by Natasha Molt
She is disconcerted by his observation, curious. ‘Oh? Like who?’
‘Just yesterday, when I was protecting someone, word came out about this international group based in a small town in northern Germany. Now, those guys had serious supplies that could do some damage. I’m not talking mere fertiliser. They’d give the Movement some serious competition if it came to it.’
For a couple of moments Amira says nothing, just looks at the footballers, knowing that she will have to leave him, and not be able to tell him why or when. It will hurt her deeply. He will recover more quickly than her; she will feel the loss of his presence in her life for a long time.
‘What, like al-Qaeda? I thought they were old news,’ she says eventually, instinct making her probe. She wants the information. She must understand if the group Lukas is talking about are the very Internationals she has disappointed.
‘Yeah, but al-Qaeda works with all sorts of organisations. Like this guy who calls himself Max. We think he’s a Palestinian but we haven’t uncovered his real identity.’
A pinprick of unease. Amira doesn’t believe in coincidences. What are the chances that her boyfriend knows about Max’s group?
‘Anyway, I was just calling to see if we could catch up.’
There is no question that she will have to see him one final time. She will unearth exactly who Lukas has been protecting, what he knows about Max. Why he has told her.
‘Can you come for a walk?’ she asks.
16
18 JUNE
They walk in the shadow of the cathedral, the afternoon sun resting in the darkening sky of thick grey clouds. Amira swivels around, always looking over her shoulder, checking to see if someone is watching. She has decided against bringing her weapon, concerned that Lukas the cop will notice. Now, she is wishing she’d taken the risk.
Lukas takes her hand. ‘Expecting company?’
Amira’s face is set. ‘So you think the Authenticity Movement is behind the Citibank affair?’
He nods. ‘They must have some fine hackers if they can break into major banks and the stock market. They could even have an insider. Just as well I don’t have any shares, but it’s going to start impacting interest rates, oil prices, everything. They’re also obviously behind Knudsen’s murder.’
She is silent as they wander down to the promenade of gardens along the Rhine, under maples, towards the heavy basalt on the trimmed green lawn marking the old bulwark that protects the city from attackers. It is not much of a day for a walk, with a storm threatening and a heavy easterly breeze.
‘They think in black-and-white terms,’ Lukas is saying about the Movement. ‘The “us” versus “them” mentality. The infected and the pure. No shades of grey. To kill a scapegoat enemy. To kill for an idea. The Movement, the destructive ideology, is worth more than the people. They brainwash their members.’
Amira pulls her hand away from Lukas’s. A barge moves down the river.
There will always be this insurmountable wall between them. She will never feel comfortable to tell him everything. She has made a horrible mistake: she is falling in love with him. She should never have become involved.
He gazes out at the shimmering water, his hazel eyes appearing green in the light. His mind seems lost on the water. She looks at him and remembers her head on his bare, smooth chest, the sweet spicy smell of his aftershave, the way he stroked her hair.
‘I really missed you while you were painting,’ he says. ‘I know it was only two days, but still …’
She shrugs. ‘I suppose that’s part of life as an artist. Strike while the iron is hot, even more when it’s cold.’ The lie produces a flutter in her chest. Then, keeping her voice steady, she asks the question that has been swirling in her mind ever since their phone call earlier. ‘Who were you protecting the other day?’
Lukas comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her. ‘You know that I can’t tell you that.’
She likes the warmth of his body on her back, her fingers interlacing with his.
‘Is this how it is, then? How it will be?’
After a stymied pause, Lukas says, ‘The State Minister for the Interior.’
She flinches. ‘And you had to protect him from terrorists?’
‘That’s all part of the job.’
Amira turns and faces him. Her face set. ‘Have the police captured these terrorists?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Police are tracking them. Haven’t figured out the group’s political ideology. But we know they operate like arms dealers.’
Amira’s gaze drops to her shoes. Things are getting out of hand. Alarming fear blinks in her mind. Lukas can never know about her. If he did, he will lose any positive feeling for her. She can’t have that. She wants him to always think of her fondly. She has to make sure of it.
