The Third Woman Read online

  There were four messages on the answer-phone including one from Tourisme Albert on boulevard Anspach. Your tickets are ready for collection. Shall we courier them to you or would you like to collect them from our office? She looked at her watch. In thirty-six hours, she would be gone; a fortnight in Mauritius, intended as a buffer between Turkmenistan and the next place. Yet again, a woman in transit.

  In her bedroom, she shunted the single bed to one side, rolled back the reed mat and lifted two loose floorboards. From the space below she recovered a small Sony Vaio laptop in a sealed plastic pouch.

  Back in the living-room, she switched on the computer and accessed Petra's e-mails. Spread over six addresses, split between AOL and Hotmail, Petra hid behind four men and two women. She checked Marianne Bernard's mail at AOL; one new message. Roland, predictably. Gratitude for the best night of the year. Not the greatest compliment, Stephanie felt, in early January.

  She sent one new message. To Stern, the information broker who also acted as her agent and confidant. It had to be significant that almost the only person she truly trusted was someone she had never met. She didn't even know whether Stern was a man or a woman, even though she called him Oscar.

  > Back from the Soviet past. With love, P.

  She left the laptop connected, then took her dirty clothes to Wash Club on place Saint-Géry. She bought milk and a carton of apple juice from the LIDL supermarket on the other side of the square, then returned home to find two messages waiting for her. One was from Stern. He directed her to somewhere electronically discreet and asked:

  > How was it?

  > Turkmenistan? Or Sullivan?

  > Both.

  > Depressing, dirty and backward. But Turkmenistan was fine.

  Eddie Sullivan was a former Green Jacket who'd established a company named ProActive Solutions. An arms-dealer with a flourishing reputation, he'd been in Turkmenistan to negotiate the sale of a consignment of weapons to the IMU, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan. The hardware, stolen from the British Army during the run-up to the invasion of Iraq, was already in Azerbaijan, awaiting transport across the Caspian Sea from Baku to the coastal city of Turkmenbashi.

  Petra's contract had been paid for by Vyukneft, a Russian oil company with business in Azerbaijan. But Stern had told her that the decision to use her had been political. Made in Moscow, he'd said. Hiring Petra meant no awkward fingerprints. It wasn't the first time she'd worked by proxy for the Russian government.

  The final negotiation between Sullivan and the IMU had been scheduled for the Hotel Turkmenbashi, a monstrous hangover from the Soviet era. Hideous on the outside, no better on the inside, she'd eliminated Sullivan in his room, while the Uzbek end-users gathered two floors below. She'd masqueraded as a member of hotel staff, delivering a message with as much surliness as she could muster.

  Distracted by the imminent deal, Sullivan had been sloppy. He'd never looked at her, even as she loitered in the doorway waiting for a tip. When he'd turned his back to look for loose change, she'd pulled out a Ruger with a silencer and had kicked the door shut with her heel. The gun-shot and the slam had merged to form one hearty thump. Two minutes later she was heading away from the hotel on the long drive back to Ashgabat and the Lufthansa flight for Frankfurt.

  > Are you available?

  > Not until further notice.

  > Taking a vacation?

  > Something like that. Anything on the radar?

  > Only from clients who can't afford you.

  > Then your commission must be fatter than I thought.

  > Petra! Please. Don't be cruel.

  The second message, at one of the Hotmail addresses, was a real surprise. No names, just a single sentence.

  > I see you chose not to take the advice I gave you in Munich.

  Petra Reuter was sipping a cappuccino at a table close to the entrance of Café Roma on Maximilianstrasse. It was late September but winter had already made its presence felt; two days earlier there had been snow flurries in Munich.

  The man rising from the opposite side of the table was Otto Heilmann. A short man, no more than five-foot-six, with narrow sloping shoulders, he wore a loden hunting jacket with onyx buttons over a fawn polo-neck.

  'We will meet again, Fräulein Jaspersen?'

  'I expect so, if you wish.'

  'Perhaps you would consider coming to St Petersburg?'

