The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  AMERICAN POWER EXPORTED:

  THE AXIS OF CAPITAL

  A question came from the floor. Has the current US administration been hijacked? The moderator looked to Weil. 'Elizabeth, as a member of the Potomac Institute, I think this one might be for you.'

  She nodded graciously. 'I thought so.' She peered into the audience in the general direction of the enquiry. 'The simple answer is: of course not. The fact is, the president of the United States does reflect some of our thoughts. That much is true. But that doesn't mean that we're feeding them to him. It doesn't even mean that he arrives at his conclusions the way we arrive at ours. Contrary to what a lot of people would like to believe, no one has hijacked this presidency. Or the last presidency. Or even the presidency before that. No one's been brainwashed. There's no conspiracy. I'm sorry to disappoint you.'

  Newman prodded Stephanie in the ribs. 'See the guy down there. Third from the front, just off centre, with two spare seats to his right.'

  She couldn't see him clearly because of the distance and the people in between but she saw who Newman meant. 'Yes?'

  'Kenneth Kincaid of Kincaid Pearson Merriweather.'

  'The KPM Family.'

  Newman nodded. 'Owned by Amsterdam. Owners of DeMille.'

  Ron Walsh was saying. 'The point is, every time America gets into trouble overseas, the administration in Washington tends to reduce the problem to a single dimension. Usually, good versus tyranny. The reality is – and always is – much more complex.'

  'That's not necessarily true,' insisted Richard Rhinehart. 'Look at Bosnia. Nobody did anything until we did. The rest of the world looked the other way. We don't do that and people don't like it. We were right to intervene in Bosnia and history will prove that we were right to intervene in Iraq. What's more, if we intervene again, you can be sure that history will prove us right again.'

  There was mild astonishment on every face Stephanie could see.

  Walsh smelt an opportunity. 'Like where, Richard?'

  Rhinehart, Stephanie realized, hadn't made a mistake. No matter how provocative, he'd meant to say it. 'Let's wait and see.'

  'Syria?' Walsh prompted.

  Rhinehart shrugged. 'Who knows?'

  'Iran? Saudi Arabia, perhaps?'

  'Time will tell.'

  Stephanie remembered something Newman had said of Kenneth Kincaid in Paris. A friend of this president, the last president, every president. She leaned forward to get a better look at him. A small, compact man in a dark brown suit, with grey hair razored to a fuzz and an eagle's beak nose. He radiated ferocity.

  Stephanie scanned the auditorium and wondered why Leonid Golitsyn had intended to be present. To meet with Kincaid, perhaps. Or Rhinehart. Except that Golitsyn was a man who could meet anybody anywhere at any time. So why here?

  The next question came from the audience. 'Your views, Mr Rhinehart, are backed by wealthy corporations, large media companies, billionaire entrepreneurs. How can you defend yourself against the central accusation of this debate, which is that you're not exporting democracy but capitalism?'

  'I hadn't realized it was an accusation. I was under the impression that it was a topic for open discussion.'

  Laughter rippled through the auditorium.

  'Very clever, Mr Rhinehart. But why don't you try answering the question?'

  'Okay. It's not true.'

  More laughter.

  But the man stayed standing, determined to have satisfaction. 'I'm glad you find it so funny. But to me, and to many others here, that only serves to underline the arrogance we've come to associate with people like you.'

  That seemed to hit a nerve. Rhinehart sat up straight in his chair. 'Look, most of the people you want to put in this bracket have historical roots on the left. They were democrats. Are democrats. Not the traditional breeding ground of capitalism I'm sure even you would agree.'

  Elizabeth Weil took up the issue when Rhinehart had finished. She pre-empted her answer with the same dazzling smile she'd employed so effectively at the Hotel Bristol. 'We don't want to rule the world. We're not trying to force everyone to live the way we live. All we do is think about the way things are and then try to come up with ideas to make them better. Now if those ideas end up as government policy, that's great. That's why we're here.'

  'Even if those policies make other governments nervous?' Maria Montero asked.

  'Well, there does come a point where we have to stand by our beliefs.'

