The Troika Dolls (21 page)

Stevie searched their faces for a clue or a sign of their desperation, something, but they showed nothing. She watched a young girl in a canary yellow top—sleeveless and tight—dancing alone by the bar. What must life be for her? Trapped in a foreign country buried in snow, not speaking the language, forced to go to bed with all these strange men, the moustaches, the cheap suits, the wiry hair and cigars, the overpowering aftershave Stevie could smell from where she sat.

Perhaps one or two would be kind. She guessed most would not care a moment for the girl whose body was giving them so much pleasure. Until they came, they owned the canary girl. Then it would be back to selling radiator grills or gaskets or anti-freeze, endless bad hotels in small-town Russia.

The men’s buyers in turn wouldn’t spare a thought for all the lonely nights, the boredom or the ugliness of the gasket-seller’s life on the road. They would just complain about the existing order, place a new one and move on. So the cycle of indifference continued. It was easier to pretend other people didn’t exist.

There was a smash at the end of the bar. A man careened like a skittle into the bar stools, reeling from a punch in the face. His beer glass shattered on the concrete floor. Skittle man picked up the glass handle, now a jagged weapon, and hurled himself at the man who had hit him. Stevie saw blood. Strangely, neither man made a noise; there was only the sound of smashing furniture and the shouts of the barman.

The customers had turned their eyes to the fight but even this seemed not to touch them, to bore them even. The bouncer stepped in and smashed both men with his massive fist then threw them, bleeding, out the door. He wore knuckledusters.

‘The bouncer’s been to prison. Did you see the tattoos on his hands?’ Stevie murmured to Henning.

Henning glanced over his shoulder then gave her a slight frown.

‘And you can tell he got them in prison?’

Stevie nodded. ‘There’s a whole tattoo language among the Russian criminals. They cover their bodies in code. It’s their way of declaring things about themselves to other criminals, like their status. It’s a tradition that goes way back into the 1920s and 30s, into Stalin’s gulags.

That scarab with the cross on the middle finger means “convicted for robbery”, and the eagle on the thumb means “I am an important thief”.’

‘A secret language,’ Henning spoke slowly, ‘only with meanings quite unlike the harem flowers, I imagine.’

‘Quite.’ Stevie took a long sip from her enormous beer and carefully removed the foam moustache it left on her upper lip. ‘Some of the tattoos are pornographic, especially the ones forcefully applied to someone as punishment. But there are recurring symbols and themes, mostly animal: the head that’s half cat, half horned werewolf; or half man, half cat; a skull with eagle wings; a devil with wolf’s ears, and so on.’ She placed the heavy glass back on the bar. ‘The werewolf is at the heart of it all, being a creature that dwells between worlds: man and animal, night and day, living and dead.’

She dipped her finger in a puddle of beer on the bar and absentmindedly drew the outline of a snarling wolf’s head. ‘The raven, the bat, the cat and the wolf are also symbols of the werewolf.’

Henning was deep in thought. ‘Nocturnal beast, predator, devil and man, twilight dweller. I can see the symbolism. I suppose prison is limbo, no place and yet their place.’ He laughed unexpectedly. ‘And you know all this from your time in the Moscow underworld?’

Stevie straightened her shoulders. ‘I happen to own an encyclopaedia of criminal tattoos—both volumes,’ she added, a little defensively.

She scanned the crowd. It was getting warm in the bar. Several men had rolled their sleeves up, one or two had taken their shirts off, which Stevie considered a little excessive for the hours before midnight.

She spotted a skinny man with a wormwood face. He headed to the bar, then settled himself one man up from Stevie. His forearm had a large tattoo of half a wolf’s head and half a woman’s head, with a dagger dividing the two. A cobra was coiled around the handle and there were roman letters on the top and bottom.

Stevie nudged Henning. ‘Can you read those letters? What do they say?’

Henning shot a surreptitious glance over Stevie’s shoulder. ‘
Homo
homini lupus est. Gnothi seauton.

’ ‘ “Man is wolf to man”,’ Stevie muttered. ‘I got the Latin, what’s the other?’

‘Greek. “Know thyself”.’

Stevie edged imperceptibly further from the wolf man. ‘At least he’s not operating under any delusions,’ she whispered.

