by Mark Burnell
Stephanie shook her head. 'Making me the villain of the piece.'
A comment that annoyed Mark more than any other. 'If you don't trust me, Stephanie, you should say so now, so that I don't waste any more time with you.'
'Hold on a minute …'
'No! You hold on! I love you very much. But if there's no balance, there's no point. Trust doesn't insulate you from doubt. It's what gets you through the doubt.'
The glittering truth. And she'd managed to miss it.
She couldn't believe herself and, for once, couldn't blame Petra. Not this time. Fidelity, honesty, trust – who was she to cast doubt? He was right. Her genuine instinct had never suspected him of infidelity with Alex. But she hadn't paid attention to it. Instead, she'd done the cheap thing and had looked for a way to shift her own guilt. He'd never questioned her. He'd never attempted to possess her, or restrict her in any way. He'd let her be herself. The only thing he'd wanted – expected, perhaps – was a little reciprocity.
And this was how she'd handled it.
Having offered his defence, Mark was turning away from her. He was heading for the front door. He was leaving her.
'Stay,' she said.
'You need some time to think, Stephanie.'
'No. Stay with me.'
'I'm serious …'
'Please. Don't go.'
He stopped and turned round. 'Why?'
'Because you want to.'
'You know I want to. But we're beyond that. I need a better reason now.'
Panic was starting to choke her.
'Because it's eight minutes past six.'
At first he's not sure. It sounds like a cheap sentimental trick. Even to me. But it isn't. I know that if he walks out now, we might not be able to repair the damage. And I can't let that happen. Because I now know with absolute certainty that I don't want to lose him. In that sense we're strangers in the Dolomites again and I'm selecting a stranger to give me an intermission from my loneliness.
I kiss him so hard, our teeth clash. But it's symptomatic of what follows. We're making love but it's more visceral than anything I've ever experienced. At first we don't manage to shed all our clothes, or even move out of the dirty hall. Against the wall and on the floor, the hard surfaces suit us.
I remember Karen once saying to me that there had been times with Fergus, her baby, when she honestly thought she could eat him. 'He's so delicious, Stephanie. When I kiss his little toes I just want to bite them off.'
That's what happens to Mark. I'm on the floor: splayed. He looms over me and I reach up to kiss him, taking his lower lip between my teeth. I bite. Softly, at first. Then a little too hard, drawing blood. He flinches but I don't let go. And he carries on regardless.
We do it in the kitchen, in the living room. Even in the bedroom. Our bodies are slippery with sweat. We reek. I can taste his blood on my tongue. Our mouths look as though we've got lipstick smeared all over them. When he comes, there are tears in my eyes.
Afterwards we lie on my mattress, cooling, drying. Apart from the cut, which is still running. I kiss it softly, as Mark rolls onto his back and pulls me on top of him.
'How did this happen?' he asks.
The truth is, I'm not sure. I feel the same way I did the first time we made love. Simultaneously exhausted and energized. Later we share a shower. There isn't much room. There isn't much hot water, either. We don't care. And we don't bother getting dressed, content to wrap a towel around ourselves.
We'd both like a drink but I advise Mark against the remains of the cooking brandy. I watch him drift through the flat as I prepare green tea. Although I'm in the kitchen I can see him in the living room. He flicks through a pile of papers on my desk: preparatory notes of mine, created by Frontier News. He examines a couple of battered cameras, a Nikon F-80 and a digital Nikon D-100. These are my props, not Petra's. He's been here so rarely, it's as though none of these things belong to me.
Later, while we're drinking tea, my Nokia rings. Mark is sitting cross-legged on the other end of the sofa. He hands me the phone. Without thinking, I answer it.
'Petra, it's me.'
I freeze. Mark notices and mouths a silent word at me. Okay? I recover some composure and nod furiously. But my heart is rocking in my chest. Fortunately, Savic is speaking German, a language Mark doesn't understand.
'Are you in London?'
'Yes. You?'
'Berlin, Tiergarten.'
Remember who you are.
