The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘Dragoman obviously recognised him, not that that means much—you recognised him, too.’ She took a large sip of her whisky and looked at Henning. ‘It is a terrifying thought, isn’t it? The two of them in cahoots of any kind.’

  ‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose Orlikov would know about the links between Dragoman and the siloviki; Orlikov may even be one of them.’

  ‘It’s frighteningly likely. He could have had Kozkov killed in a heartbeat—that list would be motive enough.’ Stevie pushed her soup aside and ran her good hand through her hair. ‘The new FSB remit seems to include consolidation and protection of political and economic power in the hands of the current government. Your friend Maxim Krutchick believes the spike in high-profile assassinations make it likely they are using more extreme tactics to get what they want.’

  Henning nodded. ‘And Dragoman might now be getting nervous that he has become a loose end to be tied.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Stevie said, ‘exactly,’ and began eating Henning’s fried potatoes one at a time with a silver dessert fork. ‘It would explain why he got so angry when Orlikov’s face appeared on screen.’ She looked up. ‘The thing these potatoes really need is—’

  Henning already had a bottle of champagne in his hand.

  ‘Mind reader.’ Stevie grinned as the cork popped softly.

  16

  Anya had stopped caring where she was, some castle, some mansion, some place, still unfound. She had also stopped eating and she was growing thinner. It was as if, subconsciously, she were trying to leave her imprisoned body and, light as air, fly back home. She lived hour by hour, thanking God for Ludmilla and Dasha.

  Largely, the three girls had been ignored. But something had changed in the last few days and their captors had become tense, on edge, furious at the slightest thing. It was terrifying.

  Ludmilla kept saying they were going to be killed. Anya found her brain couldn’t really process the idea of being killed. She couldn’t imagine it. All she knew was life, and bad as it was right now, she couldn’t imagine it ending.

  The girls were kept in a small room with a tiny window that showed them only sky. One day, Dasha spotted an eagle and they had taken turns looking at it, soaring on invisible air currents way up high. That had been a good day.

  Whenever the girls heard voices, they stopped talking and Anya put her ear to the door. She had the acute hearing of a trained musician and it was her job to listen to see what she could learn. It was never much, but when the voices were raised, it was easier.

  Like the other night, when the man had got so angry and the atmosphere had become as brittle as glass. The guard who had brought them food had been vicious, stepping on Dasha’s hand on purpose. When she had cried out, he’d sneered and said, ‘Soon there’ll be a lot more than that to cry about, my little doll.’

  After that, Ludmilla had started talking about death again, but then the voices had grown louder and Anya had shushed her.

  ‘—will not have that bastard . . . see what I can do. He mistakes me for someone he can . . . it’s a very bad mistake! . . . Alexei!’

  Anya crept even closer to the door, her ear to the crack between it and the floor, a mouse.

  ‘. . . tonight . . . take the Kozkov girl . . . but the other two will . . .’

  Damn! Anya could hear just enough to torture herself; not enough to know anything. Only that her captors’ leader was very angry, and that something was about to happen to them tonight—to her, and to Dasha and Ludmilla, separately.

  Anya decided then that there could be things worse than death.

  Stevie awoke early the next morning and, for a short moment, forgot completely where she was and what had happened the night before. Everything came flooding back in a rush, along with the throbbing in her hand, and she groaned.

  Sometimes she wished her life was simpler, more honest, more morally certain; that she was growing vegetables and flowers in a sheltered garden by the sea, and raising chickens and children—did she really say children?

  What would it be like to have children with Henning?

  The thought hadn’t even been completed when she returned it quick-time to the ether and sat up, throwing back the duvet.

  Ridiculous.

  She found her slippers and shuffled to the bathroom. Every muscle in her body ached. She felt a hundred years old.

  She was soaking her muscles in the bath, her mind racing over possible connections between Dragoman and Nikita ‘the killer’ Orlikov, when the musical notes of the PA sounded.

