Cutting the Cord

by Natasha Molt

  Her passport and credit card are in her backpack. She finds her way to a quiet corner road and leafs through the hundred and fifty euros in her wallet. The credit card is now most likely to be useless, unless she wants Laith or Oscar to find her. She looks up at the dark grey sky. The streetlights are on now with their mellow glow. They aren’t usually on this early in summer but the threatening storm has made the day prematurely dark. Then she remembers: they know about Lukas.

  Holding the gun cocked beneath her jacket, she runs towards his apartment. The sky is slate grey but there is still no rain. She covers her bloodstained shirt as much as possible. She searches the roads, the people several times, checking for anything out of the ordinary, discovering nothing. Just as she is about to leave her shadowy corner Lukas steps out from a cafe.

  For five minutes her eyes take in his form, his determined stride as he walks the streets of Cologne; with an outburst of dismay she realises she is destroying this man’s life. He rounds a corner and she knows that he is heading for his apartment.

  He walks up to a white-haired old man in sandals. The two stop in the middle of the street and talk. They discuss a holiday the old man had in Poland. A cat meows and the men both turn to study the road, the intersection, seemingly concerned. Lukas passes the older man an envelope, and she knows that this isn’t simply a friendly meeting between neighbours. Eventually the old man pats Lukas on the back and disappears down the other end of the street.

  She runs and catches up with Lukas, grabs him, puts her hand over his mouth and pulls him into a corner. Instantly, he highjacks her arm, attempts to swing her to the ground.

  ‘Shh, it’s just me,’ she says.

  ‘Shit, Anika.’ He spots the blood on her shirt and the gun under her jacket. He steps aside from her. ‘What are you doing?’

  She grabs his hand and walks fast. He isn’t keeping up so she has to pull him along.

  ‘Anika, where has the blood come from?’

  She doesn’t know how to answer him so keeps walking.

  ‘Anika, please … are you hurt?’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ she replies.

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘To your apartment.’

  When they arrive, she searches the premises. ‘Pack a few clothes. As much cash as you have. Passport. ID,’ she says.

  Lukas just stands there, does not stir. ‘No. I’m not doing anything until you explain what the fuck is going on.’

  ‘You’re in danger. Get packing.’

  He looks at her sharply. She feels sick. How has she let this happen? Because she’s a monster. Some would say infected.

  ‘Is this about your family?’

  ‘Yes. Now, do you have a passport? Has it expired?’

  No answer.

  She forces herself to stare hard at him, despite her guilt. ‘Please, Lukas. Trust me on this.’

  She feels her mobile vibrate, reaches it from her jacket and looks down at the message. It’s from Oscar. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  Your boyfriend is IO. xO

  She sways on her feet. IO: intelligence officer.

  Staring at Lukas, she considers continuing like she’s rescuing him from harm. The problem is that she’s completely pissed off. She curses her own stupidity. None of this would have happened if she’d followed the Movement rules and had Laith and Oscar run a security check on Lukas. But she wanted to believe in him. She shrinks back, draws her gun and points it at him.

  He raises his hands, eases back. His eyes flit to a corner of the room where she presumes a weapon must be hidden.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says.

  ‘Let me bring you in,’ he responds. ‘Put you in a safe house. We’ll take it from there.’

  The offer is a mildly tempting fantasy. That’s why he said he was a cop in the protection unit in the first place. He knew she wouldn’t suspect he is an IO if he told her outright he is a cop.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So eager to protect your family, Anika? The people who have abused you? Oh, I forgot; it’s Amira, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Then explain it to me. Because I have a loving father, had a mother, and they never forced me to kill anyone. Never kept me from thinking for myself, or hated me for having my own opinions.’

  ‘You must be special, then.’

  ‘This is not you. This isn’t who you are.’

  Her jaw clenches. ‘Rope? Where is your skipping rope? I know you have some.’

