by Mark Burnell
'Drive.'
Desperation creeps into her voice. 'Please, Stephanie …'
'Drive.'
'… don't hurt me.'
'What?'
'Think of Fergus.'
Her baby son. In a mental snapshot, he's gurgling in their garden on a hot afternoon as we drink Pinot Grigio.
'Karen …'
'Please don't hurt us.'
I must be losing my touch. It's so obvious.
'I'm not going to hurt anyone, Karen. I just need to talk to you.'
I can see she doesn't believe me. When I try to place a reassuring hand on her arm, she flinches.
'Let me guess. In his late fifties, well dressed , well mannered, clipped snow-white hair, clipped Scottish accent.'
The answer is in her eyes.
'What did he tell you?'
She doesn't want to say, which points me in the right direction.
'When did he contact you?'
Her voice is no more than a whisper. 'This morning. Just after Julian left for the office.'
Impressively swift, I have to admit. 'At least it proves I'm not completely out of touch. I was right to intercept you here.'
'Why?'
'Because your house is under surveillance.'
Karen shakes her head. 'He never said anything about that.'
'He wouldn't. But you can take it from me, it is. They'll be reading your e-mails too, and listening to your phone calls. Land-lines and mobiles …'
Her mouth is open but there's no sound coming out.
'Karen, as long as they believe you've had no contact with me you've got nothing to fear,' I tell her, wishing I could feel as confident of that as I sound.
'Can they do that?'
'What?'
'Tap our phones?'
'Easily. Especially the mobiles …'
'I mean, legally.'
There's no simple way to answer that. If an entity doesn't exist, aren't matters of legality redundant?
She shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. 'I can't believe I'm even listening to this! For God's sake, Stephanie … what have you done?'
'Nothing.'
'What's happened to Mark? They wouldn't say …'
'He's okay.'
'Where is he?'
'I don't know. But he'll be fine. I promise you.'
She needs me to confess. And then to offer an explanation. For a few seconds we sit in silence, with only the patter of the rain on the windscreen for sound.
'What have you been told?'
She's still scared. 'That Mark was attacked and that you were involved.'
'What else?'
'That your name isn't really Stephanie Schneider.'
'Go on.'
'I didn't believe him. Not at first. I didn't want to.'
But Alexander had produced evidence. For a start, photographs. Me, with other men, in foreign cities, each shot explained, simultaneously plausible yet incredible. He'd shown her a reproduction of the Gilardini passport bearing my image. That was the one I used in Marrakech. Later he'd asked if Karen and Mark had ever discussed me. Naturally, she'd said they had. He'd asked her if Mark had ever said that I was secretive about my past. Or whether I'd ever been forthcoming about my family.
As she's telling me this I find a part of me admiring his craft. He didn't force-feed her information. He introduced her to it gently. Vaguely. He made accusations by asking questions, allowing her to come to the conclusions. His conclusions, though they must have felt like hers.
We end up in a café on the King's Road, where we take a table at the back. Karen drinks a large glass of white wine. I have water. By the time I've finished my attempt at an explanation, we've both reordered. Karen wants to ring home to tell the babysitter that she's going to be late.
'Not yet,' I say. 'Not until you leave.'
'Why not?'
'The moment you switch your phone on they'll know where you are. '
'Are they listening to us?'
'Karen, look. Soon this will all be over. One way or the other.'
'How do you know?'
'You'll just have to take my word for it.'
Which, for the first time, she does. 'What do you want, Stephanie?'
I reach into my coat pocket and put the cassette on the table. 'This is for Mark.'
'You want me to take it to him? I don't know where he is.'
'Not yet.'
'When?'
'When it's all over.'
'How will I know when that is?'
'You'll get a call.'
'From you?'
I shake my head. 'This is the last time you'll see me. Someone else will call.'
'What's on the tape?'
'An apology. An explanation. A love letter.'
She takes it and puts it in her pocket.
