The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'You told me he died up a tree in a chainsaw accident.'

  'Dead before his time, Petra. That's the point.'

  'Since you've raised the subject of premature death, let's talk about you.'

  Stephanie raised the gun a little. When he managed to speak, his voice was a low tremble. 'You don't have to kill me, Petra.'

  'Technically, that's true. And generally, I don't kill for my own amusement. But in your case, I'm going to make an exception.'

  He asked her what she wanted. To kill him in cold blood. That was the truth. Instead, she said, 'Answers.'

  Relief flooded through him.

  'But let me explain something to you. If I think you're lying, I'll shoot you. If I think you're being evasive, I'll shoot you. Now talk me through Passage du Caire.'

  'You still pissed about that? Come on, Petra, we've been in situations …'

  'Don't play the solidarity card. We're not the same. Never have been. Why Anders Brand?'

  'People listened to Brand. He was tight with the Arabs.'

  'Could you possibly be any less specific? If I wanted vague generalizations I'd be watching CNN.'

  'There was this deal …'

  'Butterfly.'

  'You know about that?'

  'Broadly.'

  'Brand was vital.'

  'Why?'

  'He was the honest broker. The virgin in the whorehouse. You know where this line goes?'

  'Mosul to Haifa.'

  'Via Jordan. But close to the border with Syria. Jordan has agreed transit rights. Israel has agreed to the new terminal at Haifa. All that remained was for Iraq to sign up.'

  'I can think of a number of sticking points. Israel in particular. Why hasn't Iraq signed up?'

  'There are too many internal objections to the project. They're being organized by a number of leading Shia clerics. It started out as one or two dissenting voices. Now it's gathering momentum.'

  'Frankly, I'm not surprised.'

  'Frankly, neither are we.'

  Stephanie looked puzzled. 'I don't understand.'

  Peltor shrugged dismissively. 'It doesn't matter. That's the point. As long as the contract is implemented. That's the beauty of it.'

  'Explain that to me.'

  'Look, Brand was in a unique position. He could have delivered the Shia for us. He spoke to the Shia leadership, including al-Sistani. We know they could've been persuaded by him. Washington was banking on that. That he'd do the right thing. But he wouldn't.'

  'Wouldn't or couldn't?'

  'Your guess is as good as mine.'

  'My guess is wouldn't.'

  'Mine too. Anyway, when he didn't deliver Washington began to apply pressure. But it backfired. So now they had a situation where not only was Brand not going to deliver but it started to look like he was going to turn round and actively campaign against the deal.'

  'Taking the Shia leadership with him.'

  'Most of it. And bringing on board some of those who were against him before. All in all, a situation the new Iraqi government couldn't be seen to be going against.'

  'Leaving Amsterdam with a giant problem.'

  'Again.'

  'Again?'

  'This is the second time they've been here. They signed a contract in December 2002 for this pipeline.'

  'Before the war?'

  'That's right. You remember the scandal. Bush was handing out contracts for the reconstruction of Iraq before the invasion. In fact, while he was still telling everyone that he hoped a peaceful conclusion could be reached. Anyway, Amsterdam's name never entered the public arena but …'

  'How typical. What happened?'

  'They were told to drop it.'

  'Was the agreement signed?'

  'Sure. But they chose not to commit commercial suicide by pursuing it.'

  'Because they knew they'd get another chance?'

  Peltor nodded. 'They were guaranteed it. Which is where we are now. They're not going to let this go, Petra. They've invested too much. Politically and financially.'

  'Which brings us back to Brand.'

  'Exactly. The first priority was to make sure Brand's mouth stayed shut. Permanently. The second priority was to discredit him. To give the Shia leadership a reason to distance themselves from Brand and to give the Iraqi administration an exit.'

  'Which is where I come in.'

  'That's right. Brand dies. Then it turns out he's not the saint everyone thought he was. Turns out he likes fucking hookers and terrorists. Turns out he consorts with Zionist extremists.'

  Stephanie frowned. 'I'm sorry?'

  Peltor's smile was sly. 'Two of the Sentier dead were Zionist extremists.'

  'I didn't hear that.'

