Gemini

by Mark Burnell

  So he'd started to strike deals with other criminal organizations. At the same time he expanded his own. Even as he did this he realized that in the advent of the worst-case scenario he was going to need to reinvent himself. Stephanie didn't bother pursuing the atrocities perpetrated by Inter Milan; they both knew what he meant.

  First he made preparations for himself. Then for those closest to him within Inter Milan. The ones he wanted at his side after the war. It took time and money to source those who could provide documentation – real or forged. Having established the basic network – courier routes, finance, contacts and safe­houses – Savic then simply recognized a commercial opportunity: to extend the service to those who could pay. Or, occasionally, to those who couldn't, but who had something he wanted in return.

  'We called the project Gemini. One face, two names – an only twin.'

  'And where did they go, these solitary twins?'

  'Anywhere. Everywhere.'

  'Give me an idea.'

  'I could name the owner of a car dealership in Atlanta, Georgia. Or a director of a plastics factory in Cubitão, on the outskirts of São Paulo. Or a Brisbane-based airline pilot for Qantas. I can think of four in New York: two investment bankers, a lawyer and a cab driver. There's a cleaner at the British Library in London who runs three crack houses. Or an orthopaedic surgeon in Buenos Aries. Or a dry-cleaner in Chicago. Off the top of my head I could name five restaurant owners: two pizzerias in New York, a sushi bar in Rio de Janeiro, another pizzeria in Cape Town and a steak-house in Frankfurt. Tell me when you've had enough …'

  'How many of them were there?'

  'Fifty-four.'

  'And the details are all in your head?'

  'Yes and no. They are in my head. But they're also written down and locked away. In separate parts, in different places.'

  'So that if anything happens to you …'

  'That makes it sound worse than it is. I don't really need the protection. These people are bound to me in the same way that I am bound to them. We're glued together by history and commerce. It goes beyond the service I provided. On the other hand, it only needs one of them to feel nervous.'

  'Because you're the only one who can link them with their former lives.'

  'Correct.'

  Stephanie smiled ruefully. 'The carrot and the stick.'

  'Exactly.'

  'You said history and commerce.'

  'Gemini is ongoing.'

  'How?'

  'Not on a day-to-day basis. But those who benefited from it have always accepted that they are obligated to it. So, for example, if we have a problem that needs attention in Brazil, I can call Sao Paulo or Rio, and the factory director or the restaurant owner will sort it out. The jobs they have are legitimate and full-time. But so is the debt owed to Gemini.'

  'Tell me about Farhad Shatri.'

  'He was a leading member of the KLA. He was involved with the Homeland Calling fund, too. To be honest, I admired the way those bastards organized that. Very efficient.'

  'I know he's connected somehow to the Albanians who were at the auction.'

  Savic nodded. 'They're family. Albanians are impossible to penetrate because they run their enterprises around a family unit. They take the idea of blood being thicker than water very seriously. The Albanians you saw are cousins of Shatri. I can't say that they were buying directly on his behalf but I can say that he heads the clan.'

  'Why do you need to find him?'

  Savic paused a good while. 'Because there's a list.'

  Stephanie hoped the kick in her chest didn't show. 'What kind of list?'

  'The complete kind. All fifty-four names from Gemini. Who they were, who they are now, plus the people who helped it happen.'

  'How could such a list exist?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Has there ever been such a list?'

  'Not to my knowledge. When I recorded aspects of Gemini I did it in sections. Different areas of the project, recorded in different ways, stored with different people. People who don't know each other. In different walks of life, in different countries.'

  'You don't think there's any way that somebody could have collated the sections to form an overall picture?'

  'Not a chance. I was the only one in a position to do it. And I didn't.'

  'So Farhad Shatri is … lying?'

  Savic shook his head. 'I've seen evidence of part of the list. A scrap of paper with nine names. And I've seen the other half: the new names for the original nine. The tear matches. Both sets of names were on one piece of paper.'

  'Just nine?'

