Read Online The Troika Dolls by Miranda Darling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miranda Darling
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full sleeves that ended above the wrist, leaving room for a length of wrist encased in black suede gloves. Around her neck she wore four strands of pearls, her great-grandmother’s legacy. They never came off, not even in the bath.
‘Henning, I feel like a bit of a cheat coming all the way here and meeting the Kozkovs. I’m guessing there’s something you’re not telling me, and, well, whatever it is, you can forget it now. I will do an assessment for them, but that’s it. Hazard have strict protocols.’
‘Just talk to the family. See what you think after you meet them.’
‘It won’t change a thing, Henning.’
The Kozkov residence was on the top floor in a huge, Soviet-style residential block. Like all the other blocks in the street, the common entrance was off the main street, via a number code in the wall that opened double steel doors painted in tatty black.
Another code opened similar doors just inside—this time made of wood—that gave onto a warm and gloomy marble foyer, with a grid of metal mailboxes and a large lift cage. Everything was bathed in a yellow-greenish light that seemed to produce a thick, obfuscating glow rather than illuminate anything.
The front door of the flat was a double door padded in leather. Like the ones downstairs, it was backed in steel and gave onto a second steel door. This was the standard residential fortress of the average Muscovite.
Stevie noticed a water bowl. So the Kozkovs had a dog. That was certainly helpful in terms of personal security. So were the double doors.
These buildings were all designed with a back entrance that led to a lane or courtyard for communal rubbish bins, coal scuttles and the like. The back doors were also steel and armed with codes.
The high crime levels in Moscow meant that basic levels of home security were quite good. It also meant that other residents would be afraid for their own safety as well and unlikely to let any strangers into the foyer.
The disadvantage was that these flats almost certainly had only one way out. It was a legacy of the sub-divisions that had taken place after the fall of communism and people had decided that they might rather like their own bathrooms and kitchens and personal space. Connecting doors had been walled up.
By the time any attackers got to the front door, the inhabitants would be trapped. Only a built-in ‘panic room’ could be of use then. This was a secure room with a steel door and impenetrable walls. It was usually stocked with a satellite phone or transmitter, food, water and a first-aid kit. It had its own air and light supply so these could not be contaminated or shut off by the invaders.
A panic room was designed so the people in the house could survive an attack long enough to be rescued from the outside. Stevie frequently offered them as a home security option for clients, but she herself hated the idea of using one.
Rats in a trap, waiting for the cat’s paw.
Irina Kozkov answered the front door. She was as attractive as a cat: high, wide cheekbones pushing up under navy-blue eyes. Stevie didn’t think it was possible for eyes to be that colour. Her skin had a waxy, slightly yellow quality shared by many Russians, but it was tight and flawless. Irina was dressed in the classic Moscow look: tight blue jeans tucked into high-heeled suede boots trimmed with black fur, thin gold belt, tight black cardigan in cashmere, the neck also trimmed in fur.
Discreet yellow diamonds twinkled at her ears, neck and on her fingers.
‘ Dobri vyecher .’ Irina kissed Henning, then greeted Stevie. Irina’s tiny hand was freezing despite the warmth inside.
She led them into a well-furnished sitting room. Silently Irina filled tea glasses from a samovar that bubbled in the corner.
Samovars were a brilliant invention, Stevie thought. They were essentially a large urn that held constantly boiling water. A fixture in homes across Russia and Central Asia, they were usually elaborately decorated.
‘Henning, I feel like a bit of a cheat coming all the way here and meeting the Kozkovs. I’m guessing there’s something you’re not telling me, and, well, whatever it is, you can forget it now. I will do an assessment for them, but that’s it. Hazard have strict protocols.’
‘Just talk to the family. See what you think after you meet them.’
‘It won’t change a thing, Henning.’
The Kozkov residence was on the top floor in a huge, Soviet-style residential block. Like all the other blocks in the street, the common entrance was off the main street, via a number code in the wall that opened double steel doors painted in tatty black.
Another code opened similar doors just inside—this time made of wood—that gave onto a warm and gloomy marble foyer, with a grid of metal mailboxes and a large lift cage. Everything was bathed in a yellow-greenish light that seemed to produce a thick, obfuscating glow rather than illuminate anything.
The front door of the flat was a double door padded in leather. Like the ones downstairs, it was backed in steel and gave onto a second steel door. This was the standard residential fortress of the average Muscovite.
Stevie noticed a water bowl. So the Kozkovs had a dog. That was certainly helpful in terms of personal security. So were the double doors.
These buildings were all designed with a back entrance that led to a lane or courtyard for communal rubbish bins, coal scuttles and the like. The back doors were also steel and armed with codes.
The high crime levels in Moscow meant that basic levels of home security were quite good. It also meant that other residents would be afraid for their own safety as well and unlikely to let any strangers into the foyer.
The disadvantage was that these flats almost certainly had only one way out. It was a legacy of the sub-divisions that had taken place after the fall of communism and people had decided that they might rather like their own bathrooms and kitchens and personal space. Connecting doors had been walled up.
By the time any attackers got to the front door, the inhabitants would be trapped. Only a built-in ‘panic room’ could be of use then. This was a secure room with a steel door and impenetrable walls. It was usually stocked with a satellite phone or transmitter, food, water and a first-aid kit. It had its own air and light supply so these could not be contaminated or shut off by the invaders.
A panic room was designed so the people in the house could survive an attack long enough to be rescued from the outside. Stevie frequently offered them as a home security option for clients, but she herself hated the idea of using one.
Rats in a trap, waiting for the cat’s paw.
Irina Kozkov answered the front door. She was as attractive as a cat: high, wide cheekbones pushing up under navy-blue eyes. Stevie didn’t think it was possible for eyes to be that colour. Her skin had a waxy, slightly yellow quality shared by many Russians, but it was tight and flawless. Irina was dressed in the classic Moscow look: tight blue jeans tucked into high-heeled suede boots trimmed with black fur, thin gold belt, tight black cardigan in cashmere, the neck also trimmed in fur.
Discreet yellow diamonds twinkled at her ears, neck and on her fingers.
‘ Dobri vyecher .’ Irina kissed Henning, then greeted Stevie. Irina’s tiny hand was freezing despite the warmth inside.
She led them into a well-furnished sitting room. Silently Irina filled tea glasses from a samovar that bubbled in the corner.
Samovars were a brilliant invention, Stevie thought. They were essentially a large urn that held constantly boiling water. A fixture in homes across Russia and Central Asia, they were usually elaborately decorated.
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