by Mark Burnell
'When you said Mostovoi was in Berlin, I was surprised.'
'His connections here go back many years. Before reunification, he flew here regularly when he was a cargo pilot for the Soviet air force. He made a lot of contacts. Max makes contacts wherever he goes. More than anything else, he's a networker. He bought property here in the mid-nineties, trying to capitalize on the development boom. He sold most of it before the collapse but he still owns two commercial buildings in Mitte. He also has a house in the countryside, somewhere out near the Polish border, and an apartment in Charlottenburg. I couldn't get the address, though.'
'So where can I find him?'
Komarov took a card out of his wallet and wrote on the back. 'Twice a week, when he's in Berlin, he goes to this place for lunch. Same time, same companion. Valery Malenkov. Ex-Red Army, an old friend.'
'Thank you.'
'One other thing. He always arrives on foot.'
'Walking distance?'
Komarov shrugged. 'I can't say. But that address is also in Charlottenburg.'
She took the card. 'Is Mostovoi going to be a problem for you?'
He shook his head. 'Max is a rogue. People like him. I like him. But we were never friends. It was always business.'
Just as Komarov had once been. She remembered sleeping with him and wondering whether she would have to kill him. She'd done the same with Savic yet the two experiences could not have been less similar.
'After I saw you at the Adlon, I saw Dragica Maric.'
'You went to Moscow?'
'She came to Berlin.'
Komarov considered this for a moment, then nodded.
Stephanie said, 'You don't seem surprised.'
'You're doing business with Savic. That means you're doing business with her.'
'She said you slept with her, Kostya.'
'And you believed her?'
'I didn't say that.'
'You don't have to. Normally I think you would accept my word on anything. Yet on this matter you're prepared to take her word instead …'
Entirely true. Stephanie winced, feeling idiotic and cheap. She took a sip of coffee. 'Sorry. Force of habit. Always believe the worst.'
'Listen to you. More Russian than Russian.'
'When are you returning to Moscow?'
'Tomorrow afternoon.'
'Back to Ludmilla.'
It came out wrong; too quick, too bitter. Komarov gazed at her for a while. 'I didn't have to come, Stephanie. The address, the gun, I could have got them to you without leaving Moscow. I chose to come.'
She shook her head. 'Then you've made a mistake.'
'Probably. But I don't regret it.'
We sit in the gun-metal gloom, order more coffee, and allow ourselves the indulgence of brief reminiscence; Moscow, New York, Paris, Vienna. It seems so long ago but it wasn't. It's just that so much has happened since then.
All the time I was with Mark, I was working for Magenta House to keep Kostya alive. From one point of view, that seems almost noble. Seen from another point of view, it looks like perpetual infidelity. Either way, the arrangement now feels perverse. At the time, I never thought about it too much because I was partitioned and it was effective. Two worlds, two identities, neither encroaching upon the other, black and white with no grey between. That's all gone now. Everything is grey.
'What happens now?'
I shrug. 'I wish I knew. If Mostovoi doesn't work out, I won't have anything left. We'll have to run. Both of us.'
Kostya sniffs the air. 'I've been running all my life.'
'So have I.'
'We're alike, Stephanie. Which means you'll survive. You always do. You'll run, then you'll find somewhere and you'll reinvent yourself and start again.'
'I don't want to, Kostya. I've had enough.'
'I know. But you won't have a choice.'
'Neither of us will.'
'Unless it works out.'
'True.'
'Then what?'
'Until now, I imagined a future with Mark.'
'Perhaps there still could be?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Firstly, I don't think he'd take me back. After what I've done, there's no reason for him to.'
'Apart from love.'
'Secondly, I can't do it to him.'
'What do you mean?'
'It'll never be over. No matter what happens with Mostovoi. Or even afterwards. Mark and I could build a life for ourselves and it would be lovely. I know it would. But there would come a day when the past would knock on our door. Mark's too good for that. He's a real person, Kostya. A good person. You should see what he does for people. Being with me puts him in danger and probably always will. I can't do that to him. Or to the people he treats. Or to his friends.'
