by Mark Burnell
In the real world nobody had rights. Not to cheap petrol, shorter working hours, food, or even life. Once born, there was only one right and it was universal: the right to die.
That was a truth Petra understood perfectly.
They took a radio-cab home and were stuck in traffic on Battersea Bridge when Stephanie said, 'Was Alex interesting?'
'Yes.'
'You two seemed to be having quite a conversation.'
'She has back trouble.'
Stephanie had never ceased to be amazed by the number of people who felt they could get a free consultation from Mark as soon as they learned he was a chiropractor.
'She had a car crash at the start of last year. Whiplash injuries …'
'She's pretty.'
'She is, yes.'
'Although I think she could pluck her eyebrows a little.'
Mark smiled. 'Right.'
Stephanie punched him on the arm. 'Come on. She was all over you.'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'She was. I don't think I've ever seen such blatant flirting.'
'You're exaggerating.'
'I am not.'
'Well, I didn't notice.'
Stephanie felt her playfulness wearing thin. 'I'm serious.'
'Look, I don't agree with you. But even if she was, so what?'
'So what?'
'Did you see me flirting with her?'
'You don't think it matters?'
'Flirting? Not really. Especially when it's one-way traffic. I mean, it's not as though it's infidelity, is it?'
London, Monday morning, a pewter sky overhead, the first drops of rain falling. Stephanie was halfway across Hyde Park when her phone rang.
'Where are you?' Savic asked.
'Zurich. You?'
'Yekaterinburg.'
'What are you doing there?'
'What are you doing in Zurich?'
'Let's start again.'
'Can you come to Berlin?'
'When?'
'I'm arriving on Friday from Moscow.'
An hour later she was at Magenta House. Two days later she was standing on Charlotte Street, pressing the buzzer for Frontier News.
There was no response from the intercom.
'Hey. Stephanie.'
She looked up. Melanie, Gavin Taylor's assistant, was leaning out of the window. 'It's bust. I'll come down and let you in.'
KKZ, the graphic design agency that occupied the three floors beneath Frontier News, was undergoing renovation. Melanie opened the door, a lit Lambert & Butler wedged into the corner of her mouth. As usual she looked ready for a hard Friday night – Bacardi Breezers and vomit before bed – dressed in a tight pink V-neck sweater and a pair of skin-tight black hipsters that dropped to the calf.
'Mind the mess. There's dust everywhere.'
They went up to the attic. The lights were out from the second floor, leaving them to feel their way in the darkness. Gavin Taylor was at a computer terminal in the far corner, perched on a swivel-chair leaking foam padding. A patch of plaster had come away from the ceiling; the tell-tale signs of damp were everywhere.
'I like what you've done with the place. It's very you.'
Taylor shook his head, despondent. 'Can you believe it? It's the third facelift those bastards downstairs have had in five years. Mind you, I could probably say the same for half the tossers who work there.'
'And here you are, just a good old-fashioned journalist mining the world for nuggets of truth in return for a hearty pat on the back.'
'Bugger off, Stephanie. You're hardly one to talk.'
'Harsh but fair.'
'Mind you, I've enjoyed watching the builders eyeing up the polo-necks.'
'The men or the women?'
'Both. They want to give the men a good kicking and the women a good shagging.' Taylor broke into a grin. 'The place reeks of fear.'
Stephanie sat down. Behind Taylor there were two easels either side of a Mercator map of the world. Small labels were pinned to the map, each with a number, which corresponded to notes on one of the easels. Frontier News assignments across the globe: Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Colombia, Sierre Leone, Syria, North Korea.
He handed her four envelopes. Two were addressed to her at Maclise Road, two were addressed to him at Frontier News. The addresses were printed, not handwritten. All four letters had stamps, all had postmarks with different dates, all the envelopes had been torn open and were slightly creased.
'All you have to do is sign the two that you wrote.'
'What did I say in them?'
'You can read them, if you like. In the first one you outlined a proposal for a series of articles. I replied, saying it sounded good. In the second one you wondered if such a series might constitute a good basis for a book.'
