by Mark Burnell
'No. Did you?'
'Did I what?'
'Know about it. While you were … starring in it.'
Stephanie had to shake off her mental lethargy to resume the role. 'Not at first. I found out afterwards and I was angry. But then there was the money, so …'
'Nevertheless, you were there. How did that happen?'
Time for the lies. 'The other girl asked me. It was her show. I didn't know anything about it. She described the deal – but never mentioned any filming – and then offered me two thousand euros. Naturally I jumped at the chance.'
'Naturally.'
'We've worked together before. We get on well. I trust her, more or less.'
Zahani couldn't quite conceal her distaste. 'How did she get the job?'
'She never said and I never asked. For two thousand euros – best not to.'
'Have you spoken to her since then?'
Stephanie shook her head. 'She's gone.'
'Where?'
'I don't know. And I don't want to guess.'
Zahani nodded grimly. 'No. I can imagine.'
'Was Anders being blackmailed?' Stephanie asked.
'I have no doubt that was the intention. Why else would anyone go to all that effort? But as far as I know, he wasn't aware of the film when he died.'
'Who would have used it against him?'
'Do you play chess, Marianne?'
'No,' lied Stephanie, 'although I see that you do. You have a lot of boards.'
'I have nine in this apartment. Each one is a separate game.'
'All on-going?'
Zahani nodded. 'More than anything, chess is a game of pressure, in my opinion. You have a strategy. Within that strategy specific pieces, or specific squares, are subjected to varying degrees of pressure. Sometimes a single square – occupied or unoccupied – can come under pressure from a great number of pieces. You might describe it as compound pressure. That was the kind of pressure Anders was under. The film would have been just one element of the pressure he bore.'
Stephanie heard herself say, 'It didn't show.'
Despite herself, Zahani found that funny, then said, 'Whatever your opinion of Anders, Marianne, he was a remarkable man. A lovely man. Talented, too. He could make God and the Devil sit at the same table. Recently, he'd spent a lot of time in Iraq trying to mediate between the Iraqis and the Americans.'
'That sounds like a tougher challenge.'
'I think he would have agreed with you.'
'He never told me what he did.'
Zahani smiled sympathetically. 'Under the circumstances in which you met him, that's probably not a great surprise.'
'What has this got to do with me?'
'Nothing. It's to do with Anders and Iraq.'
'But they're after me too.'
'I'm sorry, Marianne, but you're just a detail. A "t" that needs crossing.'
'I've never been to Iraq.'
'Then I shouldn't start now.'
'What kind of pressure was he under?'
'He wouldn't tell me, even though we were friends. The only person who knew was Leonid and he's dead.'
'So who can I turn to?'
Zahani shrugged. 'Someone who knew Leonid a lot better than I ever did. And at the risk of offending your feelings, Marianne, I think it unlikely that you'll know anyone who falls into that category. And that even if you did, they might not want to discuss something like this with someone like you. I'm sorry if this sounds blunt.'
Blunt but honest. Stephanie nodded a little forlornly.
Zahani said, 'I've told you all I can usefully tell you. Perhaps more than I should have. However, my advice to you is this: take the money and vanish. Start again somewhere a long way from here.'
I walk down avenue Foch in a cold drizzle that I hardly feel. The hiss of passing cars drowns out the rest of the city. Every time I think about the film my stomach tightens. On the screen behind my eyelids Anders is having sex but he's no longer with my clone; he's with me. I'm a woman with two bodies. Or even three. Or am I three women occupying a single body? It's getting harder to tell.
When I think about her – the other me – I feel bitter at the violation but I also feel worried. I'm meant to be dead. That means she should be dead too. Does that terminal sentence extend as far as the woman who played the role, or is it limited to the on-screen character?
Zahani says the answers will come from Iraq. Whether she's telling the truth or not makes little difference; if I'm to find them they'll need to be closer than that. The woman on the disk is a starting point. I need to find her in order to find myself. I need to know whether she's alive or dead.