  'The lateral tear ran through the tenth.'

  'And you're sure he has the full list?'

  'The rumour is that he has access to it. He's not in actual possession of it. But he's in a position to negotiate.'

  'So he's not the vendor?'

  Savic smiled humourlessly. 'I wouldn't say that. If he's offering it, there's a ninety-nine per cent chance that he is the vendor. By saying he's not, he discourages someone like me from putting him out of my misery.'

  'If you could find him.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Do any of the people on the list know about it?'

  'No.'

  'And the other people on it, the ones you said had helped it happen – who are they?'

  'Bankers who processed money for us. Government officials who sold blank documents. Police officials and politicians who've taken bribes …'

  'Would Wim Frinck and Else Brandt fall into that category?'

  'Certainly.'

  Stephanie frowned. 'If Shatri is putting this list on the market, how come nobody on the list has heard about it?'

  'It's not an open market.'

  'You think he has potential buyers singled out?'

  'Yes. And not too many.'

  'Who?'

  'Enemies of mine, obviously. Look at it this way: if I was Shatri and in possession of such a list, what would I want from it? Firstly, money. Because Shatri always wants money. Secondly, me out of the way. That would leave a vacuum. In my world a vacuum never lasts long. There would be other pretenders, but Shatri would be well placed to fill it.'

  Zoo station, mid-afternoon, a gun-metal sky overhead, a cold wind whipping functional concrete, glass and steel. Serving long-haul passengers and commuters alike, the station is constantly busy; scurrying locals, ponderous tourists studying city maps, the aimless dispossessed, loitering police. Inside, it's the usual mix of news-stands, fast-food outlets, bars and luggage lockers.

  When I asked why we were coming here, Savic would only say that it was a surprise. Now that we're here I don't find anything surprising at all. It's a depressingly familiar scene, to be found in dozens of cities across Europe. But there's wonder in his eyes.

  'This is where they came.'

  'The fifty-four?'

  He nods. 'Once they'd escaped they made their way to Berlin to be reborn. And this was where it happened. Zoo station.'

  He explains the procedure. Before leaving the Balkans, the runner would be photographed and have information recorded: height, weight, hair colour, eye colour, languages, medical conditions, scars. The information and the runner then took separate paths to Germany. Savic had been smuggling illegal goods into Yugoslavia for years. He was using most of the same routes throughout the war. All that really changed was the cargo: fewer Chinese TVs, more Chinese­-made AK-47s. Those in flight took the same routes in reverse.

  All the elements of Gemini were kept separate for their own protection and for the overall protection of the programme. By the time the runner arrived in Berlin, the photographs and information he'd provided in south-eastern Europe had been transformed into the cornerstone of a new identity. Zoo station was the collection point.

  They arrived in the city with a phone number. One call would yield a contact, the contact would yield a key. And the key would yield a bag, to be collected from the luggage lockers at Zoo station. Whether the runner was destined for Frankfurt or
Buenos Aires, everything necessary was contained within the bag: clothes, money, passport, travel documents, letters of introduction, phone numbers.

  'A completely new start in a bag ,' Savic says with pride. 'And this is where it happened. This is where they passed from one life to the next.'

  An airlock, then. Like my flat at Maclise Road. And like other flats I've known. Or safe-deposit boxes that have contained emergency identities.

  More than Savic, more than any of his fifty-four, I understand what it's like to be stranded between two worlds, between two lives. In that sense I've spent my whole adult life at Zoo station.

  Stephanie called Mark from the Underground as the train sat between stations, west London to either side, a collage of terraced housing, offices and gasworks.

  'I wasn't expecting you back for two or three days.'

  'I wanted to surprise you.'

  'You always do that. I'm well. Look, I'm with a patient at the moment. We'll speak later, okay?'

  'No need to be so abrupt.'

  'Sorry. But I'm running late …'

  'Fine. Bye.'

  She switched off the Siemens and waited for the train to move. The driver apologized for the delay but offered no reason.

