by Mark Burnell
His father, Paul Serra, had been a dentist in Marseille while Claudette, his mother, had been raised on a small farm in Provence. Marc was the eldest of their three children; Luc, his brother—the middle child—had died of leukaemia, aged thirteen. Françoise, his sister, was married to a doctor in Lyon. Academically bright, Marc Serra had been a difficult child and had been expelled from two schools in Marseille, a fact that struck a chord of solidarity with Petra. Despite this, he achieved excellent grades and later attended INPG—the Institut National Polytechnique de Grenoble—before deciding to travel the world. He was supposed to have been away from France for a year but there was nothing further in the file until, aged twenty-nine, he landed a job at Crédit Lyonnais, where he stayed until he was thirty-three. That was when he moved to Banque Henri Lauder, a small, private firm with a single office in Zurich. Hardly a distinguished career move, it seemed, unless one’s chosen career was not really in banking anyway.
He was still an employee of Banque Henri Lauder—a director, in fact—but this appeared to be more of a technicality than a working reality. In the last five years, he had taken two ‘sabbaticals’, each lasting a year. The file also claimed that he travelled extensively and spent less than a month a year in Switzerland. That in itself was unremarkable; there were plenty of businessmen who spent more nights in aircraft than with their wives. But the firm he was working for was not a multi-national with massive foreign interests.
Petra spread the contents of the file that had been inside the padded envelope across the living-room floor. As was so often the case with such dossiers, the gaps were more interesting than the solid information in-between. What had Serra done between INPG and Crédit Lyonnais? Where had he gone to for his two year-long sabbaticals? The file didn’t say. It didn’t even float theories.
Serra lived in Paris now. He had a small circle of friends, two of whom were members of the Communist Party, as he had been during his time in Grenoble. He was unmarried and, as far as could be ascertained, heterosexual; there was a list of old lovers in the file. Petra flinched. If their names were included it was because someone had imagined they might be valuable at some point in the future. More than most, she knew how painful sexual indiscretion could be.
Reza Mohammed’s postgraduate course in Chemical Engineering and Chemical Technology had been paid for by the French-Arab Scholarship Society, which had also funded his living expenses, making small monthly contributions to the al-Sharif Students Hostel and to a current account at a branch of NatWest in Earls Court. The course money due to Imperial College arrived at the Society direct from Banque Henri Lauder. But the money for Mohammed’s living expenses was paid into NatWest by the London branch of the Islamic Industrial Bank. This had been the same arrangement that Mustafa Sela had enjoyed during his time at Imperial.
The French-Arab Scholarship Society was based in Paris and had been established by Marc Serra in 1991. Its aim was ‘to promote greater understanding between the French and Arab peoples, a hope best achieved through the mutual exchange of promising students’. The file said the exchange was lop-sided; ninety percent of the students were Arabs travelling to Europe, with only ten percent travelling in the opposite direction. Although the Society was French, the Arab students were dispersed throughout Europe, not just in France. It was not known how wealthy the Society was but, currently, they were sponsoring one hundred and thirty-five students across the EU.
Petra sifted through the remains of the file. There were pictures of Serra with directors of Telegenex, a French firm who designed missile guidance systems. There was a fuzzy shot of him on the back of a sun-drenched boat, a bleeding barracuda on the deck, sunburned men on either side of him, laughing. They were executives of Murray-Gardyne, a Canadian arms manufacturer with a completely illegal sideline in land-mine production, which occurred at a plant belonging to a wholly-owned subsidiary in Guadalajara, Mexico. In another photo, taken at a fund-raiser in Dallas, Serra was shaking hands with Jim Buchanan, a senior figure with the National Rifle Association.
Petra began to develop an instinctive feel for Serra. A bright and cultured man, he found it easy to move among others, to make contacts without ever having to step out of the shadows. Even in the photographs, he was, somehow, never the focus of attention. The list of his known associates was impressive but Petra was more interested in the way he adapted to any situation in which he found himself. Serra lied to everyone. Just like she did. Which was how she knew it was impossible to know Serra just by reading a file.
* * *
I lie on the sofa and watch TV, flicking through the channels. I see a game-show where contestants are trying to win a bright blue hatchback. I see a football match where teenage millionaires with bad haircuts roll around on the grass kissing each other. I see tomorrow’s weather. I see EastEnders. I see an arts programme where a young female author is talking aggressively about women taking control of their lives. She has an acerbic wit and uses it to denigrate men. She talks a lot about self-respect and empowerment and I am left to wonder what she’s talking about.
Women of my age go out to work; they do the nine-to-five for a pittance. They tolerate the Underground or the bus twice a day. They go out to cinemas and clubs with their friends. They bitch about each other, they stagger from one hopeless man to the next. They buy groceries when they’re tired and cold and when it’s the last thing they want to do on the way back home. They fumble for clean clothes in the morning just like the person they wake up next to. They’re mothers and daughters. They’re providers and home-makers, they’re professionals, they’re terminally unemployed. They keep fit, they smoke thirty a day. They dream about two weeks in the sun and winning the National Lottery. They’re not looking for Brad Pitt—they’re looking for a man who’s kind and honest and can make them laugh. Or they’re not looking at all because life’s too short to waste sorting out the good ones from the bad. They’re fragile and mean, they’re resilient and generous, they’re anything you can imagine. They’re normal.
