The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [18]
Joss’ exhibition. Propose. He had always said he didn’t believe in forever . . . Had Norah changed all that? And now he would know that she was in town, that she didn’t have the courage to attend. Charlie would be sure to tell him. She would definitely book that flight home tonight.
A man from reception brought her a message slip:
Please phone Henning in Moscow 98 84 63 21.
Stevie stubbed out her cigarette and collected her coat. Henning would cheer her up.
She called from her room. ‘Hello, Henning.’
‘How are you, Stevie darling?’
‘Oh . . . you know.’ It was the second time she’d been called ‘darling’ that evening, the second time her cheeks had heated up—even though Henning often called her that. ‘Charging on—crime, paranoia, celebrity babies, the usual thing.’ She was aiming for ‘cheery’, but didn’t quite get there. ‘Actually it’s driving me a bit mad. I’m taking a week off.’
‘What’s brought all this on?’
Stevie told him about the young girls on the park bench. She couldn’t get the picture of the two of them sitting in the rain out of her mind.
‘They’re haunting me, Henning. Maybe . . .’ Stevie kicked off her shoes. ‘Maybe sometimes I think I’m protecting the wrong people. The clients I saw today are protected in so many other ways: they have money, friends, love, family, every opportunity. Those girls on the bench seemed so alone in the world. No one was going to worry about what happened to them. They seemed so . . . disposable. Does that make any sense?’
‘It’s an awful thought, that some people are disposable.’ Henning understood. His tone told her everything. He understood, he always did. That was the thing about Henning.
There was a long silence on the phone. Henning spoke first.
‘Stevie, will you come to Moscow tomorrow morning?’
‘Mmm, let’s see . . . no. No. Not possible at all I’m afraid. I have a client with a bad toupee who is terrified someone might catch a glimpse of his balding dome in this windy weather. He needs twenty-four-hour surveillance. Anything else I can do for you, Henning?’
‘I’m serious, Stevie.’
‘So am I. Would you mind terribly if I ran a bath while we chatted? This tub takes years to fill and I’m chilled to the bone.’ Stevie ran the taps and began to undress.
When he replied, Henning’s voice sounded a little huskier than usual. ‘It’s a business proposition of sorts. Just a small matter, private.’
‘In Moscow? It’s one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world, rotten with corruption. It’s unlikely to be a “small matter”. Everything is always connected to something bigger.’
In the mirror her face looked particularly pale. Charlie was right, she didn’t look well. No point staring.
‘It’s the head of the Russian Central Bank,’ Henning said. ‘He’s a friend. He wants a threat assessment on him and his family. He’s a good man, an honest man.’
‘Well, I can give you that over the phone.’ Stevie stood in her black bra and panties. Italian lace. She had started wearing beautiful underwear after Joss, to remind herself that she didn’t need a man’s gaze to feel sexy. Sometimes it even worked.
‘Extremely high,’ Stevie said, struggling with the clasp on her fancy bra. ‘Valery Kozkov, right? So far he’s shut down forty-four crooked banks, banned people from the banking industry for life, slapped down some heavy fines and it’s rumoured he’s chasing links between Russian organised crime and elements in the government. His one lucky star is that he is too high up to be killed without the consent of someone very senior in the political machine, but he’s swimming in dangerous waters with both the mafia and the politicians. I’m sure he knows that better than anybody. His family will be in danger, too. Certain elements will want to send him a strong message. They did that to Anatoly Chubais only a few months ago.’
Off. Small naked breasts freed. Stevie pinned her hair back.
‘The landmine by the side of the road outside Moscow?’ Henning asked.
‘Exactly. That wasn’t meant to kill him. The blast was directed away from the motorway,