by Mark Burnell
At first she thought she was getting close to him. He was star-struck, that much was clear. As taken with the physical reality of Stephanie as he was with the myth of Petra Reuter. Conversation revealed mutual acquaintances other than Marcel Claesen. Carleen Attwater, for one, and former US marine John Peltor. Peltor was a freelance assassin. The last time Stephanie had seen him was in the British Airways departure lounge at JFK. They'd had a couple of drinks over an hour of industry gossip; to the casual observer, a chance meeting between two executives on business. Peltor was on his way to Africa. A fortnight later, stranded between flights at Oslo airport, Stephanie read about the death of Prince Mustafa, the Mogadishu warlord, in a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Hit through the heart by a long-range sniper.
On the subject of Carleen Attwater, Savic said, 'Do you know her?'
'I've met her. I don't know her.'
'A strong woman.'
'That's the impression I got.'
'We didn't always agree – in fact, we argued a lot – but her opinions were never coloured by propaganda. For that I always respected her. At the time, that wasn't easy.'
'I can imagine.'
'Where did you meet her?'
For a second Stephanie wondered whether she should lie.
'London.'
'Yes, I remember. She and her husband were based there, I think.'
'They're divorced now. He's living in the States.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'Oh?'
'She told me they were separated. I think they'd been living different lives for a long time.'
That conversation occurred in an office in the Lippo Centre. Later, through a glass partition, Stephanie watched Savic and Brankovic together. They weren't aware that she could see them because of the angle, and she couldn't hear what they were saying, which forced her to look harder. It was the first time she'd seen Brankovic animated. Both laughed at something, then fell into conversation. She watched the body language – the gestures, the looks – and understood that the two of them were bound by something she couldn't penetrate: shared history.
She needed something more.
They were at his apartment in the Dragon Centre. Except it wasn't his. As Stephanie had anticipated, Raymond Chen had traced ultimate ownership back to Gilbert Lai. Just like the villa in Marrakech.
The apartment was luxuriously uncomfortable: marble everywhere, ferocious air-conditioning, large rooms, mostly empty with white walls and gold fittings; it couldn't have been more impersonal. They moved outside to the terrace around the pool.
Savic said, 'Cheung's going to Shanghai.'
'When?'
'Thursday morning.'
It was Sunday afternoon. 'When does he get back?'
'Not for ten days. He's going on to Beijing and coming home – via Taipei.'
'That leaves Wednesday.'
'Can you manage that?'
'Yes.'
'You could wait.'
He wanted her to wait. It wasn't his tone that betrayed him. It was his eyes.
'No. By the time Cheung gets back Waxman will have gone to Los Angeles. And he won't be coming back here for six weeks.'
'Six weeks …'
He let it drift. There was no reasonable justification for six weeks.
By Monday evening she had both men's schedules to compare. Waxman's was light – only a lunch at the Fullerton with an Israeli arms dealer and another lawyer – whereas Cheung's was busy; matters to attend to before Shanghai. There was a gap, however. Three hours blocked off. Another last-minute assignation before a period of enforced abstinence.
When she made her reservation she altered carrier, choosing Singapore Airlines instead of Cathay Pacific. She picked SQ859 to take her to Singapore, arriving just after five in the evening, and booked herself on the first flight back to Hong Kong the following morning, SQ870, departing at half past seven, leaving her just over fourteen hours on the ground. Arriving back in Hong Kong at eleven fifteen in the morning, she reckoned there would be plenty of time.
That evening she met Raymond Chen in the bar at the Mandarin Oriental. Set against a wall-to-wall backdrop of bankers in button-down shirts, he looked even more preposterous than usual in a black silk polo-neck beneath a very light grey suit with shiny slip-ons of the same colour.
'I just wanted to know how things were going.'
Stephanie arched an eyebrow. 'That's why you asked to meet me here?'
'Sure. To see if you needed anything.'
'Like what?'
'Like … anything.'
'Raymond, doesn't working for Alexander bother you?'
At first she thought she'd insulted him. She took his blankness for offence. Then he said, 'Personally, I think he's a total asshole. But working for him keeps me in business and out of jail. What's your excuse?'
