Читать книгу The Third Woman - Mark Burnell, Mark Burnell - Страница 11

She woke with a start and checked her watch. Three-twenty-five. As a teenager, she’d been a hopeless sleeper. As Stephanie, she still was. But Petra had been trained to take sleep wherever she could, no matter how hostile the environment.

They were in the sitting-room. Newman was slumped in his chair, his head lolling to one side. Stephanie was on the sofa behind him. She’d chosen it deliberately for the small psychological advantage of being invisible to him.

Silently, she rose from the sofa and went to the bathroom. She showered then wrapped herself in one of his towels and sorted through his ex-lover’s wardrobe. The black jeans were the right length but Stephanie’s waist was slimmer. She pulled on a navy long-sleeved T-shirt, a chunky black jersey and the silver trainers.

She felt human again. As human as Petra could be.

In the kitchen she filled a kettle. While the water heated she investigated Newman’s study. On a large oak desk beside the window were two slim Sony monitors and a cordless keyboard. She looked in the drawers; stationery, bills and receipts, correspondence, cash – euros, dollars, Swiss francs – an Air France first-class boarding card from Singapore to Paris, and two American passports.

The first passport belonged to Robert Ridley Newman, aged forty-eight. It had been issued two years before but there were already dozens of stamps in it, some recurring frequently; Damascus, Riyadh, Beijing and Shanghai, Tehran, Jakarta. The second passport was seven years older. She flicked through the pages. There were only twelve stamps in it, nine of them issued at Ben-Gurion airport, Tel Aviv.

In the bottom drawer on the right she found a Vacheron watch with a leather strap. On the back was an inscription and a date: Robert, with love, Carlotta, 10–11–2001. A birthday? She checked the passports. Not his.

Back in the kitchen, she switched on the TV suspended over the slate worktop. Bloomberg was playing. She flicked through the channels until she came to BBC World, which was showing archive footage of Anders Brand. He was shaking hands with Kofi Annan, Bill Clinton to one side, the three of them sharing a joke. At the bottom of the screen the caption read: Former Swedish diplomat named among Paris dead.

A résumé unfolded; posts in Manila, Baghdad, Rome and Washington, as a junior diplomat, followed by two forays into business with Deutsche Bank in New York and Shell in London. Later, Brand had returned to the Swedish diplomatic service, serving in the Philippines, then Spain. After that, he’d joined the United Nations in New York, filling a series of increasingly undefined roles as his star rose. Divorced for almost twenty years, Brand was survived by his ex-wife, the former actress Lena Meslin, and their two adult sons.

A little late but just as Stern had predicted.

Stern.

Painfully, Stephanie surrendered to the one thought she’d been resisting since the Lancaster.

You set me up.

Now, more than ever, she needed information. For years, he’d been her preferred source. Information from Stern was bought at a premium but was cheap at the price. She’d never had reason to question its quality. He’d never sold her out. On the contrary. There had been occasions where he’d volunteered information to protect her. Or rather, as he usually put it, to protect his investment.

Safe from one another, their relationship had evolved into a form of sterile, electronic friendship, neither of them interested in finding out too much about the other because they both understood that security lay in anonymity. But in the beginning it had been strictly business; request, negotiation, payment, delivery. Cold and clinical.

Stern traded information, not affection. The faux relationship that Stephanie had allowed to develop between them had come to obfuscate that uneasy fact. Stern owed her nothing, nor she him. At the end of every transaction they were equal. It was true that he’d made money out of her. Just as she’d made money out of the information he’d sold her. She’d come to assume that he’d never trade her because she was valuable to him. But why not, if the money was right? She’d never guaranteed him anything. Each transaction ran the risk of being the last. Stern existed in a transitory environment; the currency of information tended to devalue with time. In both their worlds, it paid to seize the moment.

Ultimately, Stern’s fidelity was always going to be a question of price.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it. The sound of running water. A shower. His shower. He tried to straighten himself. Had he fallen asleep? Perhaps, but not in the regenerative sense. Sleep was nothing more than a brief lapse between uncomfortable bouts of waking. He was slowly seizing; numb hands, stiff neck, sore spine, cramping muscles. His mouth felt dirty and dry.

He wondered how long he’d been alone. Not that it mattered. There was nothing he could do. He and the chair had become a single entity, she’d made sure of that. An entity isolated at the centre of a Bokhara carpet, a castaway in his own apartment.

He couldn’t reconcile the woman in his apartment with the woman who’d approached him at the bar in the Lancaster. Claudia Calderon had been confident, relaxed, playful. And sexy. He could admit that, even now. And then there was the creature with the gun. What had she done? What did she want?

