The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'There's one more thing.'

  'What?'

  'When you ask for him at reception, you need the name. Paul doesn't register under his own name.'

  'What is it?'

  'Stonehouse. Alan Stonehouse.'

  Julia was still talking but her voice was little more than the soft drone of a bee on a warm summer afternoon. It took Stephanie a while to connect the name but the moment Julia had mentioned it, she knew she'd heard it before.

  Munich, late September. Just after her meeting with Otto Heilmann at the Café Roma on Maximilianstrasse. A chance encounter with John Peltor, who'd suggested breakfast the following morning at his hotel, the Mandarin Oriental. The name Peltor had registered under had been Alan Stonehouse.

  So, Alexander was right again. In their world, coincidence was still oversight. If the encounter in Café Roma had been planned did that mean that Peltor knew about Otto Heilmann? Not definitely. But probably.

  Another memory was resurrected: an e-mail message in Brussels after her return from Turkmenistan. Peltor again:

  I see you chose not to take the advice I gave you in Munich.

  Having cast her mind forwards, she now cast it back again. The advice given in Munich – what had that been? She couldn't remember.

  'You okay?' Julia asked her.

  'Just thinking.'

  'That's when the trouble starts.'

  'Has he ever mentioned Munich?'

  'He mentions a lot of places. Maybe. I don't know.'

  'You said he was nice.'

  Julia got up from the floor and headed for the kitchenette. 'That's right.'

  'Even though he hits you.'

  'He was nice in the beginning. That's what I meant. When he was paying me.'

  'And now?'

  'Now he's a bastard.'

  'But he's still paying you?'

  She shook her head. 'He doesn't have to.'

  'Because he's got your money.'

  'Right. Actually, no. That's only part of it.' She came back into the living-room with the vodka bottle and the orange juice carton. 'Things have changed.'

  'How?'

  'Since I became you, he's changed towards me.' Julia poured more vodka into her glass and offered it to Stephanie. 'You might want this.'

  'Not at the moment.'

  'You'll change your mind, I promise you. When I first started seeing him it was business as usual. He was Paul, I was Julia. He paid me the going rate. We had sex. It was fine. You know – nice hotel, clean sheets, a hot shower and fluffy towels. Maybe even a drink or two. Then the Petra thing happened. Before Paris it was okay. When I got back it was different.'

  'In what way?'

  'I wasn't allowed to change my appearance. I had to look like … well, like you. I was Petra, not Julia. And he was John, not Paul. The sex changed too.'

  'How?'

  'For one thing, he stopped paying me.'

  'Because he was holding on to your second fifty thousand.'

  Julia looked into her glass. 'That's true. But it's not the reason.'

  'What is the reason?'

  'He won't pay me because that makes it a transaction.'

  'And?'

  'And the scenario won't allow that.'

  'What scenario?'

  Julia forgot to add orange juice and drank some vodka. 'Please …'

  'I need to know.'

  The carapace was starting to crack. When she looked up Stephanie saw tears forming. Julia spoke very softly. 'He likes to take me by force. When he hits me, I have to fight back. If I don't, he makes it worse for me. I have to convince him that I'm you.' She sniffed loudly, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 'He mutters your name. It's like a mantra. Petra, Petra, Petra. He's obsessed with you. With fucking you. With hurting you.'

  Stephanie thought of the bruises on Julia's body, and of those on her own body. They matched in more ways than Peltor could have imagined. Directly or indirectly, he was responsible for both sets. Stephanie felt sure of that. Beyond the shock, a more sinister sensation festered in the darkest corner of her mind.

  Then she remembered the subject of Peltor's message: retirement.

  That was what he'd suggested in Munich. He'd surprised her by telling her that he was no longer in the front line. How had he put it? I'm kinda drifting into something new right now. Something … corporate.

  Something corporate. Like DeMille, perhaps?

  'Did you ever try to say no?'

  'Only once. He said if I tried again, there'd be no second payment. And that I wouldn't get to spend the first.'

