The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  My mouth is dry. I feel nauseous.

  Golitsyn. Brand. Me. Or rather, her. Neither Stephanie, nor Petra, but the third of us.

  Why?

  The sexual crescendo reaches its noisy, sweaty climax-in-triplicate and I find I'm reminded of something Robert and I saw on television. It was a news programme. The great and the good were mourning Anders Brand's death. They were paying solemn tributes. One of his former UN colleagues said, 'His greatest skill was being able to make different people come together.'

  How true.

  At five-to-two Pierre Damiani's dark green BMW 750 was waiting for him outside 16, place Vendôme. By the time the chauffeur opened the door for him outside the entrance to his apartment overlooking Parc Manceau it was almost quarter-past.

  Damiani favoured the stairs over the lift, a small daily concession to the concept of exercise. The five-bedroom apartment was on the second floor; large rooms, tall ceilings and fabulous views of the park. Damiani loved it. Yet when Alia and the children were away it felt as soulless as a disused movie set. He let himself in and tossed his keys into the porcelain bowl on the marble sideboard. He had fifteen minutes.

  Out of the corner of his right eye there was a smudge of movement. The blow caught him just above the right temple, knocking him to the floor. A powerful hand grabbed the collar of his jacket and dragged him across polished stone. Along the hall, then right, into the salon, where he was dumped at the foot of a French Rococo chair.

  'Get up and sit.'

  Still reeling, Damiani clawed himself on to the chair and melted into its green silk damask upholstery. The man wore a black fleece zipped to the chin, denim jeans and a pair of walking boots. In his right hand was a gun, in his eyes the will to use it.

  Adrenaline nullified the pain but not the fear. Damiani said, 'I'm expecting my wife back at any moment. My wife and two children.'

  'Your wife's in Gstaad. At your chalet. With your little boy and girl, and your wife's parents.'

  'What do you want?'

  'You're due to join them in five days. After your trip to Beijing. Which is why you're here. To collect a bag and some papers.' The man looked at his watch. 'You've got ninety minutes; Air France flight AF 128, departing Charles de Gaulle at five-to-four. Your pre-reserved seat is 2A.'

  'Who are you?'

  'You're going to miss that flight. Unless you're very lucky.'

  Damiani's questions were multiplying but he stayed silent. He knew his role; to provide answers.

  Iain Boyd said, 'Three days ago Stephanie Schneider walked into your bank.'

  'Who?'

  Boyd fired the gun.

  Pierre Damiani leapt.

  The bullet hit the wooden frame of the chair, beside Damiani's left shoulder. The impact reverberated through him. Splinters scattered as far as the window behind.

  'I haven't got time to screw around. That means you don't either. So … she's got a safe-deposit box there, right?'

  Damiani didn't answer immediately. Boyd prepared to shoot again.

  'What's in the box?'

  'I don't know.'

  'But she does have a box?'

  A small slip of acknowledgement. Damiani tried to make amends and shook his head. 'I have no idea.'

  Boyd stepped forward and struck him across the face with the gun. The blow parted the skin by the right ear.

  'Sooner or later, I'm going to run out of patience. Probably sooner. When I do, I'll use the gun again. And not on your fucking chair. Got that?'

  Damiani swallowed. 'I can't help you.'

  Boyd shook his head in disgust. 'Bankers …'

  'You don't understand.'

  'I understand more than you think. She entered the bank from place Vendôme. But that's not how she left.'

  'So?'

  'Is that normal? Do all your clients go in the front and leave by the back?'

  'Look, I don't know anything …'

  'Who are they?'

  Damiani ran his fingertips over the graze by his ear. 'Who are you talking about?'

  'You know who. The ones who set her up. The ones who set you up.'

  'Who are you?'

  'Someone she used to know.'

  Not an answer Boyd expected Damiani to take on trust. The banker took his time deciding how to play it. Boyd didn't mind, as long as he came to the right decision.

  'You can threaten me all you like but I can't tell you anything about the bank's clients.'

  'I'm not asking you to.'

