Mark Burnell - Gemini

‘What?’

‘Until I found out about it and insisted that he put a stop to it.’

Stephanie’s own security had only been in place six months. At the time she’d wondered whether she was being paranoid.

‘I don’t believe it.’

Rosie smiled. ‘Come on. What don’t you believe?’

A fair point.

‘What was he looking for?’

‘Anything, I guess.’ Stephanie gave Rosie a look. ‘I promise you, I don’t know.’ She handed over the key. ‘Anyway, here it is.’

The peace offering. Offered in advance of whatever was coming. Stephanie made green tea as Rosie leaned against the sink, her arms folded. She was in a sleeveless chocolate linen dress that she would never have worn when they’d first met. She wouldn’t have had the confidence. The change in shape was pronounced: the curves a little sleeker, breasts merely large rather than huge, legs and arms toned, stomach flat, one chin. not several. Her skin was clear and her hair, now short, framed her face rather than concealing it.

When the tea was ready they went into the living room. Stephanie sat cross-legged on the carpet, in a gentle draught between the door and window. ‘So, what’s on your mind?’

‘Mostovoi. Alexander asked me to come over and run through a couple of things. For clarification.’

‘Go on.’

‘You were in the room with him. You had a gun. He survived.’

‘I thought I’d made it clear at the debriefing. The gun jammed.’

‘At that point the two bodyguards were incapacitated?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And Mostovoi was doing what?’

‘Nothing. He was sitting there, scared stiff.’

‘What about the spike?’

‘I used it on the trader.’

‘Couldn’t you have used it on Mostovoi?’

‘What’s going on, Rosie?’

Alexander needed to be sure. That’s what she said. Except Stephanie could see that wasn’t it. There was a subtext. With each question, Stephanie grew more evasive, the truth no longer a comfort.

When Rosie had finished, Stephanie said, ‘What now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Take some time off. Go on holiday.’

‘Am I okay?’

‘You’re fine.’

But Stephanie’s antennae were still twitching. ‘Rosie, if there was something serious you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s nothing like that, Steph.’

‘You know as well as I do, you’re the only one I trust.’

Rosie smiled. ‘I know.’

Summer drifted by, long,hot, empty. And, eventually, lovely. Once I’d learnt to relax. It wasn’t easy. The doubt persisted. Was I under review? That was the word they generally used instead of ‘suspicion’. If I found myself on the outside, what would that mean? There’d be no pension or gratitude, that was for sure. I told myself I was being paranoid. But that didn’t mean I was wrong.

However, as the weeks passed, that anxiety receded and I fell into a lazy routine. Late starts, a visit to the gym to maintain fitness, afternoons free, evenings and nights with Mark. For two months I was happy. It was carefree and uncomplicated. The days merged, the weeks lost their shape. I raced through half a dozen paperbacks a week. I went to the cinema in the afternoons. Or slept. Or lay on the grass in Kensington Gardens, listening to Garbage on my Walkman, the volume turned up. When Mark got back from his practice in Cadogan Gardens we’d have a drink on the roof terrace, or make love, or take a bath together. We went out, we had people over. We were a couple.

In late August we went to Malta for ten days. We stayed in a cheap hotel and did nothing, apart from a trip to Gozo and Comino. We sat in the sun and swam in the sea, we read, ate out, drank cheap red wine, went to bed early and got up late.

The day after our return to London I realized I’d missed my period. I didn’t tell Mark. I didn’t take the test, either. Not straight away. I wanted to sort out my head first. If it was positive, what would that mean? Alexander would assume I’d done it deliberately. But what would he do about it? The prospect of telling him had a lighter side – Does Magenta House have an active maternity leave policy? When I come back as a working mum, will the hours be flexible? – but the reality was more chilling. Most likely he’d prescribe an abortion and try to find some way to force me to accept it. Which I never would. That much I knew.

By the time I took the test I wanted it to be positive.

It was negative.

I decided not to tell anyone. What was there to say? Guess what – I’m not pregnant? Mark noticed a change. I said I was feeling down but it was nothing to worry about. Two days later I was with Karen. After a sweltering hour in John Lewis on Oxford Street, we were having a cup of coffee at a nearby café, sitting at a table on the pavement, just in the shade, shopping bags at our feet. We were having a good time when, out of the blue, Karen asked me if everything was all right.

‘I’m fine. Why?’

She looked at me, suddenly serious. ‘I don’t know. I just felt … something.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

Which was when it hit me. A pain in my chest that began to spread.

She seemed to sense it. She put her hand on my arm. ‘Stephanie?’

When I looked at her, she was blurred.

‘What is it?’

I told her. When I’d finished she hugged me, kissed me on both cheeks and wiped away the wetness from my eyes with her handkerchief.

‘I’m sorry.’

I tried to laugh it off. ‘Don’t be. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean….’

‘Stephanie.’

I sniffed loudly. ‘What?’

‘You’re not fooling me. Does Mark know?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

I bit my lip. ‘Not yet.’

‘Later?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

The following week Magenta House called. Summer was over.

The subterranean conference room was deliciously cool. Dressed in a maroon T-shirt, black linen trousers and trainers, Stephanie felt goose-bumps on her arms. She sat at the most distant point of the oval table to Alexander.

‘Let’s talk about Lars Andersen. Remind me what he said to you.’

He opened the folder in front of him and began to scan printed pages. She wondered whether it was her debriefing transcript. Such transcripts had short lives. When Magenta House signed off on a contract, all trace of it was erased. That was the nature of the organization: to kill you, then once you were gone to deny you’d ever existed.

‘Any part in particular?’

‘The Russian conversation you had with Andersen and the man you later shot through the knee … what was his name?’

‘Jarni. I’m not sure there’s much I can add to what I’ve already said.’

‘This reference to Inter Milan, could you tell me something about that?’

‘Like what?’

‘The tone of the reference, maybe?’

‘It was just banter, I think. At least, it was until they found out I understood Russian. Even then the atmosphere was relaxed.’

‘Russian speakers but not Russian …’

‘My Russian was better than theirs.’

‘And you told them you hadn’t heard of Inter Milan.’

‘As I understand it, Inter Milan is an Italian football club. What does this have to do with Mostovoi?’

Alexander slid a selection of photographs down the table to Stephanie. There were a dozen, five in black-and-white, none of great quality. She flicked through and saw versions of a younger Lars Andersen: climbing out of a Mercedes with Dutch plates, wearing a leather jacket, faded jeans and trainers; exiting a glass office-block in a suit that was too tight; hunched over a plate in a crowded pizzeria, the photo taken through the window. In three shots his hair was collar-length, in the rest it was shorter. She stopped at the final photograph. He was standing in front of a dark forest in dirty camouflage combats, heavy boots caked in mud, webbing, with an AK-47 in his right hand. His scalp had been shaved more recently than his jaw; he was grinning through a week of stubble. The grain and crop of the image suggested it had once formed part of a larger picture. The irony was not lost on Stephanie.