  ‘Guten Morgen, meine Damen und Herren. Some of you will no doubt have heard a little commotion yesterday evening. I can assure you all, liebe Gäste, that there is no cause for alarm.’ Gunnar Gobb’s dulcet tones went on to describe a flock of rare owls that had flown into the glass roof, causing some damage. He then thanked Mr Felix Dragoman for sparing his manpower in hunting for any owls that may be lying injured and in need of help.

  The bathroom phone rang. Stevie hoped you couldn’t get electrocuted using the phone in the bath.

  ‘A flock of owls?!’ Henning was not impressed by the deception.

  ‘Owls are singularly individual creatures, they do not “flock”. And when they do chose to convene, their grouping is called a “parliament of owls”.’

  He seemed to take it as a personal affront. Stevie thought of the owl on his forearm. Perhaps there was more behind his outrage than irritation at ornithological inaccuracy.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you should look out of as many windows as you can.’

  Stevie groaned again and pulled herself out of her bath, feeling only ninety-eight years old.

  On the wooded hillsides above the gorge, and amongst the rocks surrounding the sanatorium, she could see men in boots bashing about.

  Dragoman’s muscle were back out there, in three times the numbers, presumably looking for the shape at the window.

  Crossing the breakfast room a short time later, wearing large black sunglasses, jodhpurs, with an oversized V-neck jumper in tartan cashmere, and her bathrobe thrown over her shoulders like a cape, Stevie nodded to each table of guests. The looks of more than polite interest and the furtive glances to her bandaged hand told Stevie that not even the discretion of the Swiss can stand up to the gossip of small hotels.

  Guten Morgen, bonjour, Madame, Mesdames, good morning . . .

  Stevie greeted each with an air of sheepishness appropriate for one who had drunk herself into a forbidden stupor the night before, then rather publicly injured herself. Some were no doubt wondering if the cuts were truly an accident, or surface marks of dark intention.

  Raw mushroom and beetroot porridge was on the green menu. This was getting too much. Stevie needed her strength and she needed food.

  Up to the buffet she marched and helped herself to three soft-boiled eggs, lying defenceless in a straw basket, a huge chunk of heavy walnut bread and butter and the entire piece of Emmenthal cheese on the cheese board. Before any of the dining-room supervisors could protest, Stevie had swiped a hot pot of coffee from the farm-faced Germans and was back at her table.

  Food had never tasted so good and she ate, trying not to gobble, everything on the plate, except for—

  ‘I would leave the floral arrangement, Stevie. Rhododendrons are poisonous.’

  Henning, of course.

  ‘I wasn’t going to eat the rhododendron. I’ve had quite enough, thank you.’

  ‘So I see.’ Empty eggshells, cheese rind, and a smear of butter and crumbs was all that was left of her feast. Henning raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Does Gunnar Gobb know about this?’

  ‘Oh look, I’m a television star. If I can’t have a tantrum every now and then, no one can.’

  ‘Spoken like the real thing.’ Henning sat and ordered a double espresso from the disapproving waiter who hovered, uncertain what to do about the rogue feeding.

  When he had gone, Stevie leaned in and whispered, ‘The good thing about people suspe
cting you tried to kill yourself is that they’re too afraid to approach you. “Don’t speak to her, lest she snap and try again! On your head may it be.” ’

  Henning laughed and produced a major English newspaper from under his arm. It had that day’s date on it. He held the paper out to Stevie.

  KILLER OF CENTRAL BANK HEAD FOUND, screamed the headline. And there it was, on the front page, a photo of Felix Dragoman. It had been cropped close and digitally enhanced, but it was Stevie’s photo. Rosie and David had come good.

  Stevie skimmed the story, checking for the key information: Valery Kozkov . . . assassinated . . . anonymous Kremlin source . . . will not tolerate . . . Felix Dragoman, the most wanted man . . . operate with impunity . . . brought to justice . . .

  She looked at Henning with satisfaction. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Dragoman’s going to have a fit when he sees that—obviously your intention.’ Henning tapped the headline with his forefinger. ‘Just further “proof” that his friends and sometimes protectors in power have turned on him. He will read between the lines and guess his life is in danger.’

