The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  The Swiss ski breakfast is a triumph of human achievement: the Bircher müsli, that glorious mess of oats, grated apple and yoghurt; the mountain breads—the Walliserbrot, the potato bread, the rye loaves; the displays of mountain cheeses and air-dried meats; the strangely coloured vegetable juices that tasted worse the better they were for you, culminating in a bright green sludge that tasted like old socks and bitter cucumber. No doubt the elixir of life itself. How could anyone feel down when faced with this?

  Stevie took a small table by the window overlooking the soft white valley and ordered a pot of black coffee. Then she sauntered blithely to the buffet and chose a slice of thick black bread, an enormous slice of fresh, unsalted butter and a piece of Emmenthal cheese. She felt better already.

  The thermometer outside the lobby read –10 degrees Celsius. Stevie thought she had better take the necessary precautions: her biggest fur hat, her fullest goggles, with mirrored lenses and a bright red frame, her warmest ski gear—which happened to be an all-in-one by Jean-Claude Killy in canary yellow. She looked like a cockatoo.

  Busy with her boots in the ski room, she suddenly heard a voice over her shoulder.

  ‘So you decided to stay?’ The tall man from the dining hall was standing behind her, skis in hand.

  Stevie turned back to her boot buckles.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought maybe . . . but you look much more cheery this morning.’

  Stevie saw that his eyes were on her sunshine ski suit.

  ‘Well, just because circumstances have changed, it doesn’t mean my wardrobe has to.’

  ‘The colour is perfect. And my name is Henning.’

  ‘Stevie.’ They shook hands, then Stevie hurried off for the Weisshorn, the highest peak, determined to escape the advances of everyone in the hotel.

  And that was how Stevie had met Henning. They became co-conspirators that weekend, if not friends. He had cheered her admirably and without imposing on her and for that Stevie had been grateful.

  When everything had fallen apart not long after, Stevie found herself with a broken heart, puffy eyes, lunching in Zurich at the Kro-nenhalle and telling Henning everything over cucumber salad and Zürcher Geschnetzeltes mit Rösti. This gushing was most unlike her and she immediately regretted it. She apologised and explained that it was the first time she had been out since the abandonment. That’s what she called it, even though others might have used a different word.

  But Henning didn’t seem to mind and Stevie satisfied herself that Henning had no plans of seduction, at least not in the short term, and that he was probably a decent human being, one who travelled even more than she did and who made a habit of random acquaintances. Stevie was happy to be one of them for now.

  Still, flying to Moscow to see him on some secret mission was almost certainly unwise. If Charlie hadn’t unsettled her so with his talk of Joss proposing to Norah Wolfe, if she hadn’t seen his face on every bus stop posing next to the fashion star, she may not have gone at all.

  But she wasn’t ready to face the memories all over again—not yet. So, feeling like a coward for the second time that day, she had fled.

  A few days in Moscow would be enough for her to gather her courage and return to her responsibilities. She would do the assessment for Henning as a favour then she would go home to her flat in Zurich, surrounded by thick woods, where she could safely hide from the world until David Rice called her back to London.

  ______________

  Thank heavens Henning came to collect her himself from Sherme-tyevo. Moscow’s airport was a battleground, predictably grim at passport control, with interminable forms asking in-coming passengers to list any electronic goods, cash, recording devices and so on in their possession. An accumulation of previous visits had taught Stevie to just answer Nyet to everything. The forms were relics from the time of the Iron Curtain; no one at customs was interested anymore. Nor do they smile, ever.

  The arrivals hall was filled with jostling men in leather jackets, fur hats and cheap shoes—touts, thugs, taxi drivers, impossible to tell apart. Henning was waiting near the automatic doors, ready to seize her before anybody else could.

  ‘Dobri vyecher, stranger.’

  ‘Henning!’ She kissed him hello on his freshly shaven cheeks. He swooped on her bag, put a protective arm around her shoulders—it might have gone around twice had she not been wearing her coat—and bustled her through the crowd of men.

