by Mark Burnell
'You were right,' she said. 'I need to see a doctor.'
'You could go to a hospital.'
'No.'
'Where are you going to find a doctor at this time of night?'
'I didn't say I needed to go now. Tomorrow will be fine.'
'Maybe we should get some food and rest.'
'We should. But I need to go out.'
'We only just got here.'
'There's someone I need to see.'
'Who?'
'A woman I know.'
'You want me to come?'
'I think it'd be better if I saw her alone.'
Later, as she headed for the door, Newman said, 'Who is she?'
'She's me,' Stephanie replied.
He didn't look surprised. 'Aren't they all?'
As soon as Gordon Wiley had been shown to his suite at the Imperial Hotel on Kärntner Ring, he ordered some room service, took a shower then made one phone call. Room service arrived; smoked salmon, bread, a mixed salad, mineral water. He unpacked between mouthfuls, arranging the contents of his attaché case on the desk beside the window. Packing, unpacking, packing again; as a founder of the Amsterdam Group, travel had become as routine as brushing his teeth.
It hadn't always been so. Wiley had started out as a foreign policy adviser to Gerald Ford in 1975, stuffed behind a desk in an office with no window, earning $45,000 a year. Not a fortune, to be sure, but more than he'd needed since his dedication to the job consumed eighteen hours a day seven days a week. Time away from the office had been divided between sleep and marathon training. Not that he'd ever had the time to participate in a marathon.
The Amsterdam Group had been founded in 1983, just in time to catch the tidal wave of leveraged buy-outs that had dominated that decade. From the start, though, Wiley had entertained grander ambitions. Quick profits and a dazzling lifestyle held no interest for him. He wanted longevity and solidity, to be outlived by his creation. He craved a reputation.
He was nauseated by the excess of the Eighties and took genuine pleasure from the fall and disgrace of men like Boesky and Milken. He loathed corporate extravagance. These days, when Wiley took one of Amsterdam's corporate jets, the justification for doing so was always economic; an equation that factored in time and money but not prestige. Not unless prestige itself could be demonstrably converted into dollars and cents.
Amsterdam had been one of the first institutions to recruit former government officials to help deliver commercial patronage in areas under the direct control of federal government. The logic was simple: federal government is where the money is. More than anything, during the Reagan era, that had meant defence. Later, Amsterdam had moved into transport, technology, health care, energy and power, financial services and telecommunications. As the age of the leveraged buy-out imploded, Amsterdam had expanded into Europe, then Asia, recruiting only the most powerful and best-connected people in those regions. Acts of economic alchemy had then followed, transforming those connections into equity.
At ten-forty-five, he took the lift to the ground floor, crossed the marble lobby and entered the Maria Theresia bar. Paul Ellroy was waiting for him, his vast frame squeezed into a fragile nineteenth-century Viennese armchair. In front of him was a small circular table with a candle and the remains of a dry martini. A waiter came to take Wiley's order.
'Any single malt, no ice, still mineral water.'
His only alcoholic vice.
Ellroy ordered another dry martini and then said, 'You just got in?'
Wiley nodded. 'An hour ago. We put down in Paris this afternoon. I lit a few fires on avenue Kléber then we flew here. What's the situation?'
'I spoke to Cabrini earlier. I told him how unhappy we are.'
Wiley looked around the bar for familiar faces and was surprised there weren't any. There were no spare rooms at the Imperial. Petrotech XIX had made sure of that. He'd expected at least one or two to be testing the tolerance of their expense accounts.
'Sayed and Fahad are asking questions. About Paris, about Golitsyn, about what went on in Alsace today. Five dead and one in custody?'
Ellroy was dismissive. 'Don't worry about it. Alsace is dealt with. It's a drugs story now. Turks and Albanians. No one wants to know.'
'What about the one in custody?'
'We've got a lawyer working on it right now. A real hot-shot.'
'And?'
'He's gonna make bail. Once he does, we'll deal with it.'
'The bigger picture is a concern.'
