by Mark Burnell
'What are you doing there?'
He'd shed his suit and was tugging his shirt over his head. 'It's a documentary on K2.'
Feeling foolish, Stephanie picked up the towel from the bed and wrapped it around herself. 'Can I come too?'
'Sorry. Larry organized it. Five tickets, no spares.'
He was already half-dressed. Stephanie sat on the edge of the bed. 'I was hoping for a quiet night in.'
'You didn't tell me you were coming back today.'
She wanted to ask him whether he could cancel. And was glad that she didn't. 'What time does it start?'
'Seven thirty.'
'You're going to have to run. Do you know what time it ends?'
He shook his head and pre-empted her next question. 'We'll be going out afterwards. A few drinks and a bite to eat, I expect …'
Stephanie nodded slowly. 'So, not a late one, then. Or an alcoholic one.'
He grinned. 'Wouldn't dream of it.'
Although they were both essentially solitary climbers, Mark enjoyed the few climbing friends he'd retained over the years. When he was with them Stephanie detected a slight shift in character. From widely different backgrounds, and ranging in age from late twenties through to early fifties, they were bound by shared personal history. Just like Savic and Brankovic, or any other member of Inter Milan.
'I'll be here,' Stephanie sighed. 'The downtrodden dutiful homemaker …'
'You've done a great job,' Mark said, surveying the dirty clothes littering the bedroom floor.
She laughed. 'All I want is someone to make me feel like a real woman.'
'Well, I've got a pile of shirts that need ironing.'
'Bastard.'
'Bitch.' He kissed her, then slapped her on the back side. 'Keep it warm.'
'Keep it warm? My God, you're in trouble …'
'Promises, promises.'
Once he was gone she took a bottle of red wine from the wooden rack in the kitchen and opened it. She'd never subscribed to the idea that drinking alone was bad. On the contrary. She usually found it was very good.
For an hour or so she channel surfed and found nothing to tempt her. The more TV there was, the less there was to watch. So she switched off and put on some music: a compilation by The Clash – one of Mark's favourites – and Red Square by Laurie Anderson, one of hers.
All along, Alexander had lusted after the list. Now that she'd provided positive proof of its existence, he didn't want her to pursue it. But Savic did. And she'd promised him she'd do her best to find it. He needed it. Alexander needed it. Perhaps she needed it too.
Around nine she went to the kitchen to make something to eat. She put on a pan of water and poured in some penne. Which was when she remembered … what? It was a germ of an idea that took time to grow. Something about Farhad Shatri …
The phone rang at just the wrong moment. She put her fingers to her temples. squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think past the noise. The answer-machine took it.
Asim Maliqi.
That was it. In Hong Kong, Asim Maliqi had mentioned Farhad Shatri. In passing, a casual remark. She tried to recall the context but her recollection was too vague. Still, she knew that was it. Maliqi knew Shatri. Or had met him, at least. Sadly, Maliqi was dead. But it was a starting point. She remembered that he'd worked for Deutsche Bahn in Berlin.
That was something she hadn't mentioned to Alexander or Rosie.
She went into the living room and hit the 'play' button on the answer-machine, hoping it was Mark, post-film, pre-dinner. It wasn't. The voice was female.
'Hi Mark. It's me. I hope it's okay for me to call you at home. I left a message on your mobile earlier. I hope you got it. Anyway, I just wanted to say … thank you … for yesterday. It was really good. And it was lovely to see you again. And thanks for calling this afternoon … the day after tomorrow's fine. Or the day after that. Whatever's best for you – any time's good for me. I'm a lady of leisure at the moment … as you know.' There was a nervous giggle. 'Call me when you can. Lots of love … bye. Oh, it's Alex, by the way. In case you couldn't guess. Take care. Bye.'