Then an extraordinary woman appeared. She was dressed in the tightest blue denim—matching jeans and jacket—stamped all over with Dior. She carried a gold evening bag on a chain.

The woman’s hair was an impossible red and arranged in ringlets that bounced with every painful step of her stiletto boots, the heels of which were so high she pitched forward, her knees pigeon-toed. The barman hurried to kiss her powdered cheeks, light her cigarette and pour her a drink. She received his attentions as she had received those of the bouncer, with long-suffering acceptance that she would have to be so openly adored wherever she went.

Two men came in after her. One bent to kiss her, his eyes closed in tenderness. The face under the ringlets never softened. For a man with such visibly rough hands, he caressed the woman’s back with great gentleness. Under his fur-trimmed hat was the face of someone who had seen little of that gentleness himself.

Stevie strained to catch his companion’s face. As he called an order to the barman Stevie started in shock. The tattooed neck, the mouth full of gold teeth . . .

Stevie didn’t move quickly. She turned languidly towards Henning, then pulled out a cigarette.

‘Henning—’ She realised her fingers were shaking and put the cigarette back. ‘You won’t believe this. It’s the shooter from the car park.’

Henning kept his eyes on the canary girl. ‘Where?’ he hissed.

‘Behind me. Bald. Your three o’clock.’

Stevie’s face prickled with fear, even though the shooter wasn’t interested in her. If he wanted to kill random women he would have shot her that afternoon. But his reappearance at the bar reminded her how connected the world really was. It was easy to forget, she thought. Worlds seem to separate us from the Russian hit man, the war lord, the rapist, the suffering prostitute . . . but really—she swung her feet nervously— we are all closer to each other than we think.

The shooter’s companion shouted at the barman for a beer. Stevie froze. She knew that voice. It had played over in her head since that meeting with Masha in the music rooms:
Gregori Petrovitch Maraschenko;
biznessman
.

Goldie’s companion placed his hands on the bar. There, plain for all to see, was a tattoo of a grinning cat smoking a pipe.

Stevie casually took out her mobile, turned her face away from Maraschenko and spoke into the phone, carefully photographing his face over her shoulder with the tiny camera lens on the back. It was dark but he wasn’t far away and it was worth a try.

She sent the photo straight to Josie Wang in Confidential Investigations at Hazard, with the message:
Can you identify asap
?

Josie always worked late and if there was anything on record for Maraschenko, she would find it.

The bar began filling with people. A man with a blond handlebar moustache joined Maraschenko. Stevie’s seeking ears caught part of their conversation.

‘—so many damn Nigerians in this city!’

‘Nigeria and Russia—the two biggest money-laundering countries in the world.’

‘Ha!’

The moustachioed man spat on the floor. Stevie suspected he resented being twinned in any way with Africa.

It was odd—you didn’t see the Nigerians during the day. You wouldn’t know they were in Moscow at all. But in the safety of the black night, in the dark club, out they crept, to drink and dance in their brightly coloured tennis shoes and white smiles.

Stevie turned to Henning. ‘He could be holding the girl in his flat.’

‘Do you really think so?’

She shrugged. ‘It could be that simple. Often it is.’

‘What do we do, follow them?’ But Henning’s voice was full of doubt.

Stevie nodded slowly, feeling unsure herself. It wasn’t going to be easy to follow them without being noticed. There was no guarantee, apart from a hunch, that Anya was at the flat, and the worst thing for Anya would be if the kidnappers discovered someone was sniffing around.

Stevie tapped her nail rapidly on the bar. ‘I’m worried that no one has made contact yet, apart from the necklace. I don’t understand. The people who took Anya must want something. But this Maraschenko doesn’t look like the sort of criminal who would be laundering large amounts of money through the banks, not if he’s drinking here. So pressuring Kozkov won’t be his motive for the kidnapping. He’s either working for someone, or he’s done it for money—’

‘Or some other nefarious motive . . .’ Henning’s voice was barely audible.

Stevie quickly shook her head. ‘You don’t take a girl like Anya for that. The risk is too expensive. You take someone no one will miss—that girl, for example.’ She indicated the canary girl with her head. They both watched her a moment in silence.

‘Can we really do no more than wait?’ Stevie said it more to herself, hoping the answer was no.

