Seven Shoes

by Mark Davis

  The news showed Norwegian Home Guard soldiers piling out of military transports sporting berets, automatic weapons slung across their heavily padded chests. The news cut to a scene from earlier in the day that showed policemen hunkered down behind large concrete barriers as windows shattered and chips flecked off the sides of buildings. The next cut showed images of the Russian Night Wolves motorcycle group, big men with black vests, black knit caps and long hair, along with photos of the gang’s leaders. The news cut to an old mug shot image of Karl Pedersen, president of the Mother Charter of the Hommelvik Hammers, who was on the run.

  A rolling shot moved across an outdoor food court, metal tables and chairs turned over, a pool of blood under a black Harley-Davidson. The motorcycle looked like a crumbled insect as it lay on its side riddled with bullet holes, leaking fluorescent-green antifreeze into a red pool of blood. Another cut showed police officers milling around two bodies under white sheets behind yellow crime scene tapes.

  “I am sorry I am late, but I had to check in with my mother,” Thor said.

  “Is she all right?” Elizabeth asked.

  “She lives in Tromso, way up north,” he said. “She was worried about me. I have really been too busy with these files to pay much attention. I need to go see her. What is the latest?”

  “Well,” Nasrin said, “the little war on the streets of Oslo between the Russian Night Wolves and our very own Hommelvik Hammers seems to be finally winding down. It seems they were resolving some sort of commercial dispute without resorting to a court-appointed mediator.”

  “Who won?”

  “Both sides are losing now that they have the Norwegian Home Guard, the PST, Interpol and every European intelligence service hunting them down,” Nasrin said. “Russia’s president for life, of course, is protesting Norway’s inhumane treatment of his respected citizen-diplomats who merely brought Norway a message of peace on their motorbikes.”

  “Nice,” Thor said. “Shall we get down to business?”

  “Let’s,” Nasrin said, leaning back in her chair.

  “Allow me to begin, Detective Inspector Jones, by thanking you,” Lars said. “GCHQ was true to your word. Ian complied with all our requests overnight, which is stunning speed. We have found that in addition to our seven victims, there are dozens of other people around the English-speaking world who were connected to freyja.onion. All but one of them are still alive. That one, an Australian, committed suicide last week at his home in Perth. Local authorities are being notified to check in with the families of anyone who spent any significant amount of time with Freyja.”

  “What do we have on our seven?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Each one submitted a kind of video interview, a suicide letter in the form of a long, biographical testimony spoken into a camera,” Thor said.

  Nasrin swung forward so fast that it caused the back of her chair to snap against her back.

  “Let me see them.”

  “There is a point to us having this particular conversation in this particular room,” Thor said, meaning without the others. “I am sure you will see them.”

  Elizabeth bit her lower lip, trying to chart any unspoken subterfuges. Lars was holding up his end of their deal, all right, sharing information with MI6 first. Elizabeth was being brought in not just to offer her professional advice. The fact that she was an American who saw the videos would undermine Bowie’s standing to mount a protest once he discovered that Nasrin had been given a head start over him.

  But what about Elizabeth’s contractual obligations to Bowie and the CIA? Elizabeth would have to work to pull them all together—Brits, Americans and Norwegians—or she might find herself in legal jeopardy. And playing with subversion did not suit her, even if the issue was somewhat less than a burning matter of national security.

  “When do you want us to review these files?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I have an office set up for your discreet review,” Thor said. “I thought we could begin first thing in the morning. The files are long, with writings, diary entries and hours of self-disclosure.”

  “Does Freyja ever speak?” Elizabeth asked.

  “She is never heard from,” Thor said. “At least, not in what we have.”

  ___________

  Elizabeth slid her card key into the lock, waited for the little green dot to illuminate and opened the door to her hotel room. The room was a twilight cave, only a thin, blinding line of light coming from between curtains almost pulled to a close.

