The Third Woman. Mark Burnell
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du Sicilie.
> I have a name for you, Petra.
> How much?
> This is for free.
> You must be going soft in your old age.
> Has it ever occurred to you that I might be younger than you?
> Only in my more humorous moments.
>This isn’t sentimentality. This is business. If anything happens to you, I’ll lose money.
> That’s more like it. Who is it?
> Leonid Golitsyn.
> Don’t know him.
> An art-dealer. Very rich. Very well connected.
> What’s his story?
> He has a gallery in Paris on avenue Matignon but he’s based in New York. He goes to Paris three or four times a year, usually on his way back to Moscow. Golitsyn is old school. Chernenko, Gromyko, even Brezhnev – he was cosy with all of them. In those days he was a virtual commuter between the United States and the Soviet Union. He’s always been close to the Kremlin. Even now.
> Putin doesn’t strike me as an art collector.
> I think it’s safe to say that Golitsyn’s been carrying more than canvas over the years. He’s one of those strange creatures who knows everybody but who nobody knows. A friend of mine once described him – rather memorably – as a diplomatic bag. An insult and a truth rolled into one.
> Why is he relevant?
> Anders Brand.
> What’s he got to do with this?
> He was one of the thirteen who were killed yesterday.
Stephanie was amazed. Anders Brand, the former Swedish diplomat, fondly known as The Whisperer. A man who spoke so softly you began to wonder if your hearing was impaired. A peerless mediator during his time at the United Nations. Stephanie remembered seeing him on BBC World’s Hard Talk. He’d only been half-joking when he’d said that being softly-spoken was one of the keys to his success at mediation: ‘It forces people to listen more carefully to me.’
She pictured Brand as he was usually seen – on a conference podium, in a TV studio, disembarking from an aircraft – and realized that his face matched a face she’d seen at La Béatrice. The face she thought she’d recognized but hadn’t been able to name.
> How come this isn’t headline news?
> It will be this evening. As I understand it, his death won’t be officially confirmed until later this afternoon.
> After more than twenty-four hours?
> I wasn’t there, Petra. But I’ve seen the pictures.
The photo-flash memory of Béatrice Klug’s flaming head gave the concept of delayed identification unpleasant credibility.
> What’s the connection with Golitsyn?
> I don’t know that there necessarily is one. What I do know is this: the day before yesterday, they had dinner together at the Meurice. Golitsyn arrived earlier in the day from New York. Brand was due to fly to Baghdad today. Golitsyn heads to Moscow tomorrow. Golitsyn and Brand go back a long way. Brand is another of Golitsyn’s twenty-four-carat connections. Maybe they discussed something that is germane to your current situation.
He’s not telling me everything.
Typical of Stern. Their relationship had lasted longer than any of Stephanie’s romantic relationships. Even the good ones. Both of them had secrets yet both of them had entrusted part of themselves to the other. That wasn’t something she could verify, it was something she felt.
> How do I meet Golitsyn?
> Tonight Golitsyn will be at the Lancaster. Do you know it?
She did. But only because the name of the hotel prompted another name: Konstantin Komarov. One of only two men to have found a way past all her defences. Even now, the mere mention of him was enough to send a jolt through her.
There was an image engraved on her memory; Komarov in front of the Lancaster with a woman on his arm. Not Stephanie but a tall Russian. Ludmilla. The woman who’d taken Stephanie’s place in his bed. A woman who, it transpired, was as intelligent as she was beautiful. In other words, a woman who hadn’t even allowed Stephanie hope.
> I know it.
> He has a series of business meetings there. I’ve arranged for you to see him at eight.
> And that’s it?
> Not quite. You will have to be Claudia Calderon.
> Who’s she?
Hector Reggiano’s brand-new art consultant. Reggiano was a name Stephanie recognized. An Argentine billionaire. Technically, a financier, whatever that meant in Argentina. In the real world, a common thief. But a cultured thief; an art collector with an appetite.
> Golitsyn has been courting Reggiano for years. From your perspective, Claudia Calderon offers two distinct advantages. One: she’s currently in Patagonia. Two: Golitsyn’s never met her. And he won’t turn down a last-minute opportunity to see if he can seduce the woman who controls Reggiano’s purse-strings.
> Is all this really necessary?
> To get you to see Golitsyn? Absolutely. Claudia Calderon gets you past Medvedev. Once you’re with Golitsyn – then it’s up to you.
> And who’s Medvedev?
> Golitsyn’s personal assistant. Ex-Spetsnaz. These days, everywhere Golitsyn goes, Medvedev goes too. He takes care of everything. Hotels, flights, meetings, money, girls.
> Perhaps I’ll suggest to Golitsyn he gets himself a female assistant so he can save himself some cash.
> Hardly a pressing consideration.
> Too rich to care?
> He’s more than rich, Petra.
> Meaning?
> Golitsyn floats above the world.
As Petra, there aren’t many situations I find intimidating. Composure is part of her make-up and when I wear it, it’s a genuine reflection of who I am at that moment. But everyone has an Achilles heel. And this is both hers and mine.
I’m on avenue Montaigne. So far I’ve been into Gucci, Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, looking for something that Claudia Calderon might wear. I don’t think Hector Reggiano’s art consultant would turn up for a meeting with Leonid Golitsyn wearing a grubby denim jacket and scuffed Merrell shoes. I have an image of her in my mind; tall, slender, sophisticated. All I can do is pretend in fancy dress. Escada and Christian Lacroix come and go.
It’s the fascism of fashion that annoys me. The eugenics of beauty. The people in these shops always seem to know that I don’t belong. Eventually, however, salvation presents itself in the form of MaxMara, on the junction with rue Clément Marot, opposite the jeweller Harry Winston. Whatever the city, this is the one place that doesn’t make me feel like a leper.
I drift through the store and end up with a figure-hugging dress, somewhere between dark grey and brown, with sleeves to the knuckle. To go with it I pick out a very soft dark brown, knee-length suede coat with a black leather belt, a pair of shoes and a black bag.
I take the deliberate decision to use Marianne Bernard’s American Express card. The transaction will be traced. But I’m banking on a delay. It doesn’t need to be a long one. Sixty seconds will do.
The purchase is processed without a problem and I leave with Claudia Calderon in a bag. Later, I wrap all Marianne’s cards in a paper napkin and toss them away. I’ll miss the life we shared. Marianne was good to me;