The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'Excusez-moi …'

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

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

  'At least I know you're in Paris.'

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

  'Sure.'

  'Room 41. Emile Wolf suite. He waits for you.'

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

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

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

  Oil.

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

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

  He blinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Anders?'

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

  I try again. 'Anders Brand?'

  Nothing.

  'You and Anders Brand?'

  I kill the volume on the TV.

  ' … da … ah … ams …'

  This is all very recent.

  'Passage du Caire. Do you understand?'

  '… ter … da … ahm …'

  'Anders Brand. He was there. He was killed. After you saw him.'

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

  'Who did this? The same people who killed Brand?'

  '… ter … da …'

  'What about the bomb?'

  'Ams … ter …'

  'Amster?'

  I see an emphatic 'yes' in his eyes.

  'Amster,' I repeat.

  'Dam.'

  It's almost a cough.

  'Amsterdam?'

  He blinks his confirmation because he's fading fast.

  'What about Amsterdam?'

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

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

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

  Fyodor Medvedev.

  The man I spoke to … how many minutes ago?

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

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

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

  'Bonsoir.'

  'Bonsoir.'

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

  As for Golitsyn …

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

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

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

  Whatever you do, don't run.

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

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

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

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

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

  Keep calm.

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

  Keep going.

  … and then halts.

  Please, no.

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

  'Small world.'

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

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

  'Need a ride?'

  This can't be right.

  But I smile sweetly anyway. 'Sure. Thanks.'

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

  Which is when he sees the gun.

  'Drive.'

  'What the …'

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

  He glances up the ramp.

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

  He accelerates towards street level.

  'Where to?'

  'Right. Go right.'

  'I can't.'

  'What?'

  'It's one-way.'

  'Then go left!'

  'And after that?'

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

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

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

  'Where are we going?' he asks.

  'Nowhere. Just keep moving. And don't do anything stupid.'

  'Looks like I already have.'

  'Pull over.'

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

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

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

  'Okay. Who are you?'

  'You know who I am. Robert Newman.'

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

  'I don't know what else to say.'

  'Well you better think of something. And quick.'

  'My name's Robert Newman. I'm a businessman.'

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

  He shrugged. 'I can't.'

  'Coincidence?'

  'I guess.'

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

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

  'Another coincidence?'

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

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

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

  'I'm going to give you one more chance.'

  'See for yourself,' he snapped, reaching inside his jacket.

  'Stop!'

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

  'What did I tell you?'

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

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

  'I need to disappear,' she said.

  'Don't let me stop you.'

  'Where do you live?'

  'Île Saint-Louis.'

  'Alone?'

  He hesitated. 'Yeah.'

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

  'Yes.'

  The couple strolled past the car.

  'Give me your wallet.'

  'It's in my jacket. Like my phone.'

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

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

  'What's Solaris?'

  'A company. I work for them.'

  'An oil company?'

  'Sometimes.'

  'We're going to your place. I need somewhere to think.'

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

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

  Newman nodded.

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

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

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

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

  'Does she have her own key?'

  'Yes.'

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

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

  'Nice place. Business must be good.'

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

  'Take off your jacket and tie.'

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

  'What happened to your wrists?'

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

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

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

  'Don't make any noise.'

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

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

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

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