  Stephanie considered the contrast between the aggressive Julia who had breezed into the apartment an hour earlier and the subdued version sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. They were as different as Stephanie was to Petra, or any other brand of her.

  'Sometimes there are other men,' Julia said. 'He likes that. They all get into me together. There's one guy, a real bastard – a South African, I think – and he …'

  'Tall with short blond hair? Good-looking in a nasty way?'

  'You know him?'

  'I'm afraid so. His name's Lance Grotius.'

  Julia shuddered. 'He's the worst. Even Paul finds him creepy.'

  'If it's any consolation, you won't be running into him again.'

  'Really?'

  'Not unless you own a funeral parlour in Paris.'

  Five-to-midnight. Julia poured vodka into both their glasses. Stephanie had succumbed and was glad she had.

  How many times had she and Peltor met in total? Three or four? No more than that. Fellow professionals in a lonely business. She'd never thought of them as anything more than that. They chanced across one another in airport departure lounges, in hotels. They swapped gossip then went their separate ways. Business executives with appointments to keep.

  What was she to make of Munich? When she'd gone to the Mandarin Oriental she'd been directed to the roof where Peltor had been swimming outdoors on a freezing morning. At the time, she'd put that down to an ex-Marine's machismo. Now she suspected a more deviant motive; something to send Peltor's lift to the penthouse.

  'What should I do?' Julia asked.

  'You have fifty thousand euros already?'

  'Yes.'

  'In cash?'

  'Yes.'

  'How quickly can you get hold of it?'

  'One hour.'

  'My guess is you're safe until tomorrow evening. If I were you, I'd run. Forget the second fifty.'

  'Run?'

  'You're only alive because I am. They're keeping you in reserve in case they need you again. Once they don't …'

  'You mean when you're dead?'

  'That. Or when the situation changes sufficiently to render me irrelevant. Either way, they'll kill you. It's not our fault but we're a collective liability.'

  'You think I should go tonight?'

  'If you want to. Personally, I'd get some rest and go tomorrow. But once Peltor's dead they're going to be looking for you because that's who the people at the Imperial's reception desk are going to see tomorrow evening.'

  'Who's Peltor?'

  'Ellroy. Stonehouse. Take your pick.'

  'You're going to kill him?'

  'Let's just say I'm going to talk to him. Forcefully.'

  'How will you know when to go?'

  'Because you'll call me when he calls you.'

  'And when I run, where should I go?'

  'Any place where nobody knows you. Not Moscow. Not Nizhny Novgorod.'

  Julia put her head in her hands. 'Shit.'

  'Look on the bright side. You wanted a new life in a new country.'

  'Yeah, but …'

  'Don't look for negatives, Julia. If I hadn't come here this evening, he'd have killed you. And from what you've told me … well you can guess the way he would have done it better than I can.'

  Julia surveyed her dismal apartment. 'I've been on the run since I was fifteen.'

  'You'll be fine. Trust me.'

  '
You think so?'

  'Sure. You've got what it takes. Just like me. We're the same, after all. Consider this a narrow escape when you're on a beach somewhere.'

  'Who are you?'

  Stephanie stood to leave. 'I'm the chance to begin again. Just like you wanted.'

  Day Eleven

  Five-to-two in the morning. They were both a little drunk after an evening apart. It felt good. She was lying diagonally across the bed, her head almost hanging off the edge. The room was upside down; through a crack in the curtains she saw rain slithering up the streetlamp-lit window.

  When they made love Stephanie was happy to surrender to him in a way she could never have permitted with the men Petra took to bed. With them sex was athletic competition. With Newman that seemed utterly pointless.

  She enjoyed the feel of his hands on her, moving her where he wanted, taking her how he wanted. It felt good to pretend to be taught. They didn't speak. She liked the feel of him, the tangible difference in age, the consequences of experience over enthusiasm. The more he gave, the lazier she grew, the better it felt. The alcohol was helping, no doubt about it.