Just for a moment she could have kissed him. 'Let me buy you a drink. What are you having?'
'Strawberry daiquiri.'
The following evening he was at another bar, 1/5 on Star Street in Wan Chai: high ceiling, low lighting, stone for a floor and muted colour everywhere. Catering largely to the after-dinner crowd, it was relatively empty at nine. Savic was drinking whisky, Stephanie was on vodka.
'Do you think you'll ever go back to Serbia?'
He laughed. 'Of course!'
'When?'
'Not for a while. But some day.'
'The climate might have changed by then.'
'I've heard that climate change is a bad thing. Personally, I agree. And the climate was changing in Serbia. Now we've changed it back.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Zoran Djindjic.'
Serbia's Prime Minister until Wednesday 12 March 2003.
'You had something to do with that?'
'No.'
'You mean, not directly?'
For a moment he wasn't sure. Then he smiled. 'Legija is an old friend.'
A shiver ran down Stephanie's spine. Legija was the alias for Milorad Lukovic, head of the ringleaders suspected of masterminding the assassination. Stephanie had come across his name before. He'd been responsible for a multitude of horrors, including the torching of the Croatian village of Dreznik in 1991 and the massacre of Albanians in Drenica in 1998. Lukovic had been the leader of the Red Berets. Officially a special operations unit within the Serbian Interior Ministry, in practice they operated death squads that rampaged through Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo with the blessing of Slobodan Milosevic.
Since the end of the conflict Lukovic and his right-hand man, Dusan Spasojevic, alias Siptar, had been prominent Belgrade mobsters involved in human trafficking, prostitution, illegal immigration, narcotics and gun-running. Lukovic was a good friend of Svetlana Raznatovic, better known as the popular singer Ceca, also famous for being the widow of Arkan, the most notorious Serbian warlord of them all. It was this that had prompted the shiver.
'Did Djindjic really merit it?'
Savic snorted with contempt. 'He was among the worst of them.'
'You mean, the ones who betrayed Milosevic?'
'Milosevic was a fucking idiot.'
In other words, yes.
'How come you left when a man like Lukovic stayed?'
Stephanie asked the question despite knowing the answer. Savic was on a list, Lukovic wasn't.
His version was more elaborate. 'The victors always write the history. In my position I could see that I was going to be … misunderstood. I knew there would be retribution. That's what happens. So it was time to leave. It's as simple as that.'
'Except becoming Martin Dassler can't have been that simple.'
'No harder than it is for you.'
'Not true. I'm used to not being anyone for more than five seconds.' He conceded the point with a shrug. Stephanie pressed on. 'I've heard there were others like you.'
Savic tried to feign indifference. 'Where did you hear that?'
'Let's just say that if it isn't true it doesn't matter.'
'It isn't true.'
'Then it doesn't matter.'
Except that she could see that it did. And he knew it. He lit a cigarette and changed tack. 'Do you have anyone?'
A question straight out of the blue. Stephanie's instinct was to answer too quickly, to blurt something out, anything, but she restrained herself. 'What about you?'
'Is that the way it's always going to be? I ask you a question and you answer it by asking me the same question?'
'Depends on the question.'
'I don't have anyone. I did, for a while. Sabine – we were both in Germany. But it was complicated.'
Sabine – we were both in Germany. Stephanie wondered where in Germany. Hamburg, perhaps, where Goran Simic had been sighted? She'd been expecting to hear details about Krystyna, the spectacular Slovakian lap-dancer.
'Why was it complicated?'
'We had a professional relationship before we had a personal relationship. Work was always in the way. Plus, I was here most of the time. In the end she started to work out of Moscow and we saw each other so little, it didn't seem worth the effort.'
'Business and pleasure, like oil and water.'
He nodded. 'You?'
Mark's sleeping face filled her mind. 'I don't have anyone.'
'Not at all?'
'You find that surprising?'
'I don't know. Maybe.'
'I can't afford the involvement. It's not worth the risk.'
If only Alexander could hear me now.
'Too many lies?'
