The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  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 . . .’

  ‘What about those two women over there,’ Stev
ie raised her chin in their direction. ‘The well-groomed women with the diamonds and the designer jeans . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sitting by the entrance, late twenties, early thirties, perfect hair— one’s blonde the other dark.’

  Paul darted a quick glance in the direction Stevie had indicated.

  ‘Oh yes. Their names are Tara and Tatiana—I’m not sure which is which.

  They come together every year: Swiss finishing school, jobs in London, up here husband-hunting every season. There are a few like them. They move their activities to the Riviera in summer.’

  ‘Is it that hard for them to “capture” these husbands?’ Stevie asked, amused. ‘They’re very attractive women . . . but I suppose love can elude anyone.’

  ‘They’re after a mega-rich husband, Stevie. They won’t look at anyone else.’

  The waiter brought the wine. Paul waited until he left the table

  before continuing. ‘Those girls want to be treated like princesses—literally to have everything done for them and be showered with expensive gifts and be flown around the world on a private jet. But the trouble is, the decent fellows can sense it and stay away. Those men are not flash enough for these girls anyway. The playboys and oligarchs who are like that, well, they want the eighteen-year-old supermodel from Vladivostok who looks stunning and is kept happy with furs and handbags.’ He took a small sip of his wine. ‘Why would those men want a demanding woman who is clearly after marriage, and whom they would see as past her use-by date anyway?’

  ‘That’s a rather awful way to put it, Paul.’

  ‘Perhaps I seem a bit harsh, but I see the girls ever year at the hotel. I see how they behave towards anyone who isn’t “someone” to them. Those women are the architects of their own unhappiness. I find it hard to feel sorry for them.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Paul, but in my experience matters of the heart are usually very complicated.’

  Stevie here was thinking acutely of her own confusion over men—Joss. Paul knew the whole story but was too tactful to bring it up directly.

  Paul took another careful sip of his wine and looked at Stevie.

  ‘Oh, I would agree with you on matters of the heart, but we are talking about matters of the wallet. Those are rarely complicated.’

  Stevie studied the women for a moment, noticed how their eyes darted to the door every time a new face walked in, the way they watched the room and not each other as they spoke. Paul was right.

  ‘So,’ Paul pressed his fingertips together, as was his habit. ‘What business brings you to St Moritz?’

  Stevie hesitated. Paul was an invaluable ally but she felt uncertain about disclosing the name of her clients, even to him. It wasn’t very professional.

  Paul smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll guess and we can talk hypothetically. That would be alright, wouldn’t it?’

  Stevie nodded, relieved.

  ‘So, my guess would be you are here to look after Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle, who are undoubtedly coming in for the polo and Yudorov’s party. I make this guess based on an article that was front page in our local village magazine last week that proudly announced these same facts.’

  ‘If you were right, Paul, I’d have to be on the look-out for all sorts of troublemakers, wouldn’t you say? After all that publicity?’

  Paul agreed. ‘Certainly anything that couple does makes a splash—especially in a small resort—and there are always people out to try to hitch a ride on someone else’s fame.’

  ‘Moths to the flame of fame.’ Stevie smiled. ‘That’s true. Perhaps there’s more truth to the description “cult of celebrity” than we realise.

  They have a lot of followers.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  Stevie thought once more about what a kind man Paul was. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open at the hotel, Paul. Even rumours can be useful, unusual arrivals or behaviour, and especially people who ask lots of questions about specific individuals. I’d be interested in hearing about them.’

  Paul turned the stem of his wine glass with delicate fingers. He seemed to be on the verge of telling Stevie something, his mouth opened then closed, his eyes left hers and sought the bread basket.

  ‘What is it, Paul?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I had something to tell you but it completely slipped my mind . . . old age I suppose!’ He laughed.

  Stevie shook her head. ‘Silly creature.’ Paul was not yet forty.

  Stevie slipped her key into the lock of her hotel-room door. She felt suddenly very tired and longed for the goose-down pillows and duvet that waited for her inside.

  As she walked through the door, she sniffed the air. It was a habit she had. You could always tell what had been going on in a room by its smell, even if there was no physical evidence. So she sniffed automatically, and stopped. Sniffed again.

