The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  Stephanie was asleep but it didn't look peaceful. She was twitching. Newman watched her over a cup of coffee. Outside the carriage the landscape remained defiantly white. He thought of the shot, the jolt, the body creasing. He'd never seriously contemplated shooting anyone. Not even in Beirut. Now, two decades later, he had and what disturbed him most was the numbness. The lack of any sense of reality.

  Perhaps if his victim had cried out. But he hadn't; he'd fallen silently. Perhaps if his victim hadn't been so anonymous. But he had been; dressed in black from head to toe, no features to focus on. A cartoon character from a computer game.

  This was the real shock; the shakes had gone and there was nothing left.

  Stephanie woke with a start. Then gasped, as the sudden movement pulled at her cut. For a moment, she looked utterly disorientated. Then she saw him and relaxed.

  'Where are we?' she asked.

  'About an hour from Munich.'

  'What've you been doing?'

  'Nothing. Thinking.'

  She sat up, slowly and stiffly. 'Tell me about Lebanon. About Rachel.'

  'You sure you want to know?'

  She said she did. Until recently, she'd been ambivalent at best. But now she felt she needed to know.

  She clung to the details. The taste of coffee in a café on a corner. The heat of the arrivals hall in the damaged terminal building at Beirut airport. The French contraband smuggler who worked out of an apartment on rue Australie. Long lunches with friends in the Chouf. The characters in Rachel's AP office – Greek Catholics, a Palestinian Sunni, an Irishman, an Armenian, an Iranian, a Maronite – all of them stuffed into a warren of rooms in a crumbling apartment block. Arabic mezze dinners with fellow journalists at the Grenier restaurant.

  'One time, she took me to the cedars of Lebanon. It was winter; there was snow on the heights of the Sannine. We drove up into the Lebanon range. Around 3000 feet, the trees stopped. The track got worse. We reached 6000 feet. It was freezing. There was nothing but rock. Then we went round a sharp corner and there they were, three thousand feet after the last of the other trees. Fifteen hundred years old. We stood among them, looking out over the land below. Rachel was happy. She said that no matter what happened, we'd survive.'

  Stephanie saw Newman slip back through time. It was 18 September 1982 and he was walking through Chatila camp, stepping over the body parts of the women and children murdered by the Phalange with the permission and encouragement of the onlooking Israeli forces. That had been his baptism of fire. Then it was 23 October 1983 and he was shooting roll after roll of 35mm film amid the smoking ruins of the US Marines base. No longer the novice, seasoned in a year.

  He described his down-time. It wasn't like Stephanie's had ever been. Petra's pleasure had been orchestrated as part of a mechanical process. His had been grabbed wherever it could be found.

  'By late 1984, early 1985, the threat was changing. Westerners were being targeted by Islamic Jihad. There were killings, kidnappings. In the beginning, we didn't worry too much. Two of the first four were released unharmed. But then it got serious. When the CIA's Beirut chief William Buckley was taken and tortured to death, that was a real wake-up call. By the time Terry Anderson was taken, people were already leaving. Charles Wallace of the Los Angeles Times, the NBC crew, CNN's Levin. When SIPA instructed me to get out, Rachel and I talked about it and we decided I should go. We didn't want to be separated but she had back-up. I had none. And we knew that I'd never be able to rely on hers because she'd had to keep our relationship a secret from her superiors.

  'So I left. Paris first, then New York, where I waited for a new assignment. At first I was relieved. But by the time I reached New York I was desperate to get back. Like you, I fell off the wagon. In the end, I was away for less than ten weeks. The moment that shitty MEA 707 hit the ground I was home.'

  'Did you tell your agency you were going back?'

  'No. I left them. I was independent. Like you. And also like you, I found it liberating. But it turns out I was already marked.'

  'How?'

  'Two weeks before I left Beirut we went to see an Islamic Jihad leader in Bourj al-Barajneh, one of Beirut's slums. There was the usual bullshit security; boys hanging around with AK-47s, acting all aggressive. Anyway, they were the ones who kidnapped me when I returned.'

