The Troika Dolls (22 page)

Sun City, it turned out, was a solarium, a brand new facility, with twelve state-of-the-art machines, open twenty-four hours a day. The receptionist was a bubbly blonde in a tight white T-shirt. She looked more like an Ibizan club promoter than a Muscovite, but that was probably the idea.

It did feel slightly odd with the vibrant green astroturf, the giant plastic palms under the warm yellow lights, the upbeat house music, especially when outside it was midnight in Moscow, dark, dangerous and at least 40 degrees below zero. Stevie could see the appeal of Sun City.

‘
Vi Stevie?
’ The Ibizan clubber asked brightly. Stevie nodded.

‘Maxim wants to see you in the solarium.’

The blonde led her to the cubicles. Each housed a sun bed, the end one, two beds. The girl handed Stevie a pair of dark purple goggles.

‘You will be in this one.’ She indicated the sun bed closest to the door.

‘But I don’t really tan,’ Stevie began in protest. ‘You see how pale I am? I burn. Like toast.’

‘Everyone can tan,’ the girl beamed. ‘It’s all in the mind.’

‘Do you at least have some sunscreen?’

The girl looked at Stevie as if she were deranged but did pull out a bottle of SPF 10. Better than nothing.

‘Please,’ she handed Stevie the bottle, ‘no mobile phones.’

Stevie had pulled hers out and held up a finger. ‘
Adna minuta,
pozhaluista
,’ she said.

There was a text message waiting on it from Josie. The girl was a workaholic. She opened it:

Stevie: terrible photo. It took a miracle: Gregori Petrovitch Maraschenko—
on Interpol watch list. Known thug, several criminal
convictions, mainly assault and robbery. Suspected low-level links to
international crime figures.

International crime figures—that didn’t really narrow things down, especially not in Russia, but it did make it seem unlikely that Maraschenko was seeking influence over Kozkov’s banking reforms. So the question remained: what did he want with Anya?

Stevie erased the message and stepped into her cubicle. Hopefully Maxim would have something to tell her.

The things we do, thought Stevie as she stripped off, smeared on a thick layer of sun cream and climbed into the white plastic coffin. That’s what it felt like, a coffin.

‘Where’s Mr Krutchik?’ she asked, hoping she sounded casual.

‘He’ll be here in a minute.’ The girl set the timer and the dials on the machine and slowly lowered the lid. There was a loud clicking and strips of light came on above and below Stevie. A whirring started and warm air began to circulate through the machine. Stevie thought she had never before felt more like a chicken, roasting in a fan-forced oven.

I hope Maxim doesn’t take too long . . .

At first Stevie didn’t dare to open her eyes. Even with the thick purple goggles she was afraid they would burn. It was getting hot, a strange, electronic heat that had little to do with days lounging on the granite boulders of the Costa Smeralda, nor with the feel of the fine white sand of Australia’s southeastern beaches, nor even with the bright white sunshine that hit the striped deck chairs overlooking the lake of Zurich at the Eden Roc. She realised she longed for summer with every cell in her roasting body.

Over the noise of the machine, Stevie heard the door open, then close and lock. She prised an eyelid open but could see only bright light in various shades of purple.

‘
Slushaitye
.’ The man’s voice was quiet, but audible over the humming machines. ‘Listen. I am the friend of Henning who wishes to do him a favour. My name is Maxim.’

Stevie, naked under the lights, her eyes sealed by goggles, could only ignore how surreal the whole thing was and respond in kind.

‘I remember you, Maxim. I am Stevie.’

‘I know.’

There was a long silence. Stevie imagined Maxim was undressing, getting ready to tan. Sure enough, the lid to his electronic coffin soon creaked, and the motor started whirring.

‘There are two bodyguards outside the door,’ Maxim’s voice came slightly muffled now. ‘So you can tan in peace with no concern about interruptions. I like to talk here, Stevie, because I like to tan, and because the noise of these machines is at a particular frequency that makes it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop electronically. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh very, Maxim. Ingenious.’

‘I like to come here and pretend I am in St Tropez or Ibiza. Just for an hour. It is important to be tanned. It makes a man look vital, young and fertile. I can’t afford to have my enemies ever think I am weak or they strike. But mostly it is my vanity. I like to look good. Pale colours and gold jewellery always look better on tanned skin.’

