The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 20
DAY SEVEN
It’s five-to-six and the hot-water pipes are creaking. I watch the DVD again on his computer with the sound muted. It’s me, it’s her, it’s me again. She’s so like me, the differences no more than marginal, it would take close inspection to tell us apart. I look at Anders Brand. Is it him? Or is he a fake too?
‘Hey. What’re you looking at?’
He’s standing in the doorway, still drowsy.
‘Nothing,’ I blurt, as I thrust my mouse towards the stop icon. I miss it, hit the mute icon—which reintroduces sound—and then frantically try again. All I succeed in doing is drawing attention to myself. The sound of the DVD drive ejecting the disk fills the silence between us. As I pick it out of the tray I say, ‘By the end of today I’ll be gone.’
A remark designed to deflect that also happens to be true.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Does it matter? I’ll be out of your hair. You can have your life back.’
‘I thought that happened already.’
‘You can have all of it back.’
‘Maybe I don’t want all of it back.’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘What’s changed?’
‘Almost nothing. That’s why I have to go.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘I can’t stay here for ever.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘Tonight. I have two people I need to see first.’
He rubs his face, trying to shed the remains of sleep. ‘Well, this is … abrupt. What do I do?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘And today? I mean, are you going to cuff me again when you go out? Or are we past that? And if we are, what can I do? TV but no phone? Computer but no Internet? Free movement but don’t open the door or go on to the balcony?’
Good point. And not something I’ve considered. Perhaps I should cuff him. If I don’t, does it matter what I say?
‘After all, you’re still the boss,’ he reminds me. ‘Aren’t you?’
* * *
She crossed the périphérique to Kremlin-Bicêtre at Porte d’Italie, the grumble of traffic rising up from the congested lanes beneath her. Stephanie doubted Kremlin-Bicêtre looked any better in dazzling sunshine. Not a fresh face to be seen anywhere, cheap shops lining avenue de Fontainebleau: Balkan phonecard booths; north-African clothing stores; Resto Istanbul, a Turkish sandwich shop. On rue du Général Leclerc Stephanie glanced over her shoulder and saw the tower-blocks of Place de Vénétie, east of avenue d’Italie. A fifteen-minute walk away but she doubted Étienne Lorenz ever made the journey on foot.
The building was at the junction with rue de 14 juillet, four storeys rising from the L’ambassade brasserie, a newsagent, and a toy shop with windows opaque with dust. Stephanie walked past the entrance twice, loitered outside La Maison du Couscous to check for muscle, then went inside. She climbed a staircase missing half its banisters. The door on the top floor had no buzzer so she hammered the zinc sheet bolted to it. There was a sign beside it: Zénith Production SA.
Pico was still wearing his lime poncho, wraparound sunglasses and studded leather trousers. His split lip was badly swollen. A blast of hot, sour air washed over Stephanie, driven by the amplified pulse of Busta Rhymes.
‘I’m here to see Étienne.’
If he was angry, it didn’t show. In fact, she wasn’t sure he recognized her. Which, after a moment’s thought, was only a partial surprise. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Of course he’s here. You’re here.’
‘He didn’t say you were coming.’
The sudden absence of two teeth lent his voice a peculiar whistle.
‘Sure he did,’ Stephanie retorted, pulling the Smith & Wesson Sigma out of her coat. ‘Here’s my invitation.’
Pico took two steps back. Stephanie made a circle with a finger. He turned round and led the way down a narrow passage; purple drapes on the walls, red light bulbs overhead, dope fumes corrupting the air.
Lorenz’s office was pure pimp; two black leather sofas, a kidney-shaped desk made of smoked glass on a chrome frame, three zebra skin rugs on the floor. A massive entertainment system filled one corner. Behind the desk, the window had been boarded over and painted silver. On either side were two large panes of glass over a selection of VHS and DVD covers, naked starlets prominent in all of them. Half the titles were in French, the others in English or German.