  She didn’t like being in the dark, not even during the day. She let the door swing to a heavy close and ran her fingers over the wall where she guessed the light switch would be. She felt only the rills of wallpaper. Elizabeth turned to the wall on the other side of the door and ran her fingers up and down, wondering how it could be so hard to find a light switch in the dark until she found the switch to the little chandelier that illuminated the room in a sickly yellow light.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t just fuck you right here and now,” Karl Pedersen said, one leg hooked over the armrest of a chair by the reading desk.

  Elizabeth made a short puffing noise. She edged back toward the door, but Karl lifted a small pistol at her and made that clucking noise parents use to warn their children not to do something disobedient.

  “Quiet, my love,” he said softly.

  Elizabeth nodded, the fingers of one hand splayed across her chest, her heart pounding against her breastbone. She stared past Karl’s vulpine glare, drawing in her breath slowly, holding it in, letting it out, trying to calm her mind.

  “Do you know New Orleans?” Karl asked.

  “What?”

  “The city in Louisiana,” he said. “Fast by the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Not well,” Elizabeth said, taking in air. “I’ve been there for a conference or two. I’ve had beignets for breakfast.”

  Karl Pedersen laughed and gestured with the pistol for Elizabeth to sit on the bed. She walked to the front of the bed, continuing to stand.

  “You are so pretty and athletic, you remind me of the fine-looking girls I used to watch jogging in the Garden District,” he said. “You can find nice everything in New Orleans. Above the stench of poverty is the sweet smell of oil money, pipelines full of cash and ever flowing. That’s where I got started, you know. My father was a welder, see, and he took us to live in Fat City when I was a boy. Would you believe I first hung out with the Banditos?”

  “Aren’t they your mortal enemies?”

  “Not as mortal as the Russian Night Wolves, as it turns out. I said I hung out with the Banditos. Never patched with them, obviously. But we did do some sweet jobs, mostly warehouses. Why rob a bank when the Port of New Orleans is so easy? Of course, I had to get used to killing warehouse dogs. I didn’t like that part at all, even when they were Dobermans.”

  “Is that when you met Walleen?”

  “Basically,” he said. “I had a job and his talents were very useful, crazy Cajun bastard. I want to lay you face down across that bed and give you the rogering of your life. Hard, like you deserve.”

  “I’m on my period.”

  “A little blood never bothered me. It obviously doesn’t bother you. Tell me, my dear Elizabeth … cara mia Elizabetta … mi Isabella … what did you feel when you saw my friend’s brain smeared across a wall? Anything like remorse?”

  Elizabeth’s mind raced to catch his meaning.

  “Frankly, we assumed you had done it.”

  Karl’s eyes narrowed and his lips became a flat line.

  “Why would I kill Walleen, one of my best?”

  “So you didn’t. I believe you.”

  Karl laughed. It sounded forced.

  “You’d believe anything I tell you if you thought it might help you.”

  “I’d believe anything you tell me now because you have no reason left to lie to anybody,” Elizabeth said.

  “You’re hardly in the same position,” Karl sai
d. “Fix me a drink.”

  Elizabeth walked over the mini-bar, grateful for the chance to turn away from him. She turned the key and opened it. She almost asked, ‘name your pleasure,’ but caught herself.

  “Scotch or vodka? Beer or wine?”

  “Gin.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Neat. Right out of the little bottle.”

  She walked it over to him. Karl Pedersen’s eyes tracked her. He stared at her hips and made the rapid sniff-sniff sounds of a dog.

  “I can always tell when a woman is bleeding,” he said, smiling. “A faint metallic scent, like licking a krone.”

  Elizabeth stared at his forehead to avoid direct eye contact and stepped two paces back. He was right. She was, in fact, not lying about being on her period.

  “What happened to start a war with the Night Wolves?” she asked.

