The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'Okay if I shave?'

  She couldn't answer. It was only once he'd started rubbing shaving foam across his jaw that she nodded. It wasn't just the wrists. There were scars across his back, over the ribs, on his shoulders, stomach and legs. Deep ones, shallow ones, clean and ragged, holes and slashes. She knew she was staring but couldn't seem to do anything about it.

  Newman was as used to the reaction as he was to the scars. It took such moments to remind him quite how prominent they were.

  'What happened to you?'

  'You don't quit, do you? Haven't you got the message yet? It's not something I talk about.'

  She watched him shave then brush his teeth. He took his time, squeezing as much pleasure from the process as he could. She followed him into his bedroom where he was equally slow in picking fresh clothes; a maroon T-shirt that had faded to raspberry, a worn grey sweatshirt with holes in each elbow and a pair of faded jeans that looked a little large for him.

  He pulled off the towel and Stephanie felt surprisingly awkward. She half-turned from him and spilled the first sentence to form in her mouth. Anything to break the silence, no matter how clumsy: 'So … you like Norman Mailer?'

  He looked over at her. 'What?'

  'Norman Mailer. I saw The Naked and the Dead and The Deer Park on the shelf in your office.'

  He looked faintly amused when he finally chose to reply. 'Yeah. I like Mailer. I like the way he writes, I like his views. I don't always agree with them but I admire a man who's not afraid to speak his mind. And who has the intellect and guts to back it up, no matter what.'

  'My father had a signed copy of Tough Guys Don't Dance.'

  'Did he read it?'

  He saw her bite her tongue and was annoyed with himself.

  She said, 'You've also got All The King's Men. That was the first great American novel I ever read. I'd never heard of Robert Penn Warren. I must have been about fifteen or sixteen. Later, I discovered Salinger, Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, but I never thought they produced anything as good.'

  'Ever see the movie?'

  She shook her head. 'I didn't know there was one.'

  'It won two or three Oscars. Broderick Crawford got one for Best Actor.'

  'Never heard of him. He played Willie Stark?'

  Newman nodded. 'Crawford was a big star back then. This would be 1949, maybe 1950.'

  'Oh. Right.'

  And with that he saw that he'd lost her.

  We're in the kitchen. One of his hands is cuffed to the cloth-rail on one side of the central island. The other is free. Clean again, he looks older than he did at the Lancaster. But age suits him. Some men wear experience like a subtle aftershave; it never overpowers, it just leaves a trace that invites investigation.

  There are seven messages on the answer-phone, three of them blank. I delete those and replay the other four.

  09:59 – Hello, Robert. It's Abel Kessler. I'm coming to Europe soon, for about ten days. It'd be great to catch up. Let me know if you're around. Hope you're still seeing whatever-her-name-was.

  11:02 – (first female voice) Robert. Did you hear about the other night after we left? I can't believe it. Please call me. I want to talk to you about it.

  17:29 – Robert. Jean-Claude Sardé again. I hope you got my message yesterday. I called your office today. Your secretary said you're not well. I hope it's nothing serious. When you feel better please call me. Thank you.

  18:01 – (second female voice) Hey. It's me. I know it's been a while but … I just wanted to talk. You're probably away. Like always. I've been away too. I just wanted to … I don't know … catch up, I guess. Anyway, if you're around … well, you know my number.'

  I run the second message for a third time. 'Who's that?'

  'Scheherazade Zahani.'

  'She didn't leave her name.'

  'So?'

  'I guess she felt she didn't need to. How do you know her anyway?'

  'We've been close a long time. I knew her husband.'

  'What did she say to you?'

  'When?'

  'At the Lancaster. When you went over to see her. The two of you looked back at me. She whispered something to you that made you both laugh. What was it?'

  'She asked if you were a lover.'

  'And you said?'

  'Not of mine. And then she said she was sure she'd seen you before.'

  'And that was it?'

  'Yes.'