  When she closed her eyes she saw herself as Julia, and Newman as Brand. They were in a suite at the George V. The distinction between what Newman was doing to her now and what she remembered from the film became blurred. She could almost feel Angeline with them. But it didn't seem to matter. It felt too good to protest against herself. So she went with it, opening herself totally to the passing physical pleasure.

  He rolled her on to her front, took her hips in his hands and raised her buttocks from the mattress. She wrapped her arms around her giddy head, threading her fingers through damp hair. When she came crushed pillows swallowed her gasps and an involuntary giggle of happiness.

  Later, she said, 'You're the first man I've really kissed in more than two years.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'For some people kissing is just a pit-stop on the way to sex.'

  Newman considered this. 'I guess that's true.'

  Stephanie said, 'I think kissing is the most intimate act there is.'

  'I'm not sure I agree with that.'

  Perhaps that was the difference between them. Petra had spent years using her body as a weapon of seduction or attrition. That was bound to erode mystery. She'd given her body to men she'd never contemplated kissing. She guessed Julia was the same but knew it was something Newman could never understand.

  Daylight creeps into our room. I've been awake for half an hour. My head aches and my mouth is dry. I feel Robert on my skin but don't feel dirty. Quite the opposite; we've made love and I feel cleansed.

  My thoughts turn to Julia. She's a girl who does what she has to do to survive. A girl who sees it through, no matter what. Ever since I mutated into Petra that has been my philosophy too. It's underpinned everything I've done. It's only now that I'm beginning to understand quite how corrosive it's been.

  It corrupts the soul. I never noticed from day to day, or even year to year. It's taken Julia, the other me, to show me. In her late teens or early twenties, surviving the day-to-day fight on a diet of dreams. She tolerates a man like Peltor for the prospect of a future of her own choosing. I was like that at her age, tolerating Petra and the work I did for Magenta House. But for what, exactly? In the beginning, vengeance. Later, independence. Later still, nothing at all.

  Perhaps it'll be easier for Julia. She may not know where she's heading but she knows with absolute certainty what she's running from. She's seen the kind of future Nizhny Novgorod is offering and doesn't want any of it. She still believes she'll find something better far away from there. She shouldn't be so sure. The chances are she's trading one future with no prospects for another. I should know. I've come across dozens of Julias in dozens of cities; they'll believe any lie as long as the dream survives.

  We go out for breakfast. Most places are shut but we find a small dimly-lit café on Marzstrasse. We take the table by the door and order coffee. Outside, a stubborn wind blows ripples through the puddles on the pavement.

  Robert tells me about his dinner with Abel Kessler; memories and alcohol, mostly. My attention drifts to Rudi the cockroach. That's what Julia called him. Rudi Littbarski. But there's another Rudi. It's coming back to me now. A name on a piece of paper. A place, a time: Rudi, Gare du Nord, 19:30. Written on a scrap of paper that I found in the back pocket of a pair of jeans in the apartment at Stalingrad.

  While we wait I make the call from a payphone on the wall outside the toilet. There are two numbers at the top of the letter I took from Julia's apartment. I choose the second one, a mobile. A man answers.

  'Herr Lander?' I enquire.

  'Naturally. Who is this?'

  'Marianne Bernard.'

  It takes several seconds for the name to melt through the mental permafrost. 'Ah yes … Fräulein Bernard. How nice to hear from you. I trust you are well and that you had a relaxing Christmas and New Year.'

  'Most relaxing.'

  'What can I do for you?'

  'I'm in Vienna and I'd like to see you.'

  The pause tells me this is unexpected and unwelcome, even though the letter he wrote to Marianne Bernard was addressed to Julia's apartment.

  'When would be convenient for you?' he asks.

  'Today.'

  'Ah, that's not so good. I have two meetings and then a lunch appointment. And this afternoon …'

  'I'll be at your office at midday.'

  There's a second informative silence. When he ends it by agreeing to my demand, I know something new: Petra is a client too important to be denied. What I don't know is why.

  Back at our table, I tell Robert, 'We need to scrub up again.'

  'For what?'

  'A visit to the bank.'

  'Why?'

