Gemini

by Mark Burnell

  Before deciding to let me live.

  I still don't know why. Even though it turned out we had something in common – we were both in the lobby of the Hotel Inter-Continental in Belgrade on 15 January 2000 – there was no reason for her to let me live. On the contrary. For what happened on that day, she should have killed me as soon as she had the chance.

  The painful truth is this: I'm only alive because Dragica chose to let me live.

  There's something else I remember about those final few moments before I expected her to kill me. She asked questions. About Kostya. About what it was like to love him. And I told her. Expecting to be dead in a moment, there was no reason not to. And I remember the response. She was jealous of me. She'd wanted him too. All the time she'd been Natalya Markova, first on the arm of Oleg Rogachev, then Vladimir Vatukin, what she'd really wanted was to be in Kostya's bed.

  And now, it turns out, the two of them are doing business in Moscow.

  She tried a smile but knew it was crumbling. 'I'm not surprised you look a little awkward.'

  'It was just business, Stephanie.'

  'Right.'

  'I promise you. I was never interested in her …'

  'Of course not. After all, she's so unattractive and she wouldn't look twice at you, so that makes perfect sense …'

  'I have someone else.'

  A low blow, right to the pit of the stomach. Stephanie felt winded.

  'Her name is Ludmilla.'

  'Oh, that makes it so much better, Kostya.'

  Immediately she regretted it. The cheap assumption, then the bitterness.

  An image flashed in her mind. A photograph, black-and-white, three people outside the Hotel Lancaster on Rue de Berri in Paris. Beneath the photo there had been a caption. She couldn't remember the name of the third man, or what he looked like. She remembered the way Komarov looked, though. A little dishevelled, his jacket billowing in a stiff breeze. What she remembered most, however, was the stunning blonde in the sable coat by his side. And the name on the caption: L. Ivanova. L for Ludmilla. Alexander had provided the photographs. As leverage, naturally.

  Then there was the secondary reaction. The female reaction. Why would he need Dragica when he already had Ludmilla? Both beautiful, although in different ways, they nevertheless had one thing in common: they made Stephanie feel ugly.

  She drained her glass and focused on the concept of Dragica Maric, rather than the physical entity. First and foremost, a Serb. Working, somehow, with Savic. Suddenly the idea of a network didn't seem as unlikely as it had earlier. In Serbia, Maric had been connected, right from the start. Milosevic, Frenki and Badza, Arkan. And now Savic. Why Moscow, though? She'd been in Germany, then moved.

  'What does Sabine Freisinger do, Kostya?'

  'I couldn't tell you. We only transacted one piece of business.'

  'Which was?'

  'Is this what you want to talk about in the time that we have, Stephanie?'

  'Which was?'

  'I was setting up a company in the Russian Far East. For financial reasons that I won't bore you with, it was advantageous not to register it anywhere in Russia.'

  'Let me guess. Primorye Air Transport.'

  He worked his cigarette for a good while. 'Looks like I'm not the only one handing out the surprises.'

  'I saw your name on the list of directors at the Companies Registry at Hong Kong's Central Government Offices.'

  'I see.'

  'Apparently you run quite a decent airline.'

  'It's not an airline.'

  'Whatever. I met someone in Hong Kong who was a fan. Can't remember his name. A German. From Berlin, as it happens. An oil man …'

  'Dieter Hausmann?'

  'That's it.'

  Komarov smiled. 'Dieter's an old friend.'

  'He said Primorye Air Transport had a reputation for reliability and safety.'

  'We do.'

  'I don't recall you being involved in oil and gas.'

  'It's something new for me. The Russian Far East is where the future lies.'

  So did a great deal of the past. Of his past. He'd spent a decade in the prisons of the Russian Far East, including a stretch on Sakhalin itself. She wondered how that felt. To be reminded, constantly. Then again, perhaps it didn't bother him at all. Like her, he adapted to any environment. Sakhalin was no longer a prison. It was a treasure chest.

  'Tell me about Hong Kong.'

  'There's not much to say. I was advised that there were good legal and financial reasons for registering the company there. I needed some local directors for representation. I didn't know the Far East so I asked Mostovoi. He's always had contacts out there. He introduced me to Sabine Freisinger.'

