Читать книгу Gemini - Mark Burnell, Mark Burnell - Страница 9

The first week of September brought the first storm since mid-July. Volleys of rain lashed the carriage windows as the District Line train wheezed to a halt at Olympia. As the doors parted, Stephanie turned up her collar. Maclise Road was just a minute away but she was dripping by the time she kicked her front door shut. She shed her raincoat and draped it over a chair, leaving her in grey sweatpants with a green stripe, a chunky black V-neck over a purple long-sleeved T-shirt and yesterday’s underwear. In other words, the clothes that had been closest to her side of the bed.

She switched on the Sony Vaio in the living room and sent a brief message to a Hotmail address. I’m back from my travels. I’ve got a couple of questions for you. Let’s get in touch.

In the kitchen she made herself coffee and turned on the radio. The news bulletin was finishing with an item of gossip about some soap star she didn’t know. It was five past seven. Mark had been asleep when she’d left him. By contrast, she’d been awake since three. Worrying, wondering.

It had taken several days to absorb Alexander’s deal fully. At first she’d only seen the carrot and that had blinded her to everything else. As intended, she supposed. It took longer to analyse the detail, the reality, the potential consequences. The more she considered it, the more anxious she’d become. Above all, there was one thing she knew: Alexander was not a man who liked to give.

There would be a subtext. There always was. Offering her a future free of Magenta House was not credible by itself. Alexander had prohibited her from seeing Komarov after New York out of nothing more than spite. Why would he let her go now? There was no obvious answer.

And what of the contract itself? It wasn’t what she was trained for. Despite Mostovoi and Marrakech, there were others who’d be better suited to the task. Was it a demotion? Did Alexander feel she no longer had the cutting edge to survive in S7? She’d never heard of anyone being demoted at Magenta House. Those who left did so without fanfare and never returned.

The deal and the contract itself, neither was right.

She checked three Hotmail addresses of her own, as well as her five AOL addresses. Over the years she’d developed a system for e-mail management. The Hotmail addresses were permanent and belonged to Petra. Consequently very few people ever used them, and she couldn’t think of anyone who knew more than one of them. Nearly all her Hotmail traffic was spam: tacky offers for cheap loans, penis or breast enhancement and off-the-shelf diplomas. The AOL addresses were spread across five of her established identities, Stephanie Schneider among them. Finally there were those addresses that were set up for one contract only. Or even one message.

Stephanie Schneider had mail. Steffi – it’s ready for collection, Ali.

At nine she left the flat. After an hour of Pilates with a private instructor at a studio in Earls Court. She found Pilates useful for maintaining core strength and flexibility. Her instructor, an Australian from Adelaide who was also called Stephanie, had become a close friend and they often had lunch together after class.

On her return there was a message waiting. I’ve heard such exciting stories about you. You must tell me everything. Shall we meet at the usual place? I’ll be there for three hours, starting now.

Stern. More than Rosie ever could, Stern belonged to the Ether Division. Or should have. Because that was where he – or she – existed: in the ether. A virtual being, Stern had provided Petra with more concrete information than Magenta House ever had. The ‘usual place’ was a virtual café in the stratosphere. Stephanie checked the time of transmission: two hours and thirty-five minutes ago.

Hello, Oscar.

Stephanie had always used the name Oscar. It personalized Stern, and he’d never objected.

Well, well, all that blood in Marrakech and Mostovoi is still alive. I think I can guess why we’re talking.

I doubt it. What does the name Milan Savic mean to you?

The Serbian paramilitary warlord?

Yes.

I think you’ll find he’s dead.

That’s a popular assumption. What if he wasn’t?

What basis do you have for suspecting otherwise?

Humour me. Call it rumour and conjecture.

Ah, the names of my two most valuable employees. Give me an hour.

It was still raining. Stephanie took a carton of Tropicana from the fridge, then put on a CD, the third. untitled album by Icelandic band Sigur Ros. None of the eight tracks had titles either but she fast-forwarded to the fourth, her favourite. From her wet window she gazed at the rear gates of the Olympia exhibition centre.

