The Third Woman

‘Hello. I’m Véronique.’

Véronique from Lyon. She’d been awkwardly beautiful once – perhaps not too long ago – but thinness had aged her. And so had unhappiness. Stephanie warmed to her because she understood the chilly solitude of being alone in a city of millions.

They talked for a while before Véronique reached for Stephanie’s hand. ‘I live close. Do you want to come? We could have a drink?’

Petra considered the offer clinically: Véronique was an ideal way to vanish from the street. No security cameras, no registration, no witnesses. Inside her home, Petra would have options; some brutal, some less so. But it was after four; there was no longer any pressing need for a Véronique.

Stephanie let her down gently with a version of the truth. ‘It’s too late for me. If only we’d met earlier.’

She turned left into rue Vieille du Temple. The shop was a little way down, the red and gold sign over the property picked out by three small lamps: Adler. And beneath that: boulangerie – patisserie.

Stephanie knocked on the door. Behind the glass a full-length blind had been lowered, fermé painted across it. A minute passed. Nothing. She tried again – still nothing – and was preparing for a third rap when she heard the approach of footsteps and a stream of invective.

The same height as Stephanie, he wore a creased pistachio shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a black waistcoat, unfastened. A crooked nose, a mash of scar around the left eye, thick black hair everywhere, except on his head. The last time, he’d had a ponytail. Not any more, the close crop a better cut to partner his encroaching baldness. There was a lot of gold; identity bracelets, a watch, chains with charms, a thick ring through the left ear-lobe. As Cyril Bradfield had once said to her, ‘He looks like the hardest man you’ve ever seen. And dresses like a tart.’

‘Hello, Claude.’

Claude Adler was too startled to reply.

‘I knew you’d be up,’ Stephanie said. ‘Four-thirty, every day. Right?’

‘Petra …’

‘I would’ve called, of course …’

‘Of course.’

‘But I couldn’t.’

‘This is … well … unexpected?’

‘For both of us. We need to talk.’

It was delightfully warm inside. Adler locked the door behind them and they walked through the shop, the shelves and wicker baskets still empty. The cramped bakery was at the back. Stephanie smelt it before she saw it; baguettes, sesame seed bagels, apple strudel, all freshly prepared, all of it reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since Brussels.

Adler took her upstairs to the apartment over the shop where he and his wife had lived for almost twenty years. He lit a gas ring for a pan of water and scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. There was a soft pack of Gauloises on the window-ledge. He tapped one out of the tear, offered it to her, then slipped it between his lips when she declined.

‘Is Sylvie here?’

‘Still asleep.’ He bent down to the ring of blue flame, nudging the cigarette tip into it, shreds of loose tobacco flaring bright orange. ‘She’ll be happy to see you when she gets up.’

‘I doubt it. That’s the reason I’m here, Claude. I’ve got bad news.’

Adler took his time standing. ‘Have you seen the TV? It seems to be the day for bad news.’

‘It is. Jacob and Miriam are dead.’

He froze. ‘Both?’

Stephanie nodded.

At their age, one was to be expected. Followed soon after, perhaps, by the other. But both together?

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘How?’

‘Violently.’

He began to shake his head gently. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘It is true.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw the police. The ambulances …’

‘You were there?’

‘Afterwards, yes.’

‘Did you see them?’

Stephanie shook her head.

‘Then perhaps …’

‘Trust me, Claude. They’re dead.’

He wanted to protest but couldn’t because he believed her. Even though she hadn’t seen the bodies. Even though he didn’t know her well enough to know what she did. Not exactly, anyway.

‘Who did it?’

‘I don’t know.’

He thought about that for a while. ‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I’m supposed to be dead too.’

Adler refilled their cups; hot milk first, then coffee like crude oil, introduced over the back of a spoon, a ritual repeated many times daily. Like lighting a cigarette. Which he now did for the fourth time since her arrival, the crushed stubs gathering on a pale yellow saucer.

