The Troika Dolls (29 page)

Stevie flicked through the pages of the
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
. There was an article about some scientists in Poland who were heralding the coming of a new mini ice age. Many were publicly scoffing at their findings, saying they had it the wrong way around—that the planet was heating up—but looking out onto the glaciers, Stevie thought that the Europe she knew seemed only to be getting colder.

Another article, this time a scandal involving fake formula that had been imported from China and fed to babies in North Western Russia. Many had died as a result of malnutrition. The horror.

Stevie turned the page. It was too much to bear thinking about.

Another article, this time it was about the wildlife that was flourishing in the Dead Zone, after Chernobyl. The fact that no humans could live there due to the residual radiation meant the area had turned into a haven for all kinds of animals.

Stevie’s mind turned to The Man from Chernobyl. The accident had obviously changed Dragoman’s world. He had lost everything. In a way, she supposed, it must have shaped him or he wouldn’t have that nickname. She guessed April 1986 had probably shaped the lives of everyone who had lived through it.

The rocking motion of the train set her thoughts adrift as she stared at the blank white window. In a way, everyone became what they chose to be defined by: their manhood, an act of shame, of heroism, kindness, a humiliation, their mother’s country, the unfairness in their lives, an illness, their faith, an accident. In every person’s past and present and future, so many patchwork pieces were represented. As people chose to keep some things and to discard others, they set in motion a sorting process that gradually created their identities.

Tragedy and fortune weren’t distributed evenly through the world, Stevie thought; so few things were, not even sunlight. But in this way, while it wasn’t possible to change the past, it was possible to change the way it shaped us. Sometimes it was other people who branded us for easy consumption. The subtle patchwork disappeared, and we became one single, adjectival being: ‘poor Fatima’, ‘a strong man’, ‘a dark past’, ‘a good woman’. Perhaps sometimes it could seem like a comfort to have the burden of self-fashioning taken from our shoulders. The crude equation had then an equally crude answer that would satisfy a blunted mind: you are unhappy because—

But Stevie thought about how nothing was ever that simple, no matter how much we wanted it to be. The human mind had the power to create Heaven and Hell and all things in between. It was a gift and a burden, bestowed by God, the universe, by an accident of biology, to every person on the planet to use as they could.

Fortunately the conductor arrived to remind her that lunch was being served in the restaurant car and Stevie was able to turn her thoughts to the menu.

Over a
Bündnerteller
with pickles and a small carafe of red wine, Stevie read Josie’s notes on Alexander Nikolaievitch Yudorov and caught up on the Hammer-Belle situation.

11

The tea must have been
drugged—just like the first time, at GUM.

Anya woke in degrees, slipping and sliding reluctantly towards consciousness. She knew without opening her eyes that she was lying across the backseat of a car.

She was getting pretty good at knowing where she was without even opening her eyes. Although, since Gregori and Tamara had handed her on to these guys, she hadn’t been blindfolded. They had taken it off to photograph her and the flash had been so bright after all the days in the dark that she saw red suns in her eyelids for hours afterwards.

Anya couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing that she was no longer blindfolded. She liked being able to open her eyes, but was it ominous that the men didn’t mind if she saw their faces?

Not that being able to see around her had told her much. She had a picaresque impression of dark, deserted streets, a man with a fat, square face, the car stopping, starting, doors slamming—had she been locked into the boot at some point? And voices outside the car speaking in Ukranian?

She couldn’t trust her muddled senses. All she could think about was hearing her father’s voice on the phone, the concern in it, imagine his strained face. All the feelings and tears she had frozen deep in her heart for the last few days had rushed up to the surface and exploded.

She wept. The pictures in her head broke her heart over and over again.

All she wanted was to see her family again. Nothing else mattered— not glamour, not fame, not even music. Only love could fight terror and cold and death. It was as simple as that, and it had taken this nightmare for her to understand. Worst of all, her hope—so carefully nurtured and sustained so far—was ebbing away like water down a plughole.

Anya had no idea where Gregori and Tamara were, nor who these new people were, or where they were taking her. But she had clung to the thought that whoever was holding her prisoner wanted money from her father. It followed that once the ransom call had been made, her father would give them the money and it would all be over. But now it seemed that the nightmare was only just beginning.

