Who was he?
Dragoman and his men were discussing something avidly. Stevie pulled out her tiny telephone and readied the camera lens. She wished he would turn his head a little more towards her. Perhaps if she moved a little to one side and—
Stevie stifled a yelp. Dragoman’s face had materialised at the window. Had she been seen?
But Dragoman appeared to be staring into nothing, thinking. It was dark on the roof and the lights inside ought to make her invisible.
Stevie cautiously raised her phone and took a photo. She sent it straight to Rosie on Fleet Street. Glancing quickly back up at the window, she saw to her horror that the face of the shadow had replaced Dragoman’s. He seemed to be staring right at her.
Stevie quickly turned and began to creep back the way she had come.
Suddenly there was a quick burst of gunfire. The shadow had smashed the double glazing with a round from his Kalashnikov and was now standing, silhouetted in the window frame, a terminator with a smoking gun.
Stevie began to run.
Another burst of gunfire. The panel on her right shattered under the rain of bullets. Stevie gasped and kept running, her feet numb from the cold. The panel right behind her shattered—then another one, this time on her right. She dodged right again, her back foot leaving the panel just as she felt it give way.
Twice she stumbled, almost sprawling across the roof. The wall of the east wing was near, the window still open. But Stevie remembered how difficult it had been to crawl out. Getting in would take too long. She would be a sitting duck.
A rain of bullets shattered the panels closest to the east wall, blocking her way to the window anyway. Stevie stood still for a second and took one quick, deep breath. This was no time to panic, suspended on a glass pane, surrounded by air.
Then she saw the curtains below her. They were heavy velvet and lined against the cold. The rods holding them would have to be very strong.
Holding onto the bare metal roofing frame with both hands, she swung herself down until she was hanging, like a child from monkey bars, by her arms. She began to swing gently, grateful for years of compulsory school gymnastic classes, then launched herself at the nearest curtain like a cat with its claws extended.
More gunfire and a rain of glass. Hugging the blue velvet as if it were a large teddy bear, Stevie slid to the floor, six metres below.
The staff and guests had fled the room at the first shower of glass. Stevie could hear shouting, people were coming. No doubt Dragoman’s men would be amongst them.
Quick as a bird, Stevie ran over to the corner bar and grabbed an empty bottle of champagne that had been left sitting on the counter. She leapt into the nearest armchair and slumped over with her eyes closed, the bottle hanging from her right hand.
The room filled with voices—Swiss-German, Russian, Lebanese, Stevie recognised the perfect French of the elderly lady in pearls—all demanding to know what had happened.
A gentle hand shook her shoulder.
‘
Fräulein
Duveen?
Fräulein
Duveen?’
It was the manager, Gunnar Gobb. ‘Are you hurt?’
Then he caught sight of the empty bottle.
Fräulein
Duveen had obviously passed out drunk and missed the whole commotion. So much the better.
‘
Fräulein
Duveen, we must get you to your room. Where is—?’
As if called, Henning appeared. He caught one look at his client and groaned.
‘Oh,
Herr Direktor
, she told me she was having a late massage!
Really—how can this have happened?’
‘She must have taken the bottle from the bar,’ Gunnar Gobb said disapprovingly. ‘The barman would never serve alcohol to a green bracelet.’
‘The demon drink. Please,’ Henning placed a hand on the manager’s shoulder, ‘let’s keep this incident between the two of us. It is very important no one knows she was here. Her reputation, you see . . . word gets around. Can you promise me that?’
Gunnar Gobb smiled magnanimously and assured Henning discretion was his watchword. He left to tend to the hysteria of the other guests.
Henning knelt beside Stevie. Red streaks of blood had seeped unnoticed through the fingers of Stevie’s right hand and were now dripping onto the carpet.
Henning gently unclenched her fingers and put the bottle on the floor.
‘My God, Stevie, what have you done?’ His voice was low and full of concern. He examined her hand, wiping the blood carefully with a clean handkerchief. ‘I thought you had just gone to look through the windows,’ he whispered. ‘Next thing I know, the roof is falling.’
Stevie opened her eyes and smiled. ‘You mean I brought the house down?’