I'm looking into Mark's eyes when I say, in German, 'I miss you when I'm not with you. I miss the things you do to me, the way you make me feel.'
In Berlin, Savic says, 'I feel the same way, Petra. I want you back here as soon as possible.'
In London, on the other end of this sofa, Mark appears to have understood that I've said something to him. He puts down his cup of tea and moves towards me. Savic is still speaking. Still telling me how good I am. how great we're going to be together. Mark loosens my towel and lets it drop to one side. Silently, he kisses me on the mouth while Savic talks to me. Mark lets his mouth roam over my breasts, down my ribs, across my stomach. One part of me is on auto-pilot – mumbling something about Farhad Shatri and how I've got to go back to Berlin – the rest of me is in total submission. By the time Mark's mouth is between my legs, it's a miracle I can make any sense at all. When the call's over I let the phone drop to the floor, reach down, grab his hair and pull him against me as hard as I can, splitting his lip again.
Later, he asks about the call. 'Berlin?'
I nod.
'When?'
'As soon as possible. Tomorrow.'
He smiles. 'Better make the most of tonight, then.'
Of all the ways he could have reacted …
I throw myself at him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him. 'I love you, Mark. I love you to death.'
'Sometimes that's definitely what it feels like.'
'I want to tell you everything.'
Spurting out of me before I have a chance to think about it, that's a sentence that sobers up both of us.
'Now?'
'Why not?'
'Are you sure?'
'One hundred per cent. I should have told you at the start. But I wasn't brave enough. So I had to make all those silly … conditions.'
'You didn't know me then, Stephanie. You couldn't tell me.'
True enough.
I say, 'You're a bit of a smart arse, aren't you?'
'I like to try.' We lie there for a while, his pulse coming through my skin, merging with me. Eventually, he says, 'I've got a better idea. Why don't you tell me when you get back? Tonight, let's just keep going like this and see what happens.'
Landing at Tegel on a blustery afternoon, she took a taxi directly to Asim Maliqi's address, a block of flats on Allerstrasse in Neukölln, just beyond the eastern perimeter of Tempelhof airport, close to the corner of Schillerpromenade. Maliqi's building was proof that the GDR hadn't monopolized grim housing: a functional concrete box, partitioned vertically and horizontally to produce living units, not homes.
It was a cobbled street with a few trees and an abandoned set of roadworks. The trees were circled in dog-shit. There was a cannibalized Passat outside the entrance to 30/31. All that remained was a rusting frame and the front passenger seat, which was badly charred. Inside the building, the communal areas smelt of institutional disinfectant and spicy cooking.
Maliqi's apartment was on the third floor, along a dark corridor, walls painted mustard, six khaki doors along each side. Noise echoed off hard surfaces: a baby crying, a dog yapping, music – German rap, an Arabic love song – a couple arguing in a language she didn't understand. She used the Gustav Frunze lock-pick to let herself into Maliqi's apartment.
One bedroom, a bathroom and a living space, with a sink and cooker along one wall. There were clothes hanging from a cord strung between the curtain rail and a nail banged into a partition wall. Small puddles had formed on the linoleum floor. She touched a grey wool
shirt; still damp. She peered into the bedroom, which was dark, a dust-sheet nailed to the window frame. The single bed occupied almost all the floor: a mattress with no sheet, a pillow with no cover, an old bedspread for a blanket.
Maliqi was neat. Then again, with so few possessions, it was easy to be neat. Apart from the clothes on the line, there was a small drawer for underwear and socks, one shirt on a hanger in a cupboard, a spare pair of trousers and no shoes. She checked the fridge: pitta bread, haloumi cheese, yoghurt, a few vegetables.
She waited in the bedroom. Maliqi returned just after six. When she heard the scrape of his key in the lock, she moved into the bathroom. The front door closed. She heard rubber soles squeaking on linoleum, keys placed on a table, a tap running, water filling a pan.
She emerged from the darkness. 'You're supposed to be dead.'
He dropped the pan, spun round, then reversed, clattering the edge of the sink, then scrambling away from her towards the window.
'What are you doing here?'
'The Hong Kong police found a body by the Aberdeen Upper Reservoir.'
