The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 31
Stephanie watched him talking to the couple. His thinning snow-white hair was plastered to a scalp peppered with liver spots. A pair of tortoiseshell half-moon glasses hung from a blue ribbon around his neck.
Nobody from the Stasi had bleached their past from the collective record as thoroughly as Kleist following the collapse of the Communist regime in East Germany. And no former Stasi operative had profited quite so rapaciously in the confused years that followed. Kleist had seen the disintegration coming and had decided not to let three decades of state servitude go to waste. In the final days of the regime, he’d plundered Stasi archives. Not in the manner of a casual looter, though. He’d been more like a surgeon, expertly excising specifically targeted material.
The shop on Dorotheergasse was a retirement gift to himself. A passion indulged. After a lucrative decade in the private sector, Kleist had retired, opting for a quiet life in Vienna, immersed in the consuming love of his life: antique lights.
Since his retirement, Stephanie had visited him on one other occasion. He’d been wary of her at first, knowing her to be a client of Stern’s. Stern and Kleist had been competitors, although in vastly different ways. Kleist had always dealt with his clients face to face. None of Stern’s clients had ever met him. Kleist’s openness had made him vulnerable to the ghosts of the past which, perversely, had worked to his advantage. In the twisted world of the information broker, it had bestowed upon him a reputation for reliability.
I’m an easy man to find.
That had been his catchphrase. In a business where most people hid, Kleist had been happy to stay in the open. It was a gamble that had paid off. Except once, when the past had collided with the present in order to extinguish the future. The doctors treating his bullet wounds hadn’t expected him to survive. Six months later, having confounded them, he decided to quit.
The couple thanked Kleist and left. Stephanie stepped forward. Kleist saw her and said, ‘I’m sorry but we’re closing.’
Not so much as a flicker. As though they’d never met.
She smiled coldly. ‘That’s not what the sign on the door says.’
‘I have to go out.’
‘We won’t take much of your time.’
‘I don’t think I have anything you could possibly want.’
‘With so many tasteful things in one room? Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ Then, in English, Stephanie said to Newman, ‘Lock the door, will you?’
‘Please leave,’ Kleist snapped.
‘Don’t worry. We will. Very soon.’
Despite himself, anger succumbed to anxiety. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a customer, Bruno. Like anyone else who comes through that door.’
He pulled a pained face. ‘I think about you, Petra. From time to time. I think how nice it would be to see you again.’
‘How touching.’
‘Then I remember. And I think no, it wouldn’t be. Not at all.’
‘If I was a different kind of girl, I might take offence.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘He’s … a lawyer.’
‘Can he understand us?’
‘He doesn’t speak German.’
‘Since when did the great Petra Reuter feel the need to resort to a lawyer?’
‘I need your help, Bruno.’
‘I thought you were one of Stern’s.’
‘Not any more. I got set up.’
‘By Stern?’
‘Yes.’
Kleist looked dubious. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Money.’
‘You know that for certain?’
‘I know that everything Stern does is motivated by money.’
Kleist considered this. ‘It seems the environment has altered since I left. It was a more respectable business when I…’
‘Save the sermon, Bruno. Poisoning Kanek in London? He took four days to die. It’s always been a revolting business. New allegiances evolve, old ones dissolve. That is the environment. Always has been.’
‘What do you want?’
‘The face behind Stern.’
‘You don’t think it was his idea?’
‘No. That would make it personal. Stern doesn’t do personal. Somebody paid him to set me up. I need to know who and I need to know why.’
He was more relaxed now. He began to play with his half-moon glasses. ‘I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.’
‘They’re coming at me from every angle, Bruno. I’m blind.’
‘And I’m retired.’
‘That makes you an amateur instead of a professional. But you’re still an easy man to find.’
The phrase made him smile. Nostalgia, perhaps. Then he remembered where he was. ‘Only if you want a nineteenth-century French chandelier.’
‘Come on, Bruno.’
‘I don’t have the contacts these days.’
‘The Oracle doesn’t talk to anybody any more? I find that hard to believe.’
‘Why? Because you assume I found it hard to leave the life behind?’ The remark slipped between her ribs and Kleist noticed. ‘Do you never think of the after-life, Petra?’
‘All the time.’
‘Take it from someone who’s tasted it. All the stuff that seemed so important before falls away.’
‘To be replaced by old lights?’
Kleist chuckled. ‘Yes. Exactly. Old lights.’
‘I ran into a friend of yours not long ago. Otto Heilmann.’
She saw that he was about to deny all knowledge of Heilmann, before realizing how stupid that would sound. They had risen through the ranks of the Stasi together. Two shooting stars on parallel trajectories.
‘Where?’
‘Near St Petersburg.’
‘I’d heard he was in Russia these days. How was he?’
‘Strangely lifeless.’ She let the answer gnaw a little before qualifying it: ‘Although not at first. No, then he was in rude health. But by the time we parted…’
Kleist licked parched lips. ‘Well, the path he took after we went our separate ways was quite different to mine.’
