Читать книгу The Third Woman - Mark Burnell, Mark Burnell - Страница 10

The Marais, quarter-past-five in the morning, the streetlamps reflected in puddles not quite frozen. Rue des Rosiers was almost empty; one or two on the way home, one or two on the way to work, hands in pockets, chins tucked into scarves.

It had been after midnight when she abandoned the Métro. Since then, she’d stopped only once, when the rain had returned just before three. She’d found an all-night café not far from where she was now; candlelight and neon over concrete walls, leather booths in dark corners, Ute Lemper playing softly over the sound system.

Stephanie stretched a cup of black coffee over an hour before anyone approached her. A tall, angular woman with deathly pale skin and dark red shoulder-length hair, wearing a purple silk shirt beneath a black leather overcoat. She smiled through a slash of magenta lipstick and sat down opposite Stephanie.

‘Hello. I’m Véronique.’

Véronique from Lyon. She’d been awkwardly beautiful once – perhaps not too long ago – but thinness had aged her. And so had unhappiness. Stephanie warmed to her because she understood the chilly solitude of being alone in a city of millions.

They talked for a while before Véronique reached for Stephanie’s hand. ‘I live close. Do you want to come? We could have a drink?’

Petra considered the offer clinically: Véronique was an ideal way to vanish from the street. No security cameras, no registration, no witnesses. Inside her home, Petra would have options; some brutal, some less so. But it was after four; there was no longer any pressing need for a Véronique.

Stephanie let her down gently with a version of the truth. ‘It’s too late for me. If only we’d met earlier.’

She turned left into rue Vieille du Temple. The shop was a little way down, the red and gold sign over the property picked out by three small lamps: Adler. And beneath that: boulangerie – patisserie.

Stephanie knocked on the door. Behind the glass a full-length blind had been lowered, fermé painted across it. A minute passed. Nothing. She tried again – still nothing – and was preparing for a third rap when she heard the approach of footsteps and a stream of invective.

The same height as Stephanie, he wore a creased pistachio shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a black waistcoat, unfastened. A crooked nose, a mash of scar around the left eye, thick black hair everywhere, except on his head. The last time, he’d had a ponytail. Not any more, the close crop a better cut to partner his encroaching baldness. There was a lot of gold; identity bracelets, a watch, chains with charms, a thick ring through the left ear-lobe. As Cyril Bradfield had once said to her, ‘He looks like the hardest man you’ve ever seen. And dresses like a tart.’

‘Hello, Claude.’

Claude Adler was too startled to reply.

‘I knew you’d be up,’ Stephanie said. ‘Four-thirty, every day. Right?’

‘Petra …’

‘I would’ve called, of course …’

‘Of course.’

‘But I couldn’t.’

‘This is … well … unexpected?’

‘For both of us. We need to talk.’

It was delightfully warm inside. Adler locked the door behind them and they walked through the shop, the shelves and wicker baskets still empty. The cramped bakery was at the back. Stephanie smelt it before she saw it; baguettes, sesame seed bagels, apple strudel, all freshly prepared, all of it reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since Brussels.

Adler took her upstairs to the apartment over the shop where he and his wife had lived for almost twenty years. He lit a gas ring for a pan of water and scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. There was a soft pack of Gauloises on the window-ledge. He tapped one out of the tear, offered it to her, then slipped it between his lips when she declined.

‘Is Sylvie here?’

‘Still asleep.’ He bent down to the ring of blue flame, nudging the cigarette tip into it, shreds of loose tobacco flaring bright orange. ‘She’ll be happy to see you when she gets up.’

‘I doubt it. That’s the reason I’m here, Claude. I’ve got bad news.’

Adler took his time standing. ‘Have you seen the TV? It seems to be the day for bad news.’

‘It is. Jacob and Miriam are dead.’

He froze. ‘Both?’

Stephanie nodded.

At their age, one was to be expected. Followed soon after, perhaps, by the other. But both together?

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘How?’

‘Violently.’

He began to shake his head gently. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘It is true.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw the police. The ambulances …’

‘You were there?’

‘Afterwards, yes.’

‘Did you see them?’

Stephanie shook her head.

‘Then perhaps …’

‘Trust me, Claude. They’re dead.’

He wanted to protest but couldn’t because he believed her. Even though she hadn’t seen the bodies. Even though he didn’t know her well enough to know what she did. Not exactly, anyway.

‘Who did it?’

‘I don’t know.’

He thought about that for a while. ‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I’m supposed to be dead too.’

Adler refilled their cups; hot milk first, then coffee like crude oil, introduced over the back of a spoon, a ritual repeated many times daily. Like lighting a cigarette. Which he now did for the fourth time since her arrival, the crushed stubs gathering on a pale yellow saucer.

Now that he’d absorbed the initial shock, Adler was reminiscing. Secondhand history, as related to him by Furst: the pipeline pumping Jewish refugees to safety; the false document factory he’d established in Montmartre; 14 June 1940, the day the Nazis occupied Paris; smuggling Miriam to Lisbon via Spain in the autumn of 1941; forging documents for the Resistance and then SOE. And finally, betrayal, interrogation, Auschwitz.

Adler scratched a jaw of stubble, some black, some silver. ‘He always said he was lucky to live. Listening to him tell it, I was never so sure.’ He stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘You survive something like that, the least you expect is to be left alone to die of natural causes. Fuck it, he was nearly ninety.’

‘You’re right.’

‘You know what I admired most about him?’

‘What?’

He drew on his cigarette and then exhaled over the tip. ‘That it never occurred to him to leave. From 1939 on, he could’ve run. But he didn’t. He chose to stay behind, to create false documents to help others escape. He knew the risks better than most. Yet even when they got Miriam out, it never crossed his mind to go with her.’

‘That was the kind of man he was. Silently courageous. Understated.’

‘True. He was a man who believed in community. His community.’

‘Talking of which, did Jacob ever go back to Sentier?’

Adler stared at her. ‘That’s a blunt question on a morning like this.’

‘That’s why I’m asking it, Claude.’

He shrugged. ‘Not so much, I don’t think. Not since he sold the shop.’

‘I saw it yesterday.’

‘What?’

‘The shop. In Passage du Caire. Part of the sign is still above the entrance. At least, it was. It’s not any more.’

Adler’s jaw dropped. ‘You were there?’

‘Moments before the explosion, yes.’

‘My God … why?’

‘To see Jacob. He called me the night before last and asked me to come to Paris. He said it was important. He wanted to meet at La Béatrice. I turned up. He didn’t.’

‘At La Béatrice? That used to be his favourite place.’

‘I know.’

‘A coincidence?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Adler’s gaze drifted out of the window. ‘We were up all night watching the news. Twelve dead, fifty injured. We were wondering who we’d know.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’d already left?’

‘No. I was just lucky. Everyone around me was dead or injured. I hardly got a scratch.’

