Gemini

by Mark Burnell

  'When are you leaving?'

  'The date isn't fixed. But soon.'

  'Are you still thinking about quitting afterwards?'

  'Definitely.'

  'So everything's fine?'

  She nodded. 'Very much so.'

  He looked at her, saying nothing. With most people Stephanie was the master of silence. Not with Mark. She never had been.

  'You don't believe me, do you?'

  'I believe you're going. And that you'll come back.'

  'And the bit in between?'

  He considered this for a good while. 'Given the choice between not knowing and being lied to, I'd prefer not to know.'

  'And you're happy with that?'

  'I'm happy with you.'

  'But?'

  'But nothing. I've always accepted you as you are, Stephanie. Other people might find that strange. That there are things about you that I don't know. That I don't insist on total disclosure. But it's just the way I am. You're different. I'm different. We strike chords in each other. And if we have to make allowances, we make allowances.'

  'Don't your friends find that odd?'

  'My friends don't know. Nobody knows. It's just us.'

  Stephanie pressed her palms together, then sandwiched them between her thighs. 'The thing is, I'm not sure I could do the same, if our positions were reversed.'

  Mark shrugged. 'But they're not, are they?'

  That was the point. She got up, walked over to him and kissed him. 'Every morning, when I wake up, I look at you and wonder why it's you. And then I give up. Do you know why?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Go on, then.'

  'It's because you don't care why.'

  Inevitably, he was right. The more he diminished Petra, the more Stephanie loved him. It was the calmness. At first she'd mistaken it for indifference. And even arrogance. Later she recognized it as strength. Inner strength, not the show of strength that Petra preferred. Only once had she seen a side of him that could have been attractive to Petra.

  The previous December they'd been mugged in a poorly lit side-street off Battersea Park Road. It was just after nine on a wet Wednesday evening. They were scurrying back to the Saab when three youths emerged from a soggy patch of waste-land fringing a tower-block.

  Stephanie's first reaction was disbelief. It couldn't be happening. Not to her. It was such a cliché: black teenagers with their hoods up and gold around their necks. Her second instinct was to let Petra loose on them. Of the two, that proved harder to contain.

  Knives out, they demanded money and Mark's car keys. The one closest to her was glaring at her, his switch-blade glinting in the wetness. For all of her that was Stephanie, the part of her that was Petra would not allow her to give him the fear that he wanted.

  Mark was handing over his wallet. The one nearest her wanted her watch. Still staring at him, she unfastened the strap.

  Petra was straining at the leash, trembling inside Stephanie.

  She held out the watch. The mugger reached for it. Quite deliberately, she let go of it, her eyes still riveted to his. The watch fell to the pavement. She thought he'd tell her to pick it up. Or take a swipe at her. Instead he spat at her.

  As a spectator, the seconds that followed seemed to play in slow motion. Mark attacked all three of them. Too stunned to be Petra, Stephanie stood by and gawped, helpless and useless. Even when one of them slashed the palm of Mark's hand, she did nothing.

  They never stood a chance. It wasn't really self­-defence. Not after the first blow to the mugger nearest him sprayed shattered teeth into the gurgling gutter. And certainly not later, when the mugger who'd tried to steal Stephanie's watch found himself being propelled face first through a rear passenger window, then hauled back to receive a kick in the balls powerful enough to strain the tendons in Mark's ankle.

  When it was over, he took back his wallet and keys, then picked up her watch. Stephanie was completely speechless. As she should have been. Except it wasn't an act. It was genuine.

  Mark drove them home, his hand wrapped in an oily rag they found in the boot of the Saab. Neither of them said anything. In the kitchen at Queen's Gate Mews, Stephanie examined his hand. She said he should go to hospital. He said he wouldn't.

  'You can't afford to damage your hands, Mark.'

  'Just do what you can.'

  So she did. Afterwards he opened a bottle of Calvados and collected two tumblers from the draining board. An hour later the mist began to lift and the man she knew started to drift back to her.

  He said, 'I should call the police.'

