The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 34
‘No chance.’
‘You never let it slip to Paul?’
‘Never.’
‘Maybe they don’t care. Maybe it’s worth writing off.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘We’re on the same side, Julia. We’re the same woman, remember?’
‘The only person on my side is me. And the only person I distrust more than a man is another woman.’
‘What you do is up to you,’ Stephanie said. ‘I just need answers so I can make my own way.’
‘I’ve told you what I know.’
‘What about Gerhard Lander at Grumann Bank?’
‘What do you know about that?’
‘I read the letter on the TV over there. Addressed to Marianne Bernard. Any idea who she is?’
‘No. But I had to use her name when I saw Lander.’
‘I’m Marianne Bernard, Julia.’
‘I thought you were Petra.’
‘I am. I’m both.’
‘Look, I didn’t know anything about that.’
‘Because you weren’t supposed to know. The letter mentions “arrangements” and “further facilities”. Any idea what those were?’
‘I guess they were in the letter I was carrying.’
‘Who arranged this? Paul?’
Julia nodded. ‘He came with me to the bank. It was complicated. I was Petra but I was also Marianne. Like you.’
‘Exactly. What about Paul?’
‘For the purposes of that meeting, he was a lawyer. I didn’t say anything. Paul spoke on my behalf. We both dressed up—smart clothes, formal-looking.’
Stephanie sat back and pictured the scene. Julia as Petra, a lawyer at her side. It made a certain kind of sense; Petra would keep physical and verbal contact to a minimum and yet some kind of meeting would be necessary. Stephanie thought of the way she conducted business with Albert Eichner; Lander would need to recognize her himself.
‘Have you ever heard of Butterfly?’
Julia looked genuinely puzzled. ‘There was a nightclub called Butterfly in Moscow. But that was a long time ago. It got burned down.’
‘Did Paul or Gerhard Lander mention Anders?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know who Anders was?’
She shook her head. ‘Just some rich guy who liked good sex in good hotels.’
‘I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted on his tombstone.’
Julia’s eyes widened. ‘He’s dead?’
Stephanie nodded. ‘Just over a week ago. In Paris.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t you read the paper?’
‘Was he famous?’
‘You don’t watch TV, either?’
‘MTV sometimes. But not much. TV’s boring. I prefer movies.’
‘Never mind.’
‘No. I want to know. What happened?’
Stephanie told her but Julia didn’t seem particularly shocked. Perhaps it was too remote.
She said, ‘You think Paul had something to do with that?’
‘I don’t know. What I do know is this: I was supposed to die in the explosion. Ever since then, someone’s been trying to put that right. Your little sex party at the George V wasn’t a memento for an old man. It was part of a set-up. My guess is the film was supposed to come out after he was dead.’
‘Why?’
‘To discredit him, most likely.’
‘Why hasn’t it?’
‘Because I’m still alive. The film is part of something larger. With me dead, there’d be no one left to raise awkward questions.’
‘Apart from me.’
Even as she said it, she got it.
Stephanie nodded. ‘That’s right. Apart from you.’
‘And Angeline, of course.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. But you’re the one that matters. You’re the one who’s me.’
She let silence do her work for her. Julia started to chew a nail. When she’d smoked her cigarette to the stub, she used it to light a fresh one.
‘What can I do?’
‘First things first. Where can I find Ellroy?’
Julia picked at the stitching on her mini-skirt. ‘When he comes to Vienna he stays at the Imperial.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
No answer.
‘Is he at the Imperial?’
She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Julia half-turned away from Stephanie, who couldn’t decide whether it was deliberate or involuntary. It didn’t matter. The effect was the same, drawing attention to the bruise she tried to hide.
‘When did you last see him, Julia?’
Her answer was little more than a whisper. ‘This afternoon.’
‘At the Imperial?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he is there.’
She shook her head. ‘Not tonight.’
‘What about tomorrow night?’
She looked at Stephanie but wouldn’t say it.
‘Did he give you the bruise?’
Julia nodded.
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He did it for no good reason?’
A question that rekindled her defiance. ‘He did it because he wanted to. Okay? Because he likes that kind of thing. That’s the reason.’
‘That’s still not a good reason. If I go to the Imperial tomorrow night, will I find him there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. He told me to be ready for him.’
‘What time?’
‘He didn’t say. He just said I had to be on call. All night.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Of course I agreed,’ Julia snapped.
Stephanie felt gauche. What was a black eye to Julia of Nizhny Novgorod with fifty thousand euros on the line?
‘You should think twice,’ Julia said. ‘He’s a big bastard. Muscles everywhere.’
‘I can look after myself.’
Julia shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘There’s one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘When you ask for him at reception, you need the name. Paul doesn’t register under his own name.’
‘What is it?’
‘Stonehouse. Alan Stonehouse.’
* * *
Julia was still talking but her voice was little more than the soft drone of a bee on a warm summer afternoon. It took Stephanie a while to connect the name but the moment Julia had mentioned it, she knew she’d heard it before.
