by Mark Burnell
'I doubt it. She's already had a lot of chances.'
'You were useful to her. But once she has her deal, what more can you offer her?'
'That's not really your business, is it?'
'No. It's yours. And you should be thinking about that.'
'And you should be thinking about protecting what you have,' Newman said. 'You gambled and lost. But she's offering you a way out. You should be grateful that it's come to this.'
'Don't be naïve.'
'You're the one being naïve.'
'Have you any idea who you're dealing with, Newman? Do you know what she's done? I've seen her record. Dead bodies on four continents. Terrorism, contract killing, it's a hell of a picture.'
'You've got what you want. She's in no mood to take this further. She wants a new life. A quiet life. There's no reason for her to cause you trouble. As long as you don't cause her any.'
'What is this? Stockholm Syndrome? Suddenly you're Patti Hearst?'
'I don't understand your reluctance, Mr Wiley.'
'Then I'll explain it to you: she's loose.'
'I'm sorry?'
'A loose end and a loose cannon. And that's not a good combination.'
'You're wrong. But she could be both, if you press her hard enough.'
'Where the hell is she?'
'Out there. Waiting.'
'You don't owe her anything, Newman. She kidnapped you. Or have you forgotten that already?'
'I'm under no illusions.'
'Then be smart. Do the right thing. I don't care if the two of you have something going on but she's a terrorist, for God's sake. An assassin.'
'She's in business, Mr Wiley. Just like you. Give her what she wants. You'll regret it if you don't.'
Wiley looked across at Zahani. 'Sherry, talk to him, will you? Tell him.'
She looked at Newman first, then shook her head. 'No, Gordon. Robert's right. You gambled and lost. With other people's money. My money.'
'Lost? What are you talking about?'
Newman said, 'You don't get it, do you? If she wants to, she'll destroy you. All of you. One by one.'
'Oh, come on. Please. I don't have to listen to this melodramatic bullshit.'
'I'm afraid you do,' Scheherazade Zahani insisted. 'This has gone on far too long. Let's end it here, Gordon. All she wants is to be left alone. She's happy for the world to know that Petra Reuter is dead. She just doesn't want to be dead herself. That's not so unreasonable, is it? Let's make a deal with her. We can't afford not to.'
Avenue Kléber, 11:42.
Gordon Wiley let himself into the corporate apartment, a penthouse above Amsterdam Europe's head office. He entered the study. Sensors triggered the lights, casting amber pools on to a vast Bokhara silk carpet.
He sat at his desk and called his secretary, two floors below, to tell her that he would remain in the apartment until one-thirty, when he was due to depart for La Défense. After the Butterfly signing he intended to take the Gulfstream back to Washington. She said she'd make the necessary arrangements. Wiley thanked her and replaced the handset. Agitated, he took a deep breath and tilted back in the chair. Which was when he realized that he was not alone.
Silhouetted against the net curtains covering the French windows was a solitary figure with a gun. The curtains billowed on the breeze. One of the windows on to the balcony was ajar.
He didn't even raise his voice when he said, 'How'd you get in here?'
'Your security's average from the street up. From the roof down, it's a joke.'
Wiley looked incredulous. 'You climbed?'
'I've been a climber all my life. I'll bet that isn't in any file you've seen.'
'How did you know I'd come back here?'
'You have to collect the disk.'
'How did you know that?'
Stern had known.
Stephanie said, 'You don't know anything about me, do you?'
'Frankly, I feel I know too much.'
'You know nothing. Everything you've heard is a lie.'
His eyes were drawn to the tip of the silencer. 'What do you want? You already have your deal. Or haven't you heard?'
'That's not why I'm here.'
'Anything happens to me, you can kiss it goodbye.'
'I'm not here to kill you,' she said. 'But if I have to, I will.'
He nodded, one part reassured, the other curious. 'So why are you here?'
'First things first. I want the film from the George V.'