'There was a time when you thought you could do it to me.'
'You're different. You're like me. We're from another planet.'
Kostya smokes a while, then appears to agree.
I say, 'I tried to absorb him into my life. To make him fit. And to make myself fit into his life. All so that I could pretend that I was normal. That I could be normal. But it was an illusion. A beautiful illusion, but an illusion nevertheless.'
'So, no matter what happens, you'll let him go?'
I smile sadly. 'I love him. What else can I do?'
Café Dollinger on Stuttgarter Platz. Stephanie strolled past the window. The last time she'd seen Mostovoi he'd been sweating into chinos and a polo shirt in Marrakech. Today, in Berlin, he wore a navy tracksuit that looked like velour, a grey sweatshirt and a pair of purple and white Nike trainers. Valery Malenkov, by contrast, was in an ill-fitting brown suit, a plain grey shirt and black lace-ups.
The men left Café Dollinger at half past two. On the pavement they bear-hugged, then parted. Stephanie watched from across the street. Mostovoi struggled to relight a cigar in the stiff breeze, then began to waddle up the cheap pedestrian precinct of Wilmersdorfer Strasse before turning right onto Goethestrasse. Mostovoi's apartment was close to the junction with Knesebeckstrasse in a building with an ornate façade of crumbling baroque balconies. Although smarter than the buildings at the Wilmersdorfer Strasse end of the street, it still didn't look like a likely home for a man with $200 million. Perhaps that was the point. He disappeared through a dark arch into a cobbled courtyard. Stephanie kept her distance. There was another arch on the far side of the courtyard with a door set into the right. Mostovoi went through it. Stephanie sprinted across the courtyard and skidded to a halt by the door.
Peering through a pane of etched glass, she saw Mostovoi collecting his mail from a varnished wooden pigeon-hole on the wall to the left. The lobby was small and dark with a cage lift at the far end.
Instinctively, she clutched the Walther P88 in her coat pocket. Mostovoi puffed on his cigar, the tip flaring orange as smoke billowed from his nostrils and mouth. Stephanie looked both ways through the arch. There was no one around. Mostovoi was heading for the lift. But he paused, reaching into his tracksuit pocket. Stephanie heard the shrill tone of a phone. Mostovoi put it to his ear. Stephanie pulled up the collar of her donkey jacket so that it concealed as much of her as possible. Her hands thrust into coat pockets, she leaned against the door, which swung open.
Mostovoi was pulling the first of the two gates on the cage lift. His conversation was in Russian. Now he was pulling open the second gate. Stephanie hurried across the tiled floor. He stepped in, leaving plumes of blue smoke in his wake. Stephanie reached the lift just as he was closing the inner gate.
'Entschuldigung.'
He looked at her, irritated. In her pocket, she tightened her grip on the Walther. Any moment now …
Perhaps it was the hair – shorter and a different colour – or perhaps it was a question of context. But in the second he spared her, he didn't recognize her. Instead, he half-turned away and resumed his call. Stephanie closed the gates and pressed the button for the top floor. Mostovoi leaned across her and pressed 2. The l
ift began to rise. Stephanie withdrew the gun from her coat but kept it at her side.
The lift shuddered to a halt at the second floor. Without casting her another glance, Mostovoi yanked open both gates and stepped onto the landing. Which was when Stephanie raised the gun and aimed at the base of his skull.
In Russian, she said, 'Don't turn around or I'll shoot you.'
Mostovoi froze mid-sentence.
'Turn off the phone, Maxim, then drop it on the floor.'
He did.
'Who's waiting for us inside?'
'No one.'
'If you're lying, I'll kill them before you get a chance to explain.'
'There's no one, I swear it.'
'Let's hope not. Open the door.'
His hands were trembling. It took three attempts to slide the key into the lock. Stephanie picked up his mobile. The front door opened onto a huge open-plan living area. There was a kitchen at the far end; halogen spots, slate worktops, cupboards of frosted glass.