After a lull, Amira says, ‘I’m sorry for pressing you to tell me when you’re not supposed to.’
Lukas grabs her chin, lifts her head up so their eyes lock. ‘It’s okay. I needed to talk. Get some of it out. I’m not perfect. And you’re a good listener.’
A lump forms in her throat. ‘Do you think there would be all these terrorist groups if there was no capitalism?’
Lukas blinks. ‘Capitalism will exhaust itself. Just like any system. Look at feudalism. It came, and it went. But we have to let it exhaust itself or else it will come back and people will reminisce over it rather than rejoice in its death. This is what groups like the Authenticity Movement don’t understand.’
She closes her eyes. Cramped tears threaten to tumble. Thoughts scramble around in her mind. She is coming to understand that: slaves have brains and there is so much more to the world than she has been taught. But how can she move on from the past when it stains the present?
Lukas embraces her. ‘Damn it, Anika,’ he says. ‘Talk to me.’
Amira opens her eyes and pulls back from him. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
He lashes out, grabs her wrist. His eyes dark. ‘That’s bullshit.’
She makes a futile attempt to jerk free. He tightens his grip. ‘You don’t have to prove yourself to me,’ he says.
Her breathing becomes shallow, the emotion locked inside threatening to burst. Why had she agreed to train him? Slept with him? Why couldn’t she just have ignored him?
Lukas chuckles. ‘That’s why I love you.’
Amira is puzzled. In his company, she pretends that she is a woman who can love. It’s as if she is becoming Ava Schwarz. It’s too dangerous.
She glares down at his fingers on her wrist. ‘Is that what you call this?’
He pales, releases her. ‘Fine. You want to live your life as a clam, go ahead. See where it gets you.’
Amira really wants to slap him. She wants him to lift the heavy weight from her, only he doesn’t. He can’t. Her desire to be loved and to love him in return is impossible. Her own mind betrays her; their disparate lives have overridden desire.
He tightens his hands into fists. ‘That family of yours has done this to you. I’d like to meet them. Show them what I think.’
Amira looks at him, her determined expression relaxing. She tries to compose herself. They are interrupted by a text message from Wilhelm.
Chocolate museum. ASAP. Next task already arrived.
‘What is it?’ Lukas asks.
Amira stands very still. Then she looks around at the few people walking along the river. The poor weather has kept most indoors. There are no faces out of the ordinary, no suspicious eyes. She is quite certain that they are not being followed. Father has believed that it was she who killed Knudsen after all, and now he is eager to put her on to the next infected.
‘I have an appointment that I had forgotten about it,’ she says, tiredly. ‘A client. I have to go.’
He scoops her into his arms, leans in and kisses her. She wants the moment to last forever. It is easier than their discussion, the words and ways of the world that come between them.
‘Goodbye, Lukas,’ she says.
She goes up the footpath beside the Rhine, her bag on her back like an old friend. The thought of another briefing, another round of game playing that Kolya can not necessarily pull her out of, making her feel sick. But even worse is the agony of realising she has to lose Lukas. She has to protect him and herself. At least he has a chance to live a happy life without her.
She goes past the concrete flood-measuring Pegel with a clock on it. The time is 2.50 pm. A ferry is docked at a wharf. She continues on under the Deutzer Bridge. Her legs are heavy and she wonders if she will make it before it rains. She doesn’t have an umbrella. The leaves in the trees above her rustle in the wind.
Wilhelm is loitering around the cafe near the chocolate museum. He isn’t sitting at a table, but wanders about looking at the stall that sells currywurst, Nürnberger and chips. He looks a little pale, his brows stiff. In his hand is a familiar manila folder.
He sees Amira and she stumbles over a crack in the path. She manages with a wavy gesture to straighten herself up.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asks disgustedly. His eyes are deeply dark.
‘No,’ she replies. ‘Of course I’m not drunk.’
He swiftly hands her the next briefing, keeping his distance from her. She studies his face and he appears grave.