'I appreciate that. And I know it's tight. But we'll deal with that too.'
'You better. After Brand, they're nervous. And I can't say I blame them.'
'Like I said, when it's time to sign, everything will be fine.'
'Where's Reuter now?'
'Best guess: Germany.'
'Best guess?'
'After Sentier she was always going to be kind of … elusive.'
Wiley made no attempt to hide his alarm. 'So she could even be here? In Vienna?'
Ellroy laughed. 'That bitch is a lot of things but she ain't an idiot. Why would she be here? If she knew what was here, she'd make sure she was anywhere else.'
Day Ten
The taxi dropped her on a soulless stretch of Wagramer Strasse; car dealerships, UNO City in the distance, dreary hotels. A piercing wind ruffled the broad Danube. From the outside, Club Nitro lacked promise; a large concrete shack painted deep yellow, with a corrugated iron roof. On top of it was a flashing neon sign: N-TRO. The letter 'I' was broken. The car-park, a patch of rough ground at the rear, was full.
The interior wasn't an improvement but the clientele didn't seem to mind, a curious mix of clubbers, drunks, pimps and pushers. It was very hot, the sour aroma of stale sweat seeping from the structure, cigarette smoke as thick as margarine. There were two bars, both crowded, all the tables taken. Again, Stephanie was surprised; it was such a desolate location. But when she looked more closely, an explanation emerged and brought with it a stab of weariness. Young girls, some beautiful, most bored, and older men, some selling, some buying; the Balkan infection, spreading everywhere unchecked. In the corners, where the management had thoughtfully provided only the dimmest of lighting, deals were swiftly negotiated and concluded.
Stephanie took a stool at the less busy of the two bars. The bartender – almost seven foot tall, a skeleton in a T-shirt with an emerald fuzz mohican – gravitated towards her, ignoring a parade of hands waving euros at him.
'What do you want?' he shouted over a booming Paul Oakenfold track.
'Vodka.'
'And?'
'Vodka.'
'Oh-la-la,' he said, with a surgical lack of enthusiasm. 'You alone?'
'Do I look alone?'
He gave an exaggerated glance over each of her shoulders. 'You shouldn't be. But I don't see anyone with you.'
'Then I guess I'm alone.'
'If you're looking for company I can help.'
'I'm looking for Petra.'
'Who?'
'Petra. About my height, about my build.'
'Don't know her.'
'She's my sister.'
'Still don't know her.'
Stephanie produced a print from the DVD for him. He gave it a cursory glance, then took it for closer inspection into the cone of red light spilling from a spot above the bar.
'She never mentioned a sister.' It was impossible to tell whether he was too stupid to stop himself or simply too bored to carry on with the pretence. 'But I can see the resemblance. What did you call her?'
'What do you call her?'
'Julia. And she's not here.'
'You sure?'
'When she comes in she always says hello to me.'
'Aren't you the lucky one. You work here every night?'
'Six a week.'
'Know where I can find her?'
'That depends.'
'On?'
He offered her a lop-sided smile. The best thing about it were the gaps between the teeth. 'O
n whether you earn your favours the same way your sister does.'
'Hilarious.'
'I'm serious.'
The music changed to some euro hip-hop confection. Stephanie tried to look alluring. 'Well, I'm not her sister for no reason. I'm Maria.'
'Kurt.'
'When was she last here?'
'Three or four days ago.'
'How often does she come?'
'Considering you're her sister you don't seem to know her very well.'
'I don't live here. I live in Hamburg. I haven't seen her for a while.'
'No shit.'
'We fell out.'
'That's her speciality.'
'So, how often?'
'Depends. Sometimes three or four nights a week. Sometimes not for a month. You know how it is.'
They were interrupted by the sound of an empty bottle being smacked repeatedly against the bar. 'Hey, three beers here.'
'Fucking Albanians,' muttered Kurt. 'Monkeys in suits.'
'I need to find her, Kurt. Our mother's sick.'
'She told me her mother died when she was a child.'
Stephanie drilled him a sarcastic smile. 'She also told you her name was Julia.'
