The Third Woman

by Mark Burnell

  'That's right. So if you're asking me about today, tomorrow or the day after, I can't promise you anything. All I can say is this: as long as the ten million is on the table, we'll get her. Sooner or later. The money is your guarantee. She'll be in an airport somewhere. Or a hotel. Or reading a newspaper in a café. Or just walking down a street, anywhere in the world. And someone will recognize her.'

  There had been no inquisition. No accusations. Rosie had asked for her account of the last ten days and Stephanie had given her an edited version that had been essentially honest. When she'd finished, Rosie had left the room. There'd been no requests for clarification. Stephanie looked at her watch. That had been more than two hours ago.

  Boyd had been with her for some of the time. She'd tried some small talk but he'd been monosyllabic. She remembered that; he was the man who'd taught her to be comfortable with silence. If you've got nothing to say, say nothing at all. On that score, no one had ever had cause to accuse Boyd of hypocrisy.

  First Grotius, then Peltor. She didn't regret killing either of them. For the first time, there was no remorse. None at all. Especially when she thought of Julia. Both men had abused her in their own way. For Julia's sake more than her own, Stephanie took some pleasure from their deaths, which was a truth she found simultaneously alarming and disgusting. But a truth nevertheless.

  Rosie entered the kitchen alone. Stephanie was sitting at the table. She didn't get up. Rosie sat down opposite her and said, 'Nice to see you haven't lost your mental edge, Steph. Hammond was the right card to play.'

  'It was a guess.'

  'I realize that.'

  'Who is he?'

  'A former director of SIS. A consultant for the Amsterdam Group. And a Magenta House trustee.'

  Stephanie frowned. 'A trustee?'

  'It's a nickname. Magenta House was originally established by four senior intelligence officers. Two from SIS, two from MI5. Collectively, they were known as the Edgware Trust, hence trustees. It was their job to oversee Magenta House. To ensure that it stuck to its mandate, to ensure that it had sufficient finance. Only one person within the organization is permitted to know the identities of the trustees. These days, that means me. The original four were Elizabeth Manning, Sir Richard Clere, Maurice Hammond and Alastair Smith. Hammond is the only one left. The other three have been replaced. The original set of trustees set the parameters for Magenta House and then pooled their collective clout to turn it into an operational reality. Of course it was a tiny outfit back then. But no less effective. In some senses, rather more effective. Smaller, leaner, less … cluttered. They set up illegal funding streams and they appointed the first chief.'

  'Alexander.'

  'Exactly. Everyone's personal favourite. He and Hammond were friends. Good friends, going way back. Alexander's background was military intelligence.'

  'So Hammond knew about Berlin?'

  Rosie shifted awkwardly. 'Trustees aren't made aware of operational details for security reasons. The element of distance is a barrier of mutual protection. But Berlin was different. The entire organization was at risk.'

  'Does he know that I killed Alexander?'

  'Yes. He was fully briefed. They were all fully briefed.'

  'What's his position regarding Amsterdam?'

  'He sits on the board of Amsterdam Europe.'

  Stephanie raised an eyebrow. 'You knew this?'

  'Yes.'

  'And that didn't ring an alarm?'

  'In case you've forgotten, the Amsterdam Group is a highly respected financial institution.'

  Rosie was right. She had forgotten. Until now, why would Hammond's appointment have been a reason for concern? If Amsterdam was good enough for former presidents and prime ministers, surely it was good enough for former intelligence mandarins. In the real world that was what Hammond was; a retired SIS director, nothing more.

  'There aren't rules against this?'

  'C would be prohibited from such an appointment but SIS directors are allowed to accept positions in the commercial sector. Hammond has never attempted to make a secret of it.'

  'So that makes this … personal?'

  'I'm afraid it looks that way. On one level, at least. Alexander was a friend of his. It's that simple. That stupid.'

  'But does he know who I really am?'

  'He shouldn't. As a trustee, he's not supposed to have the clearance. But he does.'

  'How's that possible?'