Now that he’d absorbed the initial shock, Adler was reminiscing. Secondhand history, as related to him by Furst: the pipeline pumping Jewish refugees to safety; the false document factory he’d established in Montmartre; 14 June 1940, the day the Nazis occupied Paris; smuggling Miriam to Lisbon via Spain in the autumn of 1941; forging documents for the Resistance and then SOE. And finally, betrayal, interrogation, Auschwitz.

Adler scratched a jaw of stubble, some black, some silver. ‘He always said he was lucky to live. Listening to him tell it, I was never so sure.’ He stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘You survive something like that, the least you expect is to be left alone to die of natural causes. Fuck it, he was nearly ninety.’

‘You’re right.’

‘You know what I admired most about him?’

‘What?’

He drew on his cigarette and then exhaled over the tip. ‘That it never occurred to him to leave. From 1939 on, he could’ve run. But he didn’t. He chose to stay behind, to create false documents to help others escape. He knew the risks better than most. Yet even when they got Miriam out, it never crossed his mind to go with her.’

‘That was the kind of man he was. Silently courageous. Understated.’

‘True. He was a man who believed in community. His community.’

‘Talking of which, did Jacob ever go back to Sentier?’

Adler stared at her. ‘That’s a blunt question on a morning like this.’

‘That’s why I’m asking it, Claude.’

He shrugged. ‘Not so much, I don’t think. Not since he sold the shop.’

‘I saw it yesterday.’

‘What?’

‘The shop. In Passage du Caire. Part of the sign is still above the entrance. At least, it was. It’s not any more.’

Adler’s jaw dropped. ‘You were there?’

‘Moments before the explosion, yes.’

‘My God … why?’

‘To see Jacob. He called me the night before last and asked me to come to Paris. He said it was important. He wanted to meet at La Béatrice. I turned up. He didn’t.’

‘At La Béatrice? That used to be his favourite place.’

‘I know.’

‘A coincidence?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Adler’s gaze drifted out of the window. ‘We were up all night watching the news. Twelve dead, fifty injured. We were wondering who we’d know.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’d already left?’

‘No. I was just lucky. Everyone around me was dead or injured. I hardly got a scratch.’

‘What about Jacob?’

‘I told you. He never turned up. He died later. At their apartment.’

‘With Miriam.’

‘Yes.’

‘You think there’s a connection?’

‘I don’t want to. But it’s hard not to. When did you last see him?’

‘Thursday. Sylvie and I went over to their place and we went to the street market on boulevard de Belleville. Lately, it’s something we’ve been doing almost every week. The market is on Thursday and Friday mornings. After it, we have lunch. Usually at old Goldenberg’s place – you know it? He and Jacob were friends.’

She shook her head.

‘On rue de Tourtille. Great service, shit food. Jacob and Miriam have been going there since it opened, back in the Seventies. Jacob always used to say he only started enjoying it about five years ago when his taste buds went. He used to lean across the table when Goldenberg was hovering and he’d say to me, “Claude, there are two things that give me pleasure when I’m here. Not tasting the food and watching your face. Every mouthful is a masterpiece.” That was his big joke. Goldenberg has a sign in the front window: every mouthful is a masterpiece.’

Stephanie tried to muster a smile. ‘Did you always go over to see him? Or did he come here?’

‘Usually, we went there. When he sold the business he began to slow down. Recently, he’d become … fragile.’

‘At his age, he was entitled to.’

‘I agree with you. But he wouldn’t have.’

‘You didn’t notice anything on Thursday? He didn’t seem upset or preoccupied?’

‘Nothing like that, no.’

‘What about the last few weeks?’

‘No.’

‘Does it surprise you that he would have arranged a meeting with me at La Béatrice?’

‘Frankly, yes. He was fond of you. They both were. I would have expected him to invite you to their home. That was their way.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘How could he be connected to what happened in Sentier?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I can’t tell yet. I guess I’ll take a look at his place. After that … who knows?’

‘How will you get in?’

‘I’ll find a way.’

Adler stood up and shuffled past her into the hall. She heard the scrape of a drawer. When he returned he was holding a set of keys.

