The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [89]
She knew she should look in on Henning when she got to Moscow. He was still recuperating in his hospital bed, healthy and healing, but under ‘observation’ on account of the injury being a blow to the head. She hadn’t spoken to him since arriving at the dacha but certainly by now Kozkov would have phoned him and he would know she had been fired.
Stevie felt too mortified to see him. So she organised for a large food hamper of caviar and melba toast to be sent to his room. She had thought about adding a bunch of white cymbidium orchids, but she then she remembered their secret language of flowers conversation. Did white orchids have a special hidden meaning? All she could recall was that mushrooms meant suspicion and she somehow didn’t feel that would be entirely appropriate, given the circumstances. It was too risky to let anything bloom accidentally, with an unintended message. Too risky, in fact, to let anything bloom at all . . . Stevie was trained to avoid dangers that may lie ahead; she would do so now. Leaving Moscow, and Henning, was the only possible course of action. She thought better of it and simply included a bottle of very fine whisky instead. The note on the hamper simply said ‘Stevie’.
At the airport, Stevie found herself scanning the face of every teenage girl she saw, almost as if she might spot Anya.
It’s over, Stevie. Let it go.
But it was hard to not think about Anya Kozkov, still captive, no doubt terrified, who knew where. She just hoped Kozkov’s plan was not as rash as it seemed.
By two o’clock, Stevie was sitting at one of the few small tables at the Kropf Bierhalle, one of the oldest Bürgher houses in the Alt Stadt, the ancient part of town. It was furnished with the traditional dark wood tables and leadlight windows, but the ceiling was double height and painted with extraordinary bacchanalian scenes involving cupids, wheat sheaves and huge bunches of grapes.
Stevie had always taken it as evidence of just how much the old Zürcher Bürgher had loved their beer. The white veal sausages particular to Zurich were exceptionally good at the Kropf, especially with a dollop of hot mustard and a side of the flattened potato Rösti.
Stevie was starving. She had had two helpings of the Swissair breakfast on the flight out from Moscow but she was ready for lunch. It was something that always surprised her—just how good airline food tasted after Russia.
She hoped David wouldn’t be late. The Bahnhof Strasse was just around the corner. In fact the biggest gold deposit in Switzerland was right under the Paradeplatz tram station. All those commuting feet and tram wheels and cars passing so casually over the billions of bullion. Switzerland was like that, all efficiency and discretion. The casual visitor would remain oblivious to most of the country’s most important structures. Why advertise them? There was safety in stealth. That was something Stevie was always trying to impress upon her clients. A few of them listened; many didn’t.
Stevie caught sight of David’s broad silhouette as he walked in and went to hang his navy blue cashmere overcoat. He made his way over, limping slightly, a hand on his ebony cane.
David Rice was no longer a very dangerous man but the sense of possibility hung about him still. The cane seemed to be there as a precaution, the way a lion might be made to wear a chain for the safety of passers-by. It highlighted his strength rather than his vulnerability.
‘Thinner than usual, a patchy tan, and a fat lip . . .’ He raised a thick grey eyebrow as Stevie stood to greet him. ‘You look like hell. Not that I’m surprised. A week in the mountains will do you good.’
‘Ski holiday, is it?’
Rice smiled but his eyes looked concerned as he ran them over Stevie’s face. ‘Alexander Yudorov is throwing a party in St Moritz. He plans to play in the polo-on-ice tournament this year and he wants everyone there to watch.’
‘Yudorov . . .’ Stevie searched her mental data base of Russian oligarchs. He