My first instinct is to erase it. But I don't. Instead, I play it again. Three times. Alex. The flirt. I drink some more wine. She was all over him like a rash. He'd denied it, said he hadn't noticed, accused me of over-reacting. And I let it go. I should have trusted my instinct. When I looked at her, I knew what she was thinking. The same thing I've seen other women thinking once he starts to talk to them, once his hands begin to move. He doesn't even need to touch them to make them feel him.
I rein myself in a bit, refill my glass and play the message once more. She hasn't actually said anything that incriminates either of them. But the tone of it … she's purring with pleasure. Almost gloating. And when I remember the look she was giving him, the way she stared at him even when he was looking elsewhere. Not many women are truly predatory, in my experience. But the ones who are tend to be more ruthless than any man I've ever come across.
I dial his number. His phone isn't switched on. I'm pacing furiously. The room isn't big enough. There's a pile of his wretched biographies by the sofa. I give them a good kick, scattering them across the kilim.
How could he?
Not a good question to ask myself. As soon as I have, I'm flooded with legitimate reasons. I know what I told him at the start of our relationship, about areas of my life being off-limits, but that seems absurdly redundant now.
I finish the bottle and want to open another. I want him to come back. I want to fight. But I don't do any of these things. Instead, I leave and catch a taxi back to Maclise Road.
It's ages since I've slept here. The bedroom smells damp. There's dust on the pillow and duvet. I go into the kitchen. There's no alcohol in the fridge. There's some cooking brandy in one of the cupboards, though. That'll have to do.
It's almost one in the morning when he calls.
'Stephanie? Why aren't you here? What are you doing?'
By now I've had far too much to drink. The room's moving. 'What am I doing? Jesus Christ, Mark! You've got a fucking nerve. What am I doing?'
'Stephanie …'
'Have you checked your messages since you got back?'
'I haven't had the chance …'
'Fine. Do it. Then call me.'
I end the call. Less than a minute later the phone rings.
'That's it?' he says. 'That's what this is about?'
Which provokes a gasp of amazement. Then I say, 'Just tell me this. Alex – is that who I think it is?'
There's a long pause before he answers. 'Yes.' No explanation offered. Just a confirmation.
'Do you want me to come over?' he asks.
'No.'
'Do you want to talk?'
'I'm going to bed.'
'Stephanie …'
'Fuck off Mark.'
For the second time in as many minutes, I cut him off. Then I reach for the cooking brandy and wait for him to call again.
But he doesn't.
She woke at four, nauseous, dehydrated, a thumping headache. She took Nurofen, drank water and wondered whether to call him, before crawling back under the covers. She tried to convince herself that she would feel better in the daylight.
It was after eight the next time she woke. Her eyes were stinging and she still felt lousy. More water, a hot bath and coffee constituted the first step on the march of a thousand miles. Still he didn't call. She tried Queen's Gate Mews, before realizing that he'd already left for work. She rang his mobile. Not on. She began to dial the practice before changing her mind. She couldn't face a chirpy conversation with one of the receptionists; they were always so nice to her.
She turned to work. The great saviour in times of personal crisis.
Asim Maliqi via Stern. She sought a meeting, got one, made her request, received a price, agreed to it and waited. When Stern got back to her, he was armed with a surprise.
> Reports of Asim Maliqi's death have been greatly exaggerated.
> Are you sure?
> Are you doubting me, Petra? Anyone other than you and I'd be very offended.
> I'm just surprised.
> You won't be surprised, perhaps, to learn that there aren't very many Asim Maliqis working for Deutsche Bahn in Berlin. He's at work as we speak. Checking track. That is what he does, isn't it?
> It is.
> I imagine you'd like his address.
Alexander had always thought she was crazy to place so much trust in Stern. You've never even met him, he'd say. And he's never met me, she'd reply, and neither of us has ever let the other one down. All true, she imagined, but how could she be so sure?