'And you said?'
'Let's wait and see what you write.'
'And what did I write?'
'Take a look.'
He handed her a pile of papers that had been sitting on his desk. Finished articles, smartly edited, checked for errors, ready for distribution. She flicked through the headlines; EU seeks to curb illegal immigration; People trafficking – Europe's new problem; OSCE condemns Balkans over enforced prostitution; Berlin – new hub for illegal immigration from Asia?; German police accused of ignoring vice trade from the East.
'How many other hard copies of these are there?'
'None.'
'This is pretty close to the bone.'
'That's why I wanted you to have a chance to read them. Just so you know what you're supposed to be doing. Before you leave I'll destroy them.'
'And the files?'
'Are on my computer. They've been encrypted and redesignated. Don't worry. They'll be well hidden. When you're ready, give me a call and I'll get a disk prepared. Then you can download straight onto your computer and produce it as your own work.'
'Picture files too?'
'Already assembled as part of the package. I wasn't sure you'd want to bother with them today …'
It took her an hour to read the first set of articles that she was going to research in Berlin. Taylor sat with her, chain-smoking, answering questions where he could. Afterwards, as he was feeding the documents through a shredder, Stephanie said, 'When I saw you after Marrakech, you said you'd met Mostovoi.'
'That's right. With John Flynn of Sentinel Security.'
'Did you ever meet someone called Milan Savic with him?'
'I don't think so.'
'But you met in Berlin, right?'
'Once. I met Mostovoi twice.'
'What about a man named Martin Dassler?'
Taylor began to shake his head, then hesitated. 'Maybe.'
'Dark hair, slightly pockmarked skin.'
'Now you mention it … yes.'
'Remember anything about him?'
'I think he had a thing for Mostovoi's girlfriend.'
Which prompted something within Stephanie. 'You referred to her before.'
'Gorgeous. A real looker. Russian, I think. I don't recall her name. Flynn fancied her rotten but then he'll go for anything with a pulse.'
'You're sure about this?'
Taylor nodded. 'Now you've brought it up, yes. She was definitely with Mostovoi. But Dassler had his eye on her. No doubt about it. The strange thing was, Mostovoi didn't seem to care.'
'What about the girl?'
'Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing. Beautiful, yes, but smart with it. The kind who uses every weapon in her arsenal. You know … like you. Except better-looking.'
'Thanks, Gavin.'
'Berlin?'
'Yes.'
'I thought you were doing Chinese organized crime.'
'I am.'
'I thought after Hong Kong you were going to do something different.'
'This is an extension of the same story.'
'I see.'
'You don't believe me?' He doesn't reply, which I take to be 'no'. And like an idiot, I won't let it drop. 'Human traffic, Mark. From the
Far East to Europe. It's a huge story, and if I …'
'Stephanie.'
'What?'
'Don't.'
Both of us lapse into silence. Once again I'm the one who breaks it. 'What are you thinking?'
'Do you really want to know?'
'Yes.'
As soon as I've said it, I'm not sure. My mother used to say you should never ask a question unless you're prepared to hear the answer.
'It's as though we're married and you're having an affair.'
My heart stops beating. 'What?'
He qualifies this immediately, 'I know you're not having an affair. Not in the literal sense. But I'm talking about the time when we're apart. The things you say to cover the things you do.'
'Are you accusing me of lying to you?'
'Do I need to?'
We're having lunch at Itsu, a Japanese restaurant in Walton Street, a short walk from his chiropractic clinic in Cadogan Gardens. Carefully prepared dishes pass before us on a conveyor-belt. We're surrounded by women who shop; pencil thin blondes in sunglasses with their never-ending conversations about nothing at all.
Mark is drinking miso soup.
My fury dissipates quickly, regret taking its place. 'Why do you put up with me?'
'Because I love you.'
'I'm sorry I've been such a bitch recently.'
'Forget it.'
'Impossible.'