'So?'
'I thought it was you.'
Maliqi's shock was dissipating swiftly. He frowned. 'Why?'
'From the description.'
'Because all Albanians look the same?'
'I'm glad you're alive, Asim. I really am.'
Anger stepped aside for regret. Stephanie let him take the time he needed. 'It was Hamdu.'
Now, it was Stephanie's turn to be on the back foot. It had never occurred to her that Maliqi wasn't acting alone. She couldn't imagine why she hadn't considered that possibility. There was no reason for it.
Hamdu. Maliqi's friend. A fellow survivor from the camp at Omarska. Hamdu, who'd worked at the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg, and who'd seen through Paul Ullman from Bremen, recognizing him as Goran Simic, one of the Gemini fifty-four. A man Stephanie had first known as Aslan Shardov.
Maliqi gave her the details. After their encounter he'd tried to persuade Hamdu not to confront Savic. But he'd already talked Hamdu out of not killing Simic when they'd the chance in Hamburg, a decision both men had come to regret. Hamdu wasn't about to let that happen again.
'We should have taken your advice and come back here. We should have tried to leave the past behind.'
'Easier said than done.'
'Maybe. But you were right.'
'What happened?'
Maliqi scratched his jaw. 'We argued. Hamdu told me I was a coward. Then he left and I never saw him again.'
'You're not a coward, Asim. You're just not hot-headed. That isn't a crime.'
'I feel like a coward.'
'I understand that. But it's not true.'
She could see he wasn't convinced. He picked up the pan from the floor, took a rag from the cupboard beneath the sink and began to mop up the water. When he'd finished, he said, 'Why are you here?'
'When we were in Hong Kong you said you'd met Farhad Shatri. I need to find him.'
A request that provoked a wry smile. Maliqi made instant coffee for them, spooning powdered milk and sugar into both cups without asking her.
'I don't know him well enough to do that.'
'Do you know anybody who does?'
'Why do you need to find him?'
'I'd rather not tell you.'
'You break into my apartment, demand assistance and don't want to tell me why? You're not asking for much, are you?'
'It might be better for you if you don't know.'
'I survived Omarska. I think I can handle a little information.'
Stephanie had called Rosie earlier in the day and had enquired, as casually as she could, whether Magenta House were any closer to locating Farhad Shatri. Rosie had said they were making progress. Stephanie wasn't sure she believed her. Now she felt she had to assume it was true. Rosie had then asked her how she was intending to fill her days. Another question masquerading as a spur-of-the-moment thought. Stephanie had said she was considering a few days away. Somewhere nice and quiet. Somewhere well out of the way.
Maliqi was waiting.
Stephanie decided to gamble. 'I'm close to Savic.'
Maliqi's eyes widened with alarm. 'Why do you want Farhad Shatri?'
She told him. It took an hour. She left nothing out. She answered every question as honestly as she could. Petra and the unadulterated truth; she wasn't sure they'd ever been in such close proximity.
When it was over, Maliqi said, 'You're a risk-taker. Like Hamdu.'
'Not usually. But if I'm wrong about you I'll end up like Hamdu.'
'Very true. And you swear that Simic is on this list?'
'Yes.'
Maliqi considered this. 'When you said you were close to Savic, what did you mean?'
'Exactly what it sounds like.'
'How close?'
'Far too close.'
It hurt to admit, and Maliqi seemed to sense that.
'I'll see what I can do. But I can't promise you anything.'
They met in the bar of the Four Seasons hotel on Charlottenstrasse at nine. After the monstrous marble of the lobby, the bar was an oasis of taste and quiet; muted light, wooden panelled walls, leather armchairs. Savic was with two men who didn't belong there. They melted as soon as Stephanie arrived. Fellow Serbs, she guessed; they were wearing leather coats, after all. Savic slid off his stool and pulled her into a full-blooded kiss. The bartender blushed. Stephanie would have been embarrassed too, if she'd felt anything at all.
Savic said, 'I have something for you.'
