The Troika Dolls (46 page)

There was the French
grande dame
in her reams of pearls, standing a little to one side and looking rather sour. She was obviously trying to avoid being dragged into the ponderous and no doubt well-meaning conversational orbit of the Germans to her left.

Gunnar Gobb was there, looking as spruce as new pine. He headed towards the
grande dame
, conversation ready, the template of politeness and cleanliness.

Heini and his group stood at the centre of the guests. He had managed to collect four women in tight satin playsuits—crimson, yellow, indigo and green—and matching coloured heels. Heini had obviously treated them to a little facial pick-me-up that day as all four had swollen, slightly inflamed-looking lips, and none seemed able to show any expression whatsoever on their painted faces.

Stevie watched, fascinated, as they laughed at Heini’s stories: their puffy mouths formed little O’s of hilarity and they chuffed, making little ‘hoo hoo’ noises. They looked, Stevie thought, like finger puppets.

Heini’s bodyguards were lined up along the wall, and his three pugs roamed amongst the guests wearing diamond necklaces intended for necks slimmer and far less hairy than theirs.

Then Stevie’s roving eye caught sight of Dragoman. He was standing slightly to one side, a cigarette smoking in his ebony holder, his hair immaculately combed back off his forehead. The crescent moon stood out like a perfect sideways smile. His shadow hovered to his left.

He was wearing a dinner suit in which no other man in the world would have been able to look menacing. Perfectly cut, sharp as a blade, it was the colour of congealing blood. A cream silk scarf floated over his shoulders like a shroud.

Stevie watched as a proud pug snuffled towards his handmade leather shoes. Without so much as a blink, Dragoman snapped his heel upwards and caught the poor animal in the jaw. Heini’s laughter across the room drowned out the yelp as the creature scuttled back to find his master, curly tail low between his legs.

There was a woman with Dragoman. This was unexpected. Josie had told her he was not interested in women—or men.

The woman had her back towards Stevie. She was of medium height—taller in fact than Dragoman—and very slight. Her blonde hair was swept into a perfect chignon and she was wearing a black velvet dress that scooped low on her back and exposed her delicate spine.

Stevie glanced at the woman’s feet. She was wearing black suede heels covered in gold stars. The shoes were rather beautiful, but they were too big. Much too big. It was as if a little girl had slipped on her mother’s shoes for fun.

Stevie threaded her arm through Henning’s and made her way towards Dragoman.

‘Good evening, Mr Dragoman.’ Henning smiled but kept his hand in his pocket.

The woman turned to face them.

Stevie almost gasped out loud.

She was only a child—Stevie had seen that face before, in photos, a hundred times. It belonged to Anya Kozkov.

A thousand questions tumbled into Stevie’s mind: what was Anya doing at the dinner? Was she here of her own free will? Did she know that her father was dead, that people were looking for her? What should Stevie do?

One look into Anya’s eyes answered half of them. There was an unmistakable look of deep terror settled behind the pupils.

Stevie needed time to think, time she didn’t have. She was tempted for a split second to just grab Anya’s hand and run like a demon for the exit, but Dragoman’s shadow was at Anya’s side, no doubt armed in several deadly ways.

Stevie saw Anya’s eyes suddenly flash with confusion and recognition. Of course—Henning! He was Kozkov’s great friend. Anya would have known him, too. She mustn’t be allowed to let on, it would jeopardise everything.

Stevie turned her smile on high beam and grabbed Anya by both hands. They were freezing cold.

‘Hello, I’m Stevie Duveen,’ she said in her absolute best Hollywood starlet voice. ‘I simply adore your shoes! I noticed them from all the way over there—just so glam-rock fabulous. Did you get them here in Switzerland?’

Anya seemed deeply confused by this. She looked again to Henning and opened her mouth. Dragoman was watching—Stevie could feel his eyes. She dived in once more with her silly, high-pitched chatter.

‘And who does your hair? You’ve totally channelled Princess Grace of Monaco—it’s divine. I’d love that look for the Oscars next year.’

Henning caught Anya’s eye and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Dragoman put an arm around her waist and pulled her towards him.

‘My niece is very shy. She doesn’t take easily to strangers.’

