by Helen Harper
The same person answers the phone. ‘God morgen. Dette er Frandsen Limited. Hvordan kan jeg hjælpe dig?’ I may not fully understand every word but the tone is the same as yesterday. It’s good to know that my bomb scare hasn’t had any repercussions for anyone else.
‘Hello!’ I chirp. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Of course. How may I help you?’ comes the smooth rejoinder.
‘I’d like to be put through to Mr Jepsen, please.’
There’s a pause. ‘He’s very busy. Is he expecting your call?’
I steel myself. ‘No. But he’ll want to speak to me.’ Believe me, he’ll want to speak to me, I add silently. ‘My name is Zoe Lydon. He knows who I am.’
Yet another long, drawn-out pause. ‘One moment, please.’
The sound of some twee Danish pop music immediately fills my ear and I hold the receiver at a distance. There are only a couple of things that can be happening: either the reception desk at Frandsen is on the alert for a call from me and my location is already being tracked by some expensive high-tech equipment, or Jepsen’s assistant is being informed that I’m on the line and they’re working out how to deal with me. Either way, I’m expecting the end result to be the same so I don’t worry. I drum my fingers against the wall and wait. Despite my nonchalance, it’s an interminable stretch of time before the music finally clicks off and I’m rewarded by a human voice. Alas, it’s not Freddie Jepsen. Not yet anyway.
‘Good morning.’ I recognise her voice instantly. ‘This is Brita Lund. I am Mr Jepsen’s personal assistant. Can I confirm who I am speaking to?’
I stop slouching. ‘Certainly,’ I respond, in as pleasant a tone as I can muster. ‘This is Zoe Lydon.’
‘And what is the nature of your phone call?’
‘I’d rather share that with Frederik himself.’ Please don’t push me on this, Brita. I don’t want to get nasty.
‘He’s in a meeting. If you give me your number, he might be able to return your call at a later date.’
Damn it. ‘If you tell him I’m on the line, I can guarantee he’ll want to speak to me.’
Brita won’t be swayed. ‘I’m sure he will, Ms Lydon. What is your phone number?’
I shake my head and sigh. ‘Are you showing yet?’ I ask, wincing even as I say the words.
‘Pardon?’
‘The baby. Your baby. Do you have a bump?’
There’s a muttered Danish expletive. ‘Who are you?’ Brita demands. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told you what I want.’ My voice remains calm but my heart is hammering. ‘I just want to speak to your boss.’
‘Is this blackmail?’ she spits.
‘No. It’s a phone call.’
‘Are you from the clinic? Because no one else knows I’m pregnant. No one. Not even my own mother.’
I feel sick again. ‘Brita, get your boss on the line.’
I can hear her breathing. Finally she mutters something to herself and says into the phone, ‘Wait.’
I press the base of my palms into my temples. This is awful. I can tell myself there’s no other way out but it doesn’t stop me feeling like an utter shit.
This time around, I’m not granted any music while I wait. But this time I don’t wait for long.
Brita returns. ‘Hold the line.’
‘Hang on!’ I burst out in a surge of guilt. ‘I won’t tell anyone about the baby, I promise. And … and … I know you feel trapped but don’t do anything you might regret later. It pays to be nice. To everyone. He already has a wife and child, you know, and he’s not a good person. You can do better. You…’
There’s a click and a deep male baritone fills the line. ‘Zoe Lydon. What do you want?’
I try to dissemble and force myself to do what’s necessary for me and mine. ‘It’s you who wants me, remember?’
‘Are you taping this call?’
‘No.’
‘Because if you’re hoping I’m going to incriminate myself…’
‘I’m not recording anything, Mr Jepsen.’
‘It was you who pulled that stunt yesterday,’ he says. ‘Why?’
I shrug. ‘I wanted to see what you looked like.’
‘How did you find me?’ There’s an edge to his voice now. I feel a spark of hope.
