by Mark Burnell
'You bitch.'
'Heroin for the soul. That's what Savic was, wasn't he? Destructive and addictive in equal measure.'
'Please – just leave.'
A request, not a demand. The venom gone, weariness in its place.
'As for Milan … well, he'd had sex with every surgically enhanced bimbo in Belgrade by then. You were something different. An American, for a start, and intelligent too. Always a challenge for a man like Milan. And even if you were quite a bit older than him – so what? You're not without physical appeal. And in war you take your pleasures wherever you can find them. Right?'
Her eyes were glassy, the surrendered truth welling up inside her. 'Right.'
They settled in the sitting room. It was cool and dark, the heavy plum curtains half drawn. Attwater sat on one end of a sofa with a bold floral print. Stephanie was in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. On the table to her right there were photographs of Attwater with her ex-husband. Younger, happier, both in love with adventure as much as each other, the backgrounds featured as prominently as they did: Beirut, Hong Kong, Baghdad, Beijing.
'Straight after our divorce I headed for the Balkans. Turns out, there couldn't have been a worse place in the world for me at that time. We were both so confident we could make it work, but we were too career-minded. That's why we never had kids. Too selfish to compromise, I guess. We really loved each other. But just not as much as our work. Too many assignments, too much travel, too much time apart. We thought we could handle it. But being apart is never a good thing if you've got a good thing going. That's the truth.'
The divorce was amicable, their relationship improving almost instantly, and ever since. But Carleen Attwater's sense of loss and guilt ran deeper than she realized. Crippled by both, she headed for Belgrade just as the trouble began.
'I couldn't have cared less what happened to me. Being in the Balkans made it worse. There was no trip too hazardous, no drink too many, no fling too seedy. Depending on your point of view, it was either perfect or catastrophic. For a decade I was on the verge – of euphoria, of suicide, of both at once.'
Savic was coming in to context. Intelligent and feisty, her recklessness masquerading as courage, it wasn't so hard to understand what he'd seen in Attwater. But it was doomed to fail. As Kosovo crashed, Savic needed to vanish. There was no prospect of Attwater going with him. She'd understood that from the start. By the time it became a reality, however, she couldn't accept it. She was addicted to the nomadic brutality of the life they'd led.
The parting was pitiful. 'I was on my knees, begging him, all dignity gone.'
The worse it got, the more revolted Savic was. Eventually there was a fight. It started with a slap, which he returned with a punch. But that wasn't enough for him. Once he'd started he couldn't stop himself. He beat her the same way he'd beaten so many other women: with pleasure, and to a pulp. He left her battered and bleeding in the corner of a squalid motel room in northern Bosnia.
'The last thing he did was empty his gun. Except for one bullet, which he left in. Then he tossed it onto the bed. His final words to me were: "You disgust me, you old whore. Do yourself a favour. Use the bullet." And you know what? I almost did. I took the gun, I put it in my mouth and … I just couldn't. I don't know why. But it was the turning point.'
It's a turning point for me, too. It makes perfect sense. She's a woman scorned, which is why I tell her the real reason for my visit. And which is why she then opens up to me. The tears dry, the quiver fades from her voice.
'I met Farhad Shatri in a house in north London. Wood Green.'
'How was that arranged?'
'I made contact with him and …'
'Wait. You did?'
'That's right.'
'I didn't think anyone knew how to find him.'
She looks a little cross. 'I'm not anyone.' The way she says it begins to reveal another dimension to her. 'Why do you think I was approached?'
Of course. Because she knew both men. That was what made her ideal. 'Did you give him the list?'
'There was no list. At least I certainly didn't see one.'
'But he was selected to put it up for sale.'
'Naturally. He has all the reasons in the world to see harm come to Milan.'
'And you were happy enough to assist …'
She smiles bitterly. 'It was the least I could do.'
'Who's the vendor?'
'I don't know.'
'So how did Shatri know the offer was legitimate?'
'A code I used.'
'What was it?'
She writes it down for me. 0006302/QRT/Vlore/77.
'What does it mean?'
She shrugs. 'Vlore is a port on the Albanian coast, favoured by people smugglers. The rest of it, I don't know. But I memorized it anyway. Just in case.'
'And it satisfied Shatri?'
'Seemed to.'
'Who gave you the message?'
'A contact in Hong Kong.'
'How did that come about?'
'A phone call from someone I used to know.'
'Who?'
'This Belgian guy …'
'Not Marcel Claesen?'
She looks startled. 'You know him?'
I can't believe it. Claesen. Again. Like McDonald's and dog-shit, he gets everywhere. 'Sort of. Go on.'
'He asked if I'd be interested in a courier job. Hong Kong to London, first class both ways, a room at The Peninsula and fifty grand in cash. Four days from start to finish. I asked what I would be carrying. When he said information, I said okay. In Hong Kong the contact showed me that it was a document but didn't let me read it. He placed it in an envelope and secured it with a wax seal. It was only when Farhad opened it that I discovered what the document referred to.'
'Gemini.'
