Younger (21 page)

“Something for yourself as well?” she invited.

“Ta, I’ll take a Bell’s.” She poured herself a measure of whiskey, toasting in a ladylike way before saying, “Down the ’atch then,” and knocking it back.

Anna put a ten-pound note on the bar. “I’m from New York. Just here for a few weeks. Friend of mine brought me here and I liked it. Comfy but nicely maintained.”

“Yeah, it changed owners last year, and the new fella put a bit of dosh into fixin’ it up.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, the secret service people are right up the road, posher types, and ’e went after their custom. Smart man. Come the rush hour, this place is filled with three-piece suits and brollies.”

“Suit and umbrella sounds like my friend. He comes in often, I think. And that’s where he works, too.”

“Yeah? What’s ’is name then?”

“Martin,” she said. “Martin Kelm.” And when the woman shook her head, Anna added, in what she hoped sounded like adoration, “Older than me, not too tall, blond hair, kind of pointed nose. I guess he’s not handsome to everyone, but . . .”

“What counts is that ’e lights your fire, eh? Nah, don’t know ’im. But then, we get a lot of that type in ’ere.”

By the time Anna had finished her cider and a bag of potato chips, some of what the barmaid called the “lunchtime non-eating regulars”—a few badly shaven old men in worn clothing—had arrived and taken up posts at various tables with racing forms and
Daily Mail
s. She shouldn’t have had that drink; she felt a headache coming on.

When she was walking up the street across from the office with yet another Pret A Manger sandwich for a hurried desk lunch, she saw Barton’s Bentley at the curb, Aleksei at the wheel. She tapped at the window, and it slid slowly down two inches.

“Is Mr. Barton in the office?”

“No, Mr. Barton is in the countryside. I came to give you this.” He slid the window down the rest of the way and reached over; his hand emerged, holding a small tote bag. “He says these are products for you. No nurse visit tomorrow.” As soon as she took the bag, the window slid back up. She started to cross the street, then turned back so she was facing the driver’s side of the car, then turned around and tapped on Aleksei’s window. With a venomous look, he slid it halfway down.
“Da?”

“Your fender. What happened?”

“Hit-and-run.” He shrugged. “Someone hit the car in a parking garage. I park, come back, and it’s like this. Nothing you should worry about.”

“But—” The window slid up, cutting off her words, as Aleksei turned the key in the ignition. Without another glance at her, he drove away, leaving her staring after the car, a knot in her stomach.

Aside from her dinner with David, Anna spent most of the weekend at the gym trying to work off her anxiety or curled up with the books she bought for cash on Saturday morning:
Time Out
’s latest guides to Prague, Berlin, Rome, and Amsterdam.

Of course, Aleksei hadn’t killed Jan, Olga had tripped, there was no plot, and MI6 agents couldn’t be expected to go around using their real names all the time. She’d probably have a good laugh at herself when this was all over. She would tell Pierre she wanted out and hope that would be that. In the meantime, she needed to make that plan and be prepared to put it into practice.

After a restless weekend, she called the office Monday morning and asked Eleanor if Pierre was back. “Not coming in today,” Eleanor said succinctly. “Now he says he might not be back until Thursday or Friday, if then. Anything you need? I thought you found that number you’d lost.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I did. No, I was just checking ’cause I’m not feeling so hot, but I was going to drag myself in if Mr. Barton wanted me.”

“No. You may as well stay home. I’ll let Becca know. I’m thinking of bunking off early myself. Like a morgue here today.”

Bad choice of words, Eleanor,
Anna thought as she hung up. She turned on her computer, stuck in one of the flash drives she’d bought, and carefully copied all her files. She’d opened a safe-deposit box at the bank the week before; she’d take this there now, first getting more money from a cash point or two. She’d been withdrawing her Tanya salary in bits and pieces on a regular basis, storing it up in the envelope, almost £2000 of it already converted to euros, that she’d left in the box with all her real ID. If she ever had to flee London, she couldn’t risk leaving a trail of bank card transactions.