He looked left and right. 'I get off at two.'
'I can't wait.'
'Then I can't help you.'
Stephanie leaned across the bar. 'Don't they allow you five minutes for a cigarette break?'
Two minutes later, she was following him down a passage behind the bar. Crates of empty bottles were stacked along one wall the waft of stale beer competing with the urinals for odour supremacy. They entered a cold, cramped storage room by a fire-exit that had been welded shut. Kurt switched on the overhead light, a penetrating fluorescent tube, then closed the door.
Stephanie tried a pout. 'So, Kurt, where can I find her?'
He began to unbutton his khaki cargo pants. 'Afterwards.'
'Why not before? I promise I'll make it better for you.'
'Not a chance. Not if you're really Julia's sister.'
'We may be sisters but we're not the same.'
'In advance or you can fuck off.'
'Oh Kurt …'
Ninety seconds later, Stephanie was back on Wagramer Strasse, letting the freezing air purge Club Nitro from her lungs. Kurt was looking for the remains of two brown teeth on the storage room floor.
It was shortly before two when Stephanie entered their room at the Hotel Lübeck. Newman was asleep beneath the bedspread but above the sheets. His coat was draped over the chair by the window, his shoes and socks on the floor by the radiator. He lay on his side, his face to the far wall. For several moments she watched the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
In the bathroom was evidence of an excursion; a paper bag in the bin and a few items on the glass shelf over the basin. Shaving foam, a razor, toothpaste, a comb, two toothbrushes. The fact that hers was smaller and pink made her giggle. He'd also bought Band-aids, antiseptic cream and sterile tissues. She was touched by the gesture and amused by its inadequacy. The wound ached more than before. The time for makeshift medicine was coming to a close. She did her best to clean and dress the cut.
Newman hadn't drawn the bedroom curtains. Maybe he'd been waiting for her. She went to the window and watched a police car patrol Pelzgasse. She drew the curtains, shrugged off her coat, kicked off her shoes. She wanted to wake him but resisted. They were both short on sleep and she had nothing to say that couldn't wait.
She pulled off her jersey, unfastened the buttons of her jeans, let them drop then stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor. Wearing knickers and a T-shirt, she slipped beneath the sheets. They felt cold and brittle against her skin.
'Robert?' she whispered.
No response.
'Goodnight.'
Newman felt Stephanie shift beside him. He'd been asleep when she'd entered the room. He thought he might have heard her when she was in the bathroom but he wasn't sure. The sounds seemed to be mixed up with the dream he'd been having; he'd imagined he'd heard a faint trace of muffled laughter. Later, he'd been aware of her in the bedroom. Which was when he'd opened his eyes a little. She'd been stepping out of her jeans, her back to him.
He'd felt he should say something. But what, exactly? And perhaps now wasn't the moment, as she undressed for bed. She thought he was asleep so why not fuel the illusion? Besides, morning would bring clarity.
'Robert?'
He almost replied.
'Goodnight,' she whispered.
He mouthed it back to her. Half an hour later he was still awake.
The first thing she became aware of was the weight of his hand. The second was its location: her right thigh. She opened her eyes. He hadn't moved much but she had; she'd crept closer to him in the night, kicking off most of the bedding.
For a while, she lay there, happy for the physical contact. It was seven-fifteen. She could hear traffic outside. Someone walked past their room, whistling tunelessly.
She thought about the kiss on the train. It had felt natural. Now, the following morning, she thought it might feel awkward. It depended on him. For her, there were no regrets, which was a surprise. In their place was a question: what happens now?
When he rolled on to his side, dragging his hand with him, Stephanie got up. She wondered what it was like to lose someone like Rachel. Someone who could cast a twenty-year shadow. Who, in all probability, would cast a shadow as long as Newman lived.
Dorotheergasse, an arrow curve of street favoured by antiques dealers at the heart of the Innere Stadt. The sign above the shop looked decades old but Stephanie knew it was an art effect, a single word in gold German Gothic script on black wood: Kleist.