'Hide it, Karen. Not just in a drawer. Somewhere really secure where no one's going to stumble across it. And you can't say a word about this to Julian.'
'For God's sake, Stephanie …'
'It's for your safety, not mine. I can look after myself.'
'What if they come back?'
'They?'
She nods. 'There were two of them. The man you described – he called himself Mr Ellis – and a woman. I didn't catch her name.'
A cold fist squeezes my heart. 'An Indian woman, good-looking?'
'That's right.'
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Karen says, 'Are you all right?'
'Just give me a moment.'
I need to think it through. It takes a couple of minutes. Then I say, 'I'm going to call you tomorrow. At the house. Mid-morning. Will you be in?'
'I can be.'
'I'll talk about Mark. I'll try to persuade you of many things. About how it's not my fault but that I can't go into details. String it out as long as you can. When I've finished, call the number he gave you and tell him about our conversation in as much detail as you can.'
'But if you're right, he'll hear it.'
'That's what I'm hoping.'
After Karen, she called Ali Metin, outlined her problem and asked if he could help. Sure, he told her. When did she want it?
'Tonight.'
'I was thinking a few days, Steffi.'
'I'll pay for delivery.'
'Tomorrow morning?'
'As long as it's early.'
After the call she travelled to the Cromwell Road in west London, rented a room in a dilapidated house that had been converted into bedsits, then returned to Cyril Bradfield, taking the bus, not the Underground.
She found him in the attic, perched on a stool. hunched over a Cuban passport, craggy fingers using tweezers to peel a photograph of a young black woman from the dog-eared document. He didn't look up when he said, 'So you've decided, then.'
'Sort of.'
'What do you need?'
'One document.'
'Where to?'
'I'm not sure yet.'
'I have a Russian passport available. Legitimate and unused.'
'Fine.'
'Appearance?'
'I need a change.'
'Age?'
She smiled at him. 'Early twenties, if you can.'
'You're not in shocking shape, so it might be possible. Permanent or temporary?'
'Temporary.'
'Let's change the hair. Cut and colour.'
'Blonde?'
'Or dark red. It's up to you. And your eyes. Lots of eye-liner, drawing attention to them. It'll make your skin look paler.'
'I thought I was going to be a Russian. Not a corpse.'
'If I put your place of birth as Norilsk, you can be both.'
At seven the following morning she met Metin at Warren Street. She got into his second-hand BMW carrying a black grip containing items borrowed from Bradfield. They parked on Howland Street, which was quiet, and Metin reached over to the back seat and grabbed a sports bag. He unzipped it and handed over two pieces of equipment. One was a hand-hel
d monitor. The other was a transmitter, attached to a length of ultra-thin cable with a tiny lens at the end.
'It's like the cameras they use in surgery. It's just the base unit that's different. Switch on the transmitter, place the probe, switch on the monitor and off you go.'
'Range?'
'The transmitter's good for five hundred metres.'
By eight-thirty she was in the room she'd rented on the Cromwell Road. A gloomy place, with a view straight into the back of a cheap hotel, virtually no natural light in the room. The sash window was loose, the wooden frame rotten. Stephanie pulled a chair over to the window, stood on it, then drilled a diminutive hole through the top right-hand corner, just wide enough to accommodate the cable. Next she opened the window, eased herself out onto the ledge, threaded the cable back through the hole, before taping the transmitter to a drainpipe. She switched it on. Inside, she adjusted the lens so that it sat snugly in the window frame. Only four millimetres across, it was almost invisible.
At ten she called Karen. As their conversation drew to a close, Stephanie said she had to go out but might call her when she got back, around midday. She made Karen promise not to tell anyone that she'd called. Karen swore she wouldn't.
She had her answer at eleven-thirty. From Karen's phone they'd traced her mobile, homing in on her as the conversation progressed. She'd given them easily enough time to locate the building. After that it would be simple. Enquiries would be made, quickly establishing that a woman fitting her description had taken a room the previous evening. Since they knew she was due back at midday, all that remained was to get someone installed before then.