‘I’m the dreamweaver. There’s a lot I can do – and a lot I will do if this doesn’t go the way I want.’
There’s a moment of silence then Jepsen seems to gather himself to try and take control of the situation. ‘Come to my office, Zoe. We can talk this over.’
‘I’m not a complete idiot,’ I tell him. ‘You will come to me.’
He sounds amused. ‘Is that an order?’
‘Take it as you will,’ I answer evenly. ‘I’ll be at the Spruce Café at Fisketorvet Mall for the next hour. Come or don’t come, it’s up to you. If you come – and if you come alone – then we’ll talk.’
I hang up. There’s a tightness in my chest and I’m breathing heavily. A woman with two small children in tow gives me a strange look and a wide berth. Considering I spent the night in a dusty cupboard and I’m now making threats to a billionaire over the phone, it’s not surprising if I look like a crazy woman. I manage a tight smile in her direction then I thrust my hands into my pockets and stroll off. It’s time to get ready.
***
What is surprising isn’t that Jepsen doesn’t come alone but that the goons he brings with him are so easy to spot. They all seem to shop in the same store and wear identikit suits and shiny shoes. I count five of them right straight away. Jepson certainly galvanized his troops quickly enough, I muse. I wonder exactly what he’s told them. Considering my height and weight, not to mention my shabby jeans and scuffed shoes, I hardly look like much of a threat.
I smile grimly as I watch the CEO frown at the sticky remnants on the only free table in the café before sitting down gingerly. Maybe this will work – and maybe it will be my undoing. My best chance of success is to talk to Jepsen in person in this public place before I get dragged away. For once, however, I feel more nervous with excitement than with fear.
From behind the party-dress-wearing mannequin where I’m hovering, I plan my route. There’s a lift that opens less than fifteen feet from the café. I’ve been watching the passengers drifting in and out from it for the last twenty minutes; there’s a steady stream of people who for some reason are disinclined to use the power of their legs. If I can get the right group to hide behind, I can conceal my approach until I’m almost at Jepsen’s table. It means losing sight of the goons and their positions for a few precious moments but it’s the best plan I’ve got.
A family approaches. There are too many kids in tow for this group to work. I have nothing against children per se but they are, as a rule, short. I’d tower over the lot of them and be spotted in no time. I hang back and wait a bit longer. I make my move towards the lift only when a group of taller friends, who pay me scant attention, move up and press the button. God bless those Nordic genes.
The door pings open and I rudely push my way in first so I am at the back of the group. In a manner which would be most unusual back home in Britain, the tallest woman, an icy blonde with impeccable make-up and hair, frowns at me and tells me off in incomprehensible Danish.
As the lift doors close and we begin our descent, I drop my head. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I murmur, ‘I don’t speak Danish. I’m terrified of lifts and I feel safer if I’m at the back.’
She peers at me incredulously. Yeah, I don’t think it makes much sense either but I had to say something. ‘Then why use the lift at all?’ she enquires in English.
The lift doors open. ‘Well,’ I say, squashing down every terrified thought I’ve ever had and taking her arm to stroll out behind her other friends, ‘I’ve recently had an operation on my knee and I find walking quite difficult.’ I put on a small limp for effect. ‘I had a walking stick but it was stolen.’
She looks shocked and, just as I’m feeling
pleased with myself for my subterfuge, she halts mid-step. ‘Wait,’ she says slowly, recognition lighting her eyes. Oh shit. ‘I know you. You’re that woman who was on television. The terrorist. No?’
Panic stations.
Three of her friends hear her words and turn round to stare at me. ‘She’s a terrorist?’
‘I’m not a terrorist!’ I protest.
The nearest one pushes back her hair. ‘You mean that English girl with the fat cat. I saw her on the news and she had long hair. This isn’t her.’
I’m not sure whether I should be happy or alarmed that they’re still speaking in English. In any case, out of the corner of my eye I can already see two of the goons striding towards us. So much for that plan.