  Stevie caught sight of Gunnar Gobb scurrying out towards the hotel entrance. He didn’t look his usual, imperturbable self.

  ‘Shall we take some air, Henning? I’m feeling rather grey.’

  The air outside was still and icy cold. Stevie and Henning wandered out towards the woods and the cluster of Dragoman’s men that had formed to one side of the road. The manager was with them, looking terribly pale.

  ‘Goooten morrigen, Herr Gobb,’ sang out Stevie with a wave, her robe trailing in the snow. ‘What’s going on? Outdoor breakfast cocktails? Tremendous idea!’

  The manager came towards her, agitated. ‘Bitte, Fräulein, please, go back inside at once.’

  A man lay on the ground surrounded by the boots of the search parties.

  Stevie caught sight of Dragoman. He had appeared from nowhere and was now standing over the body. He was dressed all in black: trousers, stack-heeled boots and a three-quarter-length coat with a Mao collar. He wore a high-necked white shirt with a black cravat, gold sunglasses and fingerless leather gloves.

  One of his men knelt in the snow. She saw him lift a hand belonging to the body, check for a pulse, then drop it.

  ‘Dead,’ he pronounced. Then he began searching the dead man’s pockets, pulled out a large hunting knife and handed it to Dragoman carefully by the blade. His shadow stepped in to take it before his master’s hands had to touch it.

  Stevie craned her head to get a better look; it had an insignia on the handle: a black bat set on a blue globe of the earth. It was familiar but Stevie couldn’t place it.

  Dragoman obviously could. He turned pale, then two red spots of rage began to burn on his cheeks.

  Henning put an arm around Stevie and pulled her away.

  ‘You’re too delicate for this, Stevie. Think of your health, your fans, darling.’

  ‘I just want to see what—’

  One of Dragoman’s men stepped menacingly forward brandishing a Kalashnikov. Dragoman raised his little finger, the ruby ring glowing like an eye, and the man stopped. The arch villain’s eyes stayed hard on Stevie and it was all she could do to keep her expression moulded into one of slightly bovine curiosity. He made her feel suddenly frightened, chilled inside.

  The manager hurried to smooth things over. ‘There has been a terrible accident, Fräulein Duveen—a climber.’

  The Swiss really were bad liars, thought Stevie.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead? You know I once played a sexy forensics person in a TV series. They dyed my hair red. Maybe I can help, you know, time of death . . .’

  She knelt quickly on the snow.

  The dead man wore a long leather overcoat and only one muddy black boot. No one climbed in a leather overcoat.

  Stevie examined his face. Even without the goggles she recognised him immediately: the langlaufer from St Moritz, the Russian with the rifle who had been hunting her on the ski slope.

  You didn’t forget the face of a man who had been sent to kill you.

  He was freshly dead, his head drooping at an odd angle and the bruise on the neck suggesting some violent pressure had snapped it. Dragoman’s men would have known better than to fire a shot.

  The man with the Kalashnikov shouted at Gunnar Gobb in Russian and he began to physically usher Stevie away, a hand gripping her upper arm.

  ‘Please, Fräulein Duveen, this is no place for a woman in your condition.’

  Stevie allowed herself to be led away, stumbling slightly from the shock.

  ‘How awful.’ She held a pale hand to her mouth. ‘How terribly, terribly awful. I’ve never seen a real dead body before . . .’

  Henning thanked the manager and took over the ushering, cooing, ‘There, there, darling. He’s only unconscious, only sleeping, darling.’

  To keep up appearances, Stevie and Henning had gone down to the steaming Hadean swimming pool and swum a good few laps. Lunch had been an uninspiring affair, some kind of vegetable timbale soaked with filthy vinegar, and a bran mousse. They were now back in Stevie’s room.

  ‘I’m almost looking forward to this birthday dinner for the food alone,’ Stevie said. ‘Do you think they will serve steak? Or maybe venison, with a little red cabbage—oh and what if they had foie gras with small brioche toasts?’

  Henning raised his maddening eyebrow at her and she scowled in reply. ‘Well, you don’t know what it’s like being on this diet of stable muck.’

