by Mark Burnell
'That she still has pride of place twenty years later. Very impressive.'
He doesn't have an answer for that.
'How'd you meet her?'
'In the bar at the Commodore Hotel in Beirut. That's where all the journalists drank.'
'She was a journalist?'
'For Associated Press. I was working for the SIPA Photo agency at that time. A French firm. The moment I saw her at the bar – I knew.'
My sigh is more wistful than I'd like it to be.
'You've had it too?'
I nod. 'Once. In New York. He was Russian.'
'Then you'll know. It's a feeling you can't forget.'
'Or fake. He was supposed to be an adversary but if he'd asked me to make love to him there and then, I would have.'
Robert nods and looks down at his hands. 'The thing is, Gabriella wasn't Spanish. Or a journalist. Her name was Rachel and she was Israeli.'
'Ah.'
An utterly inadequate response but I can't think of an alternative.
Robert looks across at me. 'In the end, though, it didn't make any difference.'
'Why did she tell you she was Spanish?'
'She was half Spanish. And half-Israeli.'
'That's only half a lie, then. In fact, it's not even a lie. It's an omission. What about the journalist part?'
'She was a Mossad plant. Being Spanish allowed her to appear impartial. Meanwhile, her work – sometimes hers, sometimes not – was picked up by papers in the States. On the surface, she looked good for it. But she was doing a lot more reporting than any of the other journalists realized. Mossad wanted information on all the foreign press stationed in Beirut.'
'Including you?'
'The writers were the main target.'
'And you bought that?'
'I fell in love. She fell in love. Neither of us bought it. We just put it to one side.'
'Is that really possible?'
'When nothing else matters, sure. Why not?'
How true. We sit in the darkness for a while, listening to the wind battering the barn. The whole structure groans.
'Is that why you never married?' I ask, eventually. 'Nothing could compare?'
'I guess that's part of it.'
'No children, no ex-wives, but plenty of girls like Anna.'
'The life I lead now is not exactly conducive to family stability. I've been living out of a suitcase for twenty years. I've spent more nights at thirty-five-thousand feet than in my own bed. That's not good for a marriage. Or parenthood.'
'So you change your job.'
'If I'd met the right person, I would've.'
'Sounds like a vicious circle.'
'Maybe. But I'm not complaining. For all the things I've missed out on, I've been lucky.'
I nod. 'And nobody has it all.'
'Right. So what about you? Ever been married?'
I laugh. 'God no.'
'What's so funny?'
'Nothing. Nothing at all.'
'What about children?'
'Please.'
'You never considered it?'
'Of course I've considered it. It's just …'
'Just what?' he prompts, when I falter.
'It doesn't matter. You wouldn't believe me.'
'Try me.'
I avoid looking at him. 'No matter what you think about me, I'm actually rather conventional.' I wait for a snort of incredulous laughter that never materializes. 'So without a husband …'
I let my shrug finish it off. He's a little embarrassed. He nods thoughtfully and then cushions the blow so clumsily that he makes it worse. 'Well … you have plenty of time on your side.'
'So what happened with you and Rachel?'
'In the end, it didn't work out.'
'How come?'
He considers it for a moment. 'The star that burns twice as bright burns half as long. The way we were living was unsustainable. We were like drug-addicts. We had to have the fix. We were out of our minds. That's what it was.'
'Life in a danger zone? Every adrenaline-fuelled experience sharpened?'
'That's it. We thought we were the only people in the world who understood.'
'I know what that's like.'
He looks at me in the darkness. 'It's something like this, isn't it?'
New York City, 20:35
When John Cabrini returned to his desk, Steven Mathis was waiting for him. 'We have the results.'
'And?'
'There were only three cars to enter the long-term car-park at Lyon-St Exupéry airport this morning and to leave by 15:00 CET. One of them was a mistake; an Italian tourist who parked in the wrong car-park. The second was a local woman – Marie Sylvain – who was due to fly to London. She was actually checking her bags with British Airways when her office in Lyon called her back. Some kind of crisis, nothing important to us. The third car belongs to Alain Fabius, a cosmetic surgeon at the Morgenthau clinic in Lyon. He boarded an Air France flight to Paris with an onward connection to Chicago, where he's attending a conference.'