‘What about Jacob?’

‘I told you. He never turned up. He died later. At their apartment.’

‘With Miriam.’

‘Yes.’

‘You think there’s a connection?’

‘I don’t want to. But it’s hard not to. When did you last see him?’

‘Thursday. Sylvie and I went over to their place and we went to the street market on boulevard de Belleville. Lately, it’s something we’ve been doing almost every week. The market is on Thursday and Friday mornings. After it, we have lunch. Usually at old Goldenberg’s place – you know it? He and Jacob were friends.’

She shook her head.

‘On rue de Tourtille. Great service, shit food. Jacob and Miriam have been going there since it opened, back in the Seventies. Jacob always used to say he only started enjoying it about five years ago when his taste buds went. He used to lean across the table when Goldenberg was hovering and he’d say to me, “Claude, there are two things that give me pleasure when I’m here. Not tasting the food and watching your face. Every mouthful is a masterpiece.” That was his big joke. Goldenberg has a sign in the front window: every mouthful is a masterpiece.’

Stephanie tried to muster a smile. ‘Did you always go over to see him? Or did he come here?’

‘Usually, we went there. When he sold the business he began to slow down. Recently, he’d become … fragile.’

‘At his age, he was entitled to.’

‘I agree with you. But he wouldn’t have.’

‘You didn’t notice anything on Thursday? He didn’t seem upset or preoccupied?’

‘Nothing like that, no.’

‘What about the last few weeks?’

‘No.’

‘Does it surprise you that he would have arranged a meeting with me at La Béatrice?’

‘Frankly, yes. He was fond of you. They both were. I would have expected him to invite you to their home. That was their way.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘How could he be connected to what happened in Sentier?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I can’t tell yet. I guess I’ll take a look at his place. After that … who knows?’

‘How will you get in?’

‘I’ll find a way.’

Adler stood up and shuffled past her into the hall. She heard the scrape of a drawer. When he returned he was holding a set of keys.

‘The one with the plastic clip is the top lock, the other one does the main lock. The number for the building is 1845.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was Miriam’s idea. In case they needed help.’

Stephanie took the keys and put them into the pocket of her denim jacket.

Adler said, ‘Is there something I can do, Petra? I’d like to help.’

‘Then forget this conversation. In fact, forget I was even here.’

I’m sitting at a small circular table beside the window. Outside, the traffic thickens along rue de Rivoli. The street shimmers in the wintry light of early morning. Silver rain streaks the glass. I order some breakfast from the waiter and then spread the newspapers across the table; Le Monde, Libération, International Herald Tribune. The bomb dominates the front pages of the two French papers and shares the lead in the Tribune.

According to the French reports, there are twelve dead and forty-five injured. The Tribune has thirteen dead and forty-nine injured. A spokesman for the Préfet de Police concludes: ‘It’s a tragedy. And a grotesque act of cowardice.’

Much of the coverage is analysis. Since Sentier has a strong Jewish presence, the focus inevitably falls upon anti-Semitic extremists. With all the awkward questions that poses for a country like France. Or even a city like Paris. Libération reports that the Gendarmerie Nationale have two suspects, both men, both seen entering La Béatrice two or three minutes before the explosion. The shorter of the pair is about one-metre-sixty and is twenty to twenty-five years old. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit – dark blue with white flashes. The older one is probably in his mid-thirties, around one-metre-eighty, and was wearing denim jeans, black running shoes and a khaki jacket with a zip. They are Algerians but might be travelling on Moroccan passports. No names are suggested.

I read the descriptions several times. The detail is convincing but false. No such men entered La Béatrice while I was there, which was over a period of about twenty minutes. And if they’d gone in after I’d left, they’d almost certainly be dead.

The name of al-Qaeda is tossed over the coverage as casually as confetti at a wedding. The French papers, in particular, concern themselves with the possibility of an anti-Muslim backlash. Nothing I read is new.

The café is quiet. A crumpled, middle-aged man beneath the menu blackboard nurses a glass of red wine. I can’t decide whether it’s the last of the night or the first of the morning. Three tables away from me, a plump dark-haired woman is smoking a filterless cigarette. Smudged eye-liner draws attention to bloodshot pupils.

The waiter brings me bread, butter and hot chocolate. He stoops to lay them on the table, a lock of greasy grey hair falling from his forehead. He sees the newspapers, shakes his head and clucks his disapproval.

There’s no mention of me anywhere. No female suspect. No chase through the ruins. No gun-shot. I’ve been air-brushed from the picture.

Number 16, place Vendôme. Just inside the entrance, on the wall to the left, was a mirror with the names of the resident institutions picked out in gold letters; R.T. Vanderbilt Company Inc., Lazard Construction, Laboratoires Garnier. Under Escalier B, Stephanie found the name, once familiar, now largely ignored: Banque Damiani, Genève. This was only her second visit in seven years.

Escalier B was at the back of the paved courtyard, past the offices of Comme des Garçons, through a set of black double-doors. Inside, Stephanie took the stairs.

The reception room had been redecorated; a large Chinese carpet laid over a polished parquet floor, heavy curtains of plum brocade, a pair of Louis XIV armchairs either side of a table. There was a collection of oil portraits set in large oval gilt frames, each hung within a wall panel. Stephanie knew that the faces belonged to the original Damiani brothers and their sons.

The receptionist was about the same age as her. But standing in front of her desk, Stephanie felt like a gauche teenager. She wore a beautifully cut suit; navy-blue, simple, elegant. She was sitting in a throne chair, her spine nowhere near the back of it. On her wrist was a gold Piaget watch.

She greeted Stephanie with a warm smile. Elsewhere, that might have been a surprise considering Stephanie’s appearance – perhaps you are looking for some other place? – but not here. The few who made it to the receptionist’s desk at Banque Damiani usually did so intentionally. Regardless of appearance.

‘I have a box.’

‘Of course. One moment, please.’

The receptionist directed her towards the Louis XIV armchairs, then disappeared through the door to the right, the panels inlaid with antique mirror glass. Alone, Stephanie hoped she’d remember the process accurately; two number sequences and a one-time password to allow her access to the strongroom. She would be accompanied by a senior member of the bank and one security guard. In a private cubicle, her box would be brought to her. Once the door was closed, she would open the box using a six-digit code on the keypad. There were no keys in the process, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen Banque Damiani. Under the circumstances in which she might want access to the box, carrying a key – or even collecting a key – might not be possible.

Inside the box was Helen Graham; a thirty-one-year-old Canadian, born in Vancouver, now living in Chicago. Passport, identity card, driving licence, credit-cards, euros, dollars, a pair of glasses, a small case with two sets of coloured contact lenses (grey), a cheap plastic wallet containing thirteen family snapshots, and an insulin pen. Containing, instead of insulin, a strain of engineered tetrodotoxin, a substance found naturally in puffer fish, designed to act instantly by closing down the sodium channels in the nerves, thus rendering them useless, leading to death by paralysis of the breathing muscles.