She looked at a photocopy of the names on the list that David Pearson had recovered. Goran Simic, Milorad Barkic, Robert Pancevic, Fabrice Blanc, Vojislav Brankovic, Dejan Zivokvic, Milutin Nikolic, Ante Pasic, Lance Singleton. There had been a tenth, but the tear in the paper had rendered the name illegible. And if there was a tenth, why not an eleventh? Why not a hundred? Who could say how many there were?

Alexander had given her his word but she still didn’t trust him. Rather than break his word, which he considered his bond, Alexander was the type of man who redefined the terms of the deal so that he didn’t have to. Which was why Stephanie had maintained Stern. She needed independence. She needed insurance.

Forty-five minutes later Stern was back. Quid pro quo, Petra.

What do you suggest?

No need for cash, a name for a name. And you go first.

Stephanie offered a name provided by Magenta House, an alias that Savic was rumoured to use.

Martin Dassler.

Hong Kong?

Correct.

Carleen Attwater.

Never heard of her. Also Hong Kong?

No. London.

Six thirty in the evening. The persistent rain had rinsed away most of the people who usually clogged Leicester Square. The pub was packed, after-work drinkers unwinding with tourists and the pre-cinema crowd. It had less atmosphere than deep space: bright overhead lights, Linkin Park on the sound system competing with a chorus of cheesy mobile ring-tones and a football match on the screen at the far end.

Ali Metin was at the bar, nursing a pint of lager. ‘Steffi … looking foxy, as usual.’

‘Ali … looking shiny, as usual.’

Metin was proud to be bald by design and ran a hand over his mercury-smooth scalp. Beneath a long leather coat he wore a shimmering silk shirt and pleated trousers with a suspiciously high waist-band, both black. From his coat pocket he produced a silver mobile phone and handed it to her. It was a Siemens.

‘Talk me through it.’

‘It’s a beauty. Two things you got to remember. None of the calls you make can be traced. There are no records in the phone or on the SIM card. Anybody tries to return your call, they get blocked. If they got the facility to bypass, they won’t get the real number. They get a different number. You can use the memory but it won’t show right. The first time you put in the number you want to save, the phone will show you another number. It’s up to you to remember that. There’s no other way of knowing without ringing.’

She took an envelope out of her bag. Metin opened it and fanned through the dirty twenties inside. ‘Fancy a drink? I reckon I could stand it.’

Three days later Carleen Attwater says, ‘So, you’re one of Stern’s …’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve never met one before.’

‘Is that why you agreed to see me? Out of curiosity?’

‘Aren’t journalists supposed to be curious? Or even ex-journalists …’

‘You’re retired?’

Her smile is as enigmatic as her reply. ‘At the moment.’

‘How come?’

‘Burn-out. Too much jet-lag, too much alcohol, too much CNN.’

‘I thought those were part of the deal for war correspondents.’

‘Then too much Balkans.’

‘The straw that broke the camel’s back?’

‘Exactly. Besides, I was never a war correspondent. I was a journalist who just ended up in a lot of wars. Take Croatia. I went to cover a human interest story about murals in a monastery and 1 stayed until the end of Kosovo. The best part of a decade. Or, should 1 say, the worst part?’

We’re standing on the roof terrace of Attwater’s top-floor flat in Poplar Place, off Bayswater Road. She’s watering her plants, which occupy two thirds of the available space.

She’s in pastel blue three-quarter-length linen trousers, a large buttercup T-shirt that falls to the thighs and a wide-brimmed hat. Not quite the flak-jacket she used to wear in Beirut or Baghdad. Or the Balkans. Now in her fifties, her career is etched into her skin but she still exudes an earthy sex-appeal. According to Stern, that was an asset she used to use freely.

‘Who were you working for?’

‘Nominally, I was freelance. But the New Yorker was good to me. So was Vanity Fair, when they could find it in their hearts to squeeze some serious stuff between puff pieces for Hollywood’s latest airheads. Drink?’

