by Mark Burnell
'Civilians? Give me a break! Waxman was already on the Limbo List. And Felix Cheung was hardly a model citizen, so …'
In a moment of white hot fury, Alexander swept his arm across his desk, the backhand propelling his cup and saucer against the shelf to his right, drenching leather book spines with hot black coffee. Suddenly he was standing, his entire body trembling. Stephanie felt Rosie freeze beside her. Alexander slammed his palm onto the desk and shouted, 'Model citizen or not, he was one of ours!'
Which took the wind out of Stephanie's sails. 'What?'
'That's right. One of ours. A source. Not just for Hong Kong but for all of southern China.'
Now she was floundering. 'Raymond Chen never said anything about that.'
'Chen never knew.'
'What?'
'Given Chen's past, we thought it sensible to have another local source. Neither man knew about the other. We retained them separately.'
'Look …'
'You look!' he screamed, jabbing a finger at her repeatedly. 'When I told you to think of something, I expected you to do what you normally do. Something sordid. You know, the kind of thing you're good at. I expected you to fuck him!'
For once, in Alexander's presence, Stephanie was completely speechless.
It was raining by the time she got back to Mark's flat. She grazed on the remains in his fridge, then made coffee. She put on a CD – beautifulgarbage, the third album by Garbage, her favourite band – and turned up the volume. She'd bought Mark copies of all Garbage's albums rather than not have them at Maclise Road. She found it was the same with paperbacks; she'd sooner buy one as a gift than lend her own.
She curled up on the sofa with her coffee mug and the remote control, repeating the song 'Drive You Home' seven times; the mood of the lyrics mainlining into her own mood.
Savic was the first man she'd slept with since she'd started seeing Mark. Within the twisted parameters of Petra's world, that was something to feel good about. But she didn't. She'd tried to persuade herself in Hong Kong that it wouldn't matter. Because it hadn't mattered before. But it did. And even though she knew she'd get over it, she resented Petra for it.
In the middle of the afternoon she fell asleep. In her dream she was a young girl. She recognized Northumberland, the house, the field falling away from it, the stone walls. The wind was blowing, the family was outside. Her oldest brother, Christopher, was rolling in the grass with one of the boxers, the dog barking with excitement, slobber everywhere. Her father was by the crooked hawthorn tree, her mother was calling from the kitchen door. Nothing peculiar happened in the dream. It was just as it had been.
The spell was broken by a hand on her shoulder. As gentle a touch as it was, it ripped through her like lightning. For a few seconds she was disorientated. She looked up at Mark, then cast her blurred gaze around the room. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. They were wet.
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine.'
'You don't look it.'
She attempted levity. 'God, you're a smooth talker. Is there anything else you can do with that tongue of yours?' It failed. 'Seriously,' she insisted, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. 'It was just a dream. That's all.'
'A bad one, by the look of it …'
No. A beautiful one. The best ever.
They spent the evening together. Just talking, having a drink, preparing food, listening to music. As a snapshot, it was everything she'd imagined a normal relationship would be in the years when that prospect had been nothing more than a fantasy. Hiding in a broken storm-drain on a sub-zero night in Grozny. Suffering dysentery in a rat-infested hostel in Constanta. Even when she was with Kostya she'd wondered what love in the real world would be like. The two of them had existed in a private universe with no shortage of desperate exhilaration, but what of simple companionship?
She'd wondered whether she would ever feel comfortable with someone. Whether she could just be herself – whoever that was – and have them feel the same way about her.
Now she knew, and it made her nervous.
They reconvened the following morning. Alexander was reason personified, his clipped Scottish as measured as ever. Stephanie noticed that the books which had been stained with coffee had been replaced by leather-bound editions of Walter Scott. It was as though the incident had never occurred. Which was exactly the way the Ether Division operated.
He said, 'The authorities in Singapore are saying it was a bomb but they haven't been specific about the type of device.'
'Are they blaming anyone?'
'Islamic militants.'