‘Not very funny,’ but Henning almost smiled. ‘You’ve cut your wrist and palm. I think you need a stitch or two.’
Stevie sat up in alarm. ‘Oh no—I’m sure it’s nothing, just a small graze. See?’ The wound on her palm throbbed and disgorged a small gush of blood that ran quickly down Stevie’s arm.
‘Nothing at all.’ Henning wrapped the handkerchief tightly around her hand. He glanced quickly around. Men with guns had arrived, but it seemed everyone in the room was looking up at the roof.
He took the champagne bottle by the neck and deftly smashed it on the edge of the table. The neck broke off. He cursed aloud.
‘You’re a danger to yourself, Stevie. Come on!’ He scooped her up in his arms like a child and called for the manager.
‘We need a doctor here! She’s managed to cut herself on the champagne bottle.’ Henning held her up for the manager to see. ‘She’s bleeding. We need stitches.’
As the medics rushed Stevie away, Henning called after them.
‘And no scarring—we can’t have scarring. She’s a celebrity.’
Later, freshly bathed and stitched,
Stevie was sitting in her room, feet curled under her, cosy in a fresh bathrobe and holding a glass of medicinal whisky. Henning was sitting on the corner of the bed in a red poloneck jumper of fine cashmere that not many men, Stevie thought, could have got away with.
‘What were you thinking, Stevie? You were almost killed—in quite a few ways.’
‘I needed to get a photo for Rosie’s story. It seemed like the obvious way was over the roof. From there, things, well, took on a life of their own.’ She sipped her whisky. ‘Looking back though, I am rather pleased with the grand finale, the slithering down the curtains. I think that was quite Errol Flynn of me.’
Stevie saw from Henning’s face he was not in the mood for her flights of fancy.
‘They were watching Kozkov’s funeral on television.’ Her voice now serious, Stevie told Henning what had happened.
His brow furrowed with concern. ‘Did the man at the window see your face? Will they guess it was you out there?’
Stevie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think I could have been more than a dark shape.’
‘The man would be a well-trained killer. The fact that he missed hitting you each time he fired probably means you were, mercifully, almost impossible to see. And there’s not much of you at that.’
Stevie nodded. ‘That was always my greatest advantage when I was fencing. My opponents used to complain that, by the time I had turned side on, there was nothing left to hit.’ Stevie smiled. ‘I think that’s the only reason I always seemed to make the team.’
Henning stared at her. ‘Let’s hope you were as invisible as you think . . . but in our favour, this might make Dragoman more certain that someone from the Kremlin is out to kill him.’
Stevie thought for a moment. ‘I only wish I could have heard what they were saying. What did you think of the funeral?’
‘He would have hated it. The hypocrisy of all those who wanted him gone shedding crocodile tears.’
‘Did you notice the men with the president? One of them caught Dragoman’s attention.’
Henning shook his head and reached for the television remote.
‘With these twenty-four-hour news channels, the footage is sure to be repeated.’
They kept the television on in the background in case and rang the sanatorium dining room for some supper. Things in the kitchen were running like cuckoo clockwork, despite the bullets and the collapse of the roof. Henning ordered a
Café de Paris
steak with
pommes frites
; for
Fräulein
Duveen, the chef would prepare sustenance in accordance with the green menu.
When pressed, the kitchen staff revealed that the green menu tonight consisted of a large bowl of blood soup. For dessert there was a bitter beetroot and bran pudding, steamed, then peppered with candied peel. Stevie was not amused.
‘Sounds delightful.’ Henning had cheered up considerably at the idea of Stevie being faced with blood soup. ‘Oh, and you had better make that two sides of
frites
—I’m rather hungry.’ He hung up and grinned at Stevie.
‘I can’t wait, can you?’
‘Dreadful man.’
Henning shook his head at her. ‘I risked quite a lot ordering you contraband
frites
.’
‘You only ordered extra because you knew I would eat yours if you didn’t.’
The funeral began to replay on the television screen as they sat down to eat. The camera panned the room and Stevie pointed: ‘Him.’