‘Thanks, yes.’

‘I hate London when it’s hot. Amman, fine. Damascus, fine. Here it’s horrible. Jim used to feel the same.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Like my career, my ex …’

‘Sorry.’

‘Lord, don’t be. We aren’t. We get on much better now we’re divorced. Of course, it helps that he’s back in New York.’

Her laugh is a sultry smoker’s laugh. Her ex-husband is James Barrie, a foreign correspondent for Time for more than twenty years. They surfed the world’s troubles together.

We go down the iron fire-escape and enter Attwater’s kitchen. She pours me fresh lemonade from a glass jug that has chilled in the fridge.

‘You met Savic?’ I ask her.

‘Many times. Especially during Bosnia.’

‘He trusted you?’

‘I think so.’

‘Why?’

Attwater sighs. ‘Because I don’t think he saw me as an American. In fact, I don’t think he saw me as a journalist. I don’t believe he felt I’d taken a side.’

‘And had you?’

‘By the end, no. With most of the others who were there, I think it was the other way round. They tried to be impartial, then crumbled.’

‘Why was it different for you?’

‘I don’t know. After a while you begin to lose your sense of perspective. Sides don’t seem to matter that much. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Who cares? You just go from day to day, village to village, carcass to carcass.’

‘Surrendering responsibility?’

‘Give me a break. Nobody takes responsibility for their actions any more. It’s outdated, like good manners, or the slide-rule.’

‘That’s a rather cynical view.’

‘Talking about responsibility in relation to what occurred in the Balkans is the worst sort of window-dressing.’

‘Are you excusing what Savic did?’

‘Not at all. I’m just saying that to judge it against the standards you and I take for granted is absurd. War is a different form of existence. It’s heightened living. Survive or die, hour to hour. I apologize if I’m making it sound glamorous in some way. It isn’t. It’s dirty and disgusting. But every time I tried to leave, something held me back. By the end of Croatia I was already dead. And still I stayed, through Bosnia, through Kosovo. I hated being there. But when I wasn’t there I hated wherever I was even more. It was a kind of addictive madness. Heroin for the soul …’

Heroin for the soul. There’s a phrase that has resonance for me.

‘What about the ones he was supposed to have helped?’

She nods vigorously. ‘The project was called Gemini. It was well organized. Milan was impressed by the Homeland Calling fund run by the KLA. Gemini was financed along similar lines. It had a proper command structure, too.’

I point out that most people dismissed the rumour as a conspiracy theory. She counters by pointing out that none of them were there.

We move into the coolness of her sitting room; heavy plum curtains, dark green damask wallpaper, photographs in silver frames on a piano.

‘How did Savic rise so quickly? One minute he’s a street-thug in Belgrade, the next he’s in with the SDB and Frenki and Badza.’

‘A street-thug? Who told you that?’

‘I thought it was common knowledge.’

Attwater shrugs. ‘He started on the street, but he outgrew it. Quickly, too. Milan was a rich man by the time Croatia started. He had a good business brain.’

‘What was he into? Drugs? Guns? Girls?’

‘Televisions.’

As she has clearly anticipated, that stops me in my tracks. ‘Televisions …’

‘Cheap ones, Chinese made, imported from Hong Kong.’

‘Hong Kong?’

‘In the early eighties he made a contact out there. I don’t know who. But they started with TVs, then moved into other electronic goods: stereos, computers, cell phones. Some legitimate, some fake, all of them cheap enough to find a market in Yugoslavia. That was how Milan made his first fortune. But it wasn’t just financial. It was political, too.’

‘How?’

She pauses for a moment to take a sip from her glass. ‘Okay. I’ll give you an example. On May 29th 1992 a shell killed sixteen people in a bread queue in Vase Miskina Street in Sarajevo. The next day, through resolution 757, the UN Security Council imposed a total economic blockade on Serbia and Montenegro. Total meant total, too. It covered all exports with the exception of medical supplies. Crucially, it included oil. Which Serbia needed desperately. In the end Serbia got round the problem by striking a deal with China, buying Chinese-bound imports at a premium, some of it paid for by barter. It was Milan who put that deal together, acting directly on behalf of Slobodan Milosevic.’

