Cutting the Cord

by Natasha Molt

  She catches the Line 4 bus and is the only person who gets off after the Sauer & Sohn pistol factory at the Domsland/B203 bus stop. The Baker may work at the factory. She could have stayed on the bus for another stop, but she needs to make sure she isn’t being followed. Walking through the rain, straight along the path where fat slugs move. They are as long as a finger, and the snails larger than jumbo marbles, their shells the colour of white sand. Burning nettle and weeds grow on the side of the road, and a truck filled with pink pigs, reeking of manure, goes by. She turns right at a roundabout into Domsland, a newly developed area filled with construction work, red-brick flats, townhouses, a few standalones. She counts three cats staring out of windows, watching her. She can still hear the traffic on the B203 when she takes the second right, down a narrow paved road, to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  The sky is darker by the time she spots the brown brick house, pines no taller than a six-year-old in its unkempt garden. A white van and three bins are parked under the carport, a satellite dish on the roof. The watering can is near the front steps – the sign that the place is safe and not being monitored. She crosses the driveway, walks up the three steps and knocks on the front door. Twice. Pause. Three times. Pause. One time. A clean-shaven man in his early thirties opens up. He has olive skin, black hair and a slight build. She guesses he is a Palestinian or Turkish immigrant.

  ‘Tomatoes growing well?’ she asks.

  ‘It depends on the variety,’ he replies, opening the door more fully.

  She closes her umbrella, puts it beside the watering can and steps inside. Two other men, both holding Kalashnikovs, stand by a scruffy couch. One looks nineteen and the other, a broad-faced man, is around Amira’s age. A woman wearing a headscarf, loose blouse and jeans is off to the corner, her eyes on her flat-soled shoes.

  The room smells of fresh paint and is bare of everything but a few pieces of cheap student furniture: a well-worn coffee table, a TV perched on a laminated entertainment unit and a round dining table with a scratched surface. As clean as a hospital. No dust, no clutter, no family photographs. No personal items, nothing identifying if it has to be left behind in a hurry. Windows are standard; internal walls and ceiling are thin, prefabricated. She will use a quiet voice. Beyond, there is a kitchen and a rear door – a potential exit. There are stairs that lead up, most likely to bedrooms, and also some that lead down.

  ‘You can call me Max,’ says the man who greeted her at the door.

  ‘I’m Cats,’ Amira replies.

  ‘My friend here, she must search you.’

  Amira nods sharply. ‘Ankle holster.’

  The men turn and face the kitchen while the woman searches her, her fingers light to the touch, tentative and slow, a non-expert. Possibly only brought in because Father has told them he is sending a woman to do the deal. She pulls up the rims of Amira’s pants and eyes the Glock.

  ‘Yes, she is clear,’ she mutters in Arabic before slipping out to the kitchen. They seem unaware that Amira also speaks the language.

  Max leads her down into the basement, closely followed by the younger of the soldiers. The broad-faced man stands guard at the top of the stairway. The underground space is surprisingly large given the size of the house. She doesn’t like basements – but it has nothing to do with the man guarding the stairs: she is not worried about him. There is another door that leads up to the backyard, which Amira knows from her Google search is small. Beyond the garden are a pond, a park for children, and a small field that makes the house an ideal location if urgent escape is required. The nineteen-year-old takes his place beside this door. The walls and floor are concrete; there is little natural light. Samples of weapons are laid out on and under four rows of wooden benches. Her Warrior Brothers would drool. Laith would say ‘It’s better than a lolly shop’.

  She walks through the aisles while Max remains near the bottom of the stairs. Handguns first. Czechoslovakian-produced CZ 75s and her own personal favourite, the Glock 17, Austrian produced. She points to them.

  ‘Ten each.’