She spent the next days moping around the flat, calling in sick and checking to see if Pierre had turned up, going out only to buy groceries. She was just killing time now, but she couldn’t leave without speaking to Barton. She owed him that, and she should try to salvage as much of that other £750,000 as she could. She went to the office Thursday in the hopes of finding out more, but it was pretty much a wasted day. Eleanor said she hadn’t heard anything, Chas was on vacation, and BarPharm was indeed like a morgue.

At the end of the day, she knocked on Becca’s door to tell her she was going to work from home the next few days and to say Becca could, too, if she liked. “I think I’d best be here in case any calls come in, Tanya,” she said. “Besides, my father’s taken this week and next off to refurbish the kitchen, so it’s pleasanter here.”

Anna couldn’t imagine finding BarPharm pleasant ever again.

Friday she woke feeling jumpy and unsettled and decided to treat herself to a comforting traditional breakfast at Bailey’s Hotel down the road. Outside the Gloucester Road Tube station, she picked up both the
Guardian
and the
Mail
, then she let a plate heaped with bacon, sausage, and eggs in quiet, dignified surroundings soothe her jangled nerves. When she’d eaten the last grilled mushroom on her plate, she ordered coffee and opened the papers. She expected the news would be the same as usual. Trouble or smooth sailing in the Eurozone, depending on which paper one read. Prime Minister applauded or heckled, ditto. Too much spending or too much taxation, ditto.

No sooner had she thought,
Slow news day
, than she saw a photograph of people who struck her as vaguely familiar. The headline made her sit up straight: “Russian Couple Found Dead in Luxury Hotel.” It was breaking news, and the story hadn’t really been fleshed out yet: a couple who had been staying at the five-star Park Lane Lodge for the past two months had died in a probable suicide pact or murder-suicide. Galina and Pavel Rusakov had registered as representatives of the Russia UK Business Association (RUKBA), but that organization said the Rusakovs were unaffiliated and unknown to them. The police were asking anyone with information to come forward.

Quickly, she paged through the more sensationalistic
Daily Mail
. Instead of just the passport photos released by the police, the
Guardian
’s only images, the
Mail
had others. Most could have been of any young Russians, but one caught Anna’s eye like a fishhook: the last known photo taken by Mr. Rusakov—of his wife in front of Harvey Nichols. Not only did Anna recognize the woman’s blue jacket with white piping, she also knew her own NYU T-shirt when she saw it. There, behind the corona of Galina’s wheat-blond hair, was the back of Ms. Tanya Avery, who was busy pretending to study the Vivienne Westwood outfit in the store window. She finished her coffee as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but her mind was running fast and furious. She needed to go to several cash points to make more withdrawals from her UK account and then visit her safe-deposit box—not to put anything in but to take everything
out
. In the nearby Earl’s Court area, she could go online in an anonymous Internet café instead of at the apartment. Her Virtual Private Network wasn’t enough to make her feel secure about her new computer today. Deep down inside, she’d known for some time that people were dying for a reason. She was determined to find out why.

Anna arrived back at the flat with a list of times for Eurostar trains from St. Pancras to Brussels. She still wanted to try to speak with Pierre before she left; she didn’t think he was a killer, and if she could get answers from him, she might know who was and be protected. Even if Barton still insisted everything was hunky-dory, now he’d undoubtedly agree to her contract being cut short. Considering what she already knew, he wouldn’t dare try to renege on their deal, especially not if she threatened to sic Nelson Dwyer and his tabloid on him.

She texted Barton from her BarPharm BlackBerry, saying she needed to speak to him as soon as possible, that it couldn’t wait until Monday. Hooking up all her electronics to charge overnight, she switched handbags, from the smaller one she’d been using to the big Desigual bag. She put her new
YOU
NGER products into Boots containers she’d bought for the purpose, first flushing the original Boots creams down the toilet and wiping out the jars with alcohol. She put them in a Ziploc bag and added that to her backpack.