  “Ever the detective,” Karl said. “Unto death, you might say … One of Walleen’s talents was his ability to spoof Russian hackers. Not easy to do. They are very cagey. He got us inside and had … well, he made certain transfer payments from their ill-gotten gains in their offshore accounts to other offshore accounts. After I fuck you, I will put a pillow on the back of your head and fire through it. In the next room, it’ll sound like someone dropped a book.”

  “If you kill a federal agent, you will be extradited to the United States and will spend many miserable years in a Supermax prison awaiting your execution.”

  Karl took a swig from the little gin bottle. He sucked in some air to run the flavor over his tongue.

  “That will never happen. Tell me something. Is your British partner a bean flicker? Has she flicked your bean?”

  “Let’s talk deals.”

  “Let’s. Let’s do it with your crikey-dykey friend. Give me your phone.”

  “Why?”

  Karl straightened his arm, the borehole of his pistol seemed to expand. He was aiming at her heart.

  Elizabeth retrieved her smartphone from her purse.

  “You want me to make a call?”

  “That gash would hear it in your voice. Hand it over.”

  Karl set the little bottle on the nightstand. He raised the pistol with one hand, and manipulated Elizabeth’s phone with the other. She hated him for the way he so casually controlled her with his pistol, insolently holding it on her while seeming to give his complete attention to the phone. She knew that if she flinched, Karl would instantly flex the gun back at her. He found a text thread with Nasrin and laboriously typed out a message with one thumb, a letter at a time.

  “May I ask what you just said on my behalf?”

  “Just ‘need to talk, urgent and private. Come down to my room.’”

  Elizabeth’s phone made the silly whoosh sound of a sent message.

  He stared at her and sipped his gin for a few minutes. Elizabeth’s phone emitted the xylophone tinkle of a reply.

  Karl looked down at the screen and broke into a broad smile.

  “She says, ‘I’ll be right down dear, just give me twenty.’ Fancy that, you’re a couple of dears.”

  Anger warmed Elizabeth’s veins. She wanted to bash in this man’s head with the hard lamp on the nightstand. But she knew she wouldn’t make it two feet across the room.

  “As it turns out, twenty minutes is all we need, love,” Karl said. “Now take off your clothes my darling Liz.”

  Elizabeth’s mind raced. She had to do something, anything, to confound him and slow him down.

  “I’m not FBI.”

  Karl’s mouth twisted.

  “CIA?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then what the hell are you?”

  “I’m just a shrink. I was brought in to deal with the suicides. As a consultant.”

  This time Karl’s laugh was genuine, from the belly. He raked a tear from the corner of one eye, and took another sip.

  “Now that’s rich. You realize that you just threw away absolutely any leverage you may have had.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you blame us for your war with the Night Wolves?”

  Karl sucked down the last of the gin and gave Elizabeth a long look. He knew what she was doing, stretching it out like this. He seemed to waver for a moment between raping her, killing her outright or answering her question. From the expression on his face, Elizabeth guessed that it was a close call.

  He finally spoke.

  “We got ahold of one of them and encouraged him to be talkative. Someone had told the Wolves that an American hacker working for our Mother Charter was skimming them. We had no leaks, of that I am sure. So who else could know that except British and American spooks?”

  Elizabeth thought about it a minute. NSA could track something like that. It wouldn’t be out of character for Charles Bowie to disturb the hornet’s nest and see what flies out. But not likely.

  “It doesn’t sound right,” Elizabeth said, “I mean—”

  Karl stood up, his face contorted and red.

  “You fucking purks you can’t help but thrust your snuts into our arseholes, and now I’ve got five of my men in the morgue and twenty-two in prison.”

  He slapped his hand on the back of Elizabeth’s neck, pulled her toward him and rammed the muzzle into her left temple. Elizabeth stepped back and he kept in step with her, pressing the gun harder, hurting her. They did a slow minuet around the middle of the room, the only sound that of his breathing. He stank of dried sweat and gin. The chapped, broken skin of his lips parted as he spoke in a guttural tone.