He tried to convince himself that she wouldn’t harm him. That she’d float away, like a bout of bad weather, leaving him as she’d found him. But Leonid Golitsyn and another man were dead. Newman had seen that on TV. She’d admitted to being in their room. And she had the gun. He’d barely heard her denial. Stranger still, she’d seemed more preoccupied with coverage of the Sentier bomb than events at the Lancaster. Were the two connected? Was she the connection? And if she was, what would that mean for him?

Stephanie said, ‘I’m going to untie your hands. You need to get your blood moving.’

The purple scars around the wrists were shiny and ragged. There was no smoothness to them, nothing … uniform. The hands themselves were swollen. As they separated a shudder coursed through Newman. He brought his arms to the front of his body in a series of stiff jerks, catching his breath with each halt. Once his hands were in his lap he flexed his fingers. She saw the solid tension in his shoulders, knotted muscle crawling on itself.

‘Who’s Carlotta?’

He didn’t answer.

‘I usually like to know whose clothes I’m wearing.’

Still nothing.

‘Was the earring hers?’

She could see no fear, no anger, no emotion at all.

She left him and took Golitsyn’s attaché case to the sofa. Keys, pens, a leather-bound address book, lots of business documents. His letters were addressed to him at several locations: the head office of MosProm on ulitsa Tverskaya in central Moscow; Galerie Golitsyn on avenue Matignon, Paris; the Hotel Meurice, Paris; an apartment on East 62^nd Street in New York City.

In a see-through foolscap plastic wallet was a set of architectural plans. Stephanie turned it over to see the address. Cork Street, London; another art gallery, she assumed. There was something inserted between the folds of the drawings. She unzipped the wallet and a sheet of paper slipped free.

It was an agreement with an immobilier named Guy Grangé on boulevard Magenta in the 10ème arrondissement. A one-month rental, a one-room apartment in the Stalingrad district, cash paid in advance. Not the sort of area Stephanie would have expected Golitsyn to frequent. Or the sort of property, for that matter. There was no address, just a reference number. The printed key code corresponded to the number on the red plastic disk attached to the keys.

Why had Stern pointed her in the direction of this seventy-seven-year-old Russian?

There were some credit-card receipts in the attaché case, including one from the fabled jeweller Ginzburg, on place Vendôme. A small card was stapled to the receipt. On the back, written by a shaking hand, was a brief message:

Leonid, mon cher,

merci pour tout,

N x.

Beneath that, in Russian, was an addition:

Diamonds or bread? Only we know which.

Stephanie looked at the first part of the message. N for Natalya? Aleksandr Ginzburg’s widow was Natalya. And alive, it seemed. Stephanie was a little surprised. Aleksandr Ginzburg had died a long time ago – a famous car crash outside Cannes sometime in the late Seventies or early Eighties – so Stephanie had just assumed that his wife had died since then. Apparently not. Which now made her a very old woman. Except that Aleksandr hadn’t been so old when he’d died. Perhaps she was as young as eighty. In other words, of the same vintage as Golitsyn.

Stephanie stared at the message and felt the pull of its undercurrent.

Diamonds or bread? Only we know which.

London, 04:05

When the phone rang in Rosie Chaudhuri’s small first-floor flat off Chichele Road in north London, she was already awake. She’d fallen into bed at one, exhausted, a little drunk, unhappy. The alcohol was supposed to have soothed the pain but hadn’t. An inexperienced drinker, the very least she’d hoped for had been a deep sleep but she’d been awake by half-past-three.

Her first night out in a month, her first as a single woman in more than a year. Her friend Claire had insisted upon it. Time to move on. Time to consign him to history. Reluctantly, Rosie had capitulated. A poor decision, as it turned out. There had been no balm for the hurt, no boost for the self. Just a large bill and a hangover.

When her relationship failed, Rosie did what she always did: she buried herself in work. An easy solution which, for a week or two, seemed to deliver. Then came the familiar sensation; the weight in the chest, the suspicion of a greater malaise lurking at the heart of her. How could a smart, attractive woman continue to stumble from one third-rate relationship to another?

A second-generation Indian, Rosie ran an organization at the cutting edge of global intelligence. From any point of view – race, gender, age – she was a success. But she didn’t feel like one. Never had, if the truth be told, and now, at five-past-four on a dismal winter morning, she felt a total failure.

What good was her position – her power – if she couldn’t hold down a relationship? Dumped by an out-of-work actor because he was intimidated by her professional success. He thought she worked for the Centre for Defence Studies at King’s College, London. That was the lie by which she was universally known among her family and friends.

