by Mark Burnell
She smiled a little sadly. 'I should go.'
'If you ever need anything from me, don't hesitate. Not for a second.'
'I won't. I promise.'
'Look after yourself, Stephanie.'
She kissed him. 'You too.'
'When you find out who you really are, give me a call if you ever pass through Paris. I'd be interested to meet her.'
Early February
When she woke up the aircraft was somewhere over the Andaman Sea. She watched twenty minutes of The Third Man on one of the movie channels. A member of the cabin crew brought her a cup of coffee.
She read again Maurice Hammond's obituary from a recent edition of The Times. All the right ticks in all the right boxes; the right school, the right university, the intelligence service. A witty raconteur, a keen Anglican, a man of integrity. It didn't say how he'd died. That had been reported in the deaths column of a previous edition; at home, peacefully in his sleep.
Pure Magenta House: no trace, the calling-card of the Ether Division.
British Airways flight BA015 began its descent for Singapore. Stephanie peered out of the window. Early evening dropped a deep gold haze over the oil tankers clogging the Strait of Malacca.
She'd destroyed the disk in Paris. Anders Brand remained the man he'd always appeared to be. Julia remained anonymous, as she deserved to be. As for Petra Reuter, there was only confusion. There'd been a body in Vienna yet twenty-four hours later, in Paris, the killing of Gordon Wiley had appeared to bear her signature.
She thought of Leonid Golitsyn. Golitsyn floats above the world. That was what Stern had said of him. And Stern was the one who'd provided Stephanie with the knowledge she'd needed. In Vienna, and then again in Paris, hours before the end, Stern had come through for her.
The flight touched down just before six. She had two hours on the ground before the second leg for Sydney. Yet again, she was a woman in transit. From one place to another. From one identity to another. From a congested past to an empty future. In that sense, Australia seemed a perfect starting point. Later, who could say? Perhaps even the house in the South of France that Albert Eichner had offered to buy for her.
Inside the cool, cavernous terminal at Changi airport she settled in front of a computer terminal, checked for messages – there were none – then sent one of her own to Stern.
> Thank you for Paris. Thank you for everything. I have only one more thing to ask. Diamonds or bread?
She cruised the terminal for an hour and a half, drank some tea, browsed the shops, stretched her legs. Everything had revolved around Golitsyn, she now realized. But Golitsyn wasn't the answer. He was the missing link to the answer.
Why shouldn't Stern be a woman? And why not an old woman? In the information business there was no substitute for experience. That had been true for Golitsyn; his access had been legendary. Natalya Ginzburg had said so herself. A courier between Washington and Moscow in the old days. A man who'd continued to float above the world, no matter what the prevailing political climate. Just as she and her husband had, until his untimely death. But Natalya Ginzburg and Golitsyn had been friends long before that. Ever since childhood.
Golitsyn was connected to everyone. And she was Golitsyn's closest confidante. The one he whispered to the morning he died. The one who knew where the film was. Who knew the location of the safe in the penthouse on avenue Kléber. Who knew which security features protected the safe and who knew the security features protecting the building. Stern had suggested a rooftop entry. Stern had known it would be okay. Because Golitsyn had known.
A soft female voice echoed in the terminal. The final call for BA015 to Sydney. Stephanie checked her watch. Seven-forty, fifteen minutes until departure. She returned to the computer terminal and accessed her messages again.
Still nothing.
Perhaps she'd made a mistake. Yet in her heart she knew she hadn't. Golitsyn and Brand had not been an alliance of two; they'd been two parts of an alliance of three. Natalya Ginzburg had known exactly what was going on. Which was why, as Stern, she'd directed Stephanie to Golitsyn. She'd wanted to save her friend and had hoped that her favourite client would do it.
Another final call. Less than ten minutes to go.
Stephanie thought about place Vendôme. Ginzburg's curiosity made sense now. I never thought I would actually meet you. That was what she'd said. Stephanie had asked her if she knew who she was. Who you are and what you are.
Two days later, when she'd returned to place Vendôme to see Ginzburg again, the conversation had concluded in the Zil limousine that Brezhnev had given to her husband. And it had been during that ride that Ginzburg had revealed to Stephanie the details of Butterfly that Golitsyn had disclosed to her. She'd also mentioned the contract on her – five million dollars, soon to rise to ten – and had urged Stephanie to run. It made sense now. Ginzburg had tried to protect her. Or, seen from a parallax view, Stern had tried to protect Petra Reuter.
Four words appeared to fill in the blank spaces.
> Only we know which.
Stephanie nodded. The secret joke that Natalya Ginzburg had shared with Leonid Golitsyn was the confirmation Stephanie had wanted. Natalya Ginzburg was Stern.
Stephanie was the last to board the aircraft. She settled back into seat 3K. The aircraft doors closed. The 747 rolled back from the stand.
She felt truly liberated and immediately thought of Julia. This was her future, not Stephanie's. The one-way ticket, the promise of a future cleansed of the past, the intoxicating possibilities ahead.
The chance to begin again.
