The ground flew under her and she was catching him. She was going too fast and her head ached—but her blood was boiling and all caution had been trashed.
The man had almost reached the parking lot. She saw the orange lights of a Subaru WRX flash twice. Lazarev’s getaway car.
Faster.
She was almost on top of him. She shouted to the police. They ran towards her, not sure who was the victim in the scene that was unfolding at high speed before them, the middle-aged man in the Loden or the young Bodicea, all flaming cheeks and wild hair, hunting him down on the back of a galloping horse. A radio message crackled from security in the tent. Now they understood.
Lazarev was trying to zigzag, but Stevie’s horse had been trained to do just that for polo and she kept on him, only metres away now.
Then Lazarev caught his foot on a bank of snow and went down, skidding across the hard white floor, rolling twice. Stevie pulled up the horse and half slid, half fell to the ground.
The police advanced on Lazarev, their handcuffs open to receive him.
Although shaken by the encounter,
Sandy proved surprisingly resilient. She refused to miss Yudorov’s party that night and seemed to relish the extra attention her brush with disaster drew to her.
‘It only makes the champagne taste sweeter, darling!’ Stevie heard her exclaim several times with a laugh.
Kennedy-Jack remained oblivious that anything had happened and was now happily sleeping with the manny and the minder on guard in his room. Douglas was beaming with protective strength and pride.
The fears of the Hammer-Belles, after all, had been justified. The famous couple was indeed a target of much desirability all over the globe, but they would not let their prominence become a burden for themselves or their host. Beam, smile, beam.
As for Stevie, the whack she had received to her head throbbed painfully and she was still shaking from the adrenaline surge. It wasn’t enough to keep her from her job, although Dovetail had made her promise she would stay firmly in the background, no matter what.
A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne glasses—Cristal, the infallible favourite of rap stars and oligarchs—that had been sprinkled with large flakes of gold leaf. Stevie took a generous gulp of champagne, swallowing a large flake of gold in the process. She was sure someone had told her gold was good for the digestion . . .
The party in Yudorov’s chalet was in full swing even before the helicopters ferrying the host and a slew of guests touched down in the snow outside. The car park was full—Maybachs, Bentleys, two Rolls Royce Phantoms, and a Bugatti Veyron—the outside of the huge chalet lit up like a Christmas tree. Security forces were everywhere: in suits by the front doors, side doors, throughout the house; in black camouflage on the roof, the balconies, and sprinkled amongst the pine trees around the perimeter. These had attack dogs on short leashes and automatic weapons tucked under their arms. No chances were being taken.
Yudorov had been horrified at the attempt on Sandy and Kennedy-Jack and he’d seen the breach in security as a dereliction of his host’s duties, especially seeing as the aggressor had been an invited guest. This detail Sandy was not told, not by Yudorov, nor by Stevie.
Owen Dovetail had checked Kennedy-Jack’s sleeping arrangements and was now back watching the room with Sandy and Douglas.
He was moving on an irregular circuit that would allow him to keep an eye on both baby and parents. He didn’t have much faith in the action-man minder.
Stevie wandered from room to room, taking a look at the other guests, keeping an eye out for any signs that something was amiss.
She felt rather proud that she had foiled the afternoon’s attack on Sandy, but she knew it had partially been luck. The IRA had said it after their Brighton bomb failed to kill Margaret Thatcher: ‘You have to be lucky all the time. We only have to be lucky once.’ Once was enough.
The host had changed into something more casual (a Superman T-shirt) and he was sitting with four other men on a divan in the main room. His polo team had lost the match and the men were toasting him—it is Russian custom to toast a failure as well as a win—with shots of vodka. Stevie moved a step closer to listen. She knew she was
safe; Russian men never paid attention to women they didn’t want to sleep with. They had moved on to anecdotes about Alexander ‘Sascha’ Nikolaievitch Yudorov.
‘Sascha is a man who has saved presidents, entire governments, and no one even knows it. Like that time in Africa, we were with Thabo Mbeki, and he is toasting Sascha, and he gets the toast the wrong way round and shouts “up bottoms”!’
They all roared with laughter.