The little group was noisily getting ready to leave. Suddenly she came to a decision.

‘Henning, listen, I think we have to try. We’ll follow from a distance, be very careful. They’re all sailing a few sheets to the wind, I doubt they’ll notice even if we breathe down their necks.’

Henning’s face said it all.

‘And we’ll need a ride, fast.’

Scared, but knowing she must, Stevie shrugged on her coat, slid off the stool and hurried to follow Maraschenko.

Henning laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Wait.’ He grabbed his overcoat and walked out, his hand hanging on to her, stumbling slightly.

They walked past Maraschenko and his group waiting for their coats, and stepped into the frosty night. Henning’s phone rang. He listened to the voice on the other end, his face serious.

‘
Harasho
. We’re outside The Boar.’ He hung up and Stevie turned to him expectantly.

‘That was Maxim,’ he said, pocketing the phone. ‘The arms dealer from the club.’

‘I remember him.’

‘There’s not much he doesn’t get to hear about in Moscow. It always surprises me, but it shouldn’t.’ Henning put both hands on Stevie’s shoulders. ‘He knows who you are, Stevie, and why you are in Moscow. He says Kozkov’s business is none of his business, but that, as you and I are obviously . . .’ Henning cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘As you and I are obviously friends, he wanted to do me a small favour. He has some information for you.’

‘Nothing more?’ Stevie’s mouth was dry, her words whispers.

‘No.’ Henning shook his head. ‘He’s nervous about telephones as it is. He’s sending a car.’ He squeezed her shoulders, concerned. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I got you mixed up with him. But he won’t hurt you.’

Stevie shook her head. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she said firmly, ignoring the butterflies exploding in her stomach. ‘So, Maxim’s helping me because you two are friends? I don’t really believe that.’

Henning pulled Stevie’s fur hat closer around her face, covering her flaming cheeks. It was desperately cold in the street. ‘I did him a good deed a few months ago—saved his favourite dog from drowning in a frozen lake outside Vladivostok. Maxim was very grateful, but he is a man who hates to be in debt of any kind. This is his way of paying off the debt he feels he owes me.’

‘That makes more sense,’ Stevie sighed, a little relieved. ‘I always look for the self-interest—from experience rather than cynicism. I’ve trusted and been burned, fool that I am—how does the saying go? “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” ’ She stopped for a minute, looking towards the entrance of the bar. ‘Are you coming with me? What about our mark?’

‘I’m better off flagging a lift if I’m going to follow Maraschenko,’ said Henning quietly. ‘Less conspicuous.’

Maraschenko and his friends left the bar and headed in their direction. Henning put his arm around Stevie and pulled her close. Stevie held her breath, almost faint with tension, but the group pushed past them without a glance and continued unsteadily along the street.

Then a black Mercedes pulled up in front of The Boar. The driver got out and opened the door. Stevie slipped quickly into the warm leather interior. Henning bent down to speak through the window. ‘I can’t imagine you could have anything to be ashamed about, Stevie.’ His voice was low, soft.

She said nothing but stared down at the snow-encrusted gutter.

I am ashamed at the relief I felt just now when I realised I wouldn’t
have to follow Gregori Maraschenko myself. And that’s just for starters.

‘Henning,’ she looked up anxiously. ‘Be careful.’

Henning gave her a wink. ‘I’d say the same to you, only I’m not worried about you. You’ll probably be safer with Maxim than anywhere else in Moscow.’

8

The Mercedes drove Stevie through
the night snow, the lonely stop lights, the dead boulevards. There was a motorcycle a few cars behind them. It seemed to stick close and yet never gained on them. Were they being followed? But when she leaned forward to mention it to the driver, the motorcycle was gone.

Stevie was hoping Maxim would have something to say about Anya, or Maraschenko—anything. Shady people most often knew more about the goings on in Shadowland than those who lived in the white light of day. They could rarely be relied upon unless their own interests were at stake, but in those circumstances, Stevie had found the corrupt to be no less reliable than the sound. She prayed Henning would be alright.

The car was pulling into a driveway flanked by a huge wrought-iron gate. Overhead, a huge sign read: CAH C
—Sun City—and a painted Aztec warrior glared down at them.