  'It seems Alexander and he were closer than anyone knew. He was able to access Magenta House records right from the start. Hammond was the man who originally nominated Alexander. Now we know why.'

  Stephanie wondered how far the penetration went. 'So you knew about my safe-deposit box at Banque Damiani?'

  'Yes. Even while you were still with us. Alexander spent a lot of time and effort trying to trace your independent identities.'

  'How much do you know?'

  'We've identified the location of six or seven. But we never discovered who created them. That was a source of some irritation to Alexander.'

  Stephanie felt a pulse of relief. That was why Cyril Bradfield had stayed safe. His name hadn't appeared on any of the computer files that she'd found on Grotius's laptop. Files that had originated at Magenta House. There was only one other missing name.

  'Did you ever find out about my money?'

  Rosie smiled. 'No. That was the other thing that used to drive him insane.'

  That explained how Albert Eichner had also remained safe, despite being the man who had steered Stephanie towards Otto Heilmann. Neither Bradfield nor Eichner had made it into a Magenta House file so they'd been beyond Hammond.

  'Hammond sold you out, Stephanie.'

  'And you. Or rather, Magenta House.'

  'Yes. But we can take care of that. What we can't do is get involved with you. It's not our business. You're not one of us any more.'

  There was a Passat waiting for them on Taborstrasse. Boyd sat in the front next to the driver. Stephanie sat in the back with Rosie.

  'Where are we going?'

  'That depends on you.'

  'Where's Robert?'

  'Waiting for us.'

  The car pulled away from the kerb.

  Stephanie said, 'You came after me because of Heilmann, didn't you? It wasn't Brand or Golitsyn, was it?'

  Rosie said, 'We came after you because of DeMille. Because of Amsterdam.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'It's one thing to kill drug-dealers, terrorists, arms-traders or even other intelligence operatives but …'

  'Heilmann was an arms-dealer.'

  'Heilmann was tied to Amsterdam. They're the threat, Stephanie. They're the ones who come after you because they can afford to. We needed to know where you stood in relation to them. Boundaries are disintegrating. National security agencies operate according to a narrowly defined agenda. Corporate giants have a broader perspective, a greater reach and an increased willingness to do whatever is necessary. We had to be sure of two things: first, in order to protect ourselves, that they wouldn't find out who you really are.'

  'And second?'

  'That you weren't working for them.'

  'I killed Heilmann. Remember?'

  'Stranger things have happened. All we knew for certain was that you were operating on the open market. Who pays the most? The people with the most money. It was an unavoidable suspicion. We knew that you'd worked by proxy for the Russian government and that on that occasion you were paid by a Russian oil company – Vyukneft. You see? You'd already set a precedent.'

  They took the A4 Ostautobahn out of Vienna. Stephanie saw signs to the airport and guessed that was their destination.

  Rosie said, 'Hammond is in Paris. He'll be in London next week, as scheduled. He has several meetings there. These days he's something of a grandee and he rather enjoys it. He likes the lunches, the premières. Covent Garden, English Heritage, the National Gallery.'

  'A regular pillar of society.'

  'If h
e arrives in one piece, we'll be taking care of him.'

  'Stroke, heart attack or accident?'

  Rosie's reply was deadpan. 'He's at an age where either of the first two wouldn't be a total surprise. But I thought you might want to speak to him first.'

  'In Paris?'

  She nodded. 'He'll be there until the day after tomorrow.'

  'And if I don't?'

  'You left us after Berlin, Stephanie. We haven't seen you since. Petra's retired. Remember?'

  'How could I forget?'

  'We can put down in Paris on the way to London. You could be there in two hours. Think about it. No documents, no questions. It's just a phone call away.'

  'What about the last week?'

  'It never happened. We just needed to be sure about you.'

  'And are you sure?'

  'Yes.'

  'You wouldn't lie to me, would you? I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.'

  'You will have to look over your shoulder, Stephanie. But not for us. You have my word on that.'