‘Just because I’m English,’ I say huffily, ‘doesn’t mean that I’m like that woman. Honestly.’ I pull away and stride towards Jepsen, cringing not at my words but the idea that I’m about to be tackled by Denmark’s answer to Charlie’s Angels. I pick up speed, landing onto the chair next to Jepsen with a skidding thump.
‘Hi,’ I say breathlessly. I turn my head to eye the women – and the goons. The four blondes have apparently decided they were mistaken and are taking off in the direction of a department store. The goons are eyeing me as if I’m a tasty snack who may or may not be poisoned. ‘Call them off, Freddie,’ I say. ‘I told you to come alone.’
Still unaware of what information I have on him, Frederik Jepsen leans back and casually adjusts his cuffs. ‘Actually, Ms Lydon,’ he says with a curl of his lip, ‘I don’t think I will.’
I force a closed-mouth smile. ‘You know who I am. You know what I can do.’ I lean forward, causing at least one of his henchmen to jerk in alarm. I think the only reason he doesn’t come over and drag me away by my hair is that a goateed waiter chooses that moment to come over and hand me a menu. I ask for coffee and he gives me a vague smile and wanders away again. I drop my voice. ‘I can visit the dreams of anyone who is not a Traveller as long as I touch them.’
Jepsen snorts. ‘Touch the lot of them. If you want to manipulate the dreams of my security men, go ahead. You won’t be able to do anything to free yourself from them. You have powers, yes, but you don’t have mind control.’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. All I can do is plant suggestions. It helps if the person is already susceptible to those suggestions.’ In the same tone of voice, and without missing a single beat, I continue. ‘Do you know that your son is a drug addict?’ Jepsen’s calm demeanour disappears instantly. My smile broadens. ‘I popped by your house yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘You have a nice place.’
His face is starting to flush red. ‘What have you done to my son?’
I try to act like a villain and tinkle out a laugh. ‘I guess you’ll find out. Wouldn’t it be terrible if everyone discovered that the son the Frandsen CEO is an addict? It would be awfully damaging for your reputation. I don’t imagine it would help your poor son either. I mean, things are bad enough for him as it is with you as a father but…’
Jepsen reaches across the table and snatches the front of my shirt, half dragging me across the table and knocking over his cup of coffee. The other café patrons stare wide-eyed. ‘All I need to do, you bitch,’ he sneers, ‘is tell everyone who you are and then you’ll be locked up for the next ten years.’
‘On trumped-up charges. And,’ I shrug, ‘if I’m locked up then the Department can’t use me. You can’t use me.’ I put my hand into my pocket. ‘I have a text message ready to send to the press. I don’t only have information on your son, Freddie. There’s a whole lot more. Get your hands off me or my thumb might slip and I’ll press send without meaning to.’
From his expression, I think he’s prepared to take that risk then he glances up and sees the waiter wandering back over and releases me. Jepsen is breathing heavily and he definitely does not look like a happy man.
I wait until I have my coffee and the waiter has gone again before continuing. ‘Does your wife know you’re having an affair with your secretary?’ I ask. I’m rewarded with a flicker of fear in his eyes. ‘You know,’ I add, ‘I met your wife too. I’ve seen inside her head.’ I tap the corner of my mouth. ‘What suggestions do you think I could have implanted there?’
Jepsen appears to be struggling to maintain control. His skin is mottled and unhealthy looking. ‘Stay away from my family,’ he growls.
I quash the sudden sympathy I feel for him. Those kinds of feelings have no place right now. ‘You started this. You came after me. You came after my friends and my family.’
‘So that’s what this is about? Either I leave you alone or you destroy my life? I’m just one person. There are dozens of us in the Department. You can’t stop us all. You wouldn’t be able to find us.’