I head home. Home. That's a strange way to think of Robert's apartment. A haven, perhaps, but hardly a home; I've been there for less than seventy-two hours. Yet the place feels familiar. And safe.
Zahani, Golitsyn, Brand. Where does Robert fit in? Does he fit in? I don't know, although it occurs to me that there is one thing I've overlooked.
He's asleep when I get back and I don't wake him up. His mobile phone is still on his desk. The only call he's made from it since I got into his car was to Scheherazade Zahani this morning. I look at the call before that and remember what he told me: that the man he was due to meet called to cancel him. I check the time at which it was made. 20:28. That corresponds. I hit the button to call the number.
'Hi. This is Robert Coogan. Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you. Thanks.'
An American. The name means nothing.
I unzip the Tumi bag that Zahani gave me. Ten thousand euros in twenties and fifties. It's not much. Not to me. Next, I look for the note that was pinned to Lorenz's studio door in Pigalle. I find it scrunched into a ball in the back pocket of the trousers I was wearing. Claudette – you fucking retard. Where are you? Where's my fucking money? Call me before midday. Or get out and don't come back. Étienne. The number's at the bottom. The man who answers doesn't sound like Lorenz. It could be Pico.
'I want to speak to Étienne.'
'He's … uh … he's kind of … busy. Who's this?'
'Claudette.'
He doesn't question this. Which means he doesn't know her. At least, not well enough to identify her voice.
'Where are you?'
'With his money.'
'About time.'
'Can I bring it over?'
'We're not around.'
'When, then?'
'We're back tomorrow.'
'I can't do it before?'
'Sure,' he sniggers. 'If you want to fly down to Marseille.'
'What time are you back?'
'In the morning.'
'Can I come over then?'
'I guess so.'
'To Pigalle?'
'He won't be there. He'll be over at Kremlin-Bicêtre.'
'Give me the address again.'
'What's the matter with you? How many times you been there?'
'Listen, monkey boy, if you think he wants his money just give me the address.'
She seemed anxious when she came into the room and knelt beside him to unfasten the leather cuffs. Newman stretched on the mattress and then rubbed his raw wrists. He ached, particularly through the shoulders and down the spine. The mattress was better than the chair but without his daily regime of stretches the damaged muscles and sinews swiftly resorted to discomfort. He got up slowly and stiffly, taking care to let nothing show on his face.
'How was it with Scheherazade? She any help?'
'She gave me some advice. And some money.'
'How much?'
'Ten thousand euros.'
'Just like that?'
Stephanie nodded.
'Maybe I should ask her myself.'
'Who's Robert Coogan?'
'Coogs? He's an old friend. Why?'
A publisher from New York, it turned out, just passing through for a couple of days on his way to Switzerland. They'd decided to go to the Lancaster because 'Coogs' wanted to try the restaurant, which was now under
the direction of a star-spangled Michelin chef Stephanie had never heard of.
No connections at all, it seemed. Except that Newman had still recognized Zahani. Stephanie couldn't let go of that fact even though chance encounters happened all the time. She thought of herself and John Peltor; on two separate occasions, thousands of miles apart, so why not Newman and Zahani? They both lived in Paris, after all, not so far apart. Statistically, it wasn't that unlikely; it just felt that way.
They went through to the sitting-room. There was a cup of tea waiting for him on the table. He thanked her, picked it up and sat on the sofa.
It was dark outside. Another day gone. More than anything else he wanted fresh air. A cold wind against his skin, with rain or sun. Anything that invigorated.
To Newman, Stephanie seemed less vigilant than the day before. On their way to the sitting room she'd walked ahead of him, not behind him. He couldn't decide whether she was softening, or whether she was simply distracted. The second time she'd gone out she hadn't gagged him. She'd been beside him on the bed and had picked up the roll of tape and bitten off a six-inch strip. But as she'd leaned over him to apply it, she'd hesitated.
'If I don't do it, will you shout?'
He'd shaken his head – what other response was there? – and she'd screwed the tape into a sticky ball and tossed it aside.
