The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [156]
Stevie watched as one mouthed to the other, ‘Skinny bitch.’ It was envy. She would have loved to turn to the women and explain that Anya was thin because she was living in terror every second of her day and night. Was that something to envy?
The fifth course—or was it the sixth?—arrived, a glass bell filled with smoke. Stevie, still starving at this point, turned to Henning in disbelief. He simply smiled at her.
‘Bon apetit.’
She lifted the bell and the swirling smoke wafted out, revealing a small piece of white fish.
‘It’s fugu fish,’ she heard Dragoman tell Heini. ‘It’s deadly unless it is properly prepared.’
Heini found this even more hilarious—the wine no doubt was helping—that he was paying huge amounts to eat something that could kill him.
Stevie poked it with her fork. At least it felt like fish. Hungry as she was, she let it pass untasted.
After the final dish, a terrifying mousse of some kind, Dragoman stood and made a little birthday speech, joyless and dry as cardboard.
‘Your associates in Zlatoust send you many happy returns.’ Dragoman could have been announcing the train timetable. ‘They have organised to surprise you with a cake.’
From somewhere came the theme tune from Apocalypse Now— actually Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries before it became famous in the Vietnam epic. Heini stood and clapped the cake as it entered on the shoulders of a waiter.
It was the vilest thing Stevie had ever seen. The top of the cake had been printed with a photo of Heini’s face, three times its real size. All four edges of the huge cream rectangle were crowded with candles. It was carefully placed on a separate stand for admiration. Heini was beaming.
Waiters carrying bottles of Cristal emerged and began filling the champagne flutes on the table.
Stevie leaned in towards Henning. ‘Well, at least their choice of champagne is appropriate.’
‘I thought it was more the favourite of rap music stars . . .’ Henning thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure it was the managing director of Roederer who, when asked if its popularity with rappers would ruin the image of the marque, replied, “But what can we do? We can’t forbid people from buying it.” ’
Stevie nodded. ‘I remember that—and they don’t rap about Cristal anymore. But it was first made in 1876 for Alexander II of Russia. He was so terrified of being assassinated that he ordered champagne be made in clear bottles rather than the usual dark green ones so that no one could hide a bomb in them. Kind of appropriate for our paranoid friend.’
Heini went over to admire the cake, followed by his confetti of women. The other guests crowded around; the head waiter handed Heini a knife.
‘Oh goody,’ Stevie whispered to Henning. ‘We’re going to cut him up.’
The cake was cut up and handed around to the guests. Stevie accepted a plate. She looked for Anya, flanked by Dragoman and his shadow, and crept her way through the guests until she was standing close to her, a glass of champagne in one hand, a piece of Heini’s ear in the other. Stevie had to let Anya know she was a friend. If any opportunity came to run, she couldn’t risk a delay. Anya had to trust her.
She could hardly whisper anything to her. She would be seen and it would immediately arouse suspicion. Handing Anya a piece of paper—anything in writing—would be simply foolish. For now, all she could do was stand close to her.
Stevie looked at the cake. The bottom half of Heini’s face had gone; the brown eyes, with their dull marzipan stare, remained untouched. She saw Heini turn to Dragoman.
‘It’s quite an extraordinary likeness, don’t you think?’ The birthday boy beamed with delight. ‘It’s so good it’s almost a shame to eat it.’
‘It quite takes the breath away,’ Dragoman replied, refusing the proffered slice. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Heini took this as a compliment. ‘By the way, did you see the English