  Vienna-Schwechat airport. The Falcon 2000 was parked a discreet distance from the commercial aircraft, its engines already running. As they climbed the aircraft steps, the pitch of the engines rose. Newman was sitting towards the rear. Before Stephanie had reached him, the door had closed and the wheels were rolling. Rosie and Boyd took seats at the front.

  She held Newman tightly.

  'You okay?' he whispered into her ear.

  'Not really, no.'

  The aircraft taxied to the runway and was cleared for instant take-off. Almost immediately they were in dense pewter cloud. For five minutes the aircraft rolled with the punches, then punctured the gloom and rose into an aquamarine sky.

  'Are you okay?' she asked him.

  'I'm fine. I'm just worried about you.'

  'Don't be. I'll get over it. I always do.'

  'What happens now?'

  'That depends.'

  'On?'

  'Whether you come with me.'

  'Do you want me to?' he asked her.

  'It would be a lot easier if I didn't.'

  'Or if I didn't want to?'

  'Yes.'

  'Trust us to make it difficult.'

  She smiled. 'I know.'

  'Look, Stephanie. I was dying before we met. Slowly but surely.'

  'In luxury, though.'

  'Luxury's an anaesthetic. One way or another, I'd like to spend some time fully conscious.'

  They were over Germany when Rosie made her way to the back of the aircraft and asked to speak to Stephanie. Newman made way for her. As she settled into the tan leather seat she said, 'I can't believe you didn't retire after Berlin, Steph.'

  'Nor can I. Not now.'

  'Why didn't you?'

  'Let's just say it was a mistake I'm not going to repeat.'

  'Because of Newman?'

  'Partly.'

  Rosie grew serious. 'When you step out of this aircraft you're going to be on your own.'

  'I know.'

  'I meant what I said in Vienna. We can't do anything for you.'

  'I realize that.'

  'Is he the running type?'

  'I hope so.'

  'They won't stop, you know. There's too much riding on it.'

  'I know.'

  Rosie looked up the aisle towards Newman. 'You should be alone. For his sake, for your sake. You can't afford the baggage. He'll slow you down.'

  'I know he will.'

  'He doesn't have to get off the plane.'

  'He knows the score. Besides, he's a survivor.'

  'Well, it's up to you. Before you go, there is one more thing.'

  'What?'

  'I know it always bugged you not knowing Alexander's first name.'

  Stephanie nodded. 'It just seemed so pretentious.'

  'Not when you know what it was.'

  'Go on.'

  'Alexander.'

  'Alexander Alexander?'

  Rosie nodded.

  Stephanie said, 'Did he have a middle name?'

  There's a car to meet us at a distant corner of Charles de Gaulle beside an Air France service hangar. An old blue Citroën. By the time I'm next to Robert on the back seat, the aircraft is already moving; there will be no record of it on French soil.

  Five minutes later, we're clear of the airport and heading for the centre of Paris. The driver picks a plastic bag off the front seat and hands it to me. I look inside. A SIG-Sauer P226. Petra Reuter's gun of choice. There's also a small rectangular card with two Parisian addresses on it, both in the 7eme arrondissement, and a photograph of Maurice Hammond. She may be a friend but Rosie is still definitely Magenta House.

  I get the driver to drop us at Gare du Nord. We find an internet café nearby where I post a message to Stern requesting a meeting in the ether at five o'clock. From Gare du Nord we take the Métro to Bastille.

  At five o'clock we enter Web 46 on rue du Roi de Sicilie, which is an internet café I used a few days ago, though it seems far longer.

  > Hello, Oscar.

  > Petra. Even in death you're full of surprises.

  > I'm sorry?

  > You're dead. Didn't you know?

  > Nobody told me.

  > The news will break in about an hour. You were killed late last night in Vienna. The notorious terrorist Petra Reuter – dead at last.

  > What a relief for everyone.

  > Butterfly will be signed tomorrow.

  I stare at the screen; Stern usually has to be prompted.

  > I thought it had been cancelled.

  > Rescheduled.

  > Where and when?

  > 14:00 at the offices of Balthazar Karyo, out at La Défense.