  Stephanie ached with fatigue; Petra had given an overnight performance that could have left Savic with no doubt about her plans for both of them. During a stolen weekend in Paris, Komarov had once told her that the reason Russian men tended to treat their women so badly was to compensate for the punishment they took in the bedroom. Stephanie had dismissed that but never forgotten it. And with Savic she'd tried to make it so.

  At one point, with Savic pinned to the bed beneath her, she'd risen and fallen to the phrases she whispered in his ear. 'I'll find him … you'll get what you want from him … then we'll kill him … together.'

  Later, as he tried to sleep, she reached for him again.

  'Please, Petra. No.'

  She'd bitten him on the shoulder. 'You can't say no to me.'

  And he hadn't.

  In the morning, as he watched her dress, he said, 'You're the devil.'

  She'd beamed at the compliment. 'Of course. What did you expect?'

  The carriage was almost empty. There wasn't anyone within earshot. She turned on the Nokia and dialled Magenta House's number.

  'Good morning. Adelphi Travel. My name's Helen. How can I help?'

  'Can I speak to John Brown?'

  'Transferring you now.'

  She waited for the bleep. Then: 'Market-East-1-1-6-4-R-P.'

  In the past her security clearance code had been enough. These days her voice was subjected to instant analysis as an added precaution. Which was fine when it worked. But in February she'd had laryngitis and it hadn't recognized her.

  A minute later Rosie was on the line. 'You've landed?'

  'Landed and stranded. Somewhere near Acton Town, I think.'

  'Lovely.'

  'Should I come straight in?'

  'Yes. S3 has a profile for you. The old man wants to see you afterwards.'

  'The old man? I hope your phone's not bugged.'

  They were in Rosie's office. She was on her computer while Stephanie introduced herself to Farhad Shatri, a former member of the Kosovo Liberation Army. In the early eighties he'd been part of an underground movement based in Pristina that had organized demonstrations and distributed anti-government propaganda. Harassed by the authorities, he fled to Romania in 1982 then to Germany. In 1990 he settled in London and made contact with other dissidents.

  He got a job working for the Caledonian Cab Company, on the junction of Caledonian Road and Gray's Inn Road. By then the KLA were already established as an entity. Pleurat Sejdiu was their London spokesman. By 1995 Shatri was travelling to Kosovo four times a year, via Albania, to make contact with the KLA's 'active' force. Even as late as 1997, that amounted to no more than a hundred and fifty men. At that time there was still no expectation of an uprising.

  Two things changed that. The first of them had already occurred: the Dayton Conference on Bosnia, which took place in November 1995. Before Dayton the Kosovo Albanian leader, Ibrahim Rugova, had advocated a path of passive resistance, believing that moderate behaviour would be rewarded by Western intervention. The Dayton Conference was judged a success because it brought the war in Bosnia to an end. But to the Kosovo Albanians it appeared to prove that Serb aggression had been rewarded and that nobody was going to intercede on their behalf. Consequently, from 1995 onwards the KLA began to agitate for armed struggle. This, however, was not regarded as a serious threat to stability.

  The second event occurred in the spring of 1997, when there was a complete breakdown of law and order in Albania. The descent towards anarchy started with the collapse of the Ponzi schemes. These were pyramid saving plans, which promised enormous rates of interest. Completely unsustainable, the implosion was as inevitable as the fall-out was catastrophic.

  There were riots. The government lost control, the police dissolved, the army fragmented and the mafia consolidated to take advantage. State arsenals were looted. Suddenly Albania was awash with weapons available for free. With no one to constrain them the KLA built up huge stockpiles, an activity partly coordinated by Farhad Shatri, who travelled to Albania just as the discontent was reaching boiling point.

  By December Shatri had moved into Kosovo, becoming a full-time military officer, organizing smuggling parties over the mountains to Albania. bringing in men and weapons as the crisis in Kosovo deepened. Injured twice, he fought to the end, resisting the ethnic cleansing of Serb forces during the retreat, then helping to implement the ethnic cleansing of Kosovo Serbs during the return; initially heroic, subsequently barbaric.