I look around the room. Among the men I can see, there's no one remotely like him. It's not just his size – he's swamping the place allocated to him – it's his presence. Not the best-groomed man in the world and certainly not the best-looking, I can see other women tuning in to him. Here's something you don't find on the menu every day. And they haven't even spoken to him. They know nothing about him. All of which begs the question: why me?
In the beginning I thought I picked Mark. I did pick Mark. It just doesn't feel like that any more. I was so cavalier back then. Now I'm scared.
Five past nine, a grey morning, the drizzle hanging like mist. Stephanie was sitting with Cyril Bradfield in a café on Wilton Road, close to Victoria Station. There were two cups of milky tea between them. Stephanie fingered a nylon buttercup in a plastic flowerpot. Bradfield was rolling a cigarette with a dexterity that shouldn't have belonged to such gnarled fingers.
'I'm tired, Cyril.'
'You're too young to be tired.'
'I'm serious. It's the lying. It's just so … draining.'
Bradfield nodded, then licked the paper and sealed the cigarette. 'That's not entirely bad, Stephanie. It means you're human.'
'I don't feel human.'
'What's wrong?'
She talked about Mark.
'Did he ask what you were really doing?'
'Of course not. He's too smart to do that.'
Bradfield lifted his cup to his lips. 'Well, what did you expect?'
'What do you mean?'
'He loves you. It was bound to happen sooner or later. And you love him. You live with him – you relax with him.'
'I'm not with you.'
'He makes you feel normal, which is all you've ever craved. Ever since I've known you it's been painfully apparent. With him you can be yourself, as far as that's ever possible. But when you relax you let your guard down.'
'No.'
'Yes. Even you.'
'You don't know that.'
'On the contrary. It's been blindingly obvious. To be honest, I've been happy about that. It proves to me that it's not a façade. That even allowing for the strangeness of your arrangement, the relationship is genuine.'
'Cyril, if only you knew …'
He smiled and reached across the table, a father taking his daughter's hand. 'I think it's best for both of us if I don't know too much, don't you?'
Stephanie felt a tightness in her throat. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be sorry. Just be careful.'
Chapter 10
Savic had offered to collect her from Tegel but she'd said she preferred to make her own way into the city. She thought she'd detected a hint of disappointment in his voice. What name was she travelling under? She told him she hadn't decided, which was untrue; she was Andrea Jakob, another Swiss, the surname borrowed from the patisserie on Gloucester Road opposite the junction with Queen's Gate Mews.
It was mid-afternoon. She took a taxi to the Pension Dortmunder on Pariser Strasse in Wilmersdorf, where she'd made a reservation for a fortnight, earning her a discount on the room rate. The proprietor, an elderly man with a club foot beneath a crumbling hip, led her up a dark staircase to the second floor. The room overlooked Pariser Strasse itself; dusty glass filtering sunlight, heavy bottle-green curtains, a loose parquet floor, peeling blue toile de joie wallpaper with pastoral scenes.
'It's lovely. Thank you.'
The proprietor smiled. Nice of you to say so. There was a time …
Alone, she called Savic. 'I'm here.'
'Where?'
'Where are you?'
He gave his address and she said she'd be there in half an hour. Then she switched on the Vaio, checked that the tamper devices were engaged, switched it off and locked it in her bag, which she pushed under the bed.
Savic's apartment was on Chamissoplatz, a square, east of Mehringdamm in Kreuzberg 61, the nineteenth-century architecture untouched by the Second World War or any subsequent development. There was an iron frame beside the entry-phone. Beside the apartment numbers each resident's name was painted in gold on a slim wooden disc, which was then inserted into the frame. The name by the number Savic had given her wasn't Dassler. It was Freisinger.
The apartment occupied the whole of the first floor. He was waiting for her at the door. They kissed and went inside, down a gloomy hall, into the living room, which overlooked Chamissoplatz. French windows opened onto a narrow balcony of wrought iron. A gentle breeze ruffled net curtains. The floor was wood; old beams, once stained, worn smooth over decades. But the furniture was contemporary; a plantation chair made of burnished cherry, a chocolate leather sofa, a Balinese coffee table. By one wall there was a Bang & Olufsen sound system with sleek speakers in each corner.
