The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 32
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
After their main courses, Newman went to the washroom and then found a payphone. By the time he returned to the table, two cups of espresso had arrived.
‘Any luck?’ Stephanie asked.
‘Yes. Abel Kessler is here in Vienna. He’s arranged accreditation for us through McGinley Crawford.’
‘Good.’
‘It gets better. He’s asked us to the pre-conference reception. Before Petrotech opens there’s always a reception. Invitation only, very select. It’s at the Hotel Bristol, tonight at seven.’
‘Who did you say I was?’
‘An associate.’
‘Not Anna again, I hope.’
‘Not this time.’
The Hotel Bristol. Why did that sound familiar? Stephanie sensed it had something to do with the colour-coded levels of the Austria Center. But how were the two connected?
* * *
It was after five when they arrived back at the Hotel Lübeck. After Café Bräunerhof they’d gone shopping on Graben for clothes better suited to a reception at the Hotel Bristol. They’d paid for them with Scheherazade Zahani’s diminishing cash reserve.
Newman kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed. ‘I’m going to sleep. Wake me in half an hour.’
Stephanie decided to take a shower. She waterproofed the new sutures and spent ten minutes cleansing herself. Afterwards, she stood in the wet heat. Gradually, the steam began to clear from the mirror. Now the cut had been treated it was the bruises that caught the eye. Across her stomach, encircling her cosmetic scar, down her right thigh.
She looked at herself and thought of Julia. It helped to have a name. She wondered whether the apartment overlooking Mexikoplatz was a true home, or just another dressed set like the apartment at Stalingrad.
Who was Julia? Or would she turn out not to be Julia? Would Julia be no more real than Marianne? Nothing more than an airlock between two identities, one genuine, one artificial. Now that Stephanie knew she was alive, she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to find her. Was this how the adopted child felt before the reunion with the blood parent? Simultaneously keen and reluctant?
She dried herself and brushed her teeth. There was a tightness in her stomach that left her slightly nauseous. The thought that continued to form felt alien. Her life had been governed by regime. Even her instincts were a product of conditioning, which was why it took her time to recognize it for what it was: the threat of spontaneity. A similar sensation to the one she’d experienced on the train the moment before she’d kissed him, but greatly amplified.
Her knickers and T-shirt were on the bathroom floor. She stepped over them and entered the bedroom.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes, saw she was naked, and didn’t react at all. She started to unbutton his shirt. He looked a little uncertain. She ran a hand across his chest and stomach, against muscle and sinew that weren’t immune to age, and across scar tissue that was; it hadn’t softened with time. Then she saw that Newman was looking at her scars.
He said, ‘I thought I was the only one.’
She shook her head. ‘We’re everywhere. We move among the flawless, undetected. Until we’re naked. And then we’re really naked.’
She kissed him. On the train, there had been poignancy. Here, on the bed, it was surprisingly tentative.
‘Touch me,’ she whispered.
‘Wait,’ he murmured. ‘Is this a good idea?’
She put a finger to his lips. ‘Robert, I just want to make love with you. No strings, nothing complicated.’
* * *
It’s dark outside. And inside. We haven’t bothered with the lights. We lie together, our bodies gently cooling, relying on the grubby excess of the streetlamps. I look at my watch. It’s six, an hour until the Petrotech reception starts.
‘Do they bother you?’ I ask, softly.
‘What?’
‘Your scars. Don’t they take you back?’
‘Not any more. Twenty years of the high life have eased the pain.’
I’m not sure I believe him. ‘Did you ever consider doing something about them?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Cosmetic surgery, maybe…’
‘That’s just another kind of scar. Anyway,’ he says, touching the ruined tissue on my left shoulder, ‘you should talk.’
‘This scar is cosmetic.’
‘What do you mean?’
I explain it to him.
‘Well, there you go,’ he concludes. ‘My point proved.’
‘How?’
‘Cosmetic surgery is a lie. I don’t want to live like that.’
‘You’re right,’ I concede. ‘It eats away at you.’
‘I don’t like the scars but they’re part of me. And I’m okay with that.’
‘Then I envy you. For being comfortable with the way you are.’
‘It wasn’t always like this. It took time.’
‘Don’t they ever make you feel self-conscious? Mine are insignificant next to yours but there are times when I really detest them.’
‘I’m only really aware of them when other people react to them.’ He smiles a little awkwardly. ‘Of course, if you’re naked, that can make it worse. There’ve been one or two who found them hard to get used to. There was also one who said she found them sexy.’
I pull a face. ‘How long did she last?’
‘She didn’t make it to breakfast.’
I giggle, then land the sucker punch. ‘What about Scheherazade Zahani?’
‘What about her?’
‘Was she one of them?’
‘Why?’
‘I was thinking about her. Actually, I was thinking about the way we met. And trying to think of what might have happened if it had been different.’
‘And she fits into that how?’
‘She doesn’t. Not in my new version. She’s just an interloper from reality.’
‘So how do you see us now?’
‘We meet on a plane. Which means we’re confined but not like in your apartment. It’s something more natural, more … organic. It goes from there. A chance meeting.’