  “Five of my men in the morgue and twenty-two in prison.”

  There was a strong rap on the door.

  Karl gave Elizabeth one more hard press of the gun muzzle and made an unspoken gesture that conveyed the message, ‘quiet or die.’ He spun Elizabeth around, his big hand on her throat, the gun now boring into the opposite temple.

  “Open it,” he whispered. “Wide as you can.”

  He walked her to the door and Elizabeth swung the door open.

  Nasrin’s eyes went wide, then narrowed.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, barely audible. She felt shame at how weak her words sounded.

  “Hands in the air, walk in, slowly,” Karl ordered.

  Nasrin came forward, her hands raised just above her shoulders. The self-closing hinges of the door made it close slowly, a creaking horror movie cliché.

  Nasrin followed Karl Pedersen to the center of the room as he stepped backwards. Her eyes were alert, a slight smile of command formed on her lips.

  “Throw your purse on the bed.”

  Nasrin’s purse landed on the edge of the mattress.

  “Over there,” Karl gestured with his gun for the two women to stand by the bathroom door.

  He fumbled around the purse with one hand, keeping his eyes and gun locked on Nasrin. He held the purse upside down, and shook it without looking. A mascara kit and blush fell out, a gun, tissues and gum.

  Karl glanced at the bed.

  “Is that a Glock?” he asked, feeling for it with his left hand. He picked it up. Now he had two guns trained on them. “It’s so small.”

  “It’s a G43,” Nasrin said.

  “Single stack?” Karl asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Easy recoil.”

  “But not seventeen rounds, surely?”

  “Just a standard six,” Nasrin said. “Good enough for most jobs.”

  “It will be good enough for this job.”

  “If you want to die,” she said.

  “I do,” Karl said. “I want to die and join my brothers in the mead hall. After I kill you and fuck your friend and then kill her.”

  “Blaze of glory, huh?”

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Nasrin said. “Consider Anton Breivik. He dressed up like a policeman and gunned down almost seventy people, most of them teenagers.”

 
Karl Pedersen looked startled, like he had just been bitch-slapped. Both guns shook as his grip tightened and his arms straightened.

  “Are you comparing me to that h’stkuk?”

  “No,” Nasrin said, “whatever that means, my goodness no. But even Breivik, Norway’s very own homegrown bin Laden, terrorist and mass murderer of children, can only be in prison for 21 years, max. He has a comfortable cell, a legal right to cable TV and the Internet, hobbies, a gym worthy of a millionaire and full access to social media, from which he maintains a constant stream of his vile opinions.”

  “I know that. I did a stint. What’s your point?”

  “My point is that the PST and prosecutors will have a hard time making a case that you are personally responsible for everything that has happened today. Sure, they’ll nick you for currency violations, gun violations, and some other things. But Norway has no racketeering law. If no street CCTV caught you killing anyone, you can expect to spend three years, five years max, in a Norwegian prison. And if IKEA designed resorts, they would look like Norwegian prisons. Much of the world would gladly commit a crime here just to live in one.”

  “Except that now I have kidnapped and threatened two foreign women in a hotel room with a gun,” he said. “Add that to my list of charges.”

  “Or subtract it,” Nasrin said. “Leave your gun with me. I’ll dispose of it. Just toss both of them on the bed and walk out. There is a police station at the end of this street. Walk in and calmly present yourself for arrest. Then sit back and enjoy your vacation in the Norwegian prison system for the next few years.”

  “I cannot know it will go down like that.”

  “You can, because I have friends in the PST.”

  “Why won’t you put a hole in the back of my head and return to London to receive your medal?”

  “I’m a woman of my word.”

  “What can you give me?”

  Elizabeth marveled at Nasrin’s cool, her level eyes and level voice, both soothing and yet somehow commanding.

  “We weren’t the ones who caused your trouble with the Russian Night Wolves,” she said. “We didn’t even know about that particular side activity.”