  He looks down at her top again. ‘How did you get the blood on your shirt? Let me tell you. Because I failed you,’ his voice comes through gritted teeth. ‘Because I let you go meet Wilhelm. My superiors wanted me out of the area. I shouldn’t have listened. Next time I won’t.’

  She looks quietly at his face. ‘That’s a nice story. Now where is some fucking rope, Lukas? Be a good boy and fetch it.’

  He stands his ground. ‘We tried general surveillance but it was too risky. All your checks, you would have spotted us. Your apartment is set up like a security minefield. We had to back off, try a different approach.’

  ‘So enter Lukas, a ninja wannabe.’

  ‘You can start over.’

  She laughs. ‘And, what, have the police protect me? Like they did tonight? You’re a joke.’

  Lukas studies her. ‘You don’t like killing innocent people. I know who you are.’

  She laughs again. ‘What about you, Lukas? Who are you? Is Lukas even your real name?’

  ‘Yes. The surname is fake.’ He reaches out his hand. ‘Give me the gun, Amira.’

  She holds the weapon up higher, facing his head. The bastard doesn’t even flinch.

  ‘He has my little sister. Might get to my birth mother. Am I supposed to just forget about them? Leave him to do what he wants? Am I supposed to believe that your lame counterterrorism operation can stop him? That’s not going to happen.’

  Lukas rubs the back of his neck. His face darkens. ‘Where are they? Your sister, your birth family?’

  Her eyes are stinging. She can’t quite grasp that everyone she has loved has betrayed her. Henry is trying to kill her. Weak, passive Edith is letting him get away with it. Kolya has killed their brother. Now Lukas has trapped her. She has slept with him, and it means nothing to him. Everything to her.

  ‘You lied to me,’ she says.

  ‘Gee, I meant to bring a stack of honesty stickers so I could hand one out to you.’ He pauses. ‘You’re a big girl now, Amira. Capable. Tough. I see it. You don’t.’

  She falters. ‘Was it true about your mother?’

  Searching for a reaction in his face. His eyes seem sad, lost.

  ‘Yes.’

  A long moment of silence.

  He smiles. ‘You came back for me.’

  She stares at him mutinously. ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘I’m not being sarcastic,’ he protests. ‘Let me come with you. I’ll help you.’

  Stunned he has made the offer, she feels tears come to her eyes. Still unable to accurately judge whether his effort is genuine or phony.

  ‘No. You can’t.’

  ‘Let me show you,’ he repeats, his voice softer.

  She wishes she could trust him again. ‘Get some rope, damn it!’

  ‘How will you get your sister out?’

  She gnaws at her bottom lip. It isn’t an option for Amelia to suffer her fate.

  ‘I’ll convince one of my family members.’

  ‘But what if it doesn’t work?’

  The possibilities pour through her mind. ‘I must try,’ she says.

  He keeps looking her straight in the eye. ‘I’m sorry I put you in this mess. I shouldn’t have. I should never have allowed us to get this far.’

  A sharp stab of pain in her chest. She wants to believe him but no longer can. Her voice icy, she says, ‘If you don’t get the rope now, I swear, I’ll shoot you.’

  Thankfully he
complies. With concerted effort, she orders him to tie a knot around his feet, then a loop around one of his wrists. She twists his arms behind him, secures him tightly with the rope. Hooks him onto the metal bar of an electric heater that’s turned off. Once she’s gone it will probably take him ten minutes to break free.

  She changes into one of his T-shirts and a green hoodie.

  He looks at her in horror. ‘You’ve swelling and purple bruises all over your body! And is that a burn?’

  The burn from the saucepan isn’t too bad. Won’t even need bandaging. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. She disarms the smoke detector and sets fire to her bloody clothes in the kitchen sink. She scoops the ashes up and tips them into the bin. Lets the cold water run for a few moments.

  ‘You don’t have any money,’ he says.

  She double-checks his knots. Stands at the windows watching. Sweating. Agitated. Clear.