She went to bed with no response from Barton and with her backpack, ready to go, under the bed. Was she really going to go through with this? She slept for what seemed to be only a few minutes at a time, waking always to the sound of her own gasps.

As soon as the alarm went off early Saturday morning, Anna colored her hair, then showered. She dressed in skinnies, a shirt, and her black cardigan. It had already turned cool enough that she wouldn’t look strange with her leather jacket and UGGs. She tied her long black scarf around one of the pack’s straps, the better to partially cover her face if need be. After combing her hair, she let it dry lank and frizzy, then applied the lightest touch of makeup. She looked as dull as she wished her life were.

There was a train leaving around eleven. By half past eight, she was almost ready to go. She was going from room to room, methodically wiping down surfaces and making sure few traces of Anna Wallingham remained, when the bell rang, and there was Pierre’s voice, harsh and breathless, asking to be let in.

Chapter 18

In celebration of finding a good apartment in Berlin, Chyna went out with her Aussie friends, so Anna, hat pulled down low, went off on her own to get her bearings in Berlin. At Alexanderplatz, she boarded a Berlin-by-Night double-decker hop-on hop-off tour bus. Not that she hopped off. Being alone made her a sitting duck, and she was content to stay in her seat.

The next morning was moving day. Kirsten gave Anna and Chyna keys, then left. They decided who’d get which almost identical room, then Chyna said, “Come talk to me while I put on my makeup.”

In the bathroom, it took Anna a second to realize the white stuff Chyna was putting on her face wasn’t cleanser. The truth sunk in: “You’re dressed in black and putting on white makeup? Omigod, you really are a mime!”

“Well, duh!” was the answer, not spoken but conveyed in pantomime.

“So you’re going out as a busker? How do you know the best place to go?”

“Busker, that’s English, isn’t it? But, yeah, street artiste extraordinaire. Met these dudes last night who break-dance by the Europa Center. Great spot—like, the heart of West Berlin shopping. They said to come on by and try out their turf. It’s territorial, see? You can’t stand on just any corner. If these guys dig what I do, they’ll be like my pimps. I’ll work during their breaks and pay them fifteen percent of the haul. Come by. I’ll be there all day.”

“Maybe tomorrow. Today, I need to do some stuff. And work on a memoir about my trip.”
Ding!
Chalk up another InstaLie. She must be up to five dings a day now.

She watched Chyna apply black liquid liner around her eyes, turn her mouth into a tiny vermillion cupid’s bow, then flatten her dreadlocks into a piece of cut-off stocking and pull on a black bob wig. “Chyna gone now. New girl here.
Sehr
Louise Brooks. I haf Dietrich-look
Haar
, too, zee blund
Haar
, so I can lipzync ‘Lili Marlene.
’”
She looked almost like that Madeleine Castaing, to whom Pierre had compared his mother.

Anna added “wig” to “suitcase” on her mental list. “I’ll see you back here later, then. Good luck.”

After jamming as much as she could into her backpack, Anna walked to the U-Bahn that would take her to Adenauerplatz in the western part of Berlin. There, she was walking toward an Internet café and call center she’d spied from the tour bus the night before, when she came upon an inexpensive chain salon with wigs in the window. Inside, she pointed to a rich honey blond on a color wheel and told the stylist, “This will do. I want single process color. No highlights. And I want to try on wigs first.”

She knew the black wig she chose would look real only if properly trimmed, so she told the hairdresser, “While my own hair color processes, thin out the wig a little all over, then cut into the front so some pieces hang down in a feathery fringe. I want a curly bob that looks real, okay?”

She was amazed at the two new people who emerged. With her hair lighter, she looked older than Tanya—more like a younger version of the original Lisa, the character she’d played during the
YOU
NGER process. When she tried on the wig, she looked like a stranger, hard and invulnerable.

