The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [151]
Guten Morgen, bonjour, Madame, Mesdames, good morning . . .
Stevie greeted each with an air of sheepishness appropriate for one who had drunk herself into a forbidden stupor the night before, then rather publicly injured herself. Some were no doubt wondering if the cuts were truly an accident, or surface marks of dark intention.
Raw mushroom and beetroot porridge was on the green menu. This was getting too much. Stevie needed her strength and she needed food.
Up to the buffet she marched and helped herself to three soft-boiled eggs, lying defenceless in a straw basket, a huge chunk of heavy walnut bread and butter and the entire piece of Emmenthal cheese on the cheese board. Before any of the dining-room supervisors could protest, Stevie had swiped a hot pot of coffee from the farm-faced Germans and was back at her table.
Food had never tasted so good and she ate, trying not to gobble, everything on the plate, except for—
‘I would leave the floral arrangement, Stevie. Rhododendrons are poisonous.’
Henning, of course.
‘I wasn’t going to eat the rhododendron. I’ve had quite enough, thank you.’
‘So I see.’ Empty eggshells, cheese rind, and a smear of butter and crumbs was all that was left of her feast. Henning raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Does Gunnar Gobb know about this?’
‘Oh look, I’m a television star. If I can’t have a tantrum every now and then, no one can.’
‘Spoken like the real thing.’ Henning sat and ordered a double espresso from the disapproving waiter who hovered, uncertain what to do about the rogue feeding.
When he had gone, Stevie leaned in and whispered, ‘The good thing about people suspecting you tried to kill yourself is that they’re too afraid to approach you. “Don’t speak to her, lest she snap and try again! On your head may it be.” ’
Henning laughed and produced a major English newspaper from under his arm. It had that day’s date on it. He held the paper out to Stevie.
KILLER OF CENTRAL BANK HEAD FOUND, screamed the headline. And there it was, on the front page, a photo of Felix Dragoman. It had been cropped close and digitally enhanced, but it was Stevie’s photo. Rosie and David had come good.
Stevie skimmed the story, checking for the key information: Valery Kozkov . . . assassinated . . . anonymous Kremlin source . . . will not tolerate . . . Felix Dragoman, the most wanted man . . . operate with impunity . . . brought to justice . . .
She looked at Henning with satisfaction. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Dragoman’s going to have a fit when he sees that—obviously your intention.’ Henning tapped the headline with his forefinger. ‘Just further “proof” that his friends and sometimes protectors in power have turned on him. He will read between the lines and guess his life is in danger.’
Stevie caught sight of Gunnar Gobb scurrying out towards the hotel entrance. He didn’t look his usual, imperturbable self.
‘Shall we take some air, Henning? I’m feeling rather grey.’
The air outside was still and icy cold. Stevie and Henning wandered out towards the woods and the cluster of Dragoman’s men that had formed to one side of the road. The manager was with them, looking terribly pale.
‘Goooten morrigen, Herr Gobb,’ sang out Stevie with a wave, her robe trailing in the snow. ‘What’s going on? Outdoor breakfast cocktails? Tremendous idea!’
The manager came towards her, agitated. ‘Bitte, Fräulein, please, go back inside at once.’
A man lay on the ground surrounded by the boots of the search parties.
Stevie caught sight of Dragoman. He had appeared from nowhere and was now standing over the body. He was dressed all in black: trousers, stack-heeled boots and a three-quarter-length coat with a Mao collar. He wore a high-necked white shirt with a black cravat, gold sunglasses and fingerless leather gloves.
One of his men knelt in the snow. She saw him lift a hand belonging to the body, check for a pulse, then drop it.
‘Dead,’ he pronounced. Then he began searching the dead man’s pockets, pulled out a large hunting