Gemini. Mark Burnell

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      ‘I’m going direct, so the first can be British, if that makes life easier. The second can be anything else.’

      ‘Let’s keep it within the European Union, then. German?’

      ‘Fine.’

      When the kettle had boiled he warmed the brown ceramic teapot before preparing the tea. Then he rolled himself a cigarette from a pouch of Sampson tobacco.

      ‘The same as usual, is it?’

      Stephanie shook her head. ‘Not this time.’

      In the years they’d known each other Stephanie had never actually said what it was that she did. She hadn’t needed to. From the start Bradfield had known something of its nature. Why else would she need him? Gradually the full extent of her profession had become clear. Although his feelings for her bordered the paternal, he’d never moralized. Or tried to caution her against it. As fond of each other as they had become, their relationship was built upon professional foundations. The only other ‘civilian’ who knew of her work was her personal banker in Zurich: Albert Eichner of Guderian Maier. And he differed from Bradfield in one vital respect. In Zurich, with Eichner, she was always Petra, never Stephanie.

      Alexander said, ‘As Martin Dassler, Savic has been to Hong Kong seven times in the past year. We know this from immigration records. In that time he’s spent nearly nine months there.’

      ‘What we don’t know,’ Rosie said, ‘is where he’s been staying, or what he’s been doing. Through the Hong Kong police, S3 has turned up only one Martin Dassler from hotel records: a sixty-five-year old Swiss architect from Lausanne. We’ve checked and it wasn’t him. Dassler has some registered commercial interests in Hong Kong but doesn’t seem to lavish much time on them.’

      The Far East was an obvious destination, Stephanie supposed. He’d had contacts in Hong Kong and China for years. Where better to disappear to after the Balkans collapse? With money at his disposal, reincarnation would not have been difficult.

      ‘Your contact in Hong Kong will be Raymond Chen,’ Alexander told her. ‘Anything you need, go through him. He’s a strange one, but he’s one of ours.’

      ‘Aren’t they all? Anyway, I wasn’t aware Magenta House ran operatives abroad.’

      Alexander shifted uncomfortably. ‘Technically we don’t.’

      ‘Technically? What does that mean?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘What he means,’ Rosie said, ‘is that we retain him.’

      Stephanie looked at her, then at Alexander. She was waiting for him to slap her down. She could barely believe what she’d just heard. But he didn’t. He just sat there, behind his desk, with his recently clipped snow-white hair and his watery blue eyes, staring at her, never blinking, not moving. The buttons of his double-breasted jacket were still fastened; he looked like a waxwork in a strait-jacket. Not for the first time, Stephanie had the sensation that Alexander had become fossilized, stranded in the amber of the era of the dead-letter drop.

      ‘You mean you pay him?’

      Suddenly Alexander was reasserting himself. ‘What she means is that we look the other way. Chen has a variety of business interests in Hong Kong and over here. From a legal point of view, few of them would tolerate much scrutiny.’

      ‘What a surprise.’

      ‘There’s a lawyer in Chinatown. Thomas Heung. He has a legal practice on Gerrard Street, on the first floor above a Chinese supermarket. The firm is actually owned by Chen. Heung’s a soft touch with an equivalent in Hong Kong, also controlled by Chen. Between the two of them they provide documents for Chinese wishing to come to Britain.’

      ‘False documents?’

      ‘On the whole, yes. But for those who can afford it, legal documents are also available.’ Alexander gave her the thinnest of smiles. ‘As they always have been.’

      Which she knew to be true. There didn’t seem much point in arguing about the morality of retaining a contact by contributing to the country’s illegal immigration problem. That was the least of Magenta House’s ethical crimes.

      Stephanie had already digested Chen’s profile, as provided by S3, and had come to the conclusion that she needed a contact of her own. The same anxiety had persuaded her not to mention her meeting with Carleen Attwater. Or Gemini.

      Alexander said, ‘We believe the list that David Pearson recovered is incomplete. We believe there may be many more names on it.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘During research, S3 came across some of the names on the list but there were also other names. Same context, different identities, suggesting Pearson’s list could be incomplete. We might be talking one, or a dozen …’

      ‘Or none?’

      ‘Possibly. But it’s wiser to assume the worst. We also believe that there is another list. A reciprocal list, if you like. A list of new identities for the names on the original.’

      She looked at Rosie. ‘Do you believe this?’

      ‘Of course.’

      It was impossible to tell whether she did or didn’t. Her tone and expression could not have been more neutral.

      Stephanie turned back to Alexander. ‘Assuming I get hold of these names, then what? Is Savic a contract?’

      ‘Not yet. He’s on the Limbo list. Nothing happens to him until we know, one way or the other, about the names.’

      So many lists. Life was a long list of lists. She wondered how many she was on. And whether she was on one or more of Magenta House’s. Probably. The Limbo list was rather like a credit rating; you never knew there was a problem with your own status until it was too late.

      ‘Supposing I find Savic but can’t get close.’

      ‘You’ll think of something, I’m sure.’

      ‘I’m serious.’

      ‘If all else fails, use your charm.’

      ‘The way you use comedy?’

      ‘A man like Savic will always find a use for a woman like Petra.’

       This is the worst part. Before Mark it never bothered me that much. Once I’m Petra I’ll be fine. Rosie once compared it to being an actor preparing for a role. She said that once you are performing you become the character. That’s not true for me. Petra isn’t a role. She’s me. And when I’m her I won’t have time to worry about Stephanie, which will be a relief.

       We’re in Kensington Gardens. It’s a beautiful, warm evening. Branches creak and leaves shuffle in the breeze, their tips just beginning to rust. The air cools quickly and has a taste to it, a sure sign of an imminent change in season.

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