He reached into his coat pocket. Whatever it is, it's going to be the best thing you've ever received. It was a box wrapped in black paper secured by gold ribbon. It felt heavy. Inside, there was a gold cross fashioned from miniature ingots, the vertical as long as her little finger and just as dense. On the reverse, a date. Hong Kong, the first time they had sex. She thought of the watch Mark had given her – forever eight minutes past six – and the comparison made her feel sick. Grossly ostentatious, it was precisely the sort of thing Savic would have liked.
From somewhere, she found a smile of beatific pleasure, before pulling him into a kiss as intense as the one before. Just to make sure. Then Savic took it from the box, as Stephanie held up her hair, allowing him to encircle her throat with it, fixing the clasp over the nape of her neck.
'It looks beautiful on you.'
It felt like a hangman's noose.
Later there was dinner at the Paris Bar on Kantstrasse, the stuffy staff fawning over Savic as unpleasantly as they ignored other diners.
When Savic asked about her search for Shatri, she said, 'Don't worry, darling. I'll find him.'
'How far have you got?'
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. 'Trust me. I'll deliver. I always do.'
Back in the apartment, he asked her to strip for him.
'Leave the gold cross on. Take off everything else.'
They were in the living room. The lights were off. Stephanie was silhouetted against the street-light coming through the French windows. She did what he wanted, following every murmured instruction until he could no longer help himself. Then he fucked her on the floor. Just like Mark had twenty-four hours earlier. Just as hard, just as long. But completely different. There was only one thing the two had in common: they both reduced her to tears.
She slept deeply, drifting towards the waking shore slowly, where she reached out, hoping to touch Mark. Then she remembered where she was. In Berlin, in bed with Savic. Except he wasn't there. Her eyes still closed, she ran her hand across the bed to check. She was alone. Or maybe not. She smelt coffee close by.
Her senses began to sharpen. There was no one in the bed but there was someone in the room. She couldn't see who it was but she felt a presence. Slowly she looked around. Beyond the foot of the bed there was a chair by the wall. A woman was sitting in it. On the table to her right, a mug, steam rising from it. On her lap, a SIG Sauer P226, Petra Reuter's gun of choice.
Dragica Maric.
Or Sabine Freisinger. Or even Natalya Markova. Tall, slender, angular, Stephanie had forgotten quite how beautiful she was. Runway calibre, at least. Not that Maric could have cared less. She wore a thick black jersey, jeans and a pair of walking boots. Her raven hair was chopped short and crudely parted on the left. On her right wrist she wore a chunky sports watch. As ever, she made androgyny look stunning.
She smiled at Stephanie. 'I never expected to find you in my bed, Petra. Although I have to confess, I've occasionally thought about it.'
Maric was looking at Stephanie in exactly the same way that Stephanie was looking at her. With cautious wonder. There was a difference, though. Stephanie was naked. She'd kicked off the duvet in the night. At least, she supposed that was the explanation. In any case, only her calves and feet were beneath it. She pulled the duvet up, so that all but her arms and shoulders were covered.
'Where's Milan?'
'Out.'
'What are you doing here?'
'I think that's a question I should be asking you. You're in my bed. In my apartment.' Her good humour vanished. She picked up the gun. 'That's a tasteful bit of bullion you're wearing. I'll bet it's got a date on the back.'
Stephanie said nothing.
'Say what you like about Milan, at least he's consistent. I gave mine to a tramp in Mexico City.'
'Why are you here?'
'To see for myself.'
'See what?'
'You. And him. Together.'
'Why?'
'You're smart. You tell me.'
'You're not sure.'
'I'm sure about him.' She took a sip from her mug. 'I believe he's in love. It's easy to tell with a man like Milan. His tone changes. He can't help it. As for his critical faculties … well, they've completely disintegrated.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Getting you to find Farhad Shatri.'
'You don't think I can?'
'I have no idea. The point is, Milan's not that bright. But it would still be better if he did his thinking with his brain, not his dick.'
'You don't trust me?'
She waved the gun at her. 'I haven't decided yet. That's why you're still alive.'
Her bed. Her apartment. Her decision.
