by Mark Burnell
'If I was a different kind of girl I might take offence.'
'Who's your friend?'
'He's … a lawyer.'
'Can he understand us?'
'He doesn't speak German.'
'Since when did the great Petra Reuter feel the need to resort to a lawyer?'
'I need your help, Bruno.'
'I thought you were one of Stern's.'
'Not any more. I got set up.'
'By Stern?'
'Yes.'
Kleist looked dubious. 'Are you sure?'
'I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.'
'Why?'
'Money.'
'You know that for certain?'
'I know that everything Stern does is motivated by money.'
Kleist considered this. 'It seems the environment has altered since I left. It was a more respectable business when I …'
'Save the sermon, Bruno. Poisoning Kanek in London? He took four days to die. It's always been a revolting business. New allegiances evolve, old ones dissolve. That is the environment. Always has been.'
'What do you want?'
'The face behind Stern.'
'You don't think it was his idea?'
'No. That would make it personal. Stern doesn't do personal. Somebody paid him to set me up. I need to know who and I need to know why.'
He was more relaxed now. He began to play with his half-moon glasses. 'I'm not sure how much help I can be to you.'
'They're coming at me from every angle, Bruno. I'm blind.'
'And I'm retired.'
'That makes you an amateur instead of a professional. But you're still an easy man to find.'
The phrase made him smile. Nostalgia, perhaps. Then he remembered where he was. 'On1y if you want a nineteenth-century French chandelier.'
'Come on, Bruno.'
'I don't have the contacts these days.'
'The Oracle doesn't talk to anybody any more? I find that hard to believe.'
'Why? Because you assume I found it hard to leave the life behind?' The remark slipped between her ribs and Kleist noticed. 'Do you never think of the after-life, Petra?'
'All the time.'
'Take it from someone who's tasted it. All the stuff that seemed so important before falls away.'
'To be replaced by old lights?'
Kleist chuckled. 'Yes. Exactly. Old lights.'
'I ran into a friend of yours not long ago. Otto Heilmann.'
She saw that he was about to deny all knowledge of Heilmann, before realizing how stupid that would sound. They had risen through the ranks of the Stasi together. Two shooting stars on parallel trajectories.
'Where?'
'Near St Petersburg.'
'I'd heard he was in Russia these days. How was he?'
'Strangely lifeless.' She let the answer gnaw a little before qualifying it: 'Although not at first. No, then he was in rude health. But by the time we parted …'
Kleist licked parched lips. 'Well, the path he took after we went our separate ways was quite different to mine.'
'Not that different, Bruno.'
'Look …'
'The contract came through Stern.'
'So?'
'It doesn't worry you that a former competitor is trading contracts for Stasi veterans?'
'A coincidence.'
'Someone I used to know told me that in our business a coincidence is an oversight.'
'Who?'
'Doesn't matter. He's dead. Like Otto.' She stepped closer to Kleist. 'Now, are you going to help me or not?'
I'm sitting on a treatment bench in a cramped room with no windows and grey-green walls, on the third floor of an anonymous block on Wallensteinstrasse, close to Nordwestbahnhof. This is the Fischer Clinic, although calling it a clinic lends it a veneer of sophistication it doesn't deserve.
Dr Rudolph Fischer was Kleist's response to a request for a discreet doctor. No questions asked, he assured me. Wounds treated, abortions administered, pharmaceuticals dispensed. Anything you like for cash.
It takes him half an hour to treat the cut properly. He watches me dress, making no attempt to conceal his pleasure. I can't be bothered to react. In the adjoining office, where Robert has been waiting, I hand over the cash and pocket the drugs.
We return the way we came, stopping to buy clean clothes from a row of shops close to Franz-Joseph Bahnhof. Then we catch a cab back to the Hotel Lübeck.
Robert says, 'You think Kleist'll come up with something on Butterfly?'
That was one of the things I asked.