It was possible she already knew Stern. Eric Roy, perhaps, in Groningen, or Bruno Kleist, in Vienna. Or even Marcel Claesen, God forbid. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to contain her disappointment if Claesen turned out to be Stern. More than once it had occurred to her that Alexander might be Stern. The more he criticized her arrangement, the more perverse the possibility, so the more she was inclined to consider it. As a method of controlling her, what could be better? Relying on their mutual contempt to drive her towards Stern, where Alexander himself would be able to drip feed her the information he wanted. Certainly, it was true that nothing Stern had provided for Stephanie had ever resulted in an action that was detrimental to Magenta House.
Chapter 13
Karen was waiting for her at a table close to the bar. She was relaxed and tanned; the sun had bleached her blonde hair so that it was almost white.
Stephanie sat down opposite her. 'You look great.'
'That's ten days of pointless luxury in Thailand for you. You look like shit.'
'That's cooking brandy for you.'
They were in a pizzeria on Swallow Street, between Regent Street and Piccadilly. Stephanie had called her an hour earlier and suggested lunch. Karen had said she already had plans. And then said she'd change them.
'I spoke to Mark.'
'Did he tell you?'
Karen shook her head. 'He's far too discreet for that. I read between the lines.'
'I don't know what I've done.'
'Tell me.'
'Either I've made a complete idiot of myself, or I've caught him out.'
Karen raised an eyebrow. 'Another woman?'
'Alex.'
Stephanie told her about the message. And about his failure to explain it. Or even to call her.
'You know, Steph, I love both of you. But I really don't want to come between you. This is something you should sort out face to face. I will say this, though: if Mark's been unfaithful to you, I'd be amazed. I know there's no such thing as the "faithful type" but, if there was, that's the type he'd be. I've known him long enough to know that.'
'How long have you known Alex?'
'Not as long as Mark. Or even you. Look, I like Alex a lot. But I also recognize that she does have a rather how shall I put it? – voracious appetite when it comes to men. I know that's not what you want to hear, but I'm just being honest.'
'Thanks.'
'But it takes two to tango. No matter what you heard on the tape, you should remember that.'
'I will.'
The waiter arrived with their drinks, a large glass of white wine for Karen, a large Coke for Stephanie.
Karen looked at the glass. 'My word, you really are in bad shape, aren't you?'
'You have no idea.'
'I've only got one more thing to say on this. Mark once asked me if I thought you'd ever be unfaithful to him. All I could say, Steph, was that when you were together I saw that you loved him. When you're apart … well, I know you're not entirely forthcoming with him.'
'He told you that?'
She shook her head and smiled sadly. 'Same as before. I read between the lines. You're forgetting how long I've known him. The point is, if it's true, then I can only vouch for one part of you. And that's what I told him.'
Which was truer than she could possibly have realized.
Karen said, 'Talk to him, Steph. You two are made for each other. Don't screw it up through neglect.'
Maclise Road, four in the afternoon. Stephanie was in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, watching workmen drill a hole in the road for no good reason. Rosie was on the phone to her with more questions about Farhad Shatri.
'How's it going?' Stephanie asked.
'So far he's proving rather elusive.'
Stephanie wanted to tell her about Sevdie. Sevdie had been a member of the Shatri family. Even as his Achilles tendons were severed by a bolt-cutter, he hadn't whispered a word. That was the way they worked. She wanted to tell Rosie about the besa, the oath that Albanian recruits had given on joining the KLA. More than a mere promise of allegiance, it was a pledge of one's life. A total commitment. Contained within it was the understanding that if a recruit betrayed the cause his comrades had the right to kill him. She wanted to tell Rosie that the concept of the besa permeated many areas of Albanian life. But she mentioned none of these things to her.
'Good luck. I hope you find him soon.'
Rosie didn't answer immediately. When she did, there was caution in her tone. 'You don't think we will?'
There was a knock at the front door.
'I don't think you'll find it easy.'
'Is there something you want to tell me, Stephanie?'
'No.'