  Next are the submachine guns. The Heckler & Koch MP5. A very accurate piece of weaponry. She stops, picks one up, feels the weight: it is loaded. She unloads and dismantles the weapon. Clean. Reassembles. Pushes the clip into the chamber.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Just like a man,’ Max remarks to his younger colleague in Arabic, a slight grin on his face.

  Except she doesn’t consider the machinery an extension of herself; it isn’t worth fondling.

  Assault rifles. Russian AK-47s and American M16s.

  ‘Ten each.’ Her brothers’ mouths would water.

  Sniper rifles. A Remington 700, widely used by the US Marines. Now she is impressed. Even she has to pick it up. She snaps the rifle parts into position and gazes through the scope at the wall where there is a poster target, not intended for use. It appears accurate.

  ‘Ten.’

  This will cost the Movement, and Amira is beginning to fear the true price. She orders suppressors, night-vision goggles, infra-red illuminators and thermals. Then she spots two small glass jars with a substance inside that she suspects is ricin, made from castor beans, where one pinprick inserted into a human being is lethal. The poison isn’t difficult to produce. The central problem with using it is that it requires close engagement with the target.

  ‘Ricin?’ she checks, automatically slipping into Arabic.

  The corner of Max’s mouth curls into a smile, as though he is pleased with her language ability. He nods.

  ‘Three jars.’

  ‘Would you like to see it in action?’ Max asks, sticking to his mother tongue. ‘We could get an animal and …’

  She cuts him off with a raised hand and a shake of her head. Another unpleasant memory. ‘That won’t be necessary. Three jars.’

  Unlocked mobile phones and unregistered sim cards are next. There are no local pistols, which she has been expecting. At the end of her shopping list, Max speaks.

  ‘You’ve told me what you want; now it’s my turn. Please, come back upstairs.’

  In the living area, they sit at the dining table. The nineteen-year-old puts a music DVD on through the TV at a reasonably high volume. The red curtains have been closed; the woman is nowhere to be seen and the soldiers mill around the couch. Max leans forwards, laces his fingers together on the table between them, and watches her carefully for several moments, the skin below his eyes sagging. When he speaks his voice is low, almost a whisper against the music, and he utters a single name.

  She coughs in disbelief.

  ‘You know who this man is?’

  She knows. The name belongs to the Israeli foreign minister: that’s the exchange. Father is contracting her out. He has turned her into a commodity. A deep, burgeoning anger rises in her chest. It’s a rage that has been there as long as she can remember, only she has never let it surface.

  ‘He is coming to Berlin,’ Max says. ‘In three weeks.’

  She blows out her cheeks.

  The soldiers shift their stances. Max’s dark, steady eyes cross to them and then back to her. ‘He’s gaining popular support, and wishes to completely eradicate our people.’

  ‘I have heard of him and his reputation.’ The politician is a regular star in international news coverage. Palestinians fear him becoming the next Israeli prime minister. She should tell him she will not be hired, but deft duty keeps her from moving. ‘How do you want it to happen?’

  Max smiles faintly. ‘Your decision.’

  She prevents herself from scowling.

  He waits for her response, and when he doesn’t receive one he frowns. ‘This target fits within your own agenda. You know, I met your leader once, three years ago. We had a long discussion. We agreed on many points, shared many values, even though our fundamental beliefs differ significantly. We will benefit by working together. We have a common enemy.’

  ‘Why not do this yourself?’ she asks.

  He calmly runs
a finger along his jawline. ‘Your people have showed great skill in this area.’

  She is being handled; it is clear they want her, a white woman, and therefore an unlikely candidate for a security threat on an Israeli politician, to carry out the task. But what is Father thinking with this high-security target so early on? He must be out of his mind.

  ‘You will claim credit?’ she asks.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I make my own way, in and out?’

  Max licks his lips. ‘Yes.’

  And if she doesn’t get out, she’ll take the fall.

  The basement. She was eight and on the roster of house chores it was her turn to mop the floors. But she was sidetracked, keen to make a picture book for Laith’s birthday. Father came home unexpectedly; Mother had a mop in her hand. Her eyes darkened in fear.