‘The one with the plastic clip is the top lock, the other one does the main lock. The number for the building is 1845.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was Miriam’s idea. In case they needed help.’

Stephanie took the keys and put them into the pocket of her denim jacket.

Adler said, ‘Is there something I can do, Petra? I’d like to help.’

‘Then forget this conversation. In fact, forget I was even here.’

I’m sitting at a small circular table beside the window. Outside, the traffic thickens along rue de Rivoli. The street shimmers in the wintry light of early morning. Silver rain streaks the glass. I order some breakfast from the waiter and then spread the newspapers across the table; Le Monde, Libération, International Herald Tribune. The bomb dominates the front pages of the two French papers and shares the lead in the Tribune.

According to the French reports, there are twelve dead and forty-five injured. The Tribune has thirteen dead and forty-nine injured. A spokesman for the Préfet de Police concludes: ‘It’s a tragedy. And a grotesque act of cowardice.’

Much of the coverage is analysis. Since Sentier has a strong Jewish presence, the focus inevitably falls upon anti-Semitic extremists. With all the awkward questions that poses for a country like France. Or even a city like Paris. Libération reports that the Gendarmerie Nationale have two suspects, both men, both seen entering La Béatrice two or three minutes before the explosion. The shorter of the pair is about one-metre-sixty and is twenty to twenty-five years old. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit – dark blue with white flashes. The older one is probably in his mid-thirties, around one-metre-eighty, and was wearing denim jeans, black running shoes and a khaki jacket with a zip. They are Algerians but might be travelling on Moroccan passports. No names are suggested.

I read the descriptions several times. The detail is convincing but false. No such men entered La Béatrice while I was there, which was over a period of about twenty minutes. And if they’d gone in after I’d left, they’d almost certainly be dead.

The name of al-Qaeda is tossed over the coverage as casually as confetti at a wedding. The French papers, in particular, concern themselves with the possibility of an anti-Muslim backlash. Nothing I read is new.

The café is quiet. A crumpled, middle-aged man beneath the menu blackboard nurses a glass of red wine. I can’t decide whether it’s the last of the night or the first of the morning. Three tables away from me, a plump dark-haired woman is smoking a filterless cigarette. Smudged eye-liner draws attention to bloodshot pupils.

The waiter brings me bread, butter and hot chocolate. He stoops to lay them on the table, a lock of greasy grey hair falling from his forehead. He sees the newspapers, shakes his head and clucks his disapproval.

There’s no mention of me anywhere. No female suspect. No chase through the ruins. No gun-shot. I’ve been air-brushed from the picture.

Number 16, place Vendôme. Just inside the entrance, on the wall to the left, was a mirror with the names of the resident institutions picked out in gold letters; R.T. Vanderbilt Company Inc., Lazard Construction, Laboratoires Garnier. Under Escalier B, Stephanie found the name, once familiar, now largely ignored: Banque Damiani, Genève. This was only her second visit in seven years.

Escalier B was at the back of the paved courtyard, past the offices of Comme des Garçons, through a set of black double-doors. Inside, Stephanie took the stairs.

The reception room had been redecorated; a large Chinese carpet laid over a polished parquet floor, heavy curtains of plum brocade, a pair of Louis XIV armchairs either side of a table. There was a collection of oil portraits set in large oval gilt frames, each hung within a wall panel. Stephanie knew that the faces belonged to the original Damiani brothers and their sons.

The receptionist was about the same age as her. But standing in front of her desk, Stephanie felt like a gauche teenager. She wore a beautifully cut suit; navy-blue, simple, elegant. She was sitting in a throne chair, her spine nowhere near the back of it. On her wrist was a gold Piaget watch.

She greeted Stephanie with a warm smile. Elsewhere, that might have been a surprise considering Stephanie’s appearance – perhaps you are looking for some other place? – but not here. The few who made it to the receptionist’s desk at Banque Damiani usually did so intentionally. Regardless of appearance.

‘I have a box.’

‘Of course. One moment, please.’