There was another knock. She finished the call and opened the door to Mark.
She said the first thing that came to mind. 'No phone calls?'
He said, 'I thought this would be better. After we'd had some time to cool down. Can I come in?'
She stood to one side, then followed him into the living room. He was wearing a suit, as he always did to work. Stephanie found that strange, but he'd told her that it projected professional competence.
'A light afternoon?'
'I had Linda reorganize my schedule.'
Stephanie perched on a sofa arm. 'So …'
'So.'
'Was I wrong? Is that what you've come to tell me?'
'Yes.'
'Go on, then.'
'I'm treating her.'
Stephanie snorted with contempt. 'The same way you first treated me?'
'As I recall, my treatment of you was first class. What followed was provoked by you.'
'And you put up such a fight, didn't you?'
Mark ignored the bait. 'Alex has a chronic spine problem due to whiplash injuries sustained in a car crash at the start of last year. After we met at the party she called the clinic and made an appointment. She came for an initial consultation last week, then for a session of treatment the day before yesterday …'
'A session?'
'Grow up, Stephanie.'
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
'She was booked in for an appointment at five this afternoon. Which I've now rescheduled for ten tomorrow morning so that I could come here to talk to you.'
'And the nervous giggles? The lovey-dovey voice?'
'I haven't erased the message. You're welcome to come and listen to it again. Perhaps a little factual analysis wouldn't go amiss.'
'I'm running on instinct, Mark.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'And your instinct about me leads you to this conclusion, does it?'
She felt a stab of panic. 'My instinct about her leads me …'
'What about me?'
'I saw the way she was looking at you. And the way other women look at you. She didn't just want to have you. She wanted to devour you, Mark. And you told me that you hadn't noticed.'
'I hadn't.'
'Hadn't?'
He hesitated before confirming it. 'Hadn't.'
'But now?'
'Now … well, you were right.'
'And?'
'And that's it.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, I'm not interested in her. Yes, you were right. She probably was flirting with me at the party. Alex is a flirt, I admit it.'
'But not when she's
half-naked in your room at the practice?'
'Nothing happened.'
'I see. So when she's been with you and you've put your hands on her body – the way you first put them on me – she's made no move at all?'
'I'm telling you that there's nothing between us.'
'That's a pretty unfortunate choice of phrase. Let me get this straight. On the two occasions you've seen her, she hasn't tried it on?'
'Yes.'
'Yes, I'm right? Or, yes, she has?'
'Yes, she has.'
Stephanie faltered. It wasn't the answer that tripped her up but the way in which he gave it. It couldn't have been more direct.
'And I told her that I wasn't interested.'
'And that was it? She was happy with that?'
'No.'
'No?'
'She's a flirt. She wanted something to happen. But it didn't.'
'I can't believe I'm hearing this.'
Mark spread his hands and said, 'I know what you're thinking. Why am I still agreeing to see her?'
'That's one of the things I'm thinking.'
'I can help her.'
'I'm tempted to say that she seems well capable of helping herself.'
'I'm serious, Stephanie. I've told her categorically that nothing is ever going to happen between us. She may not like that but she's accepted it. I told her that if she ever made another move I'd stop treating her. And she's accepted that too.'
'It didn't sound like it on the answer-machine.'
'She's a flirt. A player of games. It's in her nature. But she does know that nothing's going to happen. And that's all there is to it.'
All Stephanie's evangelical certainty was gone. Now there was only confusion. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Look, I've told you the way it is. Either you believe me or you don't. That's something only you can decide. I've agreed to see Alex because I can help her. If you ask me not to see her I'll drop her from my list. But I won't be happy about it. She's in constant pain.'
'You're not the only chiropractor in London.'
'No. And if you ask me not to see her, no doubt she will go to one of them, now that she's starting to see what can be done for her. All I'm saying is this: since we know where we stand, I don't see there's any reason not to treat her. But it's up to you.'
