by Mark Burnell
He had a point. Why bother with a safe?
The list was on three pieces of paper, printed in landscape format rather than portrait. The first two pages detailed the fifty-four names of Gemini. Reading across the page: original name, new name, date of collection from Zoo station, country of destination, first address, first bank details, passport details. The third piece of paper contained the names of those who had helped Gemini to operate.
'Shatri was a good idea,' Stephanie said.
'An obvious choice. Like me, he stood to benefit.'
'Like you, he still might.'
Mostovoi permitted himself a small smile. 'That's what I'm thinking.'
'What about Carleen Attwater? Presumably you knew about her and Savic.'
'Naturally.'
'Did you know that she knew Shatri?'
He nodded. 'Not just knew him. She spent time with him. Milan never knew that.'
'But you did?'
'Sure. I know Farhad. The code that I gave Attwater to pass onto Farhad – 0006302/QRT/Vlore/77 – that was an invoice to transport weapons out of Kosovo and into Europe after the conflict. An invoice for machine parts, actually, but an invoice all the same.'
'But if you know him, why bother with the other intermediaries?'
'I needed distance. Farhad was never going to be a problem. Nobody gets close to him unless he wants them to. I picked her because she knew them both, but the two of us had never met. And I needed Sabin to keep someone between me and her.'
Stephanie took the list, folded it twice and put it in her pocket. Outside, there was an announcement over the public address system. A dozen passengers shifted from the bank of seats at the centre of the terminal and gathered their hand-luggage.
'What happens now?' Mostovoi asked.
'That's up to you. Without the list, you're still on the run. If I were you, I'd climb into one of your planes and head for Patagonia.'
'Maybe I will.'
'I've got to hand it to you, Max. You're taking this pretty well.'
Mostovoi shrugged, then rubbed a hand over his chest. 'When I saw it was you, I thought I was dead. An hour later, I'm still alive. Why would I be upset?'
Back in the Mercedes, they headed up Mehringdamm. Mostovoi tried to make conversation but Stephanie told him to be quiet. She knew what he was thinking. That she might kill him anyway. Why not? She had the list. There was no reason not to. Not for a woman like Petra Reuter.
They crossed into Wilhelmstrasse. At the first set of lights Stephanie got out of the car. She never said anything. She just opened the door and melted into the pedestrians on the pavement. Mostovoi never saw her leave.
She took the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz and entered the Venezia Pizzeria. Cheap and gaudy, catering to tourists, it was a good neutral location. There was a payphone in the back. Her first call was to Asim Maliqi, survivor of Omarska, Deutsche Bahn employee. They spoke for twenty minutes. For her second call, she dialled a local number and was answered after the fifth ring.
When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. 'Vojislav sends his love from Hong Kong.'
There was a long pause. 'Where are you?'
'What your people did in London was a mistake.'
'Making an idiot out of me was a mistake.'
'Don't kid yourself, Milan. You did that all by yourself.'
'What are you doing?'
'I've got your list.'
Another pause, this one even longer, the same cogs turning as slowly as ever.
'What do you want?'
'Money, since it's no longer for love.'
'How much?'
'A million euros.'
'Fuck you.'
'From what I've read so far, you're dead without this. That makes a million a bargain.'
'Five hundred thousand.'
'This isn't a negotiation.'
'You're out of your mind.'
'A million euros. In cash. Tomorrow. If you don't show, you won't hear from me again and I'll sell this to somebody else for twice as much.'
'Who do you think you are?'
'I know who I am. And so do you.'
'I can't get that kind of cash together. Not by tomorrow.'
The first hint of panic in his voice.
'Then you're already dead.'
She terminated the call and dialled the third number. It was two minutes before Alexander came on the line, her location presumably already becoming clearer at Magenta House.
'What are you doing?'
'You tried to kill me.'
'Nobody tried to kill anybody.'
'You sent Alan Carter after me. He's S7. An assassin, like I am. I recognized him in the bed-sit on Cromwell Road.'