The actor was a lovely man; kind, funny, good-looking. But not much of an actor. When he’d complained about the hours she kept she’d seen straight through him; he’d resented her work because it fuelled his own sense of professional inadequacy. Which, in turn, she’d resented. It wasn’t amusing to come home after a sixteen-hour shift to be criticized by a man who’d spent the day lying on a sofa watching Countdown and Neighbours, waiting for Steven Spielberg to call.

She picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Carter, S3.’

S3 was the intelligence section. ‘What is it, John?’

‘There’s a car on its way. It’ll be with you in eight minutes.’

‘Give me the bare bones.’

‘Last night, Paris. The Lancaster hotel. A shooting, two victims: Leonid Golitsyn and Fyodor Medvedev.’

The first name was vaguely resonant, the second meant nothing. ‘Go on.’

‘S9 has intercepted communication between DST and DGSE.’

Both agencies formed part of France’s intelligence community. The DST, the Directorate for Surveillance of the Territory, was concerned primarily with counter-espionage, counter-intelligence and the protection of classified information, and was under the direct control of the Ministry of the Interior. The DGSE – Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure – was responsible for terrorism, human intelligence and industrial-economic intelligence.

Rosie asked for a brief reminder of Golitsyn’s significance and then said, ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Stephanie Patrick.’

A sequence of syllables to rob the breath.

Impossible, she thought. Well, no, not impossible. But as close to impossible as unlikely could ever be.

Carter said, ‘They’re looking for Petra Reuter. There’s been positive identification.’

‘Photographic?’

‘We’re not sure. There’s something else, though. The two Algerians fingered by DGSE for the blast in Sentier – they’re a smokescreen. She’s the one they want.’

‘A bomb?’

The closest Petra had come to using a bomb was an exploding mobile phone that had decapitated an American lawyer in Singapore. As glib as it sounded, bombs weren’t her style.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Carter said, ‘but they seem very confident.’

‘They usually do. Are we sure she’s real?’

Like every star, Petra Reuter had her cheap imitators.

‘As sure as we can be.’

Rosie put down the phone, hauled herself from the bed and entered the bathroom. She was still wearing most of her eye-liner, smudged like bruises. No time for fresh clothes, she dressed in yesterday’s suit. In the sitting-room, she found her briefcase on a packing crate.

Six months on and she still hadn’t settled into the apartment. She’d sold her place just off the Seven Sisters Road but had been part of a buying chain that had collapsed. This place, a short-term rental, had been a stop-gap. She’d been looking for something small and comfortable in the heart of the city. Now she wasn’t sure what she wanted.

Her predecessor had installed a small bedroom at Magenta House. Towards the end, he’d never gone home. Rosie considered that symptomatic of much that had gone wrong within the organization; it had become too self-absorbed. Which, in turn, had led to levels of paranoia that had begun to affect its operational integrity.

In every walk of life, one needed interests outside of work in order to maintain a balance. Rosie believed that was especially true for the employees of an organization like Magenta House. Within a fortnight of replacing him, she’d had his bedroom dismantled to make way for a new debriefing suite.

The trouble was this: now that she was in his position, where would she find the time to achieve that balance herself?

She was outside her front door seven minutes after the call. The dark green BMW was already there. On the leather back seat was a slim briefing folder.

After Berlin, the future had assumed an obvious shape. Rosie would replace Alexander. His death had spared Magenta House’s trustees an awkward dilemma: how to substitute a man who had become utterly synonymous with the organization to its ultimate detriment? As for Stephanie, she was to disappear for good, sending the legend of Petra Reuter into permanent retirement.

False reports of Petra’s activities had always existed. Some were simply wrong, others were deliberate mischief. Several times she’d been accredited with assassinations that Magenta House knew to be the work of others. It didn’t matter. Any rumour, true or false, added to the legend. So Rosie hadn’t been surprised when new rumours began to circulate after Berlin; since nobody had ever suggested that Petra was dead there was no reason for stories about her to dry up.

Stephanie had spent most of her adult life seeking a divorce from Petra. Now that she’d got it, any form of reconciliation seemed inconceivable. Nobody at Magenta House knew Stephanie the way Rosie did. They’d been friends. They’d been the outsiders in an organization of outsiders.

Stephanie, can it really be you?

‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

Stephanie knew the procedure. Let him urinate or defecate in the chair. Reduction was the road to compliance. Yet even as she thought it, she knew she wouldn’t do it. She released his hands again and told him to tear the tape from his ankle.

He rose awkwardly. His thigh muscles and hip flexors were stiff, hamstrings tugging at his lower back. He had to place a hand on top of the chair to complete the movement. His first few steps were clumsy, as pins and needles began to work the nerves.

The bathroom door had a bolt instead of a key.

Stephanie said, ‘Don’t shut it.’

‘You’re going to watch?’