Lorenz looked relaxed in a tilting chair of squashy tan leather, his feet on the desk. He was wearing crocodile-skin cowboy boots. A can of Diet Coke sat beside two copulating gnomes carved out of ebony.
He played it as cool as he could. ‘Hey, cutie…’
He was trying to roll a joint with burnt fingers. The boiling coffee had left livid raspberry patches over the backs of his hands. He picked up the remote and lowered the volume a little but the sound was still loud enough to rumble through her.
Stephanie looked around for the fila brasileira with the foaming jaws. ‘Where’s Giselle, Étienne?’
‘At home. That’s where I keep all my bitches.’
Stephanie sighed. ‘Oh, Étienne, please. Normally I don’t shoot dumb animals. But in your case I might be open to persuasion.’
Lorenz bristled with bravado. ‘You here to bring me the rest of my money?’
She gazed at the framed covers and shook her head sadly. ‘Étienne Lorenz, porn producer. I missed that before, when you were running through your long list of business interests.’
‘I like to keep different areas of business separate. Anyway, I’m not a porn producer, cutie. I make motion pictures.’ He patted a pile of manuscripts on the desk to emphasize the point. ‘Some of them have a high erotic content, it’s true. But I do other stuff too.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. Horror, thrillers…’
Stephanie looked at the VHS covers again. ‘Virgin Bodyguards III—that would be a thriller, would it?’
‘An erotic thriller, yes.’
‘And Star Whores: the Phallic Menace—what would that be, exactly?’
‘The same. An erotic adventure. In outer space.’
‘Jesus, Étienne. If it’s got a tail and it barks, it’s a dog.’
‘What?’
‘Forget it. Tell me about the disk.’
‘What can I say? You’ve seen it, right? It’s all on the screen. Wall-to-wall fucking, cutie.’
She prodded Pico in the ribs and told him to sit on the sofa closest to Lorenz, who now leaned forward into the upright position.
‘Where was it filmed?’
‘The George V.’
‘The hotel?’
‘No. The monastery. Of course the hotel. In one of the suites.’
‘Who arranged it?’
Lorenz shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the guy who paid me got me in there the day before to set up the cameras. Said he wanted a real smooth job.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Look, cutie, what’s the problem? You wanted the disk. You got the disk.’
‘I said, who was he?’
‘Never saw him before. A big bastard. Spoke like a flushing toilet.’
‘Not French?’
‘Not unless he was putting it on.’
‘Nationality?’
‘How would I know, cutie?’
‘You couldn’t tell from the accent?’
‘Do I look like an expert?’
‘Why did Golitsyn have your number?’
Lorenz cocked his head to one side. ‘How come you have it? That’s the real question.’ He pointed at her accusingly, ash falling into his lap from the tip of the joint. ‘Maybe you had something to do with his death, huh?’
Stephanie thrust the gun at him sharply. ‘How badly do you want to find out?’
Lorenz squirmed but Pico didn’t react. Behind the lenses, Stephanie envisaged pin-hole pupils.
‘Okay, okay,’ muttered Lorenz, ‘take it easy, cutie.’
‘Don’t call me cutie.’
‘How about bitch?’
‘Much better.’
‘What do you want, anyway? You got everything for nothing.’
‘Did Golitsyn organize it?’
Lorenz sniggered. ‘No way. He just wanted the disk.’
‘Why would he want a copy?’
‘A copy? He wanted the original.’
‘And this is the original?’
Lorenz shook his head.
Stephanie saw the predictable truth. ‘But he thought it was.’
‘Right. Dumb Russian bastard.’
The CD changed. On came David Holmes, All Bow Down to the Exit Sign.
‘Who has the original?’
‘I don’t know. The big man, I guess. I had to send the original to an address in Vienna.’
‘What was the name?’
‘No name, just a box number.’
‘And you did that? No questions asked?’
‘No questions asked.’
She shook her head. ‘A maggot like you always has an angle. That’s why you lied to Golitsyn.’