  I hold my cup with both hands and blow steam from the rich, oily surface of the coffee. 'It's rather like being a film star. Sometimes, when you meet your audience, you have to put on your face and live up to the ideal that exists in their minds. We have a meeting at midday where I will have to be the real Petra Reuter.'

  'And me?'

  My smile is a tease. 'You're going to be my new lawyer.'

  Robert winces. 'Marvellous.'

  They took the Rapid Transport train from Westbahnhof. It wasn't busy; most of the early commuters were travelling in the other direction. At Unter Purkersdorf they followed the directions that Julia had given Stephanie.

  The siding tracks fanned out into an iron delta. Most of them were rusting, weeds growing up between black sleepers saturated with oil and grease. There were half a dozen old carriages that had been converted for occupation. Most were clustered around a set of points that had been welded shut. Their wooden exteriors had been painted green, turquoise, red. There were curtains in the windows, hanging baskets beside carriage doors.

  Rudi Littbarski's carriage was further along one stretch of abandoned rail, in the shadow of a derelict nineteenth-century factory. All that remained was a shell of red brick, broken windows and half an industrial chimney. Littbarski's carriage was Swiss; it still carried the faded insignia and letters of the SBB.

  Stephanie looked at her watch. Five-to-nine. Don't go too early, Julia had said. A night-owl, Littbarski rarely went to bed before seven.

  The handle had been sheared from the door and a lock had been inserted. Stephanie stood on the top step and pressed her face to the glass. The handle inside was intact. She walked over to the abandoned factory and returned with a red brick which she thrust through the window. The handle inside opened the door smoothly.

  Littbarski was half out of bed when Stephanie and Newman found him. She pointed the Heckler & Koch at him and he froze.

  'Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out of here.'

  Stephanie shook her head. 'Don't try to play the hard case, Rudi. Not while you're standing there in your little black Y-fronts.'

  His luminous white skin reminded Stephanie of a supermarket chicken. Tattoos peppered his ar
ms and bony chest. Silver rings hung from both nipples.

  'Get dressed, Rudi. Unless you want to see my breakfast on your floor.'

  He reached for his clothes; black drainpipe trousers, black needlecord shirt, day-glo orange socks and a pair of Converse sneakers.

  Stephanie peered down the open-plan carriage. 'Anyone with you?'

  'No.'

  A small gas stove sat beside a compact basin. There was a TV on the breakfast bar, a fridge beneath, a molasses leatherette sofa opposite. Drapes hung over the windows, tinting the dim light emerald, purple and rose. A thick chocolate carpet had been fitted throughout.

  Stephanie said, 'I'm surprised you don't have more security.'

  Littbarski tugged the zip on his trousers. 'Why would I need more security?'

  'The things you do. The people you know.'

  'I don't piss anybody off. I have a reputation in this city. You want something, I'll tell you whether I can get it for you and how much it'll cost. Then it's up to you. If you go for it, I'll deliver. On time, no extra charges. Why would anybody want to hurt me?'

  'Is that how it was with John Peltor?'

  'Who?'

  'Paul Ellroy. Alan Stonehouse.'

  Littbarski shrugged. 'Never heard of him.'

  'Which one?'

  'What?'

  Stephanie smiled. 'Which one of them haven't you heard of?'

  He glared at her and then began to look confused.

  'Have we met?' he asked.

  'In a way.'

  Stephanie wondered how old he was. Not as old as he looked, she supposed. Too many years with too little sleep and no sunlight. Littbarski was one of the living dead; grey skin, grey teeth, red eyes. As he moved through the light a face of hollows became a face of shadows.

  Gradually, he put some of it together. 'You're … not her. But the two of you … you're …'

  'Yes.'

  He opened a pack of Casablanca cigarettes. 'What's the story?'

  'You tell me.'

  'There's not much to tell. He approached me. Said he was looking for someone and that he'd heard I was the man to talk to. I already knew where to find Julia. But even if I hadn't, I'd have found her in twenty-four hours anyway.'

  'Club Nitro?'

  'Right. The owners are associates of mine. We do a lot of business out there.'