The Third Woman. Mark Burnell
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were there in the world? Not the cheap battery-operated types, but those rare hand-crafted precision instruments. Less than a hundred? Certainly. Whatever their respective backgrounds they were bound by the quality of their manufacture and they both knew it.
‘How long are you in Munich?’ she asked.
‘Leaving tomorrow, around midday. How about tonight?’
‘Busy.’
Another lie.
‘Can you make breakfast? At my hotel. Say nine?’
Petra tilted her head to one side and allowed herself a smile. ‘You won’t be sharing it with some lucky lady?’
Peltor feigned wounded pride. ‘Not unless you say yes.’
Petra arrived at the Mandarin Oriental on Neuturmstrasse at nine. When she asked for Peltor at the front desk – ‘Herr Stonehouse, bitte’ – her instructions were specific: he was running a little late so could she take the lift to the sixth floor, the stairs to the seventh and then proceed up to the roof terrace.
It was a freezing morning, no hint of cloud in the sky. The sun sparkled like the Millennium Star over a roof terrace that offered an unobstructed view of all Munich.
‘Not bad, huh? It’s why I always stay here when I’m in town.’
Peltor was floating at one end of a miniature swimming pool. Petra had seen baths that weren’t much smaller.
‘I hope that’s heated.’
‘A little too much for my taste.’
‘Always the Marine, right?’
Petra looked at the board by the pool. Next to the date was the air temperature taken at seven-thirty. One degree centigrade.
‘Love to swim first thing in the morning,’ Peltor declared loudly.
‘I thought you people loved the smell of napalm in the morning.’
‘Not these days. How long’s it been, Petra?’
‘I don’t know. Eighteen months?’
‘More like two years. Maybe longer.’
‘The British Airways lounge at JFK? You said you were going to Bratislava. Two weeks later I was stuck in Oslo airport flicking through a copy of the Herald Tribune and there it was. Prince Mustafa, the Mogadishu warlord, hit through the heart by a long-range sniper. A Sako rifle …’
‘A TRG-S,’ Peltor added. ‘Won’t use any other kind …’
‘A 338 Lapua Mag from seventeen hundred metres, wasn’t it?’
‘Seventeen-fifty. What were you doing in Oslo?’
‘Nothing. I told you. I was stuck.’
‘Cute, Petra. Real cute.’
Peltor climbed out of the pool. Massive shoulders tapered to a waist so narrow it was almost feminine, a feature that reminded her of Salman Rifat, the Turkish arms-dealer. But where Rifat’s extraordinary physique was steroid-assisted, Peltor’s was natural. He exuded power as tangibly as the steam coming off his skin.
Oblivious to the cold, he dried himself in front of her, neither of them saying anything. It was an extravagant performance. A muscled peacock, Petra thought, as he reached for a dressing-gown. She wondered whether he was really running late or whether he’d orchestrated the display deliberately.
His suite was on the seventh floor. He emerged from the bathroom in a navy suit without a tie. Stephanie caught a trace of sandalwood in his cologne. Peltor wore a trim goatee beard at the same thickness as the hair on his head, somewhere between crop and stubble. He stepped into a pair of black Sebago loafers and they went down to Mark’s, the hotel restaurant.
Orange juice and coffee arrived. Peltor ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, Petra stuck with fruit and croissants. She said, ‘You running into me at Café Roma yesterday …’
He took his time, sipping coffee, playing with the teaspoon on the saucer. ‘Yeah. I know.’
‘And?’
He struggled for an answer, then looked almost apologetic. ‘All my adult life, I’ve had my finger on a trigger, Petra. First for my country, then for my bank balance. In that time, I’ve been the best there is. We both have. Different specialities, same environment. But nobody knows what we do. We have to lie to everyone. We can’t relax. That time at JFK – we were just a couple of business colleagues shooting the breeze in an airport lounge. A few stories, a few drinks. It was nice. But I didn’t think I’d get the chance to do it again. Then yesterday … there you were.’
‘A coincidence?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Someone I used to know said that a coincidence was an oversight.’
He sat back in his chair and held open his hands. ‘Shit, it happens, you know? You’re walking down a street somewhere – Osaka, Toronto, Berlin – and some guy calls out your name. When you turn round there’s a face you haven’t seen since the fourth grade back in Austin, Texas.’
‘Is that where you grew up?’
‘Never let your defences down, do you?’
‘Never.’
Peltor held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Look, I saw you in Café Roma. I could’ve walked away but I didn’t. That’s all there is to it. I just thought we could talk again like we did in New York. You know, take a time-out. If you’re uneasy with that … well, then I guess you’ll leave.’
But she didn’t. Perhaps because she’d enjoyed JFK too. Taking a time-out, talking shop. Relaxing.
Peltor’s eggs and bacon arrived. The waitress poured Petra more coffee. The restaurant was mostly empty, the businessmen long gone, just four other tables occupied, none of them too close.
Gradually, they drifted into conversation. Nothing personal, not at first. They talked about Juha Suomalainen, a Finnish marksman whom Peltor had always regarded as a rival rather than a kindred spirit. Petra asked whether he was still active.
‘I doubt it. He’s been dead for six months.’
‘Who got him?’
‘Husqvarna.’
‘I don’t know the name. Sounds Nordic.’
‘Husqvarna make chainsaws.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Juha was at his home in Espoo. Up a ladder, cutting branches off a tree. Somehow he fell and the chainsaw got him. And before you ask, I was in Hawaii with a drink in my hand.’
Petra pulled apart a croissant. ‘Well, statistically speaking, this is a risky business. You just don’t expect any of us to go like that.’
‘Right. Like Vincent Soares. Cancer. Wasn’t even forty-five.’
When Peltor talked about his time as a Marine, Petra was surprised to learn that he wasn’t the rabid jock-patriot she’d suspected he might be, although he admitted to missing the comradeship. But not much.
‘This is a lot better. Like owning your own business, know what I mean? You work hard but you got no boss busting your ass.’
As far as Peltor was concerned, she’d always been Petra Reuter, the anarchist who turned assassin. Originally, however, Petra had been created by an organization. And controlled by that organization. Petra was an identity handed to Stephanie. A shell to inhabit. And in those days there had been a boss. A man who had regulated every aspect of her life. But as time passed, flesh and fabric had merged and Stephanie had become Petra. Or was it the other way round? In any case, Petra had outgrown her fictional self. Now, both the organization and the boss were consigned to her past while Petra