The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  Their empty lives are given relevance for a fleeting moment, although the increasing frequency of such events inevitably dilutes and diminishes even that. I wonder whether there may be a societal connection between the increase in American school slaughters and the rise of the age of the selfie. Suicide-bombers, after all, have often resorted to narcissistic pre-recorded messages which, while chilling to watch, are also pathetic and empty, generally leaving a lasting impression that they are the calling cards of the perennial loser.

  Originally, the central character in The Rhythm Section was going to be male. This decision was more of a lazy default than a considered choice. Yet, looking back, I am convinced there must have always been some part of me that always knew the character should be a woman. I have no recollection now of whether I ever ascribed a name to this male character. I don’t remember anything about his background. Perhaps that is the point: he was going to be central to the story whereas Stephanie is the story. Tellingly, when the central character was going to be male, I was focused on the plot. Once Stephanie assumed that role, I was focused on her and the plot evolved around her.

  A lot of writing is procedure—planning, execution, revision—but occasionally one has a ‘eureka’ moment. And so it was with Stephanie. Once I committed myself to a female central character, Stephanie arrived fully formed, almost instantaneously. This I remember clearly. She came with a look, an attitude and a well-defined background. Most significantly, she had a name. I never considered other options. She was always Stephanie Patrick and that name represented to me everything that she was. Even the sound of it seemed to embody somehow the crystallisation of all that she was before The Rhythm Section begins, and of everything she then becomes.

  If Stephanie’s greatest asset is her intelligence, her greatest flaw may be her temperament. She is difficult, spiky. She is prone to a quip when silence would be better. She’s got a smart mouth on her that can get her out of trouble, but no more frequently than it lands her in trouble. Academically gifted, she was rebellious at school just because …

  Having played the part of the teenage rebel within the secure and nurturing environment of her family, her life is then ripped apart and, for all her superficial toughness, she is utterly incapable of dealing with it. By the time the novel starts, she is physically and emotionally ruined and, to a large degree, it’s self-inflicted.

  This is a constant theme in Stephanie’s evolution; she may be appalled by her own behaviour and choices but she is no fan of self-pity. She is searingly honest about her weaknesses and the poor decisions she makes. She would love to be loved but can’t see how that could happen. Or that she deserves it. When she falls for someone she can never really do it completely: total trust is just too great a leap for her. Stephanie is a woman within whom there is a perpetual state of emotional civil war.

  I am pleased to have been given the opportunity to write this introduction to The Rhythm Section since Stephanie will very soon cease to exist as a purely literary character. At the time of writing, filming is underway for a screen version of The Rhythm Section, which will be released in February 2019. The novel has been under option constantly since it was first published in 1999 and the wait has, at times, been very frustrating. For many years, I was convinced the film would never be made. But the team that has now been assembled to change that is so gifted that I can say, in all honesty, that it’s been worth the wait. Blake Lively stars as Stephanie and her performance is just mesmerising. It has exceeded everything I had hoped for and anything I had to a right to expect.

  A film is a collective effort and I would like to thank the many talented people who have worked on The Rhythm Section. Few, if any, authors have been better served by cast and crew. The public face of this film is most definitely female; producer Barbara Broccoli, director Reed Morano and Blake herself are a deeply impressive trio and it feels totally appropriate that they should bring Stephanie to the screen. She would definitely approve!

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Chameleon

  ISBN 978-1-250-21132-3 (trade paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-250-21131-6 (ebook)

  Available in Trade Paperback and Ebook in Winter 2019 from Picador

  Copyright © Mark Burnell 2001

  PARIS

  The rhythm of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic. The rubber blades squeaked against the glass, smearing rain left and right. James Marshall leaned forward and peered at the brasserie on the other side of the street. The clock on the dashboard said it was five to two. He checked his own watch—it was marginally fast—and lit a cigarette. The caller had given him the address, the time—two o’clock—and a reminder not to be late. That had been half an hour ago at a pay-phone at the Gare du Nord.

  The other phone call—the one that had caught him at home the day before yesterday—had come out of the blue. And out of the past. He’d recognized the voice instantly. A simple job that paid cash in hand; that had been the offer. Good cash, too, considering how little work was involved. He wouldn’t even have to leave Paris. At first, that had made the proposal all the more attractive.

  Would he consider acting as a courier? Nothing fancy, naturally, just a fetch-and-drop, as a favour from one seasoned veteran to another.

  Of course, he’d said, he’d be delighted. There had been times in the not-so-distant past when he would have considered such a job beneath him, when he would have been offended by the offer. James Marshall, the courier? The errand boy? Now, he was as grateful for the opportunity as he was for the money.

