The Third Woman

> He was one of the thirteen who were killed yesterday.

Stephanie was amazed. Anders Brand, the former Swedish diplomat, fondly known as The Whisperer. A man who spoke so softly you began to wonder if your hearing was impaired. A peerless mediator during his time at the United Nations. Stephanie remembered seeing him on BBC World’s Hard Talk. He’d only been half-joking when he’d said that being softly-spoken was one of the keys to his success at mediation: ‘It forces people to listen more carefully to me.’

She pictured Brand as he was usually seen – on a conference podium, in a TV studio, disembarking from an aircraft – and realized that his face matched a face she’d seen at La Béatrice. The face she thought she’d recognized but hadn’t been able to name.

> How come this isn’t headline news?

> It will be this evening. As I understand it, his death won’t be officially confirmed until later this afternoon.

> After more than twenty-four hours?

> I wasn’t there, Petra. But I’ve seen the pictures.

The photo-flash memory of Béatrice Klug’s flaming head gave the concept of delayed identification unpleasant credibility.

> What’s the connection with Golitsyn?

> I don’t know that there necessarily is one. What I do know is this: the day before yesterday, they had dinner together at the Meurice. Golitsyn arrived earlier in the day from New York. Brand was due to fly to Baghdad today. Golitsyn heads to Moscow tomorrow. Golitsyn and Brand go back a long way. Brand is another of Golitsyn’s twenty-four-carat connections. Maybe they discussed something that is germane to your current situation.

He’s not telling me everything.

Typical of Stern. Their relationship had lasted longer than any of Stephanie’s romantic relationships. Even the good ones. Both of them had secrets yet both of them had entrusted part of themselves to the other. That wasn’t something she could verify, it was something she felt.

> How do I meet Golitsyn?

> Tonight Golitsyn will be at the Lancaster. Do you know it?

She did. But only because the name of the hotel prompted another name: Konstantin Komarov. One of only two men to have found a way past all her defences. Even now, the mere mention of him was enough to send a jolt through her.

There was an image engraved on her memory; Komarov in front of the Lancaster with a woman on his arm. Not Stephanie but a tall Russian. Ludmilla. The woman who’d taken Stephanie’s place in his bed. A woman who, it transpired, was as intelligent as she was beautiful. In other words, a woman who hadn’t even allowed Stephanie hope.

> I know it.

> He has a series of business meetings there. I’ve arranged for you to see him at eight.

> And that’s it?

> Not quite. You will have to be Claudia Calderon.

> Who’s she?

Hector Reggiano’s brand-new art consultant. Reggiano was a name Stephanie recognized. An Argentine billionaire. Technically, a financier, whatever that meant in Argentina. In the real world, a common thief. But a cultured thief; an art collector with an appetite.

> Golitsyn has been courting Reggiano for years. From your perspective, Claudia Calderon offers two distinct advantages. One: she’s currently in Patagonia. Two: Golitsyn’s never met her. And he won’t turn down a last-minute opportunity to see if he can seduce the woman who controls Reggiano’s purse-strings.

> Is all this really necessary?

> To get you to see Golitsyn? Absolutely. Claudia Calderon gets you past Medvedev. Once you’re with Golitsyn – then it’s up to you.

> And who’s Medvedev?

> Golitsyn’s personal assistant. Ex-Spetsnaz. These days, everywhere Golitsyn goes, Medvedev goes too. He takes care of everything. Hotels, flights, meetings, money, girls.

> Perhaps I’ll suggest to Golitsyn he gets himself a female assistant so he can save himself some cash.

> Hardly a pressing consideration.

> Too rich to care?

> He’s more than rich, Petra.

> Meaning?

> Golitsyn floats above the world.

As Petra, there aren’t many situations I find intimidating. Composure is part of her make-up and when I wear it, it’s a genuine reflection of who I am at that moment. But everyone has an Achilles heel. And this is both hers and mine.

I’m on avenue Montaigne. So far I’ve been into Gucci, Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, looking for something that Claudia Calderon might wear. I don’t think Hector Reggiano’s art consultant would turn up for a meeting with Leonid Golitsyn wearing a grubby denim jacket and scuffed Merrell shoes. I have an image of her in my mind; tall, slender, sophisticated. All I can do is pretend in fancy dress. Escada and Christian Lacroix come and go.

