The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [29]
Stevie took Henning’s arm lest she slip on ice. ‘Henning, why didn’t you tell me it was a missing persons case?’
‘Anya has been kidnapped, Stevie.’ Henning spoke slowly. ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt that she is not missing of her own free will.’
‘There’s been no communication to that effect yet.’
‘That doesn’t mean—’ ‘No. No it doesn’t.’ Stevie tightened her grip on his arm. ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate. The police will tell you teenagers run away. I believe the family. Still, you should have told me before I left London.’
Henning kept his gaze fixed on the slippery white path ahead.
‘You wouldn’t have come, would you?’
‘I can’t hunt for Anya.’ Stevie searched Henning’s face for understanding, but his strong profile betrayed nothing. ‘I’m not a private investigator. You know that, Henning. No matter how hard you try to seduce me with that poor family’s pain. These are not decisions that can be made emotionally. Too much is at stake.’
Henning stopped walking and looked down at her. ‘There is too much at stake to do nothing, Stevie. You have the chance to make all the difference in the world.’
Stevie looked away, uncomfortable. Her words tumbled out quickly, almost automatically. ‘Kozkov needs to hire a “Kidnap and Ransom” team with a trained negotiator. I am not trained to negotiate and I can’t take that risk for Anya. I can recommend a really good guy— got those Italian engineers back alive when their tanker was seized by Somali pirates. He’s done kids, too, does lots of work in the Balkans and Russia.’
Henning shook his head. ‘A negotiator with a team is not an option. There’s been no contact, no ransom demand. Stevie, I’m afraid that whoever took Anya wants more than Kozkov’s money. They want his integrity. They want to take his soul. They may never give Anya back.’
‘Why not just kill her then?’ The white puffs of smoke that accompanied Stevie’s words refused to evaporate into the ether. She regretted saying that out loud.
They walked on in silence. Perhaps it was the cold that was making her ears ring so painfully.
‘I’m sorry, Henning. I didn’t mean to sound harsh. But this is out of my league. I’m not that girl, the heroine who makes a stand. I am very human and I get scared like anyone else. Anya needs the best. If I mess it up, she dies.’
‘I convinced Kozkov to have faith in you, that it was the only way.’
Stevie stopped. ‘But why?’
‘Because I have faith in you.’ He said it as simply as a marriage vow: I, Henning, have faith in you, Stevie Margaret Duveen, as if having that sort of faith in another person was something straightforward. Stevie knew it was not. That pledge was, to her, the most devastating compliment.
They wandered on down the lonely boulevard, past the metal doors, the stone doorways, the beautiful pale green domes of St Vladimir’s Church, tucked like pear blossoms between brutal Soviet towers.
‘What is it exactly you think I can do for them?’ Stevie asked carefully, having regained her composure.
‘Be there to help guide the Kozkovs through these bad days, help them know what to expect; find out as much as you can about what happened and who might have taken Anya—anything that might help.’ Henning paused. ‘Then be there when the kidnappers call.’
They passed by a casino kiosk. There are lots of these in Moscow, dotted about near metro stations. They look like newsstands, small white cabins brightly painted with gambling chips and bouquets of hearts in revolutionary red. Standing in the street, pedestrians can lean through the barred window and place a bet on a roulette wheel any time of the day or night.
As if anyone ever found love by gambling, thought Stevie, looking at the hearts. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the only way to find love is to gamble . . .
Hearts and arrows and Cyrillic letters blinked and flashed in hot neon, dancing on the snow, on Stevie, on Henning, like a shower