'Possibly. He used to be very good. Stern rated him.'
'Who is Stern?'
'Someone I thought I could trust.'
'Past tense?'
'As far as I'm concerned.'
'But not dead?'
'Why should he be dead?'
'Sounds like the two of you fell out.'
'I don't kill everyone I disagree with, Robert. If I did, this continent would be littered with bodies. Tax officials, politicians, Parisian waiters. Who knows where it would end? Even you.'
'I doubt that.'
'You seem very sure of yourself.'
'I've never been less sure of myself. But I'm starting to feel sure about you.'
They changed into fresh clothes and left the hotel. The Austria Center Vienna sat between the skyscrapers of Donau City and the United Nations headquarters. It was a large hexagonal conference centre spread over four colour-coded levels. As Stephanie and Newman approached the main entrance, workmen were erecting a large sign overhead. The background was black, the letters blood red.
PETROTECH XIX
THEIR FUTURE IN OUR HANDS
On fluttering banners that fell either side of the entrance were the conference dates – three days starting tomorrow – and a long list of sponsors.
They walked into the cavernous main entrance. Gleaming stone floor, bright light everywhere, escalators directly ahead, no security. They were ignored by those at the main reception desk. Builders and technicians scurried past them. Half the stands in the entrance hall were incomplete.
To their left was a long counter of desks; tickets, transport, information, hotel and restaurant reservations, messages, groups, companies. Newman went to the last desk. A bored woman in a blue suit was shuffling paper.
He gave her a practised smile. 'Have you got a list of exhibitors?'
'Are you accredited?'
'I'm press. I just want the information-pack.'
'One moment, please.'
She disappeared.
Stephanie said, 'Very impressive.'
'Not if you've been before.'
The woman returned and handed him a slim black plastic folder with the same scarlet lettering that had been on the sign outside. They decided to look around. No one asked them what they were doing. The place was busy, a dozen languages to the ear.
The red level was the uppermost floor of the complex and housed a huge auditorium. The seating had been converted to a parliamentary format. Newman checked the programme. There were three debates scheduled, one for each day of the conference. The three topics were predictable: the relationship between the oil services industry and the environment; the relationship between the oil services industry and the political background in those areas where the industry was most prominent; the future of the oil services industry.
Spread over the three levels below – green, yellow and blue – was a mixture of conference rooms, offices and large foyers. Scheduled events included public discussion forums and private meetings, lectures and sponsored sales pitches. The open spaces were cluttered with corporate stands.
The colour-coded levels meant something to Stephanie but she couldn't remember why. The harder she concentrated, the further the answer receded. As they headed for the exit, she noticed a coffee shop to the right. They went in, ordered two cappuccinos and sat down at a table.
Newman said, 'I think I know how we could get some accreditation.'
'How?'
> 'Abel Kessler.'
Stephanie shook her head. 'Remind me.'
'He was one of the guys who left a message on my answer-phone in Paris.'
'So?'
'He said he was coming to Europe for ten days. Said he wanted to meet me in Paris. Hoped I was still seeing what's-her-name.'
Stephanie remembered now. 'Go on.'
Newman opened the press pack and sorted through a sheaf of papers, two brochures and a stack of inserts. He found what he was looking for inside the back of one of the brochures.
'Abel works for a firm of maritime lawyers in Singapore. He specializes in oil transport. They always take a stand at Petrotech. If he's in Europe this'll be one of the reasons.'
He showed her the full-page advert. McGinley Crawford, founded in Houston in 1937, now based in Washington DC, with twenty-four offices spread across the United States, Europe and Asia.
'I could call him,' Newman suggested.
'That might not be a good idea.'
'I know what you're thlnking. But I'm about the only person he knows in Paris. No one's going to make the link. Anyhow, I could go through his office in Singapore. Get his cell. Then call him from a payphone here.'
Stephanie ran through it in her mind. 'Okay. But not right here. Somewhere else in the city.'
