The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [147]
It would be too convenient, unfortunately, to assume that Dragoman had just pointed out his accomplice in the Kremlin in an act of j’accuse. He might have, but there would certainly be others, and it did not help Stevie or Anya’s immediate situation. All she could deduce was that Dragoman recognised the faceless man.
Who was he?
Dragoman and his men were discussing something avidly. Stevie pulled out her tiny telephone and readied the camera lens. She wished he would turn his head a little more towards her. Perhaps if she moved a little to one side and—
Stevie stifled a yelp. Dragoman’s face had materialised at the window. Had she been seen?
But Dragoman appeared to be staring into nothing, thinking. It was dark on the roof and the lights inside ought to make her invisible.
Stevie cautiously raised her phone and took a photo. She sent it straight to Rosie on Fleet Street. Glancing quickly back up at the window, she saw to her horror that the face of the shadow had replaced Dragoman’s. He seemed to be staring right at her.
Stevie quickly turned and began to creep back the way she had come.
Suddenly there was a quick burst of gunfire. The shadow had smashed the double glazing with a round from his Kalashnikov and was now standing, silhouetted in the window frame, a terminator with a smoking gun.
Stevie began to run.
Another burst of gunfire. The panel on her right shattered under the rain of bullets. Stevie gasped and kept running, her feet numb from the cold. The panel right behind her shattered—then another one, this time on her right. She dodged right again, her back foot leaving the panel just as she felt it give way.
Twice she stumbled, almost sprawling across the roof. The wall of the east wing was near, the window still open. But Stevie remembered how difficult it had been to crawl out. Getting in would take too long. She would be a sitting duck.
A rain of bullets shattered the panels closest to the east wall, blocking her way to the window anyway. Stevie stood still for a second and took one quick, deep breath. This was no time to panic, suspended on a glass pane, surrounded by air.
Then she saw the curtains below her. They were heavy velvet and lined against the cold. The rods holding them would have to be very strong.
Holding onto the bare metal roofing frame with both hands, she swung herself down until she was hanging, like a child from monkey bars, by her arms. She began to swing gently, grateful for years of compulsory school gymnastic classes, then launched herself at the nearest curtain like a cat with its claws extended.
More gunfire and a rain of glass. Hugging the blue velvet as if it were a large teddy bear, Stevie slid to the floor, six metres below.
The staff and guests had fled the room at the first shower of glass. Stevie could hear shouting, people were coming. No doubt Dragoman’s men would be amongst them.
Quick as a bird, Stevie ran over to the corner bar and grabbed an empty bottle of champagne that had been left sitting on the counter. She leapt into the nearest armchair and slumped over with her eyes closed, the bottle hanging from her right hand.
The room filled with voices—Swiss-German, Russian, Lebanese, Stevie recognised the perfect French of the elderly lady in pearls—all demanding to know what had happened.
A gentle hand shook her shoulder.
‘Fräulein Duveen? Fräulein Duveen?’
It was the manager, Gunnar Gobb. ‘Are you hurt?’
Then he caught sight of the empty bottle. Fräulein Duveen had obviously passed out drunk and missed the whole commotion. So much the better.
‘Fräulein Duveen, we must get you to your room. Where is—?’
As if called, Henning appeared. He caught one look at his client and groaned.
‘Oh, Herr Direktor, she told me she was having a late massage!
Really—how can this have happened?’
‘She must have taken the bottle from the bar,’ Gunnar Gobb said disapprovingly. ‘The barman would never serve alcohol to a green bracelet.’
‘The demon