It’s the fascism of fashion that annoys me. The eugenics of beauty. The people in these shops always seem to know that I don’t belong. Eventually, however, salvation presents itself in the form of MaxMara, on the junction with rue Clément Marot, opposite the jeweller Harry Winston. Whatever the city, this is the one place that doesn’t make me feel like a leper.

I drift through the store and end up with a figure-hugging dress, somewhere between dark grey and brown, with sleeves to the knuckle. To go with it I pick out a very soft dark brown, knee-length suede coat with a black leather belt, a pair of shoes and a black bag.

I take the deliberate decision to use Marianne Bernard’s American Express card. The transaction will be traced. But I’m banking on a delay. It doesn’t need to be a long one. Sixty seconds will do.

The purchase is processed without a problem and I leave with Claudia Calderon in a bag. Later, I wrap all Marianne’s cards in a paper napkin and toss them away. I’ll miss the life we shared. Marianne was good to me; a sure sign that our relationship wasn’t destined to last.

Late afternoon. Stephanie pressed 1845 into the keypad and took the damp staircase to the third floor. Jacob and Miriam Furst’s apartment was at the end of the corridor. The door was sealed with police tape. There was no noise from the other apartments on the floor. She hadn’t seen light from any of them from rue Dénoyez. She slit the tape and let herself in with Claude Adler’s keys, quietly closing the door behind her.

Inside, she stood perfectly still, adjusting to the gloom. The dull wash of streetlamps provided the only light. She smelt stale cigarette smoke. The Fursts hadn’t been smokers; Miriam had been asthmatic.

The small living-room overlooked rue Dénoyez. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, Stephanie saw a delta of dark splatters over the oatmeal carpet at the centre of the room. The blood had dried to a black crust. There was broken glass in the cast-iron grate. On the mantelpiece above the fire there had once been a large collection of miniature figurines, she recalled; horses, the glass blown with curls of fiery orange and emerald green. Only two remained.

In the kitchen, she recognized the cheap watercolour of place des Vosges and the wooden mug rack. There were no mugs left. They were all broken. Cutlery and cracked china littered the linoleum floor.

She wondered what the official line was. A violent burglary perpetrated against an elderly, vulnerable couple, their murders little more than some kind of sporting bonus?

The bathroom was at the back of the apartment, overlooking waste ground. It didn’t look as though regeneration was imminent. She lowered the blind and switched on the light. The wallpaper might have been cream once. Now it was pale rust, except for black patches of damp in the corner over the bath. By the sink was a shaving kit, the badger-hair brush and cut-throat razor laid upon an old flannel.

Stephanie washed herself thoroughly, then dressed in the underwear and stockings she’d bought from a depressing discount store on boulevard de Belleville, followed by the clothes she’d bought at MaxMara. She put her belongings into the black leather bag and put her dirty clothes into the MaxMara bags, which she placed beneath the basin.

Using Miriam’s hairbrush made her faintly queasy. She tried to ignore the sensation and examined herself in the mirror. What she needed was twenty minutes in the shower with plenty of shampoo and soap. And then make-up to mask the fatigue. But she’d forgotten to buy make-up and was sure that Miriam had never worn any. Besides, that would certainly feel worse than using the hairbrush; who’d wear a dead woman’s lipstick?

The Lancaster was small and discreet, a townhouse hotel, the kind she liked. The bar was an open area leading through to the restaurant. A few sofas, some armchairs, a cluster of tables. It was busy at quarter to eight, the centre of the room taken by a loud group; four skeletal women, two of them in dark glasses, and three skeletal men with designer stubble, open-necked shirts, suits. One of them was fiddling with a miniature dachshund. They were all drinking champagne.

Stern had said that Medvedev would be waiting for her at the bar itself, which was at one end of the dining-room. He was easy to spot; alone, a chilled martini glass at his elbow, on the phone.

Medvedev was a Spetsnaz veteran – FSB Alpha – but there was no longer any hint of it. Golitsyn’s influence, she supposed. A life of luxury to smooth away the rough edges. As she approached the bar, he finished his call, folded his phone shut and raised his glass to drink.

