The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 33
She did so.
‘Now take off your glasses.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘So?’
‘I’m not going to ask you again.’
She pulled them from her face and Stephanie felt a pang of guilt. The right eye was swollen, a broad palate of colours rising through the skin.
‘What happened?’
‘None of your business.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘That’s none of your business either.’
‘The quicker you answer the questions the quicker I’ll leave. But I’m not going until I have my answers. And I’ll get them one way or the other. So do both of us a favour. Now what’s your name?’
‘Petra.’
‘Small world. So’s mine.’
She looked at Stephanie more carefully and it began to sink in. She focused on the face first, then the rest. Similar-looking, similar build. In fact, more than similar. Her indignation melted away but there was no comfort in the comparison.
‘Got any other names?’ Stephanie asked.
‘Julia. You?’
‘One or two. But you can stick with Petra.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Take off your leather jacket.’
She did. Underneath she wore a grey polo-neck.
‘Take that off too,’ Stephanie said.
Julia hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t do women.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Not usually.’
‘Take it off.’
‘You gonna pay me?’
‘No. But if you play your cards right I won’t shoot you.’
Julia pulled the polo-neck over her head. She was wearing a cerise and black leopard-skin print bra. The scar was neat. A small rough circle on the left shoulder.
‘Turn round.’
The exit wound was an exact copy of the entry wound. Amateur, but good enough for a clandestine film. Stephanie noticed other marks. A couple of large red welts, two bruises over the ribs, lateral scratch marks over the lower back.
Stephanie took off her coat, put the gun on the sideboard by the kettle, and pulled off her sweatshirt, revealing her own bullet-wound through the left shoulder.
Julia whistled softly. ‘Holy Mother…’
Stephanie pulled the sweatshirt back on. ‘One of us is a fake. The other’s a killer who got shot through the shoulder during a shoot-out with Belgian police about eight years ago. Do you know which one you are?’
Julia tried to muster a smile. ‘Well … you’re the one with the gun. Where’d you get the cuts and bruises?’
‘France. Where’d you get yours?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘What about the scars?’
‘An operation.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret. Me too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sure you do. It’s a question of false identity. Like appearing in a movie, pretending to be someone else.’
Julia shifted uncomfortably. ‘Can I smoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘My cigarettes are in the bag.’
‘Better show me first.’
She did. Three packs of Marlboro Lights, a bottle of vodka, some bread and a tube of Pringles. She tore the cellophane from the first pack and lit a cigarette, the ritual restoring some self-confidence.
Stephanie said, ‘You can put your top back on, if you want.’
Julia pouted cheaply. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Another time, perhaps?’
She pulled on the grey polo-neck. She had a fuller figure than Stephanie’s. The kind of figure Stephanie had once enjoyed over a long, idle summer. She’d been happy while it lasted but a strenuous training regime that autumn had reduced her to a muscular hardness that had stayed with her ever since.
Stephanie said, ‘Why’d you agree to your operation?’
‘Money. Why else?’
‘You agreed to be scarred for money?’
Julia was contemptuous. ‘I’ve been scarred for no money. So this was better.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Why did you agree?’
‘I didn’t. I wasn’t given a choice.’
‘How come?’
Stephanie ignored the question. ‘How much money?’
‘A lot. Enough to reverse most of the damage when the time comes. And plenty more.’
‘Tell me how it happened.’
‘I went to a clinic here in Vienna. The Verbinski. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘Doctor Müller had photographs of a woman—you, I guess—and she matched the scars from the prints.’
‘Did you get a look at the photos?’
‘Sure.’
‘And it was definitely me?’
‘Yes. I mean, I guess so. This was back in October. I remember the face because it looked a lot like me. And like you, if you know what I mean. I didn’t recognize the man, though.’
‘What man?’
‘The man you were fucking.’
Stephanie took a moment to try to sort through her thoughts. ‘I was having sex with someone?’
Julia nodded. ‘There were about six or seven prints, I think. And in most of them you were doing it. In the others it was just before or after. The point is, you were naked.’
‘So you could see the scars?’
‘Yes. Front and back. The quality wasn’t great. I think they were stills taken from a film. They had that kind of grainy look.’
‘But you could see enough?’
‘Enough? Too much.’
What were the odds on another Petra clone with replicated scars? Almost beyond calculation. Yet how could it be her?
‘If I’m honest,’ Julia was saying, ‘I was a little jealous.’
‘Why?’
‘The guy you were with—he was good-looking. I wouldn’t have said no. Not even with all those tattoos.’
Stephanie felt a chill thicken her blood. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Normally I don’t like tattoos. And I’ve never seen anyone covered the way your friend was. Not in the flesh, only in pictures. But I’d have gone with him.’
Komarov, again. First the note inserted in the book, now this. When she’d first met him he’d worn corporate armour; suits by Brioni, shirts from Brooks Brothers, ties by Hermès. But beneath the silk and cotton he’d worn his history across his skin. The tattoos that covered him were badges of honour from the years he’d lost to the Soviet penal system.
