The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [93]
’ He turned abruptly at the Russian words, but stopped walking when he caught sight of the delicate face, the red lips—a young woman.
‘Da. Who are you?’
‘My name is Stevie Duveen. I am a friend of the Kozkovs.’
Kirril’s face froze. He waved the two musicians brusquely away and took a step towards Stevie.
‘So then, why are you speaking to me?’
‘Can we go somewhere warm, have a drink? I need to tell you something very important.’
Kirril stared hard into Stevie’s face for a moment then shrugged.
She led him quickly to the bar at the Kronenhalle—not far, just across the Bellevue Platz—before he could change his mind. The bar was full, warm, smoky, comfortable. Stevie realised she didn’t really know how to begin.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Kir Royale.’
‘I think I’ll join you.’ Stevie found crème de cassis a little sweet— she preferred her champagne plain—but choosing the same drink, like mimicking body language, helped people relax.
‘It’s about your goddaughter, Anya.’
Kirril’s eyes grew wary. He untied his bowtie and opened the top button on his shirt. Stevie wondered why he had left his gloves on. Perhaps the hands were too precious to be unsheathed in social situations. You never knew with artists . . .
‘Vadim told me you two keep in touch. Mr Marijinsky, there is no easy way to tell you: Anya’s been kidnapped.’
Kirril’s face lost all colour. Stevie thought he might be sick. But he recovered himself and took a sip of his drink. Stevie continued, her eyes on his face. ‘She was taken while shopping with her friend at GUM. I work for a risk management company that specialises in this area. I was supposed to help get Anya back.’
Stevie took a gulp of her kir and swallowed. ‘The men holding her have demanded that Valery reverse his stance on the banks. I don’t know if you are aware that he has been—’ ‘I know what he has been doing!’ Kirril was suddenly furious.
‘I follow everything from here! And now the mad fool won’t give in!
I cannot believe he would sacrifice his daughter’s life to his damn principles!’
Stevie remembered Vadim saying the same thing at the dacha.
‘Valery is willing to do anything to get her back. The kidnappers said they are going to hold Anya until they are satisfied. Valery is desperate— I’m afraid he is about to do something very dangerous.’
‘You are advising him?’ Kirril’s magnificent head turned to her.
Stevie blushed. ‘He sent me home because I couldn’t help. Before I left, I promised Vadim I would talk to you. Please. Anything might help.’
‘You want to know what happened between us.’ Kirril drained his glass. Stevie quickly ordered him another, wanting to keep him talking.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
After a moment’s hesitation, Kirril began. ‘I used to live in Moscow. I conducted an orchestra there. One day two men came to see me in my dressing-room after a concert. They told me the man they worked for had enjoyed the concert very much and wanted to become my patron. In exchange for a large cash patronage, I would resign and leave with my best musicians. We would become his private minstrels. I at first laughed. The idea was quite mad. But the men were not joking. I then told them that I was happy where I was and that it was my belief that music was there to be shared with the public, and that none of my musicians would consent to having their talent locked away and kept for a handful of over-moneyed, overfed vulgarians. I was angry. The men left. I thought little more of it.’
Two fresh kir arrived. Kirril sipped again, his face still ashen. ‘One night after a concert, I was late leaving and I was alone in my dressing-room. The same two men reappeared, this time with their boss. He repeated his offer to me and again I completely refused. One of the men grabbed me and pinned my arm to the table. The other man—’ Kirril took off his gloves and laid his left hand on the table. His ring finger and pinkie had been severed at the knuckle.
‘Bolt cutters.’
Stevie choked back her gasp. The sight of those extraordinarily beautiful and expressive hands so mutilated made