Cutting the Cord

by Natasha Molt

  ‘I knocked,’ Kolya said, ‘but no-one answered. So I tried the back door.’ He looked down at Amira on the ground searching for clothes.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be here for another two hours,’ Dylan said. ‘Your package is in the kitchen.’

  ‘What have you done with my sister?’ Kolya demanded.

  Dylan crossed his hands behind his head. ‘Ask your father.’ Kolya neared the bed and pointed a finger at him. ‘If you’ve hurt her …’

  ‘He hasn’t, K,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm to restrain him.

  ‘The package is in the kitchen,’ Dylan repeated, pronouncing each word evenly.

  ‘Get dressed, Mira. You’re coming with me,’ Kolya said.

  She followed his instructions while he collected what he had come for. She did everything she could not to burst into tears as he pulled her to his car in the driveway.

  ‘Get in,’ he ordered.

  ‘Father was coming to pick me up …’

  ‘Get in the fucking car, Mira.’

  She scrambled in, feeling dirty and ashamed.

  Kolya started the engine and drove. ‘Father wants you to do this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s none of your business, K.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll kill him; I’ll fucking kill him.’

  ‘It’s okay, K. I’m all right.’

  ‘You don’t look all right. You look a mess. Does Mother know about this?’

  ‘It’s for the Cause.’

  ‘You’re sixteen. You don’t even like Dylan. He’s too old for you.’

  ‘Maybe he cares about me,’ she said.

  Kolya rolled his eyes. ‘He just wants you for the sex.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  ‘He doesn’t love you, Mira. Last night he was screwing another girl.’

  She fought the tears back. ‘No, of course he doesn’t love me. Why would he, right?’

  He looked at her. ‘Oh, Mira. That’s not what I meant. The guy is a complete prick. A wannabe Warrior.’

  She began to cry. ‘What choice did I have?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Father.’

  ‘Please leave it be, K.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  His stubbornness scared her. ‘Don’t make it any worse! Please leave it alone!’

  Kolya saw the distress on her face and pulled over to the side of the road. ‘Oh, Mira. What will we do with you?’ He hugged her and she sobbed into his arms. ‘Come on, let’s get you home and cleaned up. I won’t say anything. Don’t worry. Come now, cheer up. Mother’s been making her pizza. For your birthday.’

  Amira breathes in the cold night air and walks in the shadows, wondering what it will be like to let herself love Lukas. To turn away from herself towards him. She will never be able to tell him her secret, but it will all be worth it if it means she can have a life with him. She has to find a way to get Kolya and Mother to leave the Movement. How can she convince two loyal followers to do it? She is weary with not knowing the answer. They will not leave simply because she does and, after Randy, Father would come after them, but they can hide, at least to begin with, in her hut.

  She passes an empty chip packet on the path and seconds later there is a crunch, as if someone has just stepped on it.

  She is being followed. Again.

  She turns down another street and catches a glimpse of Wilhelm in the side mirror of a car. He is hopeless. If he hadn’t known about Lukas before, he probably does now.

  Let’s have some fun shall we, Wilhelm?

  This time it doesn’t take long for her to lose him. She is in the mood for running fast and for a long time. She loses him somewhere near the cathedral, then she shuttles back. He is walking briskly to one of the pubs on Friesenstrasse, appearing determined as a bull. She is curious what he is up to and shadows him.

  At the pub he meets another man who is longhaired, middle aged, thin and chain-smoking. They talk quietly, seriously. She can’t hear what they are saying over the chatter and noise of the other customers. The conversation lasts no more than twenty minutes. Amira guesses that this stranger is helping Wilhelm to obtain stolen vehicles or to unearth information on Knudsen.