  Sensibly he had chosen a dirty black Lada—a crappy Soviet-made car that was as indistinguishable as it was unreliable. No one would steal it, follow it, or even bother to notice it. When Stevie stepped out into the car park, the icy brown slush rose above her tiny booted ankle. The air had the faintly sour smell of Russia.

  ‘Welcome to Moscow.’

  ‘I didn’t think I would be back so soon.’

  The car windows were filthy from the dirty snow mist sprayed up by the traffic. Night had settled and a fog was creeping in. Only the tail-lights of the other cars, glowing red, and the fuzzy neon of the casino at Pushkinskaya were bright in the gloom.

  They crept down Tverskaya Yamskaya, one of the main boulevards of Moscow. Wide and straight, they seemed to go on forever.

  ‘I’ve booked you into the Metropole. It’s not far from the Kozkov’s flat—I’m staying with them.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you very much. That’s kind of you.’ Stevie was always formal when she was feeling shy. She noticed Henning hide a smile— something was amusing him.

  Stevie considered his profile. It was quite handsome, if you liked the tall and slightly scary type: strong nose—well, big actually, but it suited him—a square jaw, narrow eyes of a piercing glacier-ice blue. They made Stevie think of a chink of mountain sky. He should stop smirking at her, though.

  He was wearing his herringbone overcoat and a tomato-red scarf. ‘You look rather dashing in your Henningbone,’ she teased.

  ‘Just trying to keep up with you, Stevie, with all your fluff and pearls.’ He meant her coat and hat. Both were steel-grey astrakhan, her hat pillbox style, but generous enough to cover the tips of her ears; the coat was tulip-cut, with full sleeves that ended above the wrist, leaving room for a length of wrist encased in black suede gloves. Around her neck she wore four strands of pearls, her great-grandmother’s legacy. They never came off, not even in the bath.

  ‘Henning, I feel like a bit of a cheat coming all the way here and meeting the Kozkovs. I’m guessing there’s something you’re not telling me, and, well, whatever it is, you can forget it now. I will do an assessment for them, but that’s it. Hazard have strict protocols.’

  ‘Just talk to the family. See what you think after you meet them.’

  ‘It won’t change a thing, Henning.’

  The Kozkov residence was on the top floor in a huge, Soviet-style residential block. Like all the other blocks in the street, the common entrance was off the main street, via a number code in the wall that opened double steel doors painted in tatty black.

  Another code opened similar doors just inside—this time made of wood—that gave onto a warm and gloomy marble foyer, with a grid of metal mailboxes and a large lift cage. Everything was bathed in a yellow-greenish light that seemed to produce a thick, obfuscating glow rather than illuminate anything.

  The front door of the flat was a double door padded in leather. Like the ones downstairs, it was backed in steel and gave onto a second steel door. This was the standard residential fortress of the average Muscovite.

  Stevie noticed a water bowl. So the Kozkovs had a dog. That was certainly helpful in terms of personal security. So were the double doors.

  These buildings were all designed with a back entrance that led to a lane or courtyard for communal rubbish bins, coal scuttles and the like. The back doors were also steel and armed with codes.

  The high crime levels in Moscow meant that basic levels of home security were quite good. It also meant that other residents would be afraid for th
eir own safety as well and unlikely to let any strangers into the foyer.

  The disadvantage was that these flats almost certainly had only one way out. It was a legacy of the sub-divisions that had taken place after the fall of communism and people had decided that they might rather like their own bathrooms and kitchens and personal space. Connecting doors had been walled up.

  By the time any attackers got to the front door, the inhabitants would be trapped. Only a built-in ‘panic room’ could be of use then. This was a secure room with a steel door and impenetrable walls. It was usually stocked with a satellite phone or transmitter, food, water and a first-aid kit. It had its own air and light supply so these could not be contaminated or shut off by the invaders.

  A panic room was designed so the people in the house could survive an attack long enough to be rescued from the outside. Stevie frequently offered them as a home security option for clients, but she herself hated the idea of using one.

  Rats in a trap, waiting for the cat’s paw.

