The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 16
‘What about Amsterdam?’
‘They’re the business manifestation of his political philosophy.’
‘How’s that?’
‘More than one member of the Amsterdam board is a member of the APF. Or the Potomac Institute, which is another influential think-tank. So they’re political. But they’re military too; they own Kincaid Pearson Merriweather, one of the largest defence contractors in the US.’
‘And what about oil?’
‘They have a powerful energy sector. And they’re into all the sectors that oil-rich states invest in. Then there are Amsterdam’s private investors: you can’t just walk off the street and ask them to invest fifty thousand here or a hundred thousand there. As a private client, you have to be invited to invest with the Amsterdam Group. And that means you have to be very rich.’
‘Oil-rich?’
‘Precisely. So there’s another relationship: Amsterdam, the Iron Triangle, the oil industry. There’s an obvious synergy to it.’
‘Because the current US administration is run by oil interests?’
‘When four percent of the world’s population burns a quarter of the world’s oil I think it’s fair to say that every US administration is run by oil interests.’
I take a baguette from the paper bag on the counter, tear it in two and offer him half. He asks for butter, which I fetch from the fridge. Then I pass him a knife. It never occurs to me that he will use it for anything other than buttering the bread. Of course, he’s cuffed, but forty-eight hours ago—or even twenty-four—I wouldn’t have been so blasé. We’re evolving.
‘And your position in all this,’ I say, ‘how did that come about?’
‘Through Scheherazade Zahani’s husband.’
‘The Saudi oil billionaire?’
He nods. ‘I used to work for him. I know about Amsterdam because he was one of their first investors. He knew Gordon Wiley from way back. He made a lot of money out of Amsterdam.’
‘Who’s Gordon Wiley?’
‘One of Amsterdam’s founders.’
‘Is Scheherazade Zahani an investor today?’
‘I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised. She inherited everything from her husband. Including his investments. Of course she’s a very shrewd investor in her own right so she may have had other ideas since then.’
I lean against the oven and fold my arms. ‘This all sounds like one gigantic conspiracy theory.’
He smiles at the suggestion; he’s heard it before. ‘It does, doesn’t it? But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’
‘What’s your view?’
He shrugs. ‘I know these people. I meet them in Washington. I meet them in Riyadh. In Jakarta and Shanghai. They don’t care about anything except money.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m the same. That’s how I know.’
Even as he says it, I find two reasons not to believe him: the fact that he says it at all, and the fact I can tell there’s something more important that he’s not saying.
‘Doesn’t the climate change?’
He looks puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Depending on the presidency.’
‘You mean Republican or Democrat?’
‘Yes.’
‘It makes no difference.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because America’s not a democracy. It’s a plutocracy. Whichever party gets its candidate into the White House, they’re still going to be surrounded by many of the same people. The same power people with the same agenda.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Well, they have a vision about the way the world should be run in the twenty-first century. They believe it should be run their way. The American way. They regard the twenty-first century as an American century.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though you agree with that.’
‘The twentieth century was America’s century. I don’t know who the twenty-first century will belong to—China or India, maybe—but it won’t be America. Empires are like innovations in technology; the next version is quicker than the last version. The Roman Empire—several hundred years. The British Empire—at its height, say, one hundred years. The Soviet Empire—about seventy. America’s already in decline. It just doesn’t know it yet.’
DAY SIX
NEW YORK CITY, 01:45
Steven Mathis was asleep in one of the two cots in the sleeping area. Helen Ito was at her desk but John Cabrini wasn’t sure she was awake, even though he could see that her eyes were open.
Cabrini was familiar with this. During his years with the NSA he’d run many operations where hours had slurred into days. Within the sterile operating suites of Crypto City, nights had ceased to exist in a world of artificial light. In those days he’d lived off green tea and taurine tablets.
He enjoyed the sense of dislocation that came with this kind of work. To him, it was no more perverse than pulling a day-shift at a pizza parlour in Harlem; both environments felt equally surreal.
On the screens in front of him were the names. All in Europe, all unaware but available, some retained, others independent, all through the books of DeMille. It was twelve hours since his lunch with Gordon Wiley. In that time, there had been no sign of Petra Reuter. Not a single trace.
Inevitably, this had led to doubts. Perhaps she’d left Paris. But Cabrini was reluctant to believe this. He’d had access to an SIS file from London. Their profile suggested she would lie low, wait for the worst of the aftermath to pass, then try to gather as much information as possible, before performing one of two executions: the source, or an exit. In that order of preference.
Patience under pressure, the mark of a professional—looking through the SIS document one thing was clear: Reuter wasn’t prone to panic. Which was why Cabrini was convinced that she was still in Paris, even though it was almost four days since the Sentier bomb. He’d hoped to locate and terminate Petra Reuter using an in-house DeMille team before the French authorities got to her. Or anyone else, for that matter. But that hadn’t happened and it was now more than forty-eight hours since Leonid Golitsyn’s death.