Next I ask her if she thinks Savic is still alive.

‘I know he’s alive,’ she says. ‘I saw him last November.’

‘Where?’

‘Zurich. At the airport.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

She laughs. ‘God no! I made damn sure he didn’t see me. I mean, I guess he could’ve died since then. But then you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

When I phoned Carleen Attwater, I told her I was a journalist. She hasn’t said anything to challenge that since I’ve been here. She doesn’t need to. I can see she doesn’t believe me. Which means she has her own reasons for being so forthright.

‘Do you know where he is now?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

‘One last thing. Why didn’t you do something on Gemini?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a journalist. What a scoop Gemini could have been.’

‘Come on. More like a death warrant.’ It was worth a try. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Although that isn’t the reason I didn’t do it.’

‘Oh?’

‘I refrained out of courtesy. Milan knew that I knew about Gemini. The safest thing for him would have been to kill me. And that wouldn’t have bothered him at all, believe me. But he didn’t. He took that risk because he thought he understood me. That we understood each other.’

‘And did you?’

‘Absolutely.’

Barefoot, dressed in scarlet Bermuda shorts and a primrose T-shirt, Karen Cunningham poured two glasses of chilled Pinot Grigio. Stephanie carried the glasses and Karen carried Fergus, her seven-month-old son. The garden was an oval of grass cushioned by well-tended flowerbeds contained within a fence. There was a mature cherry tree at the far end. They sat at a bleached wooden table in the shade of a large red and blue umbrella.

Fergus, on Karen’s knee, gurgled then let out a high-pitched squeal of glee before grabbing a handful of her T-shirt and stuffing it into his mouth.

‘How’s it all going?’ Stephanie asked.

‘It’s wonderful. Knackering but wonderful. We’ve been very lucky, though. He’s been such a good boy. Do you want to hold him?’

‘I’m not sure.’

The sentence slipped out before she could vet it. Karen had already picked Fergus up. Now she settled him back on her thigh. The baby smiled at Stephanie, then turned coy, dribble coming off a fleshy lower lip.

Flushed, Stephanie said, ‘God, I’m sorry, Karen. That sounded awful.’

‘It’s okay.’

Stephanie could see that it wasn’t. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

‘It really doesn’t matter. Actually, it’s rather presumptuous of mothers to expect …’

‘The thing is, I’ve never held a baby before.’

Karen’s laugh was dismissive. ‘Come on …’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Never?’

She supposed she might have held her younger brother or sister, but she didn’t know. Besides, they belonged to a different Stephanie. The one that Karen knew had no brothers or sisters.

‘Not that I can remember.’

There was an awkward pause before Karen said, ‘Do you want to? I mean, if you’d like to … you don’t have to …’

Stephanie thought of all the reasons she’d never held a baby and felt disgust more than regret. When the moment passed, Karen was offering him to her. Stephanie took Fergus and sat him on her lap. He squirmed a little, looked up at her and broke into another toothless smile. Warm and fat with wisps of gold hair, he clutched Stephanie’s wrist with podgy hands.

‘Did you tell Mark about the test?’

‘I couldn’t see the point.’

‘You must have thought about the possibility before that.’

‘Of course.’

Stephanie had only ever allowed herself to consider the issue in the most conceptual fashion. Of all women, how could she bring a child into the world? More practically, she wasn’t sure she was maternally inclined. Considering the life she’d led, nobody could accuse her of an overdeveloped instinct to nurture.

Mark was lighting a barbeque on the roof terrace – the last of the year, he said – the first oily flames dancing over the charcoal. Stephanie carried a tray of glasses across the decking to the table in the far corner. She put the tray on the table, picked up her glass of wine and plucked a bottle of beer for Mark from the turquoise cool-box.

‘What time did you ask them?’

‘Eight, eight-thirty.’