  Damiani nodded a little. They understood each other. 'The man who came to my office was American.'

  'Name?'

  'Ellroy. Paul Ellroy.'

  'Go on.'

  'I only met him once.'

  'What happened?'

  'He made an appointment to see me. He came to my office under false pretences, masquerading as a potential client. He checked our security procedures thoroughly. I dealt with him personally. Then he told me he was interested in one of our other clients. Naturally, I told him nothing. And when he became persistent, I asked him to leave. As he got up, he said we could expect a visit from the authorities.'

  'What did you do?'

  'Nothing.'

  'What happened?'

  'Two officials from the Gendarmerie Nationale came to see me. They asked about her.'

  'What did you tell them?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Nothing?'

  'Since when do the Gendarmerie Nationale take instruction from Americans? I told them to return with an order from a higher authority. The highest authority. They didn't.'

  'You weren't worried by that?'

  Damiani couldn't have looked more disdainful. 'My family have been in the private banking business for three hundred years. First in Beirut, then here. Ours is a business made out of trust, not legal documents. When we give our word, it's unbreakable. It would take a lot more than some governmental department to change that.'

  'You'd sooner put your own life at risk?'

  'Don't be fooled by the cut of my suit. I'm a peasant. I don't value my own skin so highly. The only thing I have of worth is my word. Without it, I have nothing.'

  'Then what?'

  'A problem with the phones.'

  Boyd nodded. A ploy as old as Alexander Graham Bell. 'And a knock on the door from some France Télécom engineers?'

  'Naturally. With perfect documents.'

  'And you told them to get stuffed.'

  'Get stuffed?'

  Despite himself, Boyd smiled. 'To go away.'

  Damiani shook his head. 'On the contrary. We let them in. We let them do their work.'

  'Why?'

  'You know what they say: keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer. We have our own clandestine devices at the bank. We were able to watch them installing their equipment to monitor us. On balance, we felt it was better to let them believe they'd succeeded. And to know the limit of their imagination.'

  Boyd shook his head in admiration, then lowered the gun. 'You're running out of time.'

  Damiani frowned, not understanding.

  'If you want to catch that flight to China.'

  Damiani pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing the graze. When he stood up, he moved a little unsteadily.

  Boyd said, 'Take a good look at me. If you see her again, or even hear from her, just tell her this: Iain is looking for her. And then describe me. And if she's still in doubt, say this: Laxford Bridge. She'll know.'

  Avenue Foch. Scheherazade Zahani's building wasn't far from the Arc de Triomphe. One of the two uniformed porters escorted Stephanie into the lift. She could smell different polishes for the brass and mahogany.

  Zahani's penthouse apartment was spread over two floors. The grand entrance hall had a check floor of black-and-white stone. Two bodyguards led her through a long Neoclassical reception room. Stephanie counted five different chess boards, the pieces in play on all of them. She wondered whether the entrance hall floor was an extension of the th
eme.

  The next room they came to was a total contrast; no windows, walls of a deep lacquered red, muted light falling from recessed spots on to specific targets; paintings, sculptures, artefacts. Scheherazade Zahani was at the far end with a Chinese woman. They were in earnest discussion over a piece of marble frieze hanging from the wall.

  Stephanie had no strategy. All she had was an idea. That Scheherazade Zahani and Golitsyn had something concrete in common.

  Zahani came towards her in a simple cream blouse and black linen skirt. She wore no jewellery. The effect was understated but there was no mistaking her pedigree. She wasn't tall – Stephanie had six inches over her – and she wasn't as pencil-thin as women of her wealth often were. She emitted a kind of sexual confidence that Stephanie recognized immediately: it was the property of women who'd prospered in a predominately male environment.

  She had pale grey-green eyes – les yeux pers – and a mouth as generous as Stephanie's, although a little broader. Cut to the shoulder, her rich, thick, dark hair had a slight tint.

  Scheherazade Zahani didn't offer a hand. 'Marianne, is it?'

  Stephanie nodded. 'Madame Zahani. Thank you for agreeing to see me.'

