The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'I'm wondering if Anders Brand would have regarded Golitsyn as a confidant. I know they were very close; you said so yourself.'

  'This was your idea?'

  'Yes.'

  'So not Scheherazade Zahani's, then?'

  Stephanie couldn't disguise her surprise.

  Natalya Ginzburg said, 'I hear more than I should. My husband, Aleksandr, was a peddler of precious stones but he also traded in a commodity far more valuable: information.'

  'As did Golitsyn.'

  'Precisely. And as I have, in my own small way.'

  Stephanie said the first thing to come to mind. 'Do you know Stern?'

  'I know of him, naturally. But I've never met him. At least, not to my knowledge.'

  'Well he told me this: Golitsyn floats above the world.'

  Ginzburg raised an eyebrow traced in pencil. 'Did he? Not bad for a man with so little panache. Perhaps even accurate. When was this?'

  'Four days ago.'

  Ginzburg looked as though she was recalling a time far more distant. 'Leonid lived among people for whom the normal rules don't apply. They're too rich to pay tax. They live in too many houses to have a home. They leave the constraints of the law to those who can't afford the best lawyers.'

  'Do you float above the world too?'

  The smile was cold. 'I prefer to think of myself as someone who occupies a unique and solitary environment.'

  'You said you hear more than you should. What have you heard about the Sentier bomb? Or Brand. Or even Golitsyn.'

  She sighed theatrically. 'Assuming for a moment that you find the answers to your questions – a rather rash assumption, I feel – what will you do with them? How will they benefit you?'

  'I want to know the reason why.'

  'But you already know the answer to that: it is because you are Petra Reuter.'

  'I need to know who's responsible.'

  'So that you can exact bloody revenge for your inconvenience?'

  'I regard what happened at Sentier as more than an inconvenience.'

  Ginzburg took one of her handmade Turkish cigarettes from a silver box on the table to her left. 'And your alter ego – Petra – how would she regard it?'

  As nothing more than an inconvenience; Ginzburg, it seemed, understood both sides of her.

  Stephanie said, 'I've changed. Or I'm changing. One or the other, I'm not sure which.'

  Ginzburg lit her cigarette and peered at Stephanie through thick twists of golden smoke. 'I saw Leonid the morning he died.'

  Stephanie felt a rapid patter beneath the breastbone. 'You never mentioned that before. Where did you meet?'

  'Here. When he phoned in the morning he sounded awful. I said I'd go to him but he wouldn't let me. He insisted on coming to see me. It'll appear normal – that was what he said. A visit to an old friend; what could be less suspicious?'

  'Did he mention that he was going to the Lancaster that evening?'

  'No.'

  'Did he mention Scheherazade Zahani?'

  'No.'

  'How about Robert Newman?'

  'Who?'

  'An American businessman.'

  'No, I don't believe so. I don't recognize the name.'

  'How much do you know about Zahani?'

  'Over and above what one reads in the papers, only this: that she has a ferocious intellect. And that she's surgically shrewd.'

  'Surgically shrewd?'

  'Zahani has always thrived in hostile environments whether they've been physical, political, commercial or cultural. She has an astonishing capacity for analysis. A country or an individual – it makes no difference to her. She's a consummate chess player – it's her passion – and in many ways, she conducts her life on a board of sixty-four squares. She's a woman of infinite analysis, a woman of infinite options.'

  There was a knock at the door. When it opened, a squat man in a black suit and white shirt appeared. He gave the slightest nod and then vanished without a word.

  'I have to leave for the airport. If you wish, you may accompany me part of the way so that we can talk some more.'

  The car was a black Zil limousine. Dark grey curtains were half-drawn across the windows. On the back shelf was a single red rose in a silver cup. A thick sheet of glass partitioned them from the chauffeur.

  'A gift to my husband from Leonid Brezhnev,' Ginzburg explained. 'Or rather, from the grateful people of the Soviet Union. Aleksandr sent it straight to Stuttgart and had the people at Mercedes recondition it. In other words, it's not what you see. It's a glossy lie.'