There were six coming. True friends of his, friends-by-proxy of hers. But they felt real enough most of the time. With a warm evening sun on his shoulders, dressed in a loose navy T-shirt and a pair of faded knee-length cotton shorts, with his hair suitably dishevelled after an active hour in bed, he couldn’t have looked more relaxed.

‘You know who called today?’

‘Who?’

‘Cameron Diaz’s people.’

Said as though this was a common occurrence. Although it wasn’t that unusual. The practice in Cadogan Gardens did attract a number of high-profile clients. In her darker moments Stephanie sometimes wondered whether they were drawn by the quality of the treatment or by Mark himself.

‘Cameron Diaz?’

‘Apparently she’s in town to promote a new movie. Or to start filming one. I can’t remember …’

Right.

His back was turned to her. Quite deliberately, Stephanie knew, though he’d maintain he was tending the charcoal.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I think it’s her hip flexor.’

‘I see. And you’ll be treating that yourself, will you?’

‘It’s my practice. I think I should, don’t you?’

‘Naturally.’

‘It’ll probably require some subtle manipulation followed by some deep, penetrative massage.’

Stephanie picked up a piece of French bread from the wooden bowl on the table and threw it at him. It hit him between the shoulders. He turned round, feigning angelic innocence.

‘Her hip flexor?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? If I’m lucky …’

‘I hope you’ll charge her the full rate.’

‘I’ll probably charge her double.’

‘Then it better be a successful movie.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

Julian Cunningham, Karen’s husband, had once told Stephanie that chiropractors were like lawyers and bookies: you never saw a poor one. She reminded Mark of that.

He put up his hands in mock defence. ‘All I’m doing is charging the going rate. Same as you.’

‘True.’

Which was why, in a numbered dollar account at Guderian Maier bank in Zurich, Petra had just over three million eight hundred thousand dollars. Not a cent of which had found its way into the life she shared with Mark.

‘I’m going to Hong Kong.’

He took it in his stride. ‘It’s agreed?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘For how long?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What for?’

‘Organized crime in the Far East.’

That was the cover Gavin Taylor at Frontier News had decided upon. It was a little conventional for his taste, but Stephanie had decided to tell Mark she was going to Hong Kong. Normally she would have lied about her destination, as an added precaution. This time, with the contract open-ended, she was worried about complications. Taylor had agreed; keep it simple and keep it as close to the truth as possible.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘The date isn’t fixed. But soon.’

‘Are you still thinking about quitting afterwards?’

‘Definitely.’

‘So everything’s fine?’

She nodded. ‘Very much so.’

He looked at her, saying nothing. With most people Stephanie was the master of silence. Not with Mark. She never had been.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘I believe you’re going. And that you’ll come back.’

‘And the bit in between?’

He considered this for a good while. ‘Given the choice between not knowing and being lied to, I’d prefer not to know.’

‘And you’re happy with that?’

‘I’m happy with you.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing. I’ve always accepted you as you are, Stephanie. Other people might find that strange. That there are things about you that I don’t know. That I don’t insist on total disclosure. But it’s just the way I am. You’re different. I’m different. We strike chords in each other. And if we have to make allowances, we make allowances.’

‘Don’t your friends find that odd?’

‘My friends don’t know. Nobody knows. It’s just us.’

Stephanie pressed her palms together, then sandwiched them between her thighs. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I could do the same, if our positions were reversed.’

Mark shrugged. ‘But they’re not, are they?’

That was the point. She got up, walked over to him and kissed him. ‘Every morning, when I wake up, I look at you and wonder why it’s you. And then I give up. Do you know why?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘It’s because you don’t care why.’

Inevitably, he was right. The more he diminished Petra, the more Stephanie loved him. It was the calmness. At first she’d mistaken it for indifference. And even arrogance. Later she recognized it as strength. Inner strength, not the show of strength that Petra preferred. Only once had she seen a side of him that could have been attractive to Petra.