The thing that frightened her most—if it were really possible to pick one single thing—was the growing certainty that she was no longer in Russia. She had been taken out of the country and she despaired that she would ever be found.

Happily, Yudorov’s chalet was a
stone’s throw from the Suvretta House Hotel and a room had been booked for Stevie there. Although the Suvretta was enormous—and rather fabulous in its own right—it was five minutes’ drive from the centre of town and less popular with the Euro flash/cash/trash set. They all preferred the more famous Palace Hotel in the centre of town, with its luxury boutiques and full-voltage visibility. While the guests at the Suvretta still came for the skiing, at the Palace, hair stylists, beauticians and shop assistants could hardly keep up with the demands of guests who were only interested in the
après
ski
—preferably without the ‘ski’.

Yudorov had insisted that there was no room for any but his own security staff—and twenty guests—in the chalet itself. This was probably wise, Stevie thought. Yudorov’s own people would be highly professional and carefully vetted. There could be no guaranteeing his guests had been as careful. Allowing them to have their own armed guards in the chalet would have been a serious security risk. Stevie would have made the same recommendation if she had been Yudorov’s risk assessor.

For Stevie’s mission objectives, it was a good beginning.

The Hammer-Belles were to arrive the following day by helicopter from Zurich, in time for the grand final match. The big bash was that night, and celebrations were due to carry on all week. In the meantime, Stevie planned to scout around to see what she could pick up about the goings-on in town.

Gossip travelled faster than news—and was often more reliable— in a resort like St Moritz. She had organised to have dinner at Chesa Veglia with the manager of the Palace, who happened to be a dear friend.

If anyone knew who was in town, doing what, and with whom, it was Paul.

They had arranged to meet at the Palace around seven for a drink. Stevie had a bath and dressed for work. Although dinner with Paul was pleasure, you never knew what waited around the corner and her assignment had officially begun. She had to be able to run or climb at a moment’s notice, but also to blend in perfectly with the local scene.

The two thousand francs David had given her had gone on a pair of butter-soft leather trousers, black and cut to sit on the hip bone.

It was money she should probably have spent on something sensible like printer cartridges, and she was feeling a little guilty. Neither her Swiss nor her Scottish heritage allowed for such extravagant impulse buys. Still, the trousers made her legs look like liquorice sticks and she couldn’t bring herself to regret them. An oversized cashmere rollneck in

charcoal went over thermals, then her old, fur-lined boots with unbeatable snow grip. Pearls. Rolex. Knife. Ready.

It was early but Stevie wanted time to wander about the lobby and the shops and re-familiarise herself with the layout. Sandy would most certainly want to visit the boutiques, Gucci, Bulgari, Hermes . . .

all quiet, not much to see.

Once or twice she stopped suddenly in front of a boutique, looking casually over her shoulder; she kept an eye on the mirrors inside the shops—Stevie couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. It had been with her since her meeting with Kirril Marijinsky at the Kronenhalle. Surely David Rice wasn’t still having her followed?

That would be absurd, and insulting. But if it wasn’t his men, who was it?

Probably no one. It was more than likely her still-shaken nerves from the shooting in Moscow.

She strolled on, past Swarovski, Dior, La Perla—the lingerie store was in an uproar. A gang of beautiful women were tearing the place apart.

Stevie walked in. She counted three, four, five rather stunning young women—no, wait, six, seven behind the bikini rack—filling their arms with lingerie. A huge pile already sat on the counter, a harried shop assistant doing her best to ring up the price tag on each exquisite, handmade undergarment. Her eyes shone feverishly. Doubtlessly she had never seen a day’s sales like it.

The girls spoke Russian, calling to each other, mostly not even bothering to try on the underwear but just adding it to the increasing mountain on the desk. They were all young, probably nineteen or twenty—pretty faces but not fashion models—with the killer bodies of dancers. They were not dressed for the snow: skin-tight jeans tucked into the tops of spike-heeled knee-high boots and tiny singlet tops, some wore micro-minis, even stilettos. For Stevie, standing there in

the middle of the shop, small and in flat-soled boots, it felt a bit like being caught in a feeding frenzy of flamingos.