  They crept out of place Vendôme towards boulevard des Capucines.

  'What did the other Leonid tell you?'

  'We discussed the dinner that he and Anders had shared at the Meurice the day he arrived from New York. Anders was in a shocking state. Very despondent, very distracted. Leonid said he was deathly pale.'

  'Did he offer a reason?'

  'Iraq. Commuting between Baghdad and the United States was taking its toll. Anders was under pressure from the State Department, the Pentagon, even from the White House. That was what he told Leonid.'

  'What kind of pressure?'

  She peered through the window at the passing of rue Marx Dormoy. 'Are you aware of Butterfly?'

  'No. What is it?'

  'It's a regeneration programme for Iraq, centred on the city of Mosul, in the north. It's an aid project, essentially, with guiding principles not dissimilar to the oil-for-food programme instituted under Saddam. The difference is that the revenues are to be administered by a neutral third party to ensure that all the money reaches its intended targets.'

  'At the risk of appearing naïve, that sounds like a good idea.'

  'I thought so too.'

  'So what was the problem?'

  'Anders didn't see it that way, according to Leonid.'

  'Why not?'

  'He felt – no, he believed – that the Iraqi people were being misled.'

  'I have to confess, I never really understood why his opinion was quite so important anyway.'

  'Anders was a man the current US administration trusted completely, despite being European, and despite his long association with the UN. At the same time, in Iraq, he was also the one man – the one westerner – who was trusted by the Kurds, the Sunni Muslims and, in particular, the Shia Muslims. Can you think of another individual for whom that would be true? Can you even imagine such a person?'

  'Perhaps not.'

  'So you begin to see the position he was in: on this matter, his patronage was essential. The Americans felt they could rely on his endorsement of Butterfly and that once the project was running, everyone would be able to see the benefits, as vast amounts of investment were generated for Iraq's social infrastructure.'

  'A massive PR exercise, then.'

  'On an unprecedented scale. But with the bonus of integrity.'

  'What went wrong?'

  'He wouldn't even take it to the Iraqis.'

  'Why not?'

  'Anders said he could deliver the factions but what he also said was this: if he was to act in good faith – to be the honest broker the Americans wanted him to be – he would recommend that all parties reject Butterfly.'

  'Why?'

  'He said it was a smokescreen.'

  'For what?'

  'He wouldn't tell Leonid. He said it wouldn't be safe.'

  'Why didn't he put it to the Iraqi factions and let them decide for themselves? I'm sure they would've viewed the proposal from a starting point of sufficient scepticism.'

  'I'm inclined to agree with you. But he didn't.'

  'And so when Anders died, Leonid came to see you because he needed someone to talk to.'

  'Yes.'

  'If you don't mind my asking, why you?'

  Ginzburg offered haughty amusement. 'This surprises you?'

  'Frankly, yes.'

  'Leonid was always candid with those he trusted. But he was never cheap with his trust.'

  Stephanie wondered whether Ginzburg kn
ew about Brand and the call-girls. Probably, she decided. She was, after all, a woman who heard more than she should.

  'Is there anything else I need to know?'

  'Butterfly was due to be ratified four days from now.'

  'Due?'

  'Anders was supposed to be present. As a guarantor of good faith, you might say. I assume his death has cast a shadow over Butterfly. Although whether that will change anything, I couldn't say.'

  'Where was the signing to take place?'

  'In Vienna. At the conference.'

  'What conference?'

  'Petrotech. It's some kind of oil forum, I think. Leonid did explain it to me but I have to confess that I didn't pay full attention. It sounded very dull.'

  Vienna. For the second time that morning.

  There was a small tortoise-shell control panel built into the arm-rest next to Ginzburg. She pressed a red button and the Zil glided to the kerb beside the slip road to the périphérique at porte de la Chapelle.

  'I've told you all I can regarding Leonid and Anders. What you do with the information is up to you. But when you make your choice, there's one more thing you should know: you're under contract.'

  Stephanie stared at her for several seconds. 'How do you know?'

