Chameleon. Mark Burnell
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the elite numbered no more than a dozen. Our backgrounds were diverse but we were united by the quality of our manufacture.
I used to imagine meeting other members of the club. I pictured us around a table in a restaurant, trading industry secrets, putting faces to names, assessing the competition. I’d hear gossip from time to time. Usually from Stern, the information broker, who’d offer a morsel in the hope that I would pay for something juicier. For instance, I know that former US Marine John Peltor was responsible for the Kuala Lumpur car-bomb that killed the Indonesian ambassador last year. And that Li Ching Xai was the one who murdered Alfred Reed, founder of the Reed Media Group, in Mumbai in May 1999. A five-hundred-yard head shot in a stiff crosswind, according to Stern.
When I was Petra Reuter, none of the concerns of Stephanie Patrick affected me. Nor did any of the issues surrounding my profession. I didn’t worry about morality. I worried about efficiency. I didn’t worry about the target. If I was offered the contract, he or she was already dead because if I didn’t accept the work, somebody else would. When I looked through a telescopic sight, or into the eyes of the victim, I never saw a person. I never thought about the money, either; that came later. Instead, I was always thinking … would any of the others have done this better than me?
As any female in a predominantly male profession knows, you have to be better than the men just to be equal with them.
Thursday morning. Stephanie watched the sun come up from the terrace. It was chilly for a while. Later, Masson appeared, a cup of coffee in his hand, stubble on his jaw.
‘So, you’re going, then?’
‘You saw the bag?’
‘I saw what you’re leaving behind.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The clothes you’ve left in the cupboard – well, I wouldn’t take them either.’
‘They wouldn’t fit you.’
‘You’d be surprised what I can get into.’
‘The image in my mind is not a pretty one.’
He grinned, then said, ‘Look, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘To be honest, not really. But I know what will happen if I don’t go and that’s something I can’t face. The last year and a bit has been really good for me but before that, well …’
‘What?’
She sighed deeply. ‘For a long time, it was a bad time.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ he said, in a tone that was sympathetic rather than confrontational.
‘I know.’
‘What did you do?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Stephanie …’
‘Just like I don’t want to know about your convictions for auto-theft.’
For a moment, he was stunned. Then he shook his head. ‘You knew?’
‘Not until the other day. But that’s the world I was in. I knew things I never wanted to know. Saw things I wish I could forget. For months, then years, I drifted from one bad hotel to another, from one country to the next, and the things I did … they were …’
She faltered and he put his hands on her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Looking at Masson, she felt helpless. ‘Laurent, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I should have said something.’
‘No. I don’t think so. We’ve had a good time, just the way it’s been.’
She couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes. ‘True.’
‘I always knew it wouldn’t be forever with you. That was part of the attraction.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She nodded. ‘I am planning on coming back, though. If I can …’
He took her right hand in his. ‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s sit here and drink coffee in the sun. We can pretend you’re going away and that you’ll be back for the weekend. I’ll cook something special for you. We’ll make love, drink too much wine. And we’ll do the same thing the day after, the week after … and before you know it, summer will be gone and it’ll be autumn.’
Stephanie had never imagined that the sight of Brentford would trigger any kind of emotion within her. But there it was, a tightening in the chest. She pressed her face to the window as the aircraft ducked out of the clouds. Terraced streets, crumbling tower blocks, storage depots. Her first sight of London in four years and she hadn’t missed it at all. What she felt was not some misplaced sense of nostalgia. It was anxiety.
She took the Underground into London, changed from the Piccadilly Line to the District Line at Gloucester Road, rising to the street at Embankment. It was hot and humid, the sky a dirty grey smudge. Tourists swarmed around hot-dog stands, the smell of fried onions corrupting the air. Across the Thames, the Millennium Wheel turned slowly. Stephanie slung her rucksack over her shoulder and entered Victoria Embankment Gardens. Through a veil of leaves, she saw Magenta House; a network of company offices housed within the single shell of two separate buildings. The main entrance was on the corner of Robert Street and Adelphi Terrace, where she recognized the thing she liked most about Magenta House: the brass plaque by the front door. Worn smooth by years of inclement weather and pollution, the engraved lettering was still legible. L.L. Herring & Sons, Ltd, Numismatists, Since 1789. She glanced up at the old security camera above the door. On the intercom next to the plaque, she pressed the button marked Adelphi Travel.
The voice was terse and tinny. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see Alexander.’
‘Alexander who?’
‘Very funny.’
‘I think you must have the wrong –’
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. It’s been four years.’
‘I’m sorry, madam, but –’
‘And you can drop the “madam” thing.’
‘There’s no one of that name –’
‘Just tell him Stephanie Patrick is here.’
Inside, the reception area was as she remembered it. On the wall to her right, there was a polished wooden board listing the names of companies. Some existed, others didn’t, and the relationship between them and Magenta House was as complex as the maze of corridors and staircases within the building. She remembered a few – Galbraith Shipping (UK), Truro Pacific – and saw others that were new: Galileo Resources, WB Armstrong Investments, Panatex Ltd. A bored-looking woman sat in front of a ten-year-old computer terminal, playing Hearts, smoking. Middle-aged beneath a crumbling mask of make-up, she was designer-shabby. Just like the security camera over the front door, the worn carpet and the faded blue-and-grey striped wallpaper. Each was a brick in the façade behind which Magenta House hid. Stephanie knew there were miniature security cameras concealed within the lights over the paintings, that the quaint front door was actually grenade-proof, that the weary harridan had a fully-loaded Glock attached to the underside of the table.
She spoke out of one corner of her mouth, the cigarette wedged in the other. ‘Down the hall, take the stairs