Cutting the Cord

by Natasha Molt

  Police say the shooting happened about forty minutes ago on the Riau Graubon, in the canton of Vaud.

  They found him with three gunshot wounds to the head. He was pronounced dead at the scene by paramedics.

  Homicide squad detectives interviewed two witnesses who describe the gunman as wearing black and a helmet. The suspect is believed to be between one hundred and sixty centimetres and one hundred and eighty centimetres in height.

  Police are keen to speak with anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious around the time of the murder.

  Anyone with information is asked to contact Vaud Cantonal Police.

  Given other recent killings of billionaires officials are investigating whether the Authenticity Movement carried out the killing.

  Knudsen was collecting a friend to take to a local church event.

  Nothing of the black BMW motorcycle.

  The witnesses must have seen only her gun.

  She has seven long minutes of riding before she is at the farmhouse in Murten. There are countless other drivers on the road with their probing eyes and ears. She can see them all around her, in her mirrors. But there are no police, no sirens.

  At last she arrives at the farm. She parks the Kawasaki in the shed. Gasping for breath, she rips off helmet, gun, jacket, protective pants, disguise and tosses them into the hay under the horse’s saddle, then climbs into the waiting car and drives.

  The news reports now reveal that police have found segments of the Authenticity Movement Manifesto in Knudsen’s letterbox, chapters never released to the public before.

  Kolya.

  Darkness comes and the fields beyond the roads are blankets of black. Silence beckons sleeping birds and people alike. The hum of the road is mighty and the glare from the headlights of passing cars penetrates her sore, tired eyes.

  The woman holding me on the sled, where is her face?

  All Amira can see is a gaping black hole.

  She screams out into the night and wonders if the wolves and owls can hear her.

  15

  17–18 JUNE

  Father has left her apartment. There is no trace of him, except for her bed made with hospital corners, and her weights lined up in a row. A fridge full of cholesterol-reducing margarine, low-fat cheese slices, milk, Greek-style yoghurt tubs, and Tupperware containers filled with carrot and celery sticks. So healthy it makes her want to puke. Nothing but dead vegetables and mould, when it comes down to it. She isn’t hungry anyway. Angrily yanking the chocolate out of her backpack, she breaks it up and flushes it down the toilet.

  From her bag, she pulls out Amelia’s prints, and runs a finger over them. Then she kisses the hand, the foot, each tiny yet alive – even on paper. Feeling exhausted, with a pounding headache, she needs to sleep. But it will not come. Instead, she lies awake for hours, arms tightly wrapped around her chest, the Glock underneath the pillow. The image of Knudsen’s face in his car just before he died replays incessantly in her mind … how his eyes had searched her out, and how he had looked as though he’d seen a ghost. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of painting him at the moment of his realisation that he is about to die, his skin a translucent tone, revealing the blue vein at his temple.

  She wakes at three in the afternoon, takes a long shower and checks her letterbox. Inside is a suspicious-looking manila envelope, the kind that typically comes from Wilhelm. The envelope is light, and on the cover in Wilhelm’s scrawl is simply the name Anika Vollmer. There is no postage stamp. Amira sits on the couch, certain that whatever is inside will be best read with some support. She opens it and finds a single A4 page of print. There is a neon-yellow sticky note on top with the word (also in Wilhelm’s writing): Congratulations. She then reads the details on the larger piece of paper:

  Minette Blake. Had children when 18. Worked as a waitress. Spent some time in Sydney. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Use caution. Stories on internet a fabrication.

  The details of her birth mother.

  Confusion sets in. Why is Father supplying her with this information? Rewarding her even though she has failed? It doesn’t make sense. And what is with the plural, ‘children’? The internet stories being fabricated?

  There is no photo of Minette Blake and nothing about her current location. Nor is there any information on Amira’s birth father. Again.

