The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [32]
Less than a year later, two suicide bombers—both women—blew themselves up in the middle of a rock concert at the Tushino Airport in Moscow.
Then Beslan, on 1 September 2004. That day at School Number One haunts all Russians still: the terrified children, the faces of the parents watching the siege, the shootings . . . 186 children died that day.
Russia was still angry about Beslan, angry at the men who had murdered their children, angry at the security forces who had bungled the raid to save them, and angry at the Russian government who had expended so much blood and treasure in Chechnya, to ‘keep them safe from the terrorists’ only to sustain the worst attack yet. And so young men were still being sent to wallow in icy mud and set off explosives and shoot at other young men who lived in bleak, rain-scoured villages. For both sides life was brutish.
A deep voice jolted her from her unpleasant reverie.
‘Good morning.’ Into the breakfast room strolled the unmistakable Henning. He was rather gloriously dressed in a pale blue shirt, navy woollen trousers and a cardigan in deep purple. A blue tie with pale pink dots was perfectly knotted at his throat.
Stevie poured him a cup of coffee and he leaned forward in his chair, revealing a flash of red sock.
‘Is it simply icy out there?’ she asked. ‘The papers are saying –40 degrees. Those sorts of temperatures are absurd. It’s all over Europe, too: the birds are stuck frozen on telephone wires in Paris, and the metal axles of trucks are snapping in Berlin.’
Stevie had dressed in a dove-grey cashmere jumper and cream moleskin trousers. Knee-high riding boots and thick woollen socks would at least keep the bottom half of her legs warm.
She handed Henning the cup. ‘I keep thinking about the poor birds with their tiny cold wings.’
Henning took a sip of his coffee and put his cup down. ‘Stevie, Kozkov found something in his mailbox this morning.’
She sat up at once. ‘From the kidnappers?’
‘He thinks so. It‘s Anya’s gold chain. It was just lying there when he checked, on the way to work.’
‘And it had definitely not been there before?’
‘Definitely. Irina collected the mail yesterday, she does it four or five times a day now, waiting for news of Anya.’
Stevie folded the papers and pushed them aside, thinking. ‘It sounds like a prelude to some sort of communication. Hopefully this means they’ll contact Kozkov soon with a ransom demand.’
‘Do you really think they want money?’ Henning’s eyebrow hung, suspended with doubt.
‘It’s by far the most common motive for kidnapping the world over,’ she reasoned.
‘Kozkov is not a very rich man. There are so many others far richer.’
‘Maybe.’ Stevie took a quick sip of her coffee. ‘But the oligarchs and their children have lots of security—every big businessman in Moscow travels with bodyguards slinging AK-–47s in armour-plated 4WDs with flashing blue lights and bulletproof tyres. Kozkov doesn’t. It makes him a soft target.’
‘Could be amateurs . . .’
‘Possibly, although it takes nerve to hang on this long without communicating.’
‘If they are amateurs, it might be easier to get her back.’ Henning frowned. ‘It could be a positive thing.’
Stevie said nothing. Amateurs were far more inclined to panic than professionals. That was how victims got killed.
She thought for a moment then said, ‘I think Anya’s kidnappers are waiting because they know it’s the best way to weaken Kozkov. He has a reputation for fearless incorruptibility, remember? I have a feeling they plan to demand the world from him.’
Henning looked straight at Stevie, his eyes as steady and serious as steel rails. ‘Then let’s hope to God Kozkov is in a position to give it to them.’
Irina held Anya’s necklace strung through her fingers like cat’s cradle.
‘I want to hold her so much.’ Her voice was a whisper, her eyes pink and watery. Vadim stood by his mother’s side.
‘She never took it off. The cross was her godmother’s, Katia. She drowned when she fell though the ice one spring.’
Stevie carefully