  Petra wondered where this stiff courtesy came from. Probably not from two decades with the Stasi. Nor from the last fifteen years of arms dealing. She didn't imagine there was much call for Heilmann's brand of politeness in Tbilisi or Kiev. Or even in St Petersburg. Yet here he was, dressed like a benevolent Bavarian uncle, hitting on her with a formal invitation that fell only fractionally short of stiff card and embossed script.

  She gave him her best smile. 'I'd certainly consider it, Herr Heilmann.'

  'Please. Otto.'

  'Only if you promise to call me Krista.'

  A small inclination of the head was followed by a reciprocated smile that revealed a set of perfectly calibrated teeth. 'This could be the beginning of something very good for us, Krista.'

  She watched him leave, a navy cashmere overcoat folded over his right arm. Outside, a Mercedes was waiting, black body, black windows, a black suit to hold open the door for him. Perhaps that was why he'd chosen Café Roma; black wooden tables, black banquettes, black chairs. Crimson walls, though. Like blood. A more likely reason for Heilmann to choose the place. Her eyes followed the car until it faded from view.

  The remains of the day stretched before her. Nothing to do but wait for the call. More than anything, Petra's was a life of waiting. Like a movie actor; long periods of inactivity were intercut with short bursts of action.

  She drained her cappuccino and decided to order another. Twenty minutes drifted by. It grew busier as afternoon matured into evening; shoppers, businessmen and women, mostly affluent, mostly elegant.

  'Jesus Christ, I don't believe it. Petra, Petra, Petra …'

  She looked up and took a moment to staple a name to the face. Not because she didn't recognize him but because he was out of context.

  He misunderstood her silence. 'Or are we not Petra today?'

  John Peltor. A former US Marine. Still looking every inch of his six-foot-five.

  'Is this bad timing?' he asked.

  'That depends.'

  He glanced left and right. 'Am I intruding?'

  'No.'

  Clearly not the answer he was expecting. 'You're alone?'

  'Aren't we all?'

  'Always the smart-ass, Petra.'

  'Always.'

  'I wasn't sure at first. The hair, you know.'

  It was the longest she'd ever worn it. Halfway down her back and dark blonde.

  'Kinda suits you,' he said.

  'Do you think so?'

  She didn't like it: although it went well with her eyes, which were now green. She wasn't sure Peltor had noticed that change.

  He looked into her cup, which was two-thirds empty. 'Want another?'

  'I've got to go,' she lied.

  'You sure? It would be good to catch up again.'

  Perversely, that was true. Social opportunities in their solitary profession were rare although it wasn't the first time they'd run into each other by chance. Peltor wasn't her type but that hardly mattered. How many of them were there in the world? Not the cheap battery-operated types, but those rare hand-crafted precision instruments. Less than a hundred? Certainly. Whatever their respective backgrounds they were bound by the quality of their manufacture and they both knew it.

  'How long are you in Munich?' she asked.

  'Leaving tomorrow, around midday. How about tonight?'

  'Busy.'

  Another lie.

  'Can you make breakfast? At my hotel. Say nine?'

  Petra tilted her head to one side and allowed herself a smile. 'You won't be sharing it with some lucky lady?'

  Peltor feigned wounded pride. 'Not unle
ss you say yes.'

  Petra arrived at the Mandarin Oriental on Neuturmstrasse at nine. When she asked for Peltor at the front desk – 'Herr Stonehouse, bitte' – her instructions were specific: he was running a little late so could she take the lift to the sixth floor, the stairs to the seventh and then proceed up to the roof terrace.

  It was a freezing morning, no hint of cloud in the sky. The sun sparkled like the Millennium Star over a roof terrace that offered an unobstructed view of all Munich.

  'Not bad, huh? It's why I always stay here when I'm in town.'

  Peltor was floating at one end of a miniature swimming pool. Petra had seen baths that weren't much smaller.

  'I hope that's heated.'

  'A little too much for my taste.'

  'Always the Marine, right?'

  Petra looked at the board by the pool. Next to the date was the air temperature taken at seven-thirty. One degree centigrade.

  'Love to swim first thing in the morning,' Peltor declared loudly.

  'I thought you people loved the smell of napalm in the morning.'

  'Not these days. How long's it been, Petra?'

  'I don't know. Eighteen months?'

  'More like two years. Maybe longer.'

