The Telemass Quartet

by Eric Brown

  Miller smiled. “I always feared death, before . . .”

  “The bombing?”

  The detective nodded. “After that . . .” He shrugged. “Well, I came so close to death that it held no fear anymore.”

  “And made you appreciate what you had: your life?”

  Miller laughed and took a mouthful of beer. “Something like that, Matt.” He consulted his wrist-com. “It’s after ten. She’s late.”

  Hedrick looked around the sparsely occupied bar. Only a few couples sat in the booths on the circumference of the rotating bauble, sipping drinks and talking quietly. He considered meeting Magda Kallanova again after twenty years, and wondered if time had been kind to the elegant, fashion-conscious gallery owner.

  “Do you think Kallanova knew about Nordstrom’s sadomasochism?” Miller asked.

  “Looking back, I’m pretty sure she did. The last time I met Magda, she warned me off Kat. She said that my affair with her was a bad idea. I thought she was referring to the possibility that Behrens might find out.” He stared into his drink, then looked up. “But she said that I had more than Behrens to fear.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know what she was on about, and anyway Kat finished with me a few days later. So I never found out.”

  Miller shook his head in sympathy.

  Hendrick sighed. “The stupid thing is, looking back . . . I don’t know. Perhaps I’m being arrogant, but I’ve been thinking, ever since the interview with Patel . . . Perhaps if Kat had been open with me, then I might have been able to help her.”

  “Not arrogant, Matt. Just wise after the event. But you couldn’t have done a thing to help her, believe me. Nordstrom would have destroyed you.”

  The thought of the elfin Scandinavian beauty destroying anyone was hard to imagine.

  He looked up as a door in the hub of the dome slid open and a tall, willowy woman stepped through. He recognised Magda Kallanova instantly; it was as if no time at all had elapsed since their last meeting. She was even dressed in the same elegant, skin-tight leggings and jacket with padded shoulders she had favoured twenty years ago.

  She stopped on the threshold and stared across at the two men, the shock of recognition igniting her eyes. She had a cap of jet-black hair curved around a slim, very pale face that was more severe and striking than beautiful.

  She approached the booth, smiling hesitantly. “Matt? Matt Hendrick? Why, it is you!”

  Hendrick stood and held out a hand. They shook, and she held on. “It’s been a long time, Matt.”

  “You look well, Magda.” She must have been over fifty but looked twenty years younger.

  “And you too,” she said, “despite a few grey hairs,”

  She turned to Miller. “Inspector Miller, you didn’t tell me that you were bringing along an old friend.”

  “Matt’s working with me on the case.” Miller asked her what she was drinking then gestured to a waiter and ordered two more beers and a vodka and tonic.

  They sat in the booth as the bar turned, presenting the same identical, unendingly bleak landscape in every direction.

  “I’m surprised to find you on Kallithea, Magda,” Hendrick admitted.

  “Ah, well. You see, I received an offer too good to refuse, yes? Despite the planet’s erratic seasons—or perhaps even because of them—artists have always flocked here. Kallithea enjoys an embarrassment of artistic riches, gentlemen. And anyway, the ice holds no fear for me. In fact, I am reminded of Moscow.”

  “You’re staying for the winter?” Miller asked.

  She smiled. “I signed a six-year contract last year, so yes, I am staying.”

  For the next ten minutes Hendrick asked about her professional life after Amsterdam, and he sketched in something of his own life over the twenty years—without mentioning Maatje and his daughter.

  Magda finished her drink and called the waiter for a second, and when it arrived she looked across the table at Miller. “Now, you said when you contacted me that it was in relation to Katerina Nordstrom?”

  “That’s right,” Miller said. “I don’t know if you are aware—”

  “I read a report of the incident on the Net,” she interrupted. “I was shocked.”

  Miller leaned back and narrowed his eyes as he asked, “Shocked, but not surprised?”

  Magda sipped her drink. She had thin, crimson lips which, with her dark eyes and pageboy hairstyle, contrasted starkly with her pale face. Now her lips compressed even further as she contemplated Miller’s question.