‘Fyodor Medvedev?’

He set his glass down without taking the sip.

In Russian, she said, ‘Dobryy vecher. Minya zavut Claudia Calderon.’

He took his time replying. ‘Sorry. Please say again. My name is …?’

It wasn’t worth the wait; his accent was atrocious.

Now Stephanie was the one looking confused. ‘Fyodor Medvedev?’

He switched to English; American, east coast but tempered. ‘Is that who I am? Thanks. I was starting to wonder.’

‘You’re not Russian.’

He shook his head. ‘Just like you.’

‘And you don’t work for Leonid Golitsyn?’

‘Never heard of him.’

She looked around – where was Medvedev? – and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were …’

‘Have we met before?’

‘That’s original.’

‘I know. But have we?’

It occurred to Stephanie that they’d both thought they’d recognized each other. She’d thought he was Medvedev. And he’d thought she was … who? The moment he first saw her, who had she been to him?

‘I don’t think so.’

He offered his hand. ‘Well, I’m Robert. Robert Newman.’

‘Hello, Robert. Claudia Calderon.’

‘Calderon – you’re from Spain?’

‘Argentina.’

‘Lucky you. One of my favourite countries.’

Stephanie swiftly changed direction. ‘So … what do you do, Robert?’

‘Depends who’s asking.’

‘That makes you sound like a gun for hire.’

‘But in a suit.’

Which he wore well, she noticed. He has them made. Grey, double-breasted, over a pale blue shirt with a deep red, hand-woven silk tie.

‘They’re the ones you have to watch,’ Stephanie said. ‘Like the vicar’s daughter.’

His laugh was soft and low. ‘Then I guess I’m in … finance.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘My background is oil.’

‘But no dirty hands?’

‘Not these days. When I was younger.’

She could believe it. He was perfectly at home in the Lancaster’s bar, in his expensive suit, with the heavy stainless-steel TAG-Heuer on his wrist. Yet she could see the oil-fields. In his eyes, in the lines around them, across hands made for manual labour.

He summoned the bartender and said to Stephanie, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

A question she’d been asked too many times by too many men. But she didn’t mind it coming from him. He hadn’t made any assumptions about her. Not yet. Usually, the men who asked her that question were already deciding how much they were prepared to pay for her.

She had champagne because she felt that would be Claudia Calderon’s drink. That or Diet Coke. Newman ordered another vodka martini.

‘You live in Paris, Claudia?’

‘I’m visiting.’

‘Staying here, at the Lancaster?’

‘A man who gets right to the point.’

‘It’s an innocent question.’

The bartender slid a glass towards her.

‘No, I’m not staying here,’ Stephanie said. ‘What about you?’

‘I live here.’

‘In the hotel?’

‘In the city.’

‘How original. An American in Paris.’

‘If you consider a New Yorker an American …’

‘You don’t?’

‘Not really. I think of New York as a city-state. America’s another country.’

Which was something she’d felt herself. In New York, she’d always been at home. In the rest of America, she was constantly reminded of how European she was.

She tried to push past the remark. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘I’ve had a place here for ten years but I don’t use it much. I travel a lot on business.’

‘Where?’

‘The Far East, the Middle East, the States. All over. What about you? What do you do?’

Now that the moment had come, she couldn’t pass herself off as an art consultant. ‘Take a guess.’

He gave it some thought, allowing her to look at him properly. He had short dark hair and attractive dark brown eyes. His tanned face looked pleasantly weather-beaten for a businessman. In his forties, or perhaps a young-looking fifty, he appeared fit for a man with the kind of life he’d described.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘You know, looking at you, I really can’t think of anything.’

‘You’re straying.’

‘Straying?’

‘This is supposed to be a polite conversation. There are rules. One of them is: don’t even try to think. Thought breeds silence. That’s not allowed. If you can’t come up with anything decent to say, say something shallow.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘I’m surprised. All that travel, all those hotels. This can’t be your first time.’

‘My first time?’

‘Being approached. In a bar. By a woman.’