The previous December they’d been mugged in a poorly lit side-street off Battersea Park Road. It was just after nine on a wet Wednesday evening. They were scurrying back to the Saab when three youths emerged from a soggy patch of waste-land fringing a tower-block.

Stephanie’s first reaction was disbelief. It couldn’t be happening. Not to her. It was such a cliché: black teenagers with their hoods up and gold around their necks. Her second instinct was to let Petra loose on them. Of the two, that proved harder to contain.

Knives out, they demanded money and Mark’s car keys. The one closest to her was glaring at her, his switch-blade glinting in the wetness. For all of her that was Stephanie, the part of her that was Petra would not allow her to give him the fear that he wanted.

Mark was handing over his wallet. The one nearest her wanted her watch. Still staring at him, she unfastened the strap.

Petra was straining at the leash, trembling inside Stephanie.

She held out the watch. The mugger reached for it. Quite deliberately, she let go of it, her eyes still riveted to his. The watch fell to the pavement. She thought he’d tell her to pick it up. Or take a swipe at her. Instead he spat at her.

As a spectator, the seconds that followed seemed to play in slow motion. Mark attacked all three of them. Too stunned to be Petra, Stephanie stood by and gawped, helpless and useless. Even when one of them slashed the palm of Mark’s hand, she did nothing.

They never stood a chance. It wasn’t really self-defence. Not after the first blow to the mugger nearest him sprayed shattered teeth into the gurgling gutter. And certainly not later, when the mugger who’d tried to steal Stephanie’s watch found himself being propelled face first through a rear passenger window, then hauled back to receive a kick in the balls powerful enough to strain the tendons in Mark’s ankle.

When it was over, he took back his wallet and keys, then picked up her watch. Stephanie was completely speechless. As she should have been. Except it wasn’t an act. It was genuine.

Mark drove them home, his hand wrapped in an oily rag they found in the boot of the Saab. Neither of them said anything. In the kitchen at Queen’s Gate Mews, Stephanie examined his hand. She said he should go to hospital. He said he wouldn’t.

‘You can’t afford to damage your hands, Mark.’

‘Just do what you can.’

So she did. Afterwards he opened a bottle of Calvados and collected two tumblers from the draining board. An hour later the mist began to lift and the man she knew started to drift back to her.

He said, ‘I should call the police.’

‘What’s the point? I mean, we were the ones who were attacked. Let’s not forget that. But the way the law works, you’ll be the one who gets charged.’

‘If I don’t call, I’m no better than they are.’

‘I understand that.’

‘What I did – I shouldn’t have …’

‘I understand that too, Mark. And I know that you’re not going to be persuaded by notions of natural justice. But hear me out.’

He drained his glass and poured himself another couple of fingers.

Stephanie played the fear card. ‘If you call the police there’ll be a record. Especially if you’re charged with something. That means names written down, addresses, phone numbers … they could find out where we are.’

Reluctantly, he’d relented. And she’d been more grateful than he could possibly have imagined.

Stephanie shrugged off her leather coat to reveal a lime cut-off singlet that just covered her cosmetic scar but left her stomach exposed.

Cyril Bradfield said, ‘If a daughter of mine dressed like you, I’d ask her what she thought she looked like.’

‘And if a father of mine asked a question like that, I’d ignore it.’

‘I’m sure you would. Tea?’

‘Funny you should ask.’ She reached into the plastic bag she was carrying and handed him a box from Jackson’s of Piccadilly. ‘For you.’

‘Russian Caravan. My favourite.’

‘Of course.’

‘The sweetener before the pill?’

Stephanie nodded.

‘Where to this time?’

‘The Far East.’

They took creaking stairs to the attic; the forger’s lair or the artist’s studio, depending on your point of view.

‘You’ve been fiddling about.’

Bradfield worked off two large wooden benches running down the spine of the attic. The shelves on the far side of the room had been rearranged: solvents, inks and adhesives in their own sections, with documents and reference books also partitioned. There were two shelves of photographic make-up, although Bradfield no longer permitted clients to come to his house. With the single exception of Stephanie.