She detected the slight change in his expression, the subtle shift in body-language. 'Right,' he said, drawing the word into a phrase, playing for time.
'The original disk,' she added.
'I'm sure we can come to an arrangement and …'
'I'm sure we can. Give it to me and I won't kill you.'
'It's not here.'
Stephanie raised the SIG-Sauer P226. 'Give me the disk.'
'I can get it for you later.'
'It's in the safe. The safe that's governed by a biometric security system that requires an iris scan. The safe that's behind the plasma screen in the wall.'
Wiley stared at her blankly.
Stephanie said, 'I'm not leaving empty-handed. It's up to you.'
'Okay. But before we do this can I say something?'
'If you keep it short.'
'We can still make a deal. A solid deal.'
'I don't want your money. I want the disk. That's all.'
He didn't say anything but she saw signs of the internal struggle. The film on the disk was the key to the confidence of his co-signatories. Without the disk, Brand remained a fine man. A man whose legacy would still command influence. Nothing hardened a good reputation better than a tragic death.
She headed off Wiley's calculations at the pass. 'You only have one choice if you want to live: to give it to me. If it's really worth dying for just say so and we'll move swiftly along.'
'You don't honestly think you can sabotage this deal once you have it, do you?'
'I don't care. Either it fails or it doesn't. Makes no difference to me.'
'What would make a difference?'
'Give me the disk, Wiley.'
The plasma screen was built into the wall on the opposite side of the room to the desk. The glass surface ran flush to the paint. There'd been no give when she pressed it and no way of drawing it forward. She'd checked earlier but only out of curiosity; Stern had provided her with the information she needed. She said. 'Go ahead. Enter the code on the desktop.'
Wiley tapped a sequence on the keyboard. Stephanie watched the plasma screen retract two centimetres into the wall then vanish upwards in total silence. A rectangle came forward to take its place, settling in perfect position. At its centre was the safe door. Above and below it, and on either side, were the matt black panels of the biometric security system.
Stephanie said, 'You know it really doesn't bother me that people like you are so obsessed with money. I don't care what you're worth. It's not what you've got that matters, it's what you do. You were already rich, you and your organization. You never needed this deal. Take it from someone who knows something about killing for money, Mr Wiley, I recognize you.'
'You don't honestly believe that, do you? That Iraq was some kind of commercial venture.'
'Iraq was a joint venture. Commercial and political. Both interests dovetailing, both interests so inextricably interwoven that it's probably impossible to separate them.'
'Bullshit.'
'Really? Who are your investors, Mr Wiley? What proportion of your private equity comes from Saudi Arabia? What proportion from the Arab peninsula or the Middle East in general?'
'What is your point?'
'That it's a wonderful deal for those on the inside. Profits from increased oil revenues subsidized by the US taxpayer. Or else profits from increased arms sales, also subsidized by the US taxpayer. How do you suppose they'll feel – the autoplant worker in Detroit, the farmer in Kansas – when they learn that chunks of their ta
x bill are going directly into the pockets of billionaire Saudi princes?'
Wiley chuckled unconvincingly. 'I've got to hand it to you. You sure know how to tell a story. Very imaginative. Very entertaining. And everyone loves a good conspiracy theory. Of course, it's not true. But what's the point in denying it? You've already made up your mind, I can see that.'
'Open the safe.'
Wiley rose from his chair and crossed the carpet. He stood in front of the safe, half a metre from the wall. There were no vox instructions, no lights, no keypad. The safe door had no handle. But behind the black panel above the door an iris scan was taking place. When it was complete, there was a whisper as the seals retracted. The safe door withdrew five millimetres then slid down, disappearing into the gleaming steel housing. Tiny internal lights illuminated the contents; documents, three rolls of undeveloped film, photographic negatives, bearer bonds. The DVD was in a dark blue plastic case. Beyond it was a small gun. A Polish P-64.
