by Mark Burnell
'Lending credibility to my theory that this disk is insurance.'
Stephanie began to search through other files.
Newman said, 'Why don't you just take the laptop and disk? I don't think he'll be needing it.'
'In a minute.'
She tried the second disk. The directory revealed the most recent transfers; three folders copied to the disk within four minutes of each other, less than seventy-two hours ago. She opened one of the folders. There were four files inside. She picked one at random. Names, numbers and addresses formed on the screen.
Newman was still talking to her but she could no longer hear him.
She stared at the first name and felt queasy. She looked at the next name, then the rest. She knew them all.
Mark Hamilton, Konstantin Komarov. Not just people she knew. People who mattered to her. The cast of her life. Except for Cyril Bradfield and Albert Eichner. They were enigmatically absent.
She looked at Komarov's address; Kutuzovsky Prospekt, Moscow, the same as it had been when they'd been lovers. She remembered her first night there, how reckless she'd been and how right it had felt. There were three other contact addresses for Komarov in Moscow; his office, the orphanage in Izmailovo and a third she didn't recognize. Ulitsa Pyatnitskaya. There was a name and phone-number to go with it: Ludmilla Ivanova.
A geologist fluent in four languages and perhaps the most beautiful woman Stephanie had ever seen. In her darker moments, she'd imagined that Komarov would have moved on by now. No that wasn't quite correct; she'd hoped he would have moved on. That was the truth. But why would he?
She looked at Mark Hamilton. Still living in Queen's Gate Mews in London. The phone number was the same.
Her head was spinning.
Her fingers moved over the mouse-pad. A new page of information filled the screen. A sea of black on electronic white. She couldn't take it in. Except for one thing. Two thirds of the way down the page was a sequence of letters and numbers: M-E-1-1-6-4-R-P.
Her Magenta House clearance code.
Day Eight
They were on the A6 péage south of Auxerre. Newman was driving the silver Audi, Stephanie was in the back, the laptop on the leather seat beside her. She knew the numbness would pass but that wasn't enough to make it happen. For now, confusion reigned and she made little attempt to counter it.
Of all the recent surprises – the apartment at Stalingrad, the clandestine film – the exposure of her Magenta House clearance code was the most shocking because it was more than a mere security designation. It was Petra Reuter's DNA. And who else could have provided it but Magenta House itself?
Someone on the inside.
Would Petra Reuter now be revealed as nothing more than a ghost? A legend of convenience designed to smoke out potential targets. Possibly. Except, of course, Stephanie had allowed Petra to transcend the limited scope of Magenta House's imagination.
Ironically, the code's very existence might now lead to the conclusion that Petra Reuter had never existed. But what about Otto Heilmann? Who'd killed him? After Magenta House, Stephanie had allowed life to imitate art. Then to better it.
But why? Staring into the darkness, she found she couldn't remember.
They were heading for Switzerland, then Italy, from where she'd make her way to the United States. She wondered where Newman would go, how they'd part. She wondered how it was they were still together.
She tried to impose order on Paris: the bomb in Passage du Caire, the Lancaster, the apartment at Stalingrad, the film. And then Grotius. She was supposed to have died in Sentier. Having survived, she'd been set up to take the fall for Golitsyn. Having survived that, they' d tried to kill her again.
Her thoughts strayed to Newman. He'd recognized all the names on Grotius's laptop; DeMille, Calloway, KPM. He knew that Amsterdam owned them. He'd been at the Lancaster. And in the car coming up the ramp. He said he didn't know about Butterfly but was very familiar with the geopolitical background. She couldn't pin a single suspicion to him. It was just a general feeling. Or maybe it was because she was tired. It was getting harder to tell.
She pressed her face to the glass.
Newman was watching her in the rear-view mirror. 'You okay? Maybe we should stop for coffee. I'll need gas in less than eighty kilometres.'
She didn't answer and he didn't press it. There were questions he wanted to ask – needed to ask – but now wasn't the time. When he got his answers, he wanted them to be coherent.