  Wilhelm farewells the stranger and strides out of the pub. Amira keeps after him; she has something she wants to say to him, and as far as she is concerned it can’t wait until tomorrow. She follows him as he goes down the street, turning right at the next corner. Small trickles of people – mostly young students and couples – are strolling by, content with the night’s drunken pleasures. Her legs move faster as he heads towards a car parked on the side of the street. A couple sauntering further down the road laugh and call out something she doesn’t catch. Quickly she runs up behind him, her grip on the Glock pistol tightening while her left hand clutches his elbow.

  ‘Hello, Wilhelm.’

  He draws in his breath sharply before twisting round, spotting her and grimacing in fear.

  Amira shows him her weapon. ‘Get in the car,’ she orders.

  He does, and she jumps in the front passenger seat beside him.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asks.

  ‘I want to speak with you, that’s all,’ she reassures him.

  He continues to tremble, his eyes on her face. The car starts to fog up from their breathing.

  ‘So speak,’ his voice is more frantic. ‘This isn’t protocol.’

  ‘And following me around is?’

  He presses his back firmly against the car seat. His bony knees knock against each other.

  ‘The information you gave me is incorrect,’ Amira says.

  He coughs into his hand. ‘What?’

  ‘Elga Hinkel, freelance investigative journalist.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I’m not in the mood. It’s too late at night, for one thing,’ she says.

  ‘Look, I pass on the information your father gives me. That’s my job, remember?’

  ‘Well, I’m not proceeding until I have correct information.’

  His mouth flickers; he holds his hands together. ‘You know what you’re doing right now, don’t you?’

  ‘I might have a problem,’ she replies.

  He stares at her. ‘You think?’ he says sarcastically.

  ‘Get me the correct information or I don’t do my job. Tell Father.’

  He puts a hand over his chin as though he’s pondering her demand. ‘You’re crazy,’ he says. ‘You ask me to be the first to throw dirt on your coffin.’

  ‘I want the information. Let me deal with the consequences.’

  He shuts his eyes, his lashes like fans on his cheekbones. ‘This is stupid. Ridiculous.’

  ‘My forte.’

  ‘Don’t do this. You won’t win.’

  She takes a deep breath, pulls out the Glock and points it at him.

  ‘Then tell Father the hunt is on; he can come and get me.’

  Wilhelm draws his lips tight over his teeth. He pushes a key into the ignition.

  ‘Fine,’ he harrumphs. ‘I’ll ask him for the information. Get out of my car.’

  13

  13 JUNE

  It is eight o’clock in the morning and the rain is coming down in torrents, pelting the road and the balcony outside her apartment, slicing through car headlights. Amira stares through the glass side doors at the downpour, the water she has always liked. She’s in her pyjamas and sipping instant miso soup from a mug. The footpaths below her apartment are deserted except for the wife of the shopkeeper across the road; she stands in the store’s doorway puffing on a cigarette as she gazes out at the wet puddles growing greasy and luminous with car oil. Nothing like weekend rain to keep customers in their homes.

  Amira sinks down on the couch feeling tired and haggard, unable to sleep. She plays some music through her laptop, an alternative Australian band. A little dreary for her liking, but one of Kolya�
��s favourites, and listening to it makes her feel closer to him.

  She goes online and finds herself staring in astonishment at the breaking news in the centre-left of the screen. Another billionaire has been murdered. This time the victim is a Canadian, another media tycoon, who was killed in the living room of his apartment in Toronto. The Authenticity Movement are credited with the murder, with what appears to her to be the same segment of the Manifesto being found near the body that was with Jonas Baumann. Some internet sleuths must have managed to get the segments to the media. Also making news are new banking regulations in America that are said to ensure taxpayers would not have to fund future bailouts of Wall Street’s risky behaviour. Some economists criticise the bill for not going far enough, while others think it goes too far. The Movement will be paying attention to these developments, but what alarms Amira is the Canadian murder, and that she can’t make sense of who the killer is.