  'What's the point? I mean, we were the ones who were attacked. Let's not forget that. But the way the law works, you'll be the one who gets charged.'

  'If I don't call, I'm no better than they are.'

  'I understand that.'

  'What I did – I shouldn't have …'

  'I understand that too, Mark. And I know that you're not going to be persuaded by notions of natural justice. But hear me out.'

  He drained his glass and poured himself another couple of fingers.

  Stephanie played the fear card. 'If you call the police there'll be a record. Especially if you're charged with something. That means names written down, addresses, phone numbers … they could find out where we are.'

  Reluctantly, he'd relented. And she'd been more grateful than he could possibly have imagined.

  Stephanie shrugged off her leather coat to reveal a lime cut-off singlet that just covered her cosmetic scar but left her stomach exposed.

  Cyril Bradfield said, 'If a daughter of mine dressed like you, I'd ask her what she thought she looked like.'

  'And if a father of mine asked a question like that, I'd ignore it.'

  'I'm sure you would. Tea?'

  'Funny you should ask.' She reached into the plastic bag she was carrying and handed him a box from Jackson's of Piccadilly. 'For you.'

  'Russian Caravan. My favourite.'

  'Of course.'

  'The sweetener before the pill?'

  Stephanie nodded.

  'Where to this time?'

  'The Far East.'

  They took creaking stairs to the attic; the forger's lair or the artist's studio, depending on your point of view.

  'You've been fiddling about.'

  Bradfield worked off two large wooden benches running down the spine of the attic. The shelves on the far side of the room had been rearranged: solvents, inks and adhesives in their own sections, with documents and reference books also partitioned. There were two shelves of photographic make-up, although Bradfield no longer permitted clients to come to his house. With the single exception of Stephanie.

  'What's that machine?'

  There was a dull beige unit on the bench closest to her, next to two lamps fitted with natural daylight bulbs.

  'You didn't see it when you were last here?'

  'No.'

  'I used it on your Mary Reid document. Purchased from E.R. Hoult & Son of Grantham, Lincolnshire. Printers, in case you didn't know.'

  'That doesn't look like a printer.'

  'It isn't. It laminates. And with it I can replicate with absolute precision the way the UK Passport Agency laminates all new passports. Including placing a UKPA watermark over the face of the document holder. Which, as you may have noticed, makes identification harder, not easier. It's connected to my computer so that I can pick up a signature, scan it in and download it to this machine. Then it's lasered onto the page.'

  'Computers, lasers, machines that laminate – you're selling out, Cyril. Where's the art?'

  'In the perfection of the document. As always.'

  He switched on the paint-spattered kettle at the end of the other work bench, tore the seal from the box of tea and took two mugs from the sink.

  'So, the Far East – what do you need?'

  'Nothing too fancy. One to get me there and back, one substitute.'

  'Nationalities?'

  'I'm going direct, so the first can be Britis
h, if that makes life easier. The second can be anything else.'

  'Let's keep it within the European Union, then. German?'

  'Fine.'

  When the kettle had boiled he warmed the brown ceramic teapot before preparing the tea. Then he rolled himself a cigarette from a pouch of Sampson tobacco.

  'The same as usual, is it?'

  Stephanie shook her head. 'Not this time.'

  In the years they'd known each other Stephanie had never actually said what it was that she did. She hadn't needed to. From the start Bradfield had known something of its nature. Why else would she need him? Gradually the full extent of her profession had become clear. Although his feelings for her bordered the paternal, he'd never moralized. Or tried to caution her against it. As fond of each other as they had become, their relationship was built upon professional foundations. The only other 'civilian' who knew of her work was her personal banker in Zurich: Albert Eichner of Guderian Maier. And he differed from Bradfield in one vital respect. In Zurich, with Eichner, she was always Petra, never Stephanie.

  Alexander said, 'As Martin Dassler, Savic has been to Hong Kong seven times in the past year. We know this from immigration records. In that time he's spent nearly nine months there.'