‘Still worried about the black motorbike?’ she asks.
His expression growing more rigid, ‘A little.’
‘Look, if there’s a problem with my father let me talk to him. You know I wouldn’t mention Kolya.’
He shifts his weight, his eyes darting across the road momentarily, before landing back on her. ‘Yeah, I know you wouldn’t.’
She stares at him, convinced that he is acting oddly. ‘There’s nothing else that’s bothering you?’
‘No, nothing else.’
‘You’re sure? You don’t look so well.’
He wipes his brow. ‘Hope I’m not coming down with anything.’
She pats the envelope. ‘I guess I’d better take a look at this. Take care.’
‘Yeah, you, too.’
Wilhelm walks quickly away towards the Severinsbrücke. He certainly is in a hurry. She turns and goes in the opposite direction, back along the Rhine and the Deutzer Bridge. There is the pelting of a concrete-breaking hammer from the construction work in a chemical company across the river and, as a bird squawks overhead, Amira is suddenly overcome with an uneasy feeling. She stops and opens the briefing. On the pages are segments from a Shakespeare play. And as hard as she looks she can see no code. What is this? She pivots back and looks for Wilhelm but he is gone. There are cars driving along the road, a person walking a labrador. Then she notices it: a car slowly creeping. Through the tinted windows she can just make out a driver wearing a black balaclava.
The thoughts come rushed, almost as one. His position: five-lane highway, his car near the footpath. Fifty metres up ahead he can turn left or continue straight to the car tunnel. She is completely open, vulnerable. Just like Knudsen, Baumann, Clément. Without a weapon. It’s at home. Because of Lukas, because of Ava, the gun is behind the fridge. She has no options. Drops the manila envelope, jumps over the brick barrier that’s chest height, and runs, dodging the tourists on the other side of the path and the green-and-yellow zoo express train.
Tyres screech to a halt, horns blare. A spray of bullets tears the air, sharp claps of thunder in rapid succession. An AK-47.
People scream. Dogs bark. Birds flutter out of treetops.
The animals scream inside her head.
Collisions between cars. Then the shooting quietens momentarily. Her pursuer has to be out of his car.
From the corner of her eye she sees him. The now unmasked driver – an unfamiliar mousey-blond male – bolts after her on foot, a pistol in his hand hidden partially by his jacket. He has changed weapons, leaving the cumbersome AK-47 in the car.
She makes it under the Deutzer Bridge, cuts a diagonal, past the sleeping bag of a homeless person, then a bicycle hire place. She quickly checks some pushbikes but they are all locked to a bike rack.
Bullets now. Pft! Pft! Pft!
A Glock.
Three down in the chamber and she’s still alive.
He’s about twenty metres behind her. He is fit. He is a professional. One of Father’s men. This guy can run marathons.
But he’s not Kolya; otherwise she’d be dead.
The beat of her feet is like a reverberating drum in her ears. She has to trap this man; she can’t keep sprinting. The damp summer air is thick and clogging.
She runs, turning right into Buttermarkt. There’s the Nutcracker House on her left. People. She turns left up Hafengasse stairs. A red door on the right, halfway up. Tries it. It’s locked. Right on Auf dem Rothenberg and the Great St Martin Church is ahead. Pft! Pft! He’s fifteen metres and gaining. She’s guessing his chamber has seventeen or thirty-three rounds.
Act now or be dead. She cuts left down Salzgasse and pushes her way into a pub, through the tables and chairs where people are having a late lunch. She heads past the bar and through to the kitchen, cramped with benches, stoves, pots and pans and three cooks in white jackets and stained aprons. She grabs a hot saucepan filled with caramel-glazed onions.
‘What are you doing?’ a chef asks her. He is a man of slight build and has a thin face. Two other workers gaze up at her from their pots.
She raises a finger to her lips – shh – and stands back, hiding behind the swinging kitchen door with the saucepan.