Stevie suddenly felt like she might be at the beautician’s, having a pedicure and overhearing the conversation of the other women. She had to remind herself that Maxim—oh yes, she had done a little research on him the night after they had met—was certainly in a group that included the top twenty most wanted men in the world. Arms trafficking was his big deviance, but he sold anything to anyone regardless of politics, intent, allegiances or any other considerations. As a total privateer, he was free from any of the constraints of foreign policy or pretence of morality and he could do business with whomever could pay.

Possibly there were some members of democratic governments around the world who secretly envied Maxim this freedom, but this only made them want to catch him even more. And they had tried, many times. But each time they grounded a plane in Afghanistan, or the Congo, or any other godforsaken place rent by catastrophe, they had found nothing—a cargo of frozen chickens, an empty plane, ‘humanitarian relief’ supplies . . . Maxim was too clever.

He dealt in anything, legal and legitimate as well as illegal and immoral. It didn’t matter. Maxim did not pretend to try to distinguish between good and evil, and right and wrong. He stuck to what he knew—buying and selling, the demands of the market.

He was in his early forties and a billionaire a few times over. This empire had all been built since the fall of the USSR. Maxim was an extraordinary example of a global entrepreneur, if you admired him; a merchant of death, if you did not.

‘These machines are designed to give a perfect Mediterranean tan,’ Maxim was still on the subject.

Stevie didn’t quite know what to say. She was caught in a Moscow solarium at two o’clock in the morning with an international über-criminal and he wanted to discuss the quality of his tan.

‘How lovely,’ seemed appropriate.

Maxim switched to business with no warning. ‘I know who you work for, Stevie Duveen, I know what you do for Hazard Limited, and I know why you are in Moscow. None of this is of any concern to me.

But it is relevant in the service I wish to do you—or rather, my friend Henning.’

‘In that case, I will be equally frank.’ Stevie lay very still and kept her voice flat. ‘Do you know anything that can help me find Anya Kozkov?’

‘No. And I don’t wish to be involved in that matter.’

Stevie could hardly hide her frustration. ‘Then you can be of no help to me.’

The whirring on Stevie’s machine clicked to a halt. The lights in her sarcophagus went out. The perspiration covering her body chilled her.

Maxim continued unperturbed. ‘I believe your company has a certain interest in a pair of American actors: Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle, and their son, Clinton-Bill.’ Why, thought Stevie, did she suddenly feel as if she were being haunted by the Hammer-Belles?

‘Kennedy-Jack,’ she corrected cautiously. ‘Yes, go on please, Maxim.’

‘A Romanian kidnap gang may be planning to snatch them.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he came across this sort of information every day, which he probably did in his world. ‘The Romanians are getting a little bit more organised, a little bit more ambitious, spreading their wings, shall we say, into Western Europe. A few token security bears are no longer enough to put them off.’

‘This is useful information, Maxim. Can you tell me anything else?’

‘They want a target that will get a lot of publicity because they want to make a name for themselves.’ There was a note of scorn in Maxim’s voice. He obviously did not think much of Romanian kidnap gangs.

‘So this is a PR stunt for the Romanians?’

‘More or less. They will, of course, demand a lot of money but they may panic, especially when the CIA go after them. I fear things wouldn’t end well for your Americans.’

‘I’ve come up against them before,’ Stevie said slowly.

‘The Swarovskis. Yes, I read.’

She trod carefully. ‘Any ideas on how they might do it?’

‘I would be surprised if they planned anything very imaginative.

A nice road block, masked men with semi-automatics; that sort of thing brings them enjoyment.’ Maxim made it sound like the gang was planning a picnic by the river.

Stevie made a mental note: highly visible protection measures and heavy arms might be the thing.

‘Really, though,’ Maxim continued, ‘you should advise your clients to keep a low profile. The whole of Moscow knows, for example, that Miss Belle’s Hermes bag alone is worth over $65,000—my girlfriend reminds me often enough. Discretion is the best defence against kidnappers, a tactic I myself have adopted with rigour.’

‘Trust me, Maxim, I have tried. They’re not the type to do much quietly.’

‘Then I suppose they have to accept the consequences of the attention they seek.’

