by Mark Burnell
'Diamonds or bread – only we know which?'
'Exactly. Among the circle of affluent acquaintances we acquired over the subsequent years, only Leonid and I knew which was the most precious. It was our little joke. And a reminder of the only valuable thing that we took from the camps.'
'Which was?'
'In every instance, to do whatever is necessary. In my case, I'm talking about the hardest substance known to man.' She fingered the diamond hanging from her neck. 'Not this, but a woman. Look at me. What do you see? An old woman? A rich woman?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'Aristocratic, in a way?'
'Yes.'
She smiled. 'An illusion. The same with Leonid. In the camps, we did whatever was necessary to survive. It was as simple as that. After the camps, we became who we needed to be in order to live the lives we chose.'
'I understand.'
'Of course you do. Kostya told me about you.'
'Really?'
'You look surprised. Perhaps you considered him more discreet than that.'
'Perhaps.'
'Don't think poorly of him. It says more about our relationship than yours.'
'Did he mention that I didn't choose my life?'
'A point of pedantry, really. You've lived your life by being who you needed to be at any given moment. Why do you imagine I agreed to see you? Because you said you had a message from him? Of course not. In five seconds I can speak to him on the phone. I agreed to see you because I'm a curious woman. I wanted to see what a younger version of myself might look like these days.'
'What?'
Amused, she shook her head. 'No, no, I never did what you do. But I led a life no less unusual. I lied for survival. I lied for advancement. I used what I had to the full. When I met Aleksandr here in Paris, I made him fall in love with me, in the same way that I made other men fall in love with me. I made myself into something he couldn't defy. I let nothing get in the way. Leonid was the same.'
We're in her private office now, a small cube with a window but no view. This is the truth about Natalya Ginzburg; a woman in her mid-eighties, working every day, just as she always has. She fronts a business trading the world's finest gemstones. She dresses immaculately and throws off an air of impenetrable, aristocratic defiance. Yet her office is dark, dull and small. This is where the work occurs. And it's all about the work. For all her grandeur, she's the oldest whore in this city. She's been working Paris since the moment she stepped off the train.
She's brought me in here to look at photographs of her and Leonid. She shows me a scratched sepia print of them standing in front of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow. They are children, Golitsyn in knee-length shorts, Ginzburg slightly older in a pale dress.
'The original cathedral,' she stresses. 'This must have been in 1929 or 1930. Before that mud-eating peasant Stalin destroyed it. He intended to construct a Palace of Soviets on the site but never got round to it. Typical. In the end, they built a swimming pool there once he was dead. Now the cathedral has been rebuilt. Not quite a replica, but close.'
'I've seen it.'
'Really? I've never been back.'
'It's very impressive.'
She nods. 'Important, too. The arrogance of it – only a Georgian could imagine that religion could be so easily crushed.'
As she shuffles through other dog-eared photographs, I ask, 'Did you know Anders Brand?'
She doesn't look up but nods.
'Were you aware that he and Golitsyn had dinner together four nights ago?'
'No.'
'But you're aware that he's dead?'
'Naturally. I must say, I was surprised.'
'I don't understand.'
'That he was in Sentier.'
'Why?'
'That was not really his … environment.'
'What does that mean?'
'Don't be cheap.'
I choose not to press it. Instead, I say, 'Were they friends, or was it a professional relationship?'
'Both. Anders was very well connected. He knew everyone. A cultured man, too. He and Leonid were similar in many ways.'
'A nice man?'
'Very. Polite but never dull.'
'Did Golitsyn have any business interests in Amsterdam?'
She hesitates. 'In Amsterdam?'
'Yes.'
'Not that I know of. Although I'm a little surprised at the way you ask the question. In what context does Amsterdam arise?'
'He was trying to tell me something.'
'Leonid?'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'When I found him.'
'I thought you said you saw him after he'd died.'
'He was dying. The damage was done.'
'By you?'
Asked with utter dispassion.
'No. He was alive when I found him. And dead within a minute or two.'
