The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [157]
Stevie glanced at Anya. Did she know? Her face was blank but a single, fat tear fell from her left eye. Stevie guessed she already knew.
‘I already told you,’ Dragoman hissed with impatience. ‘I had nothing to do with that matter.’
‘Doesn’t really matter if you did or not, does it? The wolves are out to get you, my friend, heh, the pack has turned on one of its own.’ Heini licked the cream off the side of his slice of cake with a lizardy tongue. ‘I think I might have to ask for my payment up front, heh.’
‘They wouldn’t dare to touch me.’ Dragoman’s eyes were like marbles.
Heini shrugged. ‘Looks like they have already given the order.’
‘Then,’ Dragoman’s voice was tight and malevolent, ‘it’s a decision they won’t live to regret.’
Heini wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘So, heh, where is the gift you promised me?’
Stevie’s mind was reeling. The bait had been swallowed—Rosie was a genius. She sipped her champagne and pretended to be listening to Gunnar Gobb explain the details of the week’s langlauf expedition to florid German number three.
She saw Dragoman pull Anya closer towards him and turn her shoulders to face Heini.
‘For you.’
Heini looked the girl up and down. ‘Sure, heh. I’ll take it. But honestly, I think I prefer my sparkling parrots here.’ He indicated his bevy of women, now giggling around the cake, dipping their fingers in the whipped cream and touching them to each other’s noses. ‘So marvellously playful, don’t you think?’
Dragoman’s marbles shone with an evil light. ‘But you don’t know who she is.’
Heini raised an eyebrow.
Dragoman spoke softly, but Stevie was close enough. ‘She’s Valery Kozkov’s daughter.’
For a moment Heini was lost for words. Then a smile crept across his face.
‘Heh. Heh. You are a poet my friend, heh, a true poet.’
Dragoman gave Anya a small shove in the back. She took a step forward. Heini took her by the hand and ever so gently drew her towards him, admiring every inch of her.
‘Kozkov’s daughter, heh?’
It took all of Stevie’s willpower to not leap forward, smash Heini in the face and rush for the doors with Anya. She told herself Anya would be easier to rescue in Heini’s hands. Heini’s bodyguards were thugs, hired for their bulk rather than their brain; Dragoman’s were smart, sophisticated killers.
Dragoman’s shadow stepped forward and handed his master a clean white handkerchief, pouring rubbing alcohol onto his hands. Having thoroughly disinfected them, Dragoman nodded sharply to Heini.
‘I expect you to move on my orders immediately. The money will be transferred to you in two parts: one half before, and the other after, delivery of the pharmaceuticals.’ He paused a moment. ‘I don’t have to remind you to be discreet, Heini, do I? If I hear even the faintest rumour in the remotest border town, I will blame you.’
‘You’ll have your little pills,’ Heini assured him. ‘Don’t worry, I leave tomorrow. And Heini will have a wonderful time with his birthday gift when he gets home.’ He touched Anya’s golden hair then looked at Dragoman with admiration. ‘You truly are a wicked man, Felix. Heh.’
Dragoman tapped his index finger and thumb together and his shadow, lurking ever at his shoulders, produced a fresh cigarette in its holder and handed it to his master with the reverence due a peace pipe.
‘I am just a student of human nature, Heini. People are simple puppets. I like to watch them as they play out their little emotions, their base desires, their frailties.’ Dragoman blew smoke through his nose like a dragon. It was scented with cloves, an Indonesian kretek cigarette. ‘It amuses me.’
Stevie, eating cake, nodding to everything Gunnar Gobb said, heard every word.
‘Arrogant ass,’ was her first reaction, but she dismissed it quickly.
It was dangerous to despise one’s enemy. It led one to underestimate him, and it would not do to underestimate