> After more than twenty-four hours?
> I wasn’t there, Petra. But I’ve seen the pictures.
The photo-flash memory of Béatrice Klug’s flaming head gave the concept of delayed identification unpleasant credibility.
> What’s the connection with Golitsyn?
> I don’t know that there necessarily is one. What I do know is this: the day before yesterday, they had dinner together at the Meurice. Golitsyn arrived earlier in the day from New York. Brand was due to fly to Baghdad today. Golitsyn heads to Moscow tomorrow. Golitsyn and Brand go back a long way. Brand is another of Golitsyn’s twenty-four-carat connections. Maybe they discussed something that is germane to your current situation.
He’s not telling me everything.
Typical of Stern. Their relationship had lasted longer than any of Stephanie’s romantic relationships. Even the good ones. Both of them had secrets yet both of them had entrusted part of themselves to the other. That wasn’t something she could verify, it was something she felt.
> How do I meet Golitsyn?
> Tonight Golitsyn will be at the Lancaster. Do you know it?
She did. But only because the name of the hotel prompted another name: Konstantin Komarov. One of only two men to have found a way past all her defences. Even now, the mere mention of him was enough to send a jolt through her.
There was an image engraved on her memory; Komarov in front of the Lancaster with a woman on his arm. Not Stephanie but a tall Russian. Ludmilla. The woman who’d taken Stephanie’s place in his bed. A woman who, it transpired, was as intelligent as she was beautiful. In other words, a woman who hadn’t even allowed Stephanie hope.
> I know it.
> He has a series of business meetings there. I’ve arranged for you to see him at eight.
> And that’s it?
> Not quite. You will have to be Claudia Calderon.
> Who’s she?
Hector Reggiano’s brand-new art consultant. Reggiano was a name Stephanie recognized. An Argentine billionaire. Technically, a financier, whatever that meant in Argentina. In the real world, a common thief. But a cultured thief; an art collector with an appetite.
> Golitsyn has been courting Reggiano for years. From your perspective, Claudia Calderon offers two distinct advantages. One: she’s currently in Patagonia. Two: Golitsyn’s never met her. And he won’t turn down a last-minute opportunity to see if he can seduce the woman who controls Reggiano’s purse-strings.
> Is all this really necessary?
> To get you to see Golitsyn? Absolutely. Claudia Calderon gets you past Medvedev. Once you’re with Golitsyn – then it’s up to you.
> And who’s Medvedev?
> Golitsyn’s personal assistant. Ex-Spetsnaz. These days, everywhere Golitsyn goes, Medvedev goes too. He takes care of everything. Hotels, flights, meetings, money, girls.
> Perhaps I’ll suggest to Golitsyn he gets himself a female assistant so he can save himself some cash.
> Hardly a pressing consideration.
> Too rich to care?
> He’s more than rich, Petra.
> Meaning?
> Golitsyn floats above the world.
As Petra, there aren’t many situations I find intimidating. Composure is part of her make-up and when I wear it, it’s a genuine reflection of who I am at that moment. But everyone has an Achilles heel. And this is both hers and mine.
I’m on avenue Montaigne. So far I’ve been into Gucci, Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, looking for something that Claudia Calderon might wear. I don’t think Hector Reggiano’s art consultant would turn up for a meeting with Leonid Golitsyn wearing a grubby denim jacket and scuffed Merrell shoes. I have an image of her in my mind; tall, slender, sophisticated. All I can do is pretend in fancy dress. Escada and Christian Lacroix come and go.
It’s the fascism of fashion that annoys me. The eugenics of beauty. The people in these shops always seem to know that I don’t belong. Eventually, however, salvation presents itself in the form of MaxMara, on the junction with rue Clément Marot, opposite the jeweller Harry Winston. Whatever the city, this is the one place that doesn’t make me feel like a leper.
I drift through the store and end up with a figure-hugging dress, somewhere between dark grey and brown, with sleeves to the knuckle. To go with it I pick out a very soft dark brown, knee-length suede coat with a black leather belt, a pair of shoes and a black bag.
I take the deliberate decision to use Marianne Bernard’s American Express card. The transaction will be traced. But I’m banking on a delay. It doesn’t need to be a long one. Sixty seconds will do.
The purchase is processed without a problem and I leave with Claudia Calderon in a bag. Later, I wrap all Marianne’s cards in a paper napkin and toss them away. I’ll miss the life we shared. Marianne was good to me; a sure sign that our relationship wasn’t destined to last.
Late afternoon. Stephanie pressed 1845 into the keypad and took the damp staircase to the third floor. Jacob and Miriam Furst’s apartment was at the end of the corridor. The door was sealed with police tape. There was no noise from the other apartments on the floor. She hadn’t seen light from any of them from rue Dénoyez. She slit the tape and let herself in with Claude Adler’s keys, quietly closing the door behind her.
Inside, she stood perfectly still, adjusting to the gloom. The dull wash of streetlamps provided the only light. She smelt stale cigarette smoke. The Fursts hadn’t been smokers; Miriam had been asthmatic.
The small living-room overlooked rue Dénoyez. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, Stephanie saw a delta of dark splatters over the oatmeal carpet at the centre of the room. The blood had dried to a black crust. There was broken glass in the cast-iron grate. On the mantelpiece above the fire there had once been a large collection of miniature figurines, she recalled; horses, the glass blown with curls of fiery orange and emerald green. Only two remained.
In the kitchen, she recognized the cheap watercolour of place des Vosges and the wooden mug rack. There were no mugs left. They were all broken. Cutlery and cracked china littered the linoleum floor.
She wondered what the official line was. A violent burglary perpetrated against an elderly, vulnerable couple, their murders little more than some kind of sporting bonus?
The bathroom was at the back of the apartment, overlooking waste ground. It didn’t look as though regeneration was imminent. She lowered the blind and switched on the light. The wallpaper might have been cream once. Now it was pale rust, except for black patches of damp in the corner over the bath. By the sink was a shaving kit, the badger-hair brush and cut-throat razor laid upon an old flannel.
Stephanie washed herself thoroughly, then dressed in the underwear and stockings she’d bought from a depressing discount store on boulevard