Mathis handed Cabrini the photograph. A gaunt, humourless man. The man in the brown suit. The one she'd brushed against. Not just an assassin; a pickpocket too.
'Did he make his connection?'
'Yes.'
'And his car?'
'Left the long-term car-park while his flight was en route to Paris. We have a positive identification.'
'How?'
'She didn't have a ticket for the vehicle. She made some excuse to the official about losing it. She had to pay the maximum charge. She was okay with it, though, which isn't the normal reaction. The guy remembered.'
'Was she alone?'
'Yes. Also, we have another positive identification from the driver of the bus she took from Gare de Perrache out to the airport.'
'So she dumped Newman's car first,' Cabrini mused. 'Probably somewhere in the city.'
'That's what it looks like.'
'Was she alone on the bus?'
'The driver said so.'
So far, so conventional. Cabrini felt uncomfortable; Reuter wasn't the kind to go by the book. Or to leave a trail.
'So we have neither Newman nor his car. Raising a number of possibilities.'
'They could've separated.'
'Possibly.'
'Or Newman could actually be in his car.'
'He could be,' Cabrini conceded. 'Dead or alive.'
Mathis frowned. 'You think she would have done that? After the way the police officers said they were?'
There had been an earlier identification. Four gendarmes had encountered Reuter and Newman at Le Chien Blanc service station on the A6 in the early hours of the morning. When questioned later by DST agents, they'd reported that the American had done the talking. The mood had been jovial, there'd been laughter. Although the woman had seemed slightly tense, neither had given cause for suspicion.
Cabrini had been intrigued by their account. Newman had been alone with the officers and had said nothing. Either they were lying in order to cover themselves for some greater transgression or Newman and Reuter had some form of relationship. Which was a possibility that returned him to his original theory: Newman was involved somehow. What other plausible explanation could there be?
On the other hand, involved or not, he'd always be expendable to a woman like Reuter. 'She killed Grotius,' Cabrini pointed out. 'Viciously.'
'Yeah, maybe. I guess once Newman had outlived his usefulness …'
'What car is she in now?'
'A dark blue Peugeot,' said Mathis, handing Cabrini the details. 'This is the registration.'
'Has Fabius arrived in Chicago yet?'
'About ninety minutes ago. He was met by security at O'Hare. The CPD spoke to him first, then the FBI.'
'Anything useful come out of it?'
Mathis perked up; this was his moment. 'Actually, yes. One thing …'
Day Nine
Ultimately there were three of them. Initially, however, there had only been one. And one would have been enough
had Stephanie been asleep.
But she couldn't sleep; her body was too cold, her mind too hot. Newman had been dozing in the front seat, she'd been across the back. In the frozen darkness, she'd glimpsed movement. The barn door shifting, a tiny squall of snow breathing through a narrow gap. Very slowly she'd leaned forward, touched Newman on the shoulder and had whispered to him.
'Don't move. Don't say anything. We've got company.'
The headlights were Newman's idea once Stephanie had thrown open the back door and scampered across the ground, the Heckler & Koch ready. Suddenly there was light. And the cough of a cold engine. The stunning brightness bought her precious moments of advantage.
Movement and gun-shot. She couldn't recall the exact sequence of events. She supposed the second one had been coming through the door as the first one went down. She felt him before she saw him, a heavy boot kicking the gun from her hand. But she'd stayed close and even though he'd managed to fire his weapon, she'd deflected his arm with her body. Bullets sprayed the barn roof.
There had been hand-to-hand combat. She'd fallen and he'd kicked her, catching her exactly where Grotius had cut her, the sutures exploding as the injury ruptured. The pain had paralysed her for a second. Then they'd struggled on the ground. She'd heard shouts in a language she didn't recognize. Then gunfire from outside the barn, splinters flying, more shouts.
