The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [124]
‘The hamper was very thoughtful,’ Henning’s lips twitched again with suppressed mirth. ‘And the note, very concise: “Stevie”.’
He reached forward with his lighter and lit her cigarette.
Stevie sat up very straight. ‘I was going to send orchids but then I read that Marilyn Monroe chose white cymbidium orchids for her winter wedding to Joe DiMaggio. It might have sent the wrong signal.’
‘Might it have . . .’ Henning smiled wider and Stevie sat up straighter.
‘And for the record, Henning, I wasn’t running. I was simply in a hurry to get back. I feel bad I couldn’t stop in to see you but—’
‘But you couldn’t get away fast enough.’ Henning lit a cigarette of his own Turkish tobacco, inhaled and sat back in his armchair. The laughter left his eyes. ‘Poor Valery made a mistake when he decided he no longer needed you.’
Stevie blew an agitated plume of smoke. ‘I got him killed.’
‘He got himself killed,’ Henning said quickly, tapping the end of his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. ‘You didn’t let him down—you didn’t let anyone down. I’m truly sorry, Stevie. I’ll never forgive myself for dragging you to Moscow.’
Henning was staring through the huge windows and down the valley. The fog outside drifted about in rags, revealing then concealing the frozen lakes, the black and white forests.
Stevie noticed the tightness around his eyes, the tiny lines of sorrow and fatigue. Her heart went out to him. He had lost his dear friend.
‘I should have stopped him, Henning. I failed to protect him.’
‘You had absolutely no right or power to, Stevie. It was Valery’s decision and his responsibility.’ Henning’s eyes were still on the frozen valley, his voice barely above a whisper now. ‘You are a remarkable woman, Stevie Duveen. I’m not sure I could tell you how much I admire you. More fool me.’
He turned to her. ‘Death always seems to crystallise things, doesn’t it? What matters, what doesn’t, who you really love . . .’ His eyes found hers and held them.
Stevie felt something flip inside her; she found she couldn’t breathe as well as she might have liked to. Possibly it was the altitude . . . She broke away from Henning’s stare, a hand on her pearls for protection.
‘How are Irina and Vadim?’
Henning shook his head. ‘Not well. Irina is very thin, she won’t leave the house. Vadim has the rage growing in him. He is spending a lot of time with Masha, but he doesn’t have her clarity or wisdom yet. I worry he might do something drastic.’
‘These are some pretty drastic circumstances. You can’t really blame him. Are the authorities even looking for Anya?’
Henning paused then shook his head.
Stevie ran a despairing hand over her mouth. ‘Well, Kozkov’s killing made a splash—they have to do something about that. Have the police got any suspects or is it ridiculous of me even to ask?’
Henning shrugged. ‘The authorities have pulled in some Chechens—naturally—who have apparently confessed to killing Kozkov.’
‘Probably plucked off the street at random and forced to sign a false statement,’ Stevie said. ‘It’s funny how the Chechens seem to specialise in killing journalists and reformers. Bizarre almost. You’d think a top general, or politician would be a more desirable mark.’
‘A farce.’ Henning’s cigarette had burned to ash and gone out. No one was laughing.
The waiter arrived with tea and coffee in silver pots, and two pale pink plates with slices of Nusstorte. He laid the tea out carefully on the starched white tablecloth and left them without a word.
‘So,’ Stevie tried to dispel the gloom, ‘you haven’t told me what you’re doing here.’
Henning gave Stevie an odd look. ‘Actually, Vadim and I rather thought you might be in some danger yourself.’
‘Really?’ Stevie poured a cup of coffee and left it sitting to cool a little. ‘Why?’
‘Someone went after Kozkov’s files, too, on the day that he was murdered. Turns out he had a hidden safe in his office.’
‘The list.’ Stevie’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘And now it’s gone. It’s very dangerous