Helen Graham was a member of the Magnificent Seven. She was one of five exit identities Stephanie had spread across Europe. The others were in Frankfurt, Valencia, Bratislava and Trondheim. Each was held in a safe-deposit box in an institution where the means of access was carried solely in the memory. Beyond Europe, there were versions of her in Baltimore and Osaka.

Over the years, these identities had been rotated. New ones were established, old ones destroyed, nearly always intact. This was only the third time she’d had to activate one. The last time had been in Helsinki and that had been almost four years ago. Since then, she’d only interfered with the identities once. Two months after the introduction of the euro, she’d visited all the European safe-deposit boxes to swap bundles of condemned deutschmarks and francs for pristine euro notes.

The Magnificent Seven had been established as an insurance policy. Created by Jacob Furst’s protégé, Cyril Bradfield, without the knowledge of her former masters, their existence had, until now, been more of an expensive comfort than a practical necessity.

The door opened and a man in a dark grey double-breasted suit entered, holding in his left hand a leather clipboard. Olive-skinned, black hair flecked with silver at the temples, he stood an inch shorter than Stephanie.

In clipped German, clearly not his first language, he said, ‘Welcome. A pleasure to see you again.’

Stephanie had never seen him before. He was speaking German because she was Stephanie Schneider, although no one at the bank was likely to mention the name in conversation with her.

‘I’m Pierre Damiani. Sadly, my uncle is abroad this week. He will be upset to have missed you.’

She doubted that. She hadn’t met him, either.

‘I hope I can be of some assistance to you. Sophie told me why you are here. Before we proceed, I would just like to take this opportunity to say that this bank and my family regard the interests of our esteemed customers as absolutely sacrosanct.’

Said with conviction, nothing obsequious about it.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ she replied.

He nodded curtly, then gave her the leather clipboard. On it was a cream-coloured card with the bank’s name and crest embossed across the top. Beneath, there were three boxes for the numbers and password.

‘You are familiar with the procedure?’

‘I am.’

‘Please read the sheet below.’

Stephanie lifted the card. The message was handwritten in blue ink: Your safe-deposit box has been contaminated. The front of this building is being monitored. Your appearance here has already been reported. In a moment, I will leave the room. Please do not go until then. Take the door on the opposite side of the room to the one I use. At the far end of the passage, there is a fire-exit. It’s unlocked. Our cameras are recording us – I hope you understand – so could you sign the bottom of the declaration form then fill out the card, as normal. Please understand that it is not safe for us to talk. With our sincerest apologies, your faithful servants, Banque Damiani & the Damiani family.

Ten-forty. The easyInternetCafé on boulevard de Sébastopol was busy. Stephanie settled herself at her terminal and sent the same message to three different addresses.

> Oscar. Need to speak. CRV/13. P.

She’d followed Pierre Damiani’s escape route without a problem. What more could they have done for her? Our cameras are recording us – I hope you understand. A plea more than anything else, meaning perhaps: our cameras are recording us … and who can say who will see this? Some entity with powers to sequestrate such recordings?

Yesterday she’d had security in numbers: Stephanie, Petra, Marianne, the Magnificent Seven. Now she was down to one. But which one? Or was it worse than that? Perhaps she was no one at all.

Generally, the deeper the crisis, the deeper she withdrew into Petra. Which fuelled the contradiction at the heart of her; Stephanie was only ever extraordinary as Petra and the more extraordinary Petra was, the more Stephanie resented it. Now, however, Petra seemed marginalized, her confidence faltering.

Helen Graham was useless to her now. That meant the rest of her Magnificent Seven were contaminated by association. Which prompted an unpleasant thought: Cyril Bradfield was the only other person who’d been aware of their existence. She tried to think who might have penetrated their secret. And, more worryingly, how. Through Bradfield himself? What other way could there be? The possibility made her nauseous. Magenta House had to be the prime candidate. Which was faintly ironic, since the identities were designed to protect her from them.

Magenta House was the organization for whom she’d once worked. Based in London, if an entity that doesn’t exist can be based anywhere, it had no official title; Magenta House was the nickname used by those on the inside. Created to operate beyond the law, it had never bothered to recognize the law. In that sense, it was a logical concept, especially if one accepted that there were some threats that could not be countered legally. Somebody has to work in the sewers, Stephanie. That’s why people like you exist.

They’d created her, they’d tried to control her and, in the end, they’d tried to kill her. Which, paradoxically, made them unlikely candidates now. They’d let her go. There had been a change. One era had ended, another had begun, and Petra had been consigned to history.

Nothing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours bore any trace of Magenta House. They shied away from spectaculars. They didn’t plant bombs in public places. Instead, they liquidated the kind of people who did. Quietly, clinically, leaving no trace, and sometimes no body. They deleted people from existence. If they’d wanted to kill her and they’d discovered where she was, they wouldn’t have bothered luring her to Paris.

On the screen, a reply directed her to a quiet confessional in the ether.

> Hello Oscar.

> Petra. Bored already?

The cursor was winking at her, teasing her.

> I’m in Paris.

> Not a good choice for a vacation at the moment.

> Especially not in Sentier.

> You were there?

> Yes. Has anybody been looking for me?

> You’re always in demand.

> I need help, Oscar. I’m running blind.

There was a long pause and Stephanie knew why. This was the first time Stern had encountered Petra in trouble.

> What do you need?

> Something. Anything.

> Give me two hours. We can meet here again.

She terminated the connection. Out on the street she buttoned her denim jacket to the throat and pressed her hands into the pockets. Which was where her fingers came into contact with the keys that Adler had given her. In the other pocket was Marianne Bernard’s mobile phone. She cursed herself for not dumping it earlier; when a mobile phone was switched on, it was a moving beacon. But she’d heard a rumour that it was now possible to track a mobile phone when it was switched off. She dropped the handset into the first bin she passed.

Five-to-one. Stephanie was back with Stern through a terminal at Web 46 on rue du Roi du Sicilie.

> I have a name for you, Petra.

> How much?

> This is for free.

> You must be going soft in your old age.

> Has it ever occurred to you that I might be younger than you?

> Only in my more humorous moments.

>This isn’t sentimentality. This is business. If anything happens to you, I’ll lose money.

> That’s more like it. Who is it?

> Leonid Golitsyn.

> Don’t know him.

> An art-dealer. Very rich. Very well connected.

> What’s his story?

> He has a gallery in Paris on avenue Matignon but he’s based in New York. He goes to Paris three or four times a year, usually on his way back to Moscow. Golitsyn is old school. Chernenko, Gromyko, even Brezhnev – he was cosy with all of them. In those days he was a virtual commuter between the United States and the Soviet Union. He’s always been close to the Kremlin. Even now.

