Chameleon. Mark Burnell
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was cold. ‘I don’t need to. You’re the one with something to prove.’
The hijack at Malta was my last job for Magenta House. In the chaos of its aftermath, I vanished. That should have been it. Instead, for the next two and a half years, I was Petra Reuter, more than I ever was before. Life imitated art and I became the professional assassin.
Today, sitting in this room, I can look at the way Magenta House originally transformed me into Petra Reuter and I can understand that process, even though I’m repelled by it. What I don’t understand is why I chose to embrace her so completely once I was free of her. Alexander doesn’t understand it, either. Which is why he’s wondering whether I killed Oleg Rogachev and James Marshall. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated, as long as the contract was right. So why not now?
I can see where this is leading. I need to find the culprit in order to prove that it’s not me. Although Alexander says he needs Koba and the disk, what he really wants is the Parisian assassin. He craves revenge because he feels responsible for Marshall’s death and this is the only way he can deal with that. Somebody else must pay. A life for a life. That’s what Magenta House trades in.
‘You chose to learn Russian. Why?’
‘For professional reasons. I was led to believe there’d be plenty of work for me – for Petra – in Russia. Or at least from Russian criminals.’
‘And was there?’
‘Actually, no. I never took a contract from a Russian, although I came into contact with quite a few.’
‘Where?’
‘Serbia, Cyprus, Latvia. In Paris and Zurich, too.’
‘Who led you to believe that learning Russian might be a good idea?’
‘Stern.’
‘You were in contact with Stern?’
The surprise in his voice was, itself, a surprise to Stephanie. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who Stern is?’
‘Of course not. That’s the whole point of him.’
Stern, the information broker. A man who existed only in the ether of the Internet, trading secrets and rumours for cash. Some said he was Swiss, others thought he was German. Or Austrian. Or even American. Like Alexander, a man with no first name. Or perhaps with several. Stephanie had always called him Oscar when they communicated. It had been his suggestion but she’d never believed that was his real name. He might once have been a spy although no one could agree for whom. Others said he’d been a journalist, or a mercenary. Stephanie had heard a theory that Stern didn’t exist at all, that he was a collection of people. Or perhaps a single woman.
‘Tell me about him.’
‘After Malta, I scanned all the old websites looking for messages for Petra. I didn’t expect to find anything but there he was, casting into the dark. I replied and we began to correspond, both of us cautious at first. Eventually, he told me he had work for me, if I was interested.’
‘How did your relationship evolve?’
‘We came to an arrangement. I agreed to let him act on my behalf. Essentially, he became my agent. It worked well because it meant I never met the client face-to-face. And no one ever met Stern. Everyone’s anonymity was protected. Stern used to joke that it was a perfect example of practical e-commerce. He said the Internet was invented for people like us.’
‘Sounds as though you two were made for each other.’
‘It was a relationship with no downside.’
‘You paid him, I suppose?’
‘He took fifteen per cent of the fees he negotiated on my behalf. On top of that, he offered other services, which I bought separately.’
‘Such as?’
‘Information, general or specific. Or reliable contacts in strange cities. That kind of thing.’
‘You never worried about that?’
‘Not unduly. If anything happened to me, he stood to lose money. And Stern hates to lose money.’
‘Don’t we all?’
His tone took her by surprise, so she stayed silent.
‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
She knew perfectly well. ‘No.’
‘One million and eighty thousand dollars, give or take some loose change.’
Stephanie felt herself harden. ‘I earned that money.’
‘It belonged to us.’
‘It belonged to Petra.’
‘Petra belonged to us.’
‘Petra belonged to nobody. Not then, not now.’
The colour began to drain from Alexander’s face. ‘You will return it.’
‘Are you a betting man?’
‘Petra was our creation. You were playing a part. Nothing more.’
‘What about after Malta?’
‘We’re talking about money earned before Malta.’
‘Well, guess what? Before Malta, after Malta, I don’t give a toss what you think. I was Petra. I’ve always been Petra. If you want the money, sue me.’
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.