  'We held it back when things went wrong.'

  'How did you organize it?'

  'The same way we organized you. We took someone they trusted and got them to make the call. Same place, same time.'

  'Same outcome?'

  'Obviously. No loose ends.'

  'How imaginative.'

  'I like to think of it as … garnish.'

  'More like overkill. So, with Brand gone and his reputation in tatters, what was supposed to happen next?'

  'We expected people to distance themselves from him. We wanted old alliances to break down, new alliances to be made. Meanwhile the new Iraqi administration would get to promote the pipeline as a great project to fund regeneration. With the added sweetener of being financed by foreign aid.'

  'And for Amsterdam that means the thick end of $15 billion. Right?'

  Peltor said, 'I'm impressed. But you're way off the mark.'

  'How come?'

  'Amsterdam's negotiating other deals that are dependent on the success of Butterfly. Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Oman, Bahrain, Qatar. If you'll pardon the phrase, they're all in the pipeline. It's kinda like the Domino effect. Once Butterfly happens, so do the others. Fifteen billion? In the long run, it could be fifty plus.'

  Stephanie shook her head. 'You people …'

  Peltor smiled a little. 'You should know, Petra. Amsterdam learned its lesson from the Saudis. They're conducting themselves the Arab way, not the American way. There's no policy. No guiding philosophy. Just a series of lucrative commercial marriages.'

  'Corporate polygamy.'

  'Damn right.'

  'I assume Amsterdam's relationship with the Israeli government would fall into this category.'

  'Very much so.'

  'And they're happy with this?'

  'Who, the Israelis? Sure. They're getting a protected oil supply. And that's not all; they don't even have to pay for the new oil terminal at Haifa. Don't tell the US taxpayer but they're the ones who are going to pick up the tab.'

  'And if there's violence?'

  'Come on, Petra. This is the Middle East. Who gives a fuck about violence? They deserve each other, all of them. As far as I'm concerned they can carry on killing each other until it's last man standing. And then I'll volunteer to take care of that motherfucker personally and the whole goddamned Middle East problem will be over.'

  'Where were you when Rwanda needed you?'

  'You know as well as I do that violence has an upside. The more there is, the greater the need for security. You know what violence is? It's a big fat number in DeMille's profit margin. That's what it is.'

  'And bonus share options for you?' Peltor nodded.

  'And you. If you want them.'

  'First you try to kill me, now you try to recruit me. What next? Marmalade lessons?'

  'It's called a changeable business climate. I meant what I said in Munich, Petra. You're wasted on the small stuff. You'd be great in this environment.'

  'I hadn't realized it was a firm offer.'

  'It wasn't. It was a feeler. But it could be.'

  'I'm not sure I'd deal with the politics.'

  Peltor's mood began to brighten. He patted his stomach and surveyed the grandeur of his hotel room. 'Fuck the politics, feel the money.'

  'Is that the o
fficial motto of the Amsterdam Group?'

  'Should be.'

  'So Sentier was nothing more than a diversion?'

  'I wouldn't say that. It got rid of Brand.'

  'You could have done that anywhere.'

  Peltor considered this, then conceded. 'Sure. But kill a few Frenchmen in Paris and who's gonna care? Nobody outside France, that's for sure. Kill a few Jews and it's all over the news. If you and Brand had died together it would've been perfect.'

  Stephanie paused to marvel and seethe, one visibly, the other invisibly. 'I'll give you this much, at least: it's been an education.'

  'Come on, Petra. Level with me. You don't really want to be running around dodging bullets for the rest of your life, do you?'

  'No.'

  'Then let's talk. Put away the gun. We'll forget all this.'

  'We?'

  'You forget the last ten days. We forget what happened to Otto Heilmann.'

  'How do I know you're in a position to make such an offer?'

  'I give you my word.'

  'Not good enough.'

  'Whose word would be good enough?'

  'Gordon Wiley,' she said.

  'So we'll call him.'

  Stephanie thought about it for a while. 'How did you find out about me?'

  Peltor frowned. 'What do you mean?'

  'Brussels.'

  He grew cautious but when she grew tense, he chose the truth. 'We had someone on the inside.'