‘What’s that machine?’

There was a dull beige unit on the bench closest to her, next to two lamps fitted with natural daylight bulbs.

‘You didn’t see it when you were last here?’

‘No.’

‘I used it on your Mary Reid document. Purchased from E.R. Hoult & Son of Grantham, Lincolnshire. Printers, in case you didn’t know.’

‘That doesn’t look like a printer.’

‘It isn’t. It laminates. And with it I can replicate with absolute precision the way the UK Passport Agency laminates all new passports. Including placing a UKPA watermark over the face of the document holder. Which, as you may have noticed, makes identification harder, not easier. It’s connected to my computer so that I can pick up a signature, scan it in and download it to this machine. Then it’s lasered onto the page.’

‘Computers, lasers, machines that laminate – you’re selling out, Cyril. Where’s the art?’

‘In the perfection of the document. As always.’

He switched on the paint-spattered kettle at the end of the other work bench, tore the seal from the box of tea and took two mugs from the sink.

‘So, the Far East – what do you need?’

‘Nothing too fancy. One to get me there and back, one substitute.’

‘Nationalities?’

‘I’m going direct, so the first can be British, if that makes life easier. The second can be anything else.’

‘Let’s keep it within the European Union, then. German?’

‘Fine.’

When the kettle had boiled he warmed the brown ceramic teapot before preparing the tea. Then he rolled himself a cigarette from a pouch of Sampson tobacco.

‘The same as usual, is it?’

Stephanie shook her head. ‘Not this time.’

In the years they’d known each other Stephanie had never actually said what it was that she did. She hadn’t needed to. From the start Bradfield had known something of its nature. Why else would she need him? Gradually the full extent of her profession had become clear. Although his feelings for her bordered the paternal, he’d never moralized. Or tried to caution her against it. As fond of each other as they had become, their relationship was built upon professional foundations. The only other ‘civilian’ who knew of her work was her personal banker in Zurich: Albert Eichner of Guderian Maier. And he differed from Bradfield in one vital respect. In Zurich, with Eichner, she was always Petra, never Stephanie.

Alexander said, ‘As Martin Dassler, Savic has been to Hong Kong seven times in the past year. We know this from immigration records. In that time he’s spent nearly nine months there.’

‘What we don’t know,’ Rosie said, ‘is where he’s been staying, or what he’s been doing. Through the Hong Kong police, S3 has turned up only one Martin Dassler from hotel records: a sixty-five-year old Swiss architect from Lausanne. We’ve checked and it wasn’t him. Dassler has some registered commercial interests in Hong Kong but doesn’t seem to lavish much time on them.’

The Far East was an obvious destination, Stephanie supposed. He’d had contacts in Hong Kong and China for years. Where better to disappear to after the Balkans collapse? With money at his disposal, reincarnation would not have been difficult.

‘Your contact in Hong Kong will be Raymond Chen,’ Alexander told her. ‘Anything you need, go through him. He’s a strange one, but he’s one of ours.’

‘Aren’t they all? Anyway, I wasn’t aware Magenta House ran operatives abroad.’

Alexander shifted uncomfortably. ‘Technically we don’t.’

‘Technically? What does that mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What he means,’ Rosie said, ‘is that we retain him.’

Stephanie looked at her, then at Alexander. She was waiting for him to slap her down. She could barely believe what she’d just heard. But he didn’t. He just sat there, behind his desk, with his recently clipped snow-white hair and his watery blue eyes, staring at her, never blinking, not moving. The buttons of his double-breasted jacket were still fastened; he looked like a waxwork in a strait-jacket. Not for the first time, Stephanie had the sensation that Alexander had become fossilized, stranded in the amber of the era of the dead-letter drop.

‘You mean you pay him?’

