The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [30]
He turned to her. ‘You told me in London that you were protecting the wrong people. Well, these are the right people.’
‘Henning, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.’
Stevie peered into the casino window. A tired old babushka sat wrapped in so many layers she could have been a caterpillar. A roulette wheel spun idly in front of her, the little white ball making a joyless clicking every time it leaped numbers.
‘Do you remember the girls on the park bench you saw that day I called you? They were haunting you.’
The ball finally settled on 8 and was still.
‘Think of Anya as a girl on a park bench. Only this time, Stevie, don’t walk away.’
Stevie looked at Henning’s flickering face, his serious eyes, his kind mouth. Bastard. He was trying to hold her to her principles.
‘That’s a cheap trick.’
‘Is it, Stevie? You didn’t mean those things you said? You don’t care what happens?’ he challenged.
She snapped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henning. Of course I care. But you can’t go around caring about every single horror story in the world.
You just can’t. It doesn’t do anyone any good.’
‘No. It doesn’t. But you should have compassion for the people who cross your life, however briefly. Those are the ones you can help, the ones you can touch.’
Of course he was right. Stevie knew that. But doing wasn’t the same as wanting to do. It was infinitely more troublesome. And dangerous. Tonight was the third time in two days that she had felt like a coward. There was a desperate family, a girl in mortal danger, and she was thinking of herself.
‘Just until the kidnappers make contact, Stevie,’ Henning pleaded softly. ‘When contact is made, we’ll get your negotiator in. I promise.’
Stevie just shook her head. She and Henning stood transfixed as the babushka dropped the ball and spun the wheel.
‘What’s your number at roulette?’ Henning spoke without moving his eyes from the wheel.
‘Thirteen.’
If that little roulette ball lands on thirteen, Stevie thought, I’m in. If it lands on any other number, I go home tomorrow and practise being brave somewhere else.
‘You should have made a bet, Stevie.’ Henning gestured with his hand in the pocket of his coat. The ball lay cradled in number thirteen.
4
‘It will be enough to tell them she is still alive.’
A rough hand reached down and ripped Anya’s thin gold chain from her neck. From it hung an orthodox crucifix and a small evil eye made of blue glass.
She was still alive, but for how much longer?
Everything she could do to make her situation better, she had done. But that was not much. The blindfold had not once been removed. Only her ears and nose and touch told her she wasn’t alone, that there were people around, that she was still in Russia, that her captors enjoyed the radio, that they ate a lot of boiled meat and argued frequently.
The radio helped her play the mental games she knew would keep her sharp. The security coordinator at her father’s bank had once told her about kidnappings, emphasised the importance of the role of the kidnapping victim in securing their own freedom. It was important, he had drummed into her, to do mental exercises if imprisoned. In the event that an opportunity came to escape, or that someone mounted a rescue attempt, she would have to be quick and lucid enough to respond properly. Blindfolded, she couldn’t read, so anticipating the next song was a game she played with herself, and memorising the words to songs and the weather forecasts was another.
Being blindfolded somehow made her feel braver than she might have felt if she had been able to see her captors’ faces. Initially it had been terrifying to be plunged into darkness but now it had become a comfort.
When she knew or suspected someone was near her, she would begin to talk out loud and tell stories about her life, especially her childhood. It would, she hoped, help humanise her to the kidnappers. If they saw her as a human being rather than an object to be traded or used, they might be less likely to kill her. They might treat her better, or hesitate at the critical moment. The smallest