Mark Burnell - The Third Woman

‘It’s not about age. It’s about time served.’

She reduced her indifference to a shrug. ‘I’m touched by your concern.’

‘Don’t outstay your welcome, Petra. Most of the assholes out there – I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they get wasted. But I like you. You got class. Don’t be the champ who doesn’t know when to quit.’

‘When it’s time, I’ll know.’

‘Bullshit. The people who say that never know. Know why? Because the second before they realize it, they find their brains in their lap.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’

‘Just do it. Retire. Or shift sideways like I have.’

‘What is this venture, then?’

‘Consultancy I’d guess you call it. First-class travel, expense accounts, places like this. I swear, there are corporate clients out there – the biggest names – ready to pay a fortune for what we have up here.’

Petra watched him drum a finger against the side of his head and said, ‘Not quite the double-tap I’ve come to associate with you.’

‘Funny girl. Seriously, though, you can name your price. They pay off-shore, share options, anything you want.’

‘Now I’ve heard it all.’

‘You’re not too young to think about it, Petra.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘So what is it?’

‘You know perfectly well. It’s obviously already happened to you. But it hasn’t happened to me. Not yet.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The moment.’

Peltor’s evangelism sobered into silence and she knew she was right.

She said, ‘The moment you know. But before that moment … well, you don’t just retire from this life, John. You know that as well as I do. It retires you. Sometimes after just one job.’

Beyond the recognition, she thought she detected a hint of regret in his voice when, eventually, he said, ‘Damned if you’re not right, Petra. Damned if you’re not right.’

Stephanie was still thinking about Peltor’s e-mail and the meeting that had prompted it back in September when her taxi pulled up beside the church of Notre Dame du Sablon. When Albert Eichner had told her that he was coming to Brussels to take her to lunch, she’d been faintly amused by his choice of restaurant. The exterior of L’Écailler du Palais Royal was the essence of discretion; premises that were easy to miss, the name lightly engraved on a small stone tablet beside the door, net curtains to prevent inquisitive glances from the street. As the chairman of Guderian Maier Bank in Zurich, these were qualities that Eichner appreciated more than most.

He was at a table towards the rear of the restaurant, a solid man with a physique that had defeated his tailor. When she’d first met him his thick head of hair had been gun-metal grey. Now it was almost as white as his crisp cotton shirt. Each cuff was secured by a thick oval of gold. On his left wrist was an understated IWC watch with a leather strap.

Stephanie was wearing the only smart outfit she now possessed, a black Joseph suit with a plain, cream silk blouse. Chic and conservative, just the way she suspected she existed in Eichner’s imagination. As she approached the table he rose from his chair.

‘Stephanie, as beautiful as ever.’

Eichner was one of the few men Stephanie had entrusted with her original given name. As for the surname with which he was familiar – Schneider – that had been her mother’s.

A waiter in a blue tunic poured her a glass of champagne.

She said, ‘How long are you in Brussels, Albert?’

‘A friend of mine lent me his Bombardier. I flew here from Zurich this morning. I have to get back for a family engagement this evening.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be. You’ve earned it.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, Stephanie. With our sincerest gratitude.’

It was three months since Otto Heilmann’s death. She smiled but said nothing. Eichner was right to be grateful. In the past, she’d saved him from personal disgrace and in return he’d consented to become her banker. This time, however, the entire institution had been under threat. In the first week of September, Eichner had implored her to come to Zurich. An emergency, he’d said. An emergency that threatened Guderian Maier. He’d let her fill in the blank spaces.

An emergency that threatens your arrangement with us .

Otto Heilmann. One of the very few to have become rich during the era of the GDR. Heilmann had links with Guderian Maier going back to the Seventies. When Stephanie had asked what kind of links, Eichner had reddened.

‘In those days, my uncle ran this bank. In the same way that he did when he first ran it back in the Forties.’ He’d paused to let her dwell on this, the gravity in his voice suggesting the subtext. ‘We do things differently these days. Heilmann doesn’t understand that. He’s of the opinion that a bank like ours will accept anyone’s money providing there is enough of it.’

‘I assume you’ve explained that this isn’t the case.’

‘As politely and as firmly as possible.’

‘But he’s not dissuaded?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘Distressing.’

‘We can’t possibly be associated with an arms-dealer.’ When Stephanie had raised an eyebrow at him, Eichner had qualified himself. ‘Not like Heilmann. It’s simply out of the question. You know the kind of clients we have. The very idea of it is just too … appalling .’

‘I’d have thought your stand might have worked in your favour.’

‘On one level, possibly. But there’s something else. When the Stasi disintegrated, Heilmann headed to Russia and took what he needed with him. Information for his own protection, information for profit.’

‘Let me guess. You refuse him and he’ll find a way to incriminate the bank, tying it to the crimes of the Stasi.’

‘He won’t find a way. He has a way.’

‘The sins of the past …’

The traffic on Bahnhofstrasse and the ticking of the carriage-clock on the marble mantelpiece had provided the soundtrack to a moment of awkward truth.

Eventually, Eichner had said, ‘As I have already explained to you, Stephanie, we don’t behave that way any more.’

‘Yet you have me as a client.’

He’d smiled lamely. ‘The point is, my generation and the next generation have gone to great lengths to restore some honour to a very noble heritage. Despite that, if we had to, we would be prepared to face the potential humiliation he’s threatening. But it’s gone beyond that now.’

He’d slid a photograph across his desk. Stephanie had recognized Eichner at the heart of the gathering, his wife sitting to his right. A family portrait, the faces of their seven grandchildren scratched out by a sharp point.

‘Hand-delivered to this office last week. Six people in the bank have received similar material. Including my secretary.’

She’d told him not to worry. And when he’d raised the subject of her fee, she’d refused to discuss it. Consider it a gift , she’d said. From one friend to another .

Now, four months after that conversation, Eichner looked five years younger. ‘Shall we share a bottle of something good? The seafood here is fantastic but I hope you won’t be offended if we drink red wine. From memory, they have a very fine Figéac 93 but I think we’ll go for something a little better.’

He ordered for both of them, Iranian caviar with another glass of champagne, followed by grilled turbot and a bottle of Cheval Blanc 88. When they were alone again, he said, ‘That place you used to live – that farm in the south of France – remind me where it was.’

Her heart tripped. ‘Between Entrecasteaux and Salernes.’