  'Why do you suppose Brezhnev gave Aleksandr this car?' Her parched face cracked into a humourless smile. 'It wasn't because they were friends. They weren't. It was because each had something the other wanted. And when the price was right, they traded. I've been asking questions about you. Calling in old favours.'

  'Why?'

  'You know why, Stephanie. We're the same, you and I.'

  She couldn't deny it but spoke her mind anyway. 'Is that enough?'

  'At my age? Certainly. I feel I can be as indulgent as I wish.'

  'How liberating.'

  'It is. Very. I hope you'll live long enough to experience it yourself.'

  'You never know.'

  Ginzburg was holding something back. Stephanie was sure of it. As Petra, she would have too.

  'Five million dollars.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'The price on your head,' said Natalya Ginzburg. She let it sink in and then offered a suitably sympathetic nod. 'I understand how you must feel. I imagine it's more of an insult than a threat.'

  'Who's putting up the money?'

  'I haven't been able to establish that. But it's open. First come, first served. A race, a free-for-all.'

  Stephanie reached for the door. 'Well … thank you anyway.'

  'Don't thank me. Listen to me, instead. You can't see them. You don't know how many of them there are. Or how well connected they are.' Ginzburg leaned over and took her by the hand. 'Run, Stephanie. Realistically, it's all you can do.'

  It's still raining when I surface from the Métro at Châtelet Les Halles but I don't mind. I've always liked rain; it lifts my spirit. I stroll down boulevard de Sébastopol, then quai des Gesvres.

  Natalya Ginzburg is right, of course. I've seen her and I've seen Étienne Lorenz and all I have are more questions than answers. So tonight I'll head for Italy. I know of a document forger in Turin, another of Jacob Furst's apprentices. From Italy, I'll fly to the States where I'll dissolve into a big city. Los Angeles, most likely. Nowhere has so many lost people as Los Angeles. I'll drift with the nomadic flotsam on the margins of the city. And as the hazy weeks bleed into one another a long-term plan will form. Australia, maybe. Or New Zealand. Anywhere that's a long way from here. And from her.

  I don't need to find the other Petra now because I'm no longer interested in this Petra. I've seen enough. I don't want this life any more. More importantly, I don't need it. Whatever the illness was, I'm cured.

  The police could be waiting for me when I enter the apartment on quai d'Orléans since I didn't cuff Robert before going out. Yet I have no hesitation in opening the front door and stepping inside. Half of me trusts him, the other half doesn't care. I wouldn't call it a death wish, exactly. Just an acute sense of fatalism. Which is proof, if I ever I needed it, of Petra's waning influence.

  She's making the transition from reality to memory. She's a snapshot where age has begun to bleach the colour. In time, she'll be nothing more than an amorphous blur over a blank background.

  Robert is in the sitting-room. The curtains are open, the lights are on. He's reading a copy of The Economist. He wears a pair of old denim jeans and a crisp cream cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is still damp from the shower. He's clean-shaven and barefoot. Technically, he's still a hostage but to the casual observer I could be a wife coming home to her husband.

  'You look relaxed,' I say.

  'As prisoners go, I feel pretty relaxed. Did you get what you needed?'

  'Yes. What about you?'

  'I've just been hanging out here. I spoke to Marie.'

  'Your secretary?'

  He nods. 'I thought I should. I'm supposed to be ill, not away. And then I called Yvette. She's coming the day after tomorrow.'

  'You didn't go out?'

  'You asked me not to.'

  'I know.'

  He recognizes the surface absurdity of our situation. 'Look, Stephanie, the way this has worked out … I don't know what I was expecting when you jumped into my car but it wasn't this.'

  'Join the club.'

  'I just didn't see any point in doing anything. Not now. Not with you leaving.'

  'Thanks.'

  'There is one thing, though.'

  'What?'

  His expression is pitched somewhere between embarrassment and pain. 'I went into my office to check my e-mail.'

  'That's okay.'

  He avoids looking at me directly. 'The disk was beside the computer. The one you were watching this morning.'