His smile was the wry badge of the world-weary. ‘I guess that depends on where you’re going with this.’

Stephanie smiled too. ‘That’s very neat.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘Maybe this is what I do. Approach strange men in hotel bars.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t have the look.’

‘What look’s that?’

He sipped some vodka. ‘Desperate predatory allure.’

Stephanie arched an eyebrow. ‘Desperate predatory allure? I like that. But it puts you at risk of sounding like an expert.’

‘Well, you’re right, of course. I’ve been in many bars. There have been many … situations. And they never fail to disappoint.’

‘No value for money?’

‘I quit before it gets to that.’

‘Naturally.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t expect you to admit it.’

He took his time, sizing her up, deciding about her. ‘You always this direct?’

‘Only with complete strangers.’

‘Because you can be, right?’

‘Yes. Liberating, isn’t it?’

He nodded, comfortable with her; neither threatened, nor encouraged. She hoped he wouldn’t spoil it by saying something crass.

‘I guess that’s the game we’re playing.’ He rolled his glass a little, watching the oily liquid swirl. ‘Strange how that works, though. That you can say anything to someone you’ve never met before. The kind of things you wouldn’t say to someone you know.’

‘It only works when you think you won’t see them again.’

‘Like now?’

‘Yes. Like now.’

Newman said, ‘Scheherazade.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to excuse me.’

Stephanie turned round. A woman had appeared on the far side of the bar. She had beautiful thick black hair. A dark, liquid complexion set off the gold choker at her throat. Slender with curves, she wasn’t tall, perhaps only five-four, but she had poise and presence. Heads were turning.

‘Your date?’ Stephanie asked.

How typical, she thought, that she should be the one to be crass. Newman seemed to find it amusing.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Claudia. A rare pleasure.’

And then he was gone. Stephanie looked at the woman again. She recognized the face but couldn’t remember her name; high cheekbones, large dark eyes, a wide mouth, which now split into a smile, as Newman crossed the floor to meet her.

The phone behind the bar began to ring.

Scheherazade who?

They embraced, his hand staying on her arm. She glanced at Stephanie then whispered something to him. They laughed and then settled on the only spare sofa.

‘Excusez-moi …’

She turned round. The bartender was holding the phone for her. She took it and pressed the receiver to her ear. Over the crackle of bad reception, she heard an engine. Car horns blared in the background. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Fyodor Medvedev.’ His American accent was clumsy, words shunting into one another like old rail wagons in a verbal siding. ‘I’m sorry to be late. I’m in traffic. Not moving.’

‘At least I know you’re in Paris.’

He didn’t get it. ‘I will be at hotel in ten minutes. Mr Golitsyn wants to see you now. Is okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Room 41. Emile Wolf suite. He waits for you.’

As she handed the phone back to the bartender, the name came to her. Scheherazade Zahani. A favourite of Paris-Match and the gossip columns. Usually seen at the opera, or stepping out of the latest restaurant, or on the deck of her one-hundred-metre yacht at Cap d’Antibes.

The daughter of a rich arms-dealer, she’d married a Saudi oil billionaire. Stephanie had forgotten his name but remembered that he’d been in his sixties. A student at Princeton, highly academic, very beautiful, Zahani had only been twenty-two or twenty-three. There had been a lot of carping comment. Fifteen years later, following her husband’s death in Switzerland, Zahani had moved to Paris, several billion dollars richer. Since then, the French press had attempted to link the grieving widow with every eligible Frenchman over thirty-five. If she was bored by the facile coverage she received, she never let it show. She seemed content to be seen in public with potential suitors but they rarely lasted more than a couple of outings. There had been no affairs, no scandal.

It was only in the last five years that her business acumen had become widely acknowledged. Now she was regarded as one of the shrewdest investors in France. As Stephanie watched Scheherazade Zahani and Robert Newman, she wondered whether they were discussing the only thing she knew they had in common.

Oil.

I know something’s wrong the moment I enter Leonid Golitsyn’s suite on the fourth floor. I knocked on the door – there was no bell – but got no reply. There are no Ving cards here either, so I tried the handle and the door opened.

