bath—well the lav, actually.’
‘Got that, Henning. I’m onto it.’ Stevie was suddenly full of dread.
‘Be careful, won’t you?’ she added, but he had already hung up.
A plan was forming as Stevie rushed down towards the medical centre located in the basement. All the drugs were locked up down there and reported in the register. Henning had noted it all on his visit.
David Rice always said, ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’ One’s imagination often dreamed up wild schemes but, without downplaying the ingenuity of many criminals and terrorists, it was often the simple, straightforward plan that worked: a shot to the head, a car bomb, a razor blade to the jugular.
Anyone heading upstairs from the nurses’ station had to pass through the sliding glass doors by the lift. Stevie positioned herself behind a display case that held souvenir t-shirts and bathrobes emblazoned with an enthusiastic Gesundheit in Hoffenschaffen! slogan, and lay in wait. The key to the cabinet hung on a small hook above her head. She pocketed it.
It wasn’t long before she heard a nurse’s trolley. Stevie stayed still until the nurse herself appeared, waiting for the lift, her back to Stevie. She had to be carrying Anya’s drugs—all the other guests were in the ballroom.
It was only the first time she had actually used it outside the training course, but the sleeper hold was surprisingly easy to execute and very effective. Standing behind the nurse, Stevie whipped her forearm around her narrow neck and pressed. She caught the woman as she went limp, then removed her white coat and hat and locked her in the display cabinet. She took off her feather gilet, smoothed her hair back and donned the nurse’s uniform. She wiped the excess makeup from her eyes. It would have to do.
Once in the lift, Stevie examined the clipboard on the trolley. It showed the room number, the name of the drug and the dosage: Midazolam 10 mg.
Stevie’s suspicions were confirmed. Midazolam was a strong sedative. It had similar effects to Rohypnol but, unlike Rohypnol, it could be injected. Ten milligrams would put a small girl like Anya out for at least four hours—and it only took a minute to take effect.
The drug was a perfect choice. With Midazolam, there was no danger of a drop in blood pressure so there was no need to monitor the patient’s vitals, and patients were able to breathe unassisted. Once drugged, Anya would be appear awake—rather stoned, but awake. She would not, however, be able to walk. But it meant that getting Anya safely out of the country would be simple: if anyone did notice her grogginess, it could be dismissed as drunkenness or food poisoning to anyone curious.
The Steinbock Room was Heini’s, and there was Sogol, standing at the door like a ginger bear, smoking a cigarette with his thumb and forefinger and picking his nose.
Stevie trundled towards him, a paper mask over her nose and mouth. She was counting on Sogol being as incurious as he looked. She could see the outline of a handgun under his jogging suit.
Sogol was expecting the nurse. He opened the door without a word and followed Stevie in, locking it behind him. He moved further into the room and then unlocked the bathroom door. He had, Stevie noted, left the key in the lock.
Anya was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, still in her velvet dress, shivering. Her eyes flashed with fear when the door opened, but Stevie was relieved to see that if Anya did recognise her eyes over the paper mask she gave no indication.
Stevie uncovered her metal tray and began to prepare the syringe. Fortunately
she had once taken care of a diabetic dog who needed insulin and so had become quite proficient at giving injections.
When Anya saw the needle she screamed and cowered further into the corner, shaking.
Sogol grunted. He thought it was funny.
Stevie turned to him. ‘I will need your assistance. Please hold the girl.’
Sogol went over and grabbed Anya’s arms, holding her still. Tears were pouring down the girl’s face.
Stevie uncapped the needle on the syringe and moved towards her. She took hold of Anya’s arm and carefully swabbed the fragile limb with alcohol. Then she gave the syringe a good flick and pressed the plunger a millimetre to make sure there were no air bubbles.
‘Please, stay very—’
Stevie’s hand moved like a wasp, the syringe jabbing Sogol right in the jugular vein like a vicious slap. She jammed the plunger down then ripped Anya from his surprised hands. Before Sogol could react, she had pushed the prisoner out of the bathroom door, sprinted out behind her, then locked it, kicking the key under the bed.
