by Mark Burnell
'Aren't there some Kosovar places on Hobrechtstrasse?'
'I know. It's a little too convenient. Maybe it's just someone adding two and two to get five. Let me deal with it. I'll let you know.'
Shardov says, 'I owe that bastard a good kick in the balls.'
Frinck looks surprised. Savic shoots Shardov a warning glance that the police official misses. So does Else Brandt. But I don't.
Shardov lets Savic explain. 'Aslan was in Hamburg. There was a small problem and he had to leave earlier than expected. That's all.'
The new bottle makes a timely intervention. It's trivial chit-chat until the cork has been popped and our glasses are brimming. Then Savic steers the conversation towards business and I find myself thinking about the Slovene reject. Will she end up greasing the poles in Club 151 in East Tsim Sha Tsui? I doubt it. Not attractive enough for that crowd. But she'll have plenty of Chinese customers who will pay much more for her than for far prettier Chinese girls.
I've known so many like her. Maybe she has a violent father and a broken mother. Or a father who vanished when she was young. Or a mother more interested in drugs and other men than her daughter. The reasons are never that different, the outcome is almost always the same. I have a strong mental image of the Slovene's mother: small, dark-haired, tired eyes, a chain-smoker, she's clinging to the lie her daughter told her – that she's a waitress in Berlin. Soon it'll be Hong Kong. Wherever, whatever.
It doesn't make any difference whether the girls come from Carlisle or Minsk. They're on the run and very few of them would go back, given the chance. For most, prostitution is better than what they've left behind.
I look around the restaurant, avoiding eye-contact with everyone at my table. By force of will I push their contaminated conversation into the background. Other diners are coming to the end of their evening. The place resonates with a pleasant hum; it's the murmur of the self-satisfied. Rosy cheeks glisten in dimmed light, fawning waiters collect platinum credit cards. The last of the cognac swirls around the bottom of huge glass balloons. Cigar smoke hangs like low cloud, obfuscating the ceiling.
He's looking at me.
I look away. Because I'm avoiding eye-contact. Except he's not at my table. He's at a table by the window at the back, almost in shadow.
When I look back he's still looking at me. Except it's more than that. He's staring at me. Again, I look away. In a heart beat my mouth turns to dust while my palms turn to liquid.
I look back. It can't be true, I tell myself. But it is. It's him.
Konstantin Komarov.
Chapter 11
In the cloakroom, she stood in front of the mirror, shaking. Komarov. In Berlin. In this restaurant. She took a deep breath. Could shock leave a scar?
You look like you've seen a ghost.
Which was exactly what he should have been. That was the arrangement. Or, at least, a clause within it: no contact between them and he stays alive. Alexander had insisted on that and she knew why. One of them had to die. Without him, it was her.
Apart, there had been times when he might as well have been dead. Which, in turn, had left her dead on the inside. But she knew where he lived, the places he went, the things he did. She could close her eyes and be with him. Eating at Aragvi. Or with the children at the former state orphanage in Izmailovo that he'd bought. And to which she had contributed.
Time had eased the ache. At first she hadn't believed it would. She thought he'd be different. But working for Magenta House dulled the senses. Slowly he'd slipped away, the passing months softening the focus of memory. Until, eventually, she stumbled across Mark, and Komarov was relegated from active to archive.
She opened the cloakroom door. He was standing outside. 'Stephanie.'
For most of the time they'd been together she'd been Petra. It was only after he was gone she'd realized that when she'd been with him she'd been Stephanie all along.
'What are you doing here?' she asked.
'Eating. Although, in my case, alone.'
'I mean, in Berlin.'
'What are you doing here?'
He was in a grey single-breasted suit, a white shirt, open at the neck, black shoes. She guessed the suit was either a Canali or a Brioni. Probably Brioni. That was what he'd always favoured. She recognized the watch. It was the same Breitling he'd been wearing in New York, the first time they met.
'Oh God, Kostya …'
'Am I safe?'