'Yes. Farhad was very excited. And I'm ashamed to admit, I was too.'
'Whoever selected you must have known that you'd be able to contact Shatri.'
'Yes.'
'So someone who knows him too, perhaps.'
'Perhaps.'
'Then what?'
'Then nothing. Farhad paid me the cash …'
'He paid you?'
'That was the way it was supposed to be. If it wasn't his money, I guess someone reimbursed him. Frankly, I didn't care that much.'
'Why would you?'
'Exactly.'
'And you don't believe your contact in Hong Kong was the vendor?'
She laughs. 'Lord, no! He was some local guy. Definitely an intermediary. And not a very classy one, either.'
'A Chinese Claesen?'
'Now you mention it …'
She gives me the location for her rendezvous but can't provide a name. When I have everything I need, I get up to leave.
'I'm sorry I was so hurtful.'
'Forget it. I've been trying to.'
As we walk towards the door she puts her hand on my arm. 'What are you hoping to do, Stephanie? Can I ask you that?'
'I need the list.'
'I was talking about Milan.'
'Put it this way: if I get the list, Milan's in trouble.'
'What kind?'
'The terminal kind.'
'Then there's something else you need to know. You don't have much time.'
'Why not?'
'Farhad has offers. At least two, possibly three. All of them have met the asking price. The only reason he's waiting is to find out who will go highest.'
'How long have I got?'
'I don't know.'
'Can you make an educated guess?'
'A few days, maybe. Less than a week, for sure.'
'How do you know this?'
At first she says nothing, inviting me to figure it out. But I can't.
'Let's just say that since I made contact with Farhad he's made contact with me.'
It still takes me a while to get it. When I do, I can't help myself. 'You're joking.'
My astonishment makes her giggle. 'Is it really that hard to believe?'
On Bayswater Road she switched on her Nokia and decided to walk back through the park to Queen's Gate Mews. She was by the pond when the phone rang: Rosie Chaudhuri.
'Where are you?'
'Kensington Gardens.'
'We need to talk.'
'Can it wait?'
'What were you doing in Berlin, Stephanie?'
They met at a large pub on Victoria Street that was busy at lunch and immediately after work. In the late afternoon there were only a handful of customers: a few bar-flies wreathed in cigarette smoke, two of them hunched over the Racing Post, and four stragglers from lunch, ties loose, sleeves rolled up, cheap jackets draped over their chairs. Rosie picked a table close to the fruit machines, their incessant and irritating squawking good for swallowing conversation.
'How did you find out?'
'I called Mark. Don't worry. I said I was an assistant at Frontier News. He said you were in Berlin and that you'd be back in a day or two.'
Stephanie peered into her vodka and tonic. 'Why are you checking up on me?'
Rosie tried to shrug it off. 'Alexander thinks you've become … erratic.'
'He's a fine one to talk.'
'What were you doing there, Steph?'
'My job.'
'You were told to take some time off.'
'I wonder why.'
'I've just told you why. You've become unreliable. Unstable.'
Stephanie turned over the idea in her head. 'Alexander thinks he's close to the list, doesn't he? That's why he's asked you to keep an eye on me. To make sure I don't screw things up.'
'You're way off the mark.'
'I wonder if he knows that Farhad Shatri doesn't actually have the list.'
Rosie couldn't smother her surprise but resisted the obvious question. 'You can't get involved.'
'I'm already involved. And you can't stop me. I can walk out of here and disappear. You know that.'
'There's always Mark.'
'I don't think so. If Alexander thinks I'm unstable at the moment, he'd be in for a shock if anything happened to Mark. Or Komarov, for that matter.'
Rosie drank some wine. Stephanie saw she was struggling with herself.
'Does he know that I've been to Berlin?'
She shook her head.
'You decided not to tell him?'
No response.
'But he can't actually do anything until he has the list, can he? Just in case …'
Again, no verbal response. Instead, Stephanie took her cue from Rosie's eyes.
'Supposing I get the list first?'
'Please, Steph. You can't expect me to do this.'
'Would he honour our original deal?'
'Stephanie …'
'Would he?'
Rosie took a long, deep breath. 'That would depend.'
'On what?'
'On whether it was the only list.'
In other words, only if he had to. He was looking for a way not to. Stephanie knew what that meant: he wasn't going to renege on their deal. He was going to redefine it so that she broke it by default.
'How long have I got, Rosie?'
She couldn't look Stephanie in the eye. 'If only we'd had this conversation a week ago.'
This morning, Berlin. Now, London. Tomorrow, Hong Kong. I ring British Airways. They have two flights this evening. There's space on the second of them, BA027, leaving at ten to ten. That leaves me just enough time to see Mark, to explain my predicament, to beg his forgiveness – and possibly lay down a physical down-payment on that, if I'm lucky – before heading for Heathrow.
At Queen's Gate Mews I find Mark in the kitchen. He looks exhausted, as though he hasn't slept for days. When we kiss, he's a cold fish.
'Are you okay?'
'I'm not feeling a hundred per cent.'