  She makes herself a cup of coffee and stands for a long time, gazing out the glass doors to the day beyond. Outside, wet leaves hang low on the trees. People walking with closed umbrellas in bright colours: bold oranges, lime greens, tomato reds. A toddler stomping in a puddle, surprised when the water splashes up on his shorts. Amelia will soon be his age.

  She supposes that Father is testing her yet again, dangling Minette Blake as bait this time. Luring her into some trap after learning that she didn’t kill Knudsen. Most troublesome, though, is the possibility that Minette might actually be her mother. Even though Father is in all likelihood up to no good, there might just be the chance …

  The intercom buzzes. Feeling a prickling of her scalp, she puts her coffee on the dining table and presses the intercom button.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Wilhelm’s voice comes over the static. ‘I need to talk to you urgently.’

  She bites the tip of her thumb pensively. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She doesn’t know whether to believe him.

  ‘It’s about your brother,’ he says.

  Amira is silent. What does he know about Kolya? If Wilhelm is alone, she should be able to handle him. Swearing under her breath, she grabs her gun and releases the lock on the downstairs door. Through the peephole she can see that he is telling the truth: he is alone.

  She opens the door and gestures for him to come into the apartment. He looks hot and flustered. She frisks him while they are in the dining room. He isn’t armed.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks.

  His expression darkens. ‘I have something to confess to you, but you mustn’t tell the One. Can I trust you?’ His fingers are shaking, and she wonders fleetingly if panic is contagious.

  ‘What is this about?’ she asks.

  He looks at her in despair. ‘Your brother, he paid me a visit on Tuesday. When you were with your father.’

  She frowns. ‘Which brother?’

  Wilhelm hesitates. ‘Kolya.’

  Amira falls silent for a while, digesting this information. Then she looks up at Wilhelm.

  ‘And what did he want?’

  Wilhelm clears his throat. ‘The details of your next operation and target.’

  His harried look combined with the information is a surprise. She has assumed that Father had enlisted Kolya to kill Knudsen and that Father, and possibly Wilhelm, would have supplied her brother with the information.

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  Wilhelm shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. At first I didn’t speak to him. But then he flew into a rage and threatened me. He also warned me not tell anyone about his visit otherwise he would kill my wife and me. In particular I had to promise not to tell the One.’

  More confusion. Her eyes narrow on Wilhelm. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’ she asks.

  ‘Have you seen the news reports in the past two hours? About the black BMW motorcycle?’

  Amira cringes. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The witnesses claim there was a black BMW motorbike on the other side of Knudsen’s car. They can’t be certain that the shots came from the person holding the gun on the red Kawasaki. Your father knew what motorcycle you were using because he asked me about it.’

  She rubs her forehead. It’s starting to spin out of control. Is it possible that Father doesn’t know about Kolya in Switzerland? And that’s why he gave her the information about Minette Blake, as a genuine reward?

  Kolya must have acted by himself. For her. Amira’s heart clenches.

  ‘That’s why I wanted to come and ask you directly, did you carry out your task?’

  She looks
at him, trying to figure out if this is part of Father’s game. But Wilhelm’s face is washed with angst and he usually isn’t a good actor. She is convinced that he is genuinely afraid his conversation with Kolya will somehow get back to Father.

  ‘There was a black motorcycle,’ she says conversationally. She grabs her coffee and takes a sip. ‘The only thing we need to fear is if the driver comes forward as a witness.’

  Wilhelm sighs, his shoulders sinking in relief. ‘Your brother scared me.’

  ‘Mmm, he has that effect.’

  ‘Do you think the One was testing me?’ Wilhelm continues.

  She claps a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him. ‘No, I don’t. My brother was concerned for me. He knows I’ve been having a rough time of it lately. He would have been in Germany on the weekend, but I’m guessing he left when my father came, assured that I was in capable hands. He’s a fine brother, the best.’

  Recovering himself, Wilhelm says, ‘You received my envelope?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Thought you’d want it straightaway.’

