Then her befuddled brain kicked in and she struggled to sit up. Henning slid her effortlessly into place, plumping two pillows to make her comfortable.
‘Ten days?’ she croaked.
‘At best,’ the doctor replied gravely.
‘I haven’t got ten days.’
‘You are fortunate you have a pulse,
Fräulein
Duveen. In a fortnight you should feel strong again, although there maybe some ongoing effects.’
‘Such as?’ Henning asked before Stevie could.
‘Well,’ the doctor gestured with his free hand, ‘drooping eyelids, for example. Or a slow swelling of the extremities, possibly extra sensitivity in the fingers. In one case I know of, the survivor developed night vision after being bitten. It varies from patient to patient.’
‘Wonderful—I’m turning into Spiderman.’
The doctor looked at her sternly. ‘A snake,
Fräuelein
, is not a spider.’
Sense of humour had never been the greatest attribute of the Swiss professional.
‘Quite,’ she agreed.
‘Bed rest for a week, stay warm and whatever you do, do not agitate the heart. Do. Not.’ Doctor Meinetzhagen actually waggled his index finger. ‘Perhaps you might have a small glass of schnapps this evening, to help stop any clotting. I will come back tomorrow and see you again.’
He lifted his flat woollen cap. ‘The police, naturally, will have to be informed. I will see to it myself.
Adieu, Fräulein
Duveen.’ He nodded to Henning, ‘
Mein Herr
,’ and with that the doctor efficiently let himself out of the room.
Stevie wiggled her feet under the blanket.
‘Ouch! My toe stings. Why on earth . . . ?’
Henning said nothing. Stevie’s dignity didn’t need to suffer as well as her body. He could tell her about the flaming ballet slipper tomorrow.
‘It must be one of the exotic side effects . . .’ She furrowed her brow. ‘Obviously someone is still trying to kill me. It’s rather terrifying, only I think I’m too dazed to feel properly frightened.’
‘To be honest, Stevie, I wasn’t sure how you would take Kozkov’s killing. I thought, when you passed out—’
‘What?’ Stevie was suddenly angry. ‘That I’d lost my mind? And there you were, saying how much you admired me. Guess that’s not quite true, is it, Henning?’
Stevie’s fear made her furious and Henning had no right to—well, anything, really!
‘No, Stevie. I thought you might have lost your nerve. It happens to the hardest men.’ He put a hand lightly on her arm. ‘And in any case, for the record, I rate human qualities like compassion, empathy and bravery over the robotic ones of immutability. If I wanted the unshakable, I would go and talk to a concrete pylon.’
Neither said anything for a long time but Stevie let Henning’s hand remain where it was.
Outside, it was already dark. The lamps illuminated flurries of snowflakes that seemed to grow heavier by the minute. Soon they would be the size of postage stamps, thought Stevie.
By now, she had missed the helicopter. David Rice would be properly livid, and trained assassins were trying to kill her.
She turned to Henning. ‘I
am
frightened.’
He took her small hand in his. ‘You have a good reason to be. I don’t think there is much doubt you are at the top of someone’s hit list but, now that we know “what” and “how”, the question left is “who”—’
‘I think I have some idea . . .’ Stevie squeezed Henning’s hand, grateful she was no longer alone.
‘Our Russian friends who went after Kozkov,’ he supplied.
Stevie nodded grimly then said to her friend, ‘I think I’d rather like that schnapps.’
Henning smiled. ‘Perhaps that could wait until later,’ he said, teasing. Then, all smiles vanished, he said, ‘Stevie, tell me what happened at the polo match.’ He sat gently at the edge of her bed.
Stevie indicated she wanted to sit up, and Henning helped her, his hands so gentle. She took a deep breath and carefully pulled the strings of her mind back together and finished the story she had begun by the fire downstairs.
‘They were looking for me yesterday on the slopes,’ she confessed. ‘I’m sure I was followed.’ There was a Russian with a rifle—but the mist was so thick he missed me.’
Henning stiffened in alarm and she squeezed his hand without thinking.