  There was the distinct smell of cigarettes. Not of cigarette smoke, which could have wafted up from somewhere, but of nicotine. It was the scent of a heavy smoker. It was a hotel, maids came and went, it could easily have been one of them . . . but there was the tang of alcohol mixed with it, stale alcohol. Maids didn’t smell like that.

  Was someone in the room?

  Adrenaline pumped in and woke her right up. She could see the whole room from the door. It was empty.

  She peered through the crack between the hinges holding the door to the wall. No one behind the door.

  The bathroom door was open. She inched forward so that she could see the whole bathroom reflected in the large mirror.

  Empty.

  The base of the bed reached the floor. No one could fit under there.

  The closet.

  If anyone was in the room, the closet was the only place they could be. Stevie bent carefully and slipped her knife out of the special sheath on the inside of her boot. Its balanced weight in her hand gave her confidence.

  A maid passed by her open door and Stevie called out to her.

  ‘Excuse me, signorina. Would you do me a great favour and hang my coat in the closet? It weighs a tonne and I sprained my wrist on the ice earlier today.’ She spoke clearly, making sure her voice could be heard by anyone hiding in the room.

  ‘But of course.’ The young woman dutifully took Stevie’s coat from her. She headed for the closet, Stevie at her heels, the knife pointed and ready to be rammed, if necessary, into the shoulder of anyone hiding there.

  The maid flung the door back and hung the coat in the empty closet. She turned. ‘Is there anything else, signora?’

  Stevie quickly hid the knife behind her back. ‘No, thank you. Very helpful.’ She gave the girl a five-franc coin and closed the front door behind her.

  She was still certain someone had been in her room. The smell was all wrong. A burglar? It was unlikely—this was Switzerland. But you never knew . . .

  Stevie moved to her underwear drawer. She arranged her panties, bras and socks in a specific pattern every time she unpacked. To the casual observer it wouldn’t be noticeable, but she would immediately be able to tell if anyone had moved a thing. She opened her drawer.

  The pattern had been disturbed. Someone had searched it. She felt an icy shiver of fear.

  Could still be a curious maid, her reason reminded her, but she didn’t believe it. Like a cautious robot she drifted to the bathroom.

  The maid had done her room before she left for dinner. The bed was already turned down, the slippers in their place on the floor . . .

  But her nécessaire had definitely been touched. It had moved from the perfect position she had placed it in, carefully nestled under the shelf.

  It was slightly askew. Someone had searched her room and didn’t want her to know it. Who?

  She poured herself a whisky from the minibar, added a splash of water and sat back on the bed. The most likely answer was still a maid or maintenance worker—faulty light bulb or some such requiring attention. She rang down to housekeeping and was assured no one had been in an
d no maintenance work had been ordered.

  She put the phone down and sipped her drink.

  Could David Rice still have her under surveillance? It was possible, but would his men do a room search if they were just keeping an eye on her safety? Could it be someone who had seen her with the Kozkovs in Moscow? But whatever for? She was no longer involved. Her ineffectiveness in resolving the matter would surely protect her from interest.

  That left Yudorov’s security detail. His people would have had the skills to enter the room unnoticed, search invisibly (almost), and they had a motive. They might feel they needed to find out more about the Hammer-Belles’ ‘security overseer’ for their own protection: Was she who she claimed to be? Was she armed? Did she have any links to Yudorov’s enemies?

  Stevie felt a rush of anger and quickly shook it off. No point.

  Anger restricted consciousness and clouded thinking. As intrusive and rude as it was, Yudorov had to be cautious. He had a lot of enemies.

  Enormously rich Russians invariably did. Anyway, his spies wouldn’t have found much of interest.

  She had taken her knife with her. One passport was with the front desk, the other in her pocket. Her underwear, well perhaps that might have been of some interest . . . She smiled at the thought of thugs sniffing about her panty drawer, looking for dangerous secrets and contraband weapons.

  Let them look to their heart’s content. There was nothing to find.

  She checked that the front door was locked, jammed a chair under the handle for extra peace of mind and fell into a deep sleep.

  The phone rang at ten minutes past one, startling Stevie out of a dream about elves on a beach.

  ‘Hello?’ she croaked into the receiver.

  ‘Stevie, it’s Paul. I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought you might want to know sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Know what, Paul?’ Stevie was trying to shake the sleep from her mind.

  ‘Well, at dinner you asked me to tell you if anyone asked questions about specific individuals?’