The Third Woman. Mark Burnell
glances up the ramp.
I thrust the tip of the Sigma into his cheek and yell: ‘Drive!’
He accelerates towards street level.
‘Where to?’
‘Right. Go right.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What?’
‘It’s one-way.’
‘Then go left!’
‘And after that?’
‘Just do it! And whatever happens, don’t stop. If you do, I swear I’ll kill you.’
We reach the ramp. He pulls out, past the black Renault, past two police cars, blue lights aflame. Officers hover on the street, a crowd gathers. I keep the gun out of sight. A young officer, eager to get us out of the way, waves us past. I peer through the rear window as the Lancaster recedes. At boulevard Haussmann we turn right.
How did they get there so quickly? Yesterday at Passage du Caire, it was the same; uniformed police officers only moments away. I close my eyes. When I open them, I see him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Where are we going?’ he asks.
‘Nowhere. Just keep moving. And don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Looks like I already have.’
‘Pull over.’
It was a quiet street off place de la porte de Champerret, just inside the périphérique. When Newman switched off the engine they could hear the rumble from the ring road. Almost an hour had passed, most of it in silence. Stephanie had tried to think but had found she couldn’t. There were too many competing questions. She couldn’t separate one from another, couldn’t focus on a single coherent thought. Gradually, however, Petra had emerged and cold clarity had replaced panic.
‘Put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Don’t take them off.’
The street was empty. She tightened her grip on the gun and shifted her position so that she had a less awkward angle.
‘Okay. Who are you?’
‘You know who I am. Robert Newman.’
‘Believe me, your next cute answer’s going to be your last.’
‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Well you better think of something. And quick.’
‘My name’s Robert Newman. I’m a businessman.’
‘We meet at the bar then you’re driving up the ramp. Explain that.’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘I guess.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence. You and Scheherazade Zahani – that must have been the quickest date in history.’
Newman flinched at the mention of her name. ‘I wasn’t there to meet her. She just showed up. She was meeting a friend who’s staying at the Lancaster.’
‘Another coincidence?’
He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. Stephanie leaned forward and pressed the tip of the Smith & Wesson into the back of his neck, just above the collar.
She said, ‘Let me explain something to you. Whoever you thought I was at the bar – she doesn’t exist. She never did.’
‘Look, I was due to meet someone. He called to cancel right after you left.’
‘I’m going to give you one more chance.’
‘See for yourself,’ he snapped, reaching inside his jacket.
‘Stop!’
Newman froze. And then clamped his right hand back on the wheel. ‘Jesus Christ! Take it easy!’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘I know what you said. I was just going for my cell phone. So you could see. The number, the time.’
Stephanie focused on her breathing for a second. Anything to slow the pulse. A couple were walking towards them, arm in arm, heads shrouded in frozen breath, hard heels clicking on the pavement. Stephanie placed the gun in her lap and shielded it with the black leather bag.
‘I need to disappear,’ she said.
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Île Saint-Louis.’
‘Alone?’
He hesitated. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going to ask that again. If we get there and there’s someone to meet us I’m going to kill them, no questions asked. So think before you speak. Do you live alone?’
‘Yes.’
The couple strolled past the car.
‘Give me your wallet.’
‘It’s in my jacket. Like my phone.’
Stephanie pressed the Smith & Wesson to the same patch of skin. ‘Then be very careful.’
He retrieved it – Dunhill, black leather with gold corners – and passed it back. On his Platinum Amex the name read Robert R. Newman. He had two printed cards, one professional, one personal, which included an address on quai d’Orléans, Île Saint-Louis. The other card carried a name she didn’t recognize with an address at La Défense.
‘What’s Solaris?’
‘A company. I work for them.’
‘An oil company?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘We’re going to your place. I need somewhere to think.’
Quai d’Orléans, Île Saint-Louis, half-past-ten. They found a space close to his building. People passed by, heading home from the restaurants along rue Saint-Louis en Île.
Inside the Audi, Stephanie spoke softly. ‘I don’t want to have to do it. But if you make me, I will. Understand?’
Newman nodded.
‘If we meet anybody you know, play it straight. I’m just a date.’
They got out. Newman carried Leonid Golitsyn’s attaché case and she clutched the Smith & Wesson which was in the pocket of her overcoat.
They reached the entrance to the building. He pressed the four-digit code – 2071 – and they stepped into a large hall, sparsely furnished. They took the cage-lift to the fifth floor. The entrance to Newman’s apartment was a tall set of double-doors that opened into a hall with a smooth limestone floor. On the walls were gilt-framed canvases; flat Flemish landscapes beneath brooding pewter skies, moody portraits of prosperous traders, pale aristocratic women. There were Casablanca lilies in a tall, tapering, octagonal vase, their scent filling the hall.
Stephanie glanced at the flowers, then at Newman who understood. ‘Yvette,’ he said. ‘She looks after the place. She’s not a live-in. She comes daily during the week.’
‘Does she have her own key?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you like her, remind me to get you to call her in the morning.’
At gun-point Newman led her through the apartment; two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a large sitting-room, a modest dining-room, a generous kitchen, a utility room and a study.