The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [3]
‘Avoid being kidnapped in the first place, I suppose!’ Alan Green’s eyes were wide.
‘And that’s where Stevie comes in: we had her in strategic analysis at Hazard for some years—Russia, Central Asia, Indonesia and North Africa. Only it turns out she’s rather good at spotting risks before they materialise—we call it her Early Bird Alert—so now she’s assigned to specific clients rather than regions.’
Stevie was feeling a little uncomfortable, being talked about as if she were not there. She concentrated on a small ball of teal blue fluff that had formed on the edge of the carpet.
‘Stevie advises clients interested in preventing security incidents. She’s been on most of Hazard’s training programmes—hostile environment training, close protection, defensive driver training, crisis management and so on—so she has a good understanding of what she is recommending for her clients.’
Alan Green was unable to hide his scepticism as he looked Stevie over. ‘Surely it’s very risky to intervene in these situations . . .’
‘I don’t intervene, Mr Green,’ she said evenly. ‘In, say, a kidnapping I’d stay on hand to provide an ongoing assessment of the situation for Hazard, the client and the negotiator—anything that might help them in communications with the kidnappers, and the media.’
‘We have more active departments for any rough stuff—mostly ex-paramilitaries,’ added Rice. He hand-picked those teams and he was very proud of them.
‘Well, Papillon were very impressed with how you handled our problem. Discretion was vital.’
Stevie flushed a little but managed to look Alan Green in the eye and say ‘Thank you’ in a firm voice.
The Papillon affair had been an extortion case involving Papillon chocolates, the largest confectionary manufacturer in Europe. An anonymous person had threatened to poison a batch of their popular hazelnut praline bon-–bons unless a ransom was paid. A sample of the poisoned chocolate was included with the ransom demand, to prove means and intent.
Stevie had flown to Papillon headquarters in Amsterdam and had the chocolate analysed. The unusual choice of poison had led her to a disgruntled food chemist employed by the company. The matter was then resolved internally to the satisfaction of all but the food chemist.
‘Sir!’ A shout from young Boyd, manning the phones. ‘It’s Mexico City—Portland Trucks, sounds like a fast-food job.’
Rice was at Boyd’s side in a flash.
Alan Green turned to Stevie. ‘Fast-food job?’
‘It’s when they snatch someone off the street, drive to an ATM and force them to withdraw the contents of their bank account,’ Stevie explained. ‘It’s petty criminals mostly, but lots of people have been killed this way.’
Rice was in fast conversation with Harold Betterman, head of the department. ‘Get Della Mare on the phone, and Fillippo Berez.’ Rice was all business, his face hard. Stevie loved watching him work: he was invincible under pressure.
She glanced at one of the clocks on the wall: London time. The Hammer-Belles were expecting her at the Ritz and she never kept a client waiting.
The lobby of the Ritz was warm and comfortable and Stevie didn’t mind waiting. Perhaps her shoes would dry in time.
Her muscles were aching. She had been at the Swords Club, her fencing salle, the night before. Four bouts with Patrick Molyneux had left her with a Dalmatian’s coat of bruises along her right thigh. He’d even been rude enough to try a flick hit, whipping his foil upward then cracking it down over Stevie’s shoulder like a stockwhip to sting her on the scapula. An ungentlemanly strike that stung like a wasp. But Molyneux had lost his cool and never regained it; Stevie had won three out of four bouts. He had left the club frustrated and perspiring—a most satisfactory result.
An abandoned magazine caught her eye. Joss Carey, art’s latest overnight superstar, brooded on the cover.
Damn him.
His coming show was attracting so much attention. She hoped he was still in Barbados