The address Kurt had provided at Club Nitro was off Mexikoplatz by the Reichsbrücke; an area of dismal shops peddling counterfeit watches, cheap kitchenware and cut-price clothing. Despite the persistent cold drizzle, the pavement was busy with Russians, Albanians, Serbs. Stephanie and Newman circled the square once, then paused outside Krystyna, a shop offering tacky china figurines, before circling a second time. Stephanie understood the glances they attracted as clearly as the snippets of Russian; this part of town was not Vienna. It was somewhere further east, south and north. Anywhere but west.
Julia's address was a four-storey pistachio building on the corner of Engerthstrasse, above the Aktionsmarkt discount store. The apartment was on the third floor, halfway along a corridor with dark brown walls and a flecked black linoleum floor. Stephanie rang the buzzer three times and knocked twice. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the door; silence inside. She looked at the lock and ran a finger over it, then placed both palms on the door and pressed. It moved but didn't open. Along the corridor another door opened, just wide enough for a face to fill the gap.
'She's not there.'
Beginner's German uttered by a small woman with the complexion of a walnut. She wore a headscarf with a mauve and magenta floral print. From behind her came a chorus of squabbling children.
'Do you know where she is?'
The woman shook her head. 'She comes. She goes. Different times. Different days.'
'Do you know when she'll be back?'
'Later.'
'Today?'
'Yes. Maybe.'
'What time?'
'Don't know.'
'When did you last see her?'
She shrugged. 'The day before yesterday. The day before that. I don't remember.'
Stephanie felt a shiver; she was alive, it seemed.
'Do you know her?'
The woman closed the door.
'Tell me about Petra.'
'What?'
'Kleist called you Petra. Several times.'
They were eating in the Café Bräunerhof on Stallburggasse. It was a sedate place, especially now, at two-thirty, with most of the lunch-hour crowd back at work. Curtains over the lower windows shielded diners from the street. The lunchtime mist of cigarette smoke had yet to dissipate. Conversations were sprinkled with the clink of cutlery. A waiter brought clean glasses and a carafe of water.
'Well, well,' Stephanie murmured, 'what else did you pick up?'
Newman looked a little surprised. 'Mostly everything.'
'I didn't think you spoke German.'
He turned to the waiter and said, in German, 'What's the special today?'
'Cauliflower soup then chicken and rice.'
'That would be fine. And a beer. Ottakringer, if you have it.'
Stephanie ordered the soup followed by spaghetti with ham zucchini, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. When the waiter had left them she said, 'You never said anything.'
'You never asked.'
'Did I really need to? We've been in German-speaking territory since yesterday morning.'
'And the only conversation I've had has been with you. Anyway, as you can tell, my German's not that good.'
'But good enough. Any more surprises?'
'I think I should be asking that. First Claudia, then Marianne, then Stephanie, now Petra.'
'That's different.'
'Sure is. Not disclosing bad German is a lapse. Operating under three different names seems more serious.'
'Don't be cute, Robert. You know what I do.'
Newman nodded. 'But what's the deal with Petra?'
'What do you mean?'
'Who's being cute now? The great Petra Reuter. That was the phrase Kleist used.'
The waiter brought bread. When he'd gone Stephanie said, 'My entire career – if that's what you want to call it – has been based on a lie called Petra Reuter.'
'How?'
'She never existed. She was a role created for me.'
'You never did any of the things you said you did?'
'Don't get me wrong. As Petra, I've done plenty of stuff. But her history – her reputation – all of it was manufactured. Like some second-rate boy-band.'
Their drinks arrived. Stephanie swallowed some antibiotics and painkillers. Newman took a piece of bread from the basket and watched Stephanie, who looked over both shoulders and then at the remaining diners. Next to them, an elderly man leant across the table to offer a light to a younger woman. His hand shook. The woman had to hold it to steady the flame. For a moment she saw a younger version of herself with Albert Eichner.
