The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [111]
Graphic images of a body lying on concrete, the upper half swimming in a pool of dark red blood.
‘It was well known that Kozkov never travelled with security guards.
Police are not commenting on who they suspect was behind the assassination but the pressure will undoubtedly be on them to catch the killers.’
The television showed a couple of militzia cordoning off the area, others standing around in the background looking lost. The reporter’s voice continued:
‘Kozkov was a fierce anti-corruption crusader and many speculate that his tough stance on money laundering may have been the provocation behind the killings—’ Stevie put her hand to her mouth. It was unbelievable. She had only just left him—a family man, a man full of ideals and energy and warmth. And now he had been gunned down like a tin rabbit at a country fair. It was all over and all the good he might have done for Russia would remain undone.
A horrible thought struck her.
Anya.
If Kozkov was dead, her kidnappers would have no use for her and Stevie feared terribly that they would not hesitate to kill her.
She jumped off the bed in a single bound and was out the door.
‘Stevie,’ Joss called to her. She turned back for a second.
‘Put some clothes on.’
In her shock, Stevie hadn’t realised she was still in her bra. He threw her jumper across the bed and she grabbed it, pulling it over her head as she ran.
12
The phone rang in Moscow but no one answered. The first and only thing she had thought of doing was calling Henning. Now, standing on the balcony, she wondered what needed to be done.
What could anyone do? What could she do? She was off the job, and in any case the client was dead, his daughter was still missing and would soon be dead. Run about as she might, she would achieve nothing.
The men who had assassinated Kozkov had used amateur goons to distance themselves from the killing. That explained why they had accidentally shot the driver first. Professionals would never have made that mistake. But the goons were deniable, the blame would be laid at the feet of a street gang, or Chechens.
Her thoughts turned to poor Irina, and to the pale and tortured Vadim whom she’d liked so much. What would this do to them? Were they, too, in danger?
She tried to call them, but again no one answered. Feeling helpless, Stevie went back inside.
Checking everything was in order with Dovetail and the Hammer-Belles, she strolled aimlessly from room to room, feeling in turns terrified for Anya, shocked for the death of her father, and a mass of confusion over what had happened up in the bedroom.
What should she do about Anya? She could be anywhere. And what about Joss Carey? Was she throwing away his genuine attempt to make up with her, her one chance at true love? People did make mistakes— she herself wasn’t perfect . . . but would she ever really be able to forget his betrayal? His timing was terrible and she couldn’t seem to find clarity in any direction.
Standing in a dark corner on the lower balcony, Stevie lit one of her black-and-gold cigarettes and stared out towards the woods, hoping to spot some of Yudorov’s security SWAT team on patrol. She tried to still her thoughts.
Suddenly the door behind her opened and the fawn came out, followed by Joss.
Stevie’s treacherous heart leapt. She stepped further back into the shadows and watched as Joss produced a bottle of champagne from under his jacket, and one glass from his pocket. As the cork popped— usually Stevie’s favourite sound—the fawn giggled. Stevie watched him reach into his shirt and produce a pale yellow rose. He handed it to her with all the gentleness in the world.
‘You know,’ he said in his caramel voice, ‘I find Russian women absolutely enchanting. I’d love to paint you.’
It seemed Joss had moved on to easier game. Stevie crunched her cigarette under her heel, lit another, then folded her arms in the dark.
The