The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [123]
He stopped just below her, where the walking track met the ski run, and looked about. Stevie was about to push off down the mountain towards him when she saw the high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder.
Bang, bang . . . The children must have seen him. What was he doing with the rifle? Surely target shooting was forbidden in the public areas . . .
The man pulled out a walkie-talkie.
‘I can’t see a goddamn thing in this shitting weather. It’s hopeless. Better to track a bear to its lair, my friend. I’m going home.’
Stevie froze, a wash of adrenaline pouring into her body. Not the most threatening words—Stevie would have agreed—had they not been spoken in Russian.
She felt the mist’s icy bite on her neck and her tiny hairs stood like antennae. Dropping to her knees, she was grateful for the uphill advantage. As silent as a mole, she waited in the snow as the man cleared his throat and spat into the snowdrift, then finally skated on.
Stevie couldn’t know for certain . . . but as she set off down the mountain, she felt eyes behind every tree trunk. Terror whipped her heart as she raced through the trees in fast, tight turns, spraying plumes of snow in her wake.
He is hunting you.
She sped up, moving far faster than was prudent through the forest, but knowing that speed was her ally and that the man on touring skis could not match her on a slope. When Stevie reached the bottom, the mist was so thick she could hardly see her hand in front of her face.
The chair lift clanged above her, the seats empty. No one was waiting in line. Shaking and red-cheeked, she breathed deeply. It was pure luck that the assassin had not spotted her. She needed to get off the mountain, go somewhere with people. There was some safety in numbers. Of sorts.
Back at the Suvretta, the skis safely stored, Stevie found a spot by one of the fireplaces and stretched out her legs. They felt wooden and a little wobbly—she had taken the last run very fast.
There were three hours to go until she had to be on the helicopter. Her little feet fretted in their ballet slippers. Her mind was made up, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t wild with nerves at defying David Rice. She needed to distract herself from visions of his Herculean wrath.
Fate sent her a waiter.
‘Fräulein Duveen?’
Stevie nodded.
‘There is a gentleman looking for you.’
Her body betrayed nothing, but the adrenaline was back like a shot. ‘Who is he?’ She almost choked on the question.
Track a bear to its lair.
‘A man of little importance,’ a voice said, from behind the waiter.
‘It’s you!’ Stevie leapt up in delight. There stood Henning, in all his tall, herringboned glory, smiling down at her. Her relief was immeasurable.
He swept her into a marvellous bear hug, dangling her feet an inch off the ground, then kissed her on both cheeks and set her gently back down on the carpet.
‘Stevie.’
‘Sit for goodness sake,’ Stevie gestured to the other chair. ‘What are you doing here?’
Henning sat and they ordered tea and a large slice of Engadiner Nusstorte each, the local nut cake, made with walnuts and toffee.
‘On second thoughts,’ Stevie called after the waiter, ‘I’d like a small pot of black coffee instead of the tea.’ She thought something a little stronger was required, given the shocks.
‘How is that poor head of yours?’ asked Stevie, suddenly remembering her behaviour in Moscow. She blushed a deep pomegranate.
Henning watched her shrewdly, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. ‘Are you feeling a little guilty for running, Miss Duveen?’
Stevie nodded then shook her head quickly. ‘Kozkov fired me. I wasn’t running—I was no longer needed.’
‘I didn’t mean running from Kozkov, Stevie.’
Stevie blushed an even deeper shade of red and reached for her cigarettes. She had known exactly what he meant. Henning knew full well she hadn’t wanted to