‘I’ve known Sascha since he was a boy—I had just had my
bar
mitzvah
, he was a few years older. He asked me to come and help him move some garbage bags—big black ones. He needed to bury them, he said. So we dug a large hole and dragged the bags over. They were so heavy. And then I’m sure I heard a groan from inside one of the bags. I was too scared to say anything. I just buried the bags.’
More laughter.
‘And then what about the sheikh in Dubai who presented you with that extraordinary watch—it would have been worth $100,000 at least!’
‘It was the most hideous thing I’d ever seen,’ Yudorov drawled, then lit a cigar.
‘Whatever happened to it? It went missing after dinner.’
Yudorov expelled a puff of smoke and smiled. ‘I gave it to the waiter on the way out.’
More laughter, more vodka, much smoking.
Yudorov’s wife was standing in a corner talking to the head caterer, her black hair falling like two perfect ink waterfalls on either side of her face. Had the face not been so terribly strained, it might have resembled Cleopatra’s.
Hers was the life that so many girls like Tara and Tatiana—the two having dinner at Chesa Veglia—wanted: married to a Russian oligarch of unbelievable wealth, private jets and homes around the world,
diamonds everywhere and an army of people to take care of her. Amalia Yudorov was living their dream and she didn’t look like she was enjoying one minute of it.
She had paid a heavy price, thought Stevie, and if only those girls could see this. Would they notice? Would they see how taut, how pale, her face was? It looked like a mask and she was barely thirty years old.
How tight and controlled her movements, how brittle her spirit? Or would they just see the huge diamonds on her fingers?
Josie had included a lot of detail about Amalia’s life in her notes to Stevie: Amalia never knew where in the world her husband was, let alone what he was doing there or who he was with. She never knew if she would have to pack up and leave the next day to meet him wherever he was, nor where she would be going. Her job was to make sure all of his many houses around the world ran like clockwork, were luxuriously furnished, fully staffed, and organised for his needs. The rest—well, there was no rest. Amalia had no life outside of Yudorov, and she had no life with him. She saw him for about six weeks a year in total and they slept in separate bedrooms.
Stevie watched Amalia greeting the guests as they came in: ‘Cristal, or Dom Perignon ’98? Crocodile sashimi or scrambled quail’s eggs with truffles?’ She was holding on to her tiny smile so hard it had become a grimace.
Stevie guessed Yudorov enjoyed playing mind games with his wife, keeping her close to the edge of a breakdown and completely constricted by his world. She looked like she hadn’t been held in years.
Stevie checked her phone again. The
Kantonspolizei
had promised to call with an update on their arrest that afternoon. Although Stevie knew the Swiss police to be utterly incorruptible, she hoped Lazarev had not somehow been released on a technicality, or managed to escape. So far, there had been no word.
She wondered what was taking Josie so long—she ought to have information on Lazarev by now.
In with a burst of
freezing night air came seven beautiful girls. Discarding their furs and jackets in a careless heap, they revealed fabulous bodies in very little clothing. Stevie recognised the legs from the lingerie store at the Palace. And there was the baby who had almost tripped in her heels.
Stevie stepped out of sight as the two men accompanying them entered. She hadn’t forgotten that the third man from the eighth floor Palace suites was the one now under lock and key in the police cells. The men must have known each other, were possibly friends, even involved in the conspiracy. Unless they were just cover.
Dovetail appeared and Stevie signalled to him. ‘What are those men doing here? I thought we warned Yudorov about their possible connection to the assailant.’
‘We did,’ he replied. ‘It seems he didn’t disinvite them. They must be important to him—’ ‘—to risk the safety of someone as high profile as Sandy, I’d say.’
The Welshman scowled. ‘They won’t be losing so much as an eyelash without me noticing.’
The flock of girls were fawning over the two men, giggling loudly, not quite convincingly. Stevie couldn’t blame them—the men didn’t exactly look like anyone’s idea of a good time, with their stocky bodies, short limbs and the scars of heavy living—and worse—disfiguring faces that had never been handsome. They didn’t share even a hint of a smile between them.
The little group moved their gaiety into the next room, settling onto the large daybed and fur rug in the centre. With loud clicks of their stubby fingers, the men ordered the waiters to bring champagne
and vodka. They seemed utterly uninterested in Sandy Belle. Dovetail slipped invisibly after them.
