The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [87]
Stevie felt terrible watching a man in agony, seeing his mind collapse. She was intruding on a most private pain. She found she couldn’t make herself walk out to him.
In the end it was Irina who left the room. Stevie watched Saskia run in grateful circles around her as she climbed through the snow, stepping carefully in her husband’s footprints.
Irina called out to him in a silvery voice that carried. ‘Valera.’ She went straight to him and embraced him tightly, pinning his arms to his sides.
Stevie turned away from the window as the two parents wept, clasped together and rocking like a ship in a wild sea.
Later that evening, they were all sitting around the fire, the bottle of whisky on the table almost empty. Stevie couldn’t shake the image of Vadim’s milky skin twisted with the hot pink and brown welts of the brand. Why were the officers so brutal with their charges? Perhaps it made a twisted sense: if you want to dehumanise a man, it is easier to begin with the boy. Youth is malleable, soft, more ready to take the impression of things brought to bear on it; the young are more eager to please. The officers of the Russian army had obviously understood this well; the Chechen fighters had, too. Suffering done unto them; suffering done unto others—that way the cycle of pain was never broken. Isn’t that what they wanted? Stevie wanted to see the scars again, ask more questions, but now wasn’t the time.
Kozkov had calmed down but his face—drained and drawn— showed the toll the afternoon had taken on him. He looked smaller, older and more fragile. His hand had been carefully bandaged by Irina, and she was now sitting close by his side. Even Vadim seemed spent. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast and no one felt they could now.
‘Vadim, I am going to fix this. I am making this a promise to you.’
Kozkov laid his bandaged hand on Saskia’s head. He spoke softly, almost to himself. ‘They steal my daughter, I become compliant, too afraid to tell anyone she is missing, so no one knows officially. I back off the banks, Anya is returned and there is no evidence of coercion or corruption. I never forget how vulnerable I am. I lose the will to fight.’
He raised his head and looked at Stevie. ‘But perhaps they underestimate what I am capable of. Choosing the path for good is not a preordained destiny; it is a conscious and difficult decision. My enemies think my idealism makes me weak. Perhaps I will surprise them.’ Kozkov turned his whisky glass slowly in his good hand, the amber liquid catching the fire from the candles. ‘Since I took my position at the bank, I have been quietly investigating “gifts” from both oligarchs and organised crime bosses, to parliamentary committee members considering banking reforms.’ He directed this to Stevie and Constantine. ‘I have names, details, irrefutable evidence. No one knows about this list. But there are names on it that might convince elements of the FSB that Anya ought to be found quickly and safely.’
Constantine shifted in his seat, his black eyes bright. ‘You think the secret police are involved in Anya’s kidnapping?’
Kozkov put his glass down and lit his hundredth cigarette. ‘Not directly. They prefer killing. But little goes on in Russia without their knowledge. Sometimes they can’t or won’t act; sometimes they do, and with great efficiency. I plan to offer a stick and a carrot, as they say.’
Stevie didn’t like the sound of his carrot and stick. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘Very carefully, I will put the word out about the list and that I am prepared to make it public to the world. Someone will get nervous and turn.’
‘If you alarm them, Anya could disappear forever.’ Stevie said it softly, half hoping Irina wouldn’t hear her.
‘All I can try to do is put pressure where I suspect it might have an effect.’ Kozkov looked at Irina, then Vadim. ‘If giving up my position