> Putin doesn’t strike me as an art collector.

> I think it’s safe to say that Golitsyn’s been carrying more than canvas over the years. He’s one of those strange creatures who knows everybody but who nobody knows. A friend of mine once described him – rather memorably – as a diplomatic bag. An insult and a truth rolled into one.

> Why is he relevant?

> Anders Brand.

> What’s he got to do with this?

> He was one of the thirteen who were killed yesterday.

Stephanie was amazed. Anders Brand, the former Swedish diplomat, fondly known as The Whisperer. A man who spoke so softly you began to wonder if your hearing was impaired. A peerless mediator during his time at the United Nations. Stephanie remembered seeing him on BBC World’s Hard Talk. He’d only been half-joking when he’d said that being softly-spoken was one of the keys to his success at mediation: ‘It forces people to listen more carefully to me.’

She pictured Brand as he was usually seen – on a conference podium, in a TV studio, disembarking from an aircraft – and realized that his face matched a face she’d seen at La Béatrice. The face she thought she’d recognized but hadn’t been able to name.

> How come this isn’t headline news?

> It will be this evening. As I understand it, his death won’t be officially confirmed until later this afternoon.

> After more than twenty-four hours?

> I wasn’t there, Petra. But I’ve seen the pictures.

The photo-flash memory of Béatrice Klug’s flaming head gave the concept of delayed identification unpleasant credibility.

> What’s the connection with Golitsyn?

> I don’t know that there necessarily is one. What I do know is this: the day before yesterday, they had dinner together at the Meurice. Golitsyn arrived earlier in the day from New York. Brand was due to fly to Baghdad today. Golitsyn heads to Moscow tomorrow. Golitsyn and Brand go back a long way. Brand is another of Golitsyn’s twenty-four-carat connections. Maybe they discussed something that is germane to your current situation.

He’s not telling me everything.

Typical of Stern. Their relationship had lasted longer than any of Stephanie’s romantic relationships. Even the good ones. Both of them had secrets yet both of them had entrusted part of themselves to the other. That wasn’t something she could verify, it was something she felt.

> How do I meet Golitsyn?

> Tonight Golitsyn will be at the Lancaster. Do you know it?

She did. But only because the name of the hotel prompted another name: Konstantin Komarov. One of only two men to have found a way past all her defences. Even now, the mere mention of him was enough to send a jolt through her.

There was an image engraved on her memory; Komarov in front of the Lancaster with a woman on his arm. Not Stephanie but a tall Russian. Ludmilla. The woman who’d taken Stephanie’s place in his bed. A woman who, it transpired, was as intelligent as she was beautiful. In other words, a woman who hadn’t even allowed Stephanie hope.

> I know it.

> He has a series of business meetings there. I’ve arranged for you to see him at eight.

> And that’s it?

> Not quite. You will have to be Claudia Calderon.

> Who’s she?

Hector Reggiano’s brand-new art consultant. Reggiano was a name Stephanie recognized. An Argentine billionaire. Technically, a financier, whatever that meant in Argentina. In the real world, a common thief. But a cultured thief; an art collector with an appetite.

> Golitsyn has been courting Reggiano for years. From your perspective, Claudia Calderon offers two distinct advantages. One: she’s currently in Patagonia. Two: Golitsyn’s never met her. And he won’t turn down a last-minute opportunity to see if he can seduce the woman who controls Reggiano’s purse-strings.

> Is all this really necessary?

> To get you to see Golitsyn? Absolutely. Claudia Calderon gets you past Medvedev. Once you’re with Golitsyn – then it’s up to you.

> And who’s Medvedev?

> Golitsyn’s personal assistant. Ex-Spetsnaz. These days, everywhere Golitsyn goes, Medvedev goes too. He takes care of everything. Hotels, flights, meetings, money, girls.

> Perhaps I’ll suggest to Golitsyn he gets himself a female assistant so he can save himself some cash.

> Hardly a pressing consideration.

> Too rich to care?

> He’s more than rich, Petra.

> Meaning?

> Golitsyn floats above the world.

As Petra, there aren’t many situations I find intimidating. Composure is part of her make-up and when I wear it, it’s a genuine reflection of who I am at that moment. But everyone has an Achilles heel. And this is both hers and mine.

I’m on avenue Montaigne. So far I’ve been into Gucci, Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, looking for something that Claudia Calderon might wear. I don’t think Hector Reggiano’s art consultant would turn up for a meeting with Leonid Golitsyn wearing a grubby denim jacket and scuffed Merrell shoes. I have an image of her in my mind; tall, slender, sophisticated. All I can do is pretend in fancy dress. Escada and Christian Lacroix come and go.

It’s the fascism of fashion that annoys me. The eugenics of beauty. The people in these shops always seem to know that I don’t belong. Eventually, however, salvation presents itself in the form of MaxMara, on the junction with rue Clément Marot, opposite the jeweller Harry Winston. Whatever the city, this is the one place that doesn’t make me feel like a leper.

I drift through the store and end up with a figure-hugging dress, somewhere between dark grey and brown, with sleeves to the knuckle. To go with it I pick out a very soft dark brown, knee-length suede coat with a black leather belt, a pair of shoes and a black bag.

I take the deliberate decision to use Marianne Bernard’s American Express card. The transaction will be traced. But I’m banking on a delay. It doesn’t need to be a long one. Sixty seconds will do.

The purchase is processed without a problem and I leave with Claudia Calderon in a bag. Later, I wrap all Marianne’s cards in a paper napkin and toss them away. I’ll miss the life we shared. Marianne was good to me; a sure sign that our relationship wasn’t destined to last.

Late afternoon. Stephanie pressed 1845 into the keypad and took the damp staircase to the third floor. Jacob and Miriam Furst’s apartment was at the end of the corridor. The door was sealed with police tape. There was no noise from the other apartments on the floor. She hadn’t seen light from any of them from rue Dénoyez. She slit the tape and let herself in with Claude Adler’s keys, quietly closing the door behind her.

Inside, she stood perfectly still, adjusting to the gloom. The dull wash of streetlamps provided the only light. She smelt stale cigarette smoke. The Fursts hadn’t been smokers; Miriam had been asthmatic.

The small living-room overlooked rue Dénoyez. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, Stephanie saw a delta of dark splatters over the oatmeal carpet at the centre of the room. The blood had dried to a black crust. There was broken glass in the cast-iron grate. On the mantelpiece above the fire there had once been a large collection of miniature figurines, she recalled; horses, the glass blown with curls of fiery orange and emerald green. Only two remained.

In the kitchen, she recognized the cheap watercolour of place des Vosges and the wooden mug rack. There were no mugs left. They were all broken. Cutlery and cracked china littered the linoleum floor.

She wondered what the official line was. A violent burglary perpetrated against an elderly, vulnerable couple, their murders little more than some kind of sporting bonus?