'This was at the Hotel Lancaster?'
'Yes.'
'What was Leonid trying to tell you?'
'I don't know. Amsterdam was the only word he managed. I was wondering if he had interests there. Personal, professional, anything …'
'You're assuming this has something to do with the city in the Netherlands.'
'I don't know of any other Amsterdam.'
Her look couldn't be more withering. 'Leonid had connections to the Amsterdam Group.'
'I'm not familiar with the name.'
'Based in New York. Or is it Washington? He did tell me once but I don't remember. A private investment house. They hire only the best people with the best connections. I don't recall how much they have under management but it's many billions.'
'What kind of connections?'
'Political, mainly.'
'And he was part of this group?'
She shakes her head. 'He had business dealings with them, certainly. But whether he was a member of Amsterdam or not, I couldn't say.'
'I thought his interests were in art.'
'On a personal level, yes. All his life he loved art. But Leonid loved to live a certain way. An expensive way. So he needed money. And he loved it. He loved what it did for him. He loved the acquisition of it – the deals – and the doors it opened.'
'I've heard he was close to Brezhnev, Chernenko, Andropov …'
Ginzburg looks bored by this minor revelation. 'Gorbachev, Yeltsin, even Putin – yes, yes, all of them. They were good for business.'
'Was that something Amsterdam valued?'
'Naturally. In Moscow and elsewhere. You have to understand that Leonid had no money at all in 1957, when he arrived in Paris. Ten years later, he was rich. And by 1970 he had what he really wanted. Influence. Silent power. All the things Amsterdam values. More than anything, though, Leonid had a talent for putting people together where others couldn't. He brokered connections. And Amsterdam is a business built on a foundation of connections.'
Back in the salon, Natalya Ginzburg said, 'Recently Leonid had started to give away large amounts of his wealth. Mostly to Jewish charitable organizations.'
Streams of dying sunlight spilled through the French windows and across the carpet. Ginzburg had resumed her position in her favoured chair.
'He was Jewish himself?' Stephanie asked.
'Half-Jewish. His mother was Russian Orthodox.'
'What kind of organizations?'
'He was most interested in Russian Jews wishing to emigrate to Israel. He established a foundation in Moscow to assist those who couldn't afford the legal and practical costs. In Israel he funded two housing projects in Tel Aviv and one in Jerusalem, specifically for Russian immigrants. Not a universally popular move.'
'No?'
'No. There's a feeling in Israel that many of the Jews who emigrate from Russia are – how shall I put this? – from the bottom of the barrel.'
'I don't suppose he agreed.'
'I would say that he didn't feel there was anything wrong with coming from the bottom of the barrel. After all, that was where we came from. I
t's not where you come from that matters. It's where you go and how you get there.'
'And the will to do whatever is necessary.'
'Just so.' She smiled again, revealing fragments of failing teeth speckled red with lipstick. 'I don't believe Kostya ever bought anything for you from me, did he?'
'No.'
'He bought gifts for other women from me. Did you know that?'
'No.'
'Does it disappoint you to hear it?'
'Of course not.'
A lie so transparent that it prompted a look of pity from Ginzburg. 'For the ones who loved emeralds, he bought emeralds. For the ones who loved diamonds, he bought diamonds.'
Stephanie tried to shrug it off. 'I guess I should have told him what I liked.'
'You know the ones I mean. The willing ones. The beautiful, empty ones.'
'Is there a point to this?'
'You should feel flattered.'
'I should?'
'I asked him once whether it hurt that the two of you were no longer together. He said no. I was surprised. He said it was because you were always together. Even when he was with the truly beautiful ones and their diamonds. He loved you because you couldn't be bought.'
Stephanie smiled and hoped it didn't look as sad as it felt. 'It would have been nice if he'd tried.'
Natalya Ginzburg smiled too but also shook her head. 'You have to be earned, Stephanie. That was what he told me.'
Earned by the good ones, bought by the bad. That was the painful truth.
