by Mark Burnell
* * *
On the morning after Boxing Day, Petra switched on the computer screen and visited each of her selected web-sites. There was nothing new for her on them so she merely refreshed two of her own messages. There was, however, some e-mail for Andrew Smith.
Andrew,
How are you? Haven’t seen you for a while.
Give me a call a.s.a.p.
M.
Petra pulled on a coat and left her flat. She picked one of the phone-boxes on Curzon Street, near the corner with Berkeley Square. Through the Adelphi Travel receptionist, she ended up speaking to Margaret, who said, ‘How are you, Stephanie?’
‘If you must know, I’ve been better.’
‘I know. I’m sorry for you, I really am. I feel terrible…’
‘Don’t worry about it, Margaret. I know it was nothing to do with you.’
‘Well, you know where you can find me, if you need me.’
‘Thanks. Is he in?’
‘No. But he asked me to give you a message. The Empire cinema on Leicester Square. The eleven-fifty performance.’
‘This evening?’
‘This morning. Pick a seat at the very back, towards the right-hand side as you look at the screen.’
Petra arrived five minutes early. Alexander was already there, his overcoat draped over the seat in front of him, a briefcase on the seat to his left. The vast auditorium was almost empty. Petra sat beside him. After their previous encounter, there was plenty of scope for awkward small-talk but Alexander elected to bypass that.
‘You’re off to meet Serra in Amsterdam tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something else you need to know about Sons of Sabah. It was something that Kassir produced but which we’ve only just learned about.’
‘What?’
‘It’s called the Fat Three List.’
‘The Fat Three List? What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. It may be a computer file. Or it could just be a list, memorized, or on paper, or recorded in some other way. What we do know is that it contains details of the crucial elements of Sons of Sabah.’
The house lights began to dim and the huge curtains parted slowly. The screen came to life with commercials.
Petra said, ‘Whoever put together the Giler file for me suggested that his support for the Israeli programme for building Jewish settlements in the Occupied Territories might be the reason for Khalil wanting him dead.’
‘And?’
‘And I know that’s not it. I don’t want to meet Serra not knowing the real reason, otherwise I’ll look like an idiot. I need to know more about Giler’s relationship with Khalil. You told me there was some history between them.’
‘Why do you think you need to know?’
‘It was something Serra said in passing. Talking about what happened in New York, he said it sent out the right message.’
Alexander considered this for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, that makes sense.’
‘How?’
‘Well, it’s hard to know the precise details without knowing who Khalil actually is, but his problem with Giler almost certainly centres on Sheikh Abdul Kamal Qassam. After the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center, Qassam orchestrated a campaign of retribution against the United States for the conviction of those who were prosecuted for the bombing.’
‘That was the blind Muslim cleric?’
‘That’s right. Sheikh Omar Abdel Rahman was one of them.’
‘So who is Qassam?’
‘A follower of Rahman’s. At least, that’s how he rose to prominence.’
‘How does he fit into this?’
‘As well as wanting revenge for Rahman’s imprisonment, he also has direct links to Khalil; Khalil has acted on Qassam’s behalf before. Anyway, there were attacks on US embassies in Madrid, Manila and Kuala Lumpur, and there were others planned that never actually happened. The biggest operation that Qassam sanctioned, however, was an attack on New York, where Rahman stood trial. The plan was relatively straightforward but would have been catastrophic had it succeeded and we are pretty sure that it was devised by Khalil himself. It was to start as a hijack. The aircraft would have belonged to Alitalia or Olympic, Rome and Athens having possibly the worst airport security in Europe. The destination was to have been New York. But this was not to have been a conventional hijack. It was a suicide mission, for which five men volunteered.’
‘How were they going to do it?’
‘They were going to wait until the aircraft was descending towards JFK, thereby giving the authorities on the ground no time to react. Two members of the terrorist team were former airline pilots with PIA. Having murdered the flight crew, they were going to assume control of the aircraft and crash it into the middle of Manhattan. As it turned out, one of the two pilots got cold feet about meeting his maker prematurely. In Athens, he deserted the team and turned up at the American embassy seeking sanctuary, which was provided in return for information.’
‘Was Khalil supposed to have been one of the five?’
‘No. Being part of a suicide team is not his style. But he devised the plan, which was scrapped after the pilot’s defection. Back in the States, though, the FBI were very concerned that Khalil and Qassam would merely dream up an alternative horror of similar proportions. Not knowing who Khalil was, they elected to take Qassam out of the picture. So they decided to snatch him. Giler provided information to help the Americans pinpoint him.’
‘How?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly, although it’s not a secret that he was very well connected in Israel. There were no doors that were closed to him there. Also, Giler provided the Gulfstream that allowed the Americans to spirit Qassam out of Greece to a US airbase in Germany, where he was transferred to a military plane before being flown back to New York to stand trial.’
‘Where Rahman also got sentenced?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where Giler was based.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I suppose that makes some kind of sense.’
‘If anything we do does, yes.’