  He instructed his Tunisian taxi driver to drop him on avenue de Friedland, from where he walked back to rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. The rain was growing stronger. And colder. A lead sky darkened everything. The driver of a delivery van attempted a U-turn in front of the brasserie. The vehicle stalled. He tried the ignition twice. Nothing. He slapped the steering wheel and tried again. Still nothing. A woman in a navy Mercedes saloon held open her hands in exasperation. The van driver shrugged. The traffic staggered to a halt. Headlights sparkled, exhausts wheezed.

  Marshall tried to ignore the tightness in his stomach, the tightness that suggested it would have been better to ignore the money. He wished he was home. His chilly, damp, single-room apartment in Saint Denis had rarely seemed so appealing. He crossed the street, meandering through stationary vehicles, and entered the brasserie.

  Half a dozen customers congregated around a curve of copper bar. A waiter took his damp raincoat and asked if he was alone but he was already moving into the dining room. Oleg Rogachev was in the far corner, at a table by the window. Marshall recognized him from the photographs he’d studied; built like a bull, a moustache like a slug, silver hair cropped to a spike. His collars and cuffs were tight to the skin, accentuating fat hands and a fat face. He wore a charcoal silk double-breasted suit.

  Rogachev looked up from his plate—pig’s trotters and spinach—and nodded towards the seat opposite. The man sitting next to him was a stranger but not a surprise; a translator, Marshall assumed. Rogachev spoke no English and had no reason to expect Marshall to speak Russian. As it happened, he’d been fluent for thirty years.

  With only a slight accent, he said, ‘In Britain, we have a saying. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

  Rogachev raised an eyebrow. ‘This is Anatoli.’

  ‘I hope neither of you will be offended if I ask him to leave.’

  There was a frosty pause. Then Rogachev said, ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

  Anatoli rose from the table and left. Marshall sat down. Rogachev pushed his plate to one side, hailed a waiter and gesticulated with chubby fingers. A clean glass arrived. Rogachev waited until the wine had been poured.

  ‘I hope your people recognize the risk I’m taking.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Then I hope they’ll show their appreciation.’

  ‘They will. But only unofficially. They’re keen to stress this and they’re sure you’ll understand their reasons
.’

  Marshall looked out of the window. Gridlock, a crescendo of car horns, teeming rain. When he looked back, he noticed the small device next to Rogachev’s glass. It resembled a travel radio but had no aerial or display. The Russian felt for a switch on the side. He saw Marshall’s expression and said, ‘It jams directional radio microphones. It emits violent electronic signals, casting a five-metre protective shield. Anybody trying to listen to us will hear only static.’ He smiled slyly. ‘Even though I’m not here, it’s better to be careful.’

  Hence the delay in naming the rendezvous, Marshall supposed. In the old days—in his day—these types of precaution had been routine. Naively, he’d imagined things would be different now. He wondered where Rogachev’s friends and enemies thought he was. Moscow? Yekaterinburg? Miami?

  ‘What have you come to offer me?’

  Marshall took a sip from his glass. The red tasted bitter but the effect was welcome. ‘It’s possible that the investigation into Weaver Financial Services will come to nothing.’

  Rogachev pulled a face, unimpressed. ‘That is possible anyway.’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘There’s something you don’t know. Weaver’s links to Calmex in Lausanne have been established. Arrest warrants are being prepared as we speak.’

  The small, piggy eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If you accept our offer, the Weaver directors will still have to be replaced. That is non-negotiable. The company would also have to pay a small fine for a lesser misdemeanour. It’s better if the investigation comes up with something.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘On the plus side, your assets would cease to be frozen. Also, your status as persona non grata would be revoked on the understanding that you do not try to enter the United Kingdom for a period of six months.’

  A waiter came to clear plates and refill glasses. Rogachev ordered two espressos and the bill. ‘You should know that the reason I’ve decided to come to an arrangement with you is not for my own advantage. That is merely—how would you put it?—a bonus.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a gold Sony Mini-Disc which he placed on the table between them. ‘I’m a wheat trader, not a criminal. The people who are exploiting my commercial network are renegades. They are a threat to everyone.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I want that distinction understood.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  He tapped the Mini-Disc. ‘It’s essential they never discover the origin of this information…’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘… because that could lead to complications. The kind of complications where everybody suffers.’

  Marshall tried to ignore the threat. The espressos arrived. The Russian added sugar. Outside, the congestion caused by the delivery van had escalated. The driver was now standing next to his vehicle, arguing with half a dozen people. Some of those inside the brasserie had turned to watch the commotion.

  Rogachev spoke softly. ‘The courier will arrive at Heathrow Terminal Two from Budapest on the third of April. Malev flight MA610.’

  Marshall took a propelling pencil from his jacket and began to write notes on a small pad. ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘You get the name when the flight leaves Budapest. I don’t want him intercepted in Hungary.’

  ‘What’s he bringing?’

  ‘Plutonium-239.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘MINATOM. I can’t be more specific.’

  MINATOM was the Russian Atomic Energy Ministry, a vast department which had a history of not being specific.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One thousand five hundred grammes.’