  'And that was enough to make both of you laugh?'

  He looks at me dispassionately. 'If you say so. I don't remember.'

  'And the other female caller?'

  'That was Anna. She's an ex-girlfriend.'

  'Ex?'

  'That's right.'

  'She didn't sound too happy about it.'

  'You should have heard her when we were together.'

  I take an educated guess. 'Is she whatever-her-name was?'

  He manages half a smile. 'Very perceptive.'

  'Mr Kessler didn't sound too happy about it, either.'

  'Well, he has the luxury of living on the other side of the world to her. Let me ask you something. Is your name really Claudia? And are you really from Argentina?'

  'That's two things.'

  'So pick one.'

  I go for the softer option. 'I'm not from Argentina.'

  'Then I'm guessing you're not Claudia, either.'

  'Probably not.'

  'So what should I call you?'

  'Anything you like.'

  'That makes you sound like a hooker.'

  'I've been accused of worse.'

  'For the sake of convenience, why don't you give me a name?'

  'Marianne,' I say, after some thought.

  'Is that your real name?'

  'Sort of.'

  'What kind of answer's that?'

  'All the answer you're going to get. Okay, my turn. Ever hear of the Amsterdam Group?'

  A question that represents a sudden shift in gear. But he takes it in his stride. 'Sure.'

  Not the answer I anticipated, regardless of the truth. 'Ever done business with them?'

  'Not directly.'

  I pour us both a glass of water. He drains his and I refill it for him. I take some saucisson sec from the fridge and begin to carve slices on a wooden board beside the sink.

  'What do you know about them?' I ask.

  'They're based in Washington, which makes them slightly unusual. Most private equity firms – which is what they are – are based in New York. But they're very political so it makes a kind of sense.'

  'How?'

  'A lot of their investments are tied into government contracts. They spend a lot of time and money courting the right people on the right committees up on Capitol Hill. They're right in there, right in the middle of it.'

  'In the middle of what?'

  'The Iron Triangle.'

  'Which is what?'

  He seems surprised that I don't know. 'A three-way relationship between politics, big business and the military. It's cronyism on a massive scale because it's business on a massive scale. During the Reagan era, for instance, before the so-called Cold War peace dividend kicked in, the Pentagon was spending north of twenty five million dollars an hour, every hour of the year.'

  'Suddenly the attraction becomes clear.'

  I scrape the slices of saucisson sec on to a plate and place it between us. Then I refill my glass.

  He says, 'Over-spends on these contracts are normal and most budgets have vast profit-margins built into them because the companies submitting the tenders know that a final decision will rarely come down to cost. Almost always it's determined by influence and connections.'

  'What the Chinese call guanxi.'

  'Exactly. Even then, there are safety nets. Like Black Projects. These are deals that are kept secret because public scrutiny would jeopardize national security. At least, that's the argument. Lawmakers and the media hate Black Projects. They suspect many of them are kept classified just to protect them from congressio
nal review.'

  'Any truth in that?'

  'Plenty.'

  With one hand fastened to the cloth-rail, he's struggling to peel the rind off the slices of saucisson sec but I'm not about to offer to do it for him.

  'So, this Iron Triangle – how does it work?'

  'Pretty smoothly because they have a system of checks and balances. Business, politics, military: the people who run this alliance are always coming at it from more than one angle. They're co-dependent. And that's their greatest security asset. Remember I was talking about Richard Rhinehart this morning?'

  'The Pentagon?'

  He nods. 'He sits on the Pentagon's Defense Policy Board. That makes him military. But he's also a big noise at the American Partnership Foundation, a right-wing political think-tank. This is how it goes: Rhinehart has a view of the world. It's a view shared by his colleagues at the APF. And because of the influence that Rhinehart and his kind have, it's currently a view reflected by the administration. And they're the ones who hand out the contracts that generate the money.'

  'What about Amsterdam?'

