The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [4]
Stevie rummaged around in an enormous battered black alligator bag. Somewhere inside were her cigarettes and Josie’s detailed description of her clients’ background.
Stevie had never been a smoker, but as cigarette bans crept across the Continent she knew that soon tobacco would no longer be possible in public places. So she had taken up smoking—long black cigarettes from Russia, with gold filter-tips. She intended to participate fully in the end of an era.
Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle were megawatt Hollywood celebrities. They were so famous that Douglas’ trainer had his own television show, so famous that the couple spent most of their time when they weren’t on set secluded in a massive compound in an undisclosed location (Arizona). They were über film stars, undeniably famous and competitively so.
Stevie, reader of gossip magazines for work and sometimes pleasure, knew all this already. Part of protecting a high value target—or HVT—involved researching just how much information about their private life was in the public domain. It was astonishing how much you could learn about people, especially public figures, for free from the internet.
There was little about Douglas and Sandy’s life that was not documented, celebrated, criticised and publicised. They were not, as her indomitable grandmother Didi would have put it, shirking violets.
A blow-wave of hairdressers burst through the Ritz revolving doors. Stevie counted five from her position in a gilded armchair facing the door. Their deep tans, stiff highlights and large black cases marked them easily. The leader of the wave drifted to the front desk and announced his intention to ascend to the suite of Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle. Loud enough, oh yes, so that most of the lobby could hear.
Good luck, thought a bored Stevie, stretching her drying toes. She’d been here twenty minutes just waiting for permission to access their floor.
The posse moved without delay towards the lift and disappeared to the upper floors.
In astonishment, Stevie stubbed her half-smoked cigarette, gathered up her bag and approached the front desk.
‘Excuse me. Are you certain Mr Hammer and Miss Belle know I am waiting to see them?’ she asked, keeping her voice mild.
Another call was put through. Then, ‘Madam, yes they do. They are ready to receive you now. The Berkley Suite is on the seventh floor. The lift is on your—’
‘Right. Yes. Thank you.’
Under the rather unforgiving, she thought, lift lights, Stevie smoothed her hair and checked her face for smudges of mascara. Presentable.
Did Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle have reason to fear for the safety of their five-month-old son, Kennedy-Jack? They were moving to London and had requested the services of Hazard. Stevie would probably recommend the kidnap package which included surveillance-awareness training for the parents, discreet bodyguards that went wherever the baby did, some defensive driving techniques, and detailed home security. The services of a negotiator would also be possible as an extra, should the worst happen.
Stevie had found that training made the HVTs feel safer and more prepared. Training would calm the fears of the parents in this case and make them more aware of what situations posed an elevated risk, and at what times they would be relatively safe. Existing in constant fear, and not feeling like there was anything you could do about it, was not living. The latest research Stevie had read found that this situation, when replicated in laboratory rats, produced severe neurosis.
The door to the suite was answered by a woman dressed in a black lycra dance-top and soft shoes, all gentle curves and bumps. She was midway through a conversation via headset that continued at full volume as she waved Stevie into the room.
It smelt of expensive scent and cleaning products and food and body odour all at once.
Stevie’s first view of the celebrated Sandy Belle in the flesh was utterly confusing. The star was lashed into a motorised contraption