‘The Lancaster was a chance meeting,’ Robert points out.
‘But we’re dropping that. This is the new version. Where we talk like normal people. By the time we get to our destination we agree to meet for a drink and trade phone numbers.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No. Then we decide to share a taxi into town from the airport.’
‘Which town?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Any town.’
‘You have to make it real. Pick one.’
‘Okay. Madrid. Or Nice. Wait—no—make it New York.’
‘Why New York?’
‘The traffic. It takes for ever to get to Manhattan from JFK.’
‘So?’
‘More time together in the taxi.’
‘Ah.’
‘And then, when we get there, we decide not to wait for that drink.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘It could have happened like that for us.’
Robert considers it. ‘I guess so.’
‘We’d have stood a chance, too.’
‘We’re not dead yet, Stephanie.’
‘Not yet.’
The pause that follows is filled only by the applause of the rain.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘the longer the odds, the better the pay-out.’
* * *
A string quartet was playing in one corner. Beneath glittering chandeliers the Hotel Bristol’s staff dispensed Krug 1985 and canapés. Stephanie reckoned there were one hundred and fifty guests in the Festsaal. Less than one in ten were female. Newman took two glasses from a passing waitress, handed one to Stephanie and guided her into the gathering.
‘Robert—there you are!’
He was a short man with tight black curls oiled to a scalp that grew visible towards the very top. Thick, tinted lenses couldn’t conceal a slight squint.
Newman shook his hand. ‘Abel. Good to see you. It’s been a while.’
‘Most certainly. Jakarta, two years ago, I think.’
‘Actually, it was Kuala Lumpur. The Grand Prix. Petronas?’
‘Of course. How could I forget?’
‘This is Marina Schrader. Marina, meet Abel Kessler.’
Newman and Kessler started trading news. Stephanie drifted away from them. She recognized a few faces among the strangers. Albert Raphael, for one, the Canadian newspaper baron who’d recently become an American citizen. His wife, the socialite and self-appointed intellectual Paula Kray, stood beside him. They were talking to Richard Rhinehart. Newman had told her that Rhinehart was a member of the Pentagon’s Defense Policy Board and a leading light at the American Partnership Foundation. Stephanie now remembered that Albert Raphael had appeared on the list of Amsterdam directors she’d seen.
‘Hi. I’m Elizabeth Weil. I don’t believe we’ve met.’
She had heavy features and a mouth even more luscious than Stephanie’s. Her beautiful cream-coffee skin was made for gold. Stephanie felt dour beside her.
Weil said, ‘I think I know every other woman in the room.’
‘I’m Marina Schrader. How do you do?’
‘Could be better. Could be somewhere else,’ she said, her voice a gentle purr, the accent East Coast American. ‘I hate these things, don’t you?’
‘So how come you’re here?’
Weil swept thick black hair out of large anthracite eyes. ‘I’m taking part in a debate tomorrow. Then I’m scheduled to deliver a paper the day after.’
‘At Petrotech?’
‘Where else?’
‘What’s your subject?’
‘The curse of oil.’
‘That sounds like a humorous topic. What do you actually do?’
‘A question my accountant always asks. I guess I’m an academic. That’s what people say. Or a freeloader, depending on your point of view. I work for the Potomac Institute in Washington.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it,’ Stephanie lied.
Weil’s definition varied from Newman’s. ‘Basically, we promote the export of responsible democracy.’
‘Responsible democracy? You mean, like having one glass instead of the whole bottle?’
She considered the comparison for a moment. ‘Actually, that’s a pretty accurate representation of what we believe in. Especially in those areas of the world that hold our attention.’
‘Which areas would they be?’
‘Primarily the Middle East and Asia. What do you do, Marina?’
Stephanie had an answer ready. ‘I’m a lady of leisure.’
Weil laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that in this room. You’ll see a lot of men reaching for their wallets.’
‘I’m an investor. A private investor.’
‘In this environment that’s a quick way to make friends.’
They talked for an hour and laughed more than those around them. Stephanie allowed Weil to feed on a sense of solidarity that didn’t exist. But she liked her and could see why Weil felt isolated. The other women in the room looked humourless; career addicts too busy to know they were miserable.
People gravitated towards Weil to pay their respects or to flirt: Brian Grabel, a senior executive with Halliburton; Azzam Fahad, number two at the Iraqi Oil Ministry; Lauren Dougherty, an executive with Bechtel; Jean-Claude Fernandez, owner of a French construction firm.
At nine Weil said, ‘I’m afraid I have to go. I have a dinner at the American Embassy and I’m very late. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Marina. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have been on time for the ambassador.’
‘Glad to be a hindrance.’
‘Will you be at Petrotech tomorrow?’
‘I expect so.’
‘If you’re around in the afternoon come to the debate. It should be lively.’
‘If I’m around, I will.’
Weil handed Stephanie her business card. ‘I’ll write it on the back for you. Hall D, Blue Level, 15:30.’
Stephanie didn’t really notice Weil’s farewell or departure. Instead, she stared at what was written on the card and knew that she’d seen it before.
Leonid Golitsyn.