Golitsyn is in the bedroom, lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. A large Thomson TV throws flickering light over his body. A game show is on, the volume high, amplified laughter and applause. A large maroon flower has blossomed across his chest. Blood is seeping into the carpet beneath him. There are drops of it on his face, like some glossy pox.

He blinks.

I circle the room slowly and silently, then check the bathroom. The second body is in the bathtub, one trousered leg dangling over the lip. On the floor is a gun. I pick it up, a Smith & Wesson Sigma .40, a synthetics-only weapon, the frame constructed from a high-strength polymer. It hasn’t been fired recently.

The man in the bath is wearing a crumpled suit and a bloodstained shower-curtain. Most of the hooks have been ripped from the rail. There’s blood on the floor and wall. He’s been shot at least three times. Using a very efficient sound suppressor, I imagine, because being a converted townhouse the Lancaster’s sound-proofing is not great.

I return to the bedroom. When I move into his line of sight Golitsyn blinks again and manages to send a tremor to his fingertips.

I crouch beside him. What an impressive man he must have been. Two metres tall, by the look of it, with fine patrician features down a long face, framed by longish snow-white hair and a carefully trimmed beard of the same colour.

I look at the chest wound and then the blood. He should be dead already. There’s nothing I can do for him.

He tries to force a word through the gap in his lips. ‘Ah … ams …’

‘Anders?’

He’d frown if he could move the muscles in his forehead.

I try again. ‘Anders Brand?’

Nothing.

‘You and Anders Brand?’

I kill the volume on the TV.

‘… da … ah … ams …’

This is all very recent.

‘Passage du Caire. Do you understand?’

‘… ter … da … ahm …’

‘Anders Brand. He was there. He was killed. After you saw him.’

In Golitsyn’s eyes the flame of urgency struggles against death’s chilly breeze. ‘… ams … ams …’

‘Who did this? The same people who killed Brand?’

‘… ter … da …’

‘What about the bomb?’

‘Ams … ter …’

‘Amster?’

I see an emphatic ‘yes’ in his eyes.

‘Amster,’ I repeat.

‘Dam.’

It’s almost a cough.

‘Amsterdam?’

He blinks his confirmation because he’s fading fast.

‘What about Amsterdam?’

He tries to summon one last phrase but can’t; the eyes freeze, the focus fails, the fingers unfurl. On the TV screen, a contestant cries with joy as she takes possession of a shiny new Hyundai.

Somewhere out there, a distant siren moans. Not for me, I tell myself. But a part of me is less sure. I take the cash from the table – Petra the vulture, a natural scavenger – and scoop his correspondence and mobile phone into a slim, leather attaché case that has three Cyrillic letters embossed in gold beneath the handle; L.I.G.

I return to the bathroom where curiosity compels me to check the body. Trying my best to avoid the blood, I reach inside folds of shower-curtain and pale grey jacket to retrieve a wallet and passport. I flip open the passport; flat features, light brown hair cut short and parted on the right, small grey eyes.

Fyodor Medvedev.

The man I spoke to … how many minutes ago?

There isn’t time for this. Not now. Get out.

I drop the gun into my black MaxMara bag. Dressed as I am, the attaché case doesn’t look too incongruous. At least something is working out today.

Outside the suite, I close the door and walk calmly to the lift. I press the button. A woman from Housekeeping passes by carrying a tower of white towels.

‘Bonsoir.’

‘Bonsoir.’

I step into the tiny lift with its polished wood and burgundy leather. The unanswered questions are spinning inside my head. The Medvedev in the bath isn’t the Medvedev I spoke to over the phone at the bar. I’m sure of that. Even if he’d been sitting in a car outside the hotel he would barely have had enough time to sprint upstairs and get shot before I found him. So if the corpse in the bath is Medvedev, who was I talking to before?

As for Golitsyn …

The doors open. I step out and head right. There are raised voices coming from reception, which is now just out of sight to my left. Some kind of commotion. I backtrack and go through the bar. The skeletal group are too self-absorbed to have realized anything is wrong but others have noticed; their conversations halting, heads turning. The sofa where Robert Newman and Scheherazade Zahani were sitting is empty. Perhaps they’ve gone through to the restaurant.