The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [138]
‘Here it is! I don’t know how I could have lost it,’ she exclaimed. She handed her empty cup to Henning.
He lifted the coffee pot. ‘Lost the other shoe?’
‘Listen, Henning, there’s no time for fun and games. There’s a table of thuggish types speaking Russian—Heini Hahanyan seems to be their boss. But I don’t see Dragoman.’
Henning reached for Stevie’s beetroot juice. ‘Where?’ he asked mildly.
‘Your four o’clock. The man who looks like Donatella Versace— mauve tracksuit.’
Henning sipped the purple muck. ‘This isn’t bad, you know.’
Stevie glared at him. Henning downed the juice then turned and summoned a waiter.
‘Another beetroot juice, please. Miss Duveen is rather fond of it.’
Henning grabbed an eyeful of Heini as he spun back towards Ste-vie. ‘Who is Heini Hahanyan?’
Stevie scooted close. ‘Once upon a time, they shot men like Hahanyan for profiteering. He specialises in swindling weapons, aid money, medicines, food supplies, anything provided by Western countries or multinational agencies to war-or disaster-torn areas.’ She risked a surreptitious sip of Henning’s coffee. ‘Sometimes it’s taking payment for contracts he doesn’t fulfil, sometimes it’s supplying faulty or substandard or fake goods, or even just walking off with a plane-load of medicines meant for refugee camps and then reselling them to other needy countries. The man is a gorgon. He also specialises in torturing and murdering anyone who goes after him, as two unfortunate young Angolan journalists found out in the 1980s.’
‘So he’s never in the news.’ Henning refilled his coffee cup.
Stevie shook her head. ‘Britain’s libel laws keep him out of the English papers, but you can read about his horrors elsewhere. Of course, his bloody profits are carefully laundered to avoid any excess profits tax anyone might be tempted to levy.’
‘Sounds—and looks—hideous,’ said Henning. ‘He’s wearing a blue band.’
‘What do you think blue means? Apart from the licence to buffet that is.’
‘I went scouting in the spa this morning. I spotted a chart with the colour codes and I was about to take a look when I was interrupted by a nurse—actually a rather attractive one.’ Henning gave her a wicked glint. ‘I’m sure we could get back there again.’
‘Is that where you’ve been?’ Stevie asked rather sharply.
‘Jealous?’ he teased.
‘Hardly.’ Stevie turned her head away and scanned the room.
Henning seemed always to be able to read her mind. It was disconcerting to say the least.
Stevie pushed back her chair, ready to leave. Henning laid a quick hand on her arm. She followed his silent prompting.
Two men had entered and were crossing the room. The second was tall and pale with black hair. He wore a jacket with a bulge under the left arm and carried a small glass bottle and a white handkerchief. But it was the first man that made Stevie catch her breath.
He was small—maybe five foot six—and very slim, with dark blond hair carefully blow-dried back off his forehead. His skin was very tanned and unnaturally taut, almost like that of a burn victim. He wore large glasses with caramel-coloured lenses, an orange cashmere rollneck and an Afghani shawl tossed over his shoulder.
He was smoking a cigarillo in a short ebony holder and Stevie noticed a large ruby sunk in gold on his pinky finger. On his feet was a pair of monogrammed slippers in red velvet.
The man turned to the window as he passed and Stevie saw it: a bald patch in the shape of a perfect crescent moon.
Felix Dragoman.
Dragoman and the dark-haired man shadowing him stopped at the table of ogres and spoke to Heini Hahanyan. Dragoman declined an invitation to sit.
They exchanged a few words then Heini put out his hand. Dragoman hesitated a moment and then shook it limply. Heini chuckled and spoke in Russian. His voice was loud and Stevie, intent on the Murmeli Post, could hear him clearly.
‘You look younger every time I see you—a miracle it is, heh!’
Dragoman nodded curtly,