'Turn round slowly.'
Mostovoi did. Stephanie let him have a good look. Gradually, like a breaking dawn, recognition washed across his face. Followed by dread.
'Petra Reuter,' he whispered.
'Give me one good reason not to kill you.'
He thought about it then shook his head. 'I can't.'
'You know what Marcel Claesen said about you after Marrakech?'
'What?'
'He said you were a cat who used up eight of its nine lives when you were with me.'
'He wasn't even there.'
'That's Claesen for you.'
'What do you want?'
'This moment.'
She eased the safety-catch off, watching him watching her.
He shook his head in resignation. 'Why?'
That had been his chosen last word in Marrakech, the last thing he'd uttered before her gun had jammed.
'Because we both deserve it.'
She began to squeeze the trigger.
'Wait!'
Her smile was as sinister as she could make it. 'Why? To prolong the pleasure?'
'We can make a deal.'
The smile faded.
'Whatever you're being paid, I'll double it!'
Her eyes went dead.
'Okay, okay ! Ten times!'
'You're a maggot, Max.'
'Please …'
She stared at him, letting the silence elongate. The only sound was coming from Mostovoi; shallow, halting breaths. Sweat erupted across his forehead. The eyes that had been shielded by dark sunglasses in Marrakech were dancing in their sockets, a pinprick of fear for each pupil.
When Mostovoi could stand it no longer, Stephanie said, 'One chance.'
'Anything.'
'I'm serious. One chance.'
He was nodding vigorously. 'I understand.'
Her eyes were still riveted to his. 'Gemini.'
He blanched. 'Gemini?'
'The list.'
She thought his instinctive reaction – despite her threat – would be to deny any knowledge of it. Instead, he was mute.
Stephanie said, 'It's the list or the bullet. The choice is yours.'
She watched him running through as many permutations as he could, searching for an alternative.
'Is this what you were after in Marrakech?'
'I'll ask the questions.'
'There isn't a list.'
'I'm going to count to three. One …'
'Okay, there is a list. I admit it. But it's not here.'
'Two …'
'It's in Moscow.'
'Three …'
'I can get it for you in twenty-four hours.'
'If you don't want to see it coming, close your eyes now.'
'Fuck!'
They got into Mostovoi's metallic blue Mercedes, which was parked in the courtyard. Stephanie sat in the back, the Walther in her lap.
'Drive carefully, Max. Don't get pulled over. Don't hit anything.'
He glared at her in the rear-view mirror. 'You want to drive?'
'And when we get there, don't try to be clever.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Airport security. Take it from me, if I get the slightest sense that something is wrong, you'll be dead and I'll be gone before anybody has time to react.'
Out through the first arch, they turned onto Goethestrasse. It had started to rain. Mostovoi switched on the windscreen wipers which squeaked with each return stroke.
'Who told you I had the list?'
'Viktor Sabin.'
'Fat bastard.'
'Coming from you, that's rich.'
'How did you find him?'
She ignored the question. 'Savic knows you have a copy of the list, doesn't he?'
Mostovoi arched an eyebrow at her. 'Copy? It's the original.'
'Who made it?'
'Savic.'
'He told me he never made a list.'
'He's a liar.'
'Didn't he ever confront you?'
'Of course he did!' Mostovoi snapped. 'When the rumours of a sale started, I was the first person he came to.'
'And?'
'And what do you think? I told him he was out of his mind. Why would I put the list on the market? As soon as it becomes common currency it has no value. It would no longer be an insurance policy.'
'Quite. So why do it?'
Mostovoi looked a little bashful. 'Well … by persuading Milan that I had as much to lose as he did, I removed myself from the list of possible vendors.'
'But you do have as much to lose as him.'
'Superficially, yes.'
He let her work it out. Which, gradually, she did. 'Unless he dies.'
Mostovoi nodded.
Stephanie said, 'If Savic is dead you don't need insurance.'