'Can we talk?'
'Yes.'
'Tomorrow?'
'No. I'm going back to Moscow. It has to be tonight.'
She ran a hand through her hair. 'When I saw you I thought I was hallucinating. What are the chances of this?'
He shrugged. 'It's a coincidence. That's all.'
'Alexander says a coincidence is an oversight.'
'What else does he say?'
She closed her eyes for a moment. 'We do need to talk.'
'Come to my hotel.'
Four words that produced a very peculiar sensation in her stomach.
'I need to go back to my table.'
'Afterwards.'
'Where are you staying?'
'Just on the other side of Pariser Platz. At the Adlon. It's a minute's walk from here. What's so funny?'
The smile took her by surprise. 'I'm staying in this weird little place on Pariser Strasse and you're staying on Pariser Platz.'
'What would Alexander say about that? Another coincidence, another oversight?'
'No. He'd say that two coincidences are a conspiracy.'
Five minutes later, back at her table, her mobile rang. She answered it. Komarov said nothing, as agreed. Stephanie nodded, chose Russian for a few murmured phrases of no significance, then terminated the call.
She rose from the table. I'm sorry but you're going to have to excuse me.'
Wim Frinck said, 'Nothing bad, I hope.'
'Not bad, just urgent.'
Savic rose too, putting on a face for their benefit – nothing unusual, no need to worry – then followed her across the restaurant. He didn't say anything until they were out of view. 'What's going on?'
'I have to leave.'
'Where are you going?'
'It's work.'
She collected her coat and pulled it on.
'You have to leave right now?'
Stephanie turned to face him. 'This is what happens. It's who I am. When a client needs me, I go.'
'And what if I need you?'
'You're not a client.'
'If I was?'
'That would be different. That would be business.'
He glanced at his watch. 'It's quarter to midnight …'
'It's quarter to midnight here. Most of my clients aren't even based in this time zone. And there's certainly no reason for them to expect me to be in it. I could be anywhere. I'm on call twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, Milan. I have to be ready to go anywhere in the world at a moment's notice. I told you – I'm not good at being confined.'
He held up his hands in defence. 'Okay, okay.'
'I thought we were starting something special. I hope I wasn't wrong. Because if you want a regular lover you'd better go back to the pneumatic blondes. You're not going to change me.'
It was five past midnight when Komarov opened his door to her. She hesitated for a second. What am I doing here? Then she entered, brushing his sleeve on her way past. He closed the door and followed her into the room.
For a second or two they stood there, not knowing what to do. A hug, perhaps, or even a kiss on the cheek? Could they risk that?
'Would you like a drink?'
'Oh yes.'
There was a bottle of cabernet sauvignon on his desk, already open, two glasses beside it. He poured for both of them.
Stephanie wasn't sure she could detect any changes in him. She recognized the small scar above the mouth. And she knew what lay beneath the shirt. A physique that was hard to the touch and a shock to the eye. The tattoos he'd
acquired during the years he'd lost to the brutal prisons of the Soviet penal system covered most of his body. Predominantly blue and green, his torso had been a piece of sculpted jade.
'How are you, Stephanie?'
What a question. It was the way most civilized conversations started. But, as ever, it was never that simple for them. She could give him the civilized answer, of course. I'm well. How about you? But they'd never done that to each other because they'd never had the luxury of time. Some things, it seemed, never changed.
'I'm a mess. You?'
'Right now? Confused.'
'Thank God.'
'You want to go first?'
Stephanie cupped her glass between both hands. 'No. You go first. Tell me how it's been.'
'It's been okay.'
'Really?'
'Actually, no. Not really. Sometimes it's been okay, sometimes not. When I think about you it's difficult. When I don't it's easier. That's the truth.'
'I'm sorry.'
'When I worry about you I worry about myself.'
That made sense. 'I'm sorry about that as well.'