Munich, late September. Just after her meeting with Otto Heilmann at the Café Roma on Maximilianstrasse. A chance encounter with John Peltor, who’d suggested breakfast the following morning at his hotel, the Mandarin Oriental. The name Peltor had registered under had been Alan Stonehouse.
So, Alexander was right again. In their world, coincidence was still oversight. If the encounter in Café Roma had been planned did that mean that Peltor knew about Otto Heilmann? Not definitely. But probably.
Another memory was resurrected: an e-mail message in Brussels after her return from Turkmenistan. Peltor again:
I see you chose not to take the advice I gave you in Munich.
Having cast her mind forwards, she now cast it back again. The advice given in Munich—what had that been? She couldn’t remember.
‘You okay?’ Julia asked her.
‘Just thinking.’
‘That’s when the trouble starts.’
‘Has he ever mentioned Munich?’
‘He mentions a lot of places. Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You said he was nice.’
Julia got up from the floor and headed for the kitchenette. ‘That’s right.’
‘Even though he hits you.’
‘He was nice in the beginning. That’s what I meant. When he was paying me.’
‘And now?’
‘Now he’s a bastard.’
‘But he’s still paying you?’
She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t have to.’
‘Because he’s got your money.’
‘Right. Actually, no. That’s only part of it.’ She came back into the living-room with the vodka bottle and the orange juice carton. ‘Things have changed.’
‘How?’
‘Since I became you, he’s changed towards me.’ Julia poured more vodka into her glass and offered it to Stephanie. ‘You might want this.’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘You’ll change your mind, I promise you. When I first started seeing him it was business as usual. He was Paul, I was Julia. He paid me the going rate. We had sex. It was fine. You know—nice hotel, clean sheets, a hot shower and fluffy towels. Maybe even a drink or two. Then the Petra thing happened. Before Paris it was okay. When I got back it was different.’
‘In what way?’
‘I wasn’t allowed to change my appearance. I had to look like … well, like you. I was Petra, not Julia. And he was John, not Paul. The sex changed too.’
‘How?’
‘For one thing, he stopped paying me.’
‘Because he was holding on to your second fifty thousand.’
Julia looked into her glass. ‘That’s true. But it’s not the reason.’
‘What is the reason?’
‘He won’t pay me because that makes it a transaction.’
‘And?’
‘And the scenario won’t allow that.’
‘What scenario?’
Julia forgot to add orange juice and drank some vodka. ‘Please…’
‘I need to know.’
The carapace was starting to crack. When she looked up Stephanie saw tears forming. Julia spoke very softly. ‘He likes to take me by force. When he hits me, I have to fight back. If I don’t, he makes it worse for me. I have to convince him that I’m you.’ She sniffed loudly, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘He mutters your name. It’s like a mantra. Petra, Petra, Petra. He’s obsessed with you. With fucking you. With hurting you.’
Stephanie thought of the bruises on Julia’s body, and of those on her own body. They matched in more ways than Peltor could have imagined. Directly or indirectly, he was responsible for both sets. Stephanie felt sure of that. Beyond the shock, a more sinister sensation festered in the darkest corner of her mind.
Then she remembered the subject of Peltor’s message: retirement.
That was what he’d suggested in Munich. He’d surprised her by telling her that he was no longer in the front line. How had he put it? I’m kinda drifting into something new right now. Something … corporate.
Something corporate. Like DeMille, perhaps?
‘Did you ever try to say no?’
‘Only once. He said if I tried again, there’d be no second payment. And that I wouldn’t get to spend the first.’
Stephanie considered the contrast between the aggressive Julia who had breezed into the apartment an hour earlier and the subdued version sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. They were as different as Stephanie was to Petra, or any other brand of her.
‘Sometimes there are other men,’ Julia said. ‘He likes that. They all get into me together. There’s one guy, a real bastard—a South African, I think—and he…’
‘Tall with short blond hair? Good-looking in a nasty way?’
‘You know him?’
‘I’m afraid so. His name’s Lance Grotius.’
Julia shuddered. ‘He’s the worst. Even Paul finds him creepy.’
‘If it’s any consolation, you won’t be running into him again.’
‘Really?’
‘Not unless you own a funeral parlour in Paris.’
* * *
Five-to-midnight. Julia poured vodka into both their glasses. Stephanie had succumbed and was glad she had.
How many times had she and Peltor met in total? Three or four? No more than that. Fellow professionals in a lonely business. She’d never thought of them as anything more than that. They chanced across one another in airport departure lounges, in hotels. They swapped gossip then went their separate ways. Business executives with appointments to keep.
What was she to make of Munich? When she’d gone to the Mandarin Oriental she’d been directed to the roof where Peltor had been swimming outdoors on a freezing morning. At the time, she’d put that down to an ex-Marine’s machismo. Now she suspected a more deviant motive; something to send Peltor’s lift to the penthouse.
‘What should I do?’ Julia asked.