'Correct.'
'So why not just hire someone to kill him?'
'Because there's something else I need.'
'What?'
'Immunity.'
'From prosecution?'
He snorted with contempt. 'That I should be so lucky to see a courtroom. No. Immunity from people like you. Immunity from the assassin's bullet.'
Stephanie was puzzled. 'Is that a condition of the sale?'
'That and Savic.'
The Gemini list in return for his removal from another list.
'How many bidders does Farhad Shatri have?'
'Three.'
'And they're in a position to guarantee you that immunity?'
'Yes.'
'So we're not talking individuals, then?'
He shook his head. 'I'm tired of being on the run.'
'My heart bleeds for you.'
'I don't even care about going back into business. I just don't want to spend the rest of my life waiting for someone like you to put a bullet in my back.'
'You made a mistake and thought you could rectify it with this list?'
He nodded. 'I never intended to transport weapons for al-Qaeda. They were anonymous end-users. I didn't know.'
'Not an argument that goes down well at the State Department, I don't imagine.'
'I thought the list would help pay for the error. I just want to be left alone.'
'Like Greta Garbo?'
'Very funny.'
'So that's what this is all about? Right from the start, this is what you planned? A scheme to get you off the hook with the Americans and their allies? With the added bonus of getting rid of Savic?'
'Yes.'
'Playing both ends at once.'
'There was no other way.'
Stephanie sat back. Was Magenta House one of the three? If so, had they really offered such a guarantee? Knowing Alexander, it seemed unlikely. On the other hand, he'd make any kind of promise in return for the list. She already knew that. But once he had it in his hand, would he deliver? She wanted to ask who the bidders were but bit her tongue, not wanting to give Mostovoi the impression that he still had a card to play.
The fourth largest building in Europe with more
than ten thousand rooms, Tempelhof airport, near the centre of Berlin, was a vast structure synonymous with the massive arrogance of Nazi architecture, although it actually predated the Third Reich by a decade. The car park was almost empty. So was the colossal terminal building. Down the right hand side there were check-in desks, only two of which were staffed. Down the left hand side were airline and administrative offices.
They went down the steps to the terminal floor, Stephanie slightly behind Mostovoi, her hands deep in her pockets. It was eerily quiet. They came to an office half way down the left-hand side. Mostovoi pulled a set of keys from his shimmering trouser pocket and began to sort through them. On the plate glass front was the name of the company – First Aviation – and a list of services: individual charter, business charters, express small cargo. First Aviation was a subsidiary of Air Eurasia, his Qatar-based cargo transport business, he'd told her.
Inside, he closed the door behind them. The office was small and dusty: two desks, with an old IBM terminal on each, a calendar – two years out of date – and three telephones, none connected. There was a dirty coffee cup by one of the terminals. On the walls were four faded posters, each featuring a bright red Pilatus aircraft with First Aviation painted in gold German Gothic along the fuselage.
There was a tiny storage room at the back of the office. Not much larger than a cupboard, it had four filing cabinets along one wall. Mostovoi turned on the light, a single overhead fluorescent tube. He went to the third filing cabinet, opened the middle drawer, and sorted through bulging files before eventually selecting one. Back in the office he put it on one of the desks and began to rummage among the paperwork.
'1998 invoices, March and April.'
'This is where you keep it?'
'Sure. Why not?'
Stephanie shrugged. 'I was expecting somewhere more secure.'
'You'd have to look hard to discover that First Aviation was owned by Air Eurasia. For a start, you'd have to travel to Qatar. Not even Savic is that persistent.'
'Still …'
Keen to prove his point, Mostovoi held up the key to the door and said, 'Apart from this, that's the only thing that ties me to this office. Technically, First Aviation is owned by a German. Ernst Kessel. A Bavarian domiciled in Monte Carlo who spends most of his time in Vancouver. To be honest, I can't think of a better place to lose any kind of document than in a file of ancient invoices. Especially if they belong to a company with which one has no connection.'