  ‘What are you doing, Mother?’ he asked in his taut voice.

  ‘She’s mopping ’cause Mira hasn’t finished making Laith a birthday present,’ Oscar blabbed.

  He found her at the table. The sting from the back of his hand was what she felt first and then her head as it crashed against something hard. There was a ringing in her ears and then Mother’s cries.

  ‘You selfish girl,’ he said.

  He gathered her hair in his palm and pulled. She quickly tried to find her feet. Kolya hit his leg in a dangerous move but was thrown against a wall. She bit her lip as Father pulled her down into the basement by her hair.

  ‘You can stay in here for twenty-four hours without food, light or water.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father!’

  The heavy door was slammed, and she heard the deadlock latch. There was nothing in there, no bed. She sat for hours on the cold ground, hoping that Father would change his mind, and the urge to pee intensified. There was a burning between her legs that moved up into her stomach the longer she held it. Time passed. She didn’t know how long. In the end she relieved herself in a corner. The stench filled the space. She couldn’t sleep.

  I’m sorry. So sorry. Please, I can be better.

  Then, sometime in the middle of the night, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. When she gazed up, startled, Mother stood in the doorway. She gave Amira a pillow, a blanket, a glass of milk and a sandwich.

  ‘I didn’t know he was coming,’ Mother said. She was crying too, holding Amira.

  ‘Shh. One of your brothers will hear.’

  She quickly went upstairs for a mop and bucket and cleaned up Amira’s mess.

  ‘Oh, Mira, I’m so sorry. My darling girl.’ When she had finished she said: ‘I have to go; the boys might wake up and tell. I’ll be back early for these things, before he comes to let you out.’

  She was a teenager. Mother was in Melbourne on a women’s retreat for Members. Amira had to do the grocery shopping in Nowra. There was a bakery and she liked to look at all the cakes, imagining, if she had the money, which ones she would buy. A boy came up to her. He was wearing board shorts, thongs and his hair was long, hanging in his eyes.

  ‘Let me buy you one,’ he said.

  She was taken aback. ‘I don’t know you,’ she said.

  Then she saw Father. His eyes were on her. His face was red as he walked towards her and the boy.

  ‘Get away from her,’ Father said to the boy.

  The boy stepped back. ‘Take it easy, mate.’ He turned and moved away, shaking his head.

  Amira was so embarrassed that she wanted to cry. Father gripped her hand and pulled her to the car.

  ‘Slut. Whore. Whoring slut. You bring shame on the Movement. Shame on your mother.’

  This time Amira was in the basement for forty-eight hours and there was no Mother to help her through the stint.

  Max opens his hands disarmingly; he looks worried by her delay. ‘I was led to believe the foreign minister wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘You have research? Locations? Times?’ Amira asks.

  ‘We only have general information that the subject will be attending a meeting in Berlin in three weeks to discuss trade ties between Germany and Israel. The foreign ministry building. Specifics will be your responsibility.’

  A few months of preparation and it might be doable … but three weeks for a maximum-security target? She puts her elbows on the table, her head between her hands. How has her life come to this?

  Kolya’s words: You’re tired, that’s all. She wants to believe that is true; she needs to. Otherwise, what else is she?

  She raises her head. ‘Okay.’

  Max’s eyes widen. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yes, you have your deal.’

  7

  13 MAY

  The following evening Amira walks down Maastrichter Strasse, her knapsack knocking against her back. She stares up at the vivid violet sky speckled with stars and feels small beneath them.

  She has no intention whatsoever of following through with the assassination of the Israeli foreign minister, and on the train back to Cologne had decided that she would assert herself in some small way. This is her opportunity to show Father she will not be put out for hire, although she will play the game to some extent. She will show him that she holds some kernel of power.