She tossed a hardback on to the floor, steered it into the doorway with her foot, ushered him in, then pulled the handle, leaving a six-inch gap. At the flush she pushed the door open. Newman was fastening his trousers.

‘Can I wash?’

‘Get on with it.’

He cleaned his hands then filled the basin with cold water and pushed his face into it, holding it there. He straightened slowly, water dripping down the front of his shirt.

‘How about a shave?’

‘No.’

‘I promise I won’t attack you with my razor. It has a safety strip.’

‘Let’s go.’

Stephanie directed him back to the chair, waving the Smith & Wesson at him for emphasis. She gathered the washing line and crouched behind him. He offered his hands before she’d asked for them.

She tried again. ‘How did you get your scars?’

‘I told you. It’s none of your goddamned business.’

She was tempted to pull the cord until the wounds reopened. But to hurt him would be to hand him a small victory. She wrapped the plastic-coated line around the wrists, securing them a little less firmly – something he would be sure to notice – before drawing the line down and fastening it to a strut beyond his reach. She was aware of him taking a deep breath and expanding his muscles as she bound him.

‘What time does the maid come?’

‘Seven-thirty.’

It was already after six-thirty.

‘Do you let her in?’

‘She has her own key.’

Stephanie picked up a phone. ‘What’s her number?’

‘What do I tell her?’

‘Anything you like as long as it sticks.’

‘Is it just today?’

‘Until further notice,’ Stephanie said. ‘Maybe a couple of days.’

She held the phone close to his ear but so that she could hear it too. When Yvette answered Newman said he had visitors and didn’t want to be disturbed. He told her he’d phone her when he wanted her to resume her schedule.

Stephanie took the handset from him. ‘She didn’t sound surprised.’

‘So?’

‘Maybe she’s used to such requests.’

‘Her husband’s serving twelve years for armed robbery. Two of her three sons are dead, the other’s a drag queen. It’s going to take more than a day off to surprise Yvette.’

‘Maybe. But if she shows up unexpectedly, I think I’ll manage it,’ Stephanie said, as she noticed the keys to the apartment on the side-table. ‘By the way, I may need to go out later. What’s the number for the door downstairs?’

‘9063.’

‘Nine-zero-six-three?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You sure about that? What about 2071? That was the number you used last night. Think about it. Take your time. Two-zero-seven-one.’

Newman bit his lip.

She shook her head. ‘Disappointing. And stupid.’

‘Why’d you kill them?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why are you running? Why are you here?’

‘I don’t know.’

Newman snorted.

And Stephanie reacted: ‘What does that mean?’

‘You don’t seem like a novice.’

‘How the hell would you know?’

He looked as though he had an answer but said nothing.

Annoyed with herself, Stephanie mumbled, ‘Forget it.’

‘Forget what? That you stuck a gun in my face?’

‘Be quiet.’

‘Maybe you are a novice.’

‘Shut up.’

‘What are you going to do? Shoot me?’

‘You don’t think I would?’

He wanted to press the challenge. She could see that. But he backed down. Just a fraction. He thought he was reading her correctly but what if he was wrong?

‘Why were you at the Lancaster?’ he asked.

‘Are you deaf?’

‘Tell me. I want to know.’

‘I said … shut up.’

‘Come on. You want me to believe you, don’t you?’

‘Just fuck off.’

I make myself coffee in the kitchen. I’m hungry but there’s not even any bread. I expect the maid brings it. Still warm from the baker, I’ll bet. With fresh Casablanca lilies to go in the octagonal vase in the hall. Nothing but the best for this one.

I’m angry with him, which is absurd. Only one of us has the right to be angry with the other. I should have let him piss himself. Just to establish my dominance over him. I hear echoes of a distant lecture: interaction with a hostage establishes a relationship, however unusual, which, in turn, humanizes the hostage in the eyes of the captor, making it harder for the captor to treat the hostage in the necessary fashion.

The necessary fashion. What is that in this situation? I have no idea. He was a matter of convenience. A spur-of-the-moment exit strategy in a crisis. He’s of no value to me. Unlike his apartment, which is a haven.

Perhaps the ‘necessary fashion’ should come from the business end of the Smith & Wesson. Avoid complications, kill the hostage, occupy his apartment for as long as required. But I’m not going to do that. I may be Petra but I’m not that Petra. Not any more.

I stand by the window. Above the light pollution the sky is brightening to plum. I expect it’s warm and sunny in Mauritius. I should be eating mangos to the sound of the surf.

I think about Stern, Amsterdam and Anders Brand. Most of all, though, Stern. My sense of betrayal extends beyond the professional to the personal. I feel like a rejected lover. I know that’s ridiculous but there it is. It hurts. I thought we had something special.

I try to put my feelings to one side. Stern gave me Golitsyn for free. That, perhaps, should have been a warning.

