Stevie was suddenly wide awake. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was talking to one of my receptionists, Evi, who has just finished her shift. I mentioned that she should keep a lookout for anyone making detailed inquiries about our guests or other high-profile personalities in town—nothing serious, just passing the word around.’
‘Good thinking, Paul, but who was asking?’
‘One of the Russians who is staying in the suites on the eighth floor, name of Sergei Lazarev.’
‘The ones with all the girls?’
‘Exactly. Evi speaks some Russian and Mr Lazarev approached her and handed her two hundred francs. Apparently he wanted to know if the Hammer-Belles were going to be at the polo. He said he was a big fan of theirs. Evi refused the money of course and told him she was, unfortunately, unaware of the names of the invitees.’
Stevie felt a rush of adrenaline.
‘Please, Paul, can you scan Lazarev’s passport photo and send it to me?’
‘I’ll do it now.’
Stevie re-examined Lazarev’s portrait over breakfast, committing the face to memory: rectangular with pale, pitted skin; short dark hair.
Nothing remarkable, except that the ears had unusually large and fleshy lobes.
Stevie had sent the picture to Josie last night with instructions to find out what she could. Whoever this man was, he wouldn’t get near the couple, Owen Dovetail would make certain of that.
Stevie poured a cup of scalding black coffee and dipped a slither of burnt toast into her boiled egg. She hoped she would find the time to catch up on a little sleep before Yudorov’s party that night. It would not be the sort of affair that finished before dawn and she would have to be alert.
The polo match, the grand final of the Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow, was to take place on the frozen surface of Lake St Moritz, at the foot of the village.
Tents for the horses and spectator marquees were already humming with organisers, grooms, sponsors and security. The excitement, always high during the four-day tournament, was at its most feverish.
The day was grey and icy but completely still. Stevie had dressed in her leather trousers and she was grateful for their warmth.
The spectators began to arrive, some in their own cars, the more important ones in chauffeured Maybach limousines. Standing by the field, Stevie pulled out her mini-binoculars—always useful for impromptu safaris, or the opera—and scanned the faces. Growing cold, she decided to walk the venue, glad for the chance to get her bearings before the crowds arrived.
There was only one exit for vehicles and that was manned by the Kantonspolizei. The venue was open but largely inaccessible due to the vast frozen lake it sat on. Any approach was very clearly visible and would draw attention.
If anything were being planned, she guessed it would happen in amongst the crowds. This would prevent the police or security
from firing a gun or getting a clear view. The most dangerous time was during arrival and departure, when arrangements were in flux.
As the couple was arriving by helicopter, straight onto the grounds, Stevie guessed it was more likely that an attempt would be made on departure. She would make sure Dovetail had confirmed independent transport to Yudorov’s chalet. The chauffeured limousines were a security risk.
Stevie stood and watched for a moment as the polo ponies in their heavy blankets were led around by grooms in thick jackets, hats and scarves. It must feel fantastic to gallop through the snow, she thought, a bit like riding in the soft sand.
At ten past ten the heavy thudding of rotor blades up the valley announced the arrival of the Hammer-Belles. The helicopter hovered over the car park, the downdraft creating a blizzard of snow and freezing air that blasted the waiting press that had gathered like flies behind the security cordon. Stevie shielded her eyes.
Out jumped Owen Dovetail. Stevie was extremely glad to see him. Nothing bad could happen when the sturdy Welshman was on the case. He was highly competent, utterly dedicated and she trusted him with her life.
A second man leapt out. He was quite stocky—huge in fact— wearing wraparound sunglasses and head-to-toe camouflage. He looked like an action-man figurine. Stevie assumed this was the Hammer-Belles’ own man. He held up his hand to help Sandy out of the cabin.
The starlet emerged in a starburst of flashbulbs. She was dressed from head to toe in honey colour, from her spike-heeled knee-high boots, to her suede trousers to her swathes of cashmere, her honey-tinted lenses, her honey-coloured tan, even her hair had been dyed a honey shade of blonde. The effect was quite striking.
She waved to the gathered crowds and stepped slowly down from the helicopter, the blades having been stopped in deference to her
expensive coiffure. She stopped and stood waving at the crowds, the photographers. Dovetail stalked the crowds with his eyes, the only pair not looking at Sandy in that moment.
