The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [84]
‘She was keeping me company. Did you find any tracks?’
Kozkov shook his head. ‘But it snowed a little last night, enough to cover them a bit, and the fog makes them harder to spot.’
Stevie poured him a cup of boiling coffee; Kozkov filled it with sugar. ‘I can’t seem to shake the feeling that we are being watched,’ he said.
‘Is that why you went out?’
He nodded. ‘I wanted to see if I could find anything but—nothing . . . I hate feeling trapped, helpless. I am never powerless but in this . . .’
‘It’s exactly what the kidnappers want you to feel, Valery,’ Constantine said, entering the room with soft steps. ‘They want to make you feel powerless so that you will do whatever they say and not think you have any choice.’ Stevie was grateful for Constantine’s presence and poured him his coffee. He drank, seeming not to notice it was scalding hot. ‘From what you and Stevie have told me, these men may not just want money. The persuasion factor is even more important to them.’
Stevie stood by the door and watched Saskia run out into the snow to sniff about and do her morning business. It was breathtakingly cold, the frozen purple landscape could have belonged to the moon or a distant star. The magic of nature was on display and Stevie had never seen anything like it. It helped her faith to gaze out upon the frozen crystals, the pale silver trees, the happy dog.
Things will be alright in the end.
Saskia came bounding up the steps and dropped something with a clunk at Stevie’s feet. It looked like a stick of wood. Stevie bent to pick it up and throw it. As her hand touched it, she realised it was a dead mole, frozen solid. The poor creature, its little body stiff under the soft fur, tiny eyes welded shut—it must have somehow got caught outside its burrow. You didn’t usually find moles out in winter. Stevie picked it up carefully between two fingers and buried it in the snow at the bottom of the verandah. As she patted down the snow, she hoped that it wasn’t a bad omen.
At midday the satellite phone rang. Everyone was ready, but it startled them nonetheless. Kozkov let it ring twice then picked it up.
‘Ya slushayu. I’m listening.’
Constantine pushed a pad of paper and a pencil closer to him.
Kozkov was to write down what was being said so Constantine could see. Clues to whom he might be speaking to could be important. He picked up the pencil and wrote: Ukrainian.
So, not Maraschenko on the phone.
‘Let me speak to Anya—how do I know she is still alive? That you even have her?’
Good, thought Stevie, Kozkov’s voice was calm.
‘I can’t continue this without the proof. You will understand my position, surely.’
‘Be reasonable,’ Constantine had urged him. ‘Don’t show anger or fear.’
Kozkov wrote: Voice odd—out of breath?
Constantine returned: Top guy?
Kozkov nodded.
Good! This Constantine underlined.
‘Please, just let me hear Anya’s voice. It’s not an unreasonable request,’ Kozkov repeated.
This would help ascertain if Anya was being held elsewhere or wherever the speaker was.
Unexpectedly, Kozkov’s face cracked, lit up in pain and eagerness.
‘Anya! Have they hurt you? My darling . . .’
She’s there! he wrote frantically.
‘We’re going to get you home, I swear on my life, Anyushka—’ Stevie felt relief. They had a proof of life—the girl was still alive.
Kozkov looked at Constantine, the knuckles of his hand white where he held the phone. ‘Will you speak with a friend of the family? He is acting on my behalf in this—’ Kozkov waited for the answer and shook his head at Constantine.
They would speak only to Kozkov.
He was listening intently, then he said, ‘I understand.’
Impossible! he wrote on the pad.
‘These measures . . . I’m not sure they can be reversed. It takes time but—’ Kozkov listened some more, then his whole face hardened like a ghastly plaster cast.
‘You can’t do that.’ His voice had shrunken to a whisper now.
‘My God. You can’t do that.’ He went