  “To be honest, I was not surprised, no. I knew Katerina very well, inspector. She was a very troubled lady. She had, how do you say, demons?”

  “We understand that she had an unconventional relationship with her father?” Miller went on.

  “Unconventional is one way of describing it, yes,” she said. “She loved her father, and hated him, and this dilemma was never resolved because of his disappearance.”

  Hendrick sat up and looked across at Miller, who said, “Disappearance? We understood that her father was dead.”

  Magda smiled. “This is what Katerina told people, yes. It is easier to say that your father is dead, rather than admit the truth, that her father ran away from Katerina when he realised how his abuse had corrupted her. So he effected his escape, assuming a new identity, apparently, and leaving Katerina bereft.”

  Miller asked. “How long ago was this?”

  Kallanova gave her crimson lips a contemplative torque. “Perhaps twenty years ago.”

  Hendrick lowered his glass, his pulse racing. “So when I knew her, when Kat and I . . . ?”

  The small woman almost flinched with empathy. She nodded. “All the time you were seeing Katerina, Matt, she was . . .” She shrugged apologetically. “She was still conducting that terrible relationship with her father. It ended later the same year. I’m sorry.”

  He sat back, shaking his head. “I never even guessed.”

  Kallanova murmured, “I did tell you that your affair with Katerina was not a wise thing, yes?”

  He smiled without humour. “Yes, you did.”

  Miller asked him, “You never met her father?”

  “She never mentioned him,” Hendrick said. “For good reasons, obviously.”

  Miller looked at Kallanova. “So when you heard about the murder of Karl Jurgens and discovered that Nordstrom was the prime suspect . . . ?”

  “To be honest, inspector, I was surprised that it took so long for something like this to occur. Katerina hated men, you see—with good reason, considering her experiences. She spoke to me on more than one occasion about her desire to murder her father, and she—what is the phrase?—she sublimated this desire in her abusive relationships with male lovers.”

  Miller pounced. “Male lovers? You mean, she also had female lovers?”

  She nodded. “Of course, yes.”

  Hendrick felt himself colouring. He thought back to the callow fool he’d been and wondered what else he’d failed to understand about the woman he’d loved.

  He recalled errant images from long ago: Kat and Magda’s kisses on parting, their whispered conversations, and other gestures he’d taken at the time as nothing more than the feminine intimacy of best friends. “You and her?” he said.

  She sighed. “Matt, we were together for many years while Katerina lived in Amsterdam. You must understand that it was a tempestuous relationship—on and off, on and off. Katerina, with her demons, was not the easiest person to love.”

  I loved her, Hendrick thought, but then I did not really know who I thought I loved.

  He took refuge in a long swallow of beer and ordered another.

  Miller leaned forward and asked, “When was the last time you saw Nordstrom, Ms Kallanova?”

  “That would be . . .” she calculated, “perhaps ten years ago, when she had an exhibition in Paris. I went along, for old times’ sake. It was a mistake. She was cold. You see, we had parted on bad terms. I was jealous of her male lovers, even though I knew why she took them,
even though I understood the complex psychological stresses that drove her to do what she did. Anyway, we had a drink, spoke for fifteen minutes only, and then said goodbye.”

  “And you’re sure that that was the last time you saw Nordstrom?”

  She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Of course I am sure, inspector.”

  “The reason I ask, you see, is that she arrived on Kallithea two weeks ago. She came from Brimscombe—that’s over a hundred light years and two Telemass transmissions away—and it occurred to me that she came here for an express reason. And when I discovered that you two had known each other—”

  “I assure you that her presence here is no more than a coincidence, inspector,” she interrupted. “It is more than likely that she came here to evade arrest during the planet’s five year close-down.”

  “That too had occurred to me, Ms Kallanova. But,” Miller went on, “she would have known that you were here. Your appointment was big news in art circles, back in Europe.”