The shop shimmered. Standard lamps, hanging bowls, table lamps, chandeliers, sconces, candle lights, all of them on. A jungle of light, the dense refracted undergrowth generating a suffocating heat; horizontal surfaces were overgrown with lamp bases, the ceiling masked by vines of cable.
An elderly couple stood by the small table at the back of the shop talking to Bruno Kleist. He'd lost weight in the years since Stephanie had last seen him. Now he was almost as slender as he'd been in the days of the dreaded Stasi. Stephanie had seen photographs of him from that era; athletic-looking, straight dark hair cut short and neatly combed, deep-set hazel eyes.
In his Stasi prime, Kleist had controlled an espionage network that had covered western Europe. Stephanie had been in school at the time. While Kleist had run agents out of Paris and Bonn, Stephanie had smoked stolen cigarettes in the school cloakroom between classes.
At the time of Josef Kanek's assassination in London, Stephanie's main concern had been which boyfriend to choose. Popular Stephen Calder or unpopular Bernd Hass? An easy choice, in the end. Recently arrived at school and German, Hass had been an easy target for the other boys. Going out with him had irritated more of them than Stephanie had expected, which thrilled her. But when it turned out that Hass was a superb footballer, his popularity soared and her interest in him waned. By that time, Bruno Kleist had moved to Moscow for six months to let the Kanek affair blow over.
He'd been one of the Stasi's most effective agents, forging his reputation during the Seventies in Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary, before moving west in 1981. By 1989, few were as well positioned to take advantage of the coming chaos.
Stephanie watched him talking to the couple. His thinning snow-white hair was plastered to a scalp peppered with liver spots. A pair of tortoiseshell half-moon glasses hung from a blue ribbon around his neck.
Nobody from the Stasi had bleached their past from the collective record as thoroughly as Kleist following the collapse of the Communist regime in East Germany. And no former Stasi operative had profited quite so rapaciously in the confused years that followed. Kleist had seen the disintegration coming and had decided not to let three decades of state servitude go to waste. In the final days of the regime, he'd plundered Stasi archives. Not in the manner of a casual looter, though. He'd been mo
re like a surgeon, expertly excising specifically targeted material.
The shop on Dorotheergasse was a retirement gift to himself. A passion indulged. After a lucrative decade in the private sector, Kleist had retired, opting for a quiet life in Vienna, immersed in the consuming love of his life: antique lights.
Since his retirement, Stephanie had visited him on one other occasion. He'd been wary of her at first, knowing her to be a client of Stern's. Stern and Kleist had been competitors, although in vastly different ways. Kleist had always dealt with his clients face to face. None of Stern's clients had ever met him. Kleist's openness had made him vulnerable to the ghosts of the past which, perversely, had worked to his advantage. In the twisted world of the information broker, it had bestowed upon him a reputation for reliability.
I'm an easy man to find.
That had been his catchphrase. In a business where most people hid, Kleist had been happy to stay in the open. It was a gamble that had paid off. Except once, when the past had collided with the present in order to extinguish the future. The doctors treating his bullet wounds hadn't expected him to survive. Six months later, having confounded them, he decided to quit.
The couple thanked Kleist and left. Stephanie stepped forward. Kleist saw her and said, 'I'm sorry but we're closing.'
Not so much as a flicker. As though they'd never met.
She smiled coldly. 'That's not what the sign on the door says.'
'I have to go out.'
'We won't take much of your time.'
'I don't think I have anything you could possibly want.'
'With so many tasteful things in one room? Why don't you let me be the judge of that?' Then, in English, Stephanie said to Newman, 'Lock the door, will you?'
'Please leave,' Kleist snapped.
'Don't worry. We will. Very soon.'
Despite himself, anger succumbed to anxiety. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm a customer, Bruno. Like anyone else who comes through that door.'
He pulled a pained face. 'I think about you, Petra. From time to time. I think how nice it would be to see you again.'
'How touching.'
'Then I remember. And I think no, it wouldn't be. Not at all.'