Not like me. And that makes me sad because at this very moment, that’s all I want to be.
* * *
The pavements of Piccadilly were congested but from the sea of faces, one emerged. Petra saw him before he saw her and prayed he wouldn’t look her way, knowing that he would. Of all the directions available, his gaze chose hers.
Frank White.
The opening exchanges were a clumsy dance. Hi, how are you? Nice to see you. What are you doing? Just picking up a few things. What about this weather? I know, but they say it’ll get warmer by the weekend. The words sounded shallower than usual, made more pointless by the words that were not being spoken.
Eventually, Petra brought it to a halt. She averted her gaze and said, ‘Look, Mr White–’
‘Frank.’
‘Frank. Look, Frank, about yesterday, I’m–’
‘What about it?’
‘I’m sorry for cutting you dead like that. I just–’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Petra rubbed her eyes. ‘Actually, it does. It matters to me.’
‘Well, it was only a cup of coffee.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Petra insisted. She saw a Pret A Manger thirty yards behind him. ‘But why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? By way of an apology.’
‘What, now?’
‘Why not?’
It was crowded inside Pret A Manger but they managed to secure a couple of stools by the window overlooking the street. He ordered latte, she drank mocha. He’d been to Hatchards. He placed the peppermint bag beside his cup.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked.
‘A history of Namibia.’
‘Namibia?’
‘I may be going there next month. I always like to try to read up on the places I visit.’
‘What takes you there?’
‘Work. I’m a geologist.’
‘Really?’
‘I work for a small firm of mining consultants. When a cl
ient wants to know what’s underneath his feet, they send me to check it out.’
‘So you travel a lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like that?’
‘Actually, I do. A lot of people complain about it, but not me. I get restless if I’m in one place for too long. What about you?’
Petra had forgotten what it was like to have a real home. ‘I move around more than I’d like, but that’s the job.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Brillex-Martins.’ He shook his head and she said, ‘It’s a Belgian chemical and pharmaceutical company.’
‘What do you do for them?’
A pause. ‘Trouble-shooting.’
‘And that keeps you fully occupied?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘How long have you been in London?’
‘About a fortnight. The first time we bumped into each other in the hall—I think that was my first day in the flat. And I’ve been away for the last week.’
He took a long sip from his paper cup of latte. ‘I met your predecessor.’
Petra felt her pulse surge. ‘My predecessor?’
‘The man who lived in the flat before you. What was his name?’
Petra hoped she didn’t look too flustered. Take a deep breath in, let it out slowly. Look lost in thought. And then say: ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I don’t know who was here before me.’
Frank White shrugged and looked sympathetic. ‘That’s the way it is with these kinds of places, I guess. People come, people go, the furniture remains the same.’
The expression on his face was warm. Genuinely friendly. And just as she had felt fury towards him the last time they’d spoken, Petra now felt something equally inexplicable and fundamental. Sadness. She smiled and was sincere. ‘You’re right. Everywhere I go, I’m in exactly the same place as I was before.’
* * *
Six days after her return from Rio, at four in the morning, Petra found she couldn’t sleep. First she was hot, then she was cold. Eventually, she got up and paced back and forth for a while, hoping boredom would tire her. When it failed to, she checked her computer. There was a hit on the Heavens Above site.
To V. Libensky.
My sister noticed the light on December 3 from my home, in Zeven.
The newspaper said it was due to atmospheric conditions but I don’t believe that.
What do you think?
R. Julius.
Julius was one of three names that Petra had chosen for a call sign. The sight of it sent a shiver through her. The first letters of the first three words denoted the server—in this case MSN—and the letters between the comma and the full-stop of the first sentence provided the name: inzeven; clearly an e-mail address that had been established for one conversation only. Whoever Julius was, he or she could now be contacted at [email protected].
Using her Andrew Smith address, which was also at MSN, Petra replied.
To R. Julius.
Got your message. Awaiting return enquiry.
V. Libensky.
She knew she was unlikely to receive a reply at that hour but the petty thrill kept her alert in front of the screen’s blue glare for a while. There was no prospect of a return to sleep now. She hit the hot-water switch, stretched for an hour and then had a long bath. Afterwards, she made breakfast. At twenty-past-eight, she got a message on Andrew Smith’s e-mail.
To V. Libensky/Andrew Smith.
I understand we have a mutual interest in South America.
It would be good to meet you to discuss it. And to discuss the future.
Is this possible?