  'They must have thought they'd missed their chance when you left for Paris.'

  'Yes.'

  'And that they'd won the lottery when you came back.'

  'Except I was an invalid ticket.'

  'Why?'

  'I was an American but I had no value. I wasn't supposed to be there. So nobody cared. I was just some idiot who got caught up in something. But that's not the way it played out.'

  'How come?'

  'They interpreted the fact that nobody knew I was there differently.'

  She understood immediately. 'They thought you were undercover.'

  'That's right.'

  She thought of his scars when she asked, 'How long did it take for them to find out that you weren't?'

  'I don't remember.'

  'How did it happen?'

  'I was driving on the airport road, going to collect a friend of ours. A Lebanese guy coming in from Jordan. The airport road was a favoured hijack point but I was driving a borrowed car so I didn't expect a problem. Anyway, suddenly these guys appeared in the road, pointing guns at me. I knew if I stopped I was in serious trouble so I tried to drive out of it. They shot out the wheels and I crashed. They dragged me out of the wreckage and threw me into the trunk of a Datsun. When they closed the trunk that was the last daylight I saw in a year.'

  The train began to slow. They were approaching Munich.

  'Do you know where you were held?'

  'All over. Tyre and Sidon. Beirut itself. The Bekaa Valley. Usually in a basement or cellar. Always tied to something solid. When they moved me, they'd tape my arms to my body, like I was in a strait-jacket. Then the ankles, the knees and finally the mouth and eyes. They'd leave a slit in the tape so I could breathe through my nose. Then they'd toss me in the back of a vehicle and drive like crazy. Every time I was transferred I got bruised and cut. But I was used to that. After a while, it doesn't really register. Like the beatings. You find you slip into some kind of catatonic state. You feel the pain and yet you don't feel it, not the same way you're used to feeling pain.'

  'Were you with any other hostages?'

  'Twice. Once in the Bekaa. He was a German. And once in Baalbek. He was Dutch. Both times, it was a few days. The first time could've been longer. I'm not sure. I wasn't in great shape.'

  Their imminent arrival was announced as the train slowed to running pace.

  'Why did they release you?'

  'I've thought about that so often and I honestly don't know. By then, they knew I wasn't worth anything. The only conclusion I can come to is that they couldn't be bothered to kill me. I don't think I was worth the bullet and no one wanted to do it any other way.'

  'How long were you held?'

  'Twenty-two months and nine days.'

  'And afterwards?'

  Robert rose out of his seat as the train shuddered to a halt. 'What afterwards? The damage was done.'

  It was already dark when the train pulled out of Munich: 17.23. They crossed into Austria and stopped soon after at Salzburg, then later at Linz. The American tourists who shared their six-seat compartment as far as Salzburg tried to engage them in conversation but Stephanie and Newman repaid them with French and haughty incomprehension. After Salzburg, they were alone.

  'The people you went after,' Newman said, 'were they political?'

  'In the sense that terrorists are political – yes.'

  'Were they all terrorists?'

  'Nearly all. Or criminals with terrorist associations. Financiers, lawyers – there were a few of those.'

  'Any from al-Qaeda?'

  'Not directly. But there have been one or two Islamist terrorists.'

  'How do you f
eel about that? The whole Muslim thing.'

  'Much the same way I feel about the whole Jewish thing. Despondent. But when I was working, I never let that get in the way.'

  'Really? There weren't times when you thought you were doing the world a favour?'

  'I understand what you're saying. But I never let myself see it in those terms. I like to think I was like a lawyer with an unpleasant client.'

  'Okay. But if you had to kill a suicide-bomber just before they detonated …'

  'Bad example.'

  'Why?'

  'If I felt anything for a suicide-bomber it would be pity.'

  'You don't buy it?'