  Irina Kozkov answered the front door. She was as attractive as a cat: high, wide cheekbones pushing up under navy-blue eyes. Stevie didn’t think it was possible for eyes to be that colour. Her skin had a waxy, slightly yellow quality shared by many Russians, but it was tight and flawless. Irina was dressed in the classic Moscow look: tight blue jeans tucked into high-heeled suede boots trimmed with black fur, thin gold belt, tight black cardigan in cashmere, the neck also trimmed in fur.

  Discreet yellow diamonds twinkled at her ears, neck and on her fingers.

  ‘Dobri vyecher.’ Irina kissed Henning, then greeted Stevie. Irina’s tiny hand was freezing despite the warmth inside.

  She led them into a well-furnished sitting room. Silently Irina filled tea glasses from a samovar that bubbled in the corner.

  Samovars were a brilliant invention, Stevie thought. They were essentially a large urn that held constantly boiling water. A fixture in homes across Russia and Central Asia, they were usually elaborately decorated. This one was delicately painted with a winter scene from a Russian folk tale: wolves chasing a sleigh. The delicate painter’s brush had picked out fear in the faces of two women as they turned to face the wolves.

  Stevie watched as Irina dropped clear golden sugar-rocks into each glass and handed them around. She moved rather robotically for such an attractive woman; her eyes seemed almost dead. Stevie wondered if she was stoned.

  Irina handed her a silver cigarette box. It was the only communication she was offering at the moment. Stevie accepted and lit one, grateful for the distraction. Henning was seated on the red flock sofa, carefully stirring his tea.

  Music—Tchaikovsky’s 5th symphony—was playing softly in the background. Nobody spoke.

  Stevie glanced around the room. The side table near the window held framed photos of the family. Irina and her husband, caught in laughter. Had something horrible happened to Irina to dull those extraordinary eyes?

  In the next frame, two children, a boy and a girl—teenagers Stevie guessed—stood in front of a birch forest. It was summer. The sun was behind them and lit their blond hair like halos. They were good-looking children. The flower of Russian youth, the pre-constructed phrase offered itself to Stevie.

  Suddenly, under the music, Stevie heard shouting. The voice was muffled by walls and doors, but it was clearly male and angry. She couldn’t quite work out what— Then a second voice, not as loud but obviously not calm, overlapped it. Henning rose quickly to his feet.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with an exasperated smile aimed at no one in particular. ‘That will be Vadim and his father. Arguing again.’ He left the room.

  The shouting stopped abruptly.

  Irina still hadn’t moved.

  This was getting stranger with every minute. Stevie couldn’t bring herself to break the silence. After a few moments she heard steps in the hall. Henning returned with Valery Kozkov. The head of the Russian Central Bank, the bravest man in Russia, did not look the part.

  ‘Stevie Duveen,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘I am pleased you could come.’ He spoke in English, accented but fluent. He was not a tall man, plump but not fat—just covered enough to pad any hard edges.

  He took Stevie’s hand in both of his. They were warm and dry; his watery blue eyes soft and rimmed with red. This was a man who had not slept for nights, a gentle man, unassuming and unpresuming. Stevie liked him immediately.

  Damn Henning.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet you Valery Nikolayevitch.’ Stevie used Kozkov’s patronymic—glad she remembered it.

  Stevie had replied in English too, not in Russian, because that would have suggested that she did not think Kozkov’s English was as good as her Russian. It was most certainly better than her efforts. While she spoke Russian fluently, her accent was poor, as it was in any of the languages she spoke. Come to think of it, even her English was accented, although with what she had no idea . . .

  It was the probable result of having no native tongue. Asked to pick one, she would have chosen English, but she had learned that language from her Scottish father, Lockie. It had taken a few years of English and international schools to prune the burr down.

  Stevie’s real mother-tongue was a mixture of Italian, French and Farsi—her grandmother Didi had spent her childhood in Persia and she passed to Stevie the childhood songs and games and stories that had stayed with her. For much of her childhood, Stevie thought it was all one language.