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

Only the first two sentences ring true. Stern was making money before I ever used him. And he’ll still be making money long after I’ve gone.

Newman was angry. With her. With himself.

Now that he was alone again, he tried to impose some order on his scattered thoughts. It was an impossible situation to categorize. He’d been kidnapped. He was a hostage. But in his own home. These facts didn’t fit the general profiles that he knew well after years in the oil business.

Ninety percent of kidnaps worldwide were for ransom and the vast majority went unreported. Official estimates put the annual number of ransom kidnaps between five thousand and twenty-five thousand. The discrepancy between the two tended to be a matter of definition. What was beyond dispute among the experts was the true number, which was over fifty thousand. In certain sectors of the oil industry this was common knowledge; in those areas of the world where kidnapping was a national sport, employees of oil companies were a preferred target. The remaining twenty percent of kidnaps were mostly political and were far less predictable.

Newman wasn’t sure which kidnap category he’d fallen into. Most likely, something that accounted for a very small fraction of one percent of the total.

Once caught, there were certain rules for all hostages. Above all, that a hostage should do nothing to agitate a captor. Awkward hostages suffered. It was better to be cooperative. To try to establish a rapport. He knew this yet he’d still provoked her. And for what? Absolutely nothing.

His aggression had been fuelled by fatigue and anxiety but so long as she remained an unknown quantity he couldn’t afford to make such elementary errors. A hostage’s scope for influence was inevitably limited but the least one could do was not to make things worse.

He analysed what he thought he knew. His abduction wasn’t about money. And it wasn’t political. Or personal. Which probably made it criminal.

That was how it felt. A crime that had gone wrong. He was an accidental hostage. His had been a kidnap of chance, a kidnap of bad timing. Were the rules the same for such a thing? Until he knew better he chose to assume so.

Play the game.

These thoughts coalesced, gradually giving him something to focus on – a lifeline to cling to – which was crucial.

He knew that beyond all doubt.

‘I’ll bring you something to eat when I get back.’

‘You’re going out?’

I pull some tape from the roll and bite through it, leaving me with a six-inch strip. ‘For a while. Don’t get over-excited. You’ll still be here when I get back.’

‘Wait. What are you going to do with that?’

‘I told you. I have to go out.’

‘Is it for my mouth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please don’t. I swear I won’t make a sound.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Do I have your word on that?’

He starts to fidget, snagging himself on his bindings.

‘Relax,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t be long.’

But he’s not relaxing. His breathing quickens. The colour drains from his face. Being gagged is never pleasant but he seems to be over-reacting.

‘Start breathing through your nose.’

He shakes his head.

‘Calm down.’

He swallows. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘Doesn’t matter. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I’ll be back to take it off.’

‘Please – don’t do it.’

‘Look, I’m not walking out of here so that you can shout the house down. Now stay still.’

His grey skin starts to glisten. I step forward and try to place the tape over his mouth. He thrashes his head left and right.

‘For God’s sake, stop it!’

In his panic, he starts yelling. The chair rocks beneath him. I try to grab his hair but he ducks forward.

‘Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Get the fuck off me!’

My backhand swipe catches him on the cheek just below the right eye, snapping his head to the left. The contact feels like an electric pulse. It runs from the bones in my hand up to the shoulder socket.

For a moment, he’s stunned into submission. So I move behind him, grab his head in a lock and smear the tape across his mouth.

‘Now relax. And breathe through your nose.’

It was a beautiful day, no clouds to obscure a diamond sun set in sapphire sky. The moment she set foot outside the building she felt lifted. She chose to forget Newman and his reaction to the tape. A chilly breeze sent shivers through the Seine.

She crossed Pont Louis-Philippe and returned to Web 46 on rue du Roi du Sicilie, just five minutes away from the apartment. She didn’t bother checking any of her own e-mail addresses. Instead, she used a neutral Hotmail address – Joan Appleby – to send a message to Cyril Bradfield.

> Cyril – having a lovely time in NZ. Off to Sydney next week. Then Melbourne, Alice Springs, Darwin. HK next month, then home. Hope you’re well – Joan.

Then she created a new Hotmail address – no name, just a series of letters and numbers – and sent a second message to a third address. This one had been established by Bradfield but had never been used. He checked it twice a month to keep it active, but never did so from his own computer. A message from Joan Appleby would direct him to it.

> Cyril, Jacob and Miriam are dead. Whoever did it is after me. You’re in danger. Everything’s gone. If you can, contact me through our friend. Love, you know who.

When she’d finished, she went to a nearby café and ordered coffee, orange juice and an omelette. She hoped Bradfield would remember the process. When it came to technology beyond his own field of expertise, he remained stubbornly ignorant.

