by Mark Burnell
'I'm surprised you know how.'
A thin bloodless smile. 'My wife bought a smaller version of that machine at vast expense. Naturally, she never used it. Personally, I can't stand to see waste so I made the effort to learn myself. Now I use it every day.' He raised the cup, took a sip, then added: 'I'm sure we'd both be happier if you stopped pointing that gun at me.'
Cabrini laid it on the zinc counter. 'How'd you get in?'
'Far too easily. To your knowledge, have we met?'
'No.'
'But you know who I am.'
'I have an idea.'
Gordon Wiley. A man whose instincts were more at home in Washington DC than in New York.
Wiley said, 'Mr Ellroy is in Europe. I spoke to him earlier.'
'What are we looking at?'
'Salvage.'
'What kind of assistance are we going to get?'
'One hundred percent.'
'What's the damage?'
'Who's the damage? That's the question. She's a German named Reuter. Petra Reuter. I'd never heard of her until an hour ago. And now I wish I could turn back the clock. It's a hell of a mess over there.'
'What about Mr Ellroy?'
'He's staying. Which is why he wants his favourite anchor running the show.'
Wiley collected his hat. There was a black Lincoln waiting for him outside the door in front of a dilapidated white Datsun. Cabrini watched it leave through the first fall of the snow and felt relief rather than anxiety; no more pizzas. For a day or two, at least. And in a year or so, no more pizzas ever again.
It was quarter-to-seven when he phoned his brother. 'Michael?'
'Christ, John, you know what the time is?'
'I've got to go away.'
There was a long pause. 'When?'
'Now.'
'Is it serious?'
'Always. You know that.'
'How long?'
'I don't know.'
'You okay?'
'I'm good. You gonna take care of things?'
'Sure, sure. I'll get Stevie to look after your place.'
The youngest nephew. The next in line, if the Angelo's empire ever expanded to eight. After the call Cabrini went upstairs.
Salvage.
Well, he was the expert. Had been for twenty years. It was never pretty but then again it wasn't a beauty pageant. Besides, he hadn't had a failure yet. That was all that mattered.
He replaced the Ruger P-85 in the drawer of the bedside table. In the bathroom, he shaved. Most days, he didn't bother. Serving behind the counter he preferred to be unshaven, sallow, dreary. Invisible to his customers. A fifty-five-year-old man dispensing pizzas; hardly one of life's successes.
Beneath the weak light falling from the naked bulb was a lean man. The slight stoop and shuffle that his customers saw made him weak. But when he stood upright and walked with purpose, he appeared as he was: fiercely fit. He watched the welcome transformation in the mirror as he combed his hair and dabbed some Christian Dior aftershave on each cheek.
He returned to the bedroom, half-resurrected. Cabrini had always favoured fine clothes but almost everything he wore came from discount stores. In the back of the cupboard, however, was a tailored suit by Huntsman of London. Five years old, a masterpiece in fabric, Cabrini knew it would last the rest of his life. He laid it on the bed, then selected a pair of Lobb shoes and a black silk polo neck that had been specially made for him by Clive Ishiguro.
His salvage uniform. He was the leader, he set the tone. It felt good to be able to shed the shoddy disguise from time to time.
When the farm overlooking Orvieto was ready, he would move to Italy and never return, content to comfort himself over the permanently painful loss of Evelyn by surrounding himself with beautiful things. A garden, porcelain, paintings, clothes, music.
The rusting white Datsun was twenty-one years old. Cabrini and Evelyn had bought it together. It was the only car he'd ever owned. He'd never wanted another. From Harlem to Brooklyn, he peeled off the Long Island Expressway and circled beneath it to the waterfront and a stretch of warehouses that were still awaiting development.
Cabrini came to the loading bay of the third warehouse: R.L. Gallagher Inc. Noiselessly, a large gate lifted. Cabrini drove to the back of the docking area, parked and then stepped into the waiting cargo lift. On the fourth floor, he crossed a vast storage area that was deserted, except for two matt black cabins on steel struts. The large sets of wheels which were now six inches clear of the floor were only just visible in the draughty darkness. Up a flight of aluminium steps was a sealed door. Beside the door, mounted on the wall, was a matt grey panel. He placed his face in front of it and said, 'Cabrini, John, place of birth, Cleveland, Ohio.'