The Internet café was also a convenience shop in the front, so she bought a bottle of water, noting with satisfaction the many computer stations as well as a long row of phone cabinets in the back. That would suit her fine the next day. Before leaving Holland, she’d texted David:

Had to leave. You’ll soon know why if you don’t already. Remember dinner convo? Need number of pay phone where I can reach you Wednesday at 1 p.m. London time. Put it where I told you to. TELL NO ONE. ERASE THIS TEXT.

Even if the text had been intercepted, it could lead no one anywhere but Amsterdam. All the pointers Rob had provided were going to come in handy now. She just hoped David trusted her enough not to volunteer anything to the police.

She quickly checked the UK and US news. When she saw nothing on Pierre Barton’s death, she breathed easier—until she looked at her personal account.

There was a message from Richard Myerson telling her about Pierre’s death and adding,

You should know that someone from Scotland Yard called and said they were looking for you. He wouldn’t say why, but it was obviously about Barton because he asked if I knew if you knew him. I said you’d met him just once, at the New York launch. Then he asked if I knew where you were. I hope it’s all right that I said you’d mentioned maybe going to South Africa. I’ll write more when things calm down here. Needless to say, it’s madness.

Madness, yes. She didn’t look at her BarPharm account; she logged off and paid at the counter, then left. From a street vendor she bought a black knit cap and put it on, wishing she’d worn the wig instead of stuffing the bag in her purse. Someone was definitely on her trail. She didn’t know who, but she doubted it was Scotland Yard. And if it
was
, it could only mean they knew she was Tanya Avery and suspected she was involved in Pierre’s death.

Stopping at a discount store, she bought a cheap rolling suitcase with built-in lock to keep in the apartment. Her backpack, loaded with charged-up electronics, she toted to Südkreuz Bahnhof, which she’d learned was a main station for trains heading south, and deposited the backpack in a locker, keeping only her laptop and her iPhone in her purse.

She felt vulnerable on the S-Bahn heading east from the station. She rushed through the streets, arriving at the apartment breathless and sweating. “Hallooo?” she called, then collapsed back against the door when no response came. She was alone.

Is that what people think?
she wondered.
That I killed Pierre?

She sat tensely on the edge of her bed with a cup of tea a few minutes later, trying to think it through. Could Scotland Yard help her? But why would they believe anything she told them? Under any of her identities, she had nothing to back up her extraordinarily fishy story.

But it had to be someone besides Scotland Yard. After all, there was nothing to connect Anna Wallingham to Pierre Barton other than a brief encounter at the launch, and she was sure now he’d planned it that way. Plane tickets from travel agents, probably paid for in cash. A room in a large, anonymous chain hotel in Paris. Contracts she’d signed with no proof they’d been drawn up by him. Lies to friends regarding her whereabouts. She hadn’t a clue whose name was on the lease to the flat she’d been living in. A British passport bearing her photo and someone else’s name. As for Tanya Avery, she had never even existed.

But there
were
people who knew that Tanya Avery couldn’t exist without Anna Wallingham, and those were the people she needed to beware of until she could get to the bottom of this. At least one of them was looking for her now. When they found her, they’d kill her. Even if it turned out Pierre Barton had died of a heart attack, the corpses of the Russian couple, Olga, and Jan assured Anna she could be next. On the one hand, she knew nothing; on the other, she knew too much.

That afternoon, she pored over the contents of Pierre Barton’s hard drive once more. Did he keep nothing there that might help her? She found file after file of chemists’ reports and market analyses, but not the words
Youngskin
,
YOU
NGER
, or
Coscom
. A search for her own name yielded nothing, while a search for “Tanya” brought up only copies of regular interoffice mail from Pierre to Ms. Avery. Neither her diary pages nor copies of her emails to the United States were here—they were in the Dropbox.