'I often wonder where you are, what you're doing. Who you're doing it to. Because I know that if anything happens to you, my protection evaporates. I won't hear about it – not unless you make the papers – which means that one day somebody is going to appear out of the blue and I'll be dead. Chances are, I won't see it coming, but it's a strange sensation. Like knowing that you have a fatal gene defect. It lies dormant but it's always with you. It's part of you. And sooner or later it'll become active and that'll be that. No warning, nothing.'
She bit her lip, then decided to do the wrong thing and tell him. 'Maybe not.'
'Maybe not what?'
'When you asked whether you were safe, I said no. But I wasn't being entirely honest. There's a chance you could be. Not now, but soon.'
'Go on.'
'Alexander might let me go.'
'Why?'
'I don't really know. But if he does, you'll be free.'
'Are you sure?'
'It was part of the deal we made.'
'Will he stick to it?'
She paused. 'He gave me his word.'
They both knew that wasn't an answer.
'What do you have to do?'
Another pause, this one longer. 'Does it matter?'
She could see that he wanted to say that it did. But he restrained himself, then changed the subject. 'That looked like an interesting table at the restaurant.'
'Christ, don't …'
'The woman – I've seen her before. Here in Berlin.'
'She works in the mayor's office. Else Brandt.'
'And the man to your left – I've seen him somewhere too.'
Stephanie flinched. 'Where?'
'I'm not sure. Who is he?'
'Here, in Berlin, he's Martin Dassler. In Marrakech he was Lars Andersen.'
Marrakech sparked something in Komarov. He struggled with it for several seconds, then shook his head.
She said, 'He's a Serb. Milan Savic.'
'Yes … I thought I recognized him.'
Stephanie's heart sank. 'You know him?'
'No. But I know an associate of his. That's why Marrakech rang a bell. Maxim Mostovoi?'
Now she wasn't sure what she felt. Relief, certainly, that Komarov hadn't been contaminated by Savic's acquaintance, but what was she to make of the Mostovoi connection?
'How do you know Mostovoi?'
He shifted awkwardly. 'Through business.'
'How well do you know him?'
'Well enough.'
'What's he like?'
'Max? He's an animal But everyone loves him.'
Gavin Taylor at Frontier News had said something similar.
Komarov said, 'Okay. This is what he's like. A couple of years ago he decided he wanted to go on safari. You know that he does a lot of business in Africa?'
'Yes.'
'So he books this place in Botswana. A five-star camp in the bush. Total luxury in virgin wilderness. Max pays for the whole place, which can take about thirty or forty people. Except he's going with three or four friends and a dozen hookers.'
'Classy.'
'That's Max. When the time comes, he flies every one down in one of his planes. They take the best wines, a sand dune of coke, tons of caviar. By day Max and his friends go into the bush, looking for wildlife, while the girls sit around getting a tan. At night the wildlife is inside the camp. Everyone's getting drunk – the way only Russians can – and doing staggering quantities of coke. Then it's sex until dawn with these top-of-the-line hookers before going out again a couple of hours later. Say what you like about Max, you can't deny his stamina.
'The owner of the camp and all his staff, they've never seen or heard anything like it. They don't know whether to be appalled or just amazed. They're wilder than the animals they've paid to come and see. But they're also charming. They're fun. And they treat the people looking after them with respect. Also, they're paying way over the odds for all of this.
'Then the owner's little boy – he's about six or seven – gets a nasty eye-injury. Something really serious. The owner decides he must drive to the nearest town to get it treated. Which is fine because he's got competent staff who can easily take care of Max and his friends. Except that Max gets to hear about the boy. When he sees how distressed he is, he insists on flying father and son to the town. It'll be quicker, he says. And, on second thoughts, they better make sure he gets the right attention. He makes some calls and finds out the name of the best eye-doctor in southern Africa. Turns out the man they need is based in Johannesburg. So, in no time at all, the plane is fuelled and Max is flying the father and son to Johannesburg. But it's the weekend; the eye-doctor is playing golf. While they're flying, Max gets a connection to this man's cellphone – he's actually on the fairway when it rings – and speaks to him directly. It takes about two minutes to persuade him to take the case.'