His name was a prompt. The colour-coded levels of the Austria Center. The Hotel Bristol. She’d seen these details together. Slowly, it came back to her, from the apartment on quai d’Orléans in Paris, four or five days ago. A note from a travel agent, an itinerary. A private aircraft—Moscow-Vienna-Moscow—and a reservation for a penthouse suite at the Bristol. She couldn’t remember how long Golitsyn had been booked in for.
There had been brochures with the itinerary. She could only recall the content of one: Mir-3, a new drone for oil pipelines designed by a Russo-French company whose name escaped her.
There had also been a brief schedule attached; three items, each with a colour-code, each with a time. And although she couldn’t swear that ‘Hall D, Blue Level, 15:30’ had been one of them, in her bones, she knew it had been.
* * *
She found Newman, who was still talking to Abel Kessler, made an excuse and left. She returned to the Lübeck, collected the gun and walked to the U-Bahn, taking the U3 from Westbahnhof to Stephansplatz, then the U1 to Vorgartenstrasse.
Mexikoplatz was almost deserted. The rain had stopped but a bitter wind was blowing. By the time Stephanie reached the building on Engerthstrasse her fingers were already numb. She looked up at the pistachio façade. The lights were off.
The suffocating heat of the entrance hall was a pleasure. She took the stairs to the third floor. Using two short pieces of wire cut from a coat-hanger at the Lübeck she addressed the lock. She wasn’t an expert but she didn’t need to be; it took forty seconds to let herself in.
She pulled the Heckler & Koch from her coat. The music coming from the floor below was Serbian pop. The kitchenette had a gas-boiler attached to the wall. A blue flame threw feeble light over an empty sink. There was no food in the fridge, just juice and Diet Coke. In the bedroom a blue check duvet was scrunched into a ball at one end of a single mattress. Dirty clothes covered the floor. An upturned cardboard box doubled as a bedside table. There was a German copy of Vogue on it, beside an empty pack of Marlboro Lights and five foil condom wrappers, four of them torn open. By one wall was a cheap black suitcase. Stephanie bent down to look inside—more dirty clothes—and noticed a book on the other side of the upturned box, its pages swollen by moisture. It was a Russian edition of a cheap horror novel called Glittering Savages by an English author she’d never heard of. There was a photograph between the damp pages.
An improvised bookmark or an attempt to conceal?
She examined the picture. Damp and age had distorted the colour. The edges were yellow and there was a strange purple glow over the centre of the photo, like a chemical bruise. But none of this distracted from the content.
Curiously, she wasn’t shocked; it was almost a relief.
Konstantin Komarov, standing by a Mercedes outside the Hotel Baltschug. The hotel she had stayed in when she first went to Moscow. How long ago had that been? Four years? Five? She turned the photograph over.
Petra–
I love you. Today, tomorrow, for ever.
Don’t forget.
Kostya.
It wasn’t his writing. But it felt like it. Just to see the words written. A declaration of love from one phantom to another. Artificial in every way yet still capable of making a deep cut.
First Stalingrad, then the film, now here. Petra, the third woman, the link. But why the second apartment? Was it merely another stepping stone for the posthumous enquiry that should have been well under way by now?
She went into the living-room. Overall, the place seemed more like a home than Paris. There were coins on a coffee table and cartons of Chinese food, half-eaten. On the sofa was an out-of-date TV schedule and a bottle-green jersey with holes at the elbows. There were a dozen paperbacks on a DIY shelf, nine of them Russian, the others German.
She looked at the CDs. Bjork, Air, The Cardigans. Less of a plant than the music she’d found in Stalingrad. Unlike the letter she found among the mail stacked on top of the TV.
It was from Grumann Bank on Singerstrasse.
We are pleased to confirm the arrangements that you and I agreed upon yesterday. Should you require further facilities here in Vienna, or in Brussels, or further afield, we will be only too happy to offer our services.
Yours faithfully,
Gerhard Lander.
The letter was addressed to Marianne Bernard. But as Marianne Bernard, Stephanie had never been to Austria. She checked the date—4 December—then heard the scrape of metal against metal.
A key sliding into a lock.
* * *
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
Her hair was dyed black and cut in a bob. Despite the night, a large pair of black sunglasses masked a third of her face; she looked like a fly. She wore a tartan mini-skirt, black tights, black boots, black leather jacket. She clutched a brown paper bag in her right hand, which was grazed raw across the back. Crimson lipstick was plastered across a broad mouth.
Stephanie was standing in the kitchenette, which had allowed the woman to close the front door and move into the living-room before seeing her. The gun was out of sight but in reach, just behind the kettle.
‘I said, what are you doing here?’
Stephanie stared into the curves of matt black glass covering her eyes. ‘Perhaps that’s a question I should be asking you.’
‘Get out.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘What’s your name?’
She reached into the brown paper bag.
Stephanie grabbed the gun from behind the kettle. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Put the bag down. Slowly.’
‘It’s just some shit from the store.’
‘Put it down.’
‘I was reaching for cigarettes.’
‘I don’t want to shoot you in the hand. But I will. Put … it … down.’