‘About the snake poison, Henning. When I was in Azerbaijan, I saw this beach covered in snakes. Hundreds of them. It was horrible. There was a decrepit concrete building nearby—it was built by the Soviets for biological weapons development. They used the facility to experiment with different deadly poisons and they had a collection of all the world’s most venomous snakes.’ Stevie stopped. ‘Could I at least have a glass of water?’ Henning got up without a word and poured her a glass. When he sat back down, his hand sought Stevie’s and held it tight as she continued. ‘When the Soviet Union fell apart, the scientists abandoned the facility. They didn’t know what to do with all the snakes so they just released them into the reeds behind the beach. There’s not even a sign to warn people.’
Henning’s face was grave. His grip on Stevie’s hand tightened a little but he did not interrupt her story.
‘The assassin at the polo—Lazarev—was probably ex-KGB. He may be working for the
siloviki
now, who knows? They’re hardly going to flinch at a little extracurricular poisoning, not if it means protecting even a shred of political or economic power.’ Stevie swallowed. ‘They’d also have access to all the exotic poisons, remembering that the KGB used to specialise in assassinations—dissenters, deserters, compromised targets—using unusual and often undetectable poisons.’
Henning rubbed his forehead. ‘You’ve got to disappear for a while, Stevie. This is too dangerous. I know people who can make you invisible. It will appear that you have simply vanished from the earth. Eventually, whoever is after you will forget about you.’
‘They won’t forget, Henning. You know that as well as I do. I would just be buying time.’
Henning brushed a lock of hair lightly from Stevie’s face. ‘Time is not a bad thing.’ His hand cupped her face.
Stevie didn’t know how to respond. She saw the concern. ‘Thank you, Henning. You are kind, but I’ve thought about it. This is something I can’t run away from. As much as I might like to,’ she added quietly.
Henning looked at her long and hard. ‘So, what do we do?’
Stevie smiled. ‘Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you.’
That evening, reception rang to
say the police were on their way up to interview them both.
‘Oh goodness,’ Stevie’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘I completely forgot Doctor Meinetzhagen was going to ring the police. What do we do?’
‘We’ll just tell them the bare facts: drinking coffee by the fire, felt woozy, fell down. They might let it go at that.’
‘Only they know me from the polo.’ Stevie made a face. ‘They’re sure to want to ask a lot more questions—about the Russians and so on. A man was killed, also poisoned by an exotic reptile. Two poisonings in as many days is just too suspicious to pass over. You know how thorough the Swiss are.’
Stevie’s mind ticked frantically. ‘The only thing to do is feign unconsciousness.’
‘I don’t think—’
A knock on the door interrupted Henning’s protest.
Stevie slumped into the pillows, her head hanging loosely to one side, her breathing shallow.
From behind closed eyelids, she heard Henning open the door, then two voices as polite and brisk as a shoe brush. They spoke in
Schwiizerdütsch
but quickly switched to very correct
Hochdeutsch
when Henning excused himself, saying his Swiss German was poor.
Henning quickly explained that
Fräulein
Duveen was heavily sedated and could not be roused—even if this were physically possible— due to strict instructions left him by
Herr Doktor
which specified in no uncertain terms that the
Fräulein’s
heart was not to be excited. The sight of two such important-looking policemen, for such a delicate creature, well . . . the officers must imagine . . .
The policemen reassured Henning that they had no intention of unduly disturbing the patient, although the one with the deeper voice did suggest, most respectfully, that perhaps
Fräuelein
Duveen’s fragility could be overestimated. She had, it must be remembered, last been seen hunting down a would-be assassin on horseback . . .
‘—and most successfully,’ added his partner.
‘Indeed, gentlemen,’ Stevie heard Henning reply in his most elaborate German. ‘However, it is possible to see lions hiding where there are only small, defenceless kittens, wouldn’t you agree?’
Having little idea what Henning was talking about, the policemen merely murmured politely in agreement.
Stevie had to concentrate on her breathing to avoid giggling.
The policemen approached her bed and stood looking at her— Stevie could feel their scrutiny. Henning must have noticed Stevie’s struggle to remain composed and quickly suggested that he was prepared to be most cooperative but that perhaps it might be best to talk downstairs, so as not to disturb the patient.
When the policemen had gone,
Stevie picked up the phone and called Doctor Meinetzhagen.
‘Sincere apologies,
Herr Doktor
, for calling you after hours . . .’
‘Not at all,
Fräulein
. I am still in surgery. What is it you require?’