  'The British Airways lounge at JFK? You said you were going to Bratislava. Two weeks later I was stuck in Oslo airport flicking through a copy of the Herald Tribune and there it was. Prince Mustafa, the Mogadishu warlord, hit through the heart by a long-range sniper. A Sako rifle …'

  'A TRG-S,' Peltor added. 'Won't use any other kind …'

  'A 338 Lapua Mag from seventeen hundred metres, wasn't it?'

  'Seventeen-fifty. What were you doing in Oslo?'

  'Nothing. I told you. I was stuck.'

  'Cute, Petra. Real cute.'

  Peltor climbed out of the pool. Massive shoulders tapered to a waist so narrow it was almost feminine, a feature that reminded her of Salman Rifat, the Turkish arms-dealer. But where Rifat's extraordinary physique was steroid-assisted, Peltor's was natural. He exuded power as tangibly as the steam coming off his skin.

  Oblivious to the cold, he dried himself in front of her, neither of them saying anything. It was an extravagant performance. A muscled peacock, Petra thought, as he reached for a dressing-gown. She wondered whether he was really running late or whether he'd orchestrated the display deliberately.

  His suite was on the seventh floor. He emerged from the bathroom in a navy suit without a tie. Stephanie caught a trace of sandalwood in his cologne. Peltor wore a trim goatee beard at the same thickness as the hair on his head, somewhere between crop and stubble. He stepped into a pair of black Sebago loafers and they went down to Mark's, the hotel restaurant.

  Orange juice and coffee arrived. Peltor ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, Petra stuck with fruit and croissants. She said, 'You running into me at Café Roma yesterday …'

  He took his time, sipping coffee, playing with the teaspoon on the saucer. 'Yeah. I know.'

  'And?'

  He struggled for an answer, then looked almost apologetic. 'All my adult life, I've had my finger on a trigger, Petra. First for my country, then for my bank balance. In that time, I've been the best there is. We both have. Different specialities, same environment. But nobody knows what we do. We have to lie to everyone. We can't relax. That time at JFK – we were just a couple of business colleagues shooting the breeze in an airport lounge. A few stories, a few drinks. It was nice. But I didn't think I'd get the chance to do it again. Then yesterday … there you were.'

  'A coincidence?'

  'I hope so.'

  'Someone I used to know said that a coincidence was an oversight.'

  He sat back in his chair and held open his hands. 'Shit, it happens, you know? You're walking down a street somewhere – Osaka, Toronto, Berlin – and some guy calls out your name. When you turn round there's a face you haven't seen since the fourth grade back in Austin, Texas.'

  'Is that where you grew up?'

  'Never let your defences down, do you?'

  'Never.'

  Peltor held up his hands in mock surrender. 'Look, I saw you in Café Roma. I could've walked away but I didn't. That's all there is to it. I just thought we could talk again like we did in New York. You know, take a time-out. If you're uneasy with that … well, then I guess you'll leave.'

  But she didn't. Perhaps because she'd enjoyed JFK too. Taking a time-out, talking shop. Relaxing.

  Peltor's eggs and bacon arrived. The waitress poured Petra more coffee. The restaurant was mostly empty, the businessmen long gone, just four other tables occupied, none of them too close.

  Gradually, they drifted into conversation. Nothing personal, not at first. They talked about Juha Suomalainen, a Finnish marksman whom Peltor had always regarded as a rival rather than a kindred spirit. Petra asked whether he was still active.

  'I doubt it. He's been dead for six months.'

  'Who got him?'

  'Husqvarna.'

  'I don't know the name. Sounds Nordic.'

  'Husqvarna make chainsaws.'

  'I'm not with you.'

  'Juha was at his home in Espoo. Up a ladder, cutting branches off a tree. Somehow he fell and the chainsaw got him. And before you ask, I was in Hawaii with a drink in my hand.'

  Petra pulled apart a croissant. 'Well, statistically speaking, this is a risky business. You just don't expect any of us to go like that.'

  'Right. Like Vincent Soares. Cancer. Wasn't even forty-five.'

  When Peltor talked about his time as a Marine, Petra was surprised to learn that he wasn't the rabid jock-patriot she'd suspected he might be, although he admitted to missing the comradeship. But not much.