  “She might have known, yes. But that doesn’t mean to say that she came here to see me, or to seek my help, or whatever.”

  “No.” Miller backed down. “Of course not. However, there is always the possibility that Nordstrom might still attempt to contact you. And if she does . . .”

  “Then I assure you that I will be in immediate contact, gentlemen.”

  Miller suggested another round of drinks and gestured to the waiter.

  As they were being served, Kallanova murmured, “And if you locate Katerina, and if she is found guilty, then what do you think the likely punishment will be, inspector?”

  Miller took a long drink, contemplating her question. “There is no doubt about her guilt. She and her lover were heard arguing, and she was seen fleeing from their apartment shortly before the body was discovered. And the forensic evidence is overwhelming: her prints were found on the laser, her footprints in the victim’s blood. A day after the killing, Nordstrom fled Earth, and she’s been on the run ever since. She’s as guilty as hell, Ms Kallanova.” Miller shrugged. “She’ll be sentenced to at least ten years correctional servitude, as well as having to undergo psychological therapy.”

  Kallanova sat back and lifted her drink to her lips. “Poor, poor Katerina,” she murmured to herself.

  Hendrick saw that Miller was about to remind her of Katerina’s crime, but the detective stopped himself.

  Kallanova smiled at Hendrick and said that they really must meet again for a quiet drink. He agreed and copied her com-code to his wrist-com.

  A little later, after pointing out the circular silver building that was the Museum of Modern Art—and insisting that she give them a guided tour before they left the city—she excused herself on the pretext of an early start in the morning.

  Miller stretched when she’d departed and blew out his cheeks. “Well, what do you make of that?”

  Hendrick drained his beer—his sixth, he calculated, feeling more than a little tipsy. “What do I make of it? I make of it that at the age of twenty-five I knew nothing about women—and, to be honest, nothing about human beings in general. And now . . . while I know a little more about the latter . . . to be honest, the former are still a mystery.”

  Miller laughed. “You think she was telling the truth?”

  “About not having seen Kat for ten years?” He shrugged. “I’m not too sure.”

  Miller nodded. “Nor me.”

  Hendrick belched, already regretting his alcohol consumption. He’d take a sober-tab before he slept, clear his head and think through what Kallanova had told them. “So what now?”

  “We could stay here another day,” Miller said, “take Kallanova up on her offer of a guided tour, probe her a little more. You never know.”

  “And then?”

  “There’s a train north to Ostergaart tomorrow evening. I need to consult with my team up there, see what they’ve come up with.” He sighed. “Nordstrom is somewhere on this blasted snowball. It’s a pity we don’t have more time to trace her.”

  Miller suggested another drink, but Hendrick admitted defeat and took the elevator down to his room, leaving the African to drink the bar dry.

  He stood before the window for a while, staring out at the lighted city under the dome and the ice plain stretching beyond. He considered the person he’d been, twenty years ago, and his relationship with Katerina. She’d hurt him then, and she had hurt him again now—but all he felt for the woman was an abiding pity. Considering everything that had made her what she was, she had treated him with care and consideration. He had to be thankful for that.

  Before he descended into maudlin introspection, he found a pack of sober-tabs in the bathroom and swallowed two with a glass of water. He returned to the window, staring out as the tab burned off the alcoholic haze and clarity returned.

  He considered what Kallanova had told him and Miller, considered the coincidence of Kat’s coming all the way to Kallithea and not looking up her old lover . . .

  He raised his wrist-com and summoned Kallanova’s code. Ten seconds later, the screen flared and her thin white faced peered up at him. She appeared to be in the back of a taxi.

  “Matt?”

  “I need to see you, Magda.”

  “But you’ve just . . .”

  “I’ve had time to think things through.”

  “And?”

  “And if you don’t agree to see me now, I’ll tell Miller my suspicions.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Which are?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

  “This is . . .” she began then sighed. “Oh, very well, Matt. I know a bar on Thorsen Square, the Ice Dragon. I will see you there in ten minutes, yes?”

