The Third Woman--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller, page 35
We go out for breakfast. Most places are shut but we find a small dimly-lit café on Marzstrasse. We take the table by the door and order coffee. Outside, a stubborn wind blows ripples through the puddles on the pavement.
Robert tells me about his dinner with Abel Kessler; memories and alcohol, mostly. My attention drifts to Rudi the cockroach. That’s what Julia called him. Rudi Littbarski. But there’s another Rudi. It’s coming back to me now. A name on a piece of paper. A place, a time: Rudi, Gare du Nord, 19:30. Written on a scrap of paper that I found in the back pocket of a pair of jeans in the apartment at Stalingrad.
While we wait I make the call from a payphone on the wall outside the toilet. There are two numbers at the top of the letter I took from Julia’s apartment. I choose the second one, a mobile. A man answers.
‘Herr Lander?’ I enquire.
‘Naturally. Who is this?’
‘Marianne Bernard.’
It takes several seconds for the name to melt through the mental permafrost. ‘Ah yes … Fräulein Bernard. How nice to hear from you. I trust you are well and that you had a relaxing Christmas and New Year.’
‘Most relaxing.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m in Vienna and I’d like to see you.’
The pause tells me this is unexpected and unwelcome, even though the letter he wrote to Marianne Bernard was addressed to Julia’s apartment.
‘When would be convenient for you?’ he asks.
‘Today.’
‘Ah, that’s not so good. I have two meetings and then a lunch appointment. And this afternoon…’
‘I’ll be at your office at midday.’
There’s a second informative silence. When he ends it by agreeing to my demand, I know something new: Petra is a client too important to be denied. What I don’t know is why.
Back at our table, I tell Robert, ‘We need to scrub up again.’
‘For what?’
‘A visit to the bank.’
‘Why?’
I hold my cup with both hands and blow steam from the rich, oily surface of the coffee. ‘It’s rather like being a film star. Sometimes, when you meet your audience, you have to put on your face and live up to the ideal that exists in their minds. We have a meeting at midday where I will have to be the real Petra Reuter.’
‘And me?’
My smile is a tease. ‘You’re going to be my new lawyer.’
Robert winces. ‘Marvellous.’
* * *
They took the Rapid Transport train from Westbahnhof. It wasn’t busy; most of the early commuters were travelling in the other direction. At Unter Purkersdorf they followed the directions that Julia had given Stephanie.
The siding tracks fanned out into an iron delta. Most of them were rusting, weeds growing up between black sleepers saturated with oil and grease. There were half a dozen old carriages that had been converted for occupation. Most were clustered around a set of points that had been welded shut. Their wooden exteriors had been painted green, turquoise, red. There were curtains in the windows, hanging baskets beside carriage doors.
Rudi Littbarski’s carriage was further along one stretch of abandoned rail, in the shadow of a derelict nineteenth-century factory. All that remained was a shell of red brick, broken windows and half an industrial chimney. Littbarski’s carriage was Swiss; it still carried the faded insignia and letters of the SBB.
Stephanie looked at her watch. Five-to-nine. Don’t go too early, Julia had said. A night-owl, Littbarski rarely went to bed before seven.
The handle had been sheared from the door and a lock had been inserted. Stephanie stood on the top step and pressed her face to the glass. The handle inside was intact. She walked over to the abandoned factory and returned with a red brick which she thrust through the window. The handle inside opened the door smoothly.
Littbarski was half out of bed when Stephanie and Newman found him. She pointed the Heckler & Koch at him and he froze.
‘Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out of here.’
Stephanie shook her head. ‘Don’t try to play the hard case, Rudi. Not while you’re standing there in your little black underpants.’
His luminous white skin reminded Stephanie of a supermarket chicken. Tattoos peppered his arms and bony chest. Silver rings hung from both nipples.
‘Get dressed, Rudi. Unless you want to see my breakfast on your floor.’
He reached for his clothes; black drainpipe trousers, black needlecord shirt, Day-Glo orange socks and a pair of Converse sneakers.
Stephanie peered down the open-plan carriage. ‘Anyone with you?’
‘No.’
A small gas stove sat beside a compact basin. There was a TV on the breakfast bar, a fridge beneath, a molasses leatherette sofa opposite. Drapes hung over the windows, tinting the dim light emerald, purple and rose. A thick chocolate carpet had been fitted throughout.
Stephanie said, ‘I’m surprised you don’t have more security.’
Littbarski tugged the zip on his trousers. ‘Why would I need more security?’
‘The things you do. The people you know.’
‘I don’t piss anybody off. I have a reputation in this city. You want something, I’ll tell you whether I can get it for you and how much it’ll cost. Then it’s up to you. If you go for it, I’ll deliver. On time, no extra charges. Why would anybody want to hurt me?’
‘Is that how it was with John Peltor?’
‘Who?’
‘Paul Ellroy. Alan Stonehouse.’
Littbarski shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Which one?’
‘What?’
Stephanie smiled. ‘Which one of them haven’t you heard of?’
He glared at her and then began to look confused.
‘Have we met?’ he asked.