Douglas Hammer came up and stood beside her. He, too, was glowing with good looks, his skin the same honey colour as Sandy’s, his hair a little blonder, dressed in a long camel overcoat, a chocolate scarf and mirrored sunglasses.
After him alighted the manny, the male nanny Stevie remembered from her first meeting with the couple. He was carrying a large honey-coloured bag lined in fur. Had they left Kennedy-Jack at home? Then why was the manny with them?
Stevie showed the action man the marquee where the Hammer-Belles were to be hosted and he set about opening a corridor in the crowd for his charges to walk through. Although the spectators turned to look, no one mobbed the Hammer-Belles, no one approached them, most turned then went back to the cars or horses moving about the grounds.
So far the security situation appeared to be pretty straightforward.
Stevie approached the manny.
‘Where is—’ she began, but stopped abruptly when she heard a tiny sneeze, an unmistakable baby sneeze. Then another. They were coming from the fur bag. Stevie looked closely and saw it was a baby carrier of some kind and deep inside it, almost hidden in all the fur, was the Hammer-Belle baby. That made three.
Yudorov’s marquee took polo spectatorship to a new level. Stevie had never seen anything quite like it. It was the biggest of all the marquees and would have comfortably held three hundred guests. At one end, there was a huge bar carved entirely out of ice. Dotted about in that ice
were stems of orchids, in all strange and gorgeous shapes, and different colours. Shot glasses made of ice were filled with vodka, slammed down the throat and crushed underfoot, where, on the warm red carpet, they melted to nothing. A huge bowl of caviar stood at one end of the bar, also carved out of ice, a silver ladle for serving.
From the tented roof hung six chandeliers, their crystal baubles suspended above the guests like icicles. At the other end of the tent was the most enormous harp Stevie had ever seen, and on a stool beside it, the tiniest harp player, her long dark hair threaded into a plait that reached past her waist.
Trays of food were being handed around—crabs claws, sushi, steamed dumplings on spoons—the variety seemed endless. All the waiters, Stevie realised with a start, were dwarves dressed in traditional Swiss costume: embroidered shirts in red and blue, matching embroidered skull caps and black velvet knickerbockers. They made the whole scene seem faintly surreal.
Where was Yudorov? He would want to greet his famous guests.
Stevie looked for the thickest clump of security men . . . There. The host himself was wearing a rust-coloured fur jacket and sharply pointed python-skin cowboy boots in the same colour. He was hatless and smoking a cigar, giving Stevie a clear view of his round face, topped with fine gingery hair, and his piercing blue eyes, also perfectly round. His wife, Amalia, was by his side, a tiny woman with perfect black hair in a huge, black fur bomber jacket from under which poked tiny, denim-clad twigs. She looked—and her sharp face only added to the impression— rather like an exotic breed of chicken.
Stevie knew from Josie’s notes that Amalia rarely left London, while Yudoro
v was constantly travelling. Everyone knew, presumably including the wife, that he had girlfriends galore and none of them over twenty-two. He caught sight of the Hammer-Belles. Sandy gave a little wave.
‘Yoo-–hoo,’ she cooed as he made his way over to them and kissed Sandy’s hand.
‘Welcome to my tent!’ He clapped Douglas on the back and ushered them over to where he had been standing. The match was about to begin.
The side of the marquee was rolled up so guests could actually watch the match, although many seemed totally uninterested.
The captain of Yudorov’s team—renamed the Blue Bears—had a ten-goal handicap, the team a twenty-goal handicap between them.
Yudorov would, Stevie thought, be feeling confident of winning against the red team, led by rogue Australian Jack ‘Ruki’ Baillieu with his eight-goal handicap. Stevie had, however, seen Ruki play enough times to know he was a wild card that could turn the game in an instant.
The first chukka started and the horses raced around the field at unbelievable speed, especially given that they were galloping on snow and ice. Stevie had seen the grooms shoeing them earlier—huge iron shoes with metal spikes to give the horses grip.
