Chameleon. Mark Burnell
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– well, Arkan, to be specific – was the snapping point.’
Boyd was placing squares of peat onto the dying embers of the fire. He stood up and collected his glass from the mantelpiece. When he turned round, he found Stephanie at his side. She took the glass from his hand and returned it to the mantelpiece.
‘Are you going to tell Alexander what I’ve told you today?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘He’ll want to know.’
‘He wants to know whether you’re up to scratch.’
‘And am I?’
‘You’re more vulnerable than you used to be.’
‘That’s not an answer. Am I up to scratch?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid you are.’
She kissed him and tasted Pomerol. Boyd had produced a dusty bottle of Clos René at dinner. Stephanie had looked surprised and he’d said that he’d been saving it for a special occasion.
‘You mean like finally getting rid of me?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘What, then?’
‘You work it out.’
She’d blushed instead.
Now, Boyd broke the kiss. But not by much. The only sound was the crackle of flame on peat.
Stephanie whispered, ‘I want to make love with you.’
‘No.’
‘This isn’t like before …’
‘I know.’
He was still holding her. Stephanie looked him straight in the eye when she asked, ‘Is it because of Rachel?’
‘In a way, yes.’
Slowly, reluctantly, she began to move clear of him. ‘Then I’m sorry. I don’t want things to be awkward between us.’
‘There’s nothing to feel awkward about, Stephanie. I just don’t want to get into that position.’
‘What position?’
He turned away from her and collected his glass again. ‘I was in love with Rachel. We both thought we had a long future ahead of us. But we didn’t.’ Stephanie watched him drain the last of his claret. ‘The world you’re about to go back to … we both know what the score is. I’ve already lost somebody I loved. I don’t want to allow myself to get into the position where I might have to go through that a second time.’
He looks disappointed to see me. Maybe it’s the black long-sleeved T-shirt I’m wearing. As I shrug off my donkey jacket, I catch him staring at it. Across the chest in gold letters it says: DON’T SEND A BOY TO DO A MAN’S JOB.
Alexander doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I know he disapproves, as surely as I know it’s childish of me to wear it.
‘We’ve been unable to identify Koba.’
‘What a surprise. Who are the candidates?’
‘Vladimir Vatukin, the man who succeeded Oleg Rogachev as boss of the Tsentralnaya crime syndicate, and Anatoli Medayev, who was Rogachev’s right-hand man. Since Rogachev’s murder in Paris, Medayev has drifted out of the picture.’
‘Unlike Vatukin, who’s benefited directly.’
‘There’s another man who might point us in the right direction, though. Konstantin Komarov. A Russian businessman. He’s not a member of any gang in particular but he’s affiliated to several. Or none, depending on your point of view. If the gangs are the cogs in the Russian criminal machine, he’s the oil between them.’
‘A lubricant? How tasteful.’
‘Komarov travels a lot but he’s based in New York.’
‘Like George Salibi. Let me guess. You thought you’d save Magenta House an air-fare and get me to do two jobs for the price of one?’
‘Komarov is a known associate of Koba’s.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s an investor. And a financial advisor.’
‘A money-launderer …’
‘Technically, he’s clean.’
‘A crook by proxy, then.’
‘Not quite. He’s done his fair share. But it’s all in the past.’
‘What’s the deal?’
‘You use Komarov to get to Koba.’
‘How?’
‘By masquerading as a buyer for Plutonium-239. Komarov won’t want to know himself. But he’ll see the chance to take a percentage by passing the business on to Koba.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘Throughout the Russian criminal world, Komarov’s reputation – and, by extension, his fortune – depends upon his integrity. If that reputation was undermined, he’d be in trouble. First things first, though. The approach to Komarov must look legitimate. If he suspects anything, it’ll be a dead end. However, once he’s vouched for you –’
‘What if he won’t?’
‘You’ll have to find a way to make sure he does.’
‘How do we get to him?’
‘There’s someone here in London who can help. A Pole named Zbigniew Sladek. Rosie Chaudhuri will provide you with all the information you need.’
‘Could Vatukin or Medayev have been responsible for Paris?’
‘You’re asking me?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake …’
As I get up, Alexander looks at my breasts again and, perhaps, at the slogan which runs across them. DON’T SEND A BOY TO DO A MAN’S JOB. I gather my tatty jacket from the back of my chair. This gives him the opportunity to see what’s written between my shoulder blades: SEND A WOMAN.
‘Is that your idea of a joke?’
I return his glare with interest. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘You’re my idea of a joke.’
Rosie Chaudhuri’s eyes widened. ‘God, what happened to your hair?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Magenta House, Basement Level Four, Room 2A, an octagonal room without windows. The halogen spots embedded in the ceiling were dimmed. All Stephanie could hear was the soft breath of air conditioning and the murmur of computer terminals. She sat down in the high-backed leather swivel chair next to Rosie. The three twenty-one inch terminals formed a curve in front of them. Rosie typed as she spoke. ‘Sladek, Zbigniew, V. Birth date, 1963, September the fourth. Place of birth, Cracow, Poland.’
The three screens changed simultaneously. The one on the right subdivided into sixty-four squares, the monitor on the left drew down three script lists. On the