‘Golitsyn I could lie to. But not this one. He said he’d be able to tell if it was the original or not.’
‘Yet you made a copy.’
‘I always make copies. Two, generally. One for insurance, one for the right opportunity.’
‘Which was what Golitsyn was?’
‘Right.’
Lorenz took a deep drag from the joint, held it in his lungs as long as possible, then exhaled slowly. He offered it to Stephanie. When she declined, he passed it to Pico.
‘Who was the black girl?’
‘Angeline.’
He let the name hang between them, hoping it would be enough.
‘Don’t stop now, Étienne. You’re on a roll.’
‘Just a girl I know.’
‘Personally or professionally?’
Lorenz grabbed his crotch. ‘Both.’
Pico giggled, then lapsed into a creaking cough.
‘An easily pleased woman, then,’ Stephanie said. ‘What about the other one?’
Lorenz scowled. ‘You mean the bitch who looks exactly like you?’
They traded stares for a moment.
‘Étienne,’ she hissed, ‘do yourself a favour: don’t.’
Her tone was sharp enough to puncture him, his sigh an act of deflation. ‘I didn’t know her. It was the first time I’d worked with her.’
‘Local?’
‘No. Not French. But she was staying here.’
Stephanie arched an eyebrow. ‘Here with you?’
‘No. In Paris.’
‘Where?’
‘Stalingrad. That’s what she said. Somewhere around avenue de Flandre, I think. She never gave me the address.’
Stephanie pursued the inference. ‘But you asked for it.’
Lorenz shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not? We went out for a couple of drinks. We had a good time.’ The sick smile returned. ‘Anyway, you saw for yourself. She’s a natural. She could fuck a man to death and he’d die grinning. I thought we might do business together.’
‘Business?’
Another shrug. ‘And pleasure. In my line of work business is pleasure.’
Stephanie winced. ‘You’re a class act, Étienne.’
‘I wish I could say the same about you.’
‘You said she was staying in Paris. Where’d she come from?’
‘Vienna.’
A mistake, she saw, the confession too swift for caution.
‘The same place you sent the original disk.’
‘A coincidence.’
‘Really? Did she give you a number?’
‘No.’
‘An address?’
‘No.’
‘How were you supposed to get in touch?’
‘I wasn’t. She didn’t want to see me.’
‘I thought you went out. I thought you had a good time.’
‘I had a good time, cutie,’ he confirmed, before attempting a look of sorrow. ‘But she didn’t. So…’
Stephanie fired the gun three times, once after each word: where—is—she?
The front of the amplifier dissolved into a shower of sparks and black plastic splinters. Lorenz kicked back, the chair skipping across the floor until it clattered against the board over the window. Pico still didn’t move.
‘Crazy bitch!’ screeched Lorenz.
‘I told you not to call me cutie.’ Stephanie stepped forward and pointed the gun at his head. ‘I’m not going to ask politely next time. Where can I find her?’
‘Club Nitro.’
‘In Vienna?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know her real name.’
Through clenched teeth, Stephanie muttered, ‘I’m losing my fucking patience, Étienne.’
‘She said to call her Petra.’
* * *
Stephanie said, ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’
‘I can’t pretend that I was surprised by your call. I had the feeling we would see each other again. Although I’d rather hoped we wouldn’t.’
She wore a black suit and black shoes. On the left lapel of her jacket was a large brooch, a swirl of square-cut emeralds framed by diamonds. Stephanie couldn’t help but stare at it.
‘The Spirit of Mercury,’ Natalya Ginzburg said. ‘A piece originally designed by my husband for Audrey Hepburn.’ She was sitting in the chair closest to the window overlooking Place Vendôme. ‘I’d foolishly imagined that you might do the right thing and disappear. You’ll need to be brief. I don’t have much time.’
‘I’m wondering if Anders Brand would have regarded Golitsyn as a confidant. I know they were very close; you said so yourself.’
