The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [97]
Yudorov had insisted that there was no room for any but his own security staff—and twenty guests—in the chalet itself. This was probably wise, Stevie thought. Yudorov’s own people would be highly professional and carefully vetted. There could be no guaranteeing his guests had been as careful. Allowing them to have their own armed guards in the chalet would have been a serious security risk. Stevie would have made the same recommendation if she had been Yudorov’s risk assessor.
For Stevie’s mission objectives, it was a good beginning.
The Hammer-Belles were to arrive the following day by helicopter from Zurich, in time for the grand final match. The big bash was that night, and celebrations were due to carry on all week. In the meantime, Stevie planned to scout around to see what she could pick up about the goings-on in town.
Gossip travelled faster than news—and was often more reliable— in a resort like St Moritz. She had organised to have dinner at Chesa Veglia with the manager of the Palace, who happened to be a dear friend.
If anyone knew who was in town, doing what, and with whom, it was Paul.
They had arranged to meet at the Palace around seven for a drink. Stevie had a bath and dressed for work. Although dinner with Paul was pleasure, you never knew what waited around the corner and her assignment had officially begun. She had to be able to run or climb at a moment’s notice, but also to blend in perfectly with the local scene.
The two thousand francs David had given her had gone on a pair of butter-soft leather trousers, black and cut to sit on the hip bone.
It was money she should probably have spent on something sensible like printer cartridges, and she was feeling a little guilty. Neither her Swiss nor her Scottish heritage allowed for such extravagant impulse buys. Still, the trousers made her legs look like liquorice sticks and she couldn’t bring herself to regret them. An oversized cashmere rollneck in
charcoal went over thermals, then her old, fur-lined boots with unbeatable snow grip. Pearls. Rolex. Knife. Ready.
It was early but Stevie wanted time to wander about the lobby and the shops and re-familiarise herself with the layout. Sandy would most certainly want to visit the boutiques, Gucci, Bulgari, Hermes . . .
all quiet, not much to see.
Once or twice she stopped suddenly in front of a boutique, looking casually over her shoulder; she kept an eye on the mirrors inside the shops—Stevie couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. It had been with her since her meeting with Kirril Marijinsky at the Kronenhalle. Surely David Rice wasn’t still having her followed?
That would be absurd, and insulting. But if it wasn’t his men, who was it?
Probably no one. It was more than likely her still-shaken nerves from the shooting in Moscow.
She strolled on, past Swarovski, Dior, La Perla—the lingerie store was in an uproar. A gang of beautiful women were tearing the place apart.
Stevie walked in. She counted three, four, five rather stunning young women—no, wait, six, seven behind the bikini rack—filling their arms with lingerie. A huge pile already sat on the counter, a harried shop assistant doing her best to ring up the price tag on each exquisite, handmade undergarment. Her eyes shone feverishly. Doubtlessly she had never seen a day’s sales like it.
The girls spoke Russian, calling to each other, mostly not even bothering to try on the underwear but just adding it to the increasing mountain on the desk. They were all young, probably nineteen or twenty—pretty faces but not fashion models—with the killer bodies of dancers. They were not dressed for the snow: skin-tight jeans tucked into the tops of spike-heeled knee-high boots and tiny singlet tops, some