The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [19]
‘And Kozkov is incorruptible,’ Henning reminded her.
‘That is almost a death sentence in itself. He won’t be persuaded to go local?’
‘He feels he can’t trust anyone.’ Stevie could hear Henning flicking his lighter as he spoke. He did that when he was tense. ‘His action on the banks has touched so many shady people in so many different ways. And that includes bank employees and politicians. He doesn’t even know who will be after him most.’
‘And you call this a small matter? It’s way too big for me. Like I said, I do paranoid popstars and synagogues on holy days. You need a team for this. If you want I can put Kozkov in touch with the right people at Hazard.’
The bath was too hot but Stevie slid in anyway and gasped.
‘Sorry. Bath hot. Pheeew.’ She massaged the dark purple fencing bruises dotted on her thigh.
‘Stevie, listen. There’s a particular reason we need you. Five big guys from Hazard won’t do. You speak Russian and you have the right look . . .’
‘It’s not some weird sex thing, is it? Doesn’t hurt to ask,’ she added, when he seemed to choke in response. ‘I once got caught in a very uncomfortable situation on a night train to Budapest that I’d rather not go into.’
‘It’s not “some weird sex thing”, as you put it. I can’t tell you more over the phone. Please just come to Moscow and see for yourself.’
And then came the clincher, as if Henning had read her mind.
‘It might be good for you to get out of London for a few days—get your mind off—’ ‘I’m fine.’
‘You won’t be when you run into him,’ he said grimly.
‘I’m not coming.’
3
BA 176 took off from Heathrow at 6.35 am. Stevie wondered whether accepting a glass of champagne before breakfast was bad form but decided that as it was not yet light outside, that made it still officially night and so everything was allowed.
She picked at her croissant and tried to read the papers, but the back pages were full of the Hammer-Belle move to London; articles on Joss and Norah Wolfe. Neither subject would improve her mood.
How had she ended up on the flight at all? When it came to Henning, it seemed that saying ‘no’ always, somehow, without Stevie ever really realising how, turned into ‘yes’. His powers of persuasion were maddening—she would make sure to tell him that when she saw him. She smiled to herself: it wouldn’t be long now.
Pale light bled into the sky and Stevie was able to make out the peaks of the Alps way below, jutting from the fog like the tips of slate-grey icebergs. They must be over Switzerland. She wondered if they were flying near . . .
Because she was sure, with the clarity brought by hindsight, that that weekend was when the affair with Norah Wolfe must have started. Or at least, that it was the weekend when, if she had been a little less in love, a little smarter, she would have ended it with Joss Carey.
Stevie had been home in her flat in Zurich when the invitation came. Joss had called from London, suggested a ski weekend in Switzerland. How terribly romantic, Stevie had thought. She would take the little red train up to Arosa on Friday. He would meet her there that afternoon.
Stevie packed her cashmere rollnecks, her furs, her ski boots and a bottle of her most passionate scent. She planned to dazzle him. In among the iced pines, in sleighs wrapped in fairy lights, surrounded by the deep, velvet snow, sitting by chalet fires, she would seduce him all over again.
The last few weeks he’d seemed distant, dreamier than usual. Perhaps this was his way of making it up to her. The ski weekend seemed like the perfect opportunity to show him that she, Stevie Margaret Duveen, was a girl with potential, someone his artistic soul could love deeply.
Stevie arrived at the alpine hotel at noon. A room had been booked in his name and she checked in, expecting him around three. She accepted the manager’s invitation for them to dine formally in the Panoramahalle.