Chameleon. Mark Burnell

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       4

       The first week is the worst. Some mornings, we talk in his office. On other mornings, we use a briefing room, or an office I’ve never seen before. It’s just the two of us. He makes occasional notes on paper, taking care to prevent me from seeing what he’s written. We break for lunch – an hour usually – then continue until five or six. Spending so much time alone with him is a form of claustrophobia.

       At first, the questions are general, as he establishes a chronological order for everything that happened after Malta. I don’t mind that so much. Later, when he grows more specific, focusing on detail, I start to lie. Not all the time, only when it matters. I give him some dry bones to pick over, but I won’t give him my flesh and blood.

       ‘You’re wasting your time,’ I tell him on the fifth morning. ‘You have no idea whether what I’m telling you is the truth.’

       ‘Believe me, I’ll find out.’

       ‘Only if I let you.’

       Which, on occasion, I do. Despite a general instinct to give him nothing, there are some exceptions. I want him to know that the Petra I became was better than the Petra that Magenta House created. When I describe how I infiltrated Mario Guzman’s fortified villa overlooking Oaxaca and then silently assassinated the Mexican drugs baron, I can hear the pride in my voice. Alexander pretends not to have noticed. And I’m happy for him to know how I lived in a shattered storm drain in Grozny for almost a week, before taking the single sniper’s shot that killed Russian General Vladimir Timoshenko.

       I should feel too ashamed to boast about such things but I don’t. Not when I’m with him. Instead, I feel pleasure. That’s the corrupting effect he has on me.

       At the end of each day, I try to leave my anger at Magenta House but it’s almost impossible. Another gruesome rush-hour ride on the Underground, a few groceries from Waitrose, an evening in front of the TV, a night of fractured sleep. I miss Laurent and the sound of the dogs barking in the valley. I miss the murmur of the cicadas, the scent of lavender and a glass of wine on the terrace.

       On Friday afternoon, Alexander says, ‘Stern handled all your financial affairs, did he?’

       ‘He’s an information broker, not my accountant or banker.’

       ‘But he negotiated your contracts?’

       ‘Yes.’

       ‘How much money did you make through him?’

       ‘That’s none of your business.’

       ‘I’m making it my business.’

       I shrug in an off-hand way. ‘A lot more than I took from you.’

       Alexander looks absolutely furious.

      I smile slyly. ‘A lot more.’

       We move into the second week. Sometimes I’m moody and silent, sometimes I’m ready for a fight. We argue several times a day, which brings out the worst in my vocabulary. On Thursday afternoon, we have a stand-up row in his office. I storm out, slamming the door behind me. I don’t slow down until I’ve left the building. Rosie Chaudhuri catches up with me in Victoria Embankment Gardens.

       She approaches me as though I’m a dog that bites. ‘Stephanie?’

       I’m pacing but I’ve got nowhere to go. ‘What?’

       ‘You okay?’

       ‘What the fuck do you care?’

       ‘Hey …’

       ‘What is this? Good cop, bad cop? Are you going to sweet-talk me, then run back inside and tell him what I tell you?’

       ‘Is that what you think?’

       It wasn’t. ‘You work in there, don’t you? For him …’

       She looked disappointed, not cross. ‘I thought you knew me better than that.’

       I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Christ, Rosie …’

       ‘It’s okay.’

       I put my hand on my forehead, shielding my eyes. ‘No, it isn’t. I’m sorry.’

       At the weekend, I decide to strip the flat. I’d sooner it was bare than cluttered with someone else’s idea of personal touches. I take the pictures off the walls and dump them in the storage room in the basement. I empty the photos and paperbacks into black bin-liners. I sift through the CDs to see if there’s anything worth keeping. It’s a collection of chilling mediocrity; Michael Bolton, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, Elton John. Not a decent song between them and the rest. I reject all thirty-four albums in the rack.

      I spend an hour of Saturday afternoon in Daunt Books on Marylebone High Street, where I buy a few paperbacks of my own. On Sunday afternoon, I buy half a dozen CDs at Tower Records on Piccadilly Circus, including two Garbage albums and Felt Mountain by Goldfrapp. In the early evening, I watch Wonder Boys at the Prince Charles cinema on Leicester Square. When I come out, I go back round to the front and pay to watch the next film on the bill, Buena Vista Social Club.

      Wednesday afternoon. The febrile humidity of morning had made way for rain. They were sitting in Alexander’s office. Two windows were open; the downpour drowned the sound of traffic on the Embankment.

      Alexander lit a Rothmans and said, ‘Tell me about Arkan.’

      Arkan and his paramilitary Tigers. Stephanie’s skin prickled. ‘What about him?’

      ‘There was a rumour that Petra Reuter killed him.’

      ‘I never read that.’

      ‘It wasn’t in the papers.’

      Stephanie tilted back on her chair. СКАЧАТЬ