Apart from Stephanie herself, Bradfield was the only link between the Fursts and every version of Petra. Which meant that he was probably already dead. If he was alive and safe, he’d know what to do. And if he was alive and under duress, he’d still know what to do; she’d given him a secure way out.

> Contact me through our friend.

Any involved party reading that phrase would assume it referred to Petra. And Bradfield would confirm that. But he knew that in an emergency all Petra’s addresses were to be considered redundant. If he was in trouble, he’d be able to warn her in his response.

Guy Grangé, an immobilier on boulevard Magenta in the 10ème arrondissement. There were one-room and studio apartments for sale in the window. The digital images were fuzzy. The meagre rentals were hanging from a felt-covered board inside.

Central heating and cigarettes robbed the air of oxygen. The office was staffed by a middle-aged woman with tinted lenses in her glasses and tinted streaks in her hair. Defeated and grey, she was sitting beneath a cheerless property calendar with a photograph of a commercial rental. Nobody had bothered to turn the page since October.

Stephanie showed the woman the receipt she’d found in Golitsyn’s attaché case. ‘There’s no address on this.’

‘No.’

‘And no phone number.’

‘With short-term rentals, we keep the address and only issue the invoice number. It’s a question of security.’

‘Security?’

‘This isn’t the 16ème, you know. The people we deal with, well …’

Somewhere near the bottom of the heap herself, she still found plenty of others to look down on.

Stephanie showed her the keys she’d taken from Golitsyn’s case. ‘I have these but I don’t know where to go. My boss has gone away. I’m supposed to go over and check everything.’ She glimpsed the signature on the bottom of the receipt. Medvedev’s, naturally, not Golitsyn’s. ‘You don’t know how difficult these Russians are …’

The remark sparked a lightning strike of solidarity. ‘Almost as bad as the Africans.’

Stephanie rolled her eyes in sympathy. ‘Say one thing, do another.’

‘That’s the least of it. You know something? We lose money with them. Seriously. Even when we take it in advance.’

‘No. How?’

‘The condition of the places when we take them back – you wouldn’t believe it. Disgusting. As for the Chinese – I don’t know where to start …’

She was in her stride now, reaching into the memory bank for the worst offenders. And as she did so, she gathered a scrap of paper and a felt-tip pen.

New York City, 06:20

There was someone downstairs. John Cabrini sat up in bed, ears straining for the sound inside over the sounds outside; a distant dustcart, an alarm, two Cubans arguing on the pavement beneath his window.

The more he listened the louder the silence became. Until it was broken by a second clunk. Definitely inside.

He got out of bed and pulled on a grey towelling robe he’d stolen from a hotel in Turin. He wasn’t going to confront anyone in a pair of navy boxer shorts and a string vest. In the drawer of his bedside table was a Ruger P-85. Evelyn, his wife, had never let him keep a gun in the house. He’d bought the weapon three months after she’d died. Unable to endure the prospect of a life without her, he’d intended to use it on himself. At the last moment – safety-catch off, forefinger squeezing – he’d hesitated.

That had been fourteen years ago. The gun had never been fired. But on four previous occasions he’d been ready to shoot, two of them in the last twelve months. Both times, the intruders had vanished by the time he’d reached the pizza parlour downstairs. Both times, there’d been broken glass on the floor and no cash in the till.

Angelo’s on West 122nd Street in Harlem. Nothing fancy. Just good pizza and cheap prices. Part of a chain of seven Angelo’s restaurants in Harlem and the higher reaches of the Upper West Side and Upper East Side. Michael Cabrini, John’s younger brother, owned the business, employing his wife, two sons and a handful of nephews. As he was fond of saying, ‘Franchises ain’t worth shit unless you got someone you can trust running them. That means you, John. You and the boys. No outsiders.’ Which was why the empire had halted at seven; his brother had run out of employable sons and nephews.

Cabrini tip-toed down the stairs and through the kitchen. He paused in the shadow of the doorway that led into the restaurant, his eyes gradually growing accustomed to the gloom.

The man was making no attempt to hide. He was sitting at a table in the centre of the room. In front of him, on the red check tablecloth, was a cup and saucer.

‘Hope you don’t mind. Made myself an espresso.’

Pale-skinned, the remains of black hair greying at the temples, bald on top, in his fifties, he was wearing a navy-blue overcoat over a suit. Even in the half-light Cabrini could see how polished the tips of his black shoes were. He approved. Beside the cup and saucer was a felt hat.

‘I’m surprised you know how.’

A thin bloodless smile. ‘My wife bought a smaller version of that machine at vast expense. Naturally, she never used it. Personally, I can’t stand to see waste so I made the effort to learn myself. Now I use it every day.’ He raised the cup, took a sip, then added: ‘I’m sure we’d both be happier if you stopped pointing that gun at me.’