  He nodded and cut the connection. He grabbed his coat, left the hotel and took a taxi to Thorsen Square. The city was quiet, with very few pedestrians and only the occasional vehicle moving down the ice-bound streets. He wondered what percentage of the population had already made their way to the underground caverns.

  He arrived at the bar before Kallanova, found a quiet booth at the back of the darkened room and ordered a beer and a vodka and tonic. Two minutes later he saw the lights of a taxi through the plate-glass window and watched the tall, elegant figure of the Russian push through the swing doors and approach his booth.

  She smiled down at him, but her eyes were unsmiling.

  He gestured to the seat opposite him. Sighing, she removed her coat and slid in behind the table. She picked up her drink, took a tiny sip, and said, “What is this about, Matt?”

  He took a long drink of his lager, regarding her. “I want you to give Katerina a message, from me. I’d like to see her.”

  Her eyes widened. “But I told you, Matt. I have not—”

  “You were lying. I know she contacted you when she arrived here.” He held her gaze, wondering whether she’d see through his own lie.

  He waved. “Don’t bother denying it. Just give her a message. I’d like to see her, as an old friend. I won’t bring Miller, I promise, and I’ll do nothing to bring about her arrest.” His heart was jackhammering in his chest. “Give her my com-code and ask her to contact me as soon as possible.”

  She picked up her drink, swallowed it in a single motion, and slammed it back onto the tabletop. “As I said, Matt—”

  “Just give her my code, Magda,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

  Her expression impassive, she asked, “Why do you want to see her, Matt?”

  “Please, just give her my code,” he said.

  Staring at him, she stood and strode quickly from the booth. He watched her leave the bar, refreshed his dry mouth with another swig of lager, and wondered whether his hunch would pay off.

  Supposing Kat had contacted Magda, supposing Kat would agree to call him, for old time’s sake . . . He was asking a lot.

  He finished the beer and stared at the snow falling beyond the window. A big clock on the wall told him that it was almost two. He was the only custo
mer in the place now.

  He was wondering whether to order a second beer when his wrist-com chimed. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. Surely Kat couldn’t have received Magda’s message so quickly and decided to respond?

  When he activated his com, he saw Magda’s snow-white face staring up at him, severe. He expected her to repeat her assertion that she was not in contact with Kat.

  Her words, when she spoke, shocked him to the core. “Very well. Kat will see you.”

  He felt faint. “Thank you.”

  “But you must not bring Inspector Miller, no? Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “So, I will come to the bar in a taxi and pick you up in two minutes,” she said, and cut the connection.

  Hendrick stood and moved to the door, staring out at the snow-lashed square, finding it almost impossible to believe that he was about to meet Katerina Nordstrom again after all these years.

  EIGHT

  HE CLIMBED INTO THE BACK OF THE TAXI beside Kallanova.

  She was silent for a minute as the cab beetled through the lighted city. At last she turned to him and said, “You knew that I was not telling the whole truth earlier?”

  He nodded. “When did you see Kat?”

  “A little over a week ago. She called me, said she needed to see me.”

  “What did she want?”

  Kallanova sighed. “She needed my help. She was on the run. She needed somewhere to hide for a little while. I found her an apartment here in New Stockholm.”

  “But you knew what she’d done? Why didn’t you—?”

  “Katerina told me she was innocent,” she said. “She swore that she didn’t kill Jurgens.”

  “And you believed her?”

  Her dark gaze pierced him. “Yes, Matt, I believed her.”

  Into the following silence, Hendrick said, “Thank you for contacting her. What did she say?”

  “She said that she would see you for the same reason that she wished to see me when she arrived here: to explain herself, to tell you that she is innocent of the crime of murder, and perhaps even to apologise.”

  “And she trusts me?”

  Kallanova smiled. “I asked that question, Matt. But she said that she was not worried at the thought of being arrested.” She gestured, turning her elegant palm upwards. “She seems to think that she can outsmart anything you might do to detain her.”