The Troika Dolls (33 page)

‘But they are not all as beautiful as you.’ Stevie became a honey-tongued seducer. What a reversal of roles, she thought to herself. ‘We thought maybe those two men you were with were your agents . . .’

The girl’s face darkened and she shook her head. ‘No. They are not good men.’

‘Why not?’

The girl scowled deeper and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette.

She lit it and blew smoke at the wall.

‘Look,’ Stevie leaned in a little. ‘Maybe I can help you. Tell me about those men . . . Who are they?’

The girl turned to Stevie and stared at her. Her eyes were huge in her small, heart-shaped face.

‘Fuck off.’ The bathroom door opened and she disappeared inside.

House music was pumping throughout
the chalet. A Moroccan DJ had been flown in from Les Bains in Paris and was working the decks from an alcove by the bar. One or two girls were dancing, but moving to show off their bodies rather than enjoy the music. The two men were still on the settee, entangled with the other girls.

Suddenly there was gunfire—three shots in rapid succession— then an explosion of some kind. They had come from the front of the house.

Stevie ran to KJ’s room, taking the stairs two at a time, and almost crashed into the immovable bulk of one of Yudorov’s security men.

Everything was quiet up here. The baby was sleeping.

Then more shots—four this time, one after the other. Stevie rushed to the balcony. Was the chalet under attack? The terrace below was filled with guests, drawn out by the noise. Stevie could smell gunpowder, see only darkness.

Another explosion rocked the night.

A burst of beautiful gold stars rained down on the silent snowfields in front, lighting up the valley. The crowd cheered as red, green, blue and orange rockets whistled into the sky and shattered into fiery flowers. Yudorov’s grand display would be seen all the way down the valley.

‘Maybe I do need a holiday,’ Stevie muttered under her breath.

‘This is ridiculous.’

She allowed herself to relax for a moment, taking in the spectacle of the coloured sparks turning the snow green, and gold, and then an eerie blood red with every shower burst.

In the crowd below, she could make out Yudorov, Amalia standing stiffly next to him, Douglas Hammer and Sandy, chatting to Arik ‘movie god’ Joel, Dovetail’s reassuring bulk behind them, and there were Tara and Tatiana in furs and spiked heels and incredibly luscious hair. They were paying no attention to the fireworks but rather had their eyes on the gaggle of young Russian girls who were standing next to them, completely delighted by the light show. Tara and Tatiana were looking them up and down with an air of disdain that could be felt all the way to the upper balcony.

Stevie shook her head. Everything was a calculation to girls like those two. They couldn’t live in the moment, nor did it look like they had a great capacity for pleasure.

Tara or Tatiana glanced at Yudorov, stepped closer to him. Amalia noticed but kept her attention on the fireworks. Maybe nothing made any difference to her anymore.

Stevie went back inside as the last fiery flower faded over the Engadine Valley. Her fingers and nose were frozen and she was shivering with cold. As she made her way down the stairs, her path was blocked by Joss.

‘Stevie,’ he cracked a beautiful smile. ‘I’ve missed you, girl.’

Stevie nervously tried to brush past. He had her by the arm, stopped her, kissed her on the mouth—that familiar warmth she hadn’t felt for so long. Her legs weakened.

‘Where’s Norah?’ She could hardly bring herself to say the name.

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.