The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  And then they veered right into the side of the Range Rover, which was overtaking them despite every effort to slow. There was an almighty crunch that killed the Peugeot's momentum. The Range Rover spun out of control. The driver stamped on his brakes but the snow-tyres made no difference. The vehicle reached the turning and sailed straight ahead into the darkness.

  The cartwheel descent was marked by headlight spirals against the trees, and a procession of crunches that grew fainter the further the Range Rover fell.

  We drive back through Ribeauville in silence. There are vines in the snowy fields beyond. They look like barbed wire on a battlefield; branches bent around miles of wire between thousands of stout wooden posts.

  The tracks we leave don't exist solely in the snow. They're also in my mind and I can't brush fresh snow over them. The suspicion persists.

  'We should get something to eat.'

  'We'll be in Strasbourg soon.'

  'Before then,' I suggest.

  'You in trouble?'

  'I'm okay. But food and drink would help.'

  'You need a doctor.'

  'First things first. Are you okay?'

  'Me? I'm fine.'

  The lie's so naked it makes us both smile. Even in the dark of the car I can see how pale he is. He looked better when he was standing over the remains of Lance Grotius. He's clutching the steering wheel as tightly as he can but he can't pacify the shakes.

  'It's normal,' I tell him.

  'Did it happen to you?'

  'Yes. The first time.'

  'Not any more?'

  You only lose your virginity once. That's what I'd tell him if I answered the question. And that too much of anything can become routine.

  It's still dark when we creep into Obernai, about thirty-five kilometres south of Strasbourg. We head for the centre and park the Peugeot on place du Marché outside Arc en Ciel. We cross the square to the Hôtel La Diligence. The wound hurts when I walk, forcing me to limp.

  The snow has barely been disturbed. It's so quiet the air feels brittle; it seems to fracture when a distant dog barks.

  Behind the hotel's reception desk sits a weary-looking woman counting down the final minutes of the nightshift.

  'Is it possible to have breakfast?' I ask her.

  'Are you guests?'

  'No.'

  'I'm sorry. We are not open for breakfast.'

  Not to us anyway. I don't suppose we appear the most appealing prospect. I try to stand straight to conceal the injury.

  'Is there anywhere in Obernai where we could get a cup of coffee?' Robert asks. 'We've been driving all night.'

  Her eyes widen. 'Through the storm?'

  He nods. 'All the way from Rotterdam.'

  Without so much as a blink. I'm impressed. He's learning. Although why should I assume that he can learn anything from me? Perhaps we're equals. Perhaps he's better.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Robert is still talking to the woman behind the desk and she's beginning to thaw. Through the window, across the square, a figure circles the Peugeot once, then twice. Dressed in dark clothing, a black satchel slung over the right shoulder.

  Not again. It's not possible. Not already.

  He moves away from the car and I begin to think I've made a mistake. Then he returns to the Mercedes in front of our car, looks as though he's about to get into it, his head flicking from side to side, before nipping back to the Peugeot. He pretends to drop something before dipping into a crouch to search for it. He puts one hand against the Peugeot for support. The other hand pulls something from the satchel. I can't see what it is. I don't need to. He reaches under the Peugeot, attaches it, and then disappears. Five seconds from start to finish ; a magnetic clamp, most likely.

  I put my hand on Robert's arm. 'Just going to the car for a minute, darling. Back in a moment.'

  Before he can ask why, I'm outside. Fresh footprints in the snow cut diagonally across place du Marché towards the corner to my left. I head right and turn into rue de la Paille, which allows me to curl around the outside of the square. On rue Dietrich, I approach the corner with caution and peer round it. There are several vehicles parked along the kerb of rue Sainte Odile. All have snow on them. Except one. A black BMW X5 with tinted windows.

  It's parked outside a small bookshop, from where it has a partial view of the square. The Peugeot is visible but the entrance to Hôtel La Diligence is not. I memorize the registration then return to the shadows.

  Three threats before dawn. Part of me feels flattered.