The bathroom was at the back of the apartment, overlooking waste ground. It didn’t look as though regeneration was imminent. She lowered the blind and switched on the light. The wallpaper might have been cream once. Now it was pale rust, except for black patches of damp in the corner over the bath. By the sink was a shaving kit, the badger-hair brush and cut-throat razor laid upon an old flannel.

Stephanie washed herself thoroughly, then dressed in the underwear and stockings she’d bought from a depressing discount store on boulevard de Belleville, followed by the clothes she’d bought at MaxMara. She put her belongings into the black leather bag and put her dirty clothes into the MaxMara bags, which she placed beneath the basin.

Using Miriam’s hairbrush made her faintly queasy. She tried to ignore the sensation and examined herself in the mirror. What she needed was twenty minutes in the shower with plenty of shampoo and soap. And then make-up to mask the fatigue. But she’d forgotten to buy make-up and was sure that Miriam had never worn any. Besides, that would certainly feel worse than using the hairbrush; who’d wear a dead woman’s lipstick?

The Lancaster was small and discreet, a townhouse hotel, the kind she liked. The bar was an open area leading through to the restaurant. A few sofas, some armchairs, a cluster of tables. It was busy at quarter to eight, the centre of the room taken by a loud group; four skeletal women, two of them in dark glasses, and three skeletal men with designer stubble, open-necked shirts, suits. One of them was fiddling with a miniature dachshund. They were all drinking champagne.

Stern had said that Medvedev would be waiting for her at the bar itself, which was at one end of the dining-room. He was easy to spot; alone, a chilled martini glass at his elbow, on the phone.

Medvedev was a Spetsnaz veteran – FSB Alpha – but there was no longer any hint of it. Golitsyn’s influence, she supposed. A life of luxury to smooth away the rough edges. As she approached the bar, he finished his call, folded his phone shut and raised his glass to drink.

‘Fyodor Medvedev?’

He set his glass down without taking the sip.

In Russian, she said, ‘Dobryy vecher. Minya zavut Claudia Calderon.’

He took his time replying. ‘Sorry. Please say again. My name is …?’

It wasn’t worth the wait; his accent was atrocious.

Now Stephanie was the one looking confused. ‘Fyodor Medvedev?’

He switched to English; American, east coast but tempered. ‘Is that who I am? Thanks. I was starting to wonder.’

‘You’re not Russian.’

He shook his head. ‘Just like you.’

‘And you don’t work for Leonid Golitsyn?’

‘Never heard of him.’

She looked around – where was Medvedev? – and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were …’

‘Have we met before?’

‘That’s original.’

‘I know. But have we?’

It occurred to Stephanie that they’d both thought they’d recognized each other. She’d thought he was Medvedev. And he’d thought she was … who? The moment he first saw her, who had she been to him?

‘I don’t think so.’

He offered his hand. ‘Well, I’m Robert. Robert Newman.’

‘Hello, Robert. Claudia Calderon.’

‘Calderon – you’re from Spain?’

‘Argentina.’

‘Lucky you. One of my favourite countries.’

Stephanie swiftly changed direction. ‘So … what do you do, Robert?’

‘Depends who’s asking.’

‘That makes you sound like a gun for hire.’

‘But in a suit.’

Which he wore well, she noticed. He has them made. Grey, double-breasted, over a pale blue shirt with a deep red, hand-woven silk tie.

‘They’re the ones you have to watch,’ Stephanie said. ‘Like the vicar’s daughter.’

His laugh was soft and low. ‘Then I guess I’m in … finance.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘My background is oil.’

‘But no dirty hands?’

‘Not these days. When I was younger.’

She could believe it. He was perfectly at home in the Lancaster’s bar, in his expensive suit, with the heavy stainless-steel TAG-Heuer on his wrist. Yet she could see the oil-fields. In his eyes, in the lines around them, across hands made for manual labour.

He summoned the bartender and said to Stephanie, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

A question she’d been asked too many times by too many men. But she didn’t mind it coming from him. He hadn’t made any assumptions about her. Not yet. Usually, the men who asked her that question were already deciding how much they were prepared to pay for her.

She had champagne because she felt that would be Claudia Calderon’s drink. That or Diet Coke. Newman ordered another vodka martini.

‘You live in Paris, Claudia?’

‘I’m visiting.’

‘Staying here, at the Lancaster?’

‘A man who gets right to the point.’

‘It’s an innocent question.’

The bartender slid a glass towards her.

‘No, I’m not staying here,’ Stephanie said. ‘What about you?’

‘I live here.’

‘In the hotel?’

‘In the city.’

‘How original. An American in Paris.’

‘If you consider a New Yorker an American …’

‘You don’t?’

‘Not really. I think of New York as a city-state. America’s another country.’

Which was something she’d felt herself. In New York, she’d always been at home. In the rest of America, she was constantly reminded of how European she was.

She tried to push past the remark. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘I’ve had a place here for ten years but I don’t use it much. I travel a lot on business.’

‘Where?’

‘The Far East, the Middle East, the States. All over. What about you? What do you do?’

Now that the moment had come, she couldn’t pass herself off as an art consultant. ‘Take a guess.’

He gave it some thought, allowing her to look at him properly. He had short dark hair and attractive dark brown eyes. His tanned face looked pleasantly weather-beaten for a businessman. In his forties, or perhaps a young-looking fifty, he appeared fit for a man with the kind of life he’d described.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘You know, looking at you, I really can’t think of anything.’

‘You’re straying.’

‘Straying?’

‘This is supposed to be a polite conversation. There are rules. One of them is: don’t even try to think. Thought breeds silence. That’s not allowed. If you can’t come up with anything decent to say, say something shallow.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘I’m surprised. All that travel, all those hotels. This can’t be your first time.’

‘My first time?’

‘Being approached. In a bar. By a woman.’

His smile was the wry badge of the world-weary. ‘I guess that depends on where you’re going with this.’

Stephanie smiled too. ‘That’s very neat.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘Maybe this is what I do. Approach strange men in hotel bars.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t have the look.’

‘What look’s that?’

He sipped some vodka. ‘Desperate predatory allure.’

Stephanie arched an eyebrow. ‘Desperate predatory allure? I like that. But it puts you at risk of sounding like an expert.’

‘Well, you’re right, of course. I’ve been in many bars. There have been many … situations. And they never fail to disappoint.’

‘No value for money?’

‘I quit before it gets to that.’

‘Naturally.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t expect you to admit it.’

He took his time, sizing her up, deciding about her. ‘You always this direct?’

‘Only with complete strangers.’

‘Because you can be, right?’

‘Yes. Liberating, isn’t it?’

He nodded, comfortable with her; neither threatened, nor encouraged. She hoped he wouldn’t spoil it by saying something crass.