He couldn't purge the image of the body in his kitchen. The blood, the knives, the injuries. During the days they'd shared there had been times when he'd doubted her capacity for serious violence. Perhaps it was an illusion he'd encouraged. Now he knew better.
New York City, 20:50
Paris-2, the South African Lance Grotius, had been granted a termination order shortly after 21:05 CET. John Cabrini had allowed for the fact that Grotius might wait until late at night but in Paris it was now ten-to-three in the morning and there was still no confirmation from him.
When Grotius had posted the licence plate applications the last thing Cabrini had expected was a connection. But there it was: Robert Newman, a Solaris consultant. That description had sent a shiver through Cabrini; in his world 'consultancy' covered a vast range of options, none of them savoury.
Solaris had acted as informal advisers to companies controlled by the Amsterdam Group, though not to Amsterdam itself. Newman had been involved personally on two occasions. Once in Kuala Lumpur, once in Caracas. But that was it. There were no other leads to follow. Until the vehicle licence plate. Followed, shortly afterwards, by Helen Ito's Internet trace.
Cabrini had always been amazed by the ignorance of the public. The Internet had allowed people to assume the illusion of privacy. He was reminded of small children who put their hands over their eyes and imagine that because they can't see anyone else they can't themselves be seen. But every connection and movement on the Internet left its own personal fingerprint. With the right technology and sufficient power, any single piece of Internet activity could be traced back to the monitor of origin.
Hooking into the NSA and their vast network of INTELSAT eavesdropping stations, Helen Ito had initiated the search with key words and phrases. At the NSA, analysts gave each word or phrase a four-digit number – a one-time search code – before passing them through the Echelon computer system to listening posts around the world, where a programme called Dictionary hunted among millions of transmissions caught by the interceptors. The hits came from Menwith Hill in England, the largest surveillance station in the world, a 560-acre site of satellite dishes belonging to the NSA.
By the time Lance Grotius's request had reached New York, Ito had established a list of seventeen origins of heightened activity. When the names and addresses of the vehicle licence plates came back, the only name on both lists had been Robert Newman's.
I walk from the washroom to the canteen and head for the table where Robert is. He's leaning over the back of his chair, talking to a man from the next-door table. A man dressed in dark blue. A man who has three friends at the table, also dressed in blue. A man with a holstered gun on his hip. A man who starts laughing at something that Robert has just said.
Now they're all laughing.
We're at Le Chien Blanc service area. At ten-to-four in the morning, it's simultaneously cheerless and welcoming. A haven from the windswept dark of the road, yet soulless, the skeleton staff drifting beneath lights that drain life from even the heartiest face.
The Petra reflex offers two solutions. One: turn around and leave. But Robert has the key to the Audi and at this time of the morning there aren't many viable alternatives in the car-park. Two: take the gun out of my leather jacket, shoot everyone in sight, collect the key and leave.
Fortunately, I'm not half the woman I used to be so I do neither. Robert sees me and smiles. A relaxed man without a care in the world, as long as you don't ask about the nasty graze above his right ear. Which, by turni
ng to me, he presents to his new friend, the police officer, for closer inspection.
He introduces me as Anna. When I shoot a glance at him, there's definitely a glint in his eye. The police officers shake my hand, pleasantries are exchanged. I sit down and the conversation resumes. Everyone's in a good mood. I imagine they have X -Ray eyes, that they can see the Heckler & Koch USP through the bulge in my coat pocket, and the cuts and bruises that have discoloured my skin.
When they stand to leave, I have no idea how many minutes have passed. Handshakes all round, they wish us a safe journey, then go. I watch them from the canteen to the two patrol cars outside, waiting for it to turn sour.
It never does.
I give Robert a look that's supposed to convey annoyance. 'Anna?'
He shrugs. 'All I could think of on the spur of the moment.'
'That makes it even worse.'
'Would it have been better if I'd used your name?'