  Robert's charm has failed. He's still talking to the receptionist but there's no chance of breakfast. I smile sweetly. 'Well, we'll find somewhere else.'

  Outside I take him by the arm and steer him sharply to the right.

  'Where are we going?'

  'To the station.'

  'Why?'

  'We're leaving the car,' I tell him as we exit place du Marché. 'It's wired.'

  Exasperated, he shakes his head. 'I know the feeling.'

  'We should have got the bag from the trunk.'

  Stephanie shook her head. 'Couldn't risk it. We don't know what kind of device it was. Could've been a timer, could've been a motion sensor. Or a remote; there was a clear line of vision between the two vehicles.'

  Newman watched the emerging landscape lumber past, early daylight staining it deep blue. They were on the local train, the 06:47 to Strasbourg, a few early commuters with them, none sitting too close to their end of the carriage.

  Stephanie was aware of the weight of the Heckler & Koch in her coat pocket. In a low voice, she said, 'Have you got the Smith & Wesson?'

  He shook his head. 'I put it in the trunk. With the bag.'

  'What did you have in the bag?'

  'Some clothes, some money. You got Scheherazade's cash?'

  Stephanie patted her jacket. 'In here.'

  'How the hell did they find us?'

  'I don't know. You're not carrying a mobile, are you?'

  'No.'

  'Anything electronic?'

  'No. Although we have the laptop.'

  'I haven't turned it on since we switched cars in Lyon.'

  'Can it be traced anyway?'

  She'd been told that the technology to track mobile phones when they were switched off already existed, although not yet in operation. 'I don't know. Maybe.'

  'Then we better dump it. Just to be sure. Is that what Obernai was about?'

  'It was just a feeling,' Stephanie replied. 'An instinct.'

  'You could've said so, you know. What's your instinct telling you now?'

  'That we must be doing something right.'

  The train pulled into Strasbourg at 07:27. They left the laptop under the seat. Stephanie checked that she had the disks in her pocket, then found a France Télécom phonebooth and called the police.

  'Place du Marché, Obernai. There's a dark blue Peugeot outside the shop Arc en Ciel. It has a bomb attached to the underside, controlled from a black BMW X5 that was parked on rue Sainte Odile. Maybe it's still there. If not, the registration is …'

  As soon as she'd given it, she put the phone down.

  Half an hour later, they left Strasbourg in an old grey Saab, stolen from the car-park beneath place du Gare. Stephanie's wound was padded with handtowels taken from the station washroom. Newman drove. They crossed the Rhine into Germany at Kehl, then headed north for Mannheim.

  From Mannheim, they caught a high-speed ICE train for Munich. Their carriage was less than half full. Outside, intermittent snow squalls sped past the window. Inside, it was quiet and warm. Stephanie felt nauseous and exhausted, She knew her body needed a boost which was why she'd bought a sandwich but she couldn't yet bring herself to eat it.

  'So how come you're friends with a World Rally champion?'

  'A former World Rally champion.'

  'That doesn't make it any more likely.'

  'Then the truth won't either: I borrowed his girlfriend for a few months.'


  'Actually, that's something I can believe. Nice of him to lend her to you, though. I hope you returned her in the same condition you received her.'

  'He didn't know about me.'

  'Did you know about him?'

  'No.'

  'This wouldn't be Anna, would it?'

  'No. Carlotta.'

  'I was wondering when she'd come around. What happened?'

  'She got careless with her diary. I was at her place when he turned up.'

  'Sounds messy.'

  'It could've been. But it wasn't. We left together and as we were walking down the stairs, he suggested a drink. You know – no hard feelings, that kind of thing.'

  'And that was it?'

  'Not exactly. He's Finnish so one drink turned into a weekend. We've been friends ever since. He lives down in Monaco now but we still see each other a couple of times a year.'

  'And he taught you how to drive like that?'

  'That's right. He has this place in Finland near Rovaniemi. He used to have these great long weekends; lots of friends from all over the place, great food, plenty to drink, no time to sleep. We used to drive on frozen lakes. Or through the woods. Any time of the day or night.'