  If Kolya was in Berlin on Friday it would have been tight for him to fly back to Canada and make the kill yesterday, on Saturday. Not impossible, but difficult. And what is strange is that the same pages of the Manifesto have been left with the body. She has been directed to leave the next chapters of the Manifesto – ones that have not been left with bodies yet – with Knudsen, and she expects that Kolya would have been instructed to do the same with his targets. It doesn’t make sense.

  She spoons some salty wakame into her mouth, rises and paces the room in agitation.

  Kolya, in a rush to make the kill, could have made a mistake after Berlin and left the wrong pages with the corpse. Or Oscar or Laith may have been involved. But she can’t imagine any of them making such a blunder.

  There has to be a copycat killer.

  Father will be pleased. She can almost see his gleaming eyes claiming victory over the hearts and minds of the public. This is essential to Phase Two: Resistance.

  Amira should be delighted too. After all, this is what she and her family are working so hard for. Instead, it rankles her that others are willing to join their fold. Perhaps she is the problem; Father is right and she is at risk. The desolation and anger build up within her. She decides she needs the shooting range, the perfect place to spend a rainy morning.

  To gain her sporting shooting licence in Germany, Amira had to show up to practice sessions and training at the club in Ehrenfeld for three months before she was permitted to become a member. No legal range would allow her to pop in at will without becoming a member registered on a police database along with a weapon. She had to sign a statement that she is a trustworthy person, that she hasn’t been convicted of a crime nor is bankrupt, an alcoholic, a drug addict nor mentally ill. She also had to do a practical test to show that she can safely handle weapons, which she passed easily. And she had to declare that she isn’t a member of an organisation or political party that breached the German constitution. Technically, Anika Vollmer meets all of those criteria. The legitimate shooting ranges don’t allow people to practise with semiautomatic or automatic weapons, only Zimmerstutzen, air rifles and small calibre rifles, but that is better than nothing. She is glad that the range stores guns for members at the club if they pay an insurance charge. She doesn’t want to be seen walking around Cologne carrying a rifle bag.

  She appreciates the solitude of the shooting gallery, with only the popping of the rifles cracking through the air. Her firing at the electronically controlled targets is off; her thoughts are on her family and, in particular, her little sister Amelia. She doesn’t want Amelia growing up the way she has.

  After shooting practice she checks her mobile. There is a text from Wilhelm.

  Father in Cologne. Pub. 4 pm.

  The possibility of a trap is undeniable, but something has to change, and right now Amira isn’t afraid to die, to act for a scrap of hope, of belief. She is ready to be declared infected.

  She arrives early at the quaint brewery and pub in Heumarkt in the Altstadt. The exterior brickwork is painted orange and the metal figure of a king seated on a keg hangs above the door. There are stained-glass windows of Karneval scenes and gnomes. Inside is crowded and noisy with the cheerful banter of customers. Interior walls are decorated with woodwork engravings of the brewing process. The light is a dim yellow; the air smells of yeast and hot chips and cigarette smoke. She sits down at a booth made of dark wood at the back of the pub; it’s near the rear exit. A busty woman with strands of red, purple and green in her hair approaches carrying a tray, in the shape of a wreath, filled with tall glasses of beer. She pulls one out to place on the table, but Amira declines and asks for three Korns instead. The woman tallies the order on a paper coaster and leaves it on the table. She returns with the drinks. With fumbling fingers, Amira tosses back one of the drinks, feeling the burn slide down her throat into her stomach where it fans out into a comforting warmth. She puts a coaster over the empty shot glass so that it will not be refilled.

  Loud conversations buzz around her, angry debates about football. Her Glock – close to her chest like a parasitic twin – comforts her. She sips the second Korn, trying to make it last, and waits.

  Father strides through the pub doors at 4.30 pm. His eyes behind the glasses move across the room, scanning the faces, until they land on her. She waves and forces a smile.

  ‘Hello, my treasure,’ he says to her in German. He kisses her on the cheek.

  Amira tightens. ‘I can’t believe you’re here in Germany.’

  ‘No? Well, here I am.’