  'I've known Robert a long time.'

  A silence developed. Stephanie considered herself an expert but in Zahani she found an equal. A woman who could smile pleasantly, say nothing, and feel no discomfort.

  It was Stephanie who finally fumbled for small talk. 'This is quite something … this apartment … this room.' And who immediately despised herself for it.

  'My Chinese room,' Zahani said. 'Everything you can see is from one of two dynasties; the T'ang or the Sui. I keep these pieces here for sentimental reasons. Most of the collection is on loan. The British Museum, the Shōdō in Tokyo, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. We're just hanging a new piece. A seventh-century frieze of the cosmic Buddha Vairocana.'

  'Really?'

  A reply that sounded resolutely ignorant.

  'One of the Five Celestial Buddhas,' Zahani explained.

  They walked to a small library overlooking avenue Foch. A servant appeared without being summoned. She wore a uniform of purple silk; a Mao jacket, buttoned to the throat, narrow-legged trousers and matching slippers. She brought coffee on a silver tray. She poured a cup for both of them.

  When they were alone, Zahani said, 'I've seen you before, I think.'

  Half a statement, half a question. Stephanie provided an answer. 'At the Hotel Lancaster.'

  'Ah yes. I remember now.'

  Except that wasn't what she remembered. Stephanie saw that quite clearly. But only because Zahani had made sure she saw it.

  'So, tell me. You're a good friend of Robert's?'

  Stephanie suddenly recognized how sly his amorphous introduction had been over the phone. She's a friend, Scheherazade. A good friend. And yes, she's … well, you'll see for yourself.

  'An old friend, would you say?'

  'Not really,' Stephanie said.

  'A new friend?'

  'Sort of.'

  The smile was in Zahani's eyes, not on her lips, when she said, 'A friend made at the Lancaster that night, perhaps?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'You didn't go there to meet him, then?'

  Stephanie shook. her head. 'I went to see someone else.'

  'Another friend?'

  Teasing her, taunting her; time to play a higher card. 'Of yours, I think. Not mine.'

  'How intriguing.'

  'It gets more intriguing. I went there to see the man who was killed.'

  'Two men were killed,' she remarked pointedly.

  'I went to see Leonid Golitsyn.'

  She didn't look surprised. That fell to Stephanie who hadn't expected her answer to be predictable.

  'And did you see him?' Zahani asked.

  'Yes. But he was dead.'

  'Well that doesn't really count, does it? Had you met him before?'

  'No.'

  'But you knew Anders, of course.'

  The connection. Or rather, the confirmation of a connection.

  Stephanie was about to deny it. But instinct interceded; Zahani wasn't probing. She thought she knew. And, slowly, Stephanie saw that she did.

  When she'd asked Newman what Zahani had said to him at the Lancaster, he'd replied that Zahani had thought she'd recognized her. That fitted the beginning of the current conversation: I've seen you before, I think. Now, however, Stephanie realized that Zahani hadn't been referring to the Lancaster. She'd been thinking of something else.

  The DVD. But you knew Anders, of course.

  Gradually, almost painfully, it dawned on Stephanie that Scheherazade Zahani thought she was talking to the woman from the film. And why wouldn't she, if she'd seen it? It had been hard enough for Stephanie to pinpoint the differences between the two versions of herself.

  No wonder Zahani was so amused by the idea of Stephanie being a friend of Newman's. An old acquaintance of hers fooling around with … what, precisely? An actress? Only in the loosest sense of the word.

  Once the fog of surprise had cleared, Stephanie saw that Zahani's assumption had provided her with a new and unexpected option: to be the third woman. She chose to take it. To play the part. To blush.

  Zahani said, 'There's no need to look so coy, Marianne. What happened at the Lancaster?'

  'I went upstairs to see him but he was dead. They were both dead. Then I came downstairs. Robert was leaving. It was a coincidence. He asked me if he could give me a lift and I said yes.'

  'Just like that?'

  'Just like that.'

  'Did you tell him what you'd seen?'