  ‘Don’t go to your locker at the dojo,’ he says. ‘They’ll be looking for you there.’

  Of course. That’s where most of her spare cash supply is. Having that option closed off will add time she doesn’t have. But why is Lukas telling her this? She’s breathing deeply to gain control, for clarity of thought. Finding the zone of control is essential. Control will lead her to her birth mother, her sister. Crossing the room, she heads for the front door.

  ‘Wait a minute. There’s a shoebox in my wardrobe. A red horse imprint on top. You’re welcome to the contents, but not the photos.’

  A trap. ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘No. But your sister might.’

  She pinches her bottom lip. ‘Why are you offering to help me?’

  He looks her in the eye, his pupils dilate as he speaks. ‘I want you to get them. In case we can’t.’

  Reluctantly she strides into his bedroom, finds the shoebox. Inside are photos of Lukas’s mother. Her image flashes in front of Amira. Pictures of her and Lukas, both smiling. Open, happy expressions on their faces. A family. She reaches for the money at the bottom of the box, checks for a traceable security tag, finds nothing. Shoves the notes into her backpack without counting them. Strides back into the living room where he is.

  She stands and stares at him.

  ‘Get out of here, Amira. While you still can.’

  Despite his lies, she feels distraught, thinking this might be the last time she ever sees him. In a different world there may have been hope for them. She glances at him, not wanting to let him go, but knowing she must.

  Then she’s gone, sprinting to the central train station, and ten minutes later she is on a train to Kassel, in the state of Hesse – a central train interchange for all of Germany.

  A painting comes to her mind: a dark background, Lukas greeting her with a kiss, while police handcuff her.

  Her tastebuds crave chocolate, but she can’t waste money. She blinks back large tears and all she can do is stare out the window of the moving train. She has shut down and doesn’t know how to emerge. But emerge she must. This is what she’s trained for.

  17

  18–21 JUNE

  It is damp, cold and almost 11 pm when Amira finds an internet cafe in Kassel. The beginning of summer and she can’t stop shivering. But she does what has to be done. First she books a flight from Frankfurt to Sydney using funds from her personal online account, which the Movement doesn’t know about. The plane will leave the next day. She uses the Karen Murray name, afraid that Anika Vollmer or Amira Knox can be implicated in the killing of the man in the restaurant in Cologne. Once that is done, she searches for and finds Minette Blake’s email address. She can’t locate a telephone number and so opens a new free email account and begins typing in the subject line: Looking for my mother.

  Hello,

  Forgive me if this email comes as an unwanted surprise or raises false hopes. My name is Anika Vollmer and I am a twenty-two year old woman who is searching for my birth parents. I currently live in Germany but was raised in Australia.

  All my life I have wanted to know more about my birth family but I was told by my adoptive parents that my adoption was closed. However, recently my adoptive father told me that I might be your daughter. Unfortunately, he has not given me any other information, so I really don’t know whether his claim is true.

  I hope that we can meet to see if I might be your missing daughter. If you are interested, please call me on …

  I truly hope that we can meet soon.

  Anika Vollmer

  Amira reads over the email, her first words to her potential mother. She is satisfied that she has written all she can and hits the send button, watching the message disappear from the outbox. No doubt Laith or Oscar will be watching Minette’s computer but she has to do something. She checks her watch. Australia is ten hours ahead of Germany. That means it will be around 9.30 am on Saturday morning in Australia. She surfs the net aimlessly, lingering for a response. One hour. Two. Nothing comes.

  She checks into a cheap hotel, shows her fake identification and pays cash, catches the elevator up to the third floor and pushes her way down the corridor, through the brassy light, the silence booming way too loud. Swiping the electronic key card, she steps inside the square room, stares at the double bed and pulls the money Lukas has given her out of her pocket. Two thousand euros. Life. No obvious pattern with the serial numbers.