  'Let's call her Dragica.'

  'Okay.'

  'When was this?'

  Another smile. 'When Max was still visible. Before 9/11. Anyway, Sabine – sorry, Dragica – set me up with some locals to make sure everything looked right. The man who organized it for me is called Tsang Siu-chung.'

  Stephanie remembered the name from the registry. He'd also been a director of Victoria Entertainment International, the company that controlled the three nightclubs: Kiss Kiss, Gold Cat and Club 151.

  'That's it? That's the connection?'

  'That's the connection.'

  She sat on the edge of his bed, deflated. 'God, I feel such an idiot. I'm sorry.'

  It was two thirty-five in the morning. Komarov had ordered a second bottle of wine. The uniformed man who'd delivered it had been the essence of discretion, barely noticing the woman sitting on the guest's bed.

  Now it was Komarov who was sitting on the bed, sleeves rolled up, the tattoos on his forearms clearly visible. Stephanie was on the chair by the desk, hugging her legs close to her body, her chin on her knees, her shoes kicked off.

  'Tell me about Ludmilla.'

  'I was wondering how long it would take you.'

  'I didn't want to appear too keen. Is she attractive?'

  He reached for the pack of Marlboro. 'She's not unattractive.'

  Stephanie smiled. 'You're not being entirely honest, are you? I've seen a photograph of her.'

  'Then you're not being entirely honest, either. Where was the photo taken?'

  'Paris. Outside the Lancaster. With a third man.'

  Komarov nodded. 'Yevgeny Paskin. A friend.'

  'Don't stray from the subject. She's gorgeous …'

  'Where did you see the photo?'

  'Magenta House.'

  Stephanie regretted the slip instantly. Too many surprises for one night, too much wine, too much emotional bruising – the reasons barely mattered. It was only the consequences that counted.

  'Am I safe?'

  That was the second time he'd felt the need to ask the question.

  'Yes.'

  'Are you being entirely honest with me now?'

  'I'd never lie to you.'

  A lie in itself, it nevertheless had the intended effect. Komarov relaxed a little. Stephanie asked him about Ludmilla.

  'We met in Moscow. At Café Pushkin, actually. Do you remember?'

  'Of course.'

  'She was with someone else.'

  'But couldn't resist you?'

  Komarov squirmed a little. 'It wasn't quite like that.' In other words, it was exactly like that. 'She's a geologist.'

  That came as a surprise. From the image of her, Stephanie had been quick to construct a very detailed profile, based on a stereotype she knew all too well. It was the template Dragica Maric had used when she'd been Natalya Markova.

  She took a guess. 'Who works in the oil business?'

  'Correct.'

  'Mixing work with pleasure?'

  Like I am with Savic? Oil and water?

  'She works for Yukos.'

  'Do you see much of each other?'

  'Not as much as we'd like.'

  This time he winced. She knew he'd meant it. And that he hadn't wanted to hurt her. Stephanie pretended to shrug it off. 'I can imagine.'
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  'What about you? Do you have someone?'

  'Yes. Mark. He's a chiropractor in London.'

  Straight out with it. The two worlds she'd worked so hard to keep separate, merging in a careless moment. After the jolt, though, there was no regret. Telling Komarov was not a risk. Of that, she was absolutely convinced.

  'Do you love him?'

  'Yes. I do.'

  'And he loves you?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm glad.'

  'Although I thought I'd never love anyone after you, Kostya. Truly I didn't.'

  He didn't say that he'd felt the same way. He just nodded. She was going to ask him if he loved Ludmilla but he got in first. 'Can I ask you an ugly question?'

  No one had ever put it quite like that. 'Okay … but I can't promise you that I'll answer it.'

  'Savic – are you sleeping with him?'

  First Rosie, now Komarov; the only two people in Petra's world that she trusted. Her outrage was genuine. She glared at him but he wasn't going to justify it without provocation. Finally she said, 'What kind of question is that?'

  'An ugly one. Like I said.'

  'Why would you think that, Kostya?'

  'Because I saw the way he was looking at you. And because I know that sometimes you have to do terrible things.'

  When they'd been together she'd had sex with Salman Rifat, the Turkish arms-dealer, in order to procure information. The memory of Komarov's reaction to her infidelity still haunted her.

