3

      The first week of September brought the first storm since mid-July. Volleys of rain lashed the carriage windows as the District Line train wheezed to a halt at Olympia. As the doors parted, Stephanie turned up her collar. Maclise Road was just a minute away but she was dripping by the time she kicked her front door shut. She shed her raincoat and draped it over a chair, leaving her in grey sweatpants with a green stripe, a chunky black V-neck over a purple long-sleeved T-shirt and yesterday’s underwear. In other words, the clothes that had been closest to her side of the bed.

      She switched on the Sony Vaio in the living room and sent a brief message to a Hotmail address. I’m back from my travels. I’ve got a couple of questions for you. Let’s get in touch.

      In the kitchen she made herself coffee and turned on the radio. The news bulletin was finishing with an item of gossip about some soap star she didn’t know. It was five past seven. Mark had been asleep when she’d left him. By contrast, she’d been awake since three. Worrying, wondering.

      It had taken several days to absorb Alexander’s deal fully. At first she’d only seen the carrot and that had blinded her to everything else. As intended, she supposed. It took longer to analyse the detail, the reality, the potential consequences. The more she considered it, the more anxious she’d become. Above all, there was one thing she knew: Alexander was not a man who liked to give.

      There would be a subtext. There always was. Offering her a future free of Magenta House was not credible by itself. Alexander had prohibited her from seeing Komarov after New York out of nothing more than spite. Why would he let her go now? There was no obvious answer.

      And what of the contract itself? It wasn’t what she was trained for. Despite Mostovoi and Marrakech, there were others who’d be better suited to the task. Was it a demotion? Did Alexander feel she no longer had the cutting edge to survive in S7? She’d never heard of anyone being demoted at Magenta House. Those who left did so without fanfare and never returned.

      The deal and the contract itself, neither was right.

      She checked three Hotmail addresses of her own, as well as her five AOL addresses. Over the years she’d developed a system for e-mail management. The Hotmail addresses were permanent and belonged to Petra. Consequently very few people ever used them, and she couldn’t think of anyone who knew more than one of them. Nearly all her Hotmail traffic was spam: tacky offers for cheap loans, penis or breast enhancement and off-the-shelf diplomas. The AOL addresses were spread across five of her established identities, Stephanie Schneider among them. Finally there were those addresses that were set up for one contract only. Or even one message.

      Stephanie Schneider had mail. Steffi – it’s ready for collection, Ali.

      At nine she left the flat. After an hour of Pilates with a private instructor at a studio in Earls Court. She found Pilates useful for maintaining core strength and flexibility. Her instructor, an Australian from Adelaide who was also called Stephanie, had become a close friend and they often had lunch together after class.

      On her return there was a message waiting. I’ve heard such exciting stories about you. You must tell me everything. Shall we meet at the usual place? I’ll be there for three hours, starting now.

      Stern. More than Rosie ever could, Stern belonged to the Ether Division. Or should have. Because that was where he – or she – existed: in the ether. A virtual being, Stern had provided Petra with more concrete information than Magenta House ever had. The ‘usual place’ was a virtual café in the stratosphere. Stephanie checked the time of transmission: two hours and thirty-five minutes ago.

      Hello, Oscar.

      Stephanie had always used the name Oscar. It personalized Stern, and he’d never objected.

      Well, well, all that blood in Marrakech and Mostovoi is still alive. I think I can guess why we’re talking.

      I doubt it. What does the name Milan Savic mean to you?

      The Serbian paramilitary warlord?

      Yes.

      I think you’ll find he’s dead.

      That’s a popular assumption. What if he wasn’t?

      What basis do you have for suspecting otherwise?

      Humour me. Call it rumour and conjecture.

      Ah, the names of my two most valuable employees. Give me an hour.

      It was still raining. Stephanie took a carton of Tropicana from the fridge, then put on a CD, the third. untitled album by Icelandic band Sigur Ros. None of the eight tracks had titles either but she fast-forwarded to the fourth, her favourite. From her wet window she gazed at the rear gates of the Olympia exhibition centre.

      She looked at a photocopy of the names on the list that David Pearson had recovered. Goran Simic, Milorad Barkic, Robert Pancevic, Fabrice Blanc, Vojislav Brankovic, Dejan Zivokvic, Milutin Nikolic, Ante Pasic, Lance Singleton. There had been a tenth, but the tear in the paper had rendered the name illegible. And if there was a tenth, why not an eleventh? Why not a hundred? Who could say how many there were?

      Alexander had given her his word but she still didn’t trust him. Rather than break his word, which he considered his bond, Alexander was the type of man who redefined the terms of the deal so that he didn’t have to. Which was why Stephanie had maintained Stern. She needed independence. She needed insurance.

      Forty-five minutes later Stern was back. Quid pro quo, Petra.

      What do you suggest?

      No need for cash, a name for a name. And you go first.

      Stephanie offered a name provided by Magenta House, an alias that Savic was rumoured to use.

      Martin Dassler.