  'I know. Roland. I saw him yesterday at Petrotech.'

  'Jesus – you were there?'

  'Sure. With Wiley and Kincaid. And cuddly Richard Rhinehart. But how did you find out about Brussels in the first place? How did you know where to place Roland?'

  Peltor opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  'I hope you're not being evasive.'

  The pause elongated.

  She steadied her hand. 'Speak now.'

  'Hammond.'

  'Who?'

  'Maurice Hammond.'

  'Who the hell's Maurice Hammond? I've never heard of him.'

  'He's a Brit.'

  Stephanie felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. 'Go on.'

  'He's an intelligence consultant for Amsterdam Europe.'

  'With a background in intelligence, I'm assuming.'

  Peltor nodded. 'Ex-SIS.'

  'Ex?'

  'He's retired.'

  'Let me guess. He was the one who came here from London with the photos of me. The photos that were used for Julia's scars at the Verbinski clinic.'

  'That's right.'

  A former SIS officer. That didn't quite make sense. Magenta House had no relationship with any established security service. That was the point of it. Yet there had to be a connection. It was too close for coincidence.

  She didn't say anything for a while and was aware of Peltor watching her in constant analysis. There were so many questions but she didn't need anything else; she had enough to run from.

  Nevertheless, she said, 'Who killed Leonid Golitsyn and Fyodor Medvedev?'

  Peltor looked her straight in the eye. 'I did.'

  No apology, no remorse.

  'Why?'

  'Golitsyn was the link between Brand and Amsterdam. Wiley trusted Golitsyn where he wouldn't trust his own people. Golitsyn operated on a higher level. Then it turned out that he was leaking classified information to Brand. Golitsyn betrayed Wiley.'

  'Why was Golitsyn helping Brand?'

  'He had the same feeling for Butterfly that Brand did.'

  'They both saw through it?'

  'There's nothing to see through, Petra. They were wrong.'

  What was it Stern had said? Golitsyn floats above the world.

  'One more thing: Jacob Furst.'

  'Who?'

  'The man who called me in Brussels to get me to come to Paris. He and his wife were killed. Who did it?'

  'Grotius.'

  Peltor's eyes betrayed him and the last of Stephanie's doubt evaporated. She took care not to let it show.

  'You've got Wiley's personal number?' she asked.

  'Sure. Want to call him now? Why don't we call him, Petra? We can make a deal. We're all professionals. Deals are what we do.'

  'Where's the number?'

  'In my cell.' He started to rise from the chair. 'I'll call him for you.'

  'Sit down!'

  Peltor froze. 'Okay. I'm sitting. Take it easy.'

  She picked up his phone from the coffee table and tried to access the address book. The phone didn't respond.

  Peltor said, 'It's locked.'

  'How do I unlock it?'

  'Star 23.'

  She looked at him and then at the phone. An unpleasant memory surfaced. Singapore. The Fullerton Hotel. An exploding mobile phone, the handset containing a small disk of Semtex impregnated with mercury droplets. She'd activated the device from Hong Kong. It had blown apart a lawyer's head.

  She doubted Peltor would be fool enough to have such a device in a phone he used regularly. But why take the risk? Perhaps there were other modifications.

  She tossed him the handset. 'You do it.'

  'You want me to call him?'

  She shook her head, then threw him a small message pad from beside the phone on the desk. 'Write down the number.'

  Slowly, so that she wouldn't misinterpret his movement, he reached into the open attaché case on the sofa and extracted a Mont Blanc pen. He looked at the phone's screen and scribbled the number on the top sheet, which he tore off and offered to her.

  'Here you go, Petra.'

  I want to throw up but know that I can't. There's already something in my mouth. A gag of some sort, tied tightly, tugging at the corners. My eyes are still shut. I don't open them in case he sprays me again.

  I know that I passed out but have no idea how much time has elapsed. My blood seems to have been substituted by wet sand. I can barely move. Nothing's responding.

  I'm on the bed; I can feel the mattress and the bedspread beneath me. My hands are above my head, bound at the wrists and tied to something solid.