'It would have been better if you'd chosen not to engage the local gendarmerie in some friendly banter.'
'What was I supposed to do? Get up and move to another table?'
'You could have ignored them.'
'Even when they spoke to me?'
'What did they want?'
'The paper.'
I frown. 'What paper?'
'There was a copy of France-Soir on our table. One of them asked for it. Then we got talking and he picked up on my accent. I told him I was American and he said he loved New York. One of the others has a sister who married a dentist in San Francisco.'
'What were they laughing about?'
Robert shifts awkwardly. 'Well … I told them you were my secretary. And that we were going away for a few days.'
A partial explanation if ever I heard one. 'Go on.'
'One of them asked where I was taking you.'
'And you said?'
'From behind.'
For a moment, I'm too stunned to say anything at all. When the words eventually form, they line up in regimental fashion. 'You. Are. Joking.'
But he's not. What's more, he seems to find it funny.
I shake my head in a feeble attempt at disapproval. 'From behind?'
Another shrug. 'Again, all I could think of on the spur of the moment.'
'That really does make it worse.'
Quarter-past-four and my coffee's cold but I drink some of it anyway. 'I still need your car, Robert. And if you could give me an hour or two to get down the péage that would help. Maybe you could have another cup of this lovely coffee.'
'What a prospect.'
We look at each other for a while, neither finding it necessary to break the moment. We're beyond such petty embarrassments now.
'Before I steal your car, I want to thank you.'
'For what?'
'Making it interesting. Making it a lot easier than it could have been.'
'You had a gun.'
'You know what I mean. With Anna. With the police just now.'
He doesn't look elated. Or even relieved. Just tired.
I fidget with my coffee cup, avoiding eye contact. 'Talking of the police, you should go to them.'
'If only you'd mentioned it ten minutes ago …'
I give him a leaden smile. 'I'm serious. Tell them what happened.'
'Everything?'
'Yes. Or as much as you want. Whatever works for you.'
He peers out of the window. 'And that's it?'
'Yes.'
Now that the fog of Paris has lifted that's the conclusion I've reached. Grotius was right: they probably will find me. Generally that's a gamble I'd take. But his disk has changed everything. It's no longer just my life in the balance.
Robert shakes his head. 'No deal.'
I assume I've misheard. 'Sorry?'
'You got me into this mess. Now you're going to get me out of it.'
'You don't understand. My plans have changed.'
'Because of the disk?'
'Partly.'
'Is this what you've been thinking about since Paris?'
'Yes. I can't run. Not now. I need to go to Vienna.'
'Then we'll go together.'
'Are you out of your mind? Have you forgotten what happened in your apartment?'
He looks cross. 'What do you suppose I've been doing since Paris?'
'Driving?'
'I know I'm only a man, Stephanie, but I can do two things at once.'
'Congratulations. Evolution at work.'
'I can't go home.'
'Of course you can,' I reply, before I've even considered it. And then, in an attempt to qualify the blunder, I compound it. 'Go to the police.'
'The same police who tried to kill you in Passage du Caire?'
'Come on. There are thousands of cops in Paris.'
'How am I supposed to tell which ones are which? And does it matter anyway? The moment I walk into a station and mention my name, it'll leak out, won't it? Somehow, sooner or later.'
I can't deny it.
'How long do you suppose it'll take?' he asks. 'An hour? A day? Tell you what. If you think it's safe for me to go back to Paris I'll let you have a three-hour head start. Then I'll make the call. All you have to do is tell me it's okay.'
I neither speak …
'Or you can just nod, ' he suggests.
… nor move.
They climbed into the Audi. The car-park was almost deserted. Newman slid the key into the ignition, then stopped.
'Before we go on, there's something you need to know. You're not going to like it but since we're in this together now …'
'What is it?'
'The Lancaster. I went there to see Scheherazade.'
Stephanie nodded slowly. 'And your friend Robert Coogan? The one who called you on the phone?'