‘I guess that’s the game we’re playing.’ He rolled his glass a little, watching the oily liquid swirl. ‘Strange how that works, though. That you can say anything to someone you’ve never met before. The kind of things you wouldn’t say to someone you know.’

‘It only works when you think you won’t see them again.’

‘Like now?’

‘Yes. Like now.’

Newman said, ‘Scheherazade.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to excuse me.’

Stephanie turned round. A woman had appeared on the far side of the bar. She had beautiful thick black hair. A dark, liquid complexion set off the gold choker at her throat. Slender with curves, she wasn’t tall, perhaps only five-four, but she had poise and presence. Heads were turning.

‘Your date?’ Stephanie asked.

How typical, she thought, that she should be the one to be crass. Newman seemed to find it amusing.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Claudia. A rare pleasure.’

And then he was gone. Stephanie looked at the woman again. She recognized the face but couldn’t remember her name; high cheekbones, large dark eyes, a wide mouth, which now split into a smile, as Newman crossed the floor to meet her.

The phone behind the bar began to ring.

Scheherazade who?

They embraced, his hand staying on her arm. She glanced at Stephanie then whispered something to him. They laughed and then settled on the only spare sofa.

‘Excusez-moi …’

She turned round. The bartender was holding the phone for her. She took it and pressed the receiver to her ear. Over the crackle of bad reception, she heard an engine. Car horns blared in the background. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Fyodor Medvedev.’ His American accent was clumsy, words shunting into one another like old rail wagons in a verbal siding. ‘I’m sorry to be late. I’m in traffic. Not moving.’

‘At least I know you’re in Paris.’

He didn’t get it. ‘I will be at hotel in ten minutes. Mr Golitsyn wants to see you now. Is okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Room 41. Emile Wolf suite. He waits for you.’

As she handed the phone back to the bartender, the name came to her. Scheherazade Zahani. A favourite of Paris-Match and the gossip columns. Usually seen at the opera, or stepping out of the latest restaurant, or on the deck of her one-hundred-metre yacht at Cap d’Antibes.

The daughter of a rich arms-dealer, she’d married a Saudi oil billionaire. Stephanie had forgotten his name but remembered that he’d been in his sixties. A student at Princeton, highly academic, very beautiful, Zahani had only been twenty-two or twenty-three. There had been a lot of carping comment. Fifteen years later, following her husband’s death in Switzerland, Zahani had moved to Paris, several billion dollars richer. Since then, the French press had attempted to link the grieving widow with every eligible Frenchman over thirty-five. If she was bored by the facile coverage she received, she never let it show. She seemed content to be seen in public with potential suitors but they rarely lasted more than a couple of outings. There had been no affairs, no scandal.

It was only in the last five years that her business acumen had become widely acknowledged. Now she was regarded as one of the shrewdest investors in France. As Stephanie watched Scheherazade Zahani and Robert Newman, she wondered whether they were discussing the only thing she knew they had in common.

Oil.

I know something’s wrong the moment I enter Leonid Golitsyn’s suite on the fourth floor. I knocked on the door – there was no bell – but got no reply. There are no Ving cards here either, so I tried the handle and the door opened.

Golitsyn is in the bedroom, lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. A large Thomson TV throws flickering light over his body. A game show is on, the volume high, amplified laughter and applause. A large maroon flower has blossomed across his chest. Blood is seeping into the carpet beneath him. There are drops of it on his face, like some glossy pox.

He blinks.

I circle the room slowly and silently, then check the bathroom. The second body is in the bathtub, one trousered leg dangling over the lip. On the floor is a gun. I pick it up, a Smith & Wesson Sigma .40, a synthetics-only weapon, the frame constructed from a high-strength polymer. It hasn’t been fired recently.

The man in the bath is wearing a crumpled suit and a bloodstained shower-curtain. Most of the hooks have been ripped from the rail. There’s blood on the floor and wall. He’s been shot at least three times. Using a very efficient sound suppressor, I imagine, because being a converted townhouse the Lancaster’s sound-proofing is not great.

I return to the bedroom. When I move into his line of sight Golitsyn blinks again and manages to send a tremor to his fingertips.

I crouch beside him. What an impressive man he must have been. Two metres tall, by the look of it, with fine patrician features down a long face, framed by longish snow-white hair and a carefully trimmed beard of the same colour.

I look at the chest wound and then the blood. He should be dead already. There’s nothing I can do for him.

He tries to force a word through the gap in his lips. ‘Ah … ams …’

‘Anders?’

He’d frown if he could move the muscles in his forehead.

I try again. ‘Anders Brand?’

Nothing.

‘You and Anders Brand?’

I kill the volume on the TV.

‘… da … ah … ams …’

This is all very recent.

‘Passage du Caire. Do you understand?’

‘… ter … da … ahm …’

‘Anders Brand. He was there. He was killed. After you saw him.’

In Golitsyn’s eyes the flame of urgency struggles against death’s chilly breeze. ‘… ams … ams …’

‘Who did this? The same people who killed Brand?’

‘… ter … da …’

‘What about the bomb?’

‘Ams … ter …’

‘Amster?’

I see an emphatic ‘yes’ in his eyes.

‘Amster,’ I repeat.

‘Dam.’

It’s almost a cough.

‘Amsterdam?’

He blinks his confirmation because he’s fading fast.

‘What about Amsterdam?’

He tries to summon one last phrase but can’t; the eyes freeze, the focus fails, the fingers unfurl. On the TV screen, a contestant cries with joy as she takes possession of a shiny new Hyundai.

Somewhere out there, a distant siren moans. Not for me, I tell myself. But a part of me is less sure. I take the cash from the table – Petra the vulture, a natural scavenger – and scoop his correspondence and mobile phone into a slim, leather attaché case that has three Cyrillic letters embossed in gold beneath the handle; L.I.G.

I return to the bathroom where curiosity compels me to check the body. Trying my best to avoid the blood, I reach inside folds of shower-curtain and pale grey jacket to retrieve a wallet and passport. I flip open the passport; flat features, light brown hair cut short and parted on the right, small grey eyes.

Fyodor Medvedev.

The man I spoke to … how many minutes ago?

There isn’t time for this. Not now. Get out.

I drop the gun into my black MaxMara bag. Dressed as I am, the attaché case doesn’t look too incongruous. At least something is working out today.

Outside the suite, I close the door and walk calmly to the lift. I press the button. A woman from Housekeeping passes by carrying a tower of white towels.

‘Bonsoir.’

‘Bonsoir.’

I step into the tiny lift with its polished wood and burgundy leather. The unanswered questions are spinning inside my head. The Medvedev in the bath isn’t the Medvedev I spoke to over the phone at the bar. I’m sure of that. Even if he’d been sitting in a car outside the hotel he would barely have had enough time to sprint upstairs and get shot before I found him. So if the corpse in the bath is Medvedev, who was I talking to before?