Her attacker thrusts the door open and it swings back into her. The saucepan burns through her thin cotton T-shirt. She pushes the door hard, slamming it back into him, putting him off balance. Out from behind the door she lifts the saucepan, drops it down and knocks the weapon out of his hand. The Glock goes flying, along with several onions that splatter on the stainless steel bench tops.
‘Call the police!’ someone shouts.
She draws up the saucepan again but the man lunges at her with his heavy body. He crashes her against a wall clad with hooks and hanging jackets. She winces in pain. The saucepan falls from her hand and clangs on the tiled floor. The attacker’s hand sprawls over her face like a large spider. He tries to break her neck.
She flips her body around, out of his grip. His now empty hand lands on the wall and she is able to twist around until it is he who is against the wall, but it is his stomach that is pressed into it. She rapidly strikes the small of his back with her heel. He cries out with pain at the blow but still manages to turn around, facing her. She kicks his groin, stomach and chest and reaches for another saucepan.
The thin-faced chef picks up the Glock and points it at them. ‘Stop it!’ he says. ‘Right now!’
Her pursuer lashes back at her legs so that they come out from under her and she is on the ground. The floor is grimy with grease and dirt and she slips on it, like slime. She looks up and sees a saucepan coming her way. Quickly she rolls aside.
The chef with the gun runs out of the kitchen. Her attacker throws plates at her topped with edible artistry. Struggling to stand on her feet, she reaches for a series of lucent knives on the workbench. She throws them and they narrowly miss, until one finally pierces his upper arm and another his chest. Possible lung rupture. Not near the heart. She doesn’t want to kill him. Clutching a great, glimmering knife, she cartwheels over a bench, and presses him up against a wall, the knife at his throat.
There is the sound of meat sizzling in a pan and the aroma of burnt butter fills the kitchen.
They are both breathing heavily from the scuffle. Now she has the assassin where she wants him … alive but helpless.
‘Did Father send you? Did he?’ she yells out.
He glowers at her and she recognises a determination like that in her brother Kolya. There is a will that sends her very entrails ice cold.
‘Did he?’ she repeats.
In one swift movement he reaches for her hand and slices the knife into his throat.
‘Stupid!’ sh
e yells feebly. ‘You stupid … Someone get an ambulance!’
The assassin’s body falls. She tries to hold the gushing wound.
‘Towels! Towels!’ she yells.
Better to die than to be claimed by inAuthenticity.
Someone hands her tea towels. She ties them around his neck, but the blood is too much. She can’t stop it. She hears shouting from far away, confused voices; police sirens clamour. Quickly she feels inside his pockets. In the last one she checks there are spare bullets; she takes them and stands up. Her shirt is painted in blood. The assistant chefs gaze at her wide-eyed: the monster.
She bursts out of the back door of the kitchen into a courtyard. It’s there that she sees the chef who is holding the assassin’s gun in one hand and in the other he is rapidly talking to someone on a mobile phone – probably the police. Fortunately for her there is no-one sitting out back in the next-door beer garden and the view from other beer gardens further up near the Ostermann Fountain is covered by bushes. She puts her hand out to take the gun.
The chef shakes his head.
She kicks him in the groin, snatches the gun out of his hand, places it under her shirt and bolts through the courtyard.
Standing still, like a shadow against a wall, she peeps around at her street. Plumes of silver-blue smoke billow from her balcony and red-hot flames flicker. Firefighters work rapidly to contain the fire with their large hoses; police cordon off the area.
Her paintings!
Gone.
Her gun?
They might find it. Perhaps link it to the murders.
Father. He’s given up on her. Somehow discovered she didn’t kill Knudsen.
She’s being excommunicated. Cut off. Deleted.
Ms Spifanso in her shabby floral brunch coat stands on the street, one cat in her arms, another on a leash. Her whiskered face shows itself upwards to the flames. A policewoman in uniform questions her, scribbles in a notepad. Amira clenches her fists and starts running again, away from the apartment.
At first she doesn’t know where she is running. She has lost everything and has never been more alone in all her life. But she still has a few resources, unknown to Father, which she can draw on. When she recovers she will use them.