She heard Sogol roar and rush at the door, another crash against it—would it hold?—then a thunderous thud on the floor. The barbarian was out for the count.
Stevie ripped off her paper mask.
‘Run with me. We have no time.’
They pelted down the corridor, Anya barefoot, her evening dress ripped almost in two, Stevie dragging her by the wrist.
They reached the boot room on the ground floor, dark and empty at this time of night. Stevie dialled Henning.
‘Darling!’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Just having a quiet chat with the boys, sweetie.’ She knew he must still be with Heini and Dragoman. She would have to be careful.
‘It’s almost three!’ she protested loudly in case anyone could hear her end of the conversation through Henning’s phone. Then she whispered, ‘I’ve got her.’
‘I won’t be much longer, darling,’ Henning reassured her. ‘I hope you’re tucked up in bed.’
‘Boot room,’ Stevie whispered, then louder, ‘Where else would I be?! Car keys.’ Stevie needed to help Henning find an excuse to get away from the men. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she whined into the phone. ‘I need a pill.’
Henning sighed in exasperation. ‘Alright, my beauty. I’ll be right over with a nice sleepy cocktail for you.’
Stevie and Anya crouched in the darkness, their little hearts racing too fast to speak to each other.
A muffled thud-thud-thud seemed to come through the walls. At first Stevie thought it was her heart—or maybe Anya’s—then she realised it was the sound of chopper blades.
Who was landing in the pre-dawn, in the car park?
The door burst open and Henning raced in. He had the car keys in his hand. The three of them ran through the boot room and out of the external door.
Now they were in the frozen car park. They could see the helicopter hovering a few metres off the ground.
‘Maybe it’s guests arriving late . . .’ panted Stevie hopefully.
‘Then why don’t they have their lights on?’ Henning was right. The helicopter was not shining its landing lights. If it hadn’t been for the thunderous noise it might have gone unremarked. From inside the sanatorium, it probably had.
They ran for the Jaguar, Henning pulling Stevie, Stevie still holding Anya by the wrist. Fortunately Henning had insisted the car be left outdoors, under a cover, despite the frost and snow.
Stevie heard boots hit ice—men were running out of the hotel entrance. Dragoman’s men. They were carrying torches and guns. It wouldn’t be long before the three of them were found and the men wouldn’t be asking questions. Thank goodness for the helicopter—it had drawn their attention.
Obviously not one of theirs then, thought Stevie.
The fugitives stayed crouching by the parked car, Henning pulling the cover off, ready for a quick getaway.
‘Can we get in, Henning? Anya’s feet must be frozen.’
‘Afraid not—these blasted bippers make a hell of a noise, and even if I use the key, the lights go on automatically. We’ll glow like a Christmas tree.’
He took off his dinner jacket and put it around Anya’s shoulders. He gave his scarf to Stevie. ‘Wrap her feet in this.’
The helicopter was still hovering centimetres off the ground when the door opened and four men in black fatigues and heavy boots leapt out. In the semi-darkness, Stevie saw the clear outline of assault rifles.
Beside her, Henning muttered in a low voice, ‘SR-3 “Vikhr” compact assault rifles. We’re in trouble.’
‘What do you mean? Who are they?’ Stevie’s eyes were wide.
‘Russians,’ he whispered, eyes on the running men. ‘The SR-3 is used as a concealed weapon by the FSB, VIP protection teams, and other Russian state security operatives. It’s pretty much the same size and weight as most submachine guns but it fires much more potent, armour-piercing bullets.’
Stevie looked at Henning, surprised. ‘You know a lot about guns.’
Henning grinned in the dark. ‘I have an encyclopaedia of weapons— both volumes.’
Then Stevie remembered their conversation in The Boar about criminal tattoos; she realised she knew even less about Henning than she had thought.
‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘what are they doing here?’
The first man turned to shout something, and she recognised him immediately.
Dragoman had appeared, and was now standing prudently behind his men. He obviously recognised him, too. He drew, of all things, a golden gun.
‘Orlikov,’ Henning said.