  'No matter what?'

  Weil was still smiling but the warmth had gone. 'Look, Maria, let me say this: we'll behave in the way we know to be right. And we'll explain our ideas in a way that is open and honest. And if people don't get it, we'll try again. We don't want anyone to misunderstand us. But if they still don't get it – or won't get it – then that's too bad. And if that means there are some people in certain parts of the world who have to live in a state of anxiety … well, I guess they're just going to have to get used to that.'

  Out of the corner of her eye Stephanie saw Kincaid moving. A younger man had appeared and they were murmuring to one another. She couldn't see clearly because his body was half turned from her but there was something about him that looked familiar.

  'Kincaid's getting up,' she whispered to Newman.

  The men headed for their nearest exit which was on the far side of the hall. Instinctively, Stephanie found herself rising to her feet.

  'Where are you going?'

  'I'm not sure … there's just something I need to …'

  She could only see their backs now. But the harder she looked the more persuaded she was. She left the hall and searched for the stairs up to the ground floor. At the top of the steps Yellow Level was as busy as when they'd entered. She stood at the centre of it and cast her gaze in a circle.

  Newman appeared at her side. 'What is it?'

  'Can you see them? Where are they?'

  With the advantage of height it didn't take him long. 'Over there. Outside. Kincaid's talking to … hang on … it's Wiley.'

  'Gordon Wiley?'

  'Yes. And there's another guy …'

  Stephanie cut through the crowd, skirting the huge Areva stand. Through the throng she caught dappled glimpses of the heads of KPM and the Amsterdam Group standing beside two limousines, a stretch black Mercedes and a silver Lexus. She moved into the foyer, Newman close behind.

  She didn't go out into the drizzle. Instead, she watched them through glass; Gordon Wiley and Kenneth Kincaid in animated conversation. It didn't last long. Thirty seconds, perhaps. Then Wiley turned his back on Kincaid as the third man held open the back door of the Mercedes for him. Wiley climbed in. Kincaid headed for the Lexus. The third man closed the Mercedes door and opened the front passenger door. He took a last look around before getting in, which was when Stephanie saw him clearly.

  The Mercedes crossed the Brigittenauer Bridge and joined Handelskai. Gordon Wiley sat alone on the back seat, partitioned from the two men in front by a glass screen. He made two calls. The first was to a mobile phone in Vienna, the second to a landline in Paris.

  Half an hour later, the Mercedes drew to a halt outside the main entrance to the Central Cemetery on Simmeringer Hauptstrasse. Wiley got out of the car, wrapped a navy cashmere scarf around his throat and pulled on a dark grey overcoat. The sky was a swirling mix of cloud and dusk, the icy drizzle almost sleet. All in all, conditions to match his mood. And not just his.

  They met at the impressive Fritz Wotruba cube marking Arnold Schönberg's grave. Azzam Fahad of the Iraqi oil ministry was wearing a sable hat. A gift from Moscow, Wiley guessed. Azzam had been a regular visitor for thirty years.

  'You gave us assurances, Gordon.'

  'I know. And they were given in good faith.'

  'You promised us this matter would be concluded by today. Perhaps you don't appreciate the pressure we're under in Baghdad.'

  'That isn't true.'

  'It's a delicate time. And a delicate idea.'

  'No one i
s more aware of that than I am, Azzam.'

  'Then why are we meeting? It's over.'

  'I'm freezing. Let's walk a little.'

  They circled the Presidential Vault containing the remains of Dr Karl Renner and then strolled around Dr Karl-Lueger-Kirche. The cemetery was quiet and they were almost alone.

  Wiley said, 'Everything is going to be okay.'

  'It's too late.'

  'I'm asking for an extension.'

  'What's the point?'

  'The matter is being concluded as we speak.'

  'She's dead?'

  'Not yet. But she'll be on the news tomorrow morning.'

  'It was supposed to be on the news the morning after Paris. She was supposed to be with Brand. That was the whole point, wasn't it?'

  Wiley winced. 'I know it's late in the day but we're going to pull through. You have my word on it, Azzam. Which is why I want to reschedule.'

