The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [24]
A panic room was designed so the people in the house could survive an attack long enough to be rescued from the outside. Stevie frequently offered them as a home security option for clients, but she herself hated the idea of using one.
Rats in a trap, waiting for the cat’s paw.
Irina Kozkov answered the front door. She was as attractive as a cat: high, wide cheekbones pushing up under navy-blue eyes. Stevie didn’t think it was possible for eyes to be that colour. Her skin had a waxy, slightly yellow quality shared by many Russians, but it was tight and flawless. Irina was dressed in the classic Moscow look: tight blue jeans tucked into high-heeled suede boots trimmed with black fur, thin gold belt, tight black cardigan in cashmere, the neck also trimmed in fur.
Discreet yellow diamonds twinkled at her ears, neck and on her fingers.
‘Dobri vyecher.’ Irina kissed Henning, then greeted Stevie. Irina’s tiny hand was freezing despite the warmth inside.
She led them into a well-furnished sitting room. Silently Irina filled tea glasses from a samovar that bubbled in the corner.
Samovars were a brilliant invention, Stevie thought. They were essentially a large urn that held constantly boiling water. A fixture in homes across Russia and Central Asia, they were usually elaborately decorated. This one was delicately painted with a winter scene from a Russian folk tale: wolves chasing a sleigh. The delicate painter’s brush had picked out fear in the faces of two women as they turned to face the wolves.
Stevie watched as Irina dropped clear golden sugar-rocks into each glass and handed them around. She moved rather robotically for such an attractive woman; her eyes seemed almost dead. Stevie wondered if she was stoned.
Irina handed her a silver cigarette box. It was the only communication she was offering at the moment. Stevie accepted and lit one, grateful for the distraction. Henning was seated on the red flock sofa, carefully stirring his tea.
Music—Tchaikovsky’s 5th symphony—was playing softly in the background. Nobody spoke.
Stevie glanced around the room. The side table near the window held framed photos of the family. Irina and her husband, caught in laughter. Had something horrible happened to Irina to dull those extraordinary eyes?
In the next frame, two children, a boy and a girl—teenagers Stevie guessed—stood in front of a birch forest. It was summer. The sun was behind them and lit their blond hair like halos. They were good-looking children. The flower of Russian youth, the pre-constructed phrase offered itself to Stevie.
Suddenly, under the music, Stevie heard shouting. The voice was muffled by walls and doors, but it was clearly male and angry. She couldn’t quite work out what— Then a second voice, not as loud but obviously not calm, overlapped it. Henning rose quickly to his feet.
‘Ah,’ he said with an exasperated smile aimed at no one in particular. ‘That will be Vadim and his father. Arguing again.’ He left the room.
The shouting stopped abruptly.
Irina still hadn’t moved.
This was getting stranger with every minute. Stevie couldn’t bring herself to break the silence. After a few moments she heard steps in the hall. Henning returned with Valery Kozkov. The head of the Russian Central Bank, the bravest man in Russia, did not look the part.
‘Stevie Duveen,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘I am pleased you could come.’ He spoke in English, accented but fluent. He was not a tall man, plump but not fat—just covered enough to pad any hard edges.
He took Stevie’s hand in both of his. They were warm and dry; his watery blue eyes soft and rimmed with red. This was a man who had not slept for nights, a gentle man, unassuming and unpresuming. Stevie liked him immediately.
Damn Henning.
‘It’s an honour