Cabrini laid it on the zinc counter. ‘How’d you get in?’

‘Far too easily. To your knowledge, have we met?’

‘No.’

‘But you know who I am.’

‘I have an idea.’

Gordon Wiley. A man whose instincts were more at home in Washington DC than in New York.

Wiley said, ‘Mr Ellroy is in Europe. I spoke to him earlier.’

‘What are we looking at?’

‘Salvage.’

‘What kind of assistance are we going to get?’

‘One hundred percent.’

‘What’s the damage?’

‘Who’s the damage? That’s the question. She’s a German named Reuter. Petra Reuter. I’d never heard of her until an hour ago. And now I wish I could turn back the clock. It’s a hell of a mess over there.’

‘What about Mr Ellroy?’

‘He’s staying. Which is why he wants his favourite anchor running the show.’

Wiley collected his hat. There was a black Lincoln waiting for him outside the door in front of a dilapidated white Datsun. Cabrini watched it leave through the first fall of the snow and felt relief rather than anxiety; no more pizzas. For a day or two, at least. And in a year or so, no more pizzas ever again.

It was quarter-to-seven when he phoned his brother. ‘Michael?’

‘Christ, John, you know what the time is?’

‘I’ve got to go away.’

There was a long pause. ‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘Always. You know that.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You okay?’

‘I’m good. You gonna take care of things?’

‘Sure, sure. I’ll get Stevie to look after your place.’

The youngest nephew. The next in line, if the Angelo’s empire ever expanded to eight. After the call Cabrini went upstairs.

Salvage.

Well, he was the expert. Had been for twenty years. It was never pretty but then again it wasn’t a beauty pageant. Besides, he hadn’t had a failure yet. That was all that mattered.

He replaced the Ruger P-85 in the drawer of the bedside table. In the bathroom, he shaved. Most days, he didn’t bother. Serving behind the counter he preferred to be unshaven, sallow, dreary. Invisible to his customers. A fifty-five-year-old man dispensing pizzas; hardly one of life’s successes.

Beneath the weak light falling from the naked bulb was a lean man. The slight stoop and shuffle that his customers saw made him weak. But when he stood upright and walked with purpose, he appeared as he was: fiercely fit. He watched the welcome transformation in the mirror as he combed his hair and dabbed some Christian Dior aftershave on each cheek.

He returned to the bedroom, half-resurrected. Cabrini had always favoured fine clothes but almost everything he wore came from discount stores. In the back of the cupboard, however, was a tailored suit by Huntsman of London. Five years old, a masterpiece in fabric, Cabrini knew it would last the rest of his life. He laid it on the bed, then selected a pair of Lobb shoes and a black silk polo-neck that had been specially made for him by Clive Ishiguro.

His salvage uniform. He was the leader, he set the tone. It felt good to be able to shed the shoddy disguise from time to time.

When the farm overlooking Orvieto was ready, he would move to Italy and never return, content to comfort himself over the permanently painful loss of Evelyn by surrounding himself with beautiful things. A garden, porcelain, paintings, clothes, music.

The rusting white Datsun was twenty-one years old. Cabrini and Evelyn had bought it together. It was the only car he’d ever owned. He’d never wanted another. From Harlem to Brooklyn, he peeled off the Long Island Expressway and circled beneath it to the waterfront and a stretch of warehouses that were still awaiting development.

Cabrini came to the loading bay of the third warehouse: R.L. Gallagher Inc. Noiselessly, a large gate lifted. Cabrini drove to the back of the docking area, parked and then stepped into the waiting cargo lift. On the fourth floor, he crossed a vast storage area that was deserted, except for two matt black cabins on steel struts. The large sets of wheels which were now six inches clear of the floor were only just visible in the draughty darkness. Up a flight of aluminium steps was a sealed door. Beside the door, mounted on the wall, was a matt grey panel. He placed his face in front of it and said, ‘Cabrini, John, place of birth, Cleveland, Ohio.’

Cabrini had been born in New York but that didn’t matter. The biometric plate analysed voice timbre, the pattern of blood vessels in the retina, and traces of breath composition, a process that currently took between two and five seconds.

When the door parted with a hiss, John Cabrini stepped into a sanitized airlock of ultraviolet light.

Stalingrad, at the point where boulevard de la Chapelle becomes boulevard de la Villette. Overlooking the steel delta of rail fanning out of Gare de l’Est, the crumbling building was itself overlooked by an elevated section of the Métro. As Stephanie descended to the street the iron struts overhead began to creak. A train on the Nation-Porte Dauphine line was approaching. Pigeons fluttered at her feet.