Cabrini had been born in New York but that didn't matter. The biometric plate analysed voice timbre, the pattern of blood vessels in the retina, and traces of breath composition, a process that currently took between two and five seconds.
When the door parted with a hiss, John Cabrini stepped into a sanitized airlock of ultraviolet light.
Stalingrad, at the point where boulevard de la Chapelle becomes boulevard de la Villette. Overlooking the steel delta of rail fanning out of Gare de l'Est, the crumbling building was itself overlooked by an elevated section of the Métro. As Stephanie descended to the street the iron struts overhead began to creak. A train on the Nation-Porte Dauphine line was approaching. Pigeons fluttered at her feet.
The address was five storeys of peeling plaster and broken windows. There were commercial premises at street level. Not that many looked very commercial. Rusting shutters hid half of them. The rest were not busy; discount stores peddling cheap clothing, Chinese luggage, basins and toilet bowls in avocado and salmon pink. There was a bar nightclub at one end. Coral was the name stencilled on to the dirty red canopy beside a cream silhouette of two entwined women.
Stephanie walked through an archway into the untended courtyard behind. Swing doors led to a staircase; unlit, cold, damp. The graffiti was as original as ever: Marie Z, I love you, Antoine; PSG are shit; Jim Morrison 1943-1971; Marie Z is a fucking slut. The apartment was on the third floor at the end of the corridor. From each door she passed came a different sound, a crying child, Arab rap, a barking dog. She smelt fried meat, sour tobacco, a pipe in need of a plumber.
The door had been recently replaced. The scratches on the frame hadn't been filled or painted. Both locks were still shiny. She knocked twice then tried the keys she'd found in Golitsyn's attaché case.
'Hello?'
No answer. She stepped inside. It was dark. Instinctively, she withdrew the Smith & Wesson from the pocket of her MaxMara coat.
There were two main rooms, the curtains partly drawn in both. A cramped living area overlooked the street, the bedroom overlooked the rail-tracks. There was a tiny shower cubicle next to a toilet and sink. The woman in the agency had already mentioned that; a real luxury in that place – no communal toilet. A greasy film of green mould was colonizing the shower curtain. In the living area, a portable gas stove sat on the floor beside a small fridge. In the sink was a cracked glass, cutlery and a dirty plate. Two cockroaches crawled over a sauce that had dried to a dark brown crust.
The air tasted stale. She examined the receipt again. Ten days old.
Into the bedroom; an olive-green canvas holdall lay beside the bed. She rummaged through it. Women's clothes – two tatty jerseys, underwear, sneakers – a portable radio, a battered French copy of Donna Tartt's The Secret History. In the bathroom, a toothbrush sat in a plastic tangerine mug. There was a box of tampons on the floor by the toilet.
No sign of a man anywhere.
She peered through the bedroom curtains. A TGV emerged from beneath the bridge. In the living area, she checked the fridge: a plastic bottle of Orangina, a tube of tomato paste, three bottles of Amstel beer. On the table at the centre of the room was an old copy of France-Soir – 23 December – an empty box of cereal and a Samsung portable CD-player beside a few di
sks; Colour of Spring by Talk Talk, Achtung Baby by U2, Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. Nothing recent, nothing French.
A woman, then. In an apartment paid for by Golitsyn, since the receipt was in his attaché case, despite Medvedev's signature. Golitsyn floats above the world. Wasn't that what Stern had said? Whatever that meant it presumably included not having to bother himself with signatures of this sort.
But what kind of woman? A lover? Not here. Money being no object, wouldn't he keep her in a discreet apartment in a classier area? Then again, perhaps Golitsyn liked to slum it. What do you give a man jaded by plenty? A taste of what it's like to have nothing, perhaps. Why not? A dip into the gutter to confirm and fortify the sweetness of his life.