‘Not that different, Bruno.’
‘Look…’
‘The contract came through Stern.’
‘So?’
‘It doesn’t worry you that a former competitor is trading contracts for Stasi veterans?’
‘A coincidence.’
‘Someone I used to know told me that in our business a coincidence is an oversight.’
‘Who?’
‘Doesn’t matter. He’s dead. Like Otto.’ She stepped closer to Kleist. ‘Now, are you going to help me or not?’
* * *
I’m sitting on a treatment bench in a cramped room with no windows and grey-green walls, on the third floor of an anonymous block on Wallensteinstrasse, close to Nordwestbahnhof. This is the Fischer Clinic, although calling it a clinic lends it a veneer of sophistication it doesn’t deserve.
Dr Rudolph Fischer was Kleist’s response to a request for a discreet doctor. No questions asked, he assured me. Wounds treated, abortions administered, pharmaceuticals dispensed. Anything you like for cash.
It takes him half an hour to treat the cut properly. He watches me dress, making no attempt to conceal his pleasure. I can’t be bothered to react. In the adjoining office, where Robert has been waiting, I hand over the cash and pocket the drugs.
We return the way we came, stopping to buy clean clothes from a row of shops close to Franz-Joseph-Bahnhof. Then we catch a cab back to the Hotel Lübeck.
Robert says, ‘You think Kleist’ll come up with something on Butterfly?’
That was one of the things I asked.
‘Possibly. He used to be very good. Stern rated him.’
‘Who is Stern?’
‘Someone I thought I could trust.’
‘Past tense?’
‘As far as I’m concerned.’
‘But not dead?’
‘Why should he be dead?’
‘Sounds like the two of you fell out.’
‘I don’t kill everyone I disagree with, Robert. If I did, this continent would be littered with bodies. Tax officials, politicians, Parisian waiters. Who knows where it would end? Even you.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself.’
‘I’ve never been less sure of myself. But I’m starting to feel sure about you.’
* * *
They changed into fresh clothes and left the hotel. The Austria Center Vienna sat between the skyscrapers of Donau City and the United Nations headquarters. It was a large hexagonal conference centre spread over four colour-coded levels. As Stephanie and Newman approached the main entrance, workmen were erecting a large sign overhead. The background was black, the letters blood red.
PETROTECH XIX
THEIR FUTURE IN OUR HANDS
On fluttering banners that fell either side of the entrance were the conference dates—three days starting tomorrow—and a long list of sponsors.
They walked into the cavernous main entrance. Gleaming stone floor, bright light everywhere, escalators directly ahead, no security. They were ignored by those at the main reception desk. Builders and technicians scurried past them. Half the stands in the entrance hall were incomplete.
To their left was a long counter of desks; tickets, transport, information, hotel and restaurant reservations, messages, groups, companies. Newman went to the last desk. A bored woman in a blue suit was shuffling paper.
He gave her a practised smile. ‘Have you got a list of exhibitors?’
‘Are you accredited?’
‘I’m press. I just want the information-pack.’
‘One moment, please.’
She disappeared.
Stephanie said, ‘Very impressive.’
‘Not if you’ve been before.’
The woman returned and handed him a slim black plastic folder with the same scarlet lettering that had been on the sign outside. They decided to look around. No one asked them what they were doing. The place was busy, a dozen languages to the ear.
The red level was the uppermost floor of the complex and housed a huge auditorium. The seating had been converted to a parliamentary format. Newman checked the programme. There were three debates scheduled, one for each day of the conference. The three topics were predictable: the relationship between the oil services industry and the environment; the relationship between the oil services industry and the political background in those areas where the industry was most prominent; the future of the oil services industry.
Spread over the three levels below—green, yellow and blue—was a mixture of conference rooms, offices and large foyers. Scheduled events included public discussion forums and private meetings, lectures and sponsored sales pitches. The open spaces were cluttered with corporate stands.
The colour-coded levels meant something to Stephanie but she couldn’t remember why. The harder she concentrated, the further the answer receded. As they headed for the exit, she noticed a coffee shop to the right. They went in, ordered two cappuccinos and sat down at a table.
Newman said, ‘I think I know how we could get some accreditation.’
‘How?’
‘Abel Kessler.’
Stephanie shook her head. ‘Remind me.’
‘He was one of the guys who left a message on my answer-phone in Paris.’
‘So?’
‘He said he was coming to Europe for ten days. Said he wanted to meet me in Paris. Hoped I was still seeing what’s-her-name.’
Stephanie remembered now. ‘Go on.’
Newman opened the press pack and sorted through a sheaf of papers, two brochures and a stack of inserts. He found what he was looking for inside the back of one of the brochures.
‘Abel works for a firm of maritime lawyers in Singapore. He specializes in oil transport. They always take a stand at Petrotech. If he’s in Europe this’ll be one of the reasons.’