There was no denial, just an accusation: 'You're out of control, Stephanie.'
'One of us is, that's for sure.'
'Where are you?'
'Haven't you discovered yet? Let me give you a hand. Berlin.'
'We need to talk.'
'We're well beyond that, believe me.'
'What do you want?'
'What I'm owed.'
'Okay.'
'Not good enough.'
'Look, stop fucking around, Stephanie. There's too much at stake here.'
'I know. I've got the Gemini list.'
Alexander's pause was longer than either of Savic's. Stephanie looked over her shoulder. Logically, she knew she was safe but she couldn't shake the anxiety.
'I don't believe you,' Alexander said.
'You don't have a choice.'
He hesitated. 'What are you proposing?'
'A trade. Tomorrow. Here in Berlin. I give you the list – and Savic if you want him – and you give me what you owe me. Then we're done.'
It's two in the morning. I can't sleep. I'm in a cheap hotel off Kurfürstendamm. The walls are paper thin. I can hear a man snoring in the next room. There are drunk Scandinavians passing by in the street. The thin tangerine curtains are drawn but the neon sign beneath my window radiates sickly green light into the room.
I look at the Gemini list again. And at the photocopy I've made.
Fifty-four names plus the names of those who made it happen. The list doesn't help. It hinders. By its very existence, it suggests that these are somehow the worst, and that those whose names do not appear here, are not guilty. Or are less guilty. But it isn't true. The Balkans is littered with monsters who never made this list.
That's the point about lists. They're essentially dishonest. They exist to make life easier for bureaucrats. Whether the bureaucrats work for Magenta House or for a high street bank, the lists they use rob you of individuality and make you easier to process. Nobody knows the number of lists they belong to, or what they mean. Are you a bad credit risk? Or a poor insurance risk because of a genetic predisposition to cancer that you don't even know about yourself? Are you on the Limbo list? Will the Ether Division pay you a visit because your name has erroneously appeared in a specific column in a file? Will you die because of administrative error? Because of a misplaced stroke of the keyboard?
It happens. I should know.
Chapter 17
At five to ten, she entered Zoo station from Hardenbergplatz. It was a bitter morning, frost underfoot, a clinging mist and clouding breath. The concourse was busy, a constant stream of human traffic moving up and down the main stairs to the platforms above. Stephanie circled the hall once; newsstands, a pharmacy, Tie Rack, a souvenir stall, the Nordsee coffee shop. Then she took the stairs to the first level and entered the InterCity restaurant, picking a table by the sloping window. It offered her a clear view of Hardenbergplatz with its crush of taxis and buses. She ordered a cup of coffee from a waitress.
Zoo station was the perfect place to trade the past for the future. For the beneficiaries of Gemini it had been the gateway to a new life. One way or another it would be the same for Stephanie.
As scheduled, Alexander arrived at ten, dressed as he always appeared in her mind; navy suit, white shirt, polished black shoes,
magenta tie, gold cufflinks. The cold had forced him into a dark blue overcoat with a black felt collar. He scanned the restaurant, saw her, hesitated, then came over.
He said, 'It never needed to come to this.'
'I know.'
'You look a wreck.'
'Coming from you, I'll consider that a compliment.'
He surveyed their surroundings with a grimace then sat opposite her. 'Good venue, Stephanie. Nice and public, very busy. Less chance of fireworks.'
'I needed something to restrain me.'
'You're armed?'
'I'm armed when I'm naked.'
Alexander winced. 'So I've heard.'
'Here's what's going to happen. At precisely eleven o'clock, Savic is going to enter the station from the Jebenstrasse entrance. He'll be carrying a hold-all of some sort, which he'll take to the luggage lockers. He'll place the hold-all in locker number 885 and take something out. Then he'll leave the same way he came in. At five to eleven, I'm going to call you and tell you where you can find the key to the luggage locker containing the Gemini list. It won't be 885. That gives you five minutes to make a choice. You can have Savic if you want him. Or you can forget about him and leave. Either way, you'll have the list before he appears. It's up to you.'