Stephanie wanted to tell Julia it was a mistake. That there were no pictures featuring her. But it wasn’t true. A memory was seeping back; film footage taken by concealed cameras in an apartment in London. Her and Kostya secretly recorded for leverage.
That had been a Magenta House apartment. And the woman who had showed her the film, when the time for leverage came, had been Rosie Chaudhuri. She’d been a mere employee then, working directly for Stephanie’s nemesis, Alexander.
But he was dead. Rosie was the head of Magenta House now. And Magenta House owned more of her past than she did.
* * *
Julia giggles, then says, ‘This is weird, isn’t it? Up close, there are some differences between us—I mean, you’re older, right?—but we do look like each other, don’t we?’
‘Yes. We do. But we sound different. Did you know that you’re supposed to be German?’
‘I was told that. Are you German? You sound German.’
‘I’m more German than you.’
Julia nods. ‘Well, that’s because I’m Austrian.’
I switch to Russian. ‘And I’m the Virgin Mother. Where are you from, Julia? Moscow?’
She stares at me for a long time, deciding how to play it. ‘Nizhny Novgorod,’ she confesses, eventually. ‘But I was living in Moscow for five years before I came here. How can you tell?’
‘Your accent. It’s not bad but it’s not native.’
She acknowledges the criticism with a casual shrug. ‘Actually, I usually say I’m Polish. They can’t tell the difference.’
‘Do you want to speak in Russian or German?’
‘Russian. I miss it.’
‘Me too.’
‘Want a drink? Vodka and orange juice? Vodka and Diet Coke?’
‘No.’
‘Is it okay if I do?’
‘Sure.’
She picks up the brown paper bag and squeezes past me. There’s barely room for both of us in the kitchenette. She seems unfazed by the gun. Unfazed by anything, really; when I ask her what she’s doing in Vienna, she says, ‘I’m a prostitute.’ No lies, no clumsy euphemisms. She gauges my reaction and sighs. ‘Come on, what did you expect?’
She unscrews the cap on a bottle of supermarket vodka, pours three fingers into a dirty tumbler then adds orange juice from the fridge.
Her story is depressingly familiar. A cold childhood in Nizhny Novgorod improved only by dreams of a better world beyond the city limits. At fifteen, she left for Moscow.
‘It was easier there. No one knew me so it didn’t matter what I did. I still have family back in Nizhny Novgorod. I didn’t want them to know.’ She blows smoke towards the damp ceiling. ‘Even though I don’t give a fuck about them. Bastards.’
Five years in Moscow, on her back and out of her head, then Vienna.
‘I wanted to go to Germany. My father taught me German when I was younger—about the only decent thing he ever did for me. And since that’s where the money is I thought Germany would be good. Alexei said he’d arrange it and we ended up here in Vienna.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Nothing. At least, not from Alexei’s point of view. He thought Austria was a region of Germany, and that Vienna was the regional capital.’
We both laugh at this.
‘Who’s Alexei?’ I ask.
‘An ex-boyfriend.’
Who, it transpires, was also her pimp. She doesn’t see the contradiction in this. Yes, he used to beat her when she wouldn’t sleep with his clients but he took care of her too. He showed her a good time, gave her drugs; she never had to pay for coke or speed when it came from him. I ask if he’s still around and she nods, looking into the living-room. ‘Over there.’
‘Where?’
‘On the shelf. See that ceramic pot? In there.’
‘Not a large man, then.’
She giggles. ‘Those are his ashes.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, expecting an answer riddled with bullets.
‘Car accident. To be honest, I’m surprised he survived as long as he did. Back in Moscow he and his friends used to race stolen cars through the city at night. I mean really race. A lot of guys used to do it back in the Nineties. One hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, the police after them, completely fucked out of their heads. He never drove fast when he was sober. Never. But with a neck full of vodka and a head full of glue…’
When she’s finished unpacking the brown paper bag we go through to the living-room. She starts to sort through her CDs and tells me about her life in Vienna. She’s so candid I can’t help warming to her. And the more I warm to her, the sadder I feel. She doesn’t seem to notice. Even if she did, I doubt she’d care. I wouldn’t have, not when I was like her.
‘Tell me about Paris.’
Julia pulls a face. ‘I don’t really know what it was all about.’
‘What about Étienne Lorenz?’
‘That prick.’
‘He told me the two of you got on well.’
‘That’s because he’s more of a whore than I am.’
‘How did it start?’
‘It was here in Vienna. I got introduced to this big American guy. Paul Ellroy.’
‘Who introduced you?’
‘Rudi.’
‘Who’s Rudi?’
She pauses, wondering how much to tell me. Or whether she should tell me anything at all.
‘Rudi the cockroach. Rudi Littbarski. Lives in a train carriage.’
‘A train carriage?’
‘In a railway siding out at Unter Purkersdorf.’