‘In a way.’
Stephanie wondered how old he was. Not as old as he looked, she supposed. Too many years with too little sleep and no sunlight. Littbarski was one of the living dead; grey skin, grey teeth, red eyes. As he moved through the light a face of hollows became a face of shadows.
Gradually, he put some of it together. ‘You’re … not her. But the two of you … you’re…’
‘Yes.’
He opened a pack of Casablanca cigarettes. ‘What’s the story?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s not much to tell. He approached me. Said he was looking for someone and that he’d heard I was the man to talk to. I already knew where to find Julia. But even if I hadn’t, I’d have found her in twenty-four hours anyway.’
‘Club Nitro?’
‘Right. The owners are associates of mine. We do a lot of business out there.’
‘I can imagine. Tell me about Peltor.’
‘Ellroy. He’s always been Paul Ellroy to me.’
She hadn’t even threatened him and he’d surrendered his bravado without a whimper. Stephanie wasn’t surprised. Everywhere Petra had ever been there had always been men like Rudi Littbarski. Small men trying to punch above their weight.
‘He’s in town,’ Littbarski said. ‘They’re all in town.’
‘All?’
‘The oil conference. Some big thing out at the Austria Center. The whole city’s jammed.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Are you serious? An event like this is a payday for me. OPEC, the UN, this thing, whatever. Right now, you can’t find a room at any of the best hotels. The Americans are here, the Iraqis, the Saudis. You know what they do, the Saudis? They bring an entourage. They book six or seven rooms at a place like the Sacher or the Imperial. Just for the family and staff. Then they book two or three more rooms on a different floor for their whores. They have their favourites flown in specially from London or Paris or Los Angeles. But if they want something local, or something exotic, they send somebody to see me.’
‘Something exotic?’
Littbarski looked pained. ‘These days nobody is content with regular girls. They always want something special. Something … baroque. Under-age immigrants, amputees, dwarves. All kinds of shit. You know Clara Bazoli?’
Stephanie had heard the name but couldn’t place it. ‘Remind me.’
‘The EU transport commissioner. Last week she ordered a Russian from me. For her husband!’
Stephanie shrugged. ‘That does seem a strange present to give your husband. But what’s so weird about a Russian?’
‘Not a Russian. A Russian.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A Russian is when a girl gives you a blow-job while a man fucks you in the ass. Signora Bazoli wanted to watch her husband having a Russian in their suite at the Inter-Continental. Can you believe it?’
‘If I was Russian I think I’d find it rather offensive.’
Littbarski sniggered. ‘It could be worse. You could be Algerian. Ever heard of Algierfranzosich? That’s when a girl licks your asshole.’
Stephanie tried to control her fraying temper. ‘And this is what you deal in, is it, Rudi?’
Littbarski mimicked offence. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, princess. I’m no different to a baker selling bread. I’m just providing a service.’
‘Like the heroin dealer at the school-gate.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Spare me the sweet talk, Rudi. Tell me why Paul Ellroy needed Julia.’
‘For a home movie.’
‘I know that. But why her? Why me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Been to Paris recently?’
‘What?’
‘By train, perhaps? Gare du Nord?’
He looked truly perplexed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She decided to change direction. Based on what Julia had said Stephanie made an educated guess: ‘You organized her surgery at the Verbinski clinic—right?’
Littbarski assumed the question was rhetorical. ‘Right.’
‘You saw the photos, then?’
‘Of you with the tattooed freak-show? Sure. We all had a laugh.’
‘Do you know where the photos came from?’
‘Ellroy.’
‘Do you know where he got them?’
‘Sure. He was given them.’
‘Given? Not sold?’
‘He said was given them.’
‘By?’
‘You should know. You’re in them.’
Stephanie’s grip tightened on the gun. ‘By?’
‘Someone you used to work for.’
The roof of her mouth felt dry. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. That was why we were laughing. Ellroy was saying how you used to work for this old guy, and we could see the kind of work you do, so…’
‘Wait. When was this?’
‘Autumn, maybe. October or November.’
‘Last year?’
Littbarski nodded.
Stephanie felt bewildered. He had to be talking about Alexander. But Alexander had been dead for more than two years.
‘Did you meet him yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. In Vienna. He came specially from London.’
* * *
By the time Gordon Wiley walked into the Café Imperial for a late breakfast meeting he’d been awake for more than four hours. It was nine-twenty-five. John Peltor was already there. Sitting at a window banquette he was silhouetted by daylight and framed by heavy, gathered curtains. A waitress was placing a plate of fried eggs before him.
Wiley had always been impressed and intimidated by Peltor’s physique. It wasn’t just the volume of the man, it was his condition. As vast as he was, there was no fat on him. He looked as though he was made out of tanned marble.
The waitress poured coffee for both of them. When she’d gone, Wiley said, ‘I spent an hour on the phone with John Cabrini earlier. He has no idea where she is. Alsace was a mess. All his leads have come to nothing. He’s sitting there in that pod—that multi-million-dollar pod—listening to God-knows-what falling from the satellites and she’s gone.’