Seeing in-house emails addressed to her made her wonder if Pierre had filed copies of others he wrote. That might at least give her a clue as to where he might hide another email account. Her search for “Richard” and “Myerson” and “RM” yielded nothing. Then, upon trying the same routine for Clive Madden, she found a file named “CM_Notes.”

That file spat out pure gold.

Copies of emails from Pierre Barton to Clive Madden.

The emails dated only from after Madden had left London and come to run Coscom in California. Perhaps Barton had kept all his Coscom-related messages on another drive or in his Dropbox and overlooked this file. The first few missives were simple, thanking Clive for a report or asking for various status updates on Madame X. Then came one saying he might fly in for the launch. Since she couldn’t see Madden’s emails, Anna had to rely on guesswork, but the first one concerning herself was cuttingly clear.

You need to get rid of the outside ad/PR consultant. I want her off the account without my name used. Say that it’s a budget-based layoff and request a review of new agencies with younger owners. She must be informed six weeks before the NY launch, with the paying out of her contract contingent upon her attendance there. Please confirm you understand this. As for the materials you sent me, they’re fine. I’ll sign off on each and have Eleanor scan and send . . .

There was another email a week later, seemingly in response to a protest by Clive.

I don’t care how happy you are with her, Madden. She’s off the account. Who’s that association chap who took you to lunch and pumped you, the one you say discreetly gossips madly? Take him out. Slip in the news that she’s losing the account. Make it a very
entre nous
kind of thing, you know, the ‘I didn’t say this but . . .’ bit of bait. You’ve decided she’s ‘a bit past it and no longer effective.’ You know what I mean?

Then another, a threat. Why? Because it seemed Clive had argued for keeping Anna on.

The gist of it is, you don’t always have to agree with my decisions, but one reason we work well together is that I can depend upon you to act upon them. This doesn’t mean they can’t be carried out without you, but I’d hate having to explain to people you would be going your own way.

And the final one, reassuring.

Glad you’ve had a think, Clive. And don’t worry about your precious consultant. I’ll speak to her in New York and make sure she’s well taken care of.

She was Clive’s “precious consultant”? She remembered how awkward he’d been, bumping into her in the Coscom lobby after she’d gotten the boot, and how cold she’d been. And Pierre had been behind it all! He’d wrecked her career, ruined her reputation, and then picked her up again. That sleazy, lying . . . Then she remembered Barton gasping for breath on her living room couch, eyes wild, and the anger drained out of her.

So why had he done it?
Because he’d needed me feeling old and desperate for work,
she thought. She’d been a more reliable, more capable substitute for Olga. Now she was certain he’d lied when he said Olga hadn’t been there for
YOU
NGER. How old had she really been? Whoever did the autopsy report must have thought she had a prematurely aged body—or was what was left too messed up to tell?

She remembered how strangely Gregg Hatch had acted at lunch. Of course he wasn’t going to recommend people sign with some loser he’d been told was a has-been.

What else had Pierre Barton lied about? She’d been the fly, and Barton had spun her a lovely web. She’d been put into play by a master. Then she envisioned Marina’s chilly smile, Kelm’s robotic chumminess, Aleksei’s hostility, Eleanor’s curtness. More masters than one? Anyone else could be involved, and Pierre was certainly afraid of someone when he died, and Anna couldn’t imagine him summoning up this kind of ruthlessness on his own.

There was a tap at her door, and Paola asked if she’d like to join the others for a light supper. “I thought I’d make some pasta and a salad.”

“Super. I bought some wine. Let me turn off the computer, and I’ll come right out.”

She’d learned enough about Pierre Barton’s duplicity for one day.

Anna felt better just being with the others, feasting on Paola’s tagliatelle with lemon-cream sauce and an arugula salad. These young people—college graduates who planned to go on to advanced study but also liked a good time—were different from material girls like Anezka and Lorrayne or shy, introverted types like Becca. Only Chyna was at all like the slice of hottie hipness Anna’s coaches had been convinced “Lisa” needed to become.