As for Golitsyn …

The doors open. I step out and head right. There are raised voices coming from reception, which is now just out of sight to my left. Some kind of commotion. I backtrack and go through the bar. The skeletal group are too self-absorbed to have realized anything is wrong but others have noticed; their conversations halting, heads turning. The sofa where Robert Newman and Scheherazade Zahani were sitting is empty. Perhaps they’ve gone through to the restaurant.

I push through the large glass door and head down the short hall towards the exit, catching a glimpse of the reception area to my right; two men are arguing with the woman behind the desk. One of them is showing her something. A card of some sort. She’s speaking into the phone, clearly anxious. Beside her, a man sorts through a collection of keys.

I step onto rue de Berri. To my left, a flustered doorman in a long overcoat is standing by a black Renault. There’s no one in it. Both front doors are open, the front left wheel has mounted the kerb. A blue lamp sits on the dashboard.

Whatever you do, don’t run.

I venture right. I’m a stylish businesswoman carrying an attaché case. In this part of town, that shouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Except my own; above the noise of the city, the sirens are getting louder. Ahead of me, at the junction with Champs Élysées I see the first signs of stroboscopic blue light ricocheting off buildings.

I look over my shoulder. The doorman turns round. We’re fifteen metres apart. He can’t decide whether he’s seen me before. Someone cries out from the hotel. I feel like a rabbit stranded in headlights. Where is Petra?

Next to the Lancaster is the Berri-Washington twenty-four-hour public car-park, a blue neon sign above a long, sloping concrete ramp. My right hand is inside the black leather bag, my fingertips touching the Sigma. The first patrol car enters rue de Berri. There’s another behind it. And I’m going down the ramp.

A subterranean car-park should have a fire-exit that rises somewhere else. I try to ignore the sirens but I’m expecting the shout. The order to halt, to remove my hand from the bag, to drop everything and turn round.

I’m halfway down the ramp when a car comes into view. The engine echoes off the concrete as it rises towards me. A silver Audi A6 Quattro.

Keep calm.

I’m just a woman going to collect her car. I move to one side to allow the Audi to pass. But it slows down …

Keep going.

… and then halts.

Please, no.

My right hand searches for the grip. A window lowers.

‘Small world.’

For a moment I’m too dazed to say anything. It’s Robert Newman.

Behind me, and above us, there are more sirens. Decision time. What if there is no other way out?

‘Need a ride?’

This can’t be right.

But I smile sweetly anyway. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

I climb into the back of the Audi, which is not what he’s expecting. He looks over his shoulder and says, ‘You can sit up front if you like. I promise I won’t …’

Which is when he sees the gun.

‘Drive.’

‘What the …’

‘Trust me – you don’t have time to think about it.’

He glances up the ramp.

I thrust the tip of the Sigma into his cheek and yell: ‘Drive!’

He accelerates towards street level.

‘Where to?’

‘Right. Go right.’

‘I can’t.’

‘What?’

‘It’s one-way.’

‘Then go left!’

‘And after that?’

‘Just do it! And whatever happens, don’t stop. If you do, I swear I’ll kill you.’

We reach the ramp. He pulls out, past the black Renault, past two police cars, blue lights aflame. Officers hover on the street, a crowd gathers. I keep the gun out of sight. A young officer, eager to get us out of the way, waves us past. I peer through the rear window as the Lancaster recedes. At boulevard Haussmann we turn right.

How did they get there so quickly? Yesterday at Passage du Caire, it was the same; uniformed police officers only moments away. I close my eyes. When I open them, I see him in the rear-view mirror.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

‘Nowhere. Just keep moving. And don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Looks like I already have.’

‘Pull over.’

It was a quiet street off place de la porte de Champerret, just inside the périphérique. When Newman switched off the engine they could hear the rumble from the ring road. Almost an hour had passed, most of it in silence. Stephanie had tried to think but had found she couldn’t. There were too many competing questions. She couldn’t separate one from another, couldn’t focus on a single coherent thought. Gradually, however, Petra had emerged and cold clarity had replaced panic.

‘Put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Don’t take them off.’

The street was empty. She tightened her grip on the gun and shifted her position so that she had a less awkward angle.

‘Okay. Who are you?’

‘You know who I am. Robert Newman.’

‘Believe me, your next cute answer’s going to be your last.’

‘I don’t know what else to say.’

‘Well you better think of something. And quick.’

‘My name’s Robert Newman. I’m a businessman.’

‘We meet at the bar then you’re driving up the ramp. Explain that.’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘I guess.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidence. You and Scheherazade Zahani – that must have been the quickest date in history.’

Newman flinched at the mention of her name. ‘I wasn’t there to meet her. She just showed up. She was meeting a friend who’s staying at the Lancaster.’

‘Another coincidence?’

He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. Stephanie leaned forward and pressed the tip of the Smith & Wesson into the back of his neck, just above the collar.

She said, ‘Let me explain something to you. Whoever you thought I was at the bar – she doesn’t exist. She never did.’

‘Look, I was due to meet someone. He called to cancel right after you left.’

‘I’m going to give you one more chance.’

‘See for yourself,’ he snapped, reaching inside his jacket.

‘Stop!’

Newman froze. And then clamped his right hand back on the wheel. ‘Jesus Christ! Take it easy!’

‘What did I tell you?’

‘I know what you said. I was just going for my cell phone. So you could see. The number, the time.’

Stephanie focused on her breathing for a second. Anything to slow the pulse. A couple were walking towards them, arm in arm, heads shrouded in frozen breath, hard heels clicking on the pavement. Stephanie placed the gun in her lap and shielded it with the black leather bag.

‘I need to disappear,’ she said.

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Île Saint-Louis.’

‘Alone?’

He hesitated. ‘Yeah.’

‘I’m going to ask that again. If we get there and there’s someone to meet us I’m going to kill them, no questions asked. So think before you speak. Do you live alone?’

‘Yes.’

The couple strolled past the car.

‘Give me your wallet.’

‘It’s in my jacket. Like my phone.’

Stephanie pressed the Smith & Wesson to the same patch of skin. ‘Then be very careful.’

He retrieved it – Dunhill, black leather with gold corners – and passed it back. On his Platinum Amex the name read Robert R. Newman. He had two printed cards, one professional, one personal, which included an address on quai d’Orléans, Île Saint-Louis. The other card carried a name she didn’t recognize with an address at La Défense.

‘What’s Solaris?’

‘A company. I work for them.’

‘An oil company?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘We’re going to your place. I need somewhere to think.’

Quai d’Orléans, Île Saint-Louis, half-past-ten. They found a space close to his building. People passed by, heading home from the restaurants along rue Saint-Louis en Île.

Inside the Audi, Stephanie spoke softly. ‘I don’t want to have to do it. But if you make me, I will. Understand?’

Newman nodded.

‘If we meet anybody you know, play it straight. I’m just a date.’