  'This is a lot better. Like owning your own business, know what I mean? You work hard but you got no boss busting your ass.'

  As far as Peltor was concerned, she'd always been Petra Reuter, the anarchist who turned assassin. Originally, however, Petra had been created by an organization. And controlled by that organization. Petra was an identity handed to Stephanie. A shell to inhabit. And in those days there had been a boss. A man who had regulated every aspect of her life. But as time passed, flesh and fabric had merged and Stephanie had become Petra. Or was it the other way round? In any case, Petra had outgrown her fictional self. Now, both the organization and the boss were consigned to her past while Petra Reuter was more of a reality than she had ever been.

  Peltor ate a piece of bread roll smeared with butter and marmalade. Petra waited for the predictable reaction: the grimace. He picked up the small marmalade jar.

  'Look at this, will you? Look at the colour. Way too light. Like dirty water. Too much sugar, not enough orange. And no bitterness. Marmalade doesn't work unless there's a trace of bitterness.'

  When he wasn't killing people Peltor liked to make marmalade. The first time she'd discovered this she'd laughed out loud. Later, when she thought about it, it simply reinforced a truth: you can never really know someone.

  'You still getting the same kick out of it?' she asked.

  When they'd last met, Peltor had explained what drove him on: the quest for perfect performance. It all comes down to the shot, Petra. Last contract I took was nine months from start to finish. All of it distilled into half a second.

  There was no longer any trace of that enthusiasm. 'To be honest, I'm not sure I'll take another contract.'

  'That surprises me.'

  'I'm kinda drifting into something new right now.' He tugged the lapel of his jacket. 'Something … corporate.'

  'That surprises me more.'

  'It shouldn't. You know the way the math works. I've had my time at the plate, Petra. And if you don't mind me saying so, so have you.'

  'If you don't mind me saying so, I'd guess you're a decade older than me.'

  It was more like fifteen years, but technically Petra was older than Stephanie.

  'It's not about age. It's about time served.'

  She reduced her indifference to a shrug. 'I'm touched by
your concern.'

  'Don't outstay your welcome, Petra. Most of the assholes out there – I couldn't give a rat's ass if they get wasted. But I like you. You got class. Don't be the champ who doesn't know when to quit.'

  'When it's time, I'll know.'

  'Bullshit. The people who say that never know. Know why? Because the second before they realize it, they find their brains in their lap.'

  'I'll try to remember that.'

  'Just do it. Retire. Or shift sideways like I have.'

  'What is this venture, then?'

  'Consultancy I'd guess you call it. First-class travel, expense accounts, places like this. I swear, there are corporate clients out there – the biggest names – ready to pay a fortune for what we have up here.'

  Petra watched him drum a finger against the side of his head and said, 'Not quite the double-tap I've come to associate with you.'

  'Funny girl. Seriously, though, you can name your price. They pay off-shore, share options, anything you want.'

  'Now I've heard it all.'

  'You're not too young to think about it, Petra.'

  'It's not that.'

  'No?'

  'No.'

  'So what is it?'

  'You know perfectly well. It's obviously already happened to you. But it hasn't happened to me. Not yet.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'The moment.'

  Peltor's evangelism sobered into silence and she knew she was right.

  She said, 'The moment you know. But before that moment … well, you don't just retire from this life, John. You know that as well as I do. It retires you. Sometimes after just one job.'

  Beyond the recognition, she thought she detected a hint of regret in his voice when, eventually, he said, 'Damned if you're not right, Petra. Damned if you're not right.'

  Stephanie was still thinking about Peltor's e-mail and the meeting that had prompted it back in September when her taxi pulled up beside the church of Notre Dame du Sablan. When Albert Eichner had told her that he was coming to Brussels to take her to lunch, she'd been faintly amused by his choice of restaurant. The exterior of L'Écallier du Palais Royal was the essence of discretion; premises that were easy to miss, the name lightly engraved on a small stone tablet beside the door, net curtains to prevent inquisitive glances from the street. As the chairman of Guderian Maier Bank in Zurich, these were qualities that Eichner appreciated more than most.