  'They're the business manifestation of his political philosophy.'

  'How's that?'

  'More than one member of the Amsterdam board is a member of the APF. Or the Potomac Institute, which is another influential think-tank. So they're political. But they're military too; they own Kincaid Pearson Merriweather, one of the largest defence contractors in the US.'

  'And what about oil?'

  'They have a powerful energy sector. And they're into all the sectors that oil-rich states invest in. Then there are Amsterdam's private investors: you can't just walk off the street and ask them to invest fifty thousand here or a hundred thousand there. As a private client, you have to be invited to invest with the Amsterdam Group. And that means you have to be very rich.'

  'Oil-rich?'

  'Precisely. So there's another relationship: Amsterdam, the Iron Triangle, the oil industry. There's an obvious synergy to it.'

  'Because the current US administration is run by oil interests?'

  'When four percent of the world's population burns a quarter of the world's oil I think it's fair to say that every US administration is run by oil interests.'

  I take a baguette from the paper bag on the counter, tear it in two and offer him half. He asks for butter, which I fetch from the fridge. Then I pass him a knife. It never occurs to me that he will use it for anything other than buttering the bread. Of course, he's cuffed, but forty-eight hours ago – or even twenty-four – I wouldn't have been so blasé. We're evolving.

  'And your position in all this,' I say, 'how did that come about?'

  'Through Scheherazade Zahani's husband.'

  'The Saudi oil billionaire?'

  He nods. 'I used to work for him. I know about Amsterdam because he was one of their first investors. He knew Gordon Wiley from way back. He made a lot of money out of Amsterdam.'

  'Who's Gordon Wiley?'

  'One of Amsterdam's founders.'

  'Is Scheherazade Zahani an investor today?'

  'I don't know. But I wouldn't be surprised. She inherited everything from her husband. Including his investments. Of course she's a very shrewd investor in her own right so she may have had other ideas since then.'

  I lean against the oven and fold my arms. 'This all sounds like one gigantic conspiracy theory.'

  He smiles at the suggestion; he's heard it before. 'It does, doesn't it? But that doesn't mean it isn't true.'

  'What's your view?'

  He shrugs. 'I know these people. I meet them in Washington. I meet them in Riyadh. In Jakarta and Shanghai. They don't care about anything except money.'

  'And you?'

  'I'm the same. That's how I know.'

  Even as he says it, I find two reasons not to believe him: the fact that he says it at all, and the fact I can tell there's something more important that he's not saying.

  'Doesn't the climate change?'

  He looks puzzled. 'How do you mean?'

  'Depending on the presidency.'

  'You mean Republican or Democrat?'

  'Yes.'

  'It makes no difference.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because America's not a democracy. It's a plutocracy. Whichever party gets its candidate into the White House, they're still going to be surrounded by many of the same people. The same power people with the same agenda.'

  'Which is what?'

  'Well, they have a vision about the way the world should be run in the twenty-first century. They believe it should be run their way. The American way. They regard the twenty-first century as an American century.'

  'It doesn't sound as though you agree with that.'

  'The twentieth century was America's century. I don't know who the twenty-first century will belong to – China or India, maybe – but it won't be America. Empires are like innovations in technology; the next version is quicker than the last version. The Roman Empire – several hundred years. The British Empire – at its height, say, one hundred years. The Soviet Empire – about seventy. America's already in decline. It just doesn't know it yet.'

  Day Six

  New York City, 01:45

  Steve Mathis was asleep in one of the two cots in the sleeping area. Helen Ito was at her desk but John Cabrini wasn't sure she was awake, even though he could see that her eyes were open.

  Cabrini was familiar with this. During his years with the NSA he'd run many operations where hours had slurred into days. Within the sterile operating suites of Crypto City, nights had ceased to exist in a world of artificial light. In those days he'd lived off green tea and taurine tablets.