Cabrini had spent much of his life fighting distant wars from sealed control suites, for the government, then for corporate America. There were similarities—methods of operation, the physical dislocation that made brutal choices and costly mistakes so much easier to make—and there were differences. The largest of these was in regulation. In the corporate world, there was no serious threat of judicial enquiry, no threat of congressional review. When necessary, an operation could be shifted to a neutral territory. Or out-sourced. Cumbersome notions of legality were bypassed in the interest of more practical concerns. This extended to the free-market recruitment of independents, allowing contracts on individuals to be put out to tender.
Time to widen the net.
* * *
Newman looked incredulous. ‘You want me to do what?’
‘I want you to arrange for me to meet Scheherazade Zahani.’
‘No way.’
‘It’s not a request.’
‘Why would she agree to see you?’
‘Because you’ll ask her.’
‘I don’t know her well enough to do that.’
‘That’s not how it looked the other night at the Lancaster. The two of you seemed close.’
Newman was lying on a mattress in the spare bedroom. Stephanie had dragged it off one of the two beds in the room. He had a pillow and a blanket. The leather cuff was attached by its chain to the radiator. The new arrangement had allowed him to sleep overnight. Stephanie had slept on the bed closest to the door but had only managed two hours’ sleep.
She’d spent most of the night in thought. Zahani’s husband had been one of the Amsterdam Group’s original private investors. Golitsyn had also had some kind of connection to Amsterdam. And both had been at the Lancaster. As had Newman. She’d thought about him at the bar. Then with Zahani. Then in the Audi, coming up the car-park ramp. She still couldn’t convince herself that it was a coincidence. Or that it wasn’t.
Newman said, ‘I’d need a reason.’
‘So think of one. But I’m going to see her one way or the other. Do it my way and I give you my word that no harm will come to her.’
He stared at her for several seconds. ‘Bitch.’
‘I know.’
When the time came they went into his office. His mobile phone was on his desk. He put it on speaker-phone.
‘Go ahead. Dial the number.’ As Newman reached forward, Stephanie added: ‘Her private number.’
Scheherazade Zahani answered at the fourth ring. ‘Robert. How are you? You got my message.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know about Leonid?’
‘I only just heard. I’m not in Paris.’
‘Where are you?’
‘New York. I’ve been out of reach.’
One lie, one truth; Stephanie could hardly tell the difference.
‘God, what time is it with you?’
‘Two-thirty. I just got in.’
‘Living the Manhattan high-life?’
‘If only…’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘With some old friends.’
Another quicksilver lie.
‘You never mentioned New York the other night.’
‘It was last-minute. Something came up. You know how it is.’
‘So secretive, Robert.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
Zahani laughed softly. ‘Very true, very true. When are you coming back?’
‘I’m not sure. A few days.’
‘Have the police been in contact?’
Instinctively, Newman and Stephanie glanced at each other. Stephanie made a circular motion with her finger to encourage him to continue.
Newman nodded and said, ‘No. Why? Have they been in contact with you?’
‘Yes. Well through Balthazar, actually…’
Newman mouthed the word ‘lawyer’ to Stephanie. ‘What did they want?’
‘Just a few questions. To see whether I could assist them with anything. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.’
Stephanie prompted him again.
‘Did you say you’d seen me?’
Zahani paused. ‘No.’
‘They haven’t left a message for me yet. I better call them when I get back.’
‘You better call me too.’
‘I will. We’ll have dinner.’
‘I look forward to it. I can’t tell you how much this has unsettled me.’
‘It’s a great shock,’ Newman confirmed.
‘Thank you for calling, Robert. You better get some sleep.’
‘Before I do, the real reason I phoned: I have a favour to ask.’
* * *
Résidence Sienne was a dreary tower-block on Place de Vénétie, east of avenue d’Italie. The square itself was small and mostly concrete. Patches of grass and asthmatic trees were cast into shade by the surrounding high-rises. The entrance was cramped between a laundromat and a Vietnamese restaurant. Stephanie spoke into an entry-phone that crackled with static.
‘I’m here to see Étienne Lorenz.’
‘The elevator doors don’t open on the fourteenth. Go to the fifteenth and walk down.’
The skinny man who opened the door was wearing a lime-green poncho, black leather trousers with large silver studs down each leg and a pair of aviator Ray-Bans. He smelt of dope and dirt.
‘Étienne Lorenz?’
‘He’s asleep.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Pico. You?’
‘He agreed to see me.’
‘Today?’
Stephanie nodded. ‘Now.’
Pico led her to a living-room at the rear. Stephanie looked out of the window at Place de Vénétie. She watched people scuttle in and out of the large supermarket, its garish scarlet and blue neon providing the only brightness on a dismal morning.
She heard movement behind her and turned round. He wore a dark grey towelling dressing-gown over pale grey skin. He yawned, scratched his genitals through the dressing-gown, then looked at her properly.
And was astonished.