  More than anything I feel disappointed. Not by him. By me. Even though it's not me. I just don't want him to think of me that way, no matter who it really is. I tell him it's not me but can see that he doesn't believe it.

  'She looks like me because she's supposed to.'

  'I shouldn't have watched it, okay? I'm sorry.'

  'If you look close enough you'll see the differences.'

  'It's all right, Stephanie. I believe you.'

  The lie only makes it worse. He wants to believe me but he knows what he's seen. Which is exactly why the disk was made. I could prove it to him if I wanted. But that would mean sitting beside him as we watched it together and I'm not sure I have the stomach for that. Not right now. And in an hour or two, when I've gone, what difference will it make?

  Stephanie made tea for them and brought it to the sitting-room on a tray. As she set it on the coffee table in front of Newman she said, 'Have you ever heard of something called Butterfly in relation to Iraq?'

  'No. What is it?'

  'A regeneration programme based in Mosul. An oil-for-cash scheme.'

  Newman's soft laugh was sarcastic. 'Born within the Beltway?'

  'I think so. Why?'

  'I don't know. I just wish some of the people who dreamt these things up took the time to find out what life's like on the ground.'

  'Are you talking about Iraq, or generally?'

  'Both.'

  She poured tea into a blue mug and handed it to him. 'You don't approve of what happened in Iraq?'

  'The way you say that makes it sound like you think I should.'

  'You're an oil-man.'

  'First: I'm not an oil-man. I'm just someone who happens to do business with oil-men. Second: no, I don't approve of what happened in Iraq.'

  'So you don't believe the reasons for war were right?'

  'I don't know what I believe any more. Except this one thing: the world is a better place without Saddam, Uday or Qusay. There was only ever one legitimate argument for going into Iraq and that was humanitarian. And no one bothered with that until all the other reasons had been discredited.'

  'Do you know Iraq well?'

  'Not really. I used to go in the Eighties. Between the wars, I only went twice. Since t
hen, not at all. I know other countries in the region much better.'

  'That still gives you a view.'

  'Sure it does and it's this: it's a mess. And there's no way out.'

  'Except to leave, of course.'

  'That's not a way out. It wouldn't be the end of it.'

  Stephanie poured a mug of tea for herself and took it to the other sofa. She kicked off her shoes and sat at one end, her legs folded beneath her. 'How can you be so sure?'

  'Because America wants democracy for Iraq. If it succeeds in establishing it Iraq will become even more of a regional lightning-rod for anti-American, anti-democratic militancy than it is already. And if democracy fails in Iraq, America will have failed too. And all it will have achieved is a legacy of intensified hatred.'

  'Do you believe democracy is actually possible in Iraq?'

  'In the long-term – maybe, but probably not.'

  'Why not?'

  'Basically, Islam and democracy are incompatible. If you accept that democracy gives power to the people. And that in Islam, power belongs to God alone.'

  'So any attempt to establish democracy in Iraq – or anywhere else in the Arab world, for that matter – is doomed to failure?'

  'It depends on how Islamic or democratic Iraq is going to be. But it's naïve and insulting to assume that Iraq can't be a successful society without democracy. Or that Muslims generally can't establish successful non-democratic societies. Historically, they have. On the other hand, with the exception of Turkey, almost every Muslim state in the world today is a despotic failure. But that's not Islam's fault. It's the fault of the leaders of those countries.'

  'So you presumably consider Butterfly nothing more than an exercise in cynicism?'

  Newman drank some tea. 'Take it from someone who knows this industry. Iraq is about oil. Nothing more, nothing less. Even though the oil industry denies it.'

  'Well they would, wouldn't they?'

  'Yes. But they're also right.'

  'Now you're contradicting yourself.'

  'Not really. Look, oil companies argued against the Iraq war. They warned that it would lead to regional unrest, instability in Saudi Arabia, and rising prices of crude. Which is what happened. But the politicians went ahead anyway. It was the same when the British initiated the Suez conflict in 1956. That led directly to the rise of Arab nationalism which brought about the formation of OPEC and the 1973 oil crisis.'