'Not just that. I can't be involved with anything I can't leave in a second. That doesn't make for good relationships.'
'No baggage when you travel.'
'Exactly.'
He put his right hand on her left knee. She didn't remove it. She didn't encourage it, either. She just looked at it, then at him.
'As I was saying, business and pleasure, oil and water.'
Yau Ma Tei, Kowloon, seven in the evening, a cube of darkness opening directly onto the street. Suspended on a single hook dropping from the centre of the ceiling were five pig carcasses, the steel spike running through the hind leg of each, just above the trotter. Their bodies as pale and smooth as alabaster, heads pooled on the floor, jowl by jowl, light fluid oozing across the concrete towards an open drain. In the gloom to the rear she saw men hacking at a sixth carcass.
She stepped back and checked the number of the building. It was correct, so she ventured in. The men stopped chopping. One of them came towards her, a bloody blade in his right hand. She handed him the piece of paper with the Chinese script and he waved her towards the back. Down a narrow corridor, in almost total darkness, she came to a dead end in the form of a lift. She pulled open the cage, stepped inside, closed it and pressed the upper of the two buttons on the brass panel.
She rose two storeys and was disgorged into a total contrast: a salon of some sort, two plump sofas covered in purple velvet, scarlet walls with a damask inlay, a dimmed chandelier, its bulbs shaped like candles. On one wall there was a large oval mirror – the glass mottled – set in a baroque gold frame. The air was thick, sweet with the scent of jasmine. A Chinese woman in her fifties greeted her. Exquisite, in a black dress with gold thread, she beckoned Stephanie to follow her with a tiny curling finger. A heavy sapphire curtain swept aside, down a scarlet corridor to a door on the right. She smiled, pointed and vanished.
Stephanie didn't bother knocking. Inside there was dope and incense. The light was low, flickering gold. There were no windows. It looked like the inside of a tent, large folds of plum-coloured material gathered at the centre of the ceiling, falling away to the corners. Beneath, sprawled across dozens of cushions, was Viktor Sabin. On his left there was a girl in red underwear with milky skin, short, spiky platinum-blonde hair and green eyes. The girl to his right was naked; shoulder-length, dark hair, hazel eyes and an all-over tan betrayed by two light triangles. Sabin himself was resplendent in a cherry silk kimono that failed to reach the knees, exposing grotesque pink thighs. The dark girl's left hand was running through the sweaty folds and hair of his chest.
'Oh, Viktor,' Stephanie sighed, 'that really isn't a good look.'
He wasn't offended at all, breaking into a lecherous grin. 'But Katya and Irina seem to love it. Maybe it's true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.'
'Maybe. Or maybe it's true that beauty is a bulging wallet.'
'Petra – please! How could you think such a thing?'
'Katya and Irina?'
'I've been here too long. I need simple pleasures to remind me of home.'
'That's where these two should be. Doing their homework.'
'They're not as young as they look.'
'Take it from me, Viktor. That's a line that only works on girls who are as young as they look. It's not something you should try on an adult.'
'Thanks for the advice.'
'Have you got it?'
'Behind you. The box by the wall. Do you want some tea?'
On a small lacquered table to her left there was a samovar, beside a bowl of fruit, some plates, several glasses, a bottle of Stolichnaya and two bottles of mineral water. There was also a copper ashtray containing four cigarette butts and the pinched remains of three joints. Stephanie shook her head, picked up the box and removed the lid; two phones, the gun, the silencer.
'What happened to the Browning?' Sabin asked.
'Nothing. This is for something else. A one off.'
Sabin raised a halting hand. Enough. Don't tell me. I don't want to know.
Irina, the brunette, rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. Katya lit a Mild Seven, then passed it to Sabin, who kissed her. Stephanie tried not to grimace but wasn't sure she'd succeeded. She took the manila envelope from her bag and tossed it onto his lap. He ripped it open, withdrew the money – American dollars only, please, no rubbish – and counted it. Both girls perked up, eyes wide, lips licked. Sabin found their reaction delightful and said to Stephanie, 'If you like, you can join us.'