  She showers quickly, trying not to think about Lukas’s betrayal, and the possibility that Minette won’t call or respond to her email. When she is dry she watches NTV news. The screen flashes to a reporter standing outside a Swiss police station and only certain words go through to her brain.

  Heiri Spirig brought in for armed robbery … detained by authorities … information about the location of the motorcycle used in the Knudsen murder … links between organised crime groups and Knudsen’s killer … Spirig asked by Christoph Graber to make mechanical repairs to the motorcycle stored in a barn near Murten … motorcycle no longer there … Police trying to locate Christoph Graber.

  The screen splits in two with a photo of Christoph Graber, a youngish man with gelled blond hair, and a physical description.

  She turns the TV off, cleans the gun that she took from her assassin, goes downstairs, walks to a dark alley and dumps the weapon in a garbage bin at the back of a restaurant.

  On Saturday morning Amira goes to a second-hand shop and buys a few clothes and a small suitcase. She catches a train to Frankfurt and checks her email at an internet cafe. There is one message in her inbox. As she opens it, she shudders.

  Hello Anika,

  Having my children disappear has been the saddest thing I have ever experienced. I always wonder if they are okay, and hope that somehow they can feel my love. I’ve been looking for many years without any luck. I want more than anything for my twins to be alive, safe and happy.

  I’m not sure what is the best way of finding out if you are my daughter, Sofie. Did your father say why he thought I might be your birth mother? Could you ask him?

  I have attached a recent photograph of myself, and an older one, from when I was eighteen (when I had my children). It may be too difficult or inaccurate to see if there are any physical resemblances? Perhaps you could send me a photo of yourself? If things go well (fingers crossed) we should definitely meet.

  Warm wishes,

  Minette

  The first attachment is a photograph of an eighteen-year-old girl from another time with a face that could have been Amira’s. Although the tones have faded, she can see that Minette has rich brown hair resting on her shoulders. The full lips are the same, the cerulean blue eyes an image of her own. Amira’s fingers stroke her face. She opens up the next attachment of an older, plumper woman with hair just above the shoulders. The colour is more vivid in this picture. Minette still has the sensual mouth, the bright, incandescent eyes.

  Perhaps this woman really is her mother. What would have happened to her as Sofie? Could she have been a painter?

  She takes a photograph of herself with h
er mobile. Then she emails the picture to her new account, strips the properties of the image, attaches it and sends it. Within ten minutes, the phone rings. The sudden shrill knocks the wind out of her. She scrambles to compose herself.

  ‘Anika?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Minette Blake, from Australia.’

  As these words are spoken, she tries to commit them to memory. The sound of Minette’s voice is soft and kind. There are many questions she wants to ask, but she has to push forward.

  ‘You received my email?’

  ‘I see myself in you,’ Minette says. ‘Even my husband notices the similarity.’

  Amira presses the phone firmly to her ear. ‘There is so much to talk about.’

  ‘Why does your father think I’m your mother?’

  ‘He won’t say.’

  ‘It doesn’t give us much to go on.’

  ‘No.’

  A pause. ‘Maybe if you told me more about yourself?’

  There isn’t time. She has to obtain Minette’s details. ‘I would like to meet you.’

  Minette’s reaction is delayed. ‘I live in Sydney. I’m not sure how we could arrange it.’

  ‘As it happens, I’m arriving in Sydney on Monday morning.’

  Minette becomes quieter. ‘Where in Australia did you grow up?’

  She lowers her head. Why is Minette asking all these questions? She sees the resemblance; isn’t that enough?

  ‘If you give me your mobile number I can call you when I’m in Australia, and we can talk more then?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Minette gives Amira the number.

  Amira tries to focus and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want to say what is needed, but she has to prioritise her possible mother’s safety.

  ‘Minette, I know this might sound crazy but I have reason to believe that my adoptive father may try to hurt you. He can be violent, and after telling me that you were my birth mother, he said he would go after you. Is it possible for you to leave your house for a few days?’