  > Who on earth is

  That's as much as I type before Robert says, 'Scheherazade's lawyer.'

  I delete the half-finished enquiry and stare at him. He waits for the questions that I struggle to contain. One thing at a time, though. I return to Stern.

  > Why's he relevant?

  > He represents the Amsterdam Group's largest private investor.

  Robert says, 'I never knew that.'

  'That she was an Amsterdam investor?'

  'That she was the largest investor.'

  'You never thought to mention this at all?'

  'Scheherazade has investments everywhere.'

  > Scheherazade Zahani?

  > Very good, Petra. If you ever tire of your current line of work, perhaps you'd consider coming to work for me.

  > What am I missing, Oscar?

  > Leonid Golitsyn knew about you.

  I've almost forgotten that the first time I heard that name, it came from Stern.

  > Knew what about me?

  > Who you are. What you are. And why you were being used. Golitsyn knew Zahani. He introduced her to the top people at Amsterdam. Now that you're dead, Butterfly is safe.

  > Unless I turn up.

  > True. But why would you do that? To clear your name? To be frank, I can't think of anything that's likely to enhance your reputation more assuredly than your death. Petra Reuter – you can kill her but you can't stop her.

  They ducked into a café and took a table away from the door. Newman ordered two glasses of red wine.

  'She's the key, Robert. She's Amsterdam's largest investor. She knew Golitsyn and Wiley. She knows you. The basis of her wealth is oil. Butterfly is due to be signed tomorrow under the watchful eye of her lawyer.'

  'I know how it looks.'

  'It's not how it looks. It's how it is. But there's something I still don't understand.'

  'What?'

  'With hindsight, she must have known who I was when I went to see her. Or, at the very least, she must have had a good idea. She could have nailed me and protected her investment; she stands to make a lot of money out of Butterfly. But she chose not to. That doesn't make sense.'

  'I agree. But only if you follow that narrow line of logic.'

  'Meaning?'

  'If she made
the choice to let you go, she will have done it for a reason.'

  'Any idea what that might be?'

  'No. But I will say this: Scheherazade conducts her business the way Omar conducted his. You can't assume that just because she's a major investor with Amsterdam that she wouldn't act in a way that might be detrimental to Amsterdam. That's not how she operates. Her relationships are unilateral. And her relationship with Amsterdam – no matter how much money is involved – may be less important than other relationships she maintains.'

  'A woman of infinite options.'

  'Exactly.'

  The waiter brought their wine and a small carafe of water. Stephanie thought about what Newman had said and tried to tie it to what she already knew.

  'I have an idea,' she said, 'but I'm going to need your help.'

  There was a payphone beside the toilets. Newman dialled the number. Stephanie stood close enough to the receiver to allow her to hear. The call was answered at the fourth ring.

  Newman said, 'It's me.'

  'Robert?'

  Instant recognition.

  'Yes.'

  'Where are you?'

  'Paris.'

  There was a long pause; not what Scheherazade Zahani expected, clearly. She said, 'I've been trying to get hold of you.'

  'I've been out of contact. Look, I need you to do something for me.'

  'Of course. Anything.'

  'Tomorrow morning. A meeting at your apartment. Ten o'clock.'

  'Well … sure. I mean, if you want to come now, we could …'

  'No. Tomorrow at ten. And I want you to invite someone else.'

  Another pause. 'Who?'

  'Gordon Wiley.'

  Her tone changed from concerned to terse. 'What's going on, Robert?'

  'I know he's in Paris. I know about Karyo tomorrow afternoon.'

  Stephanie could almost feel the question that wasn't articulated at the other end of the line: how?

  Newman said, 'Listen to me carefully, Scheherazade. I need you to tell Wiley what I'm going to tell you. Petra Reuter wants to make a deal. She doesn't want to run and she doesn't want to die again.'

  'Robert, come over and we can talk about it.'

  'I can't.'

  'Please, darling …'

  'Trust me. I know what I'm doing.'

  'Those were the exact words Leonid used when I spoke to him the night before he died.'

  'I've got insurance.'