  'Not at all. Martyrdom isn't sacrifice. Not if you believe that your life has no worth. Not if you profess to love death. Then martyrdom becomes a fast-track to an easier, more pleasurable existence. Where's the heroism or bravery in that? In fact, if you accept that your reward will be an eternity in Paradise in the company of seventy-two virgins, then that seems like no sacrifice at all. That reduces suicide-bombing to an act of naked self-interest. The criminals are the manipulators. The clerics, the teachers, the ones who call for martyrs but who lack the conviction to lead by example.'

  'But they're mostly volunteers, the bombers.'

  'Makes no difference. They're still manipulated, no matter what they think. You should see the few who don't go through with it and aren't then killed by their minders. They're disorientated. There's no religious fervour, no sense of certainty. They feel guilt and shame but are too confused to know why. It's mind-control, just like they use in cults. The same techniques, the same victims.'

  'That sounds pretty cynical to me.'

  'It's a cynical business. Not even the Koranic glimpse of Paradise is immune.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It's a matter of dialect and translation. Depending on the tradition of interpretation, seventy-two virgins in Paradise could in fact be seventy-two pieces of exotic fruit. It's all in the interpretation and more recent fanatical spin has tended towards the lurid.'

  Newman considered this. 'I guess that would put a different spin on it.'

  'Certainly. Can you imagine how disappointing that would be? You blow yourself up thinking you're going to spend eternity with a bevy of beauties but what you get instead is Groundhog Day with a fruit salad.'

  Stephanie was sorting through the pockets of her leather coat. She emptied them of everything except the Heckler & Koch: the bus ticket from Gare de Perrache to the airport; the Peugeot keys; the Saab keys; till receipts from Le Chien Blanc service station and the brasserie on place des Célestins; train tickets and loose change; the Tumi bag of cash; extra-strength Nurofen bought in Munich.

  Newman said, 'I wonder how many were in the Range Rover.'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'That the way it works in your world?'

  'Yes. Absolutely. We're savages, Robert. Savages in suits, but still savages. Don't be fooled.'

  He dropped the subject and looked at the items she'd spread across the table. He picked up the Peugeot car keys and examined the key-ring. 'At least we know how they found us.'

  There were three tags on the key-ring: Peugeot, Nexus, Olympique Lyonnais.

  Stephanie said, 'What am I looking at?'

  'Nexus. A French car security firm. A microchip concealed within the vehicle. As soon as it's reported stolen, the car can be traced by satellite.'

  'I'm familiar with the technology, thank you. I just didn't expect it to be in that car. I deliberately picked an old vehicle.'

  'Never underestimate a man's affection for machinery.'

  'And now we've lost the computer.'

  'Do we need it?'

  'Perhaps not. Anyway, it's not all bad. If we'd got out of Obernai in one piece we wouldn't be safe. They'd still be following us. Taking the train has made us invisible again. For a while, anyway.'

  It's been on my mind since our train pulled into Munich. 'When you said the damage was done, what did you mean?'

  It takes him a moment to work out what I'm talking about. And another moment to decide whether he's prepared to tell me. 'Rachel was dead. I didn't find out at first. I got transferred to a base in Germany. Darmstadt. Nobody there knew anything. No one around me, no one I called. I only found out when I got back to New York.'

  It's not a shock to hear it. He told me the star that burns twice as bright burns half as long. That's not an explanation for the end of a relationship. Even as he said it, I felt something in my stomach.

  'How?'

  He inhales slowly. And exhales slowly. 'Killed.'

  'In Beirut?'

  'Probably.'

  'When?'

  He looks at the carriage floor. 'Less than six months after my abduction.'

  'She was abducted too?'

  He nods. 'Three months after me.'

  I can't possibly ask about the three months between.

  'How'd you find out?'

  'I was debriefed by the CIA when I got back to the States.'

  That would be standard, under the circumstances.

  He's still looking at the floor when he says, 'Turns out I was the one who betrayed her.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I gave her up to them. At least, I guess I did.'

  'You don't know?'

  'It's what they said.'

  'You won't get far in life believing anything that comes out of the CIA.'

  'Maybe. But when I was being tortured, that's what they wanted to know. I was an American but not part of the regular press corps. That was the bone they clung to. It meant I was a spy. And that meant she was something too because they already suspected she wasn't part of the Spanish press.'

