Mark Burnell - The Third Woman

‘Can I wash?’

‘Get on with it.’

He cleaned his hands then filled the basin with cold water and pushed his face into it, holding it there. He straightened slowly, water dripping down the front of his shirt.

‘How about a shave?’

‘No.’

‘I promise I won’t attack you with my razor. It has a safety strip.’

‘Let’s go.’

Stephanie directed him back to the chair, waving the Smith & Wesson at him for emphasis. She gathered the washing line and crouched behind him. He offered his hands before she’d asked for them.

She tried again. ‘How did you get your scars?’

‘I told you. It’s none of your goddamned business.’

She was tempted to pull the cord until the wounds reopened. But to hurt him would be to hand him a small victory. She wrapped the plastic-coated line around the wrists, securing them a little less firmly – something he would be sure to notice – before drawing the line down and fastening it to a strut beyond his reach. She was aware of him taking a deep breath and expanding his muscles as she bound him.

‘What time does the maid come?’

‘Seven-thirty.’

It was already after six-thirty.

‘Do you let her in?’

‘She has her own key.’

Stephanie picked up a phone. ‘What’s her number?’

‘What do I tell her?’

‘Anything you like as long as it sticks.’

‘Is it just today?’

‘Until further notice,’ Stephanie said. ‘Maybe a couple of days.’

She held the phone close to his ear but so that she could hear it too. When Yvette answered Newman said he had visitors and didn’t want to be disturbed. He told her he’d phone her when he wanted her to resume her schedule.

Stephanie took the handset from him. ‘She didn’t sound surprised.’

‘So?’

‘Maybe she’s used to such requests.’

‘Her husband’s serving twelve years for armed robbery. Two of her three sons are dead, the other’s a drag queen. It’s going to take more than a day off to surprise Yvette.’

‘Maybe. But if she shows up unexpectedly, I think I’ll manage it,’ Stephanie said, as she noticed the keys to the apartment on the side-table. ‘By the way, I may need to go out later. What’s the number for the door downstairs?’

‘9063.’

‘Nine-zero-six-three?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You sure about that? What about 2071? That was the number you used last night. Think about it. Take your time. Two-zero-seven-one.’

Newman bit his lip.

She shook her head. ‘Disappointing. And stupid.’

‘Why’d you kill them?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why are you running? Why are you here ?’

‘I don’t know.’

Newman snorted.

And Stephanie reacted: ‘What does that mean?’

‘You don’t seem like a novice.’

‘How the hell would you know?’

He looked as though he had an answer but said nothing.

Annoyed with herself, Stephanie mumbled, ‘Forget it.’

‘Forget what ? That you stuck a gun in my face?’

‘Be quiet.’

‘Maybe you are a novice.’

‘Shut up.’

‘What are you going to do? Shoot me?’

‘You don’t think I would?’

He wanted to press the challenge. She could see that. But he backed down. Just a fraction. He thought he was reading her correctly but what if he was wrong?

‘Why were you at the Lancaster?’ he asked.

‘Are you deaf?’

‘Tell me. I want to know.’

‘I said … shut up .’

‘Come on. You want me to believe you, don’t you?’

‘Just fuck off.’

I make myself coffee in the kitchen. I’m hungry but there’s not even any bread. I expect the maid brings it. Still warm from the baker, I’ll bet. With fresh Casablanca lilies to go in the octagonal vase in the hall. Nothing but the best for this one .

I’m angry with him, which is absurd. Only one of us has the right to be angry with the other. I should have let him piss himself. Just to establish my dominance over him. I hear echoes of a distant lecture: interaction with a hostage establishes a relationship, however unusual, which, in turn, humanizes the hostage in the eyes of the captor, making it harder for the captor to treat the hostage in the necessary fashion.

The necessary fashion. What is that in this situation? I have no idea. He was a matter of convenience. A spur-of-the-moment exit strategy in a crisis. He’s of no value to me. Unlike his apartment, which is a haven .

Perhaps the ‘necessary fashion’ should come from the business end of the Smith & Wesson. Avoid complications, kill the hostage, occupy his apartment for as long as required. But I’m not going to do that. I may be Petra but I’m not that Petra. Not any more .

I stand by the window. Above the light pollution the sky is brightening to plum. I expect it’s warm and sunny in Mauritius. I should be eating mangos to the sound of the surf .

I think about Stern, Amsterdam and Anders Brand. Most of all, though, Stern. My sense of betrayal extends beyond the professional to the personal. I feel like a rejected lover. I know that’s ridiculous but there it is. It hurts. I thought we had something special .

I try to put my feelings to one side. Stern gave me Golitsyn for free. That, perhaps, should have been a warning .

> This isn’t sentimentality. This is business. If anything happens to you, I’ll lose money.

Only the first two sentences ring true. Stern was making money before I ever used him. And he’ll still be making money long after I’ve gone .

Newman was angry. With her. With himself.

Now that he was alone again, he tried to impose some order on his scattered thoughts. It was an impossible situation to categorize. He’d been kidnapped. He was a hostage. But in his own home. These facts didn’t fit the general profiles that he knew well after years in the oil business.

Ninety percent of kidnaps worldwide were for ransom and the vast majority went unreported. Official estimates put the annual number of ransom kidnaps between five thousand and twenty-five thousand. The discrepancy between the two tended to be a matter of definition. What was beyond dispute among the experts was the true number, which was over fifty thousand. In certain sectors of the oil industry this was common knowledge; in those areas of the world where kidnapping was a national sport, employees of oil companies were a preferred target. The remaining twenty percent of kidnaps were mostly political and were far less predictable.

Newman wasn’t sure which kidnap category he’d fallen into. Most likely, something that accounted for a very small fraction of one percent of the total.

Once caught, there were certain rules for all hostages. Above all, that a hostage should do nothing to agitate a captor. Awkward hostages suffered. It was better to be cooperative. To try to establish a rapport. He knew this yet he’d still provoked her. And for what? Absolutely nothing.

His aggression had been fuelled by fatigue and anxiety but so long as she remained an unknown quantity he couldn’t afford to make such elementary errors. A hostage’s scope for influence was inevitably limited but the least one could do was not to make things worse.

He analysed what he thought he knew. His abduction wasn’t about money. And it wasn’t political. Or personal. Which probably made it criminal.

That was how it felt. A crime that had gone wrong. He was an accidental hostage. His had been a kidnap of chance, a kidnap of bad timing. Were the rules the same for such a thing? Until he knew better he chose to assume so.

Play the game .