Stephanie ripped the tape from his mouth. There was no cramp this time. Just as there'd been no protest when she'd applied the tape. But he looked ragged; bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair, a dark shadow of stubble falling over his jaw.
'Are you okay?' she asked.
'Sure. I love being tied and gagged in my own home. Normally I have to pay for a service like that from a woman like you.'
'Talking of which, I've brought you a present.'
She took the blue plastic bag from her overcoat pocket and placed it in his lap. Then she unfastened his hands.
'What is it?'
'See for yourself.'
He picked at the bag cautiously, saw what was inside, then looked harder at it, as though his eyes had made a mistake. Finally, he reached inside and pulled it out; a pair of studded leather cuffs, a length of steel chain and a chunky padlock.
He looked up at her. 'You're kidding me.'
'It's up to you. But it's going to hurt a lot less than the washing line.'
'Where'd you get it?'
Under the circumstances, Stephanie found that funny. 'A sex shop in Pigalle.' When Newman grimaced, she added: 'Look on the bright side. At least it's not Tommy Hilfiger.'
She escorted him to the bathroom, waited for him to finish, then returned him to the chair, where she fastened the cuffs around his wrists, before leaving the room. In his office, she sat down at his desk and switched on his computer.
The Amsterdam Group home page was matt grey with a central image of an impressive skyscraper wrapped in a mirror skin set against a deep blue sky. Regions of operation faded in and out like film credits; Asia, Europe, North America. And at the centre of the page:
THE AMSTERDAM GROUP
TOMORROW TODAY
She absorbed the facts; three continents, seventeen countries, almost four hundred employees, and over twenty-two billion dollars under management. Founded in 1983, Amsterdam currently operated eighteen funds, focusing on their preferred sectors: energy, property, telecommunications, aerospace, defence, technology. It claimed to have more than six hundred investors from almost fifty countries and to have invested more than eight hundred million dollars of its own capital to the funds.
She navigated her way through the site. The facts were predictably dry, the photographs predictably smug; wholesome executives who looked as though they had never consumed anything stronger than Evian. The pages were suffused with meaningless phrases:
IN A WORLD OF CHANGE, A CONSTANT PARTNER.
TOMORROW'S OPPORTUNITIES, YESTERDAY'S VALUES.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD'S PREMIER FINANCIAL FAMILY.
There was a directory of employees, from senior executives down to the new recruits. Leonid Golitsyn didn't appear on the list. Nor did Anders Brand. But she recognized several others: James G. Harris, a former US Secretary of State; Albert Raphael, the Canadian newspaper baron, now a US citizen; Allan Hunt, the retired head of NATO; Vladimir Kravnik, the long-serving chief of Gazprom, the giant Russian gas company. Former politicians included two European prime ministers, a president of South Korea and a vice-president of Venezuela.
She looked at the News section, which listed recent deals: the acquisition of Ballentyne InterMedia for $77 million; the opening of a new office in Singapore to coincide with the launch of a new fund for south-east Asia; a deal by Kincaid Pearson Merriweather, a wholly-owned subsidiary, to supply the Indonesian army with the Reaper IV missile-defence system.
Stephanie's attention drifted. On the desk, beside the screen were four DVDs; Touch of Evil, Chinatown, Les Amants du Pont-Neuf, The Usual Suspects. On the shelf nearest them were some framed photographs: Newman ten years younger, shaking hands with an Asian man in a green military uniform and dark glasses, the two of them beside a Gulfstream V; Newman in a bar with friends, Tsingtao bottles on the table; Newman on a yacht with another man, both laughing, both tanned, a marlin suspended from a hook between them.
There was a black-and-white photograph of a man and woman with two boys standing in front of them. The backdrop was a garden, a farmhouse and a wood of mature pine. She looked at the boys. He was the taller of the two. Perhaps only nine or ten, yet there was no doubt about it; Newman as a young boy.