The ball was large and fiery orange, easy to see in the snow, but the oddest thing was the silence. The thud of hooves was muted to almost nothing, even the thwacking mallets, the cries, were distant and muffled. The red and blue jerseys of the players stood out brightly against the grey day and the air in the valley was as still as a crypt.
Sandy and Douglas watched with some interest for a few minutes then Sandy’s eyes began to wander over the other guests. There were some rich pickings: Prince Albert of Monaco was there with two black girls, both beautiful; the youngest of the Agnelli family—fresh from rehab in Arizona—and his sister were by the bar; the captain of the English football team was talking to his hairdresser—or at least Stevie thought it was his hairdresser—yes, there, the man was tousling up the captain’s fringe: hairdresser.
Nadia Swarovski was there with her lover—a different one to the
one who was kidnapped the year before. She had obviously moved on.
There was Arik Joel over by the harp, head of the biggest movie studio in the world. Sandy hadn’t spotted him yet . . . and Melania Fourguet-Thomas, the much-married cosmetics queen from Belgium feeding her three Shihtzus (dressed in matching sheepskin coats) yellowfin tuna sashimi from ceramic spoons. There was a sheikh in his Saudi robes surrounded by young men in dark suits and eyebrows, and the Crown Prince and Princess of Greece were mingling with all five of their children.
Stevie felt him before she even saw him. She recognised the faded jacket in the middle of the finery: the frayed collar, the dark, curling hair. Panic and horror and a terrible thrill hit her—all mixed together— in a blast. It was amazing what the sight of the back of a head could do.
She felt suddenly sick.
There was a tug at her sleeve. A dwarf was offering her a glass of schnapps, painted with Yudorov’s face. She downed it in two large but discreet sips and felt a little better. Her hands, she noticed with much dismay, were trembling.
She prayed he did not notice her . . . he seemed absorbed in passionate conversation with Marvin Blackwaller, head of a media conglomerate. Stevie slipped further behind Sandy and removed her eyes from his back.
The harp player was wonderful.
‘Hello you,’ said the voice.
Stevie had to look up. Joss Carey was standing in front of her, smiling.
The unmistakable smell of him hit her—the linseed oil, the turpentine, old leather—and she felt her heart knock itself against her ribcage, as if wanting to commit suicide.
Don’t be ridiculous, Stevie. Handle this.
The accepted thing was to return the smile, to greet him, to ignore
the cruel things that had been said, done, as if it had all happened to another girl in another lifetime.
‘How lovely . . .’ Stevie replied vaguely, her smile watery. Still on autopilot, she kissed him on both cheeks.
The accepted thing was to show that he had meant nothing to her, just as she had meant nothing to him.
But that was a lie. How could she be indifferent?
‘I didn’t know you were a friend of Yudorov’s,’ she continued.
‘I’m here with Charlie.’
Stevie stared into her ex-lover’s face. He seemed so sure she would be happy to see him; his eyes were so guilt-free. Was this, too, an act?
She didn’t think so.
‘Oh. Well, say hello to him for me.’ She smiled again, but what she really wanted to do was stab Joss with an ice pick.
Fortunately, Sandy’s eyes suddenly seized upon HRH the Crown Princess of Greece, Marie-Chantal. ‘Oh,’ she beamed at Stevie, who was standing at her elbow. ‘I simply must say hello to the Princess of Greece.’ She headed off, then turned back. ‘Wait! Where’s KJ—give me KJ!’
The manny pulled the sleeping baby from the fur bag and handed him over to his mother.
‘She’s just going to love him—look at the cheeks!’ squealed Sandy.
‘How could you not!’
Sandy resumed her course for the princess, the minder close at her heels. She waved him away. ‘Marie-Chantal doesn’t have her bodyguards, I won’t have mine. It’s not like I’m going far!’
Stevie left all thoughts of Joss and sought Dovetail’s eye. He was watching Sandy very carefully but stayed put.
Stevie headed off cautiously, using her small size to her advantage in a room full of enormous sunglasses, huge coats and big egos.
She heard Sandy exclaiming, ‘Oh isn’t it just the most rewarding
thing you can do, Marie-–Chantal, be a mother? I just love it! And you have five—how fortunate!’ Sandy was all honey-coloured wattage. ‘I simply can’t wait to get pregnant again!’