Stephanie stood at the window and looked out. A couple were talking on the corner. A BMW rolled past, music drifting in its wake. In another apartment a woman laughed, deep and uninhibited. Stephanie was aware of Savic moving behind her. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck, his hands settling on her shoulders. The touch sent an involuntary shudder through her that she hoped would translate as pleasure. He turned her around, kissed her again and reached for the top button of her black shirt.
Afterwards, lying in his bed, she looked at the two gold dog-tags on the chain around his neck. The first disc had Forza Inter on one side and a date on the other: 13.02.1999.
'The day you died.'
'I prefer to think of it as the day I was born.'
'Aren't you taking a risk wearing this?'
'I've survived this long. It's not something I lose sleep over.'
She looked at the second disc. On one side, a name: Prince Lazar. On the other, another date, beneath a place: Kosovo Polje, 28 June 1389.
The defeat of Prince Lazar at Kosovo Polje, the Field of Blackbirds, on 28 June 1389 remained the pivotal moment in Serb history. As a single event, the effect of the defeat on the collective Serbian psyche was unmatched anywhere in European history.
'How typically Serb to be so fixated on the wrong date.'
Savic propped himself up on an elbow. 'What are you talking about?'
'The Ottoman victory at the Battle of Maritsa River in 1371 was far more devastating to the Serbs in the long term than Kosovo Polje.'
Later, Savic said, 'Why are you staying somewhere else?'
'It's a bit early for me to be moving in, isn't it?'
'I'm serious.'
'You think I should stay here?'
'Why not?'
'Because I have another life, Milan.'
'I know that.'
'You're n
ot part of it. Nobody is.'
'Doesn't mean you can't stay here.'
'Trust me, I don't react well to being confined. This is better for both of us.'
He lit a cigarette. 'Okay.' As though he couldn't care less. But he was so easy to read. A man like Savic could only ever reinforce what she felt for a man like Mark.
'A word of advice: when you send someone to go through my things …'
He looked mortified. 'What are you talking about?'
'… you'd better tell them not to play with my laptop.'
Before he could persist with his mock offence, she offered him a way out: a smile that headed him off at the pass of denial.
'Why not?'
She told him. And saw him work it out all by himself.
At first he showed her where they lived and worked, his army of illegal immigrants, the invisible invading force in Wedding, Siemensstadt and Neukölln. He showed her the office blocks where cleaning crews of Kurds and Afghans took the night-shift. Baggage-handlers at Tegel, dish-washers in the restaurants on Friedrichstrasse, laundry-workers in hotels, hospital porters. Savic distanced himself from any of these transactions.
'I have men who take care of it.'
'Who?'
'Men I can trust. Men from the past.'
'From Serbia?'
'Who else would I trust?'
They ran businesses from mobile phones. No records, no offices, no conversations that could betray them. They worked in code, covering labour, quantity, price, delivery.
'You must be generating a lot of cash.'
'We are. Fortunately, the euro makes it a lot easier for us to launder.'
'How do you prefer to do it?'
'Here, mostly through restaurants and hotels. Restaurants, in particular, are good; high cash flow. Also, using immigrants for staff reduces the overheads so it doesn't matter if the restaurants don't generate too much income.'
'That works, here in Berlin?'
'Sure. Why not?'
'The authorities aren't vigilant?'
'Not very. Those that are … well, we offer them a holiday, maybe. And if they don't like the sound of that, we offer to cut off their balls. One way or the other, we work it out. Down in Italy and Spain you don't really have to bother. They're so corrupt, it's incredible. I thought it was bad in Belgrade but I promise you this: Italy is worse. There's a lawyer I know in Milan. I can walk into his office with two suitcases of cash – right into his office, in broad daylight – and just leave them there. Within forty eight hours he will call me to tell me the money is clean.'
