The Third Woman. Mark Burnell

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      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 unless 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.

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