Alexander stared at her coldly. 'Very neat.'
'I'm just doing what I said I'd do.'
'What about you?'
'I'm leaving now.' She glanced at her watch. 'That gives me just over fifty minutes before I call you. By then, I could be anywhere. I thought it would be best this way. Frankly, I couldn't picture us doing an emotional farewell.'
Alexander reached into his overcoat pocket, took out a pack of Rothmans and placed it on the red paper tablecloth. He placed them on the table-top then produced a stainless steel Zippo lighter, which he turned over and over.
'You'll have your deal, Stephanie. But not until I have the list.'
'At five to eleven, you will.'
'I want you to hand it to me. In person.'
'What difference does it make?'
'I don't know. That's why I want you to do it.'
'Where's the logic?'
'Forget logic. If you walk out now, I walk out too. That means there's no deal.'
'You don't trust me?'
'I'd sooner trust Milan Savic.'
'Now you're hurting my feelings.'
'At least he's predictable.'
'Then the two of you are made for each other.'
'Why don't you get the list now?' Alexander suggested.
'I don't know which locker it's in.'
'Why not?'
'Somebody else is involved. Nobody you know. I'm going to get a call from them just before five to eleven to tell me which locker it is and where the key is located.'
She could see that he wanted to say that he didn't believe her but they both knew there was no point.
'Then we'll wait. Together.'
'What a prospect.'
'All you have to do is sit where you are for fifty minutes. Have a cup of coffee. Talk, if you must. Or pick your nose. I don't care. It shouldn't be a problem for you, Stephanie. You're good at spending time with men you dislike.'
She ignored the barb. 'You're being paranoid.'
'In our world, paranoia is precaution. You know that as well as I do.'
Fifty minutes. He was right. She could hand him the list and still vanish in a moment. Especially in a place like Zoo station. She understood his caution because she understood his nature. Everybody was a liar. Honesty was weakness or stupidity.
Alexander took a Rothmans from the pack and began tapping it against the Zippo. 'It seems strange that this will be the last time we ever meet.'
'Strange is good.'
'Grow up, Stephanie. You may not like me but at least give me some credit.'
'For what?'
'For turning you into the woman you are today.'
'Firstly, I don't regard myself as a wonderful work of human art. Secondly, I am who I am despite you, not because of you.'
'That's what you say but we both know it isn't true. You were excrement in a gutter when we first met. Less than human. Dead on the inside, the rest of you decaying.'
'That may be true but only a man like you would regard a woman like Petra as an improvement.'
'Sentimental crap. And predictably disappointing.'
'The parts of me that are worth anything are nothing to do with you.'
'If you believe that, you're deluding yourself. You were a machine, Stephanie. That's why Petra was so good. You were programmed. You were never independent. Magenta House occupied all of you.'
'Nobody has ever occupied all of me. The flawed machine who sits opposite you now was flawed from the start. I won't deny I was good. You know why? Because I thought for myself. Intellect and instinct. Part of me has always been independent of you.'
The restaurant began to tremble as a train passed overhead. Alexander lit his cigarette. Stephanie checked her watch. Twenty-five past ten. She looked around. No sign of Savic lurking, which was good. Two uniformed Bahnpolizei officers sauntered through the restaurant, both bored. Passengers shuffled in and out; tourists with rucksacks, businessmen with briefcases and overcoats, a mother with three small children in tow.
Alexander said, 'What will you do?'
'Nothing. Petra Reuter is retiring.'
'You'll get bored.'
'You may find this surprising but I don't get a great deal of satisfaction out of killing people.'
'It's not the killing. It's the life. The adrenaline.'
'I don't need it.'
'Not today. Or next week. But you will.'
'If that's what you think, you know me even less well than I thought.'
'On the contrary. You're the one who knows you less well than I thought.'
'You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?'