  'No.'

  His stare was as intense as hers. 'No?'

  'No.'

  I'm the first to wake. I'm in his arms. That's not how we fell asleep. At least I don't think it is. We're both fully dressed, lying on top of the bed, not in it. Delicately, I extricate myself and examine myself in a mirror. I look like a tramp.

  I feel like a tramp. I feel as though I've been unfaithful to Mark. The thought of sex with Savic leads me back to the lie. Why couldn't I tell Kostya the truth? Perhaps that's a form of infidelity itself. Besides, I don't know if he believed me. I got the feeling he saw right through me. Which might explain why both of us were so eager to move on.

  We talked about Mark and Ludmilla. Not about us. Maybe that would have been too dangerous. Then again, maybe I'm kidding myself. He has Ludmilla now. A geologist, fluent in four languages, a fellow Russian. And so beautiful. I know it's childish but it's that, as much as anything, that hurts.

  'Are you okay?'

  I turn round. He's rubbing an eye with the heel of a hand. The drug squat, the auction, the restaurant, the Adlon. No wonder I feel drained. I look at my watch. It's five past six. We've had an hour's sleep.

  'I'll order some breakfast. Why don't you have a bath?'

  It feels like a trick. Me, in his hotel room, naked. I make it as hot as I can stand, then strip and slide into it. Bliss. I lean back and close my eyes. I could be anywhere. As I relax, it's not just the steam that washes over me. It's the past. It's us. We're in New York again, then Moscow. Or even Paris. And I'm still able to delude myself that I can escape Magenta House and that he can relinquish his past, and that we can slip away and build a secret future together.

  And as I'm thinking about all of this, I'm also wondering what would happen if he came into the bathroom now. If he stretched out his hand to take me to bed – would I go?

  I never find out. Because it doesn't happen. And there's one part of me that's overcome with relief. I dry myself slowly and get dressed.

  'Better?'

  'You have no idea.'

  There's coffee and orange juice for me. He's drawn the curtains. From his window I can see the Brandenburg Gate and the top of the new Reichstag.

  'How are the children at Izmailovo?'

  The smile that spreads across his face is perhaps the warmest I've ever seen from him. 'The money you gave, Stephanie … if only you could see what it's done.'

  One million and eighty thousand dollars, give or take. The money I made as Petra in my first stint at Magenta House. Soiled money that needed to be put to a good use in order to redeem it.

  'We've constructed another building, next to the original, doubling the capacity. As for the facilities – well, you wouldn't recognize the place.'

  'I knew you'd do something good with it, Kostya. You've always been good with money.'

  Breakfast is lovely. Somehow the pressure is off. But it's over too quickly. He has a plane to catch. Back to Moscow. Back to work. Back to Ludmilla.

  'What about the future?' he asks.

  'The future?'

  Both of us realize that our wires are crossed.

  The Pension Dortmunder on Pariser Strasse, seven in the evening. The proprietor gave her one smile – I know you didn't stay here last night – so Stephanie gave him a slight smile of her own, with a little shrug, and his second smile was warmer.

  In her room, she took the Vaio out of her bag, switched it on and sent a message to Stern at one of his Hotmail addresses.

  > I need to speak to you immediately.

  Within half an hour they were together in the ether.

  > Sabine Freisinger – does the name mean anything?

  > Not instantly. Do you want a profile?

  > Yes. Thumbnail first, deeper later.

  > One hour.

  One thing she knew for certain was that Dragica Maric was Serb to the core. Stephanie wondered how she existed in Russia now as Sabine Freisinger, having once been Natalya Markova there. She wasn't sure she believed that Komarov hadn't slept with her, if only because she knew how Maric had felt about him. On the other hand, Komarov knew how Stephanie felt about Maric and she liked to think that, had the opportunity arisen, some sense of loyalty would have prevented him from succumbing to such obvious pleasures. Then again, he was a man.

  When it came, Stern's thumbnail sketch was a good start. Sabine Freisinger was renting an apartment in Moscow on Bryusov Lane, between Tverskaya and Bolshaya Nikitskaya, and was registered as the owner of Lazar, an import-export company with offices in a building on Novokuznetskaya Street. Lazar had subsidiary offices in Berlin and Belgrade.