Henning paused in thought before turning to Stevie. ‘Nikita Romanovitch Orlikov.’
Stevie stopped, the silver soup dome in mid air. Her blood chilled.
‘Is that what he looks like?’ she whispered. ‘I could never find a picture.’
‘He never lets himself be photographed. I’m surprised he is on camera at the funeral.’
Nikita Orlikov was the ex-head of the FSB, the Russian security service. He had been in the KGB at the same time as the current president, during the Cold War days, and had acquired a fearsome reputation as an utterly cold, utterly ruthless man. The service had trained him well. No one knew exactly what his official role was now, but he was certainly still active as an advisor to the new head of the FSB, as well as the president.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘Dragoman obviously recognised him, not that that means much—you recognised him, too.’ She took a large sip of her whisky and looked at Henning. ‘It is a terrifying thought, isn’t it? The two of them in cahoots of any kind.’
‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose Orlikov would know about the links between Dragoman and the
siloviki
; Orlikov may even be one of them.’
‘It’s frighteningly likely. He could have had Kozkov killed in a heartbeat—that list would be motive enough.’ Stevie pushed her soup aside and ran her good hand through her hair. ‘The new FSB remit seems to include consolidation and protection of political and economic power in the hands of the current government. Your friend Maxim Krutchick believes the spike in high-profile assassinations make it likely they are using more extreme tactics to get what they want.’
Henning nodded. ‘And Dragoman might now be getting nervous that he has become a loose end to be tied.’
‘Mmm,’ Stevie said, ‘exactly,’ and began eating Henning’s fried potatoes one at a time with a silver dessert fork. ‘It would explain why he got so angry when Orlikov’s face appeared on screen.’ She looked up. ‘The thing these potatoes really need is—’
Henning already had a bottle of champagne in his hand.
‘Mind reader.’ Stevie grinned as the cork popped softly.
Anya had stopped caring where
she was, some castle, some mansion, some place, still unfound. She had also stopped eating and she was growing thinner. It was as if, subconsciously, she were trying to leave her imprisoned body and, light as air, fly back home. She lived hour by hour, thanking God for Ludmilla and Dasha.
Largely, the three girls had been ignored. But something had changed in the last few days and their captors had become tense, on edge, furious at the slightest thing. It was terrifying.
Ludmilla kept saying they were going to be killed. Anya found her brain couldn’t really process the idea of being killed. She couldn’t imagine it. All she knew was life, and bad as it was right now, she couldn’t imagine it ending.
The girls were kept in a small room with a tiny window that showed them only sky. One day, Dasha spotted an eagle and they had taken turns looking at it, soaring on invisible air currents way up high. That had been a good day.
Whenever the girls heard voices, they stopped talking and Anya put her ear to the door. She had the acute hearing of a trained musician and it was her job to listen to see what she could learn. It was never much, but when the voices were raised, it was easier.
Like the other night, when the man had got so angry and the atmosphere had become as brittle as glass. The guard who had brought them food had been vicious, stepping on Dasha’s hand on purpose. When she had cried out, he’d sneered and said, ‘Soon there’ll be a lot more than that to cry about, my little doll.’
After that, Ludmilla had started talking about death again, but then the voices had grown louder and Anya had shushed her.
‘—will not have that bastard . . . see what I can do. He mistakes me for someone he can . . . it’s a very bad mistake! . . . Alexei!’
Anya crept even closer to the door, her ear to the crack between it and the floor, a mouse.
‘. . . tonight . . . take the Kozkov girl . . . but the other two will . . .’
Damn! Anya could hear just enough to torture herself; not enough to know anything. Only that her captors’ leader was very angry, and that something was about to happen to them tonight—to her, and to Dasha and Ludmilla, separately.
Anya decided then that there could be things worse than death.
Stevie awoke early the next
morning and, for a short moment, forgot completely where she was and what had happened the night before. Everything came flooding back in a rush, along with the throbbing in her hand, and she groaned.
Sometimes she wished her life was simpler, more honest, more morally certain; that she was growing vegetables and flowers in a sheltered garden by the sea, and raising chickens and children—did she really say children?
What would it be like to have children with Henning?