'At your best, you're too good for normality, Stephanie. You'll never settle down. Petra is in your blood. You'll never get rid of her. Be realistic. What would you do? Marry a man like Hamilton? A chiropractor? Please …'
'He's more of a man than you'll ever be.'
'You'd be a mother to his children, would you? Changing nappies and baking cakes? Come on, Stephanie. What a waste. What would you talk about in the evenings? Back-ache and cracked nipples?'
'Is that really how your mind works?'
His smile was cruel. 'We're different, you and I.'
'I'm different to you, that's for sure.'
'You're different to everybody. And there's no way back for you. You can't suddenly reinvent yourself as a regular person. You tried and look what happened. It was a fraudulent performance that ended in disaster.'
'You've made your point.'
'The only surprising thing is that it took so long.'
'At least I fucking tried!'
As soon as she'd snapped, she regretted it. Alexander leaned back a little and took a long slow drag from the cigarette, satisfaction seeping from his pores.
'What about you? Are you married? Have you got children?'
He smirked through the smoke.
'Perhaps your tastes are more exotic.'
Still nothing.
'What's your first name?'
'What do you suppose it might be?'
'Don't tempt me. Just tell me.'
'No.'
'Where do you come from? Where do you live? At Magenta House itself? Perhaps you're not married, after all.'
'Perhaps not.'
'Perhaps you're gay. Or perhaps you love me.'
'Now you're straying into the realms of fantasy.'
'You wouldn't be the first man to end up hating the target of their unrequited love.'
Alexander grinned at her. 'Very amusing.'
'If not me, then Petra.'
The humour evaporated in an instant, catching her by surprise. He shook his head and muttered, 'You should listen to yourself, Stephanie. It's pathetic.'
Having found the nerve,
she decided to investigate it. 'Isn't Petra the physical embodiment of Magenta House? And isn't Magenta House the one thing you love?'
Alexander glared at her.
'Having created Petra, didn't you long to have her? To taste her? To be inside her? Perhaps even to be her …'
He couldn't bring himself to answer or even to deny.
When Stephanie spoke, her sneering contempt was unrestrained. 'Well, well. What do you know? It's true. One way or another, you've always wanted to fuck me.'
Alexander asks for a cup of coffee from a passing waiter. He won't drink it though. He only bought it to break up the conversation.
Ten forty-two. Not long now.
There's a man at a table by the food counter. He's flicking through a magazine. Or rather, not flicking. Even though he's only at the periphery of my vision, I'm aware of the fact that he hasn't turned a page. Every now and then, he casts quick glances at us.
Alexander is still talking but I'm no longer really listening to him. Instead, I'm tuning into my environment the way I was taught to.
Black trousers, running shoes, grey sweatshirt and a heavy dark brown coat. Shaved scalp, between five ten and six foot, about one hundred and sixty pounds. He's still on the same page.
Now that Petra is in charge, I'm seeing without looking. My attention is drawn to a table on the far-side of the restaurant, where there's a single woman in frayed jeans and a bottle-green fleece that's too large for her. The fleece has a hood which is down. She's reading a paperback. On the floor, by her feet, there's a khaki canvas satchel. There's not much in it. It could even be empty. On the table, by her cup, there's a portable CD-player. There's an earphone in her left ear but not in her right.
Magenta House? A third party? Or paranoia? It's impossible to know. And impossible to ignore.
Ten forty-five. It won't be long before the call.
Alexander takes a second cigarette from the pack and begins to play with it but he's become clumsy and drops it. He's nervous now. Over the public address system a female voice announces an imminent arrival.
I look out of the Intercity restaurant at the first level concourse. Tourists head for the stairs to take them up to the platforms. A Rastafarian ambles by, a bright red knitted wool knapsack slung over his left shoulder. Two Japanese move in the opposite direction. They're followed by a tall woman with short dark hair in a long grey coat. I've got a partial view of her. She's wearing sunglasses despite the gloom outside. She moves beautifully and I'd like to watch her but my attention is hijacked by a shorter man now crossing the concourse.