The dining-room was quiet, the breakfast rush-hour in descent. Wiley liked the place. Large and airy, ochre and dark brown, traditional. In truth, it was a little worn but it had character. It felt as peaceful as a library. A woman in a sombre grey suit began tending the large vases of flowers.
Peltor nodded sympathetically. ‘So where does that leave you, sir?’
‘Us. Where does that leave us? In a hole. That’s where.’
‘There’s still time.’
‘No there isn’t. I’m meeting Hussein Sayed and Azzam Fahad later today.’
‘What time?’
‘Midday.’
Peltor knew better than to try to turn two and a half hours into something it couldn’t be. Instead, he said, ‘Worst-case scenario?’
‘They call the whole thing off.’
‘Best case?’
‘They agree to a postponement.’
‘How long do you think they could wait?’
‘Twenty-four hours. Maybe thirty-six.’
‘Not longer?’
‘I doubt it. And that’s if they wait at all. What’s on your mind?’
‘There is another possibility. But it’s a tough call.’
‘Just tell me what it is.’
‘You’ve seen the Brand disk, right?’
‘No. But I know about it.’
‘The girl.’
‘What about her?’
Peltor looked around and then leaned towards him, dropping his voice to a murmur. ‘She passed for Reuter once. She could pass for Reuter again.’
It took Wiley several moments to understand. ‘I thought she vanished weeks ago. I thought that’s why we paid her a hundred grand. To make sure she vanished.’
Retaining the second tranche of fifty thousand euros had been Peltor’s decision. Made for entirely personal reasons, no one else knew.
He said, ‘That’s true. But I can find her.’
‘How long would it take you?’
Peltor strung out the moment. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not?’
‘Once it’s done, she’d need to be discovered. Then the news would need to leak out. It would have to look right.’
Wiley conceded the point. ‘How long?’
‘To make it convincing? Forty-eight hours.’
‘What about the real Reuter?’
‘We’d still need her. But this buys us some time.’
Wiley found one appetite enhanced, the other suppressed.
* * *
At ten, the time Kleist had suggested the previous day, Stephanie and Newman turned into Dorotheergasse. The shop was closed, the lights off. Stephanie rang the bell. They waited in the rain, then tried again. Eventually, she caught sight of him refracted through glass. They stepped inside and shook the wetness from their shoulders. Kleist locked the door and led them to the small kitchen at the rear of the premises where he began to prepare hot chocolate with cinnamon. This was a process Stephanie remembered. It was part of Kleist’s professional calling-card; it came with the information.
He poured milk into a small, battered steel pan then held it over a gas flame. He made a play of concentrating on the task as he got straight to the point. ‘Were you aware that Otto Heilmann was on the Amsterdam Group payroll?’
Stephanie felt winded, only managing a whisper. ‘Heilmann.’
‘You raised his name yesterday.’
That was true. But only in relation to Kleist himself; he and Heilmann had been colleagues in the Stasi. It had never occurred to Stephanie that Heilmann might be connected to Amsterdam.
Kleist seemed to read her mind. ‘You asked about Butterfly. I made some enquiries. The Amsterdam Group was mentioned. I knew that Otto had worked for DeMille, one of their subsidiaries.’
Yet she hadn’t known. Asking about Butterfly and then mentioning Heilmann had been entirely coincidental.
‘What did he do for them?’
‘He was a consultant.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘Arms, mostly.’
Naturally; Stephanie thought of the Ukraine hypermarket.
Kleist said, ‘Otto had strong contacts in the Middle East. When we worked together he spent much of his time in Syria, Iraq and Jordan. But particularly in Syria. He knew Assad personally.’
Stephanie was still reeling. Kleist spooned chocolate into the pan of warm milk, added cinnamon, then resumed the slow stir away from the flame. When it was ready, he poured into three enamel mugs. They moved through to his cramped office. A small square window looked on to a dark courtyard.
‘Stern,’ Kleist said, leaning against a desk under siege from paperwork. ‘I think you should make contact.’
‘Why?’
‘Two reasons. Firstly, you were set up but so was Stern. At least, that’s what he says.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’
‘You have to admit it’s a possibility.’
‘Do you think it’s a possibility?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘Sadly?’
‘I’m not as retired as I might have led you to believe yesterday. And with Stern out of the way, who knows where you might have turned to for your information.’
Stephanie shook her head in mock reproach. ‘I have to say this: I keep thinking of you as some monstrous Cold War relic—I mean, poisoning Josef Kanek?—but every time we meet you do something to undermine the image.’
‘I’m not going to apologize for that but I’ll tell you something about Kanek, Petra. Everyone thinks of him as a dissident. A great scientific martyr of some sort. But that was never true. Josef Kanek never did anything to further scientific enquiry. He was a trader in stolen nuclear material. Now everybody does it. But he was among the first. That’s the reason he was killed. Nothing else.’
‘But poisoning? Wasn’t that a little … macabre?’
‘Radiation poisoning, Petra. He lived by it, so he died by it.’
‘I had no idea the Stasi was so theatrical.’
‘It was intended as a warning to others. And in that respect, it was effective.’