Stevie’s phone rang. It was Paul.
‘Stevie, I heard you got into a fight . . .’
Stevie suppressed a sudden giggle. ‘Yes, but it was all the other man’s fault, Paul. He started it.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, no. I’m fine.’ Stevie was touched by the concern in his voice.
‘Purple bruise on the side of my face like a bunch of grapes, but more hurtful to my self-esteem than anything else.’
‘Well that’s sort of what I was ringing about . . .’ Paul paused awkwardly. ‘I meant to tell you the other night but you seemed so . . .
radiant. I didn’t want to spoil it.’
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Joss Carey is here in St Moritz. I saw him the day before you arrived. I just wanted to warn you so you would be prepared if you ran into him.’
‘Too late for that, Paul darling. He found me at the polo.’
‘It wasn’t him you chased, was it?’ Paul asked, horrified.
‘It should have been. No. But I hated myself, Paul. I was shaking and—’ Stevie felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t have to turn around to know. How much had he heard?
‘Anyway, Paul, I’m fine,’ she continued breezily, a little too loudly perhaps, but she was on the verge of panic. ‘Just a little whack and a bit of excitement—nothing a glass of bubbles won’t cure!’
Then she hung up on the bewildered Paul and turned to face Charlie.
‘I saw you today, chasing down that man.’ He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Not bad in the saddle—Joss always said you could ride.’
Stevie hoped to death that Joss had decided to stay home.
‘He’s here, you know.’ Charlie blinked at her myopically.
‘I’d rather not see—’ ‘Oh don’t worry about that Norah girl. She’s out of the picture,’ Charlie snorted. ‘Gave him the boot. Still, he hasn’t done too badly off her fame. Quite the star himself now.’
And then Joss appeared. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He gave Stevie a huge smile. ‘I think the best man-hunter since Bodicea deserves a drink.’ He poured two glasses, handed one to Stevie, one to Charlie. Then he raised the bottle and looked right at her. ‘I’ve never loved anyone but you, Stevie Margaret Duveen . . .’
Stevie could hardly swallow her champagne.
What was he saying?
How could he say that to her?
Charlie snorted again. ‘Bottoms up.’ He downed his glass in one.
‘Enough of this muck. Do you think the barman will do me a voddy pom pom?’ He wandered off in search of his vodka and apple juice. Stevie was left alone with Joss.
‘. . . and I never will,’ he continued softly, his velvet eyes on her.
‘You’ve bewitched me.’
She was finding it impossible to pull away from his gaze. He still had the power to hypnotise her like a snake, and there she sat, a little bird on a winter bough, watching him creep closer.
‘Stevie,’ he murmured, savouring her name like a caramel on his tongue. There were days when she would have murdered to hear her name whispered in that voice.
But he is dangerous—don’t be a fool. Remember the heartbreak!
Shouting to herself was like yelling at a deaf man under water. Stevie was gone.
When Joss reached out and stroked her face, took her hand, she let him. Her treacherous heart beat like a wild thing.
‘Stevie, come to the balcony with me. I want to talk to you.’
Every fibre in her body wanted to go with him. She stepped closer.
His eyes flicked up as someone passed. It was the youngest Russian girl, the unsteady fawn, hurrying off in the direction of the bathroom. It was enough to wake Stevie from the hypnosis and concentrate her mind. She broke away.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Stevie—please.’
Stevie turned and looked back at him. He was so handsome, so desirable, so awful. She didn’t trust herself to reply.
Scooting in pursuit, she caught up with the girl in the corridor.
They both leaned against the wall, waiting for the bathroom to be free.
‘Hi,’ Stevie smiled. The girl glanced at her, but didn’t smile back.
She persisted. ‘My friend and I noticed you walk past. You are very beautiful. Are you a model?’
Stevie had uttered the magic words.
The girl turned, this time with a smile. ‘Yes. I want to be a super-model. I do some work in St Petersburg but now I want to sign with an international agency and live in a foreign city, maybe Paris or New York.’
‘Do you have an agent?’
The girl made a face. ‘Not yet. It’s not so easy—there are so many Russian girls who want an agent.’