It was amazing to watch Sandy shed skins, thought Stevie. Maybe that was what made a good actor, inconsistence of personality and an intuitive sense of character—the ability to completely leave yourself behind. In two minutes, Sandy had become a glowing mother, basking in the inner satisfaction of staying at home to raise her child. It was, of course, an imaginary Sandy she was playing, but it was beautifully and convincingly done.
One of the few paparazzi who had been allowed into the tent stepped over and politely asked if he could photograph the two mothers with their children. Sandy blushed—she actually blushed—and reluctantly agreed. The two women stood with their heads together and showed their perfect teeth.
Stevie stood to one side and scanned the faces on either side of the paparazzo, as she had seen Dovetail do hundreds of times: mildly interested spectators, another photographer coming in for a photo of her own. As a risk assessor, these situations made her nervous. Too many variables.
Sandy was holding KJ up to the photographer. Everything seemed to be fine—and then something caught Stevie’s eye. It was a quarter profile, a long jaw, a large, fleshy ear lobe.
A quick stab of fear she couldn’t place. A warning. And then she saw the whole face, watching. It was Sergei Lazarev.
He was dressed in an Austrian Loden and a grey mountaineer’s hat, complete with feathers, that looked out of place with his very Eastern European features. His hand rested on a wooden walking stick, common among the Wanderer—Swiss hiker—set. It was decorated with the numerous metal souvenir badges that mountain walkers are so fond of. He was staring at Sandy.
What was he up to? Stevie moved closer to Sandy and saw Lazarev do the same.
Dovetail’s view was momentarily blocked by the Princess’s head.
Instinctively, Stevie stepped up right next to Sandy. Lazarev disappeared behind the photographer for a moment—where the devil was the man?—then suddenly he appeared, pushing violently past, knocking the photographer to the floor.
Quick as the bird she was, Stevie leapt in front of Sandy and KJ, shoving them behind her with one arm. The man hurtled forward, knocking into Stevie like a
drunk.
Her mind raced, screaming instructions at her: Tie him up, hold him any way you can, Dovetail will only be a second.
Her body was racing with adrenaline.
Too late Stevie noticed the tiny red button below the handle of the walking stick, the finger poised to press it. The walking stick was pointing right at them—at Sandy and KJ.
Stevie dived at the man, her hands reaching to grab the stick. Her weight wasn’t enough to knock him to the floor but he spun and stumbled. The walking stick fired off with a harmless ‘pop’, into Lazarev’s own calf.
He lashed at Stevie with his stick, catching her on the side of the head. She reeled to the floor, more from the shock than the force of the blow. It stung like hornets.
Dovetail was on them then, covering KJ and Sandy with his bulk.
‘Get them out of here FAST!’ Stevie shouted. ‘There could be others.’ She scrambled up from the floor, furious. Where was Lazarev?
She could see the hat bobbing, pushing through the guests, making for the open side of the tent. Without thinking, she high-tailed after him.
He didn’t appear to be injured; he bolted. Stevie was just able to keep him in sight but she was not a fast runner and she would lose him at this rate.
Lazarev vaulted the low barrier that surrounded the polo
field—the game was at half-time—and began to sprint along it. Empty of obstacles, he gained ground, fast approaching the exit gates and presumably a waiting car that would speed him away over the border.
That would not do.
A groom was passing with a hot pony, still saddled from the last chukka. In a moment of pure instinct Stevie grabbed the reins from the startled gaucho and was up on the pony. She wheeled the horse around and gave chase. Cheeks blazing with outrage and the effort of running in leather trousers, she galloped at full speed along the fence, throwing up great icy clods into the crowd.
The jaded spectators turned to watch. This wasn’t on the programme— and Stevie’s leather did look rather sexy up on the foaming beast . . .
She made ground fast. Keeping close to the fence she penned Lazarev in. She knew that if she could run him along the fence she would have a better chance of keeping him on track. She wanted to force him up the Kantonspolizei booth that stood at the exit. If she could get him arrested, perhaps he could be held long enough to foil any back-up plan the kidnappers might have.
The Troika Dolls Page 24