  Stephanie shook her head. 'I told him nothing. I let him drive me away.'

  'To his apartment?'

  She nodded. 'The next morning he was already awake. He was packing a bag. He said he had to leave for America.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I went home. And there were people waiting for me.'

  'Who?'

  'I don't know. But they attacked me. I can show you the bruises, if you like.'

  'That won't be necessary. Where do you live, Marianne?'

  'Stalingrad.'

  'Your own place?'

  Stephanie side-stepped the question. 'A rental. It's a dump.'

  'Have you been back since?'

  'No. I've been living rough. I'm used to it. It's no big deal. I lived for three years on the streets.'

  'And so after you got away from them, you did what? You called Robert?'

  'I tried. I even went to his place.'

  'Even though you knew he'd gone to America?'

  'I didn't know what else to do. I left messages for him. Then I finally got through to him – this was last night – and he said he'd try to do something.'

  'Who do you think was waiting for you at your apartment?'

  'I don't know. The people who killed Golitsyn, I suppose. And Anders.'

  'The two of them and you? That's quite a conspiracy.'

  Zahani's tone seemed to be shifting. Stephanie thought she detected less amusement than before. And less judgement.

  'What are you going to do?'

  Stephanie shrugged. 'Disappear, I guess.'

  'Where will you go?'

  'It doesn't matter. Anywhere.'

  'So what do you need me for? Money?'

  The obvious first assumption. 'No. But it wouldn't hurt.'

  'What, then?'

  'It's easier to run away from something if you know what it is.'

  'What makes you think I know?'

  'Nothing. I'm just doing what Robert suggested. But it seems to me that you knew both men. And that you've seen me before. So maybe you can think of something. Anything …'

  Zahani stood up and smoothed a crease in her skirt with the palm of her hand. 'Wait here.'

  Stephanie was alone for twenty minutes. She stood by the window watching cars throw up tails of spray along avenue Foch. The road itself was suitably distant, the building separated from
it by a ribbon of dirt, a ribbon of grass and a screen of trees.

  When Scheherazade Zahani returned she was holding a small leather bag by Tumi, which she handed to Stephanie. 'It's not much. Not to me. More valuable, perhaps, is what I can tell you. Then again, perhaps it will be of no value at all.'

  'Can I ask a question first?'

  'By all means.'

  'How well did you know Golitsyn?'

  'Not that well. At least, not personally.'

  'Yet he was here two days before he died.'

  She stiffened, then tried to conceal it, but the damage was done; Stephanie's guess was confirmed. She'd remembered the entry in Golitsyn's diary for the day of his arrival in Paris from New York. Lunch, av. Foch, 1 p.m. That evening, he'd had dinner with Anders Brand at the Meurice. There'd been no name or number by the entry but as soon as Newman had told her where Zahani lived, Stephanie had been confident of Golitsyn's lunchtime appointment.

  'How do you know that?' Zahani asked tersely.

  'I took his diary from his hotel room.'

  There was a stony silence. Then: 'Did you take his wallet too?'

  'Yes.'

  'Maybe you don't need my money after all.'

  'I panicked.'

  Zahani inclined her head to one side. 'I doubt that.'

  'I took what I could. It goes with the life.'

  'I'm sure.'

  'Do you know why Golitsyn was killed?'

  'No. Nor do I know why Anders was killed. Or even why anybody would want to kill you.'

  'But you've seen the film, haven't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'How?'

  'Leonid showed me a copy.'

  'So you knew that he was negotiating to buy it?'

  'Yes.'

  'But I thought you didn't really know him.'

  Stephanie's impertinence was greeted by more silence, followed by the curtest of nods. 'I bought art from Leonid. I knew him professionally. But over the years we became friends of a sort. However, I was never as close to him as I was to Anders, whom I first met through my late husband.'

  'Can I ask why Golitsyn showed you the film?'

  'Out of concern for Anders. They were good friends. And since Anders and I were also close Leonid wanted to discuss with me what he should do.'

  'Did Anders know about the film?'