'I believe you,' she'd said.
He'd heard the front door close and had decided to wait. It had to be a trap. A test. She hadn't gone out at all; she'd be waiting out of sight. The moment he opened his mouth she'd reappear. He was sure of it.
Five minutes drifted by. Still nothing. He'd listened to the city; sirens in the distance, cars crawling along quai d'Orléans, a couple arguing in the street. Then another five minutes. Followed by a further five. Gradually, he'd realized two things. One: she wasn't in the apartment with him. Two: her trust wasn't misplaced.
He wasn't going to shout. He wasn't sure why not. Every time logic argued the prosecutor's case, instinct leapt to the defence. It didn't make sense; he owed her nothing. But there it was.
He wondered how she'd known. Or had she simply gambled?
At some point he'd drifted back to sleep. When he next awoke, she'd returned. And she didn't seem remotely surprised to find nothing had changed. At least, not with him. But there seemed to be a change within her.
For the first time, Newman thought he detected a serious sense of doubt.
Five-to-eight. The buzzer sounded. They both looked at each other and saw genuine alarm. Stephanie picked up the Smith & Wesson. They went into the hall. The entry-phone was to the right of the door. The black and white image was a little fuzzy but Stephanie saw a slender woman with long fair hair in a dark overcoat.
'Shit,' muttered Newman. 'Anna.'
'Anna the ex-girlfriend?'
Newman nodded.
'What's she doing here?'
'I don't know.'
They watched her reach for the button on the panel. The buzzer sounded again, longer this time.
'Don't answer. She'll go away.'
But she didn't. She waited, then opened the small bag she was carrying and began to rummage through it. Stephanie and Newman watched in silence as Anna pulled something out and turned to the door.
'A key,' Stephanie whispered. 'She's got a key. Why's she got a key?'
'Do we have time for this?'
'Why?'
'I guess I forgot about it. Maybe she's bringing it back. Christ, I don't know. I'll make her go away.'
'How, exactly?'
'I'll take the key and …'
'Walk out with her? I don't think so.'
'Trust me.'
She wanted to. And she did, up to a point. Hadn't she proved that by not gagging him? But Petra was in the ascendancy now.
'Don't hurt her, Marianne. We can work something out.'
'Like what?'
Stephanie looked around the hall, then opened the front door a few inches. Nothing yet.
'Go into the sitting-room. I'll leave the door open. When she gets here, call her in. Talk to her, take the key from her, then show her out. She won't see me but the moment she steps inside I'm going to see both of you. Got that?'
'Yes.'
'Whisper anything, I'll shoot her. Pass her anything, I'll shoot her. Do anything – absolutely anything – and I swear to God I will.'
Newman went into the sitting-room. Stephanie retreated to the kitchen. The lift doors parted. The bell rang and the front door squeaked on brass hinges.
'Robert?'
From the sitting-room: 'That you, Anna?'
'You didn't answer.'
English with a European accent.
'I'm on the phone. Be with you in a second. Come on in.'
Stephanie heard the heavy clunk of the front door closing. She tip-toed in the wake of Anna's footsteps as far as the sitting-room doorway. She watched Anna shed a leather overcoat. Bootcut jeans and a mauve long-sleeved T-shirt heightened a fabulous figure.
Newman pretended to finish a call. 'Hey. How are you?'
'I'm fine, Robert. God, you look terrible.'
'Thanks.'
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing. It's just … work. You know how it is.'
She smiled sadly. 'Sure. The way it always is. And always was.'
'How did you …'
'I saw the lights. And I still have a key.'
'You didn't say you were coming over.'
She shrugged. 'I wanted to surprise you.'
'Congratulations. You've succeeded.'
'You haven't called me.'
'I've been away.'
'Me too. Where?'
'All over. Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, Tehran. You?'
Newman's lies flowed as smoothly as Petra's.
'Milan and New York,' Anna said. I'm here for ten more days, then back to New York. How come you never called?'
'You know, this isn't a good time right now.'