Anya looked back at Stevie, who smiled even harder with her mouth but tried to tell Anya, with every ounce of expression in her eyes, that she and Henning had come to rescue her.

A gong was struck and the guests began to make their way to the table. There was a careful placement. Anya was sandwiched between Dragoman and Heini; Stevie was sitting opposite Heini—too far away to talk to Anya over the round table—but able to watch her through the obstacles of candle holders, glassware and flowers. She wondered at the arrogance of Felix Dragoman, able to bring his captive down to dine amongst the hotel guests, so sure was he of his control over her.

Then Stevie understood. Anya had become more than a hostage to him. She had become a symbol of something that Dragoman enjoyed being reminded of: his power.

What could Anya do in this situation? Even if she ran to the florid Germans, say, and begged for help, the shadow would be upon her before she could even begin to tell her story, or explain who she was. Dragoman would no doubt appear at her side, apologising profusely for not having chaperoned Anya’s champagne intake.

‘My niece is easily excited—she is not used to wine. I’m afraid I have not been watching her closely enough.’ Stevie could almost hear him. And everyone would smile, and Anya would be whisked back upstairs.

Poor girl, thought Stevie in horror. We are never more trapped than when the illusion of freedom is there. Chains could not have bound Anya more cruelly.

Henning sat to Stevie’s right, deep in conversation with the
grande
dame
. They were, Stevie could overhear, on the subject of Persian water gardens. Gardens were a good choice of topic with anyone over a certain age and translated well into any language, including, it seemed, disdainful French.

On Stevie’s left, one of the florid Germans began a series of comments on the strategic role of tanks on the modern battlefield. It was actually a subject Stevie was very interested in and she held firm views on the matter. Tonight, however, her cover story (starlet wastrel) meant she had to feign extreme disinterest. In any case, the presence of Anya was too distracting to allow for any proper conversation.

The girl’s eyes in the candlelight were hunted and hollow and Stevie saw her glance at Henning more than once, but he never looked in her direction. The confusion on her face at this broke Stevie’s heart, but she could do nothing. Sending any kind of message to her now would just be too dangerous.

Dinner was an interminable procession of dishes produced by a fancy hat with an indeterminate number of culinary stars. The chef had embraced the newest—and, in Stevie’s opinion, most unfortunate— gastronomical trend: transforming the texture of food until it is unrecognisable as what it once was.

First, and with much fanfare, came what looked like a tiny risotto but was discovered to be, after a single gold forkful, a foam of soya bean roots and oysters. The next course was a small red cube on a large white plate. This was apparently all that was left of an entire filet mignon, reduced and in some unutterably awful way transformed into—Stevie touched it for confirmation—jelly. It was a travesty, oysters and filet mignon zapped, their molecules rearranged to end up in small, slimy bites that taunted the palate with memories of their original selves.

Dragoman seemed to be delighting in every mouthful—as much as such a retentive and joyless man can delight—carefully dabbing the corners of his mouth after every bite in the most irritating way.

Heini was roaring with laughter at every new dish and drinking enormous amounts of the very fine wines served with each one. He ate every course in a single bite and thought this was tremendously funny. His gaggle of candy-coloured cheerleaders thought so, too.

He was very pleased when Dragoman, growing visibly annoyed by the laughter, was able to tell him just how much he was paying the chef to produce the meal. Heini did a quick calculation of dollars per dish and was thrilled: at those prices he must indeed be eating the finest food in the world.

Anya ate nothing and stared down at her plate. Stevie glanced around at the other guests. No one was paying her any attention. She saw two of the glittering Lebanese women give Anya a quick up-and-down, sour expressions on their faces.

Stevie watched as one mouthed to the other, ‘Skinny bitch.’ It was envy. She would have loved to turn to the women and explain that Anya was thin because she was living in terror every second of her day and night. Was that something to envy?

The fifth course—or was it the sixth?—arrived, a glass bell filled with smoke. Stevie, still starving at this point, turned to Henning in disbelief. He simply smiled at her.

‘
Bon apetit
.’

She lifted the bell and the swirling smoke wafted out, revealing a small piece of white fish.

‘It’s
fugu
fish,’ she heard Dragoman tell Heini. ‘It’s deadly unless it is properly prepared.’