She collected the Smith & Wesson, put it back in her pocket and let herself out. She double-locked, leaving the door as she'd found it.
'You're back.'
There were three of them blocking her path to the staircase. Clad and cropped in the homogenized uniform of the disaffected – Nike, Donnay, a scalp of fuzz – they were hard to source. Asian, perhaps. Two of them, anyway. The shortest of them, muscle-bound beneath the tight white T-shirt worn under his unzipped Adidas tracksuit top, might have been Arab. He had two zigzags shaved into the stubble above his left ear.
'You weren't here,' he said.
He was staring at her with matt eyes. She wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. Somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five, she guessed. With an attitude somewhere between menace and slouching insolence.
'When?'
'When they came.'
'Who?'
'Want to fuck?'
The tallest one laughed, took a drag from a joint and passed it to the third of them, who was attempting to cultivate a moustache. He wore a baseball cap with 50 CENT picked out in gold thread.
Stephanie said, 'When who came?'
The short one looked her up and down, trying to make her nervous. 'You know who.'
Stephanie smiled coldly. Of course I know. 'What did they want?'
'To speak to you.'
'What about?'
'Get on your knees and I'll tell you.'
Another snigger from the tall one.
She returned the stare with interest. 'When was this?'
'Yesterday.'
Stephanie said, 'I haven't seen you around.'
'So?'
'How do you know I'm the one?'
'They had a photo.'
'Of me?'
'Who else?'
'You sure it was me?'
He nodded. 'What did you do?'
'Nothing. What else?'
'They said to call them if we saw you. Said there'd be money for us.'
'You going to?'
'We don't need their money,' he sneered. 'We have enough. And when we need more, we take it. Same with you. If we want you, we'll take you.'
'How many of them were there?'
'You don't think we would?'
She tried to pitch him a neutral look; no challenge, no fear. 'I don't know.'
He grabbed his crotch with his right hand. 'Come on, putain. There are only three of us. That's something for everyone, no?'
'How many were there?'
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
Eventually, he said, 'Two. One of the fuckers didn't speak French.'
'How do you know?'
He grinned, revealing capped teeth. 'The other one did all the talking so I called the silent one a stupid cunt. Know what he said?'
'What?'
'Nothing. He just nodded like a donkey. That's all the bastard could do.'
They let her leave but not without a grope. She struggled to suppress a violent reaction as she wriggled between them, eyes down, unhappy but determined. On boulevard de la Villette she waited for almost an hour until they emerged from the courtyard. When they entered Stalingrad Métro station she returned to the apartment.
In the living-room she went through every drawer and cupboard. Again, nothing. There was a tatty rug laid over floorboards. She dragged the table to one side and rolled it back. All the effort yielded was the dust from the gaps between the boards.
The sofa by the window was covered in chocolate velour. She tossed the cushions on to the floor and pushed her hand into the folds on both sides and along the back. Grime lodged beneath her fingernails. An old one-franc piece, a biro cap, a badly creased snapshot, a cheap silver necklace, a spent match. The necklace was broken, one link ripped open. She ran a palm across the photo; a collection of five grubby boys, aged seven or eight, all mugging for the camera. She didn't recognize them. The background was slightly out of focus; a dour grey building through a veil of falling snow.
Her second sweep of the bathroom was no more productive than the first. In the bedroom she emptied the hold-all on to the lumpy mattress and checked both side-pockets. In the lop-sided wardrobe was a dark grey overcoat on a hanger. She knelt on the floor and looked under the bed; a carpet of dust, a pair of jeans scrunched into a ball, a torn condom-wrapper.
The jeans were a pair of Levi's with nothing in the front pockets. In the back left she found a Métro ticket, a crumpled tissue and a scrap of paper with a message written in pencil: Rudi, Gare du Nord, 19:30. Beneath it was a phone number. From the back right pocket she retrieved a folded credit-card receipt stapled to a bill. She couldn't decipher the scrawled signature at the foot of the receipt. It was a Visa card transaction worth €75. The bill beneath was printed on laid white paper with blue embossed print. The name at the top was Augustine Villard. A physiotherapist on rue du Châtelain. Listed below was the service, an extended session to treat the neck, shoulders and upper back. The patient's name was printed at the bottom of the page.