'Tempting, but I think I'll pass.'
'Or I can organize a private room for you. You can have either of them. Or both.'
'I wouldn't want to deprive any of you.'
By day Alexandra Park was an oasis of lush vegetation in Singapore's steel and concrete desert. Now, by night, it was an oasis of darkness in metropolitan light. Cautious of roaming security, with only the rain for company, she stayed among the bushes and trees, still and silent, dressed in black from head to toe, including a black balaclava. Waxman departed at eight, on schedule, in his dark blue BMW 740, returning shortly before one in the morning, the car gliding within feet of her, past a sign pointing to Eton Hall.
She waited ten minutes before heading for Russets Road, at the heart of the estate. Waxman lived in one of Singapore's earliest black-and-white plantation houses; a small niche in local history. But the authorities in Singapore had never set much store by the past. The future was what mattered, and so it was that Alexandra Park had been earmarked for development as a science park. Not dissimilar, Stephanie supposed, to the proposed cyberport development that Savic had shown her at Pok Fu Lam.
Set in a vast garden, raised on stone pillars, Waxman's house had large, airy rooms and a huge veranda. Stephanie opened the gate and crept close to the house, the floor of the veranda a couple of feet above her head. On the other side of the house there was a small outhouse containing quarters for two servants, a laundry and a utility room. Waxman had a dog – an ageing Alsatian – but she generally slept on the lawn beyond the outhouse. Stephanie looked but there was no sign of her.
Above her, Waxman was on the veranda, the light of a lamp illuminating roof beams. Stephanie smelt cigar smoke and heard the clink of ice cubes in a tumbler. Waxman was talking to Judith, his second wife, a former lawyer from Miami. A skeletal exercise fanatic, when she talked it was a nasal whine that sounded like a mosquito. Waxman's first wife, Michelle, lived with their three children in Aspen.
Judith we
nt to bed after quarter of an hour. Waxman followed at two. Around three it began to rain again. The downpour hammered roof-tiles and sluiced through branches, leaves and bushes. Gutters gurgled. Stephanie moved under the house for cover. She was still damp from earlier showers and couldn't afford to get any wetter; she didn't want to leave a trace. At three-thirty she decided to enter the house.
There was no barrier to the veranda; she passed through a wooden gate and climbed up stone steps to reach it. There was a large Turkish rug laid over the wooden floor, two sofas, two armchairs, a coffee table, three side-tables, all with ceramic lamps. The floor had been polished recently; she could smell wax rising off it. In the darkness she unzipped her black knapsack and took out the lock-pick that Cyril Bradfield had given her; handmade by Gustav Frunze of Basel, he'd told her. It had been a gift.
The lock was easy, the double doors barely worth the effort; without securing pins, they were loose anyway. Had noise not been a consideration, Stephanie guessed she could have rocked them open. For a man with his history, Alan Waxman lived with almost no home security. Then again, he'd never lacked confidence. Besides, burglaries in Singapore – and especially in a place like Alexandra Park – were still rare. That was part of the attraction.
The doors opened onto the main sitting room. Waxman had forgotten to switch off the fans, both rotor-blades circling slowly. She waited until her eyes had fully adjusted to the lack of light before moving into the kitchen. Small, tiled in white, it had a back door that opened onto steps, leading down to the outhouse. She peered through the window. No signs of life. There was a knife-block by the cooker. The blade she picked was six inches long. She'd decided that getting a gun in Singapore was going to be too complicated, under the circumstances. Especially since Iain Boyd had trained her to make use of everyday objects. A knife was a luxury.
From the kitchen she slipped down the passage to the master bedroom. To her left there was a lattice screen that looked onto the garden. She could just make out the edge of the large kidney-shaped swimming pool at the far end.
She opened the bedroom door slowly, pushing it back, inch by inch, ready for an unwelcome squeak. Nothing. She slipped through the gap. For several seconds she was completely motionless. The room was deliciously cool; the murmur of the Fujitsu air-conditioning unit above the window was just audible over the rain. Waxman and Judith were mounds beneath a single cotton sheet. Waxman was snoring.
