The Third Woman. Mark Burnell

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СКАЧАТЬ human intelligence and industrial-economic intelligence.

      Rosie asked for a brief reminder of Golitsyn’s significance and then said, ‘So what’s the problem?’

      ‘Stephanie Patrick.’

      A sequence of syllables to rob the breath.

      Impossible, she thought. Well, no, not impossible. But as close to impossible as unlikely could ever be.

      Carter said, ‘They’re looking for Petra Reuter. There’s been positive identification.’

      ‘Photographic?’

      ‘We’re not sure. There’s something else, though. The two Algerians fingered by DGSE for the blast in Sentier – they’re a smokescreen. She’s the one they want.’

      ‘A bomb?’

      The closest Petra had come to using a bomb was an exploding mobile phone that had decapitated an American lawyer in Singapore. As glib as it sounded, bombs weren’t her style.

      ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Carter said, ‘but they seem very confident.’

      ‘They usually do. Are we sure she’s real?’

      Like every star, Petra Reuter had her cheap imitators.

      ‘As sure as we can be.’

      Rosie put down the phone, hauled herself from the bed and entered the bathroom. She was still wearing most of her eye-liner, smudged like bruises. No time for fresh clothes, she dressed in yesterday’s suit. In the sitting-room, she found her briefcase on a packing crate.

      Six months on and she still hadn’t settled into the apartment. She’d sold her place just off the Seven Sisters Road but had been part of a buying chain that had collapsed. This place, a short-term rental, had been a stop-gap. She’d been looking for something small and comfortable in the heart of the city. Now she wasn’t sure what she wanted.

      Her predecessor had installed a small bedroom at Magenta House. Towards the end, he’d never gone home. Rosie considered that symptomatic of much that had gone wrong within the organization; it had become too self-absorbed. Which, in turn, had led to levels of paranoia that had begun to affect its operational integrity.

      In every walk of life, one needed interests outside of work in order to maintain a balance. Rosie believed that was especially true for the employees of an organization like Magenta House. Within a fortnight of replacing him, she’d had his bedroom dismantled to make way for a new debriefing suite.

      The trouble was this: now that she was in his position, where would she find the time to achieve that balance herself?

      She was outside her front door seven minutes after the call. The dark green BMW was already there. On the leather back seat was a slim briefing folder.

      After Berlin, the future had assumed an obvious shape. Rosie would replace Alexander. His death had spared Magenta House’s trustees an awkward dilemma: how to substitute a man who had become utterly synonymous with the organization to its ultimate detriment? As for Stephanie, she was to disappear for good, sending the legend of Petra Reuter into permanent retirement.

      False reports of Petra’s activities had always existed. Some were simply wrong, others were deliberate mischief. Several times she’d been accredited with assassinations that Magenta House knew to be the work of others. It didn’t matter. Any rumour, true or false, added to the legend. So Rosie hadn’t been surprised when new rumours began to circulate after Berlin; since nobody had ever suggested that Petra was dead there was no reason for stories about her to dry up.

      Stephanie had spent most of her adult life seeking a divorce from Petra. Now that she’d got it, any form of reconciliation seemed inconceivable. Nobody at Magenta House knew Stephanie the way Rosie did. They’d been friends. They’d been the outsiders in an organization of outsiders.

       Stephanie, can it really be you?

      ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

      Stephanie knew the procedure. Let him urinate or defecate in the chair. Reduction was the road to compliance. Yet even as she thought it, she knew she wouldn’t do it. She released his hands again and told him to tear the tape from his ankle.

      He rose awkwardly. His thigh muscles and hip flexors were stiff, hamstrings tugging at his lower back. He had to place a hand on top of the chair to complete the movement. His first few steps were clumsy, as pins and needles began to work the nerves.

      The bathroom door had a bolt instead of a key.

      Stephanie said, ‘Don’t shut it.’

      ‘You’re going to watch?’

      She tossed a hardback on to the floor, steered it into the doorway with her foot, ushered him in, then pulled the handle, leaving a six-inch gap. At the flush she pushed the door open. Newman was fastening his trousers.

      ‘Can I wash?’

      ‘Get on with it.’

      He cleaned his hands then filled the basin with cold water and pushed his face into it, holding it there. He straightened slowly, water dripping down the front of his shirt.

      ‘How about a shave?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I promise I won’t attack you with my razor. It has a safety strip.’

      ‘Let’s go.’

      Stephanie directed him back to the chair, waving the Smith & Wesson at him for emphasis. She gathered the washing line and crouched behind him. He offered his hands before she’d asked for them.

      She tried again. ‘How did you get your scars?’

      ‘I told you. It’s none of your goddamned business.’

      She was tempted to pull the cord until the wounds reopened. But to hurt him would be to hand him a small victory. She wrapped the plastic-coated line around the wrists, securing them a little less firmly – something he would be sure to notice – before drawing the line down and fastening it to a strut beyond his reach. She was aware of him taking a deep breath and expanding his muscles as she bound him.

      ‘What time does the maid come?’

      ‘Seven-thirty.’

      It was already after six-thirty.

      ‘Do you let her in?’

      ‘She has her own key.’

      Stephanie picked up a phone. ‘What’s her number?’

      ‘What do I tell her?’

      ‘Anything you like as long as it sticks.’

      ‘Is it just today?’

      ‘Until further notice,’ Stephanie said. ‘Maybe a couple of days.’

      She held the phone close to his ear but СКАЧАТЬ