  'This doesn't sound like your fault, Robert.'

  Now he looks up at me. 'They sent her back to Israel in pieces. Literally.'

  'Are you listening to me?'

  He nods. 'You're right. I know you're right. But that didn't change the way I felt about it back then. Or even now.'

  'I understand.'

  He looks dubious. 'Really?'

  'I shot an innocent man once. The truth is I saved him from a worse death. That he would have died anyway is beyond question. You might call it a mercy killing. But it didn't feel like it. It felt like the most cold-blooded thing I've ever done. And believe me, as a single act of violence, that's up against some pretty stiff competition.'

  Robert stares into the passing blackness. 'It's funny. I've never talked about this with anyone. Not my friends, not my family. No one.'

  'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressed it.'

  'It's okay. I wouldn't have answered if I hadn't wanted to. Or felt able to. I don't know. Maybe it's because … well, you know, you've been there. I don't know anybody else like that. Like you.'

  'Believe me, that's a good thing.'

  'Talking about it now – here with you – it feels like I'm talking about two people I heard about a long time ago.'

  'I know that feeling too. My whole life feels like it belongs to someone else.'

  'When I got back to the States I made the decision to change. I had to. I couldn't carry on thinking about what had happened. To her, to me. I needed a new life. Something completely different to the one I was having. And different to the one I'd always imagined.'

  'A life in oil.'

  He smiles. 'As it turns out, yes. Could have been in an investment house, or hotels, or steel. But it was in oil.'

  'Not exactly the last bastion of the liberal altruist.'

  'That's what made it so perfect.'

  'Didn't any of the old instincts survive?'

  'I guess they did. But I threw myself into it. And pretty soon I was so busy I didn't have time to think. And when I did, there was always something to distract me.'

  'Something like Anna?'

  'Yeah. And the ones before her. Then there was the money. The travel. The whole deal. It was very seductive.'

  'Was?'

  'Probably still is. I don't know. I've bee
n a nomad for twenty years now. Physically and emotionally. I got used to it and then I liked it. So much, in fact, that I could never stand to be tied down.'

  'After being tied up for two years, I'm not surprised.'

  Talk about a joke in poor taste. To his credit, he doesn't take offence. After a moment's uncertainty, he actually laughs.

  But not much.

  Then he says, 'I don't know what's going to happen when this is over but my life won't be the same.'

  'It probably could be.'

  'Probably. But I don't think I want it to be. I've been everywhere, seen everything. I've made more money than I'll ever need. I've lost count of the beautiful lovers – I don't even remember half their names. Since I left Lebanon I've had a great life but I still can't get the cedars out of my head.'

  I know exactly what he's talking about. 'Why would you want to?'

  We've taken a different route but we've arrived at the same destination. I lean over and kiss him.

  Vienna, 22:10.

  The train pulled into Westbahnhof five minutes late. They decided to look for a cheap hotel close to the station. A stiff wind raked litter down Felberstrasse overlooking the rail-tracks. They settled for the Hotel Lübeck on Pelzgasse, its two-storey classical facade in ochre making a first impression that subsequent impressions couldn't match.

  Their second-floor room looked on to the street. Stephanie drew heavy crimson curtains to preserve what little heat there was. The room was dominated by a large mahogany double-bed. They both pretended not to notice it, in a way that made Stephanie feel as gauche as a teenager. Although not the teenager she had ever been.

  It had been comfortable in the train, cocooned in their own carriage, insulated from the freezing darkness outside. After the kiss, Newman had put his arm around her. For a while, neither had spoken. It hadn't felt awkward or contrived.

  Stephanie turned on the light in the bathroom. Off-white mosaic tiles covered the floor and walls. Where pieces had come away the gaps had been filled with poorly painted cement. The basin's enamel was stained green around the plug-hole. She took off her shirt then peeled away the soggy paper towels. Filaments of torn sutures protruded from the cut like monstrous eyelashes. In the mirror she saw Newman standing in the doorway.