‘You don’t think they’ve come to rescue Anya, do you?’
Henning shook his head. ‘The dead man obviously had a friend that Dragoman’s men never found.’
Orlikov and his men raised their guns.
Stevie nudged Henning. ‘What’s that one? It’s much bigger than the SR-3s.’ Henning squinted in concentration. ‘It’s an AKS-74U Shorty Assault Rifle—a relative of the Kalashnikov—with a silent fire device and silent underbarrel grenade launcher. I don’t think these chaps are going to be overly concerned with collateral damage.’
Orlikov’s men took out two of Dragoman’s guards with four shots, easy as ducks. In response, there was immediately a volley of gunfire from the others; Orlikov and his men took refuge behind a Hummer parked in the lot. Bullets zinged about like fireflies in the night.
Stevie, the words ‘grenade launcher’ turning in her head, shoved Anya under the Jaguar and prayed. Dragoman now ran back inside the castle, his shadow giving covering fire. The siege had begun.
Stevie put her mouth close to Henning’s ear so he could hear her over the deafening gunfire. ‘I say we wait until the shooting’s stopped and then we make a break for it,’ she said. ‘Orlikov’s men won’t be interested in us—they don’t even know we exist.’
Henning nodded. ‘Best thing if we could create a distraction for both teams . . .’
Stevie had an idea.
Quickly stripping off the white nurse’s coat she was still wearing over her evening clothes, she crumpled it into a ball.
‘Henning, give me your lighters—all of them.’
Henning pulled three cigarette lighters from his pockets and handed them to her.
‘Stay here. I’ll be back.’
Stevie took off, crawling through the gravelly snow on her hands and knees, heading for an old Mercedes on the other side of the lot.
There was more gunfire, bullets, breaking glass. It all sounded terribly random to Stevie and she hoped they would not be hit by a stray bullet.
What would Gunnar Gobb tell his guests in the morning, when all the damaged cars would be revealed? A plague of locusts perhaps . . .
she almost smiled at the thought.
Crouching by the rear wheel—petrol tank side—of the Mercedes, Stevie quickly drained the lighter fluid from two lighters into the balled-up fabric, then shoved it on the to
p of the wheel. She fired up the third of Henning’s lighters and set fire to the fabric. It burned slowly but steadily. Satisfied, she wriggled herself back to the parked Jaguar.
Suddenly it went quiet. The shooting had stopped. Stevie poked her head cautiously up over the bonnet and came face to face with one of Orlikov’s men. The man, with his boiled brown eyes, raised the tip of his gun and pointed it at Stevie’s forehead.
‘Ne dvygatsya.’
Stevie didn’t think she could have moved, even if she had wanted to. The grenade-launching Kalashnikov had snap-frozen her legs.
The man radioed in. ‘Got her.’
The hair rose on Stevie’s scalp. Got her? But they couldn’t have sent all these men after her, could they? What about Dragoman?
Then, to her horror, she saw the letters GROM under the man’s collar.
The Russian word for thunder, it also stood for the GROM Security Company, the Kremlin’s private army, manned by former KGB special forces soldiers of all kinds. They were a quasi-private organisation that served the federal government exclusively and were not bound by the constraints and laws of Russia’s official armed forces. They could be dispatched without the permission of the president.
GROM had been sent by the siloviki, there could be no doubt now. Stevie prayed Anya would have the sense to stay hidden where she was, and that Henning would stay with the girl. The order came back over the radio.
‘Kill her.’
Stevie had run out of time. Her eyes turned to the man’s gun.
On a Kalashnikov, the safety catch can’t be released while the finger is on the trigger. This meant a precious two seconds—finger off, release safety, reposition finger—before fire. Providing of course that the gunman has been trained to keep the safety on.
Stevie knew the PLO were, but Russian Spetsnaz—she could only hope.
Two seconds.
Her small body filled with adrenaline.
Before she could blink a huge ball of fire shot up into the night. The petrol tank, heated by the burning nurse’s uniform, had caught fire and the lovely Mercedes was incinerated in seconds.
The Troika Dolls Page 37
