Gemini. Mark Burnell

understand that too, Mark. And I know that you’re not going to be persuaded by notions of natural justice. But hear me out.’

      He drained his glass and poured himself another couple of fingers.

      Stephanie played the fear card. ‘If you call the police there’ll be a record. Especially if you’re charged with something. That means names written down, addresses, phone numbers … they could find out where we are.’

      Reluctantly, he’d relented. And she’d been more grateful than he could possibly have imagined.

      Stephanie shrugged off her leather coat to reveal a lime cut-off singlet that just covered her cosmetic scar but left her stomach exposed.

      Cyril Bradfield said, ‘If a daughter of mine dressed like you, I’d ask her what she thought she looked like.’

      ‘And if a father of mine asked a question like that, I’d ignore it.’

      ‘I’m sure you would. Tea?’

      ‘Funny you should ask.’ She reached into the plastic bag she was carrying and handed him a box from Jackson’s of Piccadilly. ‘For you.’

      ‘Russian Caravan. My favourite.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘The sweetener before the pill?’

      Stephanie nodded.

      ‘Where to this time?’

      ‘The Far East.’

      They took creaking stairs to the attic; the forger’s lair or the artist’s studio, depending on your point of view.

      ‘You’ve been fiddling about.’

      Bradfield worked off two large wooden benches running down the spine of the attic. The shelves on the far side of the room had been rearranged: solvents, inks and adhesives in their own sections, with documents and reference books also partitioned. There were two shelves of photographic make-up, although Bradfield no longer permitted clients to come to his house. With the single exception of Stephanie.

      ‘What’s that machine?’

      There was a dull beige unit on the bench closest to her, next to two lamps fitted with natural daylight bulbs.

      ‘You didn’t see it when you were last here?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I used it on your Mary Reid document. Purchased from E.R. Hoult & Son of Grantham, Lincolnshire. Printers, in case you didn’t know.’

      ‘That doesn’t look like a printer.’

      ‘It isn’t. It laminates. And with it I can replicate with absolute precision the way the UK Passport Agency laminates all new passports. Including placing a UKPA watermark over the face of the document holder. Which, as you may have noticed, makes identification harder, not easier. It’s connected to my computer so that I can pick up a signature, scan it in and download it to this machine. Then it’s lasered onto the page.’

      ‘Computers, lasers, machines that laminate – you’re selling out, Cyril. Where’s the art?’

      ‘In the perfection of the document. As always.’

      He switched on the paint-spattered kettle at the end of the other work bench, tore the seal from the box of tea and took two mugs from the sink.

      ‘So, the Far East – what do you need?’

      ‘Nothing too fancy. One to get me there and back, one substitute.’

      ‘Nationalities?’

      ‘I’m going direct, so the first can be British, if that makes life easier. The second can be anything else.’

      ‘Let’s keep it within the European Union, then. German?’

      ‘Fine.’

      When the kettle had boiled he warmed the brown ceramic teapot before preparing the tea. Then he rolled himself a cigarette from a pouch of Sampson tobacco.

      ‘The same as usual, is it?’

      Stephanie shook her head. ‘Not this time.’

      In the years they’d known each other Stephanie had never actually said what it was that she did. She hadn’t needed to. From the start Bradfield had known something of its nature. Why else would she need him? Gradually the full extent of her profession had become clear. Although his feelings for her bordered the paternal, he’d never moralized. Or tried to caution her against it. As fond of each other as they had become, their relationship was built upon professional foundations. The only other ‘civilian’ who knew of her work was her personal banker in Zurich: Albert Eichner of Guderian Maier. And he differed from Bradfield in one vital respect. In Zurich, with Eichner, she was always Petra, never Stephanie.

      Alexander said, ‘As Martin Dassler, Savic has been to Hong Kong seven times in the past year. We know this from immigration records. In that time he’s spent nearly nine months there.’

      ‘What we don’t know,’ Rosie said, ‘is where he’s been staying, or what he’s been doing. Through the Hong Kong police, S3 has turned up only one Martin Dassler from hotel records: a sixty-five-year old Swiss architect from Lausanne. We’ve checked and it wasn’t him. Dassler has some registered commercial interests in Hong Kong but doesn’t seem to lavish much time on them.’

      The Far East was an obvious destination, Stephanie supposed. He’d had contacts in Hong Kong and China for years. Where better to disappear to after the Balkans collapse? With money at his disposal, reincarnation would not have been difficult.

      ‘Your contact in Hong Kong will be Raymond Chen,’ Alexander told her. ‘Anything you need, go through him. He’s a strange one, but he’s one of ours.’

      ‘Aren’t they all? Anyway, I wasn’t aware Magenta House ran operatives abroad.’

      Alexander shifted uncomfortably. ‘Technically we don’t.’

      ‘Technically? What does that mean?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘What he means,’ Rosie said, ‘is that we retain him.’

      Stephanie looked at her, then at Alexander. She was waiting for him to slap her down. She could barely believe what she’d just heard. But he didn’t. He just sat there, behind his desk, with his recently clipped snow-white hair and his watery blue eyes, staring at her, never blinking, not moving. The buttons of his double-breasted jacket were still fastened; he looked like a waxwork in a strait-jacket. Not for the first time, Stephanie had the sensation that Alexander had become fossilized, stranded in the amber of the era of the dead-letter drop.

      ‘You mean you pay him?’

      Suddenly Alexander was reasserting himself. ‘What she means is that we look the other way. Chen has a variety of business interests in Hong Kong and over here. From a legal point of view, few of them would tolerate much scrutiny.’

      ‘What a surprise.’

      ‘There’s a lawyer in Chinatown. Thomas Heung. He has a legal practice on Gerrard Street, on the first floor above a Chinese supermarket. The firm is actually owned by Chen. Heung’s a soft touch with an equivalent in Hong Kong, also controlled by Chen. Between the two of them they provide documents for Chinese wishing to come to Britain.’

      ‘False documents?’

      ‘On the whole, yes. But for those who can afford it, legal documents are also available.’ Alexander gave her the thinnest of smiles. ‘As they always have been.’

      Which she knew to be true. There didn’t seem much point in arguing about the morality of retaining a contact by contributing to the country’s illegal immigration problem. That was the least of Magenta House’s ethical crimes.

      Stephanie had already digested