The address was five storeys of peeling plaster and broken windows. There were commercial premises at street level. Not that many looked very commercial. Rusting shutters hid half of them. The rest were not busy; discount stores peddling cheap clothing, Chinese luggage, basins and toilet bowls in avocado and salmon pink. There was a bar-nightclub at one end. Coral was the name stencilled on to the dirty red canopy beside a cream silhouette of two entwined women.

Stephanie walked through an archway into the untended courtyard behind. Swing doors led to a staircase; unlit, cold, damp. The graffiti was as original as ever: Marie Z, I love you, Antoine; PSG are shit; Jim Morrison 1943–1971; Marie Z is a fucking slut. The apartment was on the third floor at the end of the corridor. From each door she passed came a different sound, a crying child, Arab rap, a barking dog. She smelt fried meat, sour tobacco, a pipe in need of a plumber.

The door had been recently replaced. The scratches on the frame hadn’t been filled or painted. Both locks were still shiny. She knocked twice then tried the keys she’d found in Golitsyn’s attaché case.

‘Hello?’

No answer. She stepped inside. It was dark. Instinctively, she withdrew the Smith & Wesson from the pocket of her MaxMara coat.

There were two main rooms, the curtains partly drawn in both. A cramped living area overlooked the street, the bedroom overlooked the rail-tracks. There was a tiny shower cubicle next to a toilet and sink. The woman in the agency had already mentioned that; a real luxury in that place – no communal toilet. A greasy film of green mould was colonizing the shower curtain. In the living area, a portable gas stove sat on the floor beside a small fridge. In the sink was a cracked glass, cutlery and a dirty plate. Two cockroaches crawled over a sauce that had dried to a dark brown crust.

The air tasted stale. She examined the receipt again. Ten days old.

Into the bedroom; an olive-green canvas hold-all lay beside the bed. She rummaged through it. Women’s clothes – two tatty jerseys, underwear, sneakers – a portable radio, a battered French copy of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. In the bathroom, a toothbrush sat in a plastic tangerine mug. There was a box of tampons on the floor by the toilet.

No sign of a man anywhere.

She peered through the bedroom curtains. A TGV emerged from beneath the bridge. In the living area, she checked the fridge: a plastic bottle of Orangina, a tube of tomato paste, three bottles of Amstel beer. On the table at the centre of the room was an old copy of France-Soir – 23 December – an empty box of cereal and a Samsung portable CD-player beside a few disks; Colour of Spring by Talk Talk, Achtung Baby by U2, Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks. Nothing recent, nothing French.

A woman, then. In an apartment paid for by Golitsyn, since the receipt was in his attaché case, despite Medvedev’s signature. Golitsyn floats above the world. Wasn’t that what Stern had said? Whatever that meant it presumably included not having to bother himself with signatures of this sort.

But what kind of woman? A lover? Not here. Money being no object, wouldn’t he keep her in a discreet apartment in a classier area? Then again, perhaps Golitsyn liked to slum it. What do you give a man jaded by plenty? A taste of what it’s like to have nothing, perhaps. Why not? A dip into the gutter to confirm and fortify the sweetness of his life.

She collected the Smith & Wesson, put it back in her pocket and let herself out. She double-locked, leaving the door as she’d found it.

‘You’re back.’

There were three of them blocking her path to the staircase. Clad and cropped in the homogenized uniform of the disaffected – Nike, Donnay, a scalp of fuzz – they were hard to source. Asian, perhaps. Two of them, anyway. The shortest of them, muscle-bound beneath the tight white T-shirt worn under his unzipped Adidas tracksuit top, might have been Arab. He had two zigzags shaved into the stubble above his left ear.

‘You weren’t here,’ he said.

He was staring at her with matt eyes. She wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. Somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five, she guessed. With an attitude somewhere between menace and slouching insolence.

‘When?’

‘When they came.’

‘Who?’

‘Want to fuck?’

The tallest one laughed, took a drag from a joint and passed it to the third of them, who was attempting to cultivate a moustache. He wore a baseball cap with 50 CENT picked out in gold thread.

Stephanie said, ‘When who came?’

The short one looked her up and down, trying to make her nervous. ‘You know who.’

Stephanie smiled coldly. Of course I know. ‘What did they want?’

‘To speak to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Get on your knees and I’ll tell you.’

Another snigger from the tall one.

She returned the stare with interest. ‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday.’

Stephanie said, ‘I haven’t seen you around.’

‘So?’

‘How do you know I’m the one?’

‘They had a photo.’

‘Of me?’

‘Who else?’

‘You sure it was me?’

He nodded. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. What else?’

‘They said to call them if we saw you. Said there’d be money for us.’