  'What we don't know,' Rosie said, 'is where he's been staying, or what he's been doing. Through the Hong Kong police, S3 has turned up only one Martin Dassler from hotel records: a sixty-five-year old Swiss architect from Lausanne. We've checked and it wasn't him. Dassler has some registered commercial interests in Hong Kong but doesn't seem to lavish much time on them.'

  The Far East was an obvious destination, Stephanie supposed. He'd had contacts in Hong Kong and China for years. Where better to disappear to after the Balkans collapse? With money at his disposal, reincarnation would not have been difficult.

  'Your contact in Hong Kong will be Raymond Chen,' Alexander told her. 'Anything you need, go through him. He's a strange one, but he's one of ours.'

  'Aren't they all? Anyway, I wasn't aware Magenta House ran operatives abroad.'

  Alexander shifted uncomfortably. 'Technically we don't.'

  'Technically? What does that mean?'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'What he means,' Rosie said, 'is that we retain him.'

  Stephanie looked at her, then at Alexander. She was waiting for him to slap her down. She could barely believe what she'd just heard. But he didn't. He just sat there, behind his desk, with his recently clipped snow-white hair and his watery blue eyes, staring at her, never blinking, not moving. The buttons of his double-breasted jacket were still fastened; he looked like a waxwork in a strait-jacket. Not for the first time, Stephanie had the sensation that Alexander had become fossilized, stranded in the amber of the era of the dead-letter drop.

  'You mean you pay him?'

  Suddenly Alexander was reasserting himself. 'What she means is that we look the other way. Chen has a variety of business interests in Hong Kong and over here. From a legal point of view, few of them would tolerate much scrutiny.'

  'What a surprise.'

  'There's a lawyer in Chinatown. Thomas Heung. He has a legal practice on Gerrard Street, on the first floor above a Chinese supermarket. The firm is actually owned by Chen. Heung's a soft touch with an equivalent in Hong Kong, also controlled by Chen. Between the two of them they provide documents for Chinese wishing to come to Britain.'

  'False documents?'

  'On the whole, yes. But for those who can afford it, legal documents are also available.' Alexander gave her the thinnest of smiles. 'As they always have been.'

  Which she knew to be true. There didn't seem much point in arguing about the morality of retaining a contact by contributing to the country's illegal immigration problem. That was the least of Magenta House's ethical crimes.

  Stephanie had already digested Chen's profile, as provided by S3, and had come to the conclusion that she needed a contact of her own. The same anxiety had persuaded her not to mention her meeting with Carleen Attwater. Or Gemini.

  Alexander said, 'We believe the list that David Pearson recovered is incomplete. We believe there may be many more names on it.'

  'Why?'

  'During research, S3 came across some of the names on the list but there were also other names. Same context, different identities, suggesting Pearson's list could be incomplete. We might be talking one, or a dozen …'

  'Or none?'

  'Possibly. But it's wiser to assume the worst. We also believe that there is another list. A reciprocal list, if you like. A list of new identities for the names on the original.'

  She looked at Rosie. 'Do you believe this?'

  'Of course.'

  It was impossible to tell whether she did or didn't. Her tone and expression could not have been more neutral.

  Stephanie turned back to Alexander. 'Assuming I get hold of these names, then what? Is Savic a contract?'

  'Not yet. He's on the Limbo list. Nothing happens to him until we know, one way or the other, about the names.'

  So many lists. Life was a long list of lists. She wondered how many she was on. And whether she was on one or more of Magenta House's. Probably. The Limbo list was rather like a credit rating; you never knew there was a problem with your own status until it was too late.

  'Supposing I find Savic but can't get close.'

  'You'll think of something, I'm sure.'

  'I'm serious.'

  'If all else fails, use your charm.'

  'The way you use comedy?'

  'A man like Savic will always find a use for a woman like Petra.'

  This is the worst part. Before Mark it never bothered me that much. Once I'm Petra I'll be fine. Rosie once compared it to being an actor preparing for a role. She said that once you are performing you become the character. That's not true for me. Petra isn't a role. She's me. And when I'm her I won't have time to worry about Stephanie, which will be a relief.