Suddenly Alexander was reasserting himself. ‘What she means is that we look the other way. Chen has a variety of business interests in Hong Kong and over here. From a legal point of view, few of them would tolerate much scrutiny.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘There’s a lawyer in Chinatown. Thomas Heung. He has a legal practice on Gerrard Street, on the first floor above a Chinese supermarket. The firm is actually owned by Chen. Heung’s a soft touch with an equivalent in Hong Kong, also controlled by Chen. Between the two of them they provide documents for Chinese wishing to come to Britain.’

‘False documents?’

‘On the whole, yes. But for those who can afford it, legal documents are also available.’ Alexander gave her the thinnest of smiles. ‘As they always have been.’

Which she knew to be true. There didn’t seem much point in arguing about the morality of retaining a contact by contributing to the country’s illegal immigration problem. That was the least of Magenta House’s ethical crimes.

Stephanie had already digested Chen’s profile, as provided by S3, and had come to the conclusion that she needed a contact of her own. The same anxiety had persuaded her not to mention her meeting with Carleen Attwater. Or Gemini.

Alexander said, ‘We believe the list that David Pearson recovered is incomplete. We believe there may be many more names on it.’

‘Why?’

‘During research, S3 came across some of the names on the list but there were also other names. Same context, different identities, suggesting Pearson’s list could be incomplete. We might be talking one, or a dozen …’

‘Or none?’

‘Possibly. But it’s wiser to assume the worst. We also believe that there is another list. A reciprocal list, if you like. A list of new identities for the names on the original.’

She looked at Rosie. ‘Do you believe this?’

‘Of course.’

It was impossible to tell whether she did or didn’t. Her tone and expression could not have been more neutral.

Stephanie turned back to Alexander. ‘Assuming I get hold of these names, then what? Is Savic a contract?’

‘Not yet. He’s on the Limbo list. Nothing happens to him until we know, one way or the other, about the names.’

So many lists. Life was a long list of lists. She wondered how many she was on. And whether she was on one or more of Magenta House’s. Probably. The Limbo list was rather like a credit rating; you never knew there was a problem with your own status until it was too late.

‘Supposing I find Savic but can’t get close.’

‘You’ll think of something, I’m sure.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘If all else fails, use your charm.’

‘The way you use comedy?’

‘A man like Savic will always find a use for a woman like Petra.’

This is the worst part. Before Mark it never bothered me that much. Once I’m Petra I’ll be fine. Rosie once compared it to being an actor preparing for a role. She said that once you are performing you become the character. That’s not true for me. Petra isn’t a role. She’s me. And when I’m her I won’t have time to worry about Stephanie, which will be a relief.

We’re in Kensington Gardens. It’s a beautiful, warm evening. Branches creak and leaves shuffle in the breeze, their tips just beginning to rust. The air cools quickly and has a taste to it, a sure sign of an imminent change in season.

Mark’s arm is around my shoulder. I find its weight reassuring. I’m holding onto his fingers. My hand looks ridiculously small next to his.

‘Will you miss me?’ I ask him, immediately regretting it because it makes me sound needy.

‘From time to time.’

I look up at him. ‘From time to time?’

‘Well, I’ll be pretty busy, I imagine. Pub crawls, football, poker nights …’

‘Not to mention Cameron Diaz’s hip flexor.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Bitch.’

We stop to kiss.

We’ve had an idyllic day: a lazy morning in bed with Bloody Marys for breakfast, lunch at E&O, a restaurant on Blenheim Crescent, then a movie. This evening, when we get home, Mark will cook something simple for me. The wine we drink will be special: Cos d’Estournel 1989. This has become part of the pre-Petra routine. Mark knows how tense I get the night before I leave, even though he has no true idea why. We’ve never talked about it. We’ve never had to.

When I was a child my mother did the vast majority of the cooking at home. Occasionally, though, my father, who was a poor cook, would make my favourite dish, spaghetti bolognese, for us. Except it wasn’t for us. It was for me. And he did it when he knew I was upset. He didn’t do it for the others when they were upset. Just me. And it was never because I’d made a scene. On the contrary. It was always when I was doing my utmost to hide it. Yet he could always tell. And spaghetti bolognese was his way of putting his arm around my shoulder without letting the others know.