The receptionist directed her towards the Louis XIV armchairs, then disappeared through the door to the right, the panels inlaid with antique mirror glass. Alone, Stephanie hoped she’d remember the process accurately; two number sequences and a one-time password to allow her access to the strongroom. She would be accompanied by a senior member of the bank and one security guard. In a private cubicle, her box would be brought to her. Once the door was closed, she would open the box using a six-digit code on the keypad. There were no keys in the process, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen Banque Damiani. Under the circumstances in which she might want access to the box, carrying a key – or even collecting a key – might not be possible.

Inside the box was Helen Graham; a thirty-one-year-old Canadian, born in Vancouver, now living in Chicago. Passport, identity card, driving licence, credit-cards, euros, dollars, a pair of glasses, a small case with two sets of coloured contact lenses (grey), a cheap plastic wallet containing thirteen family snapshots, and an insulin pen. Containing, instead of insulin, a strain of engineered tetrodotoxin, a substance found naturally in puffer fish, designed to act instantly by closing down the sodium channels in the nerves, thus rendering them useless, leading to death by paralysis of the breathing muscles.

Helen Graham was a member of the Magnificent Seven. She was one of five exit identities Stephanie had spread across Europe. The others were in Frankfurt, Valencia, Bratislava and Trondheim. Each was held in a safe-deposit box in an institution where the means of access was carried solely in the memory. Beyond Europe, there were versions of her in Baltimore and Osaka.

Over the years, these identities had been rotated. New ones were established, old ones destroyed, nearly always intact. This was only the third time she’d had to activate one. The last time had been in Helsinki and that had been almost four years ago. Since then, she’d only interfered with the identities once. Two months after the introduction of the euro, she’d visited all the European safe-deposit boxes to swap bundles of condemned deutschmarks and francs for pristine euro notes.

The Magnificent Seven had been established as an insurance policy. Created by Jacob Furst’s protégé, Cyril Bradfield, without the knowledge of her former masters, their existence had, until now, been more of an expensive comfort than a practical necessity.

The door opened and a man in a dark grey double-breasted suit entered, holding in his left hand a leather clipboard. Olive-skinned, black hair flecked with silver at the temples, he stood an inch shorter than Stephanie.

In clipped German, clearly not his first language, he said, ‘Welcome. A pleasure to see you again.’

Stephanie had never seen him before. He was speaking German because she was Stephanie Schneider, although no one at the bank was likely to mention the name in conversation with her.

‘I’m Pierre Damiani. Sadly, my uncle is abroad this week. He will be upset to have missed you.’

She doubted that. She hadn’t met him, either.

‘I hope I can be of some assistance to you. Sophie told me why you are here. Before we proceed, I would just like to take this opportunity to say that this bank and my family regard the interests of our esteemed customers as absolutely sacrosanct.’

Said with conviction, nothing obsequious about it.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ she replied.

He nodded curtly, then gave her the leather clipboard. On it was a cream-coloured card with the bank’s name and crest embossed across the top. Beneath, there were three boxes for the numbers and password.

‘You are familiar with the procedure?’

‘I am.’

‘Please read the sheet below.’

Stephanie lifted the card. The message was handwritten in blue ink: Your safe-deposit box has been contaminated. The front of this building is being monitored. Your appearance here has already been reported. In a moment, I will leave the room. Please do not go until then. Take the door on the opposite side of the room to the one I use. At the far end of the passage, there is a fire-exit. It’s unlocked. Our cameras are recording us – I hope you understand – so could you sign the bottom of the declaration form then fill out the card, as normal. Please understand that it is not safe for us to talk. With our sincerest apologies, your faithful servants, Banque Damiani & the Damiani family.

Ten-forty. The easyInternetCafé on boulevard de Sébastopol was busy. Stephanie settled herself at her terminal and sent the same message to three different addresses.

> Oscar. Need to speak. CRV/13. P.

She’d followed Pierre Damiani’s escape route without a problem. What more could they have done for her? Our cameras are recording us – I hope you understand. A plea more than anything else, meaning perhaps: our cameras are recording us … and who can say who will see this? Some entity with powers to sequestrate such recordings?