  ‘What’s he bringing it in?’

  ‘A suitcase with a shielded canister inside.’

  ‘Concealed or loose?’

  ‘Loose, we think.’

  ‘How pure is it?’

  ‘Ninety-four per cent.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He may be carrying quantities of Lithium-6.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘We don’t know. Probably two to four kilos. Maybe nothing.’

  ‘Do you know the target?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the end user?’

  ‘Unidentified.’

  Rogachev glanced at the notes Marshall was taking. Bread, sugar, bacon, olive oil, kilos and grammes, pounds and ounces; it appeared to be a conventional shopping list. When they were finished, Rogachev paid in cash, leaving an extravagant tip. They collected their coats and stepped outside. The rain was heavier; there was a flash of lightning, a five-second pause and a rumble of thunder that was almost inaudible over the chorus of screeching horns. The soaked van driver was shouting. Rogachev erected an umbrella. He seemed amused by the scene in front of him.

  Marshall was thinking ahead. The disk, the drop in Montmartre, then back to the Gare du Nord. From a public pay-phone, the London number that he’d memorized, the message relayed, then back to Saint Denis, perhaps stopping off at a café for a cup of coffee. Or something stronger. Then tomorrow, the delivery. A plain brown envelope, he expected. Full of francs …

  It wasn’t thunder. It was louder than that. And sharper. The liquid that splattered across his face wasn’t rain, either. It was hot.

  The umbrella slipped from Rogachev’s grasp. A gust of wind carried it away. Another deafening crack and he was spinning. Marshall didn’t move. Shock insulated him from what was happening around him. Time slowed to a standstill. He had no idea where the source of the noise was. He saw faces turning in the rain, hands rising to mouths, eyes widening. Nobody was paying attention to the van driver any more. Rogachev fell forward, smacking against the car at the kerb before collapsing to the ground. He left blood across the white bonnet. Rain diluted it pink.

  Curiously, Marshall found himself thinking about the good old days.

  1

  She’s eighteen months old. Two years ago, she was twenty-five years old.

  They made love slowly but it was a hot afternoon and soon their bodies were slick. Laurent Masson was a tall man with no fat on his sinewy frame; dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark dirt beneath his fingernails. When she’d first seen him, Stephanie had thought he looked slightly seedy, which she liked. She, by contrast, had never looked more wholesome, which she also liked. Plump breasts, the curved suggestion of a belly, a dimple in the soft flesh above each buttock. She’d allowed her hair to grow; thick and dark, it fell between her shoulders down half her spine. Summer sun had tanned her normally pale skin, a healthy diet had improved her complexion.

  The first-floor bedroom was small; a high ceiling, floorboards worn smooth, two tatty Yemeni rugs, a narrow double bed with a wrought-iron frame. On one wall, there was a mottled full-length mirror. On the opposite wall, there were six sepia photographs of Provence’s brutal beauty.

  Masson was on his back, Stephanie above him, his body between her thighs. Slowly, she rocked back and forth, trailing her fingertips across his chest and stomach. Neither of them spoke and there was no hint of a breeze to cool them. When she came, she closed her eyes, dropped her head back and bit her fleshy lower lip.

  Later, Masson smoked a cigarette, rolling his ash onto a dirty china saucer. Stephanie stood by the window, naked and damp. Her gaze followed the land, falling away from the farmhouse, across the vineyard and the dirt track that bisected it. The vines shimmered in the heat. Somewhere at the bottom of the valley, screened by emerald trees, there was the road. To the right, Entrecasteaux, to the left, Salernes. Beyond either, the real world.

  ‘Last night, the dogs were barking all down the valley.’

  Behind her, Masson shifted, the bed-springs creaking. ‘They kept you awake?’

  She nodded. ‘Some were howling.’

  ‘You should have spent the night with me.’

  ‘Actually, I liked it. It sounded … sad.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Sad but beautiful.’

  ‘Will I see you later?’

 
; ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never know what you think.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  * * *

  Laurent leaves. From the yard, I watch his old Fiat lurch along the track, kicking up clouds of golden dirt. When the dust has settled, I go inside and make tea. The kitchen is cool and dark; a stone floor, terracotta walls, a heavy oak table flanked by benches. Bees murmur by the small square window over the sink. French windows open onto a terrace. A blanket of greenery laid over wooden beams provides dappled shade. Behind the house, olive trees are organized along terraces that climb the hill.

  The farm belongs to a thirty-five-year-old German investment banker who was transferred from Frankfurt to Tokyo eighteen months ago. Initially, I rented it for six months through an agency in Munich. That was just over a year ago; I’m seven weeks into my third rental period. The roof leaks in places, some of the plasterwork is crumbling, the windows and doors are ill-fitting. But I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it this way. It feels more like a home. Then again, how would I know? I’ve lived in too many places to count but not one of them has been a home.