by Mark Davis
“I am so sorry, Elizabeth, about what has happened,” she said. “Lars is truly stupid to boot you out of the country like this. I guess I’m lucky he’s not booting me along with you.”
“Why would he expel you now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Because he’s jealous, dear. Always has been. And I bet if you went back to him now, and batted those pretty eyes of yours, he’d take you back.”
“That’s not going to happen. Besides, Lars has come to appreciate how much he depends on you, Nasrin.”
“Drink?”
Elizabeth nodded. Nasrin smiled, took off her jacket and arranged it neatly on the back of one of the two chairs by the writing desk. She took a seat. Elizabeth fixed two scotches, one with ice, one neat.
They clinked glasses.
“I must say, Elizabeth, I am impressed that you and George had this little side operation going on with the drugs. A real corker, that was.”
“It turned out to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”
“I suppose it was, with you yelling at those brass trees in the park. Sorry I introduced you to Gustav Vigeland. Any new insights from your experience?”
“Just what we already had guessed—Freyja uses DMT to break down her victim’s sense of reality and personal boundaries. Enough ‘treatments’ and anyone would begin to lose their sense of self.”
“She penetrated some tough personalities.” Nasrin took a sip of scotch. “Freyja knows psychology. Maybe she’s a shrink like you?”
“She knows a lot about the mind. The binaural beats that go with the drug resonate with the pituitary gland, making the DMT even more effective. No telling where I’d be now if I had let her use the sound on me as well.”
“Want some dinner?”
“Thanks, but I am still a bit woozy,” Elizabeth said. “I am going to order in tonight.”
Elizabeth took a sip.
“And besides, I have to be at my best tomorrow morning for my little date at the airport with Charlie Bowie.”
Nasrin’s laugh was splendidly derisive.
“Could you use some company on your last night in Norway?” Nasrin asked.
Elizabeth opened the drawer of the writing table and pulled out a menu.
“Okay, here are our options.”
___________
After steaks, fries and a few Ringnes beers, they talked a good hour about Lars, about PIG, about their respective futures. They each had another beer. Nasrin divulged a little more about her life, about how it was with her English father, now deceased, who was convinced to the end of his days that she was simply working too hard to find the right man. Elizabeth opened up about her family, the edge of sadness that rings even the happiest moments of her life.
If it wasn’t for Max …
A long silence. This was the time for Nasrin to leave, but she showed no sign of stirring.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“Just hate leaving Norway like this …”
“You haven’t left yet.”
Nasrin rose, hooked a bang of Elizabeth’s hair behind one ear and softly stroked her cheek with the edge of one finger.
“You are anything but stupid. I think you are brave.”
Nasrin pulled her in close for a kiss. Elizabeth did not resist. They kissed for a good long while, lips parted, hands roaming. Nasrin’s lips explored Elizabeth’s face, the hollow of her throat, the tender point of her neck just under her jaw.
Nasrin pulled back, a little breathless.
“Tell me you don’t feel something for me.”
“I do,” Elizabeth said softly.
“But not enough?”
“Not enough for what you want.”
“I am fine with that, just to be your friend … and to have truly known what it was like to have kissed you like that. That’s all I need, dear. But don’t think for one minute that I am leaving you alone tonight.”
Nasrin took off her boots, unbuckled her belt and loosened her pants. She made a stack of pillows and leaned back on them, beckoning Elizabeth to join her. Elizabeth removed her shoes and her blouse, leaving on a T-shirt and old jeans. She nestled.
“You’re quite a good snogger, you know.”
“Snogger?”
“Kisser, love. Kisser.”
“Thanks.”
She felt Nasrin’s heart beating, heard her blood coursing, felt her own head rise and fall on the woman’s chest just as it had done with Lars. The softness of Nasrin’s breast, the gentle stroking of her hair, made Elizabeth think of her mother, long lost, long ago …
Elizabeth snapped awake an hour later. The lights were out and Nasrin had rolled over, asleep in her clothes.
Elizabeth had been dreaming of something, a dream centered around an image …
“Brass trees,” Elizabeth said aloud.
Nasrin pulled up, startled, as if Karl Pedersen might again be in the room.
“Yes?”
“They’re really bronze trees. But you said brass trees.”
“So?”
“Brass trees … bronze trees and brass what?”
Nasrin was fully awake now, quiet, waiting for Elizabeth to make a point. Perhaps she wondered if the drugs were still working on her.
Bronze trees and brass what?
A gossamer thought fluttered around Elizabeth’s brain, gently evading her grasp. The DMT had kicked something lose in Elizabeth’s memory, a random connection. She could sense the outline of what her unconscious mind knew, but just that. Words swirling, the agony of them almost connecting.
Bronze trees and brass what?
Brass what?
The connection closer than ever, Elizabeth quit trying and let it settle in her grasp. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. She let her mind go still, watching ideas float by like leaves on the surface of a gentle stream.
Brass tacks.
It had to do with something Sandra had related in one of her stories. The Japanese ministry official, who otherwise had spoken perfect English, had said, “brass attacks” instead of “brass tacks.” It was funny the way Sandra had told it.