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. 'Persuade?'
'Money, not menace. He says to the doctor, I'll pay twice your going rate. The doctor's making enough money to say no. Max says, fine, what's the one thing your business could use that you don't have? The doctor comes up with the name of some piece of specialist equipment. Max tells him that he'll have it as soon as it can be delivered and he's going to pay three times the doctor's rate. The doctor meets them off the aircraft, they go to the hospital, the boy gets treated and the sight in his eye is saved. If he'd been taken anywhere else, he'd have lost it. After the operation Max sits up all night with the father, at the boy's bedside. The father, overcome with gratitude, suggests he might want to return to the camp. He says they can make other arrangements for his son now that the worst is over. Max declines. He waits in Johannesburg until the boy's pronounced fit to travel Then they all fly back to the camp together. From that moment on there wasn't anyone – father, son, staff, even the hookers – who wouldn't have walked over broken glass for him. That's Max: the girls, the drugs, the gun-running, the smuggling of conflict diamonds, the man who takes the time to look after the boy rather than just write the cheque. It wasn't a stunt, Stephanie. That's who he is.'
She nodded slowly, then said, very softly, 'I almost killed him.'
'I know. Marrakech. He told me.'
'When?'
'About a month later. In Moscow. That was the last time I saw him.'
'Do you know where he is now?'
'No.'
'Or where he was headed?'
'He didn't say. Are you still after him?'
She shook her head. 'His contract was suspended.'
'Why?'
'I was never told.'
Komarov lit a cigarette. 'Tell me about Savic.'
A request that sent a shudder of sobriety through her. 'A Balkan war criminal. He ran a Serb paramilitary unit in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo …'
Komarov nodded. 'Inter Milan.'
'You know this?'
'We're quite sophisticated
in Moscow these days. Our newspapers do more than report on Ukrainian wheat yields. What's your interest in him?'
'Need you ask?'
'I mean, what's the reason?' She hesitated. Then felt ashamed. He noticed both the pause and the reaction. 'It doesn't matter. Go on.'
'Apparently he established an escape network for other war criminals.'
'Apparently?'
'I haven't come across any evidence of a network. Have you met Savic?'
Now it was Komarov's turn to hesitate. 'Actually, yes.'
'With Mostovoi?'
'No.'
Stephanie's skin began to tingle. 'Where?'
'In Moscow.'
'How?'
'Through a business associate of his.'
'Who?'
'Sabine Freisinger.'
Freisinger; the name belonging to Savic's apartment. The first name had resonance, too. Sabine. It was something Savic had said to her. It took a moment to download it from the memory. I don't have anyone. I did, for a while. Sabine – we were both in Germany. They'd been drinking at 1/5 on Star Street in Wan Chai. He'd gone on to say that when Sabine had moved to Moscow it had been the perfect opportunity to end it.
'Yes, he's mentioned her before. They had a relationship here.'
'So I've heard.'
'Do you mind me asking what kind of business you were doing?'
The frown formed slowly, keeping pace, perhaps, with the dawning realization of her ignorance. 'You don't know who she is, do you?'
'He only mentioned her once. And it was just Sabine. He didn't tell me her surname.'
'Sabine Freisinger is Dragica Maric.'
In an evening of surprises, this is the knock-out punch.
Dragica Maric.
First and foremost, a Serb. Also, one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. When I first saw her she was Natalya Markova, a Russian trophy girlfriend draped over the arm of a Russian gangster. We were in a casino in Atlantic City. The last time I saw her was also in the United States. In New York.
In the perverse parallel universe in which Petra exists, all of this begins to make some kind of sense. We were in a dimly lit passage in the decaying ruin of the Somerset Hotel on West 54th Street. She made me sink to my knees. She stood behind me, pointed a gun at my head and prepared to fire.