Wiley knew that she couldn't see the gun. He reached inside. His fingers hovered over the disk – he closed his eyes for a moment, almost in prayer – then touched the P-64. Don't be an idiot. It's not worth it. Breathing hard, he picked up the disk instead and turned around slowly.
Stephanie took the disk. 'Just out of interest. how much profit has to be at stake before it's worth killing someone? And does it matter who that person is? I mean, Brand was famous. Well respected. What was he worth? Three nobodies? Ten? A hundred?'
'Very clever.'
'I'm serious. There has to be a dollar amount. I don't think you'd have anybody killed for ten dollars of profit. But for ten billion? Recent history shows you'll kill for a lot less. So where does it start? What's the figure that makes the first body worthwhile?'
'You should know. You're the expert.'
'Okay. If that's the way you want to play it. Yusuf Aziz Khan, former director of Pakistan's ISI: one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They offered one, I asked for one point five, we settled in between. Eddie Sullivan, founder of ProActive Solutions, killed this month in Turkmenistan on behalf of the Russian government, three-quarters of a million. Your turn.'
Wiley was dumbstruck.
'Your turn,' Stephanie insisted.
But he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he fumbled for an alternative. 'How much would it cost me to buy back that disk from you?'
Despite herself, Stephanie smiled. How typical of him; money, the only language a man like Wiley truly understood.
'You tell me,' she said. 'What's it worth? And before you answer, bear this in mind: if you try to take me for an idiot, it'll hurt.'
Wiley took his time over a deep breath. 'Ten.'
'Ten what?'
'Ten million US. Cash. Or any way you want it.'
'The same as the contract on me? I can see the symmetry but we're a little beyond that, don't you think? What about the three or four billion of pure profit you're going to make from Butterfly? What about the knock-on contracts? All with a protected profit margin built in. How much are we talking about? Ten billion? Fifteen?'
'You're way wide of the mark.'
'You won't be in the queue for food vouchers.'
'Twenty million.'
She shook her head in contempt. 'Not even close.'
Wiley tried to muster some defiance. 'Okay. You pick a number.'
'Five-three-one-four-two.'
'What?'
'That's the number. Five-three-one-four-two.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Do you know who Jacob Furst was?'
'No. Never heard of him.'
'He died here in Paris eleven days ago. The same day as the Sentier bomb. Peltor killed him. And his wife, Miriam. Peltor used them to lure me to Paris, then murdered them. Jacob was in his late eighties. He survived Auschwitz; 53142 was the number tattooed on his wrist. That's why I'm here.'
Wiley felt the remains of his hope evaporate like dew in the desert.
'If you kill me, they'll come after you.'
Stephanie felt nothing at all and it showed. 'I know.'
He panicked and did the first thing to come to mind. The only thing to come to mind. He spun round and reached inside the safe for the P-64. But he didn't even manage to touch it.
The bullet entered through the right shoulder blade and punched him against the wall. Then he pitched backwards and fell, hitting the carpet with a grunt.
Stephanie stood over him. Entirely predictable, she thought. A man whose element of surprise was confined to his choice of tie. She raised the gun again.
'Wait!' he gasped. 'You said …'
'I know what I said. But it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. That was for me. This one's for Jacob.'
She fired again.
'And this one's for Miriam.'
After the third shot, she dropped the gun beside the body. The SIG-Sauer P226, the weapon of choice for the assassin Petra Reuter.
Five-past-one. Stephanie waited among the ground-floor arcades beneath the beautiful seventeenth-century houses that formed place des Vosges. A brisk breeze blew through the square's perfectly pruned linden trees.
'Hey you.'
He was still wearing the same suit and shirt he'd worn to Grumann Bank on Singerstrasse in Vienna but he'd showered and shaved at the Adlers'.
Stephanie said, 'You scrub up okay.'
'I thought I better make the effort.'
'For Scheherazade?'
'For Wiley.'
They smiled at the lie, then kissed. She held on to him.
'Did you get the disk?' he asked.
'Yes. I got it.'
'How did he take it?'