Heini found this even more hilarious—the wine no doubt was helping—that he was paying huge amounts to eat something that could kill him.

Stevie poked it with her fork. At least it felt like fish. Hungry as she was, she let it pass untasted.

After the final dish, a
terrifying mousse of some kind, Dragoman stood and made a little birthday speech, joyless and dry as cardboard.

‘Your associates in Zlatoust send you many happy returns.’ Dragoman could have been announcing the train timetable. ‘They have organised to surprise you with a cake.’

From somewhere came the theme tune from
Apocalypse Now
— actually Wagner’s
Ride of the Valkyries
before it became famous in the Vietnam epic. Heini stood and clapped the cake as it entered on the shoulders of a waiter.

It was the vilest thing Stevie had ever seen. The top of the cake had been printed with a photo of Heini’s face, three times its real size. All four edges of the huge cream rectangle were crowded with candles. It was carefully placed on a separate stand for admiration. Heini was beaming.

Waiters carrying bottles of Cristal emerged and began filling the champagne flutes on the table.

Stevie leaned in towards Henning. ‘Well, at least their choice of champagne is appropriate.’

‘I thought it was more the favourite of rap music stars . . .’ Henning thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure it was the managing director of Roederer who, when asked if its popularity with rappers would ruin the image of the marque, replied, “But what can we do? We can’t forbid people from buying it.” ’

Stevie nodded. ‘I remember that—and they don’t rap about Cristal anymore. But it was first made in 1876 for Alexander II of Russia. He was so terrified of being assassinated that he ordered champagne be made in clear bottles rather than the usual dark green ones so that no one could hide a bomb in them. Kind of appropriate for our paranoid friend.’

Heini went over to admire the cake, followed by his confetti of women. The other guests crowded around; the head waiter handed Heini a knife.

‘Oh goody,’ Stevie whispered to Henning. ‘We’re going to cut him up.’

The cake was cut up and handed around to the guests. Stevie accepted a plate. She looked for Anya, flanked by Dragoman and his shadow, and crept her way through the guests until she was standing close to her, a glass of champagne in one hand, a piece of Heini’s ear in the other. Stevie had to let Anya know she was a friend. If any opportunity came to run, she couldn’t risk a delay. Anya had to trust her.

She could hardly whisper anything to her. She would be seen and it would immediately arouse suspicion. Handing Anya a piece of paper—anything in writing—would be simply foolish. For now, all she could do was stand close to her.

Stevie looked at the cake. The bottom half of Heini’s face had gone; the brown eyes, with their dull marzipan stare, remained untouched. She saw Heini turn to Dragoman.

‘It’s quite an extraordinary likeness, don’t you think?’ The birthday boy beamed with delight. ‘It’s so good it’s almost a shame to eat it.’

‘It quite takes the breath away,’ Dragoman replied, refusing the proffered slice. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Heini took this as a compliment. ‘By the way, did you see the English newspaper this morning?’ He tried to clap a paw on Dragoman’s shoulder but the man moved away. ‘It’s quite a good photo I think. It seems, heh, that your friends in Moscow have decided to hang Kozkov’s death shroud around your shoulders.’

Stevie glanced at Anya. Did she know? Her face was blank but a single, fat tear fell from her left eye. Stevie guessed she already knew.

‘I already told you,’ Dragoman hissed with impatience. ‘I had nothing to do with that matter.’

‘Doesn’t really matter if you did or not, does it? The wolves are out to get you, my friend, heh, the pack has turned on one of its own.’ Heini licked the cream off the side of his slice of cake with a lizardy tongue. ‘I think I might have to ask for my payment up front, heh.’

‘They wouldn’t dare to touch me.’ Dragoman’s eyes were like marbles.

Heini shrugged. ‘Looks like they have already given the order.’

‘Then,’ Dragoman’s voice was tight and malevolent, ‘it’s a decision they won’t live to regret.’

Heini wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘So, heh, where is the gift you promised me?’

Stevie’s mind was reeling. The bait had been swallowed—Rosie was a genius. She sipped her champagne and pretended to be listening to Gunnar Gobb explain the details of the week’s
langlauf
expedition to florid German number three.