'You're not looking it, either.'
There's no pleasure in his smile. 'Well, there you are …'
'Look, I know what I said earlier in my message so I'm not quite sure how to put this but I'm going to have to blow you out tonight.'
'Oh?'
'It's important.'
'Back to Berlin?'
'Hong Kong.'
Clearly surprised, he raises an eyebrow, then folds his arms and leans back against the sink. 'Hong Kong? I hope you're collecting air miles.'
'I know. I've been up and down like a yo-yo.'
'And who is it in Hong Kong?'
'Sorry?'
'Who are you seeing in Hong Kong?'
'Nobody.'
'Nobody?'
'Well, obviously somebody. What I mean is …'
'You know Rob Morgan, don't you?'
Justine's husband.
'Of course.'
'Do you know what he does?'
He's told me so many times and it's never stuck. 'Something in banking, I think.'
'He's an investment banker.'
'I remember now. Why?'
'When his clients come to London he has to entertain them. You know the sort of thing. A few drinks at a chic bar, dinner at a posh restaurant, maybe a nightcap somewhere else.'
There's a really unpleasant sensation forming in my stomach. 'Mark, what are you getting at?'
'What I'm saying is this: that's how Rob treats his clients when they come to London because that's how he gets treated by them when he's abroad. As you know, he travels a lot. Last week it was Paris and Amsterdam.'
My heart is slowing to a halt.
'This week it was Berlin.'
Chapter 14
Stephanie couldn't move, could barely breathe. All she could do was look at him, six foot four, dark hair all over the place, irregular features that were as familiar to her fingertips as they were to the eyes.
'The bar at the Four Seasons,' he said.
Pleading the Fifth. Wasn't that what it was when you stayed silent so that you didn't incriminate yourself? She couldn't imagine a silence more damning than hers.
'That's where Rob's clients took him. For a couple of drinks before dinner. You know … happy hour.'
Stephanie felt utterly numb.
'You were with some low-rent gorilla in a leather coat. You kissed him. Then he gave you a gift. A piece of tasteless gold crap that you'd generally expect to find on some retarded rapper. Rob's description, not mine.'
She wanted to say something. Anything.
'The two of you were all over each other. Poor Rob. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Or how he was going to tell me. You know how concerned he always is about other people. Initially he tried to play it down, make it sound less tacky than it was, but in the end I got the director's cut.'
Mark wasn't fooling her. He hadn't raised his voice but she could hear the pain. The colour had drained from his face as comprehensively as the life from his eyes.
'Is it true?'
She couldn't bring herself to admit it directly. 'Why would Rob make up something like that?'
'I've been trying to think of a reason. Because I can't believe it. I thought I understood you, Stephanie.'
'You do.'
'Evidently not.'
But he was wrong. He did understand her. Completely. The problem, as ever, was Petra, and there was no adequate way to explain her to Mark.
'I thought we'd be together, Stephanie. That first morning, when I woke up beside you, I really believed you'd be the one.'
I am the one. And so are you.
'Who is he?'
She shook her head.
'Are you in love with him?'
She couldn't prevent a desperate cough of laughter. 'God, no!'
Mark frowned. 'Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you're not in love with him, so it's not so bad somehow?'
'You don't understand.'
'Do I need to?'
'Don't you want to?'
He bought himself time by taking a bottle of Macon Villages from the fridge. He offered her a glass. She would have been happier if he'd hit her with the bottle, but she nodded anyway. He poured for both of them.
'In all the time we've been together I've accepted the empty spaces. I didn't need an explanation then. Why would I need one now?'
'So that you could know.'
'Know what? That when you were away you were sleeping with other men? What possible explanation could you give me that would make that all right?'
'None,' she conceded.
He turned away from her and headed for the living room, a glass in one hand, the bottle in the other.
'You've made an idiot of me. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Of every doubt. Because I trusted you. And you took advantage of that.'
'Please let me try to explain, Mark. You owe me that much, at least.'
'I owe you nothing. The excuses, the secrecy, the evasion – I put up with all of it because it was better than being lied to. I always said that. That was the one thing I wasn't prepared to accept, Stephanie. The one thing. Why? Because I loved you.'
'I love you.'
'Do you love them as well?'
'There is no them.'
'One, a dozen, a hundred – what difference does it make?'
'I couldn't tell you the truth!'
'I didn't ask you to.'
He was right. That was the point. He knew when not to ask a question. More times than she cared to remember, he'd curtailed any natural sense of curiosity to save her from that predicament.
Stephanie wanted to kiss him. Wanted him to hold her. To say that he could forgive her. To allow her to promise that it would never happen again. To let her show him how completely she loved him.
She held open her hands. 'So … what now?'
'Don't you have a plane to catch?'
'I'm serious.'
'So am I.'
'Mark … whatever you're thinking … don't. There must be something I can do. Or say. Please …'
'It's too late.'
'Anything …'
He drained his glass, then refilled it. 'Anything?'
'Anything.'
'You'd give up … whatever it is?'