'Poorly. How did it go with you?'
'There was a lot of noise. But he agreed to the deal. We're in the clear.'
It didn't feel right. Not now. But she knew that in the days to come her head and heart would reconcile. She squeezed him tighter and said, 'You're in the clear.'
He tensed. 'What do you mean?'
'Wiley's dead.'
He took a step back so that he could look at her. 'How?'
'He went for a gun.'
Newman looked amazed. 'Wiley? A gun? You're kidding.'
She shook her head. 'I told him I wasn't there to kill him. But now I'm not sure that's true. I don't know.'
'Shit. We're screwed.'
'You're not.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You're not going to like this, Robert.'
'Then make it quick.'
'I saw Scheherazade this morning. Before you did. We struck a different deal.'
He frowned at her. 'What deal?'
'You're safe, no matter what.'
'Wait. You went behind my back and …'
'Don't be angry. It was the only way.'
But he was angry. Justifiably, Stephanie felt. But she knew she'd been right to do it anyway. She threaded her arm through his.
'Come on,' she said. 'It's freezing. Let's walk.'
They strolled along one arcade, then another, past expensive boutiques and chic art galleries. Neither of them said anything for a while.
Stephanie thought of Gordon Wiley and wondered whether she would have shot him had he not gone for the gun. She wasn't sure. She suspected she might have. Which would have made him Stephanie's first victim. As it was, he had gone for the gun, so he was Petra's last. In any event, she felt no remorse. It wasn't justice but it was the best she could do for Jacob and Miriam. And the others like them.
'She never mentioned it,' Newman said.
'Of course not. She's a woman of infinite options. That's what you said. Butterfly was only one of them. And not the most attractive, either.'
'What did she tell you?'
'There's another project. No America, no Israel, just as lucrative. It's a new deal, politically and financially. As usual, she's ahead. Butterfly was one step back, this is two steps forward.'
He thought about it for a while, then said, 'Syria?'
Stephanie shook her head. 'China.'
'China?'
'And Saudi Arabia. A different axis altogether. But not a new one.'
'No.'
'I saw the stamps in your passport at your apartment. Shanghai. Beijing.'
He nodded slowly. 'But I never knew she was close to Beijing. Do you know what the deal is?'
'She didn't say. But she told me that a Sino-Saudi deal was always going to be more lucrative. She always considered Butterfly expendable.'
'The two deals couldn't coexist?'
'Apparently not.'
His dismay dissolved into a tired smile. 'I don't know why I'm surprised. After all the years I've known her, I should've guessed.'
'I'm sorry I had to go behind your back. I thought you'd be difficult.'
'I would have been.'
'She still cares for you, Robert.'
'I know. But it's just too complicated.'
'Rather like us, then.'
His nod looked reluctant. 'I guess so.'
'You know it makes sense.'
'Sure. It just doesn't feel like it.'
'Wiley's death actually makes it easier. It takes away the element of choice.'
'Easier for me. Not for you.'
Stephanie shook her head. 'Easier for me too, Robert. I'm a mess. I don't know who I am any more. Or who I'm going to be. I need a clean break.'
'From me?'
'From Petra. From the present, from the past.'
'What will you do?'
'What I always do. Run.'
They walked diagonally across the square past mothers and children, past lovers, past a blind man with a tin cup. Despite the bitter cold an artist was painting a watercolour; steep slate roofs, ornate brickwork, tall dormer-windows.
Newman said, 'I often wonder whether Rachel and I would have made it in the real world. In some ways, it was easy for us. The normal rules never applied.'
Stephanie understood. 'You'd have made it. Don't compare us, Robert. I'm not worth it. She was special.'
'But you're …'
'No, I'm not. Whatever it was you were going to say, I'm just not.'
They stopped and turned to one another.
'Are you okay?'
He nodded. 'I'm a whole lot better than I was when I walked into the bar at the Lancaster.'
'What will you do now?'
'The same as you. A clean break from the past.'