  'Sounds as though you had more fun with him than you did with Carlotta.'

  'Actually, I did. And in return, I used to help him manage some of the money he'd made. These days he makes more through his investments than he ever did as a driver.'

  Stephanie raised her cup. 'Well, here's to Carlotta. Without her we'd probably be wrapped round a tree.'

  Newman raised his own cup. 'To Carlotta.'

  'I'll bet that's not something you ever expected to hear yourself say.'

  As their train pulled out of Stuttgart station, Stephanie said, 'A euro for your thoughts.'

  'It's not a thought. It's a question.'

  'Let's hear it.'

  'You sure you want to?'

  She placed a euro coin on the table. 'Tell me.'

  'Okay. Who are you? What are you?'

  'That's two questions.'

  'You've already used that on me. Don't be cheap.'

  'And I've already told you.'

  'You told me you used to work for the government.'

  'That's true.'

  'That's an answer. Not the answer. Tax officials work for the government. Teachers work for the government.'

  'You've seen what I can do.'

  'I've seen all kinds of stuff. And I'm just about as confused as I'm ever going to be. So what I want more than anything right now is a straight answer.'

  She'd always hated the sound of it. It sounded like a lie. Or, even worse, a boast. Either way, something that had nothing to do with her.

  She gave it to him as plainly as she could. 'I was an assassin.'

  There was no outrage, not even surprise. It was the answer he expected, it appeared. Perhaps even the answer he'd hoped for, confirmation of anything being better than doubt.

  'For the British government?'

  'Yes. But not officially.'

  'Is it ever official?'

  'The organization I used to work for doesn't exist. It never did.'

  'But you retired from it?'

  'I tried to.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'I'd rather not talk about it.'

  Her stock phrase whenever a difficult situation presented itself.

  'I'm not surprised.'

  That annoyed her. 'Are you going to take the moral high ground with me now?'

  'Do I need to?'

  Stephanie thought about it, then looked directly at him. 'Until a couple of years ago, I'd spent my entire adult life as a highly trained slave. I followed orders. Those orders usually culminated in killing. That takes a toll. At first, it erodes you. Later, it consumes you because it's all you have left. It's what you become. But I never stopped dreaming about an after-life. And in the end, I got my chance. There was a situation in Berlin. When it was over, I was offered my freedom with no comebacks. I didn't have to be asked twice.'

  'You left it all behind?'

  'I did. And that should have been it. I had what I'd wanted right from the start. The chance to begin again.'

  'What did you do?'

  'Initially, I travelled. I took a long holiday. South-east Asia, backpacking like a student, no fixed itinerary. The sea on my skin, the sun in my hair. It was lovely. I read books, took trains, slept, ate, put on weight. I felt relaxed, sexy, happy. All that good stuff. All the things I used to dream about when I was freezing in a storm-drain in Grozny.'

  'I wish I'd met you then.'

  'In Grozny?'

  'In south-east Asia.'

  'You wouldn't have liked it.'

  'Why not?'

  'No first-class travel, no five-star hotels.'

  'We're not travelling first-class now, are we? And last night definitely wasn't the Ritz. Tell me what happened.'

  She found she didn't have an answer straight away. 'I suppose I slipped. Regressed. How it happened is a mystery but I can tell you why it happened. Shortly before I killed him, Alexander said to me that I would never be able to lead a regular life.'

  'Who was Alexander?'

  'My boss.'

  'And you killed him?'

  'In a loo at Zoo Station in Berlin.'

  Newman raised an eyebrow. 'I guess it's true what they say; worker loyalty ain't what it used to be.'

  'I owed him nothing. He used to say that he'd saved me. On one level, that was true. He turned me from a wreck into a high-precision instrument. Superficially, that was an improvement. But at least I was no harm to anybody other than myself when I was a wreck.'

  'That sounds like self-pity to me.'