  He enjoyed the sense of dislocation that came with this kind of work. To him, it was no more perverse than pulling a day-shift at a pizza parlour in Harlem; both environments felt equally surreal.

  On the screens in front of him were the names. All in Europe, all unaware but available, some retained, others independent, all through the books of DeMille. It was twelve hours since his lunch with Gordon Wiley. In that time, there had been no sign of Petra Reuter. Not a single trace.

  Inevitably, this had led to doubts. Perhaps she'd left Paris. But Cabrini was reluctant to believe this. He'd had access to an SIS file from London. Their profile suggested she would lie low, wait for the worst of the aftermath to pass, then try to gather as much information as possible, before performing one of two executions: the source, or an exit. In that order of preference.

  Patience under pressure, the mark of a professional – looking through the SIS document one thing was clear: Reuter wasn't prone to panic. Which was why Cabrini was convinced that she was still in Paris, even though it was almost four days since the Sentier bomb. He'd hoped to locate and terminate Petra Reuter using an in-house DeMille team before the French authorities got to her. Or anyone else, for that matter. But that hadn't happened and it was now more than forty-eight hours since Leonid Golitsyn's death.

  Cabrini had spent much of his life fighting distant wars from sealed control suites, for the government, then for corporate America. There were similarities – methods of operation, the physical dislocation that made brutal choices and costly mistakes so much easier to make – and there were differences. The largest of these was in regulation. In the corporate world, there was no serious threat of judicial enquiry, no threat of congressional review. When necessary, an operation could be shifted to a neutral territory. Or out-sourced. Cumbersome notions of legality were bypassed in the interest of more practical concerns. This extended to the free-market recruitment of independents, allowing contracts on individuals to be put out to tender.

  Time to widen the net.

  Newman looked incredulous. 'You want me to do what?'

  'I want you to arrange for me to meet Scheherazade Zahani.'

  'No way.'

  'It's not a request.'

  'Why would she agree to see you?'

  'Because you'll ask her.'

  'I don't know he
r well enough to do that.'

  'That's not how it looked the other night at the Lancaster. The two of you seemed close.'

  Newman was lying on a mattress in the spare bedroom. Stephanie had dragged it off one of the two beds in the room. He had a pillow and a blanket. The leather cuff was attached by its chain to the radiator. The new arrangement had allowed him to sleep overnight. Stephanie had slept on the bed closest to the door but had only managed two hours' sleep.

  She'd spent most of the night in thought. Zahani's husband had been one of the Amsterdam Group's original private investors. Golitsyn had also had some kind of connection to Amsterdam. And both had been at the Lancaster. As had Newman. She'd thought about him at the bar. Then with Zahani. Then in the Audi, coming up the car-park ramp. She still couldn't convince herself that it was a coincidence. Or that it wasn't.

  Newman said, 'I'd need a reason.'

  'So think of one. But I'm going to see her one way or the other. Do it my way and I give you my word that no harm will come to her.'

  He stared at her for several seconds. 'Bitch.'

  'I know.'

  When the time came they went into his office. His mobile phone was on his desk. He put it on speaker-phone.

  'Go ahead. Dial the number.' As Newman reached forward, Stephanie added: 'Her private number.'

  Scheherazade Zahani answered at the fourth ring. 'Robert. How are you? You got my message.'

  'Yes.'

  'So you know about Leonid?'

  'I only just heard. I'm not in Paris.'

  'Where are you?'

  'New York. I've been out of reach.'

  One lie, one truth; Stephanie could hardly tell the difference.

  'God, what time is it with you?'

  'Two-thirty. I just got in.'

  'Living the Manhattan high-life?'

  'If only …'

  'Where are you staying?'

  'With some old friends.'

  Another quicksilver lie.

  'You never mentioned New York the other night.'

  'It was last-minute. Something came up. You know how it is.'

  'So secretive, Robert.'

  'Aren't we all?'

  Zahani laughed softly. 'Very true, very true. When are you coming back?'