His eyes widened, over-exposing two bloodshot whites. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, the surprise mutated into curiosity before subsiding into something inscrutable. Stephanie watched the transformation without comment. She’d always favoured tactical silences.
Étienne Lorenz patted both pockets fruitlessly before finding a pack of Merit cigarettes on the smoked-glass table. He lit one, coughed furiously, wiped the tears from his eyes, then took two drags as deep into his lungs as he could.
Stephanie wondered how Lorenz had ever drifted into Leonid Golitsyn’s refined orbit.
‘Have we met?’
She shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
‘I’m asking, cutie.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He glanced at Pico, who’d entered the room and was leaning against the wall by the door. ‘She doesn’t think so.’
Pico smiled. He had two gold teeth. The rest were brown.
Étienne Lorenz’s initial shock now dissolved into sly pleasure. ‘Well, well, cutie—how come you knew the old man?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Ever meet any of his friends?’
A strange question, Stephanie felt, but she played it straight. ‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I think I’d remember.’
‘How about modelling?’
‘What?’
‘Ever done any modelling?’
‘Very funny.’
‘I’m serious. You look fit.’
‘I am fit.’
‘You should think about it. With a little work on your face…’
Pico sniggered in the corner.
Stephanie said, ‘I’m sure we’re all busy so why don’t we get on with it?’
Lorenz shrugged, mimicking disappointment. ‘Okay. Just asking. Want some coffee?’
‘Only if you’re making some.’
The kitchen opened on to a small balcony that was fully occupied by a ferocious fila brasileira with a stainless-steel choke-collar. The moment the dog saw Stephanie it started barking, pressing its face against the glass door, which shuddered under the assault.
‘Easy, Giselle,’ Lorenz murmured, before turning to Stephanie with a grin. ‘Just as well you’re a friend, no?’
Stephanie smiled lamely. ‘So, what line of work are you in?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘I’m a photographer. I thought you were at the studio yesterday.’
‘Could’ve been an artist’s studio.’
‘In a way, it is. I’m a photographic artist. Mostly.’
‘Mostly?’
‘I have other business interests. Commercial property, cheap rentals. I got a couple of cafés along avenue d’Italie and a share in two nightclubs. One over in Montreuil, one in Saint-Denis.’
‘A busy man.’
‘That’s why I have people working for me, cutie.’
‘People like Pico over there?’
‘Pico knows things about Paris that nobody else knows.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘In answer to your question, I’m an entrepreneur. An impresario.’
‘Run out of this very impressive office?’
Lorenz spun round, the good humour gone. ‘This is my home, cutie.’
‘Sorry. I hadn’t realized you were the sensitive type.’
He waved the insult aside, his mood swinging back, just as wildly. ‘My office is on the other side of the périphérique, in Kremlin-Bicêtre.’
Pico loitered in the doorway, rolling a cigarette with crooked fingers. Although she was now sitting still, Giselle continued to growl on the other side of the glass, pools of glossy saliva forming on the concrete directly beneath her mouth.
When the water had boiled Lorenz poured it into the cafetière. ‘You don’t look like the sort of bitch who’d be a friend of the old man’s.’
‘Nor do you.’
‘That’s because I only met him once and it was business. This business…’
‘Since you’ve raised the subject … shall we?’
Lorenz reached into his dressing-gown pocket and produced a DVD in a see-through plastic wallet. He smirked at her. ‘Here. Enjoy it.’
She took it and followed him back into the living-room. There were no markings of any kind. ‘This is it?’
‘What were you expecting? Ninety minutes of 70mm in a can?’
Stephanie put the disk in her pocket.
Lorenz began to depress the cafetière’s plunger. ‘You have something for me?’
She handed him a five-euro note, two euro coins and a fifty-cent piece. ‘Seven fifty, right?’
‘Hilarious,’ he sneered. ‘Now where is it?’
‘That was the price we agreed.’
‘Seven thousand five hundred, cutie.’
‘Are you out of your mind? It’s a DVD.’
He stuck out his hand. ‘Okay. Give it back.’
‘Take the money, Étienne. And be grateful.’
She feinted to her left. Pico’s wild lunge from behind missed her and his momentum threw him off balance. Stephanie caught him with a reverse sweep of her right arm, the elbow clattering into his teeth. There was a loud crack. And then he went down.
Lorenz jumped back. ‘Merde!’
Pico cupped his face. Blood dribbled between his fingers.
‘Not on the floor, Pico! The carpet’s new. Get off the floor!’
Lorenz charged at her. Stephanie leapt out of his way, grabbed the cafetière and swung it at him. It shattered, throwing hot coffee over him.
Trapped on the kitchen balcony, Giselle started howling. Stephanie could hear her thumping the glass door. Lorenz was trying to wave coffee off his scalded hands. Pico was crawling off the carpet on to linoleum tiles, leaving blood and tooth chips in his wake.
Stephanie stepped over him and said to Lorenz, ‘Keep the change.’