‘You have fifty thousand euros already?’
‘Yes.’
‘In cash?’
‘Yes.’
‘How quickly can you get hold of it?’
‘One hour.’
‘My guess is you’re safe until tomorrow evening. If I were you, I’d run. Forget the second fifty.’
‘Run?’
‘You’re only alive because I am. They’re keeping you in reserve in case they need you again. Once they don’t…’
‘You mean when you’re dead?’
‘That. Or when the situation changes sufficiently to render me irrelevant. Either way, they’ll kill you. It’s not our fault but we’re a collective liability.’
‘You think I should go tonight?’
‘If you want to. Personally, I’d get some rest and go tomorrow. But once Peltor’s dead they’re going to be looking for you because that’s who the people at the Imperial’s reception desk are going to see tomorrow evening.’
‘Who’s Peltor?’
‘Ellroy. Stonehouse. Take your pick.’
‘You’re going to kill him?’
‘Let’s just say I’m going to talk to him. Forcefully.’
‘How will you know when to go?’
‘Because you’ll call me when he calls you.’
‘And when I run, where should I go?’
‘Any place where nobody knows you. Not Moscow. Not Nizhny Novgorod.’
Julia put her head in her hands. ‘Shit.’
‘Look on the bright side. You wanted a new life in a new country.’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Don’t look for negatives, Julia. If I hadn’t come here this evening, he’d have killed you. And from what you’ve told me … well, you can guess the way he would have done it better than I can.’
Julia surveyed her dismal apartment. ‘I’ve been on the run since I was fifteen.’
‘You’ll be fine. Trust me.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure. You’ve got what it takes. Just like me. We’re the same, after all. Consider this a narrow escape when you’re on a beach somewhere.’
‘Who are you?’
Stephanie stood to leave. ‘I’m the chance to begin again. Just like you wanted.’
DAY ELEVEN
Five-to-two in the morning. They were both a little drunk after an evening apart. It felt good. She was lying diagonally across the bed, her head almost hanging off the edge. The room was upside down; through a crack in the curtains she saw rain slithering up the streetlamp-lit window.
When they made love Stephanie was happy to surrender to him in a way she could never have permitted with the men Petra took to bed. With them sex was athletic competition. With Newman that seemed utterly pointless.
She enjoyed the feel of his hands on her, moving her where he wanted, taking her how he wanted. It felt good to pretend to be taught. They didn’t speak. She liked the feel of him, the tangible difference in age, the consequences of experience over enthusiasm. The more he gave, the lazier she grew, the better it felt. The alcohol was helping, no doubt about it.
When she closed her eyes she saw herself as Julia, and Newman as Brand. They were in a suite at the George V. The distinction between what Newman was doing to her now and what she remembered from the film became blurred. She could almost feel Angeline with them. But it didn’t seem to matter. It felt too good to protest against herself. So she went with it, opening herself totally to the passing physical pleasure.
He rolled her on to her front, took her hips in his hands and raised her buttocks from the mattress. She wrapped her arms around her giddy head, threading her fingers through damp hair. When she came crushed pillows swallowed her gasps and an involuntary giggle of happiness.
Later, she said, ‘You’re the first man I’ve really kissed in more than two years.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘For some people kissing is just a pit-stop on the way to sex.’
Newman considered this. ‘I guess that’s true.’
Stephanie said, ‘I think kissing is the most intimate act there is.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with that.’
Perhaps that was the difference between them. Petra had spent years using her body as a weapon of seduction or attrition. That was bound to erode mystery. She’d given her body to men she’d never contemplated kissing. She guessed Julia was the same but knew it was something Newman could never understand.
* * *
Daylight creeps into our room. I’ve been awake for half an hour. My head aches and my mouth is dry. I feel Robert on my skin but don’t feel dirty. Quite the opposite; we’ve made love and I feel cleansed.
My thoughts turn to Julia. She’s a girl who does what she has to do to survive. A girl who sees it through, no matter what. Ever since I mutated into Petra that has been my philosophy too. It’s underpinned everything I’ve done. It’s only now that I’m beginning to understand quite how corrosive it’s been.
It corrupts the soul. I never noticed from day to day, or even year to year. It’s taken Julia, the other me, to show me. In her late teens or early twenties, surviving the day-to-day fight on a diet of dreams. She tolerates a man like Peltor for the prospect of a future of her own choosing. I was like that at her age, tolerating Petra and the work I did for Magenta House. But for what, exactly? In the beginning, vengeance. Later, independence. Later still, nothing at all.
Perhaps it’ll be easier for Julia. She may not know where she’s heading but she knows with absolute certainty what she’s running from. She’s seen the kind of future Nizhny Novgorod is offering and doesn’t want any of it. She still believes she’ll find something better far away from there. She shouldn’t be so sure. The chances are she’s trading one future with no prospects for another. I should know. I’ve come across dozens of Julias in dozens of cities; they’ll believe any lie as long as the dream survives.