'You okay?' Newman asked.
'I'm fine. Why?'
'You look kind of … sad.'
She peered into her glass, watching the bubbles rise. 'Actually, I'm scared.'
'That's not what it looks like.'
'That's Petra for you. But she's disintegrating. I'm not the woman she once was. I don't feel in control. I'm not even sure I want to be in control. I just want to … stop.'
The waiter placed two steaming bowls of soup before them.
'Isn't that why you're here? Why we're here. To make it stop?'
She nodded and began to eat.
'What are you not telling me, Stephanie?'
'Nothing. Forget it.'
After their main courses, Newman went to the washroom and then found a payphone. By the time he returned to the table, two cups of espresso had arrived.
'Any luck?' Stephanie asked.
'Yes. Abel Kessler is here in Vienna. He's arranged accreditation for us through McGinley Crawford.'
'Good.'
'It gets better. He's asked us to the pre-conference reception. Before Petrotech opens there's always a reception. Invitation only, very select. It's at the Hotel Bristol, tonight at seven.'
'Who did you say I was?'
'An associate.'
'Not Anna again, I hope.'
'Not this time.'
The Hotel Bristol. Why did that sound familiar? Stephanie sensed it had something to do with the colour-coded levels of the Austria Center. But how were the two connected?
It was after five when they arrived back at the Hotel Lübeck. After Café Bräunerhof they'd gone shopping on Graben for clothes better suited to a reception at the Hotel Bristol. They'd paid for them with Scheherazade Zahani's diminishing cash reserve.
Newman kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed. 'I'm going to sleep. Wake me in half an hour.'
Stephanie decided to take a shower. She waterproofed the new sutures and spent ten minutes cleansing herself. Afterwards, she stood in the wet heat. Gradually, the steam began to clear from the mirror. Now the cut had been treated it was the bruises that
caught the eye. Across her stomach, encircling her cosmetic scar, down her right thigh.
She looked at herself and thought of Julia. It helped to have a name. She wondered whether the apartment overlooking Mexikoplatz was a true home, or just another dressed set like the apartment at Stalingrad.
Who was Julia? Or would she turn out not to be Julia? Would Julia be no more real than Marianne? Nothing more than an airlock between two identities, one genuine, one artificial. Now that Stephanie knew she was alive, she wasn't sure how much she wanted to find her. Was this how the adopted child felt before the reunion with the blood parent? Simultaneously keen and reluctant?
She dried herself and brushed her teeth. There was a tightness in her stomach that left her slightly nauseous. The thought that continued to form felt alien. Her life had been governed by regime. Even her instincts were a product of conditioning, which was why it took her time to recognize it for what it was: the threat of spontaneity. A similar sensation to the one she'd experienced on the train the moment before she'd kissed him, but greatly amplified.
Her knickers and T-shirt were on the bathroom floor. She stepped over them and entered the bedroom.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes, saw she was naked, and didn't react at all. She started to unbutton his shirt. He looked a little uncertain. She ran a hand across his chest and stomach, against muscle and sinew that weren't immune to age, and across scar tissue that was; it hadn't softened with time. Then she saw that Newman was looking at her scars.
He said, 'I thought I was the only one.'
She shook her head. 'We're everywhere. We move among the flawless, undetected. Until we're naked. And then we're really naked.'
She kissed him. On the train, there had been poignancy. Here, on the bed, it was surprisingly tentative.
'Touch me,' she whispered.
'Wait,' he murmured. 'Is this a good idea?'
She put a finger to his lips. 'Robert, I just want to make love with you. No strings, nothing complicated.'
It's dark outside. And inside. We haven't bothered with the lights. We lie together, our bodies gently cooling, relying on the grubby excess of the street lamps. I look at my watch. It's six, an hour until the Petrotech reception starts.
'Do they bother you?' I ask, softly.
'What?'