Anna looked around. 'You have someone else here?'
'No. Nothing like that.'
Anna was tall – five ten or eleven, Stephanie estimated – with the type of buttery pale skin that tanned easily. Her beauty was so pure it bordered blandness.
'I just wanted to see you again,' she said. 'I miss you.'
'Anna …'
'Aren't you going to offer me a drink?'
He couldn't quite bring himself to say no. 'Are you okay?'
She bit her lip. 'Not really.'
'What is it?'
'I'm sorry. I should have called you first.'
He said, 'Tell me what it is.'
She said, 'It's Karl.'
Newman looked stung. Stephanie saw his concentration slip, his concern extending beyond Anna's immediate safety.
Time to intervene.
Stephanie swept silently down the hall to the bathroom, kicked off her shoes and socks, ran a basin of water, pushed her head into it, then grabbed a towel, before padding back to the sitting-room.
Barefoot, towelling her wet hair, she called out to him. 'Robert, darling, there's a problem with the shower. I think you …'
She halted in the doorway, faking surprise. Anna was now sitting on the sofa, visibly subdued. Newman was still standing, consumed by uncertainty. Startled, they both looked at Stephanie.
'I'm sorry. I didn't hear … I was in the shower and …'
Anna looked at Newman for an explanation. But he was looking to Stephanie for guidance.
Anna introduced herself. She was close to tears but determined to retain as much dignity as possible, no matter how uncomfortable the moment. She rose from the sofa. 'I'm sorry. He never said. I wouldn't have come if I'd known.' She turned to Newman. 'You didn't have to lie, Robert. You could have just said.'
He shook his head. 'Anna …'
'Don't make it worse. Don't say anything.'
'About Karl. If you want …'
'Forget it. It's not your problem any more.'
Stephanie said, 'I thought you
were letting the situation slip. I had to do something.'
Newman was sitting, elbows on knees, hunched forward, despondent. Five minutes had passed since Anna had let herself out of the apartment. Stephanie was standing by the window looking across at the floodlit cathedral of Notre Dame.
'Is she okay?'
He shook his head.
'What's the problem?'
'It doesn't concern you.'
'Does it concern you?'
'Indirectly.'
'You still care about her.'
His accusatory glance was confirmation.
'Then I'm sorry.'
He shrugged off her apology.
She said, 'If it's any consolation, you did okay. It could've been a lot messier.'
His smile was laced with bitterness. 'Easy for you to say.'
Newman said, 'I'm hungry.'
Stephanie was relieved; the sound from the television hadn't succeeded in crushing a silence that had persisted for half an hour. When she'd looked at him she'd seen worry, not petulance. The longer the freeze, the worse she'd felt, even though she knew there'd been no alternative.
'Okay. I'll make us something. What do you want?'
He looked directly at her. 'I want to go out.'
'What?'
'I want to eat out.'
'You mean leave the apartment?'
'Yes. I want to walk in the rain. I want to breathe fresh air. I want a proper meal. I want something alcoholic to drink.'
Impossible. That was her initial reaction. But she tempered it instantly. 'I don't think that's going to work.'
'You don't trust me?'
'It's not that.'
'Sure it is. What else could it be?'
'It's not safe.'
'Bullshit. Nobody knows where you are, do they? There are places round the corner – small, discreet, dark – no one's going to know.'
'I just don't …'
'This isn't a trick, Marianne. I give you my word. Come on. You owe me.'
Irrelevant yet incontestable. She felt the protest from every part of her that was Petra. Which, perhaps, was the reason for her answer: 'My name isn't Marianne, Robert. It's Stephanie.'
It was still raining and the air froze their breath. They headed down rue Saint-Louis en L'Île, a narrow, cobbled lane bisecting the island, and stopped at the Auberge de la Reine Blanche.
The patron greeted Newman enthusiastically, glanced at Stephanie and then suggested a cosy table towards the rear. Newman seemed to find that funny – merci, Fabrice, merci – and they traded conspiratorial winks.