He showed her the full-page advert. McGinley Crawford, founded in Houston in 1937, now based in Washington DC, with twenty-four offices spread across the United States, Europe and Asia.
‘I could call him,’ Newman suggested.
‘That might not be a good idea.’
‘I know what you’re thinking. But I’m about the only person he knows in Paris. No one’s going to make the link. Anyhow, I could go through his office in Singapore. Get his cell. Then call him from a payphone here.’
Stephanie ran through it in her mind. ‘Okay. But not right here. Somewhere else in the city.’
* * *
The address Kurt had provided at Club Nitro was off Mexikoplatz by the Reichsbrücke; an area of dismal shops peddling counterfeit watches, cheap kitchenware and cut-price clothing. Despite the persistent cold drizzle, the pavement was busy with Russians, Albanians, Serbs. Stephanie and Newman circled the square once, then paused outside Krystyna, a shop offering tacky china figurines, before circling a second time. Stephanie understood the glances they attracted as clearly as the snippets of Russian; this part of town was not Vienna. It was somewhere further east, south and north. Anywhere but west.
Julia’s address was a four-storey pistachio building on the corner of Engerthstrasse, above the Aktionsmarkt discount store. The apartment was on the third floor, halfway along a corridor with dark brown walls and a flecked black linoleum floor. Stephanie rang the buzzer three times and knocked twice. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the door; silence inside. She looked at the lock and ran a finger over it, then placed both palms on the door and pressed. It moved but didn’t open. Along the corridor another door opened, just wide enough for a face to fill the gap.
‘She’s not there.’
Beginner’s German uttered by a small woman with the complexion of a walnut. She wore a head-scarf with a mauve and magenta floral print. From behind her came a chorus of squabbling children.
‘Do you know where she is?’
The woman shook her head. ‘She comes. She goes. Different times. Different days.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘Later.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes. Maybe.’
‘What time?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘When did you last see her?’
She shrugged. ‘The day before yesterday. The day before that. I don’t remember.’
Stephanie felt a shiver; she was alive, it seemed.
‘Do you know her?’
The woman closed the door.
* * *
‘Tell me about Petra.’
‘What?’
‘Kleist called you Petra. Several times.’
They were eating in the Café Bräunerhof on Stallburggasse. It was a sedate place, especially now, at two-thirty, with most of the lunch-hour crowd back at work. Curtains over the lower windows shielded diners from the street. The lunchtime mist of cigarette smoke had yet to dissipate. Conversations were sprinkled with the clink of cutlery. A waiter brought clean glasses and a carafe of water.
‘Well, well,’ Stephanie murmured, ‘what else did you pick up?’
Newman looked a little surprised. ‘Mostly everything.’
‘I didn’t think you spoke German.’
He turned to the waiter and said, in German, ‘What’s the special today?’
‘Cauliflower soup then chicken and rice.’
‘That would be fine. And a beer. Ottakringer, if you have it.’
Stephanie ordered the soup followed by spaghetti with ham zucchini, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. When the waiter had left them she said, ‘You never said anything.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Did I really need to? We’ve been in German-speaking territory since yesterday morning.’
‘And the only conversation I’ve had has been with you. Anyway, as you can tell, my German’s not that good.’
‘But good enough. Any more surprises?’
‘I think I should be asking that. First Claudia, then Marianne, then Stephanie, now Petra.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Sure is. Not disclosing bad German is a lapse. Operating under three different names seems more serious.’
‘Don’t be cute, Robert. You know what I do.’
Newman nodded. ‘But what’s the deal with Petra?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who’s being cute now? The great Petra Reuter. That was the phrase Kleist used.’
The waiter brought bread. When he’d gone Stephanie said, ‘My entire career—if that’s what you want to call it—has been based on a lie called Petra Reuter.’
‘How?’
‘She never existed. She was a role created for me.’
‘You never did any of the things you said you did?’
‘Don’t get me wrong. As Petra, I’ve done plenty of stuff. But her history—her reputation—all of it was manufactured. Like some second-rate boy-band.’
Their drinks arrived. Stephanie swallowed some antibiotics and painkillers. Newman took a piece of bread from the basket and watched Stephanie, who looked over both shoulders and then at the remaining diners. Next to them, an elderly man leant across the table to offer a light to a younger woman. His hand shook. The woman had to hold it to steady the flame. For a moment she saw a younger version of herself with Albert Eichner.
‘You okay?’ Newman asked.
‘I’m fine. Why?’
‘You look kind of … sad.’
She peered into her glass, watching the bubbles rise. ‘Actually, I’m scared.’
‘That’s not what it looks like.’
‘That’s Petra for you. But she’s disintegrating. I’m not the woman she once was. I don’t feel in control. I’m not even sure I want to be in control. I just want to … stop.’
The waiter placed two steaming bowls of soup before them.
‘Isn’t that why you’re here? Why we’re here. To make it stop?’
She nodded and began to eat.
‘What are you not telling me, Stephanie?’