In a simple wooden frame was the same woman from the only photograph on the desk. Stephanie took the smaller picture from the shelf and compared it to the larger shot. Dark-skinned, thick black hair, eyes the colour of anthracite. the photo on the desk was a head-and-shoulders shot. Her mouth was sheer charity. She seemed to know it too. Something in her eyes promised trouble coupled to an assurance that it would be worth the effort.
The smaller print from the shelf was taken on a beach. Stephanie was transfixed by her figure. Waist, bust, hips, bottom. She looked fabulously sexy; strong but feminine. Not an easy balance to strike.
Stephanie thought she looked Mediterranean. Greek or Spanish, maybe. Or, perhaps, Italian. Stephanie wondered whether she was looking at Carlotta, the woman who'd given him the watch with the inscription: Robert, with love, Carlotta. In both shots her throat was encircled by a piece of orange coral suspended on a leather cord. The coral was in a tiny bowl of blue glass beside the lamp on the desk. Stephanie picked it up. It was smooth and cool to the touch.
Something sentimental, something precious.
New York City, 13:05
'No one disappears these days. You understand me? No one. It's just plain … old-fashioned.'
John Cabrini abruptly terminated the call to Steven Mathis because he could see Gordon Wiley, CEO of the Amsterdam Group, approaching the table. Cabrini began to rise from his chair but was waved back into it by Wiley.
'Sorry to drag you over here but I've only got an hour.'
Cabrini shrugged. 'No problem, sir.'
Wiley smiled thinly. 'I'm hoping that won't be the last time I hear that phrase during our conversation.'
They were at Quatorze Bis, a French bistro on East 79th Street. A waiter approached with two menus.
'It's okay,' Wiley said. 'We know what we're having. Fried chicken, fries, green salad.' He turned to Cabrini. 'Trust me. You won't be disappointed.'
Cabrini felt he'd just had a premonition of the kind of conversation they were going to have.
'So,' sighed Wiley, checking the screen of his phone so that he wouldn't have to make eye contact, 'how long's it been?'
'About thirty hours.'
'And how are we doing?'
'We're doing fine.'
'She
dead yet?'
'Not yet.'
Another smile, equally bereft of humour. 'I'm kidding. But I won't be in another thirty hours.'
'I understand, sir.'
'I hope so. I spoke to Ellroy earlier. He was a little evasive. That's why you're here. He's your boss, but I'm his boss, so don't make me beg. I'm not in the mood.'
'We've only been fully operational for twenty hours.'
'What's the current situation?'
'We're moving in on her.'
'Do you know where she is?'
'Not exactly. But we have a good idea.'
'Where?'
'We're pretty sure she's still in Paris.'
Wiley raised an eyebrow. 'Nice work. That narrows it down to about seven or eight million.'
'We're still collating.'
'Collating? Then how do you know you're moving in on her? She could be moving too. Anywhere on the planet.'
'We'll find her, sir.'
'You're not working for the government any more, Cabrini. You're in the private sector now. You get paid to deliver.'
'My record speaks for itself.'
Wiley sat back. 'True. But I need you to understand the position we're in. Our partners are asking questions. They've got itches that need to be scratched. The longer we wait, the worse they'll get. This has to be over in five days.' He looked at his watch. 'Less twelve hours.'
'That's plenty of time. She'll be cold by then. You have my word on it.'
'Do you want a shower? A change of clothes?'
He didn't jump at the offer. It felt like a trick. She looked surprised. Perhaps she expected him to dissolve with gratitude. He tried to ignore his aching exhaustion and reached for as much insouciance as he could muster.
'Sure. Why not?'
As though he was doing her a favour.
She escorted him to the bathroom, wedged the book into the frame and pulled the door behind her. Newman stripped slowly and then looked at himself in the mirror; five years older than the day before yesterday.
He ran the shower as hot as he could tolerate and leaned against the white tiles, letting the water sluice over his head, shoulders and back. His wrists stung. He watched pale pink water disappear down the plug-hole. When he'd finished, she allowed him a few seconds to wrap a towel around his waist before entering the bathroom.