  'I don't really care what you think it sounds like. Alexander said it wouldn't be the killing that I couldn't live without. It would be the life. That adrenaline that you tasted in Beirut? The same thing, only magnified. It was everything. The assignments; preparation, execution, extraction. Then the down-time; neatly cut fillets of civilian life. Usually just long enough to relax but never long enough to get bored. The truth is that when you're the best at something, it kills you to give it up.'

  'So he was right.'

  Stephanie nodded. 'I was the sports star who can't live without the crowd.' She let the analogy linger then changed her mind. 'Actually, I was more like an alcoholic. When I walked away from Magenta House, that was rehab. But I couldn't make it stick. I began to falter. Then I fell off the wagon.'

  'How?'

  She shrugged. 'The way an alcoholic does, I guess. One sip. It was the stupidest thing possible. I was in Barcelona. It was late at night and I got attacked by four men. I was scared – I mean really terrified, the way any normal person would be – and I didn't think I'd be able to fight them off. I thought I was cured. But it came flooding back. It was so easy. So effortless. And it felt good. Physically and emotionally.'

  'And that was it?'

  'That was the start of it. Except this time, it was even better than before because I was nobody's slave. I was a perfect killing machine unburdened by the restraining influence of a controlling entity. It's one thing to fall off the wagon. It's another to discover you no longer suffer hangovers.'

  'What about now?'

  She sighed slowly. 'Now I'm waking up to the real truth.'

  'Which is what?'

  'That it was an illusion. It was a device to conceal the truth. I don't need the killing or the life. I just need time to make the adjustment away from them. The woman I was in south-east Asia – that was the real me. I just didn't recognize her.'

  New York City, 06:05

  John Cabrini had been in a deep sleep when the call came through and was still trying to gather his senses. Steven Mathis passed him the handset as he swung his legs off the cot. His mouth was dry due to the artificial air pumped into the operations suite.

  A voice boomed in his ear. 'What's the latest?'

  'Paris-1 has a fix on her.'

  'Where?'

&
nbsp; 'South of Strasbourg. I've green-lighted an interception. An assessment is being made as we speak.'

  'When can we expect some kind of resolution?'

  'Within the hour. No more than two.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Positive, sir.'

  'Do you know where I'm calling from?'

  Cabrini glanced at Mathis who mouthed the answer that he repeated. 'Paris?'

  'That's right. I'm at Charles de Gaulle, waiting for a flight. It's been delayed. All this snow we've had …'

  'Sorry to hear that, sir.'

  'Well, it's allowed me a little time to catch up on the news. That's what I'm watching, by the way. The news. On a TV in the departure lounge.'

  Cabrini felt an unpleasant shift in the pit of his stomach. Behind the voice, he heard a flight announcement in French. He clutched at something neutral to say. 'I hope you won't be delayed too long, sir.'

  'Yeah? I hope that's true for Paris-1.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'I hope he won't be delayed too long.'

  'I don't think I understand, sir.'

  'He's in custody, you asshole. I'm looking at his black BMW. It's on goddamned TV, surrounded by gendarmes who look about as happy as I feel. What the hell's going on, Cabrini? Paris-1 is in a Strasbourg police station and I have to hear the news from the France-3 network?'

  Cabrini was moving through to the control suite, trying to impose order on runaway thoughts.

  'We're … we're looking into it … right now, sir.'

  'No, Cabrini. I'm the one looking into it right now. You're the one who couldn't find his dick with a six-man search party. They picked Paris-1 up in some shitty little town. The whole place is cordoned off. A car bomb, for Christ's sake! This isn't fucking Israel, Cabrini. Who the hell is Paris-1, anyway?'

  'Gavras, sir. Rafael Gavras.'

  'The Cuban?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Jesus H. Christ, Cabrini! You picked a Cuban to go up against Reuter. First a South African, then a Cuban. Who's next? Gwyneth-fucking-Paltrow?'

  'Gavras has never let us down in the past.'

  There was another pause, long enough for an entire flight announcement. When the voice returned, the rage was undiminished but under control, which only served to add some menace. 'You just make sure he doesn't get the chance to let us down again.'