R. Julius.
And so a dialogue began that lasted all morning. Oblique messages were received and sent, their contents construed carefully before a reaction was shaped. Proposal and counter-proposal and, eventually, an agreement. A rendezvous was scheduled for two days later, in Paris at the heart of the huitième arrondissement, on the junction of Boulevard Haussmann and Avenue Matignon. Petra tapped an affirmative response on to her screen and stared at the reply for a minute. The machine asked whether she wanted to send the message or not. Yes.
Then she called Alexander. Two hours later, they met at the Round Pound in Kensington Gardens. They headed for the fountains by Marlborough Gate on Bayswater Road. It was a cold morning, a low grey sky allied to a blustery wind that sent shivers through the branches of the trees. They passed a few hardy joggers, their heads in clouds of frozen breath, their cheeks the colour of red cabbage. One or two dog-owners were walking their pets. Apart from that, the gardens were almost empty.
Petra said, ‘I’ve been through the material you gave me and I’m wondering what Serra’s status is with other agencies.’
‘Not high. Certainly, the French don’t rate him. The closest shave he’s had there has been two investigations for tax evasion, both of which came to nothing. In Germany, the BKA suspected him of associated involvement with a group of Ukrainian smugglers who were trying to sell nuclear material to Pakistani Muslim militants. But Serra was no part of it.’
‘So nobody else knows what’s in the file?’
‘Most of that material could be gathered from public records of one sort or another. As for the rest, well maybe one agency knows a little piece, and another knows another piece. Or maybe they know most of it and they don’t think it adds up to anything. Who can say? Besides, we can hardly share our information, can we? We don’t even exist. And even if we did, I’m not sure we’d choose to spread it around.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Because you never know where such information will end up. In the past, any Irish information that MI5 or SIS shared with the CIA or FBI found its way to the IRA within forty-eight hours. Unlike the Americans, we don’t feel that psychopaths who blow children to pieces in shopping centres are heroes in need of support—or Hollywood beatification, for that matter—so we keep our Irish information to ourselves. The same goes for anything related to Khalil, a category that includes Marc Serra. The last thing we need is for him to get spooked and disappear like Reza Mohammed.’
Petra stopped walking. ‘What?’
The wind ruffled Alexander’s hair. ‘Don’t look so shocked. You must have known it was a possibility.’
Her initial instinct was to be angry, to be true to herself. But she quickly suppressed that. She had no doubt that Alexander’s casual attitude was deliberate. He left nothing to chance. She assumed he wanted to provoke a reaction and so she chose to deny him.
‘Where did he disappear?’
‘Where so many disappear. In Athens.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘We don’t know. We supposed he was acting as a courier.’
‘He’d left Imperial?’
‘No. We contacted the college the following week and they said he was ill. Someone from the hostel had phoned to say that he had flu.’
‘And that was it?’
Alexander nodded. ‘We had him tailed to Heathrow where he boarded a flight for Athens. I arranged to have him placed under surveillance at the other end but they lost him.’
‘When did this happen?’
Alexander lit a Rothmans. ‘A little while ago.’
‘When?’
‘Six weeks ago.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Alexander shrugged. ‘There didn’t seem much point. Khalil is the one who matters to all of us. Without him, there is no Mohammed. At least, not for you. Besides, Mohammed will surface again. Men like him always do. You’ll still get your chance, if you earn it.’
* * *
I don’t really believe in female intuition. I think some people are intuitive and some people are not, and that the difference has nothing to do with gender. As I watch Alexander disappear through Marlborough Gate, the danger signals are going off in my brain like a fireworks display.
I know that the only thing keeping me alive is that Alexander has invested his organization’s time a
nd resources into me and that he is in no hurry to write that off. My fictitious insurance is now largely discredited. During my training, there were periods when my communication with the outside world was severed and there were no damaging consequences; no German tabloids claiming a ‘world exclusive’, no Malaysian TV network breaking sensational news, no related conspiracy theories drifting across the Internet. On the other hand, I suspect Alexander still believes I have something that is potentially damaging to him and, in that assumption, of course, he is correct. But an unspoken agreement has been reached between us: I tricked him into this and he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven me, so I’d better not let him down.
Now, however, I suspect there is another agenda. A sub-agenda of which I have no knowledge. I know that I am expendable—that is a risk that comes with this life—but I am not prepared to be a sacrifice. I have no evidence to support such a suspicion but I don’t need any. This is instinct and I need protection.
* * *
‘Mr Bradfield?’
He turned round. They were outside the Victoria Arcade, pedestrians passing by them on either side.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his voice a rasp.
‘You don’t recognize me?’
A challenge offered, he squinted at her. She thought she saw some flicker of recognition but then he shook his head. ‘No … not really, no. I don’t think so.’
Petra found that interesting. His profession was invested in faces. Real ones, forged ones, those he was happy to remember and those he could not forget. She watched his eyes going over her, trying to recall the where and when.
‘I had blonde hair the last time you saw me. I was thinner, too.’ Somewhere deep inside the memory something was stirring, but it wasn’t enough. ‘I had a gun. You told me I shouldn’t carry one unless I was prepared to use it.’