  We're in Kensington Gardens. It's a beautiful, warm evening. Branches creak and leaves shuffle in the breeze, their tips just beginning to rust. The air cools quickly and has a taste to it, a sure sign of an imminent change in season.

  Mark's arm is around my shoulder. I find its weight reassuring. I'm holding onto his fingers. My hand looks ridiculously small next to his.

  'Will you miss me?' I ask him, immediately regretting it because it makes me sound needy.

  'From time to time.'

  I look up at him. 'From time to time?'

  'Well, I'll be pretty busy, I imagine. Pub crawls, football, poker nights …'

  'Not to mention Cameron Diaz's hip flexor.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Bastard.'

  'Bitch.'

  We stop to kiss.

  We've had an idyllic day: a lazy morning in bed with Bloody Marys for breakfast, lunch at E&O, a restaurant on Blenheim Crescent, then a movie. This evening, when we get home, Mark will cook something simple for me. The wine we drink will be special: Cos d'Estournel 1989. This has become part of the pre-Petra routine. Mark knows how tense I get the night before I leave, even though he has no true idea why. We've never talked about it. We've never had to.

  When I was a child my mother did the vast majority of the cooking at home. Occasionally, though, my father, who was a poor cook, would make my favourite dish, spaghetti bolognese, for us. Except it wasn't for us. It was for me. And he did it when he knew I was upset. He didn't do it for the others when they were upset. Just me. And it was never because I'd made a scene. On the contrary. It was always when I was doing my utmost to hide it. Yet he could always tell. And spaghetti bolognese was his way of putting his arm around my shoulder without letting the others know.

  In the same way, this ritual is Mark's way of letting me know that he knows what I'm feeling, without having to drag it up for discussion. It's understood and understated. Just the way it was with my father. They're the only two who've made me feel this secure.

  It's not the only thing they have in common, either; th
ey both chose healing professions. My father was a doctor. I'd love to be able to tell Mark this. Not that I think it's particularly significant – they're completely different men – but it would be nice for him to be able to put me in proper context. Sadly, that can't happen. At least, not yet.

  I expect my father had private signals for all of us. I don't believe it was just me. I hope it wasn't. It was such an important thing. Then and now. And once he'd gone, those were the moments I missed the most. The little ones. The silly ones. The completely unrepeatable ones.

  Chapter 4

  The clouds began to part. Her face pressed to the window, Claire Davies caught glimpses of Hong Kong beyond the massive, groaning wing: lush green peaks, glass skyscrapers, the polluted waters congested with tankers and tugs. Twelve hours in the rear of a Cathay Pacific 747, half of it turbulent, the taste of recycled air coating her mouth, her skin parched of moisture, yet still there was a frisson of anticipation that bordered pleasure. As Claire Davies, Stephanie was Petra Reuter again.

  Every time she returned to London – to Mark – she was happy to leave Petra behind. But now, as Petra once more, the feeling was back: the suspicion that her alter ego was a superior creature, not just to Stephanie, but to almost anybody. A cyborg, part human, part machine.

  Stephanie's struggle was to be routine. To blend in. To be normal and to be accepted as such. Petra's quest was for perfection. Cold and clinical, devoid of superfluous emotion, uncluttered by conscience. The truth was this: Stephanie enjoyed being herself, but she took pride in being Petra.

  Into the quiet, empty spaces of the cavernous airport at Chek Lap Kok, as great a contrast to the sordid crush of Heathrow as it was possible to imagine within the numbing world of commercial aviation. A sleepy official examined her passport and immigration form: Claire Davies, aged twenty-seven, single, born in London, accountant turned tourist, wearing a plain white T-shirt beneath a tatty denim shirt tied at the waist, a pair of three-quarter-length khaki cotton trousers and black canvas plimsolls. She collected her luggage from the carousel – an old rucksack secured by cheap padlocks with a large peeling sticker on the main flap – G 'Day from Perth, WA – then made her way through customs. She withdrew Hong Kong dollars from an ATM then boarded the Airport Express.