  She waits for him to say something more, but he does not. ‘Is there something else, Wilhelm?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I was just scared out of my brains.’

  She knows the feeling. ‘Go on now, will you? You’ll be all right. Your secret is safe with me.’

  He leaves then and Amira composes herself. If Father takes the reports of the black motorcycle seriously, then they will have something to worry about. Kolya, too, for violating Movement principles.

  She puts her gun behind the fridge, snaps open her laptop, and scans the news websites. Sure enough, Wilhelm is right; the witnesses are now saying they cannot be sure if the killer was on the red or the black motorcycle. Swiss police are requesting the riders of both vehicles to come forward and are now working closely with Interpol. Forensics will know which motorcycle rider has fired the fatal shots from the entry and exit wounds. So they must not be publicly releasing the information yet in the hope the shooter will make a mistake.

  Next she begins searching websites for ‘Minette Blake’ and finds an entry on the Australian Federal Police website under missing persons:

  Sofie and James Blake. Missing / feared abducted.

  There is a photo of two toddlers, which she studies closely. A girl, dressed in a pale pink knitted dress and a boy in blue. At first glance they are unfamiliar. Both have brown hair and blue eyes. Beside the pictures are the personal details of each toddler. The year of birth corresponds with Amira’s, and the date the children were last seen would have been when she was two years old.

  Her bones stiffen and her heart pumps violently, pressing against her ribcage.

  She continues to read the circumstances:

  The missing twins lived with their mother, Minette Blake, and their grandmother in a suburban house in Sydney’s western suburbs. The twins were last seen by their mother at 1 am on 9 November after she had resettled James. About five hours later (6.30 am) it was discovered that the twins were not in their beds, nor elsewhere inside or outside the family home. Police were contacted at 7 am. Concerns are held that the twins were abducted.

  A strangled gasp escapes her mouth. She checks the face of the girl again, rests her head on her hand and stares hard at the boy. The longer she looks, the more something about him seems familiar, something she can’t articulate. Is she imagining it or are there similarities with the toddler in her distorted images? The one who loves banana, the one in front of her on the sled, crying on a ski lift?

  Her centre is crashing down. What if whoever kidnapped her killed her twin brother? How had she got away on a lucky escape and been adopted?

  Huh! Listen to her!

  She is already thinking like she has a twin brother, and assuming that she is Sofie Blake.

  Father was wrong about Elga Hinkel. He could be wrong about Minette Blake. Her blood was burning in her veins. Something is deeply wrong here, nothing is adding up.

  Use caution. Stories on internet a fabrication.

  She is running again. The afternoon is heavily overcast; the rain, no longer falling, has left the roads and pavement wet, and the wind, now settled, has released leaves from their branches. Dead leaves litter everywhere, becoming soggy mulch. The air is cool, the cathedral black against billowing silver clouds.

  She runs until sweat pours down the back of her neck, under her hair. She imagines how Randy must have felt when he realised that Kolya had come to kill him. Britta’s mouth stitched closed. As much as Amira wants to, she can’t find a way to justify it. Is this the Movement? Is this Authenticity? She is beginning to doubt that there is a virus.

  Then suddenly she realises she may have someone watching her. She stops and flings herself around, scouring faces on the street for anyone who might be pursuing her. For Kolya. Please be here, brother. A couple nears her, continues to walk past her. A man in a suit, on a mobile. ‘So you want chicken, not beef?’

  Sofie Blake.

  James Blake.

  Minette.

  How could Mother have accepted a stolen child? Had she known? Is everything a lie?

  A fabrication.

  No-one is tracking her.

  She starts running again, as fast as she can.

  Her apartment is eerily quiet. She searches for any surveillance devices behind the doors and curtains, in her wardrobe, under the bed, her phone and electrical equipment. Nothing found, so she checks over and over again.