  She spoke Italian with a French accent, Farsi with an Italian one, and French with a Persian twang. Her English was faintly Scottish. German and Swiss German came from growing up in Switzerland; Spanish she’d picked up along the way. She had studied Russian at Oxford. These three languages she spoke with an English accent. Nowhere in the world, as fluent as her sentences were, would Stevie have passed as a native.

  ‘An honour? Surely not.’ Valery Kozkov took tea from his automatic wife and was now sitting beside her, directly opposite Stevie.

  ‘It takes enormous courage to do what you are doing.’ Stevie wanted to get to the point fast, leave as little room for false premises as possible. ‘You have put yourself in a very dangerous position.’

  ‘In Russia today we live with illegal advantage,’ he began softly. ‘It is easier and more profitable to ignore the rules than to abide by them. Illegality is the norm, legality the unaffordable luxury for most people. It is this equation that I am trying to change. When breaking the law becomes too risky and expensive, people will naturally begin to live by it. Confidence will return. That is what I work for.’

  A tall boy, about eighteen, blond and wax-pale, appeared in the doorway. He stared at Stevie. His big, blue eyes were not as dark as his mother’s but Stevie recognised the Kozkovs’ son from the birch-wood photo. He had changed much since then. Framed by the dark hallway he could almost have been a ghost. Kozkov turned his head, sensing him.

  ‘Vadim!’ The boy shifted his eyes to his father.

  ‘What fine speeches you make, father. What principles you have. If only you could be such a strong hero for your family.’ Vadim’s voice was quiet, hoarse, bitter. Not at all the voice Stevie had expected would come from a man so young. It surprised her.

  ‘Come and sit with us, Vadim,’ his father urged. But the boy vanished back into the hall. Irina got up and slowly went after him, the tap of her heels fading into the darkness.

  The music had stopped and the loud ticking clock took over. Kozkov seemed lost in thoughts that were taking him far from the sitting room. Stevie shot a questioning look at Henning but he avoided her eyes.

  The clock struck nine. Nobody seemed about to move and Stevie was crumbling with hunger. She began to assess what she had seen of the Kozkov family’s situation so far: There was a passivity in the house, a frozen silence, that was all wrong. The room held the world’s biggest elephant and no one wanted to mention it.

  Usually, one of the biggest hurdles Stevie faced was getting a new client to accept that real danger existed�
��at least until something frightening happened to them. By signing a contract with Hazard Limited, they were getting themselves over that first difficult psychological barrier.

  Kozkov’s position at the bank entitled him to armed protection twenty-four hours a day, paid for by the state. This would have included being chauffeured everywhere in an armour-plated limousine, and being shadowed by bodyguards. From her readings about him, Stevie knew he refused these offers, always had. He moved about with only an unarmed driver. But Kozkov was aware of the dangers. They had escalated recently due specifically to his tough new stance with the Russian banks over money laundering.

  Stevie remembered his sudden public announcement. It had had the clarity of purpose of someone who actually plans to do something: banks were very important to the economy, he’d explained. People needed to be confident that their money was in safe hands or it would remain wedged firmly under the bed. No confidence meant fear, and fear meant a lack of investment. The banks had to operate transparently; the money laundering would have to stop.

  Money laundering is all about concealing the source of illegally earned cash—washing dirty money—and there are many ways to do it. One way is to set up shell companies that channel tainted cash through legitimate, high-cash operations, and then back to the first owner, therefore hiding where the original money came from, rendering it effectively clean.

  While banks did not always know they were laundering money, in the past many had turned a blind eye to funds they knew to be dirty.

  In the UK, the Proceeds of Crime Act had been designed to stop this; in the US, it was the Money Laundering Act. Kozkov was trying to bring the same degree of scrutiny and severity to a far more lawless banking environment.

  He started out by imposing crippling fines on all banks caught laundering money, and then by seizing any profits made from the illegal money. While this was a very public statement that laundering was not acceptable behaviour, the banks kept operating, the paper trails too well obscured. So Kozkov began to shut any bank caught acting illegally, but still the banks refused to die. They just popped up under different names. He then decreed that anyone caught laundering money would be banned from the banking industry for life.