“Nasrin, what would you say if I told you we need to get down to brass tacks?”
“I would say it sounds painful.”
“People in the UK don’t say that, do they?”
“No. But now that I think about it, I am familiar with the term from watching so many American movies. It means getting down to business or some such, doesn’t it?”
“Right. And a Norwegian wouldn’t use that phrase, either.”
“I don’t suppose so. Their accent is more American when they speak English, but their vocabulary is standard UK.”
Elizabeth rose, found her smartphone and searched for the etymology of the phrase. The earliest documented use of “brass tacks” was in a newspaper in Texas in 1863.
“Freyja used that very phrase.”
“So?”
“Freyja is an American.”
“Unless Freyja is Lionel Jacobson, who is a skillful writer of dialogue. It would be just like the playwright to throw something like that in, just to confuse you.”
“Why do you think of Jacobson now?” Elizabeth asked.
“No body found. And as you said, his motive for suicide was far weaker than the others, for someone so self-absorbed.”
“No. Freyja made a mistake. She let the mask slip and accidentally let me see that she is an American. What do you think, Inspector?”
“Possibly,” Nasrin said. “Can we go back to sleep now?”
Elizabeth felt calm, satisfied that she had located her revelation, hoping that it meant something. In the light of early morning, Elizabeth was awakened by someone trying to close the door to her room as softly as possible.
A sheet with hotel letterhead rested on the bedside table. It had a large heart drawn in red lipstick. Nasrin’s jasmine scent permeated her side of the bed.
> Elizabeth rose, performed her yoga stretches and short meditation, bathed and dressed, and finished packing. She felt clear and happy and ready to start the next chapter in her life, whatever it was going to be. She put on a pair of blue jeans, a comfortable shirt and shoes, and took her bags downstairs. She went to the hotel café for a hearty breakfast of sausages, eggs and coffee while waiting for her date to pick her up.
Only one more ordeal to endure and then home.
___________
Charlie Bowie came threading through the restaurant, thick red hair pointing in every direction, his tie too short and swung to the side, his navel peeking out through the space left by an open button on the bottom of his shirt.
Was it sadism on the part of Lars to assign Bowie to escort her to the airport? No, Elizabeth decided, it was protocol. The embassy would have insisted on it. They had, after all, been paying her way.
Bowie motioned for her. Elizabeth rose and followed him outside to a black Ford SUV with a driver. They slid into the back and the driver took off.
“Did you and Nasrin have a nice rubdown last night?”
“Charlie is that the kind of image you need to get off? If so, knock yourself out.”
“What I will be getting off on is seeing your backside receding away from my proximity at just under the speed of sound. You have no idea the kind of shit storm you have unleashed. No one had you pegged as a drug abuser, although your freak out in the park did not come completely unexpected, given your history. The ambassador in London is particularly embarrassed for having vouched for you.”
“Charlie, I have cared about only one thing, and that is stopping Freyja from doing more harm.”
“Your extracurricular activities may have only encouraged her.”
“Most of those activities were approved by Lars.”
“I know that, now. But not the drugs, Lizzy, not the drugs. That little mess you managed to do all on your own.”
“So what do you want from me? Want to banish me? Done. Want to humiliate me? Done. What else do you want Charlie?”
“All my life I’ve worked alongside people like you, the best schools, the smart set. Always cleaning up after you. Never an apology. Never any accountability. No. Accountability applies only to people like me.”
Elizabeth could have said that he had just given her his entire psychological case history in twenty seconds but thought better of it.
“So what, Charlie?”
“I want to hear you say that you’re sorry.”
“I am sorry, Charlie, for any trouble I’ve caused you.”
Bowie started to say something, then realized there was nothing more to say. They rode in silence.
A good twenty minutes later, they arrived at the airport, but the driver skirted past the Oslo main terminal. He came to a stop in front of a small terminal for private planes.
“What’s this?”
“Here’s the deal,” Charlie said. “We’re sending you back on a charter plane from Bergen. The big oil companies run flights to the East Coast for their engineers and executives. We kick in a little cash and seed the flight with our people. So I am to fly you to Bergen, make sure you get on that second plane, and wave bye-bye, forever.”
“Why not just send me commercial?”
“Because we have extra seats and the jets are paid for. You wouldn’t believe how hard the bean counters ride us. And it lets us move our people without putting their names on airline manifests, which are confidential but hackable.”
Elizabeth rolled her bag behind Charlie, who had a briefcase. He led her through the terminal to a waiting plane, a Bombardier Learjet 70. The sounds of the airport were muffled, almost extinguished, by the plush interior. There were seven seats in all, three of them occupied—two men and a woman who sat near the back. The men had beards several days old. They looked exhausted from a rough tour in—Syria? Iraq? Ukraine? The men watched Elizabeth through narrow eyes. The woman, lean, athletic and hard-looking, in a turtle neck and jeans, simply glared at her.
“Sit here.” Bowie pointed to a seat near the front, well away from the agents in the back.