Now, standing on the Cromwell Road, just a couple of hundred metres away, Stephanie looked at the black-and-white image on the hand-held monitor. Although the picture lacked clarity, she recognized the man waiting for her.
Alan Carter. An S7, just like her. The hunter and the hunted.
Dazed, she walked for a while. After seven years, she was on the outside. There had been a period when she'd been independent, but even then she'd known that part of her belonged to Magenta House. With hindsight, it hadn't been that much of a surprise when Alexander appeared to reclaim her.
For seven years she'd wanted to be free. But not like this.
It all came down to lists. She'd been on one, now she was on another. And needing a third. That was the only option that remained. There was no way back. Not for her. Not for Komarov. Not for Mark. Even as she'd recorded her message on the cassette, she'd imagined she might get an opportunity to explain – face to face – and to plead for a shared future. Now that she was a target, she knew that couldn't happen.
She was a disease. If she came into contact with Mark again, she'd infect him. Terminally. The list was the only possible antidote.
She bought a BT phonecard and made a call from a public phone. A man answered and Stephanie said, 'It's me.'
'Where are you?'
'I need to see you.'
'When?'
'As soon as possible.'
'Where?'
'Wherever I can find your safari friend.'
'Berlin.'
That surprised her. 'Berlin?'
'It's always been Berlin. Tomorrow?'
'Yes. There's one more thing. I need you to bring something for me.'
She reached Longmoore Street in the late afternoon. Bradfield was in the kitchen. She put her shopping on the table and took a box out of the chemist's paper bag. She handed it to him. He turned it over and read the label. 'Ruby Fusion, from the Féria Color 3-D range, by L'Oréal. It promises you rich auburn red hair.' He looked up at her, smiling. 'Sounds lovely.'
He cut her hair, then she dyed it before he took photographs of her and went to work on the passport. 'When are you going?'
'Tomorrow morning.'
'When will you be back?'
'Soon.'
But he'd already seen the truth in her eyes.
Never.
Bradfield looked wounded, which hurt Stephanie.
'Promise me one thing,' he said.
'Anything.'
'Whenever you get to wherever it is, promise me that you'll make a real life for yourself.'
Chapter 16
Berlin was cold and grey. Stephanie ached, her sense of loss more acute than her bruises. Rosie was right. Mark would resume his life. It wouldn't be so different to the life he'd led before her. He'd treat people, he'd climb, he'd spend lazy evenings with their friends. And he'd miss her. She knew that. But there would be the occasional Alex to distract him – willing and breathless yet ultimately pointless – until eventually, he found someone to eclipse Stephanie herself.
She wanted to believe they would suffer by comparison but knew she was deluding herself. She'd given him as much as she could but Mark deserved more. He deserved the openness and trust that he'd given her. It was painful to acknowledge the truth: that there were women out there who'd be better for him than she'd been.
She took a taxi from Tegel to Treptower Park then walked. It was misty, a penetrating damp gnawing at her bones. She crossed Puschkinallee and picked her way along the dusty path to the rough wooden gate. Stone steps took her down to the water's edge. Freischwimmer was a café on the Flutgraben, a water run-off next to the Landwehrkanal. It bore a faint resemblance to a boat-house, or even a barge, with small tables and cheap chairs set on wooden decking beneath a canopy.
Konstantin Komarov was the only customer, in a dark blue suit beneath a black overcoat, a grey cashmere scarf around his neck. He got up, hugged her, then kissed her. Still holding her, hands firmly planted on her shoulders, he took in the shorter, redder hair.
'Russian?'
Stephanie's smile was weary. 'Very. Svetlana.'
'I always knew being Russian would suit you. You are Russian.'
'Only with you.'