  He slides into the booth across from her, and stares at her one and a half empty glasses. She places the third one in front of him. The tendons in his neck stretch taut. It’s the alcohol. He doesn’t like it, although there isn’t a Movement ban on it.

  ‘An authentic pub experience,’ she offers.

  ‘I’m not here for that,’ Father says.

  For a long time, they remain silent. He stares at her through the dim light and she blushes, feeling that, even now, she is susceptible to the way his eyes seem to peel away all her layers. Just like when she was a child.

  She was eleven. She was perched before the wooden desk in the study. Her brothers sat at their desks, their pens upright and their heads down; they would all commit the knowledge in the books before them to their brains, lest they became unthinking slaves.

  Father sat in his leather chair by the window. He rested his chin on a thumb, an index finger under his nose – fingernails spotless – his stare unbroken by a blinking eyelid. Amira glanced up and saw his silent, pondering eyes on her. Feeling shy, unravelled, not used to his attention, she looked downwards, to the theories of Marx and Engels. Mother came into the room and Father found his feet, pacing around the children’s desks.

  ‘I keep telling myself I must be patient,’ he said. ‘Patient. Always patient.’

  The children looked up at him.

  ‘Keep studying!’ Mother gently urged. Their heads fell back down to the stilted words on the page.

  ‘I’m exhausted by the waiting; that’s the truth of it. These children – will they ever grow?’

  ‘They will,’ Mother said.

  Father’s glare chided Mother. Amira could tell what was happening: the slow build up of rage, the explosion that came after the brooding.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ Amira blurted out. ‘We will make you happier, you’ll see. We will be the best freedom fighters ever, just for you!’

  Father neared her table, cupped her small face in his hands and, after several seconds, when she wasn’t sure if she had said something naughty that deserved a slap, he smiled.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘You are my beloved daughter.’

  Amira sips her drink and studies him over the rim of her shot glass. He looks different in the pub – older, wearier, than she remembers. He scratches his cheek above his neat beard.

  ‘My brother,’ Amira says, plucking up courage to break the silence. ‘The oldest one, where is he?’

  ‘I’m not here for your brothers,’ Fathe
r replies, a flash of anger in his eyes. He folds his hands on the table.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she replies. She had better control herself.

  He pushes the drink aside and leans forwards.

  ‘Let me tell you why I am here,’ he says in a low voice.

  He tells her how he’d come to help her with her next target, to offer her the support she needs. He speaks about the time when his mother had died and how shaken he had been, how badly he wishes he could have gone to his father with his grief but his father turned only to work because he had been claimed. But he will not leave his daughter in her time of need.

  Amira smiles tentatively. She has believed he would be angry with her. Now she is beginning to wonder if Randy really had been infected. Whether she has been wrong about everything.

  ‘Kolya,’ he says, ‘told me the reason for your present sense of helplessness. He told me about Jonas’s granddaughter.’

  She is stung, hands in her lap. Kolya and she have an understanding between them. What else has he blabbed about?

  ‘I have read about the girl’s pain. It’s very unfortunate. But the question you need to ask yourself is whether her agony is in vain? Is it for nothing? Or is it for the joy she will receive in the New World?’

  ‘But she had happiness with her grandfather,’ Amira mumbles. ‘And I took it away from her.’

  ‘You saved her from infection. You have given her a chance at life.’ A corner of his mouth curls up, his eyes probing hers.

  Amira can’t answer. She sits, stricken.

  ‘And I know the question about your birth family troubles you. Your messenger tells me the information you received was incorrect.’

  ‘I didn’t think we made such mistakes,’ Amira says.

  He shrugs. ‘We are all too human.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, remembering the Nietzsche book on his bookshelf.

  ‘A source from the orphanage you came from assured me that the information was accurate. But now that I know it isn’t, I will conduct further investigations. Steal the original birth certificate if I have to.’ He looks at her sincerely, even compassionately.