Minutes later, having literally stripped the racks bare, the girls gaily produced massive wads of cash. The shop assistant’s eyes opened even wider. They left a pile of notes as thick as a dictionary at the register and swept out like a laughing hurricane.

Stevie was quick to follow. She watched them rush into Dior, giggling. One girl almost tripped in her heels with eagerness. They didn’t have the faces or the clothes of little rich girls, and they were far too easy with the money for it to be their own hard-earned cash.

Rich boyfriends, thought Stevie, bankrolling a shopping spree before the party tomorrow night . . . Very rich, she added, as she saw several trying on some evening gowns which cost well into the several thousands. She wondered who all these girls had come with.

Paul will know, she thought, and headed for the lobby.

‘They all arrived last night,’ said Paul, pressing the tips of his perfectly manicured fingers together. ‘The assistant manager was a little suspicious at first. The girls didn’t seem to know where they were— they hadn’t brought any luggage and they were dressed in very skimpy clothes, and no coats.’

The waiter brought a bottle of Roederer on ice. Paul opened it himself and poured two glasses. ‘It turns out they were guests of Alexander Nikolaievitch Yudorov. They said they were visiting some friends of his who have taken suites on the eighth floor.’ He arched an eyebrow.

‘They’re still visiting.’

Paul raised his glass. ‘It’s good to see you, Stevie.’

She smiled warmly at him. ‘It’s good to see you, Paul.’

Paul was one of the few gentle men she knew, soft-spoken, always perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place and smelling of Hermes orange blossom water. He was a very kind man and extremely good at his job.

‘The guests the girls are visiting are three gentlemen from Russia.’

His voice was smooth and low, impossible for anyone to overhear. ‘They were down earlier this afternoon in the shopping arcade. They bought watches and diamonds—all paid in cash. The shop had never seen anything like it, and they make a lot of sales. This is St Moritz.’

‘What are the staff saying?’

Paul leaned in discreetly. ‘The boutique owners love them; everyone else hates them. It is as you would imagine: rude in restaurants, rude to the maids, throwing money about . . . vulgar.’ He whispered the last word. Stevie kept her smile to herself—vulgarity was the worst offence in Paul’s well-bred eyes.

‘In any case,’ he sat back and neatly crossed his legs, ‘the Swiss authorities are keeping an eye on the situation but there is nothing illegal about all the girls in the suites, nor spending money. But I prefer to have them watched—for the safety and wellbeing of my other guests mainly.’

Stevie and Paul finished their
aperitif
and walked out into the night. The sky was heavy with cloud as they made their way through the old town. Chesa Veglia was an old farmhouse with simple food and a converted hayloft from where diners could watch the goings-on at the longer tables below.

Paul sighed as they were shown to their small table in the loft.

‘The Chesa will be ruined soon. Word has got around that Princess Caroline dined here twice last week and now the hordes all want to come. I’ve had fifteen requests for reservations today from people who would usually shun the pizza oven and bare wood walls of this place.

Ah, les temps changent.
’

Stevie took his hand and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Paul. It’s not forever. Your Russians are just the latest wave of wealth to hit Swiss shores. Don’t you remember the Arab boom? The Japanese? You said the same thing to me each time then. It’s people who change, not places. If everyone preserves what they hold dear, it won’t disappear.’

Paul shook his head mournfully. ‘Stevie, I think you underestimate the power of money to corrupt. These people come from a country where it is possible to buy everything—furs, diamonds, gold, guns, people, babies, the police. Nothing is priceless. They are exporting these values. That idea frightens me.’

They chose wood-fired pizzas from the menu and a bottle of Nebbiolo from Peimonte.

The restaurant was packed and Paul scanned it inconspicuously, pointing out to Stevie the faces he knew: ‘That’s the captain of the Blue Bulls polo team with his players. The large man at the end is the patron, he’s from Zurich, his wife is the tiny blonde in white jeans . . . The couple in motorcycle leathers are from Hamburg—he is in biotech, regulars at the Palace . . . That table is mostly Australians, very rich, all here for the polo and a bit of skiing . . .’