The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [52]
Stevie said nothing.
‘It’s too dangerous, Stevie. A negotiator is not a safety net for you.
He won’t be able to protect you if things go wrong. Russia is a law unto itself—I don’t need to tell you that.’
Stevie did not reply. If the line was bugged, if someone was listening, she would have to be very careful what she said.
‘I appreciate the advice, David, and the concern. Actually, I have seen Kozkov but he is a friend of Henning’s, you see, that’s all.’ She spoke brightly and cheerfully. ‘He made no mention of his daughter.’
A brief silence on the line as Rice got the message.
‘Well, that’s good to hear, Stevie.’ His voice was as hard as an iron bar. ‘We wouldn’t want Marlise and Lockie worrying.’
He rang off.
The reference to her mother and father was Rice code for ‘I don’t want to see you shot dead in some godforsaken place’. Stevie appreciated David Rice’s protective instincts. No doubt it came from some sense of responsibility to her parents. Rice had spent a lot of time with their little family—a bachelor with nowhere to go for Sunday lunches, Easter feasts and snowy Christmas Eves.
Stevie wanted his admiration more than anything, maybe his love. Were the two not tied? He was her boss and her parents’ friend, but he was also the man she most admired in the world, and her anchor. She wanted so much to prove herself to him, but somehow he made her feel that, deep-down, he still doubted she was really up to the job.
Would Rice ever decide she was good enough to be at the centre of things? Celebrities and situation reports were one thing, but the really exciting clients were the ones the public rarely heard about. The Hammer-Belles fell into the ‘celebrity hand-holding’ category and she was rather dreading them. She hoped she could get Anya back before Rice called her away to Switzerland. What would she do then?
Stevie gave up on her dinner and lit a cigarette, touching the vodka to her lips to warm them.
And what about Henning?
Changing into the hotel robe, which was man-size and completely overwhelmed her, Stevie wondered what her friend was up to.
She looked in the mirror: her head was a tiny pale dot in a mound of white towelling, her small hands poking out of the rolled-up sleeves.
That’s it. I’m ringing Henning.
And the phone rang, just as if he had heard.
‘Well? Is it the sultan’s secret diary?’ Stevie struggled onto the bed and lay back on the pillows, cradling the receiver.
Henning gave a low chuckle. ‘Close, Stevie. It’s a book of flowers.’
‘Oh. Is that a disappointment? I suppose you would have preferred something rather bloody, with warriors, and scimitars parting heads from infidel necks.’
‘It’s actually a tremendous find from the sultan’s harem. You would love it. It’s a code book really, but the cipher is floral.’ Henning sounded incredibly excited.
‘All the sultans had at least one hundred wives. That much I know. So what was the code for?’ Stevie was genuinely intrigued, and the subject was a good distraction from her own thoughts.
‘The sultan’s wives used flowers to send secret messages to their lovers. Each flower had a different meaning. They could compose quite elaborate messages in bouquets and send them out. And then they would receive the most innocent-looking reply: a bunch of beautiful flowers.’ Henning laughed again. ‘Gives a whole new meaning to “flowery language”, doesn’t it?’
‘But wasn’t that terribly dangerous? They would have had their heads cut right off for the least suspicion I’m sure.’
‘But think, Stevie: one man and over one hundred, two hundred wives. Most of them essentially ignored, given luxury but denied love or acknowledgement. Indignation can embolden the most feeble heart.’
‘And you found their code?’ Stevie smiled into the phone, glad Henning had called.
‘It’s beautifully illustrated, too.’
She could hear Turkish music blaring in the background. ‘How is Istanbul?’ Stevie closed her eyes and dreamed of the city.
‘It’s covered in snow. The minarets have little white caps, and today they were