  I try to piece it together. I took the paper. I looked at the number. Then there was a sharp snap and a piercing pain in the back of my right hand. I saw a tiny sliver of metal protruding from a puncture point. And even as I saw it, l felt the prickly heat spread through my fingers.

  I fired the gun into the space he'd occupied but Peltor was already moving. The bullet ploughed harmlessly into the bed. I tried to fire a second shot but my fingers wouldn't respond. The gun slipped from my grasp.

  That was when he piled into me like a linebacker, his bulk crushing the air from my lungs as we hit the floor. After that, my memory is a collection of scattered moments; a fistful of hair being grabbed, an assortment of brutal blows to the body, a heavy thud to the temple, a blast of spray to the face.

  The effect was instant. A cloying sensation at the back of the throat, eyes stinging, skin burning. The first automatic intake of breath – a natural reaction to shock – did the damage, sucking the mist deep into my lungs, accelerating its passage into the bloodstream.

  After that, I'm not sure.

  He's removed the black jeans I was wearing. Eyes still closed, I run a clothing inventory by feel; as far as I can tell, my T-shirt, knickers and socks are all that's left.

  Only when I hear him walking away from the bed do I open my eyes. The room moves, compounding my nausea. My head throbs. There's wetness just above the hairline over the left temple. My nose, mouth and throat feel raw while my eyes are dry; every blink is a scratch.

  Peltor sees me and smiles. He kicks off his loafers and peels off cream socks.

  'Avrolax, in case you were wondering. First the dart. Then the can.'

  The Mont Blanc pen. Of course. In Russia, these days, modified gun-pens are a fashion accessory. Like wearing a Rolex.

  'Lance was a big fan. Got him a lot of dates.'

  Now I know how Robert felt when Grotius attacked him in Paris. Peltor sits on the bed beside me w
ithout fear of reprisal. I'm finding out what Avrolax can do but he already knows. He puts his hand on my left thigh and squeezes gently.

  'I'm gonna take off the gag, Petra. Whimper if you want to. But no screaming. Not unless you want me to give you something to scream about.'

  Not an idle threat. He'd be thrilled to do it. But at the moment I'd be more likely to vomit. He leans over me and unties the knot.

  'I gotta admit this is a real bonus. I was expecting Julia. But this is so much better.'

  He stands up and pulls the polo-shirt over his head, revealing the monumental physique last seen on a freezing rooftop in Munich. I use my clumsy fingers to investigate the bindings around my wrists but I can't find a weak point.

  'Lance told me about the two of you,' he says, as he unfastens his belt. 'How you met in this bar in Larnaca. The Mistral. See? I even remember the name.'

  He drops his trousers and steps out of them. He's wearing nothing underneath. Not even pubic hair. He has a tattoo. It's not like Kostya's; this etching is no more significant than a statement of contemporary fashion. And there's nothing less significant than that. Across his lower abdomen, in black Gothic script, is a tediously predictable phrase: Born to Kill.

  I try to remember those lessons from long ago. Partition of body and soul; keep one part of the mind to oneself and reduce the body to a vehicle. That's the theory but I'm out of practice. Naked now, he starts to stroke himself.

  'He told me everything. How he picked you up. How he took you back to his hotel. How you couldn't get enough of him, no matter what he did to you. I can believe that, Petra. I've seen it in your eyes. You're a wild cat.'

  How typical of Grotius to manufacture triumph out of rejection. And how typical of Peltor to accept it, suspending all critical faculties in order to nourish a pathetic fantasy. I'd love to say something spiteful but that's only going to encourage him.

  He climbs on to the bed and removes my knickers. I don't kick out because I'm not sure I can. And because I know he wants me to. Then he puts his palm flat on my stomach.

  'There's no one like you.' He gently runs the hand under my T-shirt from stomach to sternum and back. 'Not in our world. Not anywhere.'

  He withdraws the hand and then tears the T-shirt slowly and effortlessly, the sinews ebbing and flowing along forearms as thick as my thighs. Up the front, through the collar, along either sleeve, a meticulous process. His eyes never stray from mine. He's waiting for the first glimmer of fear which, paradoxically, strengthens my resolve.