Yesterday she’d had security in numbers: Stephanie, Petra, Marianne, the Magnificent Seven. Now she was down to one. But which one? Or was it worse than that? Perhaps she was no one at all.

Generally, the deeper the crisis, the deeper she withdrew into Petra. Which fuelled the contradiction at the heart of her; Stephanie was only ever extraordinary as Petra and the more extraordinary Petra was, the more Stephanie resented it. Now, however, Petra seemed marginalized, her confidence faltering.

Helen Graham was useless to her now. That meant the rest of her Magnificent Seven were contaminated by association. Which prompted an unpleasant thought: Cyril Bradfield was the only other person who’d been aware of their existence. She tried to think who might have penetrated their secret. And, more worryingly, how. Through Bradfield himself? What other way could there be? The possibility made her nauseous. Magenta House had to be the prime candidate. Which was faintly ironic, since the identities were designed to protect her from them.

Magenta House was the organization for whom she’d once worked. Based in London, if an entity that doesn’t exist can be based anywhere, it had no official title; Magenta House was the nickname used by those on the inside. Created to operate beyond the law, it had never bothered to recognize the law. In that sense, it was a logical concept, especially if one accepted that there were some threats that could not be countered legally. Somebody has to work in the sewers, Stephanie. That’s why people like you exist.

They’d created her, they’d tried to control her and, in the end, they’d tried to kill her. Which, paradoxically, made them unlikely candidates now. They’d let her go. There had been a change. One era had ended, another had begun, and Petra had been consigned to history.

Nothing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours bore any trace of Magenta House. They shied away from spectaculars. They didn’t plant bombs in public places. Instead, they liquidated the kind of people who did. Quietly, clinically, leaving no trace, and sometimes no body. They deleted people from existence. If they’d wanted to kill her and they’d discovered where she was, they wouldn’t have bothered luring her to Paris.

On the screen, a reply directed her to a quiet confessional in the ether.

> Hello Oscar.

> Petra. Bored already?

The cursor was winking at her, teasing her.

> I’m in Paris.

> Not a good choice for a vacation at the moment.

> Especially not in Sentier.

> You were there?

> Yes. Has anybody been looking for me?

> You’re always in demand.

> I need help, Oscar. I’m running blind.

There was a long pause and Stephanie knew why. This was the first time Stern had encountered Petra in trouble.

> What do you need?

> Something. Anything.

> Give me two hours. We can meet here again.

She terminated the connection. Out on the street she buttoned her denim jacket to the throat and pressed her hands into the pockets. Which was where her fingers came into contact with the keys that Adler had given her. In the other pocket was Marianne Bernard’s mobile phone. She cursed herself for not dumping it earlier; when a mobile phone was switched on, it was a moving beacon. But she’d heard a rumour that it was now possible to track a mobile phone when it was switched off. She dropped the handset into the first bin she passed.

Five-to-one. Stephanie was back with Stern through a terminal at Web 46 on rue du Roi du Sicilie.

> I have a name for you, Petra.

> How much?

> This is for free.

> You must be going soft in your old age.

> Has it ever occurred to you that I might be younger than you?

> Only in my more humorous moments.

>This isn’t sentimentality. This is business. If anything happens to you, I’ll lose money.

> That’s more like it. Who is it?

> Leonid Golitsyn.

> Don’t know him.

> An art-dealer. Very rich. Very well connected.

> What’s his story?

> He has a gallery in Paris on avenue Matignon but he’s based in New York. He goes to Paris three or four times a year, usually on his way back to Moscow. Golitsyn is old school. Chernenko, Gromyko, even Brezhnev – he was cosy with all of them. In those days he was a virtual commuter between the United States and the Soviet Union. He’s always been close to the Kremlin. Even now.

> Putin doesn’t strike me as an art collector.

> I think it’s safe to say that Golitsyn’s been carrying more than canvas over the years. He’s one of those strange creatures who knows everybody but who nobody knows. A friend of mine once described him – rather memorably – as a diplomatic bag. An insult and a truth rolled into one.

> Why is he relevant?

> Anders Brand.

> What’s he got to do with this?