They sat down. A waitress appeared: tattooed tears over her left cheek, studs in her right nostril and lower lip. She wore a large sheepskin coat over ripped denims and military-issue boots. Stephanie ordered coffee, then said to Komarov, 'This isn't the sort of place I'd expect to find you.'
'No?'
'It's a bit … casual.'
'You think I'm too old?'
'Too serious. It has a bohemian feel to it. That's not you.'
'You wanted to meet somewhere discreet. So here we are. Mid-morning, mid-week, in the cold. No one to disturb us.'
'Too right.'
'Freishwimmer doesn't usually open until two,' Komarov explained.
'Who was she?'
'Who?'
'The girl who brought you here.'
'What makes you think it was a girl?'
'You didn't discover this place yourself, Kostya.'
'You sound like a wife who's caught her husband with lipstick on his collar.'
'And you sound like a husband who should have gone to the dry cleaners.'
'A Norwegian. She was a student here.'
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. 'A Norwegian student?'
His shame fell short of regret. 'It was entertaining while it lasted.'
'Aren't they all?'
'Tell me about Mostovoi.'
'He's in trouble.'
'From you?'
'Maybe. And if not, then from someone else.'
Komarov looked out across the water 'What about you?'
'I'm in trouble too.'
'And me?'
She nodded. 'I'm sorry.'
'Well, it's better this way. To have some warning.' He lit a Marlboro. 'What about Mark?'
'It's over.'
When he turned to her, she couldn't look him in the eye.
'What happened?'
'What usually happens to people when they get close to me. He got hurt.'
'You loved him.'
Half a question, half a statement.
'He's better off without me, Kostya. Just like you.'
Komarov smiled thinly. 'Not true. For either of us, I suspect.'
'Don't kid y
ourself. Ludmilla is the one for you.'
'You've never met her.'
'I don't need to. The people who fall for me suffer for it. They can't help it and nor can I. That's the truth, Kostya.'
The girl arrived with her coffee. Stephanie cupped her hands around the mug, trying to infuse some warmth into her still fingers. Away to their left beside a Nissan dealership there was a large red-brick building on the waterfront, its façade plunging straight into the murky water. A former factory, Komarov told her. During the Cold War the Wall had run down the Flutgraben. The windows on the lower floors of the building had been covered by metal panels, the interior patrolled by East German guards.
'It's strange to think of it now, us sitting here, drinking coffee. When that was a reality, I was on Sakhalin, in a camp I thought I would never leave. This would have seemed impossible then. Yet here we are. I don't take anything for granted, Stephanie. Good or bad.'
'What will you do?'
'If I have to, I'll relocate. Maybe to Sakhalin itself. Or Vladivostok. They'll find it harder to get me there.'
'What about Ludmilla? Would she be happy to go with you?'
He looked faintly amused. 'Maybe you arranged this on purpose.'
She tried to look cross but failed. 'Is that what you think?'
'You want to know what I think? I'll tell you. I think you're the strangest woman I've ever met.'
Just what Mark had said.
'Nobody can change that,' Komarov continued. 'Not even Ludmilla.'
'I'll bet she takes your mind off it.'
He spread his hands. 'I won't deny it.'
'I can't believe you're taking it like this.'
'Do I have a choice?'
'I'm ruining your life, Kostya. Again.'
'If you hadn't saved it before, I wouldn't even be alive for you to ruin it now.'
'Very smooth.'
'I'm not scared, Stephanie.'
'I am.'
'I don't believe you.'
'Not for me. For you. For Ludmilla.'
'And for Mark?'
'He's safe.'
'Are you sure?'
What a question. She didn't know. Rosie had given her word. Until now, that had always been good enough. It wasn't that she didn't trust Rosie. She didn't trust Alexander and so wasn't sure that Rosie was in a position to offer guarantees of any sort.
Komarov looked around, then reached into the grip he'd brought with him and pulled out a Walther P88 with a full magazine of fifteen rounds. Stephanie tucked it into Bradfield's donkey jacket.