The commercials on the screen made way for a series of trailers for forthcoming films. Alexander prepared to leave, reaching forward for his overcoat.
‘By the way, I understand you requested a Grade Two profile for someone the night before you went to New York.’
Petra’s blood stopped flowing for a moment. She was relieved that they were in partial darkness and that he couldn’t see her properly. ‘I cancelled it.’
‘The operator ran the check anyway. Frank White. That’s his name, isn’t it?’ Petra shrugged. ‘Who is he?’
‘Nobody. Just someone I keep running into. He lives in the same building, that’s all.’
‘So why did you request the profile in the first place?’
‘I made a mistake. I was tired. It was nothing.’
‘Aren’t you curious?’ Alexander asked. ‘Don’t you want to know what we discovered?’
She wasn’t sure. If there was something bad, part of her—most of her—wanted to remain ignorant of it. ‘What?’
She could see Alexander smiling in the darkness. ‘There was nothing. He’s just some geologist who works for a firm of mining consultants. He’s single but had a young daughter who died three years ago. That’s about it.’
‘See?’
‘Steer clear of him. I don’t want you forming relationships.’
‘I’m not forming relationships. With him or with anyone. I told you, I just kept running into him and I thought it was beginning to stretch coincidence. That’s all there was to it.’
Alexander pulled on his overcoat and withdrew an envelope from one of the pockets, which he handed to Petra. ‘This is the full report, if you’re interested.’
* * *
She sat on her bed with her knees hunched close to her body. The document was five pages long. Date of birth, place of birth, names, names of parents, a
copy of the birth certificate, addresses, schools, university, working record, bank records, tax records, medical records, National Insurance number, passport number, driving licence number, criminal record—none, vehicle registration number, credit cards with both account numbers and PIN codes, five years’ worth of travel details, marital status—single. So this was a Grade Two profile. Petra wondered what Grade One could possibly include that wasn’t already here.
Making the request had been a mistake but she thought cancelling it had rectified that. In fact, it appeared to have compounded the error by arousing Alexander’s suspicion, which was the last thing Petra wanted. She knew she should have felt too ashamed to flick through the document—to look was to cheat, like ransacking a private diary—but Petra’s shame was exhausted.
She found herself looking at the details of his family. The parents with their address in Marlow. His sister, married to a stockbroker, with their four children. She pictured their Christmas Day lunch, a traditional scene. It seemed peculiar to have to verify the facts but that was what happened when everything you said was a lie. It became difficult—impossible, sometimes—to believe anything you heard. Which made it necessary, occasionally, to remind yourself that not everybody was the same, that there were still some honest people left.
It was ten-to-eleven. She left her flat and knocked on Frank’s door. When he opened it, he made no attempt to conceal his surprise. ‘Marina?’
‘I know it’s late. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I’m still up.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure.’ He stood aside to let her pass, closed the door and then followed her into the living room. When she turned round to face him, he said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
She shook her head.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not exactly. But there’s something on my mind which I need to sort out.’
‘That sounds serious. What is it?’
‘That kiss.’
‘What kiss?’
‘The kiss we never had.’
Justifiably, Frank looked suspicious. ‘What about it?’
‘I made a mistake.’
21
Frank lies beside me. He is asleep. The electronic clock’s red digits tell me that it is four-twenty-seven. I have not yet been to sleep and soon I shall have to get up. I listen to the sound of his breathing. It is slow and peaceful.
I was nervous because I was Stephanie again. At least, I think I was. Certainly, I wasn’t very much like the Marina that I am supposed to be. Or maybe I was Marina and the change that occurred was within her. Who can say? Who cares? Not me, that’s for sure.
Frank is the first man I have kissed, apart from Proctor, since I was a university student—I never allowed my clients to kiss me—and he is the first man I’ve wanted to have sex with since then. It hurts me to admit that I can’t recall who that last person was. Some student, for sure, but which one? I wonder what he’s doing now. Armed with a degree, he probably works in the City as an investment banker, with a wife and children, a Mercedes and an alcohol problem.
The entire episode felt alien to me; there was no coercion, no money changed hands. There were no artificial catalysts of any sort. Just the two of us and the desire to make it happen. I cannot say we made love—we had sex—and I cannot say that I enjoyed it.
I was too anxious to feel pleasure. I’ve forgotten how to accept affection. For me, sex is an activity that I’ve learned to endure in a state of total emotional numbness. So when Frank’s fingertips found my hardening nipples, the shock was almost painful, a surprise in the mind as much as a physical sensation. I am someone who is prepared to strip in front of a complete stranger yet I felt acutely shy as he undressed me. I found my fingers were trembling and that I was unable to cope with the buttons on his shirt. As we lowered ourselves on to his bed, the tension in my stomach tightened. When his hand slipped between my thighs and his skin brushed my pubic hair, I grabbed his wrist and held him still for a moment. He asked if everything was all right and I found myself at a familiar crossroads. It was sheer willpower that conquered the instinct to panic and flee. So I lied and said yes, and let go of his hand.