'Based in Malaysia,' Rosie added.
'Because Waxman was having lunch with Ari Gorodin?'
'Yes.'
'An Israeli arms-dealer,' Stephanie added, for emphasis.
Alexander said, 'What's your point?'
'They're not going to say what the device was because it's not the kind of device Islamic militants use.'
Rosie interjected. 'But somebody in the restaurant …'
'What? Would have seen the phone explode?'
That was the point she'd been going to make. This time Alexander was a step ahead. 'He's on the phone. A bomb goes off. You don't see anything. As far as those in the restaurant are concerned, it could have been a package under the table.'
'And as far as the authorities are concerned,' Stephanie continued, 'it's a gift. The truth will be suppressed for the greater good.'
An uncomfortable silence descended over the three of them.
Eventually Alexander said, 'What about the list?'
'Brankovic is alive. Goran Simic is alive. I don't know if there's an actual list but that's two names out of nine.'
'What about Savic?'
'He wants a collaboration. Which is why I had to take out Waxman and Cheung. Anything less wouldn't have got me close.'
Alexander ignored the bait. 'What kind of collaboration?'
Not the kind you suggested earlier. That was what she wanted to say. Even though it wasn't true.
'Savic is trafficking people into Europe, where he's facing stiff competition. Mainly from Albanians, the way he tells it.'
Alexander took a Rothmans from the pack and began tapping it against his Zippo lighter. 'So, not content with ethnically cleansing Albanians from his own country, he's looking to do it elsewhere.'
'Savic by name, savage by nature. He maintains it's business, not political.'
'He would.'
'He wants me to take out selected targets.'
Alexander lit the cigarette. 'I see.'
'Obviously I can't run around Europe putting a bullet into every Albanian Savic doesn't like the look of, so …'
'Even though you were prepared to kill Waxman and Cheung?'
Stephanie throttled her immediate response.
Alexander went on. 'Supposing Savic's targets are justified?'
'Forget it.'
'Not so fast. Let's consider the kind of people we're talking about. Violent hardcore criminals.'
'No way.'
'Come on. You know as well as I do the truth about the Albanians. They're the largest criminal menace in Europe. To the pond-life out there, Albanians are the wretched poor. They're displaced refugees, crossing mountains in winter, their malnourished babies wrapped in shawls. It's the same with the Chechens. Heroic freedom fighters, in the eyes of the media.' He narrowed his own eyes, drawing her in to their pale blue. 'Here we know better. They're savages, both groups.'
He was so devious she almost admired him for it. The rage forgotten, here was a conversation engineered like a chess strategy.
'You're not listening to me.'
'You're the one who's not listening, Stephanie. Don't be emotional. Be practical. If a few Albanian criminals have to fall by the way to land Savic, that's not a monstrous atrocity. It's a sound investment.'
'If that's the way you feel, get someone else from S7 to do it.' She glanced at Rosie. 'Or perhaps you could lend him someone from the Ether Division
.'
Alexander said, 'You're the one Savic trusts.'
'I'm not doing it.'
'Then we have a problem …'
'You don't think I know what's going on here?'
Alexander and Rosie traded looks before he shrugged. 'What?'
'The whole idea of the list is just so attractive to you, isn't it? The moment you heard the rumour, you were desperate for it to be fact.'
'It is fact. Pearson provided the list …'
'It doesn't detract from my point.'
'Which is what?'
'That the list is perfect for you. The names of war criminals who can never be allowed to see the inside of a court – not just one or two, but plenty – providing Magenta House with lots of work and absolute self-justification.'
'Absurd.'
'But true.'
He smoked a little, evaluating in silence, then changed direction; a familiar strategy to Stephanie. 'I hope you're not overlooking our agreement. You have a lot to lose.'
'I'll find another way.'
'I hope so.'
'I will,' Stephanie insisted.
He was nodding slowly when he said, 'Good. Because if you don't, every aspect of our arrangement is rescinded.'