  Finally, Amira looks dejectedly at her paintings, the blank canvases and the paints she hasn’t touched for what seems like weeks. She takes her clothes off, picks up a paintbrush and begins painting her stomach, the part of her that she most despises. She uses browns and blacks to make her skin darker, some dark olive greens. Next are her arms and her legs down to her feet, her face, even her hair. The only uncovered skin is on her back, where she can’t reach, and the soles of her feet. The paint is cool on her skin, wet and slimy; it smells of chemicals. She gazes at her reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door.

  Anika Vollmer.

  Ava Schwarz.

  Amira Knox.

  Sofie Blake.

  A feral, sprouting tree.

  Amira wakes on Friday afternoon, shocked that she has slept so long. Her gaze goes instantly to the mobile. There are no messages.

  She wants to call Lukas. She wants to hear the sureness of his voice and tell him everything. Will he understand? Will he protect her? How can he, when she is a murderer?

  She clenches her eyes shut, feels for the back of her neck and digs her nails in. Wanting the physical pain to consume her. He will never love you, Amira. He can never know who you are.

  She rises from bed slowly and moves into the living room. Flipping open her laptop, she goes online and is mesmerised by the news headlines.

  Stock Market Chaos as Citibank Shares Vanish.

  Citibank Shares Gone!

  The articles explain how a computer hacker has simultaneously been able to sell many shares in Citibank, one of America’s richest banks, to untraceable buyers and to disperse bank funds, causing chaos in the American stock market. Amira’s breathing becomes shallow and quick. Phase Two Resistance initiated. But there is more.

  Major Bank ATMs Around the Globe Unable to Function.

  Even more alarming for Amira is the article that catches her eye next:

  BMW Bikie’s Bullet Killed Knudsen.

  Police experts have found that the position of the bullets is consistent with shots being fired from Knudsen’s right side, where witnesses reported seeing a rider on a black BMW motorcycle. Ballistics tests on the bullets recovered from Knudsen’s body have revealed ‘polygonal rifling’, consistent with Glock pistols used in the assassinations of Jonas Baumann and Gerard Clément.

  Amira closes her laptop, removes the remnants of paint from the day before. Her skin was now unpleaseantly itchy. Then she puts on a load of washing, dresses, fills her backpack with wallet, keys and pass
port and strides out into another miserable grey day. She needs a long walk.

  Wilhelm isn’t behind her. For now, it really seems that Father believes she is a good girl, that she’s killed Knudsen. Otherwise he’s had plenty of time to come after her. But how will he react to the news about the black bike?

  She checks her post-office box on Sudermanplatz but it is empty. Nearby, teenagers play football in the paved square. One smiles at her. There is a whole other world out there. She will go to Australia. Her phone rings and she places it to her ear.

  ‘How is the painting going?’ Lukas asks.

  ‘Great. I finished it an hour ago. Feel a bit exhausted now.’

  ‘You need a rest. How are you going for money? Did you get caught with the ATMs being down?’

  She breathes deeply, glancing down at her watch. ‘No. I take it you’ve seen the news, then?’

  ‘Who hasn’t? You’d better be good, you’d better watch out – Au-then-tic – it is coming!’ he intones dramatically.

  There is no mention in the papers of the Movement being behind the shares or ATM machines. But Amira knows they are, just as Lukas does.

  ‘What do you think about the Authenticity Movement?’ she asks.

  ‘They seem like a troubled cult to me.’

  Her head is throbbing now and her face is suddenly hot with anger. A troubled cult. Is that how the slaves think of them?

  She is silent.

  ‘Talk about power – that’s all they want and they’re trying to force their version of the truth down other people’s throats,’ Lukas continues. ‘But they’re no better than anyone else. They’d rather point a gun than hand out a loaf of bread.’

  She remembers ordering the sniper rifles and winces. She hadn’t expected a conversation with him to unsettle her so much, and does not respond.

  ‘The authorities seem to be overly focusing on the Movement right now, ‘ he says. ‘But there are other dangerous groups around. Perhaps even more lethal.’