They got out. Newman carried Leonid Golitsyn’s attaché case and she clutched the Smith & Wesson which was in the pocket of her overcoat.

They reached the entrance to the building. He pressed the four-digit code – 2071 – and they stepped into a large hall, sparsely furnished. They took the cage-lift to the fifth floor. The entrance to Newman’s apartment was a tall set of double-doors that opened into a hall with a smooth limestone floor. On the walls were gilt-framed canvases; flat Flemish landscapes beneath brooding pewter skies, moody portraits of prosperous traders, pale aristocratic women. There were Casablanca lilies in a tall, tapering, octagonal vase, their scent filling the hall.

Stephanie glanced at the flowers, then at Newman who understood. ‘Yvette,’ he said. ‘She looks after the place. She’s not a live-in. She comes daily during the week.’

‘Does she have her own key?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you like her, remind me to get you to call her in the morning.’

At gun-point Newman led her through the apartment; two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a large sitting-room, a modest dining-room, a generous kitchen, a utility room and a study. The sitting-room and dining-room were at the front of the apartment, French windows opening on to a balcony that offered a truly spectacular view of Notre Dame on Île de la Cité.

‘Nice place. Business must be good.’

They returned to the utility room. Stephanie made him open both cupboards; vacuum-cleaner, ironing board, a mop in a bucket, brooms, brushes, rags and cloths, cleaning products. She grabbed the coiled washing line from the worktop. On a shelf was a wooden box with household tools, including a roll of black tape, which she also took. Back in the sitting-room, she drew the curtains and dragged a chair to the centre of the floor.

‘Take off your jacket and tie.’

He did, unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

‘What happened to your wrists?’

Around each of them was a bracelet of livid purple scar tissue. She hadn’t noticed them before. He didn’t answer, glaring at her instead, his silence heavy with contempt.

‘Do what I say and I won’t hurt you. Now sit down.’

She bound his wrists with the washing line, securing them behind the back of the chair. Then she taped one ankle to a chair-leg.

‘Don’t make any noise.’

She left him and returned to the kitchen. It was a bachelor’s kitchen, no question: a central island with a slate top; two chopping boards of seasoned wood, both barely scratched; a knife-block containing a set of pristine Sabatier blades. In the fridge were two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, some San Pellegrino, a bottle of Montagny, ground coffee and orange juice. No food.

His suits were hanging in a wardrobe in the bedroom, all tailored. But in another cupboard another Robert Newman existed; denim jeans, scuffed and frayed, T-shirts that had lost their shape and colour, exercise clothing, old trainers.

On the bedside table was a Bang & Olufsen phone, a bottle of Nurofen and a copy of What Went Wrong? by Bernard Lewis. On the other table was a single gold earring. Stephanie picked it up. It curled like a small shell.

In the bathroom, Newman’s things were fanned out across more limestone. But in the cupboard behind the mirror Stephanie found eye-liner and a small bottle of Chanel No.5, half-empty. In the second bedroom, further evidence; a plum silk dress on a hanger, a couple of jerseys, a pair of black Calvin Klein jeans, some flimsy underwear, two shirts, a pair of silver Prada trainers.

She returned to the sitting-room. ‘Who’s the woman?’

‘What woman?’

‘The woman who leaves Chanel No.5 in your bathroom.’ She showed him the earring. ‘This woman.’

‘That could be mine.’

‘Trust me, I’m not in the mood.’

‘It’s none of your goddamn business.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘She’s history.’

‘If she shows up here, she will be.’

‘It’s been over for a while.’

‘It was on your bedside table.’

‘I’m the sentimental type.’

‘Her stuff is still here.’

She saw that he was extremely nervous – the sweat, the shivers – but he was determined to maintain the façade. The pretence was all he had to cling to. ‘You should see what I left at her place.’

There was no answer to that; Stephanie had left pieces of herself everywhere.

There was a large Loewe widescreen TV in the corner of the sitting-room. Stephanie sat on a sofa arm and flicked through channels; France 3, Canal+, France 2, pausing during a news bulletin on TF1. Continued analysis of the bomb in Sentier, riots in Caracas, an oil spill off the coast of Normandy. Then they were watching a female journalist with a red scarf around her throat. She was in rue de Berri, the Lancaster just discernible in the background, beyond the entrance to the Berri-Washington car-park.

The studio anchor was asking a question. The reporter nodded then said, ‘The police will say only that Russian art-dealer Leonid Golitsyn and another unidentified man have been shot dead in what looks like a planned execution.’

‘Have they suggested who might be responsible?’

‘Not yet. All we know is that their bodies were discovered by a member of the hotel staff and that …’

Not true. By the time she’d left Golitsyn’s suite, the police had arrived downstairs. She’d seen plain-clothed detectives at the front desk just seconds after stepping out of the lift. Yet seconds before, on the fourth floor, she’d exchanged a cordial bonsoir with the woman from Housekeeping.

Newman said, ‘No wonder I couldn’t guess what you do.’

‘I didn’t kill them.’

‘This guy Golitsyn – when you thought I was someone else, you thought I worked for him.’

‘When I got to the room, they were already dead.’

She couldn’t believe how guilty she sounded.

Newman stared at the Smith & Wesson. ‘That right?’

‘It hasn’t been fired. It’s not mine. I picked it off the floor.’

‘What are you saying – it was a suicide pact?’

She changed channels, choosing CNN’s coverage of the Sentier bomb. There was footage of the wreckage in Passage du Caire, a reprise of the casualty statistics and still no mention of Anders Brand.

In the CNN studio two experts sat beside Becky Anderson. One was a spokesman for Le Conseil Représentatif des Institutions Juives de France (CRIF), the other was a terrorism expert from the London School of Economics. The CRIF spokesman insisted the bomb was part of a growing campaign of anti-Semitic activity in France and went on to castigate the government and – by implication – the public for their lack of outrage.

The LSE analyst focused on the likely provenance of the two fake suspects. Snippets of information were threaded through the theory to lend it credibility; prescient rumours in recent days from sources at Le Blanc-Mesnil, a small town on the northern fringe of Paris with a largely immigrant population, formerly of Sephardic Jews from the north-African colonies, more recently of Muslims, many from the same countries.

The premise sounded convincing; racial hatred boiling over in an area known for it. Le Blanc-Mesnil fell under the scope of District 93, also known as the Red belt from an era when it was controlled by staunchly Communist mayors. Immigrants had always been a pressing problem. The man from the LSE managed deftly to link ill-feeling in Le Blanc-Mesnil to Jewish commercial interests in Sentier. Stephanie was almost persuaded by him until he mentioned the suspects again.

She turned off the television.

Two incidents in one city on consecutive days. Superficially independent of one another but linked by a third incident: the murder of Jacob and Miriam Furst. Not in itself significant enough to make the news – an old couple murdered in their home – but vital to Stephanie because she was the single factor common to all three.