'Coogs did call me. But it had nothing to do with any meeting.'
'So you lied.'
'Of course.'
Stephanie rubbed her face with both hands.
Newman said, 'Look, I'm sorry. Maybe I should've said something. But I didn't know who you were. You were just a woman with a gun.'
'And you wanted to protect Scheherazade.'
'I wanted to protect myself.'
'Forget it. Tell me about the Lancaster.'
'I went there to meet her.'
Stephanie replayed the scene in her mind. Zahani entering the bar, Newman excusing himself to join her, the two of them sharing a joke.
'You were gone when I came downstairs.'
'We were going to see Golitsyn.'
Startled, Stephanie looked across at him. 'You were going to see Golitsyn?'
'That's the real reason I never said anything. As far as I was concerned, you'd just killed him.'
'So you did know him?'
Newman shook his head. 'Scheherazade was going to introduce us.'
'Why?'
'Leonid was well connected. So am I. She thought we'd get on.'
'And that was it?'
'Yes. She was a good friend to both of us.'
'But a better friend to you.'
She regretted the comment the moment she'd made it. Newman looked annoyed but said nothing.
'What happened?' Stephanie asked.
'She got a call saying Golitsyn wasn't going to make it.'
'From Golitsyn himself?'
Newman thought about it. 'I don't think so. She didn't say.'
'Then what?'
'There was no point in hanging around. I suggested a drink but she passed. She said she had plans for later. That was okay by me. She hadn't been intending to stay after the introduction anyway. So that was it. We left.'
Stephanie digested the disclosure slowly, running through the sequence of events as she remembered them. She couldn't find anything to contradict Newman's confession. On the contrary. His explanation made better sense than any elongated notion of coincidence.
'Did she set up the meeting or was it Golitsyn?'
'I don't know. But I guess we could find out.'
&n
bsp; Another thought occurred to Stephanie: somebody else had also known about the meeting unless Zahani had been responsible for the murders of Leonid Golitsyn and Fyodor Medvedev. Stephanie wondered who that might be. Someone she'd already encountered? Or someone new? In other words, someone invisible. She replayed the scene. From the bartender handing her the house phone to the Audi on the ramp – how long? Five minutes? Probably less.
'How did she get home?'
'She has a chauffeur.'
'Of course she does.' Stephanie smiled in the darkness. 'Just like me. Let's go.'
Boyd got the call at four-fifteen. Ninety minutes later, he was in. Magenta House had provided the code to the building, Boyd had picked the front door lock. Inside, the lights were on. He closed the door and took the Browning BDA9 from the interior pocket of his coat.
He stayed in the hall for more than a minute, adjusting to the stillness, waiting for sounds, then crept forward. The kitchen was the fourth room he came to. There was blood everywhere, much of it now a dark scum with a black crust.
He checked the rest of the apartment, then returned. He didn't recognize the corpse at first. It was only when he crouched beside it that he saw it was probably Lance Grotius. The face was badly disfigured.
He'd met Grotius once. In Kinshasa, back in 1992. Boyd hadn't liked him at all; immensely arrogant with no reason to be so. It hadn't been a surprise to learn of his conviction two years ago in Antwerp for statutory rape. Or of his escape from prison. Grotius had been a hard and resourceful man.
His skin had been scalded. He wore a wig of spaghetti, now brittle. There was a meat cleaver embedded in his right side but Boyd could see that hadn't been the fatal wound. Grotius's throat had been cut. The cleaver might have proved fatal had it been removed. Leaving it in had slowed the loss of blood. Boyd wondered whether that was deliberate, bearing in mind the other injuries, particularly to the left ankle and face. Broken nose and broken teeth were to be expected, perhaps, but there were more sinister wounds, none of them post-mortem as far as he could tell.
He recognized them because he'd taught her how to inflict them. Interrogation fast-track. He had no doubts concerning the identity of Grotius's killer. He checked Grotius's clothes. Nothing, not even a set of keys. She'd taken everything, which was correct.