I ask for precise directions. She hesitates, then changes her mind and seems happy to give them to me. I write the details on an empty cigarette pack. As I put it in my pocket, I ask, ‘So, who is Rudi?’
Her expression grows solemn. ‘In this city, he’s anything you need him to be. Whatever you want, Rudi can get it. He knows everybody but nobody admits to knowing Rudi. When the tourists come to town, they see beautiful architecture and eat Sacher Torte. But that’s not Vienna. This city is the darkest place in Europe and nobody is more at home in it than Rudi.’
‘What happened?’
‘There’s a place out on Wagramer Strasse…’
‘Club Nitro.’
‘You know it?’
‘I’ve been there.’
‘Rudi goes there for the traffic.’
‘Traffic?’
‘Girls. Anyway, that’s where he found me.’
‘What happened?’
‘He said he’d been looking for me. Made a real scene out of it. That was bullshit. I’m not that hard to find. Then he said he had something special for me.’
‘The American?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was special about him?’
‘He wanted me, not anyone else.’
‘Did Rudi say why?’
Julia shakes her head. ‘But the money was good so I agreed to meet him. And he seemed okay.’
‘Then what?’
‘What do you think? He became a client. I saw him when he came to town.’
‘He didn’t live here, then?’
‘No. But he was a regular visitor.’
‘Where was he from?’
‘All over. He travelled the whole time. I never paid much attention. You hear all sorts of shit. You ask the questions—to be polite and make conversation—but you don’t bother listening to the answers.’
‘I can imagine,’ I remark, shamelessly crossing the divide between understatement and dishonesty.
‘Anyway, Paul asked me if I’d be prepared to change my appearance. I thought he was talking about cutting my hair or dyeing it. You know—the usual things. Then he mentioned surgery. That’s when I said no. But when he mentioned a hundred thousand euros I said I’d think about it.’
‘Which you did.’
‘For a little scar? A hundred thousand in cash? Why not?’
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘He’d already mentioned that it was for someone else. I didn’t mind that as long as the money was right. When I asked why I needed the scar, Paul just said that it would make an old man happy because I looked exactly like somebody he’d once known.’
‘And that was enough for you?’
‘I’ve been involved with stranger stuff than that. And the more I thought about the hundred thousand, the less I thought about the reason.’
‘So you went to the clinic and they performed the procedure?’
She nods. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Then what?’
‘I got a ticket to Paris and a phone number to call when I got there.’
‘Lorenz?’
‘Right.’
‘And he was in charge?’
‘Yes. At the George V hotel. With this other girl. Angeline. She was nice. We got on. We both thought Étienne was a jerk.’
‘You knew the cameras were rolling?’
‘Sure.’
‘You didn’t mind?’
Julia shakes her head. ‘It was kind of fun.’
‘And the man?’
‘He wasn’t that old, after all. Anders.’
That surprises me. ‘He told you his name?’
‘Somebody did. Maybe him, I don’t remember. Anyway, that’s what we called him and he was happy enough with it. He was nice. Fit for a guy of his age too.’
She finds the memory amusing.
‘It was just the one time?’
‘That’s right. Afterwards, I hung around Paris for a day or two then I came back.’
‘You’ve been paid?’
‘Half. That was the deal. Half before, half after.’
‘Why the delay?’
‘That was part of the original arrangement. That I might have to wait for the second half. Paul said that right from the start. That it might be a few weeks. Perhaps even a month or two.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
She shakes her head. ‘He paid the first half on time. Everything has happened just the way it was supposed to.’
How strange to be sitting here with Petra. Or, at least, a passable physical version of her. In terms of character, though, she’s more like the girl I used to be before Petra. Hard on the outside, the soft inner core rendered numb.
Julia is the third woman in my life. She’s the woman I left behind for Petra. She’s a version of Stephanie I barely recognize any more.
‘What are you going to do with your hundred thousand?’ I ask.
‘Disappear to a new country. Make a new life. That’s what I’ve been looking for. The chance to begin again.’
That makes me smile. ‘Then we’ve got more in common than just a name.’
* * *
‘What are you thinking?’ Julia asked. She was kneeling on the carpet, changing the CD, the discs scattered around the machine like loose change. ‘That I’m an idiot? That they’re not gonna pay me the second half?’
‘I’m thinking the only reason you’re still alive is because I am.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The cuts and bruises you saw earlier: I’ve had more than one lucky escape over the last few days. Someone wants me dead and, if I had to guess, it’s your friend Paul. Or people he knows.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. But the question you need to ask yourself is this: if they succeed in killing me, what do you think’s going to happen to you?’
Julia shook her head. ‘No way. It was just a role. When it’s over I’ll cut my hair, change its colour, get the scar fixed—suddenly we’re totally different.’
‘Except that you were there. You’re a witness to the lie.’
‘I don’t know anything. Besides, they’ve already paid me fifty thousand euros. Why would they do that if they were planning to stiff me?’
‘Maybe they know where it is.’