She'd prodded her attacker in the eyes. He couldn't defy instinct, his hands automatically shielding his face. His supremacy interrupted, Stephanie had grabbed the gun. He'd understood instantly and had tried to claw back some parity but it was too late. She shot him from less than a metre.
A moment later, a final shot. It wasn't hers.
When she looked up there was a body by the barn door. Beside it, Newman stood completely still, the Smith & Wesson Sigma in his hand.
The third attacker was dead. One shot to the head, blood everywhere. Newman couldn't take his eyes off it. Until Stephanie rolled on to one side and cried out. Then he looked over at her.
'Are you hit?'
Through clenched teeth, she muttered, 'No. It's the cut.'
The second attacker was dead too. His throat looked like a crimson rhododendron in full bloom. The first attacker, and the only one of them to take more than a single bullet, was still alive. Just.
The interrogation was brief. At first, Stephanie couldn't understand him. She tried French, English and German. Nothing. He spoke basic Russian, however, but not for long. Within a minute he'd slipped into unconsciousness.
'Who is he?' Newman asked.
'An Albanian.'
'Jesus.'
'One of them's his brother. The other's a Turk.'
'What else?'
'Nothing.'
'Come on, Stephanie. He said more than that.'
She leaned against the car and tried to regulate her breathing. 'He said they'd be waiting.'
'Who?'
Stephanie shrugged and winced at the discomfort it provoked. 'That was the last thing he said. I'm going to check outside.'
'I'll come with you.'
'No. Stay here. In the corner there. When I get back, I'll call your name before I come in. Anybody else comes, shoot them. Don't wait to see who they are.'
It took ten minutes to trace the tracks back to their point of origin. It had stopped snowing. The ground looked ultraviolet beneath the moon. A gentle breeze whispered among the trees. It was bitterly cold, clouds of frozen breath encircling her head like a shroud.
Over rough ground, then through dense wood, she came to a narrow clearing. The three sets of footprints stopped where the tyre-tracks started. Broad wheels with a chunky bite. A four-wheel drive. She read the prints; the vehicle had arrived, dropped its cargo, turned around and gone back.
Which meant there was at least one other person. And if the Albanian was to be believed, perhaps more.
But where?
'Are you okay?' Stephanie asked
Newman nodded. Despite the darkness she could see he wasn't. He was looking through her, not at her, to the body beyond. She wondered if he'd moved in the ten minutes since she'd left him. She looked at her watch. Twenty-past-five.
She said, 'We need to go.'
He nodded again.
'Robert, look at me.'
He did.
'I understand what's going on in your mind. But we need to leave right now. I need you to come with me. All of you.'
'I'll be fine.'
'Good. Then help me get the body out of the way.'
They dragged the third corpse into the barn to clear the exit. Newman seemed to recover but Stephanie guessed the shock would return later. It usually did. They climbed into the car. Stephanie clutched the wheel for support as she got in but failed to suppress a gasp.
'How bad is it?' he asked.
'It's okay. It just hurts, that's all.'
'You want me to drive?'
She arched an eyebrow. 'I hope this isn't a gender thing.'
'I know how to drive on snow.'
'And you think I don't?'
'From what I saw last night …'
'I was taught by an expert.'
'So was I.'
Stephanie felt her temper rising. 'Oh yeah ? Where?'
'Finland. Outside Rovaniemi. You?'
'Scotland. Sutherland.'
'Who taught you?'
'A former member of the Special Services. You?'
'A former World Rally champion.'
She glared at him. 'Rubbish.'
'I'm serious.'
'Well … you're not in any shape to drive. Look at you. You're shaking.'
'And you're bleeding. Now move over and fasten your seatbelt.'
Newman saw the lights first. They'd only been going for a couple of minutes and hadn't yet reached the hamlet.
'Shit.'
'What?'
'Up ahead on the left. Through the trees, coming down to the track.'