Marianne Bernard.
Stephanie stared at it. Every time she blinked she expected it to change. Willed it to change. But it wouldn't.
She'd used several physiotherapists over the years but had never heard of Augustine Villard. And now she noticed that the address – rue du Châtelain – was not in Paris but in Brussels. She examined the receipt again and saw that Marianne Bernard was the name written as a signature. But it wasn't her signature.
She looked at the scrap of paper again. Rudi. Still meant nothing. But the phone number looked vaguely familiar. Or was she imagining it? It had seven digits. Numbers in Paris had eight. Brussels again?
Back to the living-room and the CDs on the table. Not hers, certainly, but all of them albums she knew. She picked up the creased photograph she'd found down the back of the sofa and studied the five young faces more carefully. They remained smiling strangers. But there was … something.
Realization crept up on her slowly. It wasn't the children in the foreground. It was the building in the blurred background. It was the snow.
Children's Home Number 23 at Izmailovo in Moscow. The orphanage that Konstantin Komarov had rebuilt. The orphanage to which Stephanie had contributed a million of Petra Reuter's contaminated dollars.
For a moment Stephanie truly believed she couldn't breathe.
This was her apartment.
Shaking, I leave the apartment and start to walk. I don't know where I'm going and I don't care. I just need to keep moving, to keep breathing.
It's my apartment. Or rather, Petra's. Although even that isn't entirely correct. It belongs to a version of Petra. A substantially accurate version that includes elements of Stephanie's history. A version created by someone who knows about Marianne Bernard in Brussels. In other words, the Petra I was the day before yesterday. Because today I don't know which Petra I am. Or whether I'm Petra at all.
They also know about the Petra I used to be when I was in love with Kostya. And, perhaps, when I was in love with Mark.
The CDs were familiar to me, although I've never owned any of them. But Mark did. My civilian lover, my one and only window on to the world of the normal. He had all three. Then again, he had dozens of albums. Under any other set of circumstances, I wouldn't even consid
er this but when I think about the photograph and the receipt, I can't ignore the possibility.
I cling to one thing: the errors. A personal photograph left in an operational safe-house? Never. A credit-card receipt bearing an inactive name in the possession of an active name? Not a chance. This Petra is a cheap pastiche of the real thing. Not that it makes her any less of a threat.
I assume the clues in the apartment were planted so that they could be discovered. I think about the Sentier bomb. I imagine there must be a thread of evidence somewhere to point them towards the Stalingrad apartment.
From there, where do these clues lead? What do they suggest? What story is someone trying to tell? That the terrorist Petra Reuter planted the bomb in Passage du Caire? That it exploded prematurely, perhaps, killing her? Does the trail lead from here to Brussels? To Marianne Bernard and beyond? And where does Leonid Golitsyn fit into this? If it was his scheme, it's failed since he's dead. If it wasn't, then perhaps there is a bond between us, since I am also supposed to be dead.
All my adult life I've been two women, Stephanie Patrick and Petra Reuter. But now I'm three; the woman I am, the woman who was created for me, and the woman created to replace the first two. There's a dialogue going on inside my head. Petra and Stephanie are wondering how to proceed. From different angles, the pair are coming to the same conclusion: the key to their survival is the third of us.
The third woman.
The front door was still double-locked, just as she'd left it, the single hair in place, the oldest trick she knew. Stephanie entered as quietly as she could. There was a sound coming from the direction of the sitting-room. A struggle of some sort. She put down the bag of groceries and pulled the gun from her overcoat pocket.
Newman had his back to her. He was trembling violently, the shoulders of his shirt were dark with sweat. For several seconds, Stephanie watched in silence.
This is a trick.
He caught her reflection in a mirror. Still cautious, Stephanie approached. His face was beetroot-red, his skin slippery, the veins popping in his throat.