‘I have been giving your prognosis a lot of thought,’ Stevie said gravely, ‘and I think I would be foolish to try to rush a recovery. I was thinking a fortnight or so in a sanatorium might ensure I rest properly and don’t overdo it. I tend to be rather high-strung, you see.’
‘A most enlightened idea. I can recommend several—’
‘Oh
Herr Doktor
, thank you,’ Stevie said quickly. ‘I rather had my heart set on Hoffenschaffen . . . I think it’s in the mountains above Sargans . . . A friend of mine was a patient there for a month and emerged transformed and with the highest regard for the staff.’
‘I know it by reputation.’ There followed a somewhat terse silence. The doctor cleared his throat. ‘I do not feel confident I can be responsible for recommending Hoffenschaffen to you.’
‘Oh I quite understand,
Herr Doktor
. However, I have the utmost confidence in my friend’s opinion. I would just need a note of referral from you . . .’
Stevie held her breath.
‘That I would be willing to provide.’
‘Thank you.’ Stevie’s relief was real. ‘I hate to impose but it’s rather urgent. You know how full these places get. Time is of the essence.’
‘Of course,
Fräulein
. I will leave a referral at the front desk for you on my way home.’
Stevie hung up and bit her lower lip. Step one of the plan was in place.
She dialled Josie in London and told her she had been overcome with exhaustion and probably some horrible bug. She was going to rest at a sanatorium for a few days. Would she please reassure David . . .
‘I absolutely will not reassure him, Stevie. I can guess exactly which sanatorium you have in mind and it’s a stupendously bad idea.’
‘It’s not what you think, Josie.’
‘Of course it is. I’m not stupid. David doesn’t want any heroes around here.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not that,’ Stevie replied quietly. ‘It’s just a few days and I’m only looking.’
There was a very long silence.
‘Josie?’
‘I’ll pass on the message.’ And she hung up the telephone.
Where guests of the Suvretta
might once have stopped at the sight of a man carrying an enormous red-brown fur coat through the foyer, extravagant behaviour on the part of those who could afford it was back in fashion and Henning’s passage went unremarked.
The coat had been purchased on impulse the evening before. Henning had just finished loading the two policemen with a nightmarishly detailed account of the fateful coffee—including particulars such as the size of the cake slices and the colour of the cups—when he had spotted the coat in one of the lobby shops.
It was enormous, made to fit an Atlas of a man, and particularly hideous. The sort of thing King Henry VIII might have chosen for himself. Henning had thought it perfect.
It was snowing heavily that morning. Henning’s Jaguar was parked right outside the entrance, under cover, boot open. The XK8 didn’t have a great deal of trunk space and so the fur was deposited in the passenger seat. The car, midnight blue with ivory leather seats, had been fitted with fat snow tyres for the mountain roads.
All this was duly noted by the concierge, who had strict instructions from the police that Stevie Duveen was not to leave the hotel. She was urgently wanted for further questioning. Her companion was free to go. In any case, thought the concierge, he had her passport in the safe and she could hardly leave without that.
Henning had paid both his bill and Stevie’s earlier that morning, leaving a very large tip for the concierge. Had the man been a little less preoccupied with how he would spend his windfall he might have noticed, as Henning strode past with the horrible fur in his arms, the tiny tip of a ballerina slipper—singed at the toe—protruding from one end.
The Jaguar purred through the hotel gates and began to gather speed on the road that wound past the frozen lake. The snow was falling thick and heavy, veiling the grey light of early morning.
‘Iii ifff waaahf,’ said the fur.
‘Stevie, I can’t understand you.’
After a brief, furry struggle, Stevie’s head emerged from the depths of the fur.
‘I was asking if it was safe.’
‘Oh. Yes, I think so. Not many people about on a morning like this.’
A snow plough, its huge lights almost blinding them, crawled past on the other side of the road, shovel raised like a prehistoric jawbone. A coach full of teenagers puttered along behind it, belching smoke in frustration. No one else seemed to be about.
Stevie struggled to free her arms. ‘What a hideous fur, Henning.
You could at least have bought something in my size, maybe tailored, and in a fabulous steel grey wool . . .’
‘A child-sized bomber jacket would hardly have done the job, Stevie.’