More than anything, I was terrified that I’d become a whore again. I didn’t want to do anything to him that I did to those who paid me. I didn’t want to feel anything similar at all. And as this insanity fed upon itself, I even began to worry that he might see through me, that I might do something which would reveal my past.
We had sex twice and, both times, I was cold and scared. I have never been quite so naked. He would have had a better time if he’d been a paying client. I thought I might have forgotten how to be human and I still don’t know whether this is true or not. What I do know is that in a few hours’ time, in Amsterdam, I will be a soulless robot.
It will be a relief to be normal once more.
* * *
She looked at the electronic clock again. Five past five. Petra slipped out of the bed and gathered her clothes in silence. She dressed in the hall and then returned to her flat where she had a quick shower and packed a small bag of hand-luggage. At five-forty, she caught a cab and was at Heathrow’s Terminal Four just after six. Her flight left on time at seven and arrived at Schipol at ten past nine, from where she took a train to Centraal Station. By ten past ten, she had checked into the Hotel Ambassade on Herengracht. At five to eleven, five minutes ahead of schedule, she was sitting in a café, thanking a waiter for bringing her a cup of hot chocolate. Her table was next to a large window. She gazed at the Nieuwe Kerk across the square. A few drizzle-dampened tourists huddled beneath tangerine umbrellas outside the church’s entrance.
Serra was ten minutes late. The café was crowded and it took him time to spot her. As he weaved his way through the tables, she noticed he was limping. And when he reached the table, he struggled to shed his black wool overcoat, his right shoulder the apparent area of trouble.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Have you ever been to Amman?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
This made Serra smile. ‘Well, if you have, you’ll know how easy a motor accident can be.’
He ordered coffee and sat down opposite her. The leaden skies opened fully and fat drops of rain began to splatter diagonally across the window. The grey square glistened.
‘The balance of your fee should have reached your bank by now.’
‘It has.’
‘Good. That brings us to this, then. My client now wishes to discuss with you the possibility of further work.’
Talking about his client, Serra sounded like a lawyer, which was an impression that was reinforced by a cream cotton shirt with gold cufflinks, a Hermès tie, a double-breasted navy suit and polished black shoes. Petra, by contrast, wore old jeans, a pair of scuffed Chelsea boots, a ragged electric-pink T-shirt and a loose-necked, long-armed brownish-red jersey. Her leather jacket was folded on to the chair between them.
She ran a hand through her short black hair several times. ‘What does he have in mind?’
‘Something more—how shall we say it?—significant.’
‘Do you want to be more specific?’
‘Not until I have established that there is a genuine possibility that you’d consider working for him again. It is well known that you rarely work for, or with, the same people twice.’
‘That’s true. But I don’t rule it out. In this instance, it’ll depend.’
‘On what?’
‘On the money. On what I think about working for Khalil.’
Serra stiffened. When their eyes met, Petra goaded him, inviting him to tell her she was wrong. But he couldn’t.
‘And what do you know of Khalil?’
‘I know he likes writing large cheques.’
The blood had drained from Serra’s face. He plucked a cigarette from the pack and began tapping the tip on the table. Petra had hoped to provoke a reaction but had never imagined it would be qu
ite so severe.
‘Information is gold.’
‘Always,’ Petra agreed. ‘In my position, how could it be anything else? I told you when we first met that I like to know who’s paying me. Especially when they’re paying too much. That arouses suspicion.’
‘My client was very insistent.’
‘Obviously. And it leads me to conclude—or at least, suspect—that he wanted me to discover his identity. To see whether I could. And if I could, to see whether I would see the contract through.’
Back at the Hotel Ambassade, Petra took a manila envelope from her suitcase and emptied it on to the bed. She checked the contents: Claudia Neumann’s German passport, her driving licence, some credit cards, and a small plastic wallet containing cash—two thousand Deutschmarks and one thousand American dollars. She returned everything to the manila envelope and left the hotel immediately.
She took a taxi to the city centre and secured a safe deposit box at a branch of ABN-AMRO where she placed the envelope. Next, she found a pay-phone and, using a credit card issued in Marina Gaudenzi’s name, called Magenta House in London to ask for information. Afterwards, she called Frank’s number but got no answer.
She returned to her hotel and slept for several hours, awaking at dusk. She stretched, took a shower and then decided to take a walk before her second meeting with Serra. From the Oude Kerk, she found herself inexorably drawn towards the red-light district in the same way that a drunk is drawn towards the bottle. The whores were coming out for the night, displaying themselves in their windows. It seemed like a variation on the cards that Petra had once had displayed in London’s phone-boxes. She remembered that one of those cards had brought Proctor to her room on Brewer Street. Without the card, there would have been no intervention, no Petra, no escape from her terminal decline.
Looking at the whores on the other side of the glass, Petra imagined herself as one of them, a not-so-fresh cut dangling on a butcher’s hook. Frank passes by in the street. He sees me and stops, allowing himself time to examine me from beyond the glass. Then he moves on and chooses the whore next door.
