The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [94]
‘The man was a mafiya boss,’ Kirril’s voice was low and rough. ‘I didn’t know it at the time. After that, I forgot my principles and I left Russia forever, taking my music and my musicians with me.’
They sat in silence for a long time, Stevie forcing herself to look at Kirril’s fingers, Kirril leaving them lying bare on the table for her to see. Finally she asked, ‘Was Valery angry that you left?’
Kirril shook his head. ‘Another man approached me, here in Zurich, a Siberian; his name doesn’t matter. He heard the story and he offered me protection. I didn’t even ask what he might want in return or what kind of man he was. I didn’t care. I accepted. I accepted because I was afraid.’
Kirril took his fingers off the table and pulled on his gloves. ‘Valery was so angry. He called my patron a criminal of the worst kind, said I was a coward. He thought I should have stayed, made my story public, fought for my freedom. But the price was too high for me. For Valery, no price is too high. This is what we fought about.’
‘Vadim . . .’ The name escaped Stevie’s lips, her mind turning to the memory of his scarred young torso.
‘Vadim, too. That boy has suffered.’
Stevie looked around. No one seemed out of place—two men arrived in deep-green Lodens, others milling at the bar dressed in the brown tweeds and corduroys of winter; the women in cashmere jumpers, jewels, painted lips—but you could never be sure if someone was listening.
‘If you’re warm enough,’ Stevie suggested, ‘shall we walk a little?’
Outside, a low fog had settled along the shores of the lake. The avenues of trees were crisscrossed with tiny lights hung in the shapes of stars and hearts; it felt like fairyland off-kilter. Stevie thought of the mangled hand nestling in Kirril Marijinsky’s overcoat pocket and breathed a lungful of the freezing black air.
She glanced over her shoulder before she spoke, but the shore was deserted. ‘Valery thinks he can get Anya back with blackmail.’
Their steps were now clanging in unison on the frozen concrete.
Stevie was trying to be careful not to say too much. What did she know of Kirril? Had she revealed too much already?
‘Ah,’ Kirril nodded and exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘The insurance policy. You’re talking about Valery’s list.’
‘List?’ Stevie asked cautiously.
‘He began compiling it years ago, when we were still as close as brothers, cataloguing the “gifts” bestowed on politicians assessing bank-sector reform, following the money that flowed in and out of the special slush fund they had set up especially. That list could do untold damage to many powerful people.’
Kirril stopped walking. Any trace of vulnerability from the bar had vanished. His eyes were hard now. ‘But you knew that already, Miss Duveen. What do you want from me? Why did you come here?’
‘I thought maybe . . .’ Stevie was no longer sure of anything, hovering in the dark grey mist, alone with Kirril on the edge of the frozen lake. She suddenly wished there were people about. ‘I’m just trying to help Anya,’ she said finally.
‘You are involving yourself in something that does not concern you and you are putting everyone in great danger.’
Stevie put a hand on Kirril’s arm. ‘Anya is already in great danger.
You are her godfather—don’t you want to help her?’
‘Perhaps I would have—before everything happened.’ Kirril pulled his arm away. ‘But Anya belongs to another world now. There is nothing I can do.’
Stevie flushed with anger, her body hot and trembling at Kirril Marijinsky’s indifference. Any shred of fear fled. She wanted to slap him, but she kept her voice steady, her hands safely in her pockets.
‘You could go to your patron. He must have connections, beg him to help you.’
Kirril snorted. ‘And risk everything? My life is comfortable. I want to keep it that way.’
Stevie’s mind raced for a way to hold this man, this musical magician with doves for hands and a vanished heart.
‘Do the siloviki mean anything to you?’ Stevie saw the fear creep into Kirril’s eyes. ‘Do you know that half the names on Valery’s list belong to the siloviki? I