  'For tomorrow?'

  'The day after.'

  'Why the delay?'

  'So that you can see the evidence for yourself. So that you can be sure.'

  'I thought you said it would be on the news in the morning.'

  'It will be – the fact that she's dead. But I'm also talking about her and Brand.'

  Azzam Fahad stopped walking to consider it. Eventually, he said, 'Where?'

  'Paris.'

  Azzam said, 'You should know that we've kept all our options open. At every stage of our negotiation with you, we've actively considered alternatives.'

  'I wouldn't have expected anything else.'

  'We have people lined up to replace you, Gordon.'

  Wiley resisted the instinct to ask for names. 'There's nobody out there who can put this together the way we can. We both know that.'

  'Not as a single entity, perhaps. But broken into pieces – it can be done. Quite easily, as a matter of fact.'

  Wiley tried to manufacture a smile. 'In that case, I guess it's up to us to make sure it never gets to that.'

  Azzam nodded. 'Paris, then. Where and when?'

  They parted at the arcades, close to the memorial for the miner August Zang.

  I'm alone in the drizzle on Bruno-Kreisky-Platz, outside the Austria Center, trying to put the pieces together. The man holding open the Mercedes door for Gordon Wiley was Roland, my part-time lover in Brussels. Can it really be only ten days since I woke up in his apartment overlooking avenue Louise? It seems much longer.

  Mentally, I rewind and play. Roland entered Hall D and spoke to Kenneth Kincaid. They left together. Outside the Austria Center, Roland gravitated to Gordon Wiley, leaving in the same car as him. I'm guessing that Wiley sent Roland into the convention hall to bring Kincaid out. What does that make him – a messenger boy? Why not? That would explain a lot. The blown cover of Marianne Bernard would make sense. Even though I allowed him almost no access to my life, Roland knew enough to form a starting point. After that I presume it was easy. Perhaps it wasn't even him. Perhaps he just pointed others in the right direction. Perhaps he was left to get on with what he did best: nourishing my sexual appetite. Knickers down, defences down.

  I feel like crying. At my own stupidity. My arrogance. What was I thinking? But there's more to it than that. Despite the cold, cavalier nature of our arrangement, I feel betrayed. Almost violated. There's not much justification for this feeling; after all, it's not as though I invested any trust in Roland.

  Perhaps it's because I thought he cared. And now it appears that he cared even less than I did. For me, it was simply a matter of cheap pleasure. And some of that pleasure was to be found in the idea that Roland actually felt something for me. For her, for Marianne. Now, however, it seems I was just a work detail, a shift on the factory floor.

  I remember the last time I spoke to Roland. It was shortly before I left his apartment the morning after my return from Turkmenistan. I was dressed, he was still in bed. He was looking at me in a curious way so I asked him what he was thinking. He replied, 'That I went to bed with one person and woke up with another.'

  And I said, 'I know the feeling.'

  Robert appears at my side. He doesn't ask what's wrong. He just puts his arm around my shoulder and says, 'Let's get out of here.'

  They didn't talk much on the U-Bahn. At Stephansplatz, Newman phoned the Imperial and tried to get through to Gordon Wiley's suite. Stephanie stood close by, trying to clear her head.

  'It's over,' he told her.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Wiley's gone.'

  The Butterfly signing had been scheduled for six in Wiley's hotel suite.

  Newman said, 'He checked out. Wherever he was heading in the Merc, it wasn't back to the Imperial. Maybe Stern got it wrong.'

  'Or Wiley changed his plans.'

  'Could be.'

  'So what now?'

  'I don't know. Maybe we should go and check.'

  Stephanie felt drained. 'You go. I'm going back to the hotel.'

  'You okay?'

  'I'll be fine. I just need to be alone. I've got to think.'

  She took the U-Bahn as far as Zieglergasse and walked the rest. The spectre of Roland lingered. His participation explained how many subsequent events had occurred but not why.

  She checked for messages at the Lübeck's front desk but there were none. Still no word from Julia. She took the stairs to the second floor. In their room, she kicked the door shut with her heel, shrugged off her jacket and stepped out of her shoes.