They went through Victoria Embankment Gardens to get to the Embankment, the first of the falling leaves dancing around them. On the far side of the river the Millennium Wheel turned slowly, its pods brimming with tourists despite the murky weather. Rosie looked tired, dullness in her eyes.
'You know, Steph, you're wrong. We don't need Savic, or the list. We have plenty of work. Especially the Ether Division. To be frank, we have more than we can handle. Targets are a naturally occurring resource like oil – and the fact is, we keep discovering new reserves. As it is, we've got enough to keep us in business for years to come, even allowing for a massive projected expansion.'
'You sound like the CEO of Shell.'
'To extend the metaphor, that's exactly who I am.'
'And is there a massive projected expansion?'
'It's under discussion.'
'Just what the world needs.'
'It's exactly what the world needs.'
Stephanie knew the argument: Ether Division targets didn't negotiate, the vast majority of them having surrendered the concept of personal responsibility to the most irresponsible authority of all: religion. They were beyond reason and they were multiplying. All of this she understood.
Rosie said, 'We're not choosing between alternatives.'
Stephanie had always accepted that. She just didn't like to admit it.
Rosie asked how she'd explained her departure to Savic.
'I said I had business in Europe to attend to.'
'And he bought that?'
'Why wouldn't he?'
'How did you leave it?'
'Pretty vague. I said he could call me when every thing had died down.'
'And he was happy with that?'
'Seemed to be. Let me ask you something. If what you've just told me is right, why is Alexander so agitated about Savic?'
'Because he's still a legitimate contract.'
'There has to be more to it than that.'
'Well, there's always you.'
Nobody else within Magenta House had the volatile relationship with Alexander that Stephanie had. Nobody else had any relationship with him. Not even Rosie, the rising star. That was the point. As emotionally sterile as Petra, his judgements were never clouded by the human element. Except with Stephanie. In each other's company, neither of them could help themselves.
Rosie had once said that Alexander was in love with Stephanie. 'That's why he hates you. Because he can't have you. In his universe he manages to bend everyone to his will. Except you. It's unrequited love.'
She'd told Rosie she was out of her mind.
They crossed the road.
'Are you sure you can get close enough to Savic?'
'I don't know. But I'll think of something.'
'Okay.'
Stephanie stopped walking. 'That didn't sound like "okay" to me.'
Rosie wouldn't look her in the eye. 'I thought perhaps you'd already thought of something.'
'Like what?'
'Like sleeping with him.'
As blunt as possible. Always a good idea.
Now it was Stephanie's turn to avoid eye contact. 'Why would you think that?'
'A hunch.'
She wanted to say something in her defence. Especially after Alexander's outburst the previous day. But there was no point in pretending. Not with Rosie. Resignation provoked an instant sense of deflation. 'Do you think he knows?'
It was the first question to come to mind.
Rosie's laugh was genuine. 'God, no! Alexander? Of course not.'
'What he said, though …'
'That was just anger. A cheap shot in the heat of the moment. He knew it would get to you. That's the one thing he'll always have over you. You just have to accept that.'
'But it was obvious to you.'
'It was never obvious. It was instinct. Female instinct. And I think it's safe to say that's one quality he doesn't have in abundance.'
Stephanie tried to smile. 'Christ, Rosie …'
'It's okay.'
She shook her head. 'It's definitely not okay.'
'All right – but put it in perspective. You've done worse in the past.'
'That's what I keep trying to tell myself.'
'It's true. And soon you won't have to do it again.'
'I know.'
'You've got to remember that.'
'I will. It's just that I'd hate to think that you thought …'
'Don't even say it, Steph.'
'I'm not even sure I made the right decision.'
'That was the nature of the decision.'
Saturday night. Dinner with Julian and Karen Cunningham, ten of them around the table, a lot of empty bottles, a few cigarettes, the sweet tang of a badly rolled joint. Stephanie looked around the table at the flushed faces in the candle-light. Justine Morgan was arguing with Karen about Robbie Williams. Did he have sex appeal? Or was he just grubby? Or was that the reason he had sex appeal? And would anybody remember him in ten years time? That was the only thing they could agree on.