  Thirty minutes later she arrives at the dojo, eight minutes early for the class. While she waits, she starts tummy crunches. At number thirty-two Lukas approaches her. She groans, her shoulders hunching. But she continues with her sit-ups, doesn’t stop.

  A smile creeps over his face. ‘Decided to come to an evening class?’ he asks.

  She avoids looking at him, staring hard at the wall. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were taking daytime classes now.’

  He laughs. ‘So you switched? You must be afraid of me. Didn’t think you could handle the competition.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I practically let you win.’

  He raises a brow. ‘Still suffering from dizziness, I see.’

  Before she can respond, Noriaki calls for the class to begin. Amira and Lukas stand in the last line on the right. Noriaki motions for her to stand in the vacant spot behind Lukas. So she must have a lower dan. A mere technicality. But with Lukas in front of her, she stands taller. Adrenaline surges through her.

  ‘Okay,’ Noriaki says, following the opening formalities. ‘I want laps across the dojo. Run across, give me thirty push-ups, run again, thirty sit-ups, again, thirty squat kicks, then twice more.’

  Lukas and Amira exchange glances. He has a gleam of determination in his eye. The battle is beginning.

  Noriaki blows his whistle.

  They sprint in unison, firing across the floor like bullets.

  Lukas reaches the other end first, drops onto his palms and toes. Amira is beside him, one push-up behind. His biceps and shoulders are larger, but she is lighter. She’ll catch up on the sit-ups.

  Up they go for the run. He is still ahead. After three sit-ups they are even. At ten she is two ahead. Lukas laughs.

  ‘What’s so damn funny?’ she asks.

  ‘You’re not going to win.’

  The speed of her crunches increases and he isn’t laughing anymore.

  She beats him to the squat kicks. When it is time for running and push-ups he is quicker again. He starts clapping in between each press. Amira doubts that this guy has ever even seen a doughnut in his life.

  Her anger builds. She can play at that game, too, and mimics him.

  His rich hazel eyes widen. ‘Yeah?’ He switches to doing a single-arm push-up on his left side. ‘Come on, Mrs Schwarzenegger.’

  ‘No talking!’ Noriaki barks.

  Lukas presses his lips together and grins at her. She won’t allow her mouth to curve up. Instead, she matches him, but her left arm quivers after ten. She hopes he hasn’t noticed.

  Six minutes later, Amira is one squat kick ahead. She pelts across the floor, conscious that Lukas is right beside her. She makes it to the finish line barely in front of him.

  Placing her palms on the back of her head, she sucks the air in triumpha
ntly.

  Lukas is rubbing his head.

  Noriaki lines everyone back up for the katas. Pinan Nidan, Pinan Sandan, own timing.

  ‘You’re fit,’ Lukas whispers to her.

  She is not distracted; her left leg delivering a stamping kick.

  ‘Sharp moves,’ Lukas says.

  Noriaki coughs. ‘Remember that karate is also a spiritual practice. And I will not allow talking during katas!’

  A giggle rises in her chest, but she presses her mouth downwards.

  When it is time for sparring, Lukas follows her to a canvas. Her foot jitters against the floor. This is her big chance.

  In this light his eyes glimmer hazel-green. ‘You know, you looked pretty sexy before, tackling those one-arm push-ups. I kept thinking I could lift you up, but I knew you couldn’t have done the same for me.’ He smiles, and stands up on the mat.

  She jerks the bottom of her uniform. You’re going down, bad cop.

  ‘Hajime,’ Noriaki calls.

  Lukas and Amira bow. This time she is ready for him to spring. She steps in to jam his strike with a high block, following with a reverse punch to the head. Contact. Follows with a straight punch. He intercepts it, raising his forearm then sending an upper cut to the jaw her way. She blocks it and he grimaces. That is enough for her to knee him in the groin, set her feet on balance, reload a kick to the head. He is down. The round is called. She gets a warning for an illegal move, but she’s won using some basic self-defence.