Stephanie saw immediately. Glittering pinpricks of light winking at them through a web of black branches. 'Could be anyone.'
Newman accelerated as much as he dared. 'Could be.'
The closer they got, the less likely it seemed. The other vehicle was gathering speed. On a snowy surface that meant dangerous momentum.
'If he gets to the junction before us, we're screwed.'
'So don't let him,' Stephanie suggested.
'You got any more useful advice?'
'Yes. Don't do their work for them.'
Newman kept accelerating, even as the wheels beneath him began to slide.
'Robert …'
'I know, I know.'
They made it to the junction first. The other vehicle missed the rear end by a metre. It skidded wildly, ploughing into a bank of snow before righting itself. A black Range Rover. The driver switched his lights to full-beam. Newman pushed the rear-view mirror away.
They reached the hamlet. One or two lights were on, smoke puffing from an occasional chimney. The Range Rover was catching them. Newman wrestled the wheel. The car slipped left and right, the brakes shuddering. He used drifted snow to slow down then swung to the left, past the first house. The back stepped out. He couldn't retrieve it so he didn't try. Instead, he accelerated again, just as they hit a fence. The nudging impact corrected their alignment. The Range Rover dropped back a little, then surged closer.
Newman used whatever he could; ruts, banks, the upturned bathtub, a tree stump. Anything. Stephanie looked over her shoulder and saw the Range Rover crash into one of the roadside shrines. There was a shower of glass and wood in the cast of the headlights.
'They're dropping back.'
'That's because the guy can't drive. But he's got snow-tyres. When the track straightens he'll be all over us.'
They clipped the corner of a house as they tried to negotiate a right-angle bend. The Peugeot slid sideways into a plump hedge with a resounding thump. A wing-mirror snapped off. Snow sprayed across the windscreen. The engine stalled.
Newm
an turned the ignition. Nothing. The Range Rover approached, aiming directly at the Peugeot.
'Robert …'
Another failure. Stephanie clutched the door-handle, a futile brace.
'Robert …'
The engine sparked, the Peugeot shifted forwards. The Range Rover driver tried to turn too violently. The wheels lost grip and the vehicle powered straight through the hedge. The driver kept going, spinning the machine around.
Newman cleared the hamlet and they were in total darkness again, a steep bank rising to the left, a steeper bank dropping to the right. The inside of the Peugeot grew brighter as the Range Rover closed in.
'What are we going to do?'
Newman said nothing and focused on keeping the drive as smooth as possible.
Stephanie looked over her shoulder again. 'Oh God …'
The Range Rover was upon them. The first contact propelled them towards the ravine to the right. Newman over-compensated. The car lurched. He turned into the skid and accelerated through it. Then had to brake immediately for a sharp left turn. Which was when the Range Rover hit them again. Missing the apex of the corner, Newman pulled at the wheel to send the Peugeot into a lateral skid so that they hit the oncoming tree side-on, not head-first.
The collision hurt. Stephanie felt pain ripple through her left side. Newman was already thinking ahead, nosing the Peugeot back onto the road as the Range Rover came at them again.
'For God's sake!' Stephanie cried. 'We can't outrun him!'
'Wait, goddamn it.'
'Wait? For what? Roadside assistance?'
'Exactly.'
They slithered down a gentle banana-shaped curve to the right which then opened on to a straight. Newman pressed his foot down. The Range Rover matched him, then bettered him, swallowing the distance between them. With the full-beam on, Stephanie saw clearly the turn ahead. A sharp left that suddenly grew far too quickly.
'Robert …'
'Hold on.'
They were past the braking-point, travelling at their fastest yet, everything a blur. All she saw were mighty tree trunks and blackness.
'Robert … please … oh my God … no!'
Suddenly they were off the road. But not ahead, or to the right. To the left, instead. Newman had driven at full speed into the ditch. The car ricocheted over snowy stones and stumps. The deceleration was massive, hurling Stephanie forward, the seatbelt biting into her collarbone.