Elizabeth sat and Bowie took a seat across from her.
The co-pilot pulled a lever and the ramp folded into the plane. He closed and locked the door and went to the cockpit. There were no announcements. A moment later, they were taxing toward the runway.
Elizabeth checked her smartphone for messages. The night before, she had sent an email to Max informing him that her work was done and that she would be home in a day. He should expect her to visit him at Rutgers in two days.
There was a text. From Max.
“Turn off your phone,” Bowie said.
The plane was taxing at speed, preparing to roll around a corner to line up at the end of a runway and take-off.
“What are you, the FAA?”
“No, I just don’t want you taking pictures of our people on this plane, or the next one. Got it?”
“Got it. Just need to check my messages.”
There was a message.
>No way, Lizzie! I have come all the way to Norway. Was going to surprise u and now u coming back?<
Elizabeth felt her heart flutter. What the hell was this? She sent him a text.
>Please don’t joke. Where are you?<
>Here, amazing views<
>Alone?<
>With Freyja. She’s cool, not what you think.<
Elizabeth set her phone in her lap. The plane lifted off the tarmac and shot like a needle through low clouds.
She looked down again.
>She says not to tell anyone. That would be bad.<
Elizabeth exhaled loudly and tried to focus on her breathing. Panic does no good, no good, no good.
>Tell me exactly where you are<
>Near a place called Tyssedal. U won’t believe how it looks here<
She called Max’s number but only got his voicemail. She left a message, struggling to control her breathing, trying not to sound desperate or pleading, turning her head toward the window so Bowie wouldn’t overhear.
“Max, honey, please extricate yourself safely from that situation and call me. Please. Just listen to me this time as an expert.”
A few seconds later, her smartphone tingled. There was another text. This time from Freyja.
>Max is resting now. I shall send you directions where you can meet us. Please follow them and tell no one.<
>Please have mercy on us<
>No worries, if you tell no one<
Elizabeth typed, “I promise,” but the text went nowhere. The bars on her phone had disappeared. They were above the service ceiling.
“I’m telling you, if you take a picture with that thing, or even point it at the back of the plane, I swear I will smash it into tiny pieces,” Bowie said.
“I understand.”
Elizabeth turned off her phone to save power and pocketed it.
Everything that had happened recently—the fright of her hallucinations, her humiliation, being sent home early—all of it now seemed so petty compared to the enormity of what was happening now. Elizabeth looked down at nibs of white ice on sharp mountains separated by wide rivers coursing through green valleys. It was all sliding under her, away from her, life itself, out to sea.
Elizabeth never prayed. She prayed now, silently, in a way that Charlie might think was her taking a nap or meditating. It was a propitiatory prayer of the most childish sort—please, please, please God.
She kept her eyes closed, focusing again on her breath-calming exercise.
What could she do?
She couldn’t tell anyone. Freyja had thoroughly infiltrated her phone. Freyja would know. Elizabeth could slip a note to Bowie or police at the airport, explaining her situation. But once someone called Lars, or Nasrin, or maybe even Ingrid, Freyja would know. Or would she? She again wondered if they were all too willing to grant Freyja omniscience?
Perhaps, but Elizabeth wasn’t going to gamble Max’s life on it.
No, she was going to follow Freyja’s rules, for now. When they met, if they met, Elizabeth would have to find some way to get into her head before she could … what?
Had it been truly Freyja who killed Walleen with a shotgun? Maybe that gruesome murder was the handiwork of the Night Wolves.
The flight was only an hour but it seemed longer. The jet finally descended toward the Bergen airport, a wide, flat space between two mountains next to a fjord. In the distance, she could see the grey mass of the city. It was still early, only 10 a.m.
Once they had taxied to a stop, Elizabeth saw the plane that would take them home, a Boeing 757 with the unfamiliar brand of a charter company on its tail. A cluster of people waited on the tarmac to board on a metal stair ramp.
It was a private airport, so there was no security to go through.
“Give me your passport,” Bowie said.
Elizabeth handed it over while the pilot and copilot left the Learjet to watch the bags being moved from its hold to the 757. Bowie reached into his briefcase, pulled out a kit and embossed Elizabeth’s passport with an exit stamp.
“You can do that?”
“I can do that. Now I need to see you get into your plane and watch you leave.”
“I never asked where I am going?”
“Dulles, then you’re on your own. Wouldn’t recommend coming back here. You’re PNG in this little kingdom.”
Elizabeth moved to join the waiting passengers. The wind blew cold spittle from low, gray clouds.
She thumbed the “on” button of her smartphone.
Elizabeth took her place in line behind the other twenty or so waiting passengers. Most of them were men in casual shirts and jeans, most likely oil industry engineers. None were obvious CIA operatives like those on the Learjet. The agents from the back of the Learjet stood behind her in line, Charlie to her left side.
Elizabeth’s smartphone rang with an illuminated tile image that identified the caller.
“I’ve got to take this.”
“Elizabeth, how are you doing?” Freyja’s voice was as soft and friendly as ever.