  Alexander had arrived in Rosie's office. So had lunch: a silver tray laden with sandwiches and rolls, a flask of coffee, two bottles of mineral water and a selection of cups and glasses.

  'Ciabatta instead of Mother's Pride? Your budget must be fatter than I imagined.'

  Rosie smiled despite herself.

  Alexander said, 'Savic doesn't think Shatri has the list himself?'

  'He didn't say that. He said it was a possibility. On balance, he thinks Shatri does have the list and is just trying to cover himself.'

  Alexander nodded and looked out of the window, lost in thought.

  'Apart from the biography, what's the deal on Shatri from S3?'

  Rosie finished her mouthful, then said, 'He came back here as soon as the war was over. Others in the KLA chose to stay, but Shatri had too much of a good thing going on here.'

  'Driving cabs?'

  'Not any more. These days he owns the Caledonian Cab Company. And that's the least of his interests. His family are into slum rentals and prostitution. He's a leading figure in the new wave of Albanian criminals who've seized control of London's vice trade. They're running all the walk-ups in Soho now.'

  Alexander was looking at her. As inscrutable as he was, she had a pretty good idea what he was thinking. Do you remember them, Stephanie? Or rather, Lisa. That was the name you used back then, wasn't it? Rosie had been right when she'd said it was something he'd always have over her. He lit a Rothmans, still staring at her.

  'What now?' she asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. 'For you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Nothing.'

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Rosie frowning at him. He didn't see it. Couldn't see it. Because he was still staring at her.

  After Magenta House, she dropped Petra's things at Maclise Road then walked to Queen's Gate Mews, taking advantage of a cold and blustery afternoon.

  Alexander hadn't forgiven her for Waxman or Cheung. That was the conclusion she'd come to, but she wasn't sure about the primary reason. Was it the loss of the asset, or the fact that she'd acted independently? One thing was certain in Stephanie's mind: she was no longer on the inside. In the past, despite their mutual antipathy, Alexander had kept Stephanie at the core of Magenta House.

  She was being side
lined. Rosie had denied it emphatically, when Stephanie had asked her, once Alexander had gone.

  'You're being paranoid.'

  'That doesn't mean I'm wrong.'

  Alexander had expressly stated this: she was not to pursue Farhad Shatri. When she'd asked why, he'd said there were other sections within Magenta House that were better suited to the task. She couldn't deny that. But the manner in which he said it carried a subtext. Either Rosie had missed it or she wasn't being honest.

  If she was being frozen out, what would that mean? An easy end to her Magenta House career? Or a technical failure to meet her obligations giving Alexander the opportunity to rescind their agreement?

  It was half past five when she reached Queen's Gate Mews. Mark wasn't back from work. She made tea, kicked off her shoes and lay on the sofa for half an hour. She thought about Komarov. About the first time they'd made love in New York, and how startled she'd been by his tattoos, as they undressed. The first time she made love with Mark, in their hotel in the Dolomites, had been equally startling. But not because of the way he looked. Because of the way he made her feel. More than pleasure, it was security. A complete stranger, and he'd made her feel safe. Being naked with him had seemed entirely natural.

  She had a bath. It was almost seven when he returned. Stephanie was still wrapped in a towel, her skin pink from the wet heat.

  He kissed her. 'I didn't mean to sound rude earlier. But I was way behind. Appointments stacking up like aircraft over Heathrow.'

  Stephanie cast off her towel. 'Well, you can make it up to me now.'

  'I'd love to but I can't. Not tonight.'

  'Why not?'

  'I'm going out. And I'm already late.'

  'Where?'

  'To the RGS with Larry, Michael and Karel. Oh, and Nobby.'

  Some of Mark's climbing friends. A different crowd to the rest of his friends. In that sense he was similar to Stephanie: two distinct aspects to his life, both kept well apart from the other.