Neither spoke for some time, the dull whirring of Maxim’s sunbed filling the silence. Stevie was feeling very sleepy in hers, the ice outside all but forgotten. She gathered her courage before it too left her.

‘Maxim, are you sure you can tell me nothing about Anya Kozkov?’

There was an even longer silence.

Stevie took a deep breath. ‘Gregori Petrovitch Maraschenko. Do you know him?’

She heard Maxim’s sunbed stop, the man climb out. The lid on her bed was flung open.

Through her purple goggles she saw the giant bald mastermind, dressed only in a paper g-string. It would have been comical if the man hadn’t been so dangerous, and if the expression on his face hadn’t been so frightening.

Stevie forgot she was naked as he bent down and spoke in a low voice. ‘Why are you asking about him?’

Stevie wondered if she was about to say too much, but there were so few leads . . . ‘You know him. Please help me. I think he may be connected to Anya’s disappearance.’

Maxim opened a cupboard and pulled out a machine gun made of glass. He unscrewed the tip of the gun barrel and poured vodka into two glasses.

‘It’s a new vodka—called Kalashnikov. It’s very good.’ He handed Stevie a glass.

‘
Nazdarovye
’.

They drank.

‘He has a tattoo of a smiling cat,’ Stevie persisted.

Maxim closed the lid of his sunbed and restarted the whirring motor. ‘I know Maraschenko.’ He refilled the glasses. ‘He came to see me a few months ago. He said to me, “Maxim, I want to go into business for myself. I’m tired of doing dirty, two-bit jobs that lack any elegance. Half the time I just feel like a trained attack dog.” He said he knew he was better than that. I advised him he wouldn’t make serious money until he started to work for himself. But I warned him that there are responsibilities too, the vagaries of the market. These can be stressful.’

‘He wanted career advice from you?’ Stevie, perched on the edge of her sunbed, a slim pink arm slung across her chest, was attempting to hide both her breasts and her surprise.

Maxim flashed his teeth. ‘Why not? He felt his career prospects were at a dead end. He had been doing the same old stuff for years with no hope of promotion. He said it was depressing him, that he was an ambitious man, willing to work hard.’

‘Did he want you to hire him?’

Maxim shrugged. ‘I think he might have. He told me he saw how I had positioned myself at the sophisticated end of the market and he respected that. But I don’t need a new man.’

Maxim downed his vodka and reached for Stevie’s glass, refilling both again. ‘I felt a bit sad for him. Life is never easy for ageing thugs. I told him he needed to find a niche in the market. There are so many hit men today, two-rouble hoods with a gun selling themselves as professionals. Really, there should be some sort of accreditation to distinguish professionals from amateurs. It would certainly help employers.’

He sat back down. Stevie wished Maxim would lift his goggles and put a towel on. It would give her a chance to reach for a towel. She was beginning to feel acutely naked. But he didn’t move, and so neither did she.

‘I built my own reputation slowly and carefully as someone who can always be trusted and who can always get the job done, whatever it is. I’m sure it is the same in your work, Stevie, you will understand this. I’m not saying of course that competition is a bad thing. Competition is a good thing—it creates a real state of play. If you protect the industry, you get people who are no good at their jobs, or who are lazy, being given the same pay and opportunity as those who are very skilled and prepared to work hard. Everything goes downhill. If you are good, and you can provide what the market wants, word spreads. People will pay for a job well done. I told him, don’t fear competition.’

There was a long pause. Maxim drained his glass and turned his goggle-gaze to Stevie.

‘Maraschenko contacted me again a few days ago. He told me that he had taken my advice and that he had something to sell me, something very special—a young girl with a very important daddy. I didn’t want to know any more and I told him that. I don’t deal in people. It’s too messy.’

Stevie began to shiver with cold despite the tanning heat. It was an auction: Maraschenko was planning to sell Anya to the highest bidder. That was why he was waiting.

‘So,’ she swallowed, trying to keep her voice from cracking. ‘Who would Anya be most valuable to?’

‘Everyone wants to get Kozkov—except me!’ Maxim laughed.

‘The list is long.’

Stevie leaned forward, her voice smooth and persuasive. ‘Surely there is someone at the top of that list, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to take up an offer like Maraschenko’s.’