  Stevie lit a cigarette and sipped her mud root tea. ‘Henning, I feel quite awful.’

  ‘I could smuggle you some pain au chocolat if you like . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes please. But I don’t mean that. I mean, I got that man killed today.’

  ‘That man was an assassin, Stevie. He was trying to kill you, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t succeed. I did.’

  ‘Would you have wanted it the other way around?’ Henning asked quietly.

  Stevie stared out at the black-and-white pines, the deep black trench, that lay just outside the window. Backlit by the cold light, the smoke from her cigarette formed tendrils of thought around her head.

  If one Russian assassin really had followed their tracks from St Moritz and been stalking the castle, then there could be others. Either way, it was prudent to assume that he would have made contact with his controllers back in Moscow before being killed. Surely Dragoman would assume the same thing . . .

  ‘So, how do we play it tonight?’ Henning was dressing, buttoning his shirt closed over his rather perfect chest. ‘Will Dragoman still show for the birthday dinner?’

  Stevie looked quickly away from the chest and back to the pines. She nodded. ‘My guess is yes. He won’t let a killer in the woods put a spoke in his wheel. He seems to have that curious dictatorial mix of arrogance and paranoia, all wrapped up in one evil little package.’

  She turned back to Henning, a silhouette. ‘Tonight, we improvise. We get close to Dragoman, we see what we can find out. Is Anya here somewhere? The sanatorium’s massive and there are any number of places he could hide a girl. Especially since he has a controlling interest in the place.’

  ‘Short of breaking into his rooms, we could start combing the place, but that could take forever.’ Henning affixed his cufflinks. ‘And there’s no guarantee we’ll find her.’

  ‘Something tells me in my bird bones that we don’t have a lot of time.’ Stevie bit her lip nervously. ‘I’m frightened for Anya, Henning. Really frightened.’

  Henning held her gaze a moment then reached out to put his hand over hers.

  Stevie got to her feet and rallied herself. ‘Where are my ballet shoes? You never did tell me what happened to them.’ She went to fossick for clothes. ‘Why is the toe all singed?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ he replied quickly. ‘We’re going to be late to the axe murderer’s ball if we don’t get a move on.’

  Stevie emerged
from the cupboard. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Henning stopped, then smiled.

  Over her leather trousers, Stevie had pulled on a low-cut black V-neck and a gilet of brilliant green feathers. They shone in the low light with flecks of gold. Her eyes were lined with indigo, her face as pale as ever. The knife was hidden, as usual, on the inside of her calf.

  ‘I think you look simply glorious, Stevie, like the world’s most exotic bird.’

  She actually blushed. ‘Well, let’s get going—you look very smart by the way.’

  Henning grunted. His velvet smoking jacket was ancient—it had belonged to his grandfather—but in the darker light of evening he hoped no one would notice the small moth hole on the sleeve. Underneath, his cream silk shirt was as soft as milk.

  Together, arm in arm, they made their way to the ballroom.

  Although it was called the ballroom, it was unlikely the room had seen any dances for the last fifty years—certainly not since frivolity had become unfashionable in health resorts. It was, however, vast, with walls and a ceiling of intricately carved chestnut. A massive chandelier, lit up with real candles, hung from a wooden rose.

  In the centre of the room, directly below the chandelier, there was a round table covered in a white tablecloth that fell to the floor. It was set with crystal glasses for water, wine and champagne, and the plates were printed with small butterflies and rimmed with gold. Stevie was pleased to note the amount of cutlery—all gold—hoping it indicated many courses and copious amounts of food.

  The guests stood to the right of the table in a group, drinking champagne and looking a little uncomfortable. Indeed, the ballroom was made for three hundred and they would have been a party of only twenty.

  Stevie paused a moment and took stock of the group. The coarse-boned Germans were there, all four of them, looking placid and immutable in evening wear built for comfort rather than elegance; the three women from Lebanon had turned up wearing what had to be the entire contents of their jewellery boxes and incredibly high heels. They had obviously spent the afternoon in the Sonnenbad as they were an even darker shade of tan—almost leather by candlelight.