The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [36]
The girls were ‘playing’ very well, rehearsed, with perfect moves drawing eyes to perfect bottoms, perfect breasts, perfectly blank faces on which an audience could project their desires.
Stevie stopped to watch. Men surrounded the round bed, staring. Mostly their expressions were dispassionate, the flames of their fantasy hidden deep enough not to show on their faces. One man, a good-looking guy, young and eager, moved forward to the front of the circle and was drawn in by the nymphs. He rolled about with the girls, taking pleasure from their bodies and from being the envy of the watching men.
Pleasure strips you naked as much as pain. The young stud—Stevie saw it in his face—suddenly realised that he had become part of the show. He became uncomfortable and pulled himself quickly away, out of the circle.
Scanning the faces, Stevie noticed one man, chubby and pale. His desire was right there in his face, on his mouth, his shiny lips. He was videotaping the girls, right up close. He stuck out his tongue—too far, too fat, too pink—in appreciation.
The tongue, his open lust, made Stevie feel a little sick. She had seen dancers and strippers before. It wasn’t that. But this man’s desire and his arrogance were more naked than the bodies of the writhing girls. She had to turn away, plunge deeper into the crowd. It was time to find some answers.
Vadim drew her to a bar. Young girls in tiny tight jeans, little singlets, designer handbags and skeleton heels, were clustered about. Stevie pulled the photo of Vadim’s sister from her handbag. It was a copy of the two of them in front of the birch wood.
The girls stared at Stevie blankly when she spoke to them. They didn’t smile, didn’t reply. They were not interested in Stevie nor what she wanted. She was not a Russian man flush with cash.
The girls didn’t recognise Anya from the photo—but then, they probably wouldn’t. She looked natural, young, on a summer holiday. They might have met her here, in a dark club. She would have been wearing makeup and heels. Stevie needed to get to the VIP room where the photos of the model competition contestants were. She was sure Anya would be among them.
Where is Henning?
‘I’m right here.’ Henning placed his hand lightly on her shoulder, reassuring her. So he had been keeping his promise. He was a good man.
‘Henning, no one is going to talk to me,’ Stevie said, touching his hand lightly with her own, just for a second. ‘We need you. How do we get into that VIP area? I don’t think me going up and shaking my tail feathers and smiling at security is going to work in this place.’
‘Where is it?’ Henning glanced over his shoulder, searching for the room.
Stevie pointed up towards the first gallery. Rather brutal looking men were visible, lithe women, sparkling crystal, bubbles, diamonds on a backdrop of smoke. Henning scanned the crowd for what seemed like a very long time.
‘Maxim Krutchik,’ he said finally. ‘The bald one standing with the blonde.’
‘That doesn’t really narrow it . . .’ Stevie squinted up into the darkness. ‘Oh, yes. I see him.’ A huge man with a perfectly bald pink head and a beautiful blonde on his arm was staring down onto the dance floor below.
‘He’s the head of a logistical services company,’ Henning explained, ‘specialising in Iran, Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo.’
‘You mean an arms dealer . . .’ Stevie raised a sceptical eyebrow.
Henning nodded. ‘Unpleasant man, but he doesn’t know I think so. He thinks we’re great friends. He’s our way in.’
They headed up the stairs towards the VIP gallery. The host of the VIP room went to Maxim’s table and whispered Henning’s message in his ear, not daring to lay even a chummy hand on his shoulder.
‘Henning,’ Stevie whispered as they were let in, with beaming smiles this time, ‘I’m very suspicious of you now. There are places where