The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [71]
Then a black Mercedes pulled up in front of The Boar. The driver got out and opened the door. Stevie slipped quickly into the warm leather interior. Henning bent down to speak through the window. ‘I can’t imagine you could have anything to be ashamed about, Stevie.’ His voice was low, soft.
She said nothing but stared down at the snow-encrusted gutter.
I am ashamed at the relief I felt just now when I realised I wouldn’t have to follow Gregori Maraschenko myself. And that’s just for starters.
‘Henning,’ she looked up anxiously. ‘Be careful.’
Henning gave her a wink. ‘I’d say the same to you, only I’m not worried about you. You’ll probably be safer with Maxim than anywhere else in Moscow.’
8
The Mercedes drove Stevie through the night snow, the lonely stop lights, the dead boulevards. There was a motorcycle a few cars behind them. It seemed to stick close and yet never gained on them. Were they being followed? But when she leaned forward to mention it to the driver, the motorcycle was gone.
Stevie was hoping Maxim would have something to say about Anya, or Maraschenko—anything. Shady people most often knew more about the goings on in Shadowland than those who lived in the white light of day. They could rarely be relied upon unless their own interests were at stake, but in those circumstances, Stevie had found the corrupt to be no less reliable than the sound. She prayed Henning would be alright.
The car was pulling into a driveway flanked by a huge wrought-iron gate. Overhead, a huge sign read: CAH C—Sun City—and a painted Aztec warrior glared down at them.
Sun City, it turned out, was a solarium, a brand new facility, with twelve state-of-the-art machines, open twenty-four hours a day. The receptionist was a bubbly blonde in a tight white T-shirt. She looked more like an Ibizan club promoter than a Muscovite, but that was probably the idea.
It did feel slightly odd with the vibrant green astroturf, the giant plastic palms under the warm yellow lights, the upbeat house music, especially when outside it was midnight in Moscow, dark, dangerous and at least 40 degrees below zero. Stevie could see the appeal of Sun City.
‘Vi Stevie?’ The Ibizan clubber asked brightly. Stevie nodded.
‘Maxim wants to see you in the solarium.’
The blonde led her to the cubicles. Each housed a sun bed, the end one, two beds. The girl handed Stevie a pair of dark purple goggles.
‘You will be in this one.’ She indicated the sun bed closest to the door.
‘But I don’t really tan,’ Stevie began in protest. ‘You see how pale I am? I burn. Like toast.’
‘Everyone can tan,’ the girl beamed. ‘It’s all in the mind.’
‘Do you at least have some sunscreen?’
The girl looked at Stevie as if she were deranged but did pull out a bottle of SPF 10. Better than nothing.
‘Please,’ she handed Stevie the bottle, ‘no mobile phones.’
Stevie had pulled hers out and held up a finger. ‘Adna minuta, pozhaluista,’ she said.
There was a text message waiting on it from Josie. The girl was a workaholic. She opened it:
Stevie: terrible photo. It took a miracle: Gregori Petrovitch Maraschenko— on Interpol watch list. Known thug, several criminal convictions, mainly assault and robbery. Suspected low-level links to international crime figures.
International crime figures—that didn’t really narrow things down, especially not in Russia, but it did make it seem unlikely that Maraschenko was seeking influence over Kozkov’s banking reforms. So the question remained: what did he want with Anya?
Stevie erased the message and stepped into her cubicle. Hopefully Maxim would have something to tell her.
The things we do, thought Stevie as she stripped off, smeared on a thick layer of sun cream and climbed into the white plastic coffin. That’s what it felt like, a coffin.
‘Where’s Mr Krutchik?’ she asked, hoping she sounded casual.
‘He’ll be here in a minute.’ The girl set the timer and the dials on the machine and slowly lowered