  According to her passport, Sabine Freisinger's birthday was in three days' time. Stephanie wondered whether Dragica Maric used her own birthday for Freisinger. Stephanie had always kept hers separate. Others, she knew, always used their own date to ensure they were never caught out. After all, by itself, a date of birth was worth little, and yet a false date was such an easy thing to forget.

  She'd spent one of Petra's birthdays with Komarov. They'd stayed at the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg and he'd asked whether she'd go back to New York with him. It had been the first hint of a possible future together. She'd spoilt it by wondering why she should be the one to make the sacrifice. A pointless row had followed, which she'd regretted before it was even over.

  Stephanie stopped the memory. There was something gnawing away at her. Something to do with Hamburg. Or was it the Atlantic Hotel? She tried to cast her mind back to the time they'd spent there. That wasn't it. Slowly, though, there was another idea forming. Somebody was emerging from the fog. She recognized the face, heavy-set, brutish. And the hair, thick, black, everywhere.

  Aslan Shardov. That was right. Shardov had been in Hamburg. That's what Savic had said when they'd been in Margaux. Shardov had said he owed Farhad Shatri 'a good kick in the balls' and Savic had shot him a silencing look, before going on to explain that Shardov had been in Hamburg, had encountered a problem, and had been forced to leave sooner than planned.

  But why was that resonant? It was more than just Hamburg. It was something to do with the Atlantic Hotel. She was increasingly sure of it.

  The answer came an hour later, when she'd stopped thinking about it. It was the conversation she'd had in Hong Kong with Asim Maliqi after she'd chased him from his hotel. They'd been in that plastic patisserie, she recalled, the rain hammering down outside, the cut beneath his eye still raw. Maliqi had told her that he had a friend named Hamdu who'd worked at the Atlantic Hotel. />
  She ran through Maliqi's story in her mind, then contacted Stern again.

  > I'm looking for a face.

  > Who?

  > Goran Simic. A Serb who served in the JNA under Ratko Mladic. In 1992 he was a prison guard at the Serb camp in Omarska. He stayed there until the end of July. He was also one of those implicated in the 1995 massacre at Srebrenica.

  Forty-five minutes later she had her answer. She downloaded the photograph. All that had changed was his weight. There was no doubt about it. Aslan Shardov was Goran Simic. Shardov was the identity Gemini had provided for Simic. Which meant he'd also been Paul Ullman, a German from Bremen. That was the identity he'd been using at the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg when he was recognized by Hamdu.

  Another name from Gemini but how much closer was she to the list? Her post-Magenta House future was like gold at the end of a rainbow; the closer she got to it, the further it receded.

  She sent a message of thanks to Stern and set about making payment; this time a dollar transaction, transferring from one of Petra's Mexican accounts – at Banco Aurelio Gutierrez in Oaxaca – to a company in Bermuda named Redman Realty.

  It was nine in the evening when she pressed the button next to the name-plate marked Freisinger. Savic looked tired when she entered the apartment.

  Stephanie said, 'Is everything all right?'

  'Where have you been?'

  They'd had no contact for twenty-one hours. Easily enough time for her to travel to the furthest corner of Europe and back again. In fact she'd spent all but the last two hours in Komarov's room at the Adlon. Needing to stay invisible, she'd asked him for a favour. Anything, he'd said.

  'Buy me another day in this room.'

  He'd seemed disappointed that her request wasn't more significant. She'd said she couldn't ask him for more than that because she already owed him too much. Later she watched him pack in silence. When it was time to leave, she brushed imaginary fluff from the lapel of his jacket.

  'You should look your best for Ludmilla.'

  They kissed by the door; a light brush of the lips, and be was gone.

  She sat on the crumpled sheets. The hotel staff would assume they'd made love. There was a part of her that felt as though they had.

  She watched TV, then fell asleep. In the afternoon she sat by the window, in a daze, watching the rain, her thoughts alternating between Mark and Komarov. So different but with something in common: the ability to tolerate her, to absorb her and not react against her. To let her breathe. The ones who'd never attempted to hold on to her too tightly were the ones she'd wanted the most.