‘This was your idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘So not Scheherazade Zahani’s, then?’
Stephanie couldn’t disguise her surprise.
Natalya Ginzburg said, ‘I hear more than I should. My husband, Aleksandr, was a peddler of precious stones but he also traded in a commodity far more valuable: information.’
‘As did Golitsyn.’
‘Precisely. And as I have, in my own small way.’
Stephanie said the first thing to come to mind. ‘Do you know Stern?’
‘I know of him, naturally. But I’ve never met him. At least, not to my knowledge.’
‘Well, he told me this: Golitsyn floats above the world.’
Ginzburg raised an eyebrow traced in pencil. ‘Did he? Not bad for a man with so little panache. Perhaps even accurate. When was this?’
‘Four days ago.’
Ginzburg looked as though she was recalling a time far more distant. ‘Leonid lived among people for whom the normal rules don’t apply. They’re too rich to pay tax. They live in too many houses to have a home. They leave the constraints of the law to those who can’t afford the best lawyers.’
‘Do you float above the world too?’
The smile was cold. ‘I prefer to think of myself as someone who occupies a unique and solitary environment.’
‘You said you hear more than you should. What have you heard about the Sentier bomb? Or Brand. Or even Golitsyn.’
She sighed theatrically. ‘Assuming for a moment that you find the answers to your questions—a rather rash assumption, I feel—what will you do with them? How will they benefit you?’
‘I want to know the reason why.’
‘But you already know the answer to that: it is because you are Petra Reuter.’
‘I need to know who’s responsible.’
‘So that you can exact bloody revenge for your inconvenience?’
‘I regard what happened at Sentier as more than an inconvenience.’
Ginzburg took one of her handmade Turkish cigarettes from a silver box on the table to her left. ‘And your alter ego—Petra—how would she regard it?’
As nothing more than an inconvenience; Ginzburg, it seemed, understood both sides of her.
Stephanie said, ‘I’ve changed. Or I’m changing. One or the other, I’m not sure which.’
Ginzburg lit her cigarette and peered at Stephanie through thick twists of golden smoke. ‘I saw Leonid the morning he died.’
Stephanie felt a rapid patter beneath the breastbone. ‘You never mentioned that before. Where did you meet?’
‘Here. When he phoned in the morning he sounded awful. I said I’d go to him but he wouldn’t let me. He insisted on coming to see me. It’ll appear normal—that was what he said. A visit to an old friend; what could be less suspicious?’
‘Did he mention that he was going to the Lancaster that evening?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention Scheherazade Zahani?’
‘No.’
‘How about Robert Newman?’
‘Who?’
‘An American businessman.’
‘No, I don’t believe so. I don’t recognize the name.’
‘How much do you know about Zahani?’
‘Over and above what one reads in the papers, only this: that she has a ferocious intellect. And that she’s surgically shrewd.’
‘Surgically shrewd?’
‘Zahani has always thrived in hostile environments whether they’ve been physical, political, commercial or cultural. She has an astonishing capacity for analysis. A country or an individual—it makes no difference to her. She’s a consummate chess player—it’s her passion—and in many ways, she conducts her life on a board of sixty-four squares. She’s a woman of infinite analysis, a woman of infinite options.’
There was a knock at the door. When it opened, a squat man in a black suit and white shirt appeared. He gave the slightest nod and then vanished without a word.
‘I have to leave for the airport. If you wish, you may accompany me part of the way so that we can talk some more.’
The car was a black Zil limousine. Dark grey curtains were half-drawn across the windows. On the back shelf was a single red rose in a silver cup. A thick sheet of glass partitioned them from the chauffeur.
‘A gift to my husband from Leonid Brezhnev,’ Ginzburg explained. ‘Or rather, from the grateful people of the Soviet Union. Aleksandr sent it straight to Stuttgart and had the people at Mercedes recondition it. In other words, it’s not what you see. It’s a glossy lie.’
They crept out of Place Vendôme towards boulevard des Capucines.