  'Don't make me do anything we'd both regret.'

  She recognized the voice. Iain Boyd.

  She said, 'I'm guessing it's a little late for that.'

  'Turn round. Slowly.'

  The familiar features came into view; ruddy, weather-beaten skin, thick blonde hair cut short, square shoulders. He wore a black jacket by The North Face, a pair of jeans and scuffed walking boots. She looked at the gun.

  'A Glock 17. When in Austria …?'

  'Don't bother. I'm not in the mood, Stephanie.'

  'How are you, Iain?'

  His eyes were flint. 'Surprised. Angry. Disappointed.'

  'Sorry to hear that.'

  'Where's your friend?'

  'He'll be back soon.'

  There was a pause while Boyd decided whether she was lying. 'I never thought it would come to this. Not after all I did for you.'

  'How'd you find me?'

  'You mean, apart from following the trail of corpses you've been leaving all over Europe? We've had Kleist under surveillance for three days.'

  'We haven't been here for three days.'

  'Christ, Stephanie, wake up. They're ahead of you. When you dropped the decoy at Lyon they looked the other way. After Obernai they knew you were heading for the border into Germany. That you were going east.'

  'They? Aren't you one of them?'

  'Don't get lippy with me. Sit down.'

  'Where?'

  'End of the bed.'

  He'd cleared a space. When she and Newman had left the room the bag had been on the bed. Now it was in the corner by the table, its contents in a pile on the carpet. As she sat down he crossed the floor to the window, drew the curtains, then stood with his back to the wall. The invisible thread from the Glock's tip to the centre of her chest never faltered as he moved.

  'They guessed you'd head for Vienna so they checked to see who you knew here. Kleist.'

  'How did they guess? I could have kept going. Romania, Russia. Anywhere between here and the Bering Straits.'

  'I've no idea. I'm just the bullet. But they knew. And as usual they were right. Unlike your usual trick – Stern – Kleist is still an easy man to find.'

  'Very funny.'

  'I wish it was.'

  'How many Magenta House people are here?'

  'Four. Including the boss.'

  'Rosie?'

  'To you, perhaps.'

  'I thought you'd retired, Iain.'

  'They brought me back for you. Against my will. She thinks I'm the only one who can talk you down. T
he alternative is less complicated.'

  'Then I suppose I should be grateful to you.'

  'I nearly said no. Sorry, can't be arsed, send someone else. You'd be dead by now.'

  'Not necessarily. You trained me.'

  'Drop it, will you? This isn't a joke, Stephanie.'

  'I was set up.'

  'I don't care.'

  'I don't believe that.'

  'They don't care.'

  'But what about you?'

  'It doesn't matter what I think.'

  'So why are you here?'

  'You've got to come in.'

  'To Magenta House?'

  Boyd nodded. 'For debriefing.'

  'I don't work for them any more.'

  'Grow up, Stephanie.'

  'They'll kill me.'

  'They'll kill you if you don't. That's for sure.'

  'You mean you'll kill me.'

  He looked at her. Pained and resolved in equal measure. They'd had something once. But that wouldn't matter to Boyd. He'd take no pleasure from it at the moment of execution but, in years to come, he'd be able to rationalize it; the culling of a sick specimen to protect the overall health of the population.

  Stephanie thought of Julia and the prints she'd seen at the Verbinski clinic.

  'I can't come in, Iain.'

  'Then you'll make a dead man happy.'

  Alexander. Always a good card to play.

  She said, 'I don't trust you.'

  'You're going to have to do better than that.'

  'Think for yourself. You know me.'

  'Not any more.'

  In a corner of her mind an idea had lingered: that Boyd would always be there for her somehow. More than anyone, he'd created Petra but he'd also been the man who'd resurrected Stephanie. A far greater achievement, in both their eyes.

  'I need time, Iain.'

  'If it was up to me …'

  'Not days. Hours.'

  He shook his head. 'You know the way it works.'

  'Do they know you've found me yet?'

  'They know where I am.'

  'But you haven't contacted them since I walked in here.'