No.
The question Stephanie wanted to ask was: does Justine have sex appeal? Or rather, does she still have sex appeal? Because she certainly had when Mark decided to sleep with her.
Justine had been a lawyer who'd traded ambition for two carats of flawless diamond and all that followed. In her more insecure moments Stephanie had often retreated to cliché: I can't believe you had a fling with a lawyer. Mark usually had the good grace not to offer the truthful reply, which was that he'd had an affair with a woman who was intelligent, beautiful, sexy and funny.
Rob, Justine's husband, was an investment banker. Stephanie liked him. He confounded the City stereotype. A little earnest, perhaps, he was a man who was perpetually concerned that he might not be concerned enough for others. Well read, widely travelled, broadly cultured, he had a wonderful sense of humour when he managed to shed the smothering cloak of shyness.
Rob was telling her about his job. Something similar to Julian's. A lot of travel, mostly in Europe, France and Germany in the main. If it's not Paris, it's Berlin. Or sometimes Amsterdam. Very tedious, really. Stephanie wasn't paying attention. She was watching Mark, who was at the other end of the table. He was in conversation with Alex, a dark-haired girl who was new to both of them. Whatever they were discussing, it was to the exclusion of everyone else. Mark was leaning towards her, his hands doing half his talking for him. Very slender, very pretty, she looked rapt, her head tilted up, her eyes never leaving his, even as his wandered.
Closer to Stephanie and somewhat drunk, Justine said, 'I'd let him do anything to me.'
Rob raised an eyebrow. 'I heard that.'
'We'll trade, darling. I get a night with Robbie. You get a night with … well, who would you choose?'
&nb
sp; 'Nobody. While you're with Robin Williams I'll take a night of uninterrupted sleep. That would be perfect.'
'Robbie Williams, not Robin Williams. God, what a thought … all that hair.'
When Karen asked Mark who he'd pick, Stephanie interjected. 'Cameron Diaz. And her tender hip flexor.'
Justine turned to Stephanie. 'What about you? One night with Robbie?'
Stephanie wanted to hit her. Not for the question. For sleeping with Mark. However many years ago it was. And for being his date while she was in Hong Kong. And because she felt guilty, even though that had nothing to do with Justine.
'I don't think so.'
'Come on. You've got to admit he's got something.'
'I'm sure he has, but I'm not sure I'd want to catch it. Anyway, I'd never sleep with someone famous.'
'Why not?'
'They seem so shallow and pointless. I'd sooner have a one-night stand with a complete stranger.'
She caught Mark's eye. They traded smiles. Eight minutes past six. Then he resumed his conversation with Alex, who hadn't stopped looking at him.
Rob was nodding. 'I agree. A stranger has infinite possibilities. A celebrity has none. We know far too much about them. And the more we know, the more we see how little there is to know.'
Mark had once said that only the vacuous found celebrity fascinating. At the time she'd disputed it. Later, once she'd considered it, she changed her mind. Sometimes, as Petra, she wondered why Alexander and his sort were so desperate to protect the nation and its people. 'Why bother? They're dull, ignorant and shallow. They're not worth it.'
In that way, Stephanie found Petra curiously liberating. Her views bypassed the contaminating filter of social opinion. Consequently she accepted Magenta House's existence because she rejected the idea that the public was entitled to know anything it liked. Liberal intellectuals could argue about freedom of expression and the sanctity of personal liberty, but Petra had once watched a young Saudi fanatic tear a dog to pieces with his bare hands, then bury his face in the carcass and eat its steaming innards, as a demonstration of devotion. She knew that as long as there were people who were prepared to surrender personal responsibility so readily, there would always be a need for Magenta House and its methods. Justice was a concept corrupted by law. Reason was a luxury. Rights were a fallacy.