‘I found you.’ I lean back and take a sip of coffee. It’s scaldingly hot but I manage not to wince. ‘I’m not going away and I can be very patient. That’s what happens when you end up stuck inside in your own house with only your own thoughts for company for almost two years.’ I gaze at him consideringly. ‘You know, Freddie, your concern for your loved ones is rather admirable. I think I kind of like you so I might be lenient.’ I cock my head. ‘I tell you what: I won’t do anything more to hurt your family and you’ll tell me the names of everyone in the Department. In every region.’
Jepsen stares at me as if I’m mad. ‘I don’t know their names.’
‘Bullshit.’
He tilts his chin. ‘You said you weren’t a complete idiot, Ms Lydon. Well, we’re not either. Our success depends on our anonymity.’
‘Even from each other?’
He laughs coldly. ‘Especially from each other.’
I’m fairly certain from the look in his eye that he’s telling the truth. His lips pull back from his teeth; he’s not beaten yet.
‘There is no single Department leader,’ he says. ‘No one person is in charge and no one person has more power than anyone else. We guard our identities in order to guard our power. I run Western Europe but that doesn’t mean I know who the others are and it doesn’t mean I run the Department in its entirety. I simply … guide.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘As you have discovered, when everyone knows your real name, you’re instantly a target. Why do you think we let your Mayor keep going the way he did for so long? You did us a real favour by getting rid of him.’
I open my mouth to tell him that it wasn’t me who killed the damned Mayor when I suddenly realise what he’s saying. ‘The Mayor knew who was in the Department,’ I say slowly.
Jepsen blinks as if it’s occurred to him that he’s said far too much. He recovers quickly. ‘And he took that information with him to the grave. Now no one knows.’
‘If you keep your identities so secret, how would the Mayor have found them out?’
‘He was, how do you say, a canny bastard.’
A canny bastard who had someone like Dante working for him for a long time. Dante, who’s not only a dream tracker but also a bounty hunter. I file this away for now and focus on the present. ‘Fair enough. So this is what will happen. You will withdraw from the Department. If you apparate into the Dreamlands then you will stay away from your cronies. You won’t enter the Bubble. You won’t even talk to anyone.’
‘You can’t make me do that.’
‘Are you willing to take the chance that I won’t check up on you and that I’ll destroy your family if I find you’re not playing along?’ I ask. ‘I’m not going to forget who they are, Freddie. And you’re too big and too important to simply disappear.’
The hatred in his eyes is genuinely terrifying. Underneath the table I start pinching the tips of my fingers together, one after the other, in a bid to stay calm.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ he promises.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Said every comic-book villain to the ultimately successful comic-book hero.’ I harden my voice. ‘I want your word.’
He glares at me. I’m still on a knife edge here. He is sore
ly tempted to call his goons over right now. And if that means murdering me in broad daylight, whether I’m the dreamweaver or not, then so be it.
‘I’ll give you a little titbit to sweeten the deal.’ I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Your wife really loves you. In fact, she’s prepared to endanger her own life for yours. In one of her dreams, she threw herself in front of you to protect you. But she knows something is wrong with your marriage. She knows your relationship is … fraying … at the sides. You still have time to make things right – but probably not a lot of time.’
Jepsen blinks. He obviously wasn’t expecting that.
‘Your word,’ I remind him.
He dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief then tosses it onto the table and pushes his chair back and stands up. Every one of his henchmen steps forward. ‘Fine, Ms Lydon. You have it but it won’t do you any good. There are too many of us in the Department. You’re not going to win.’
‘I just did,’ I tell him simply.
Jepsen leaves, with his heavy-shouldered entourage attached to his heels. Part of me expects them to turn round at any moment and come after me. Instead, they all stride out of the mall. I throw some money onto the table and stroll off in the opposite direction, picking up speed only after I round the corner. Then I dash into the nearest toilets and throw up.
Chapter Ten
Each morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.
Buddha
I might no longer feel sick but the unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach refuses to go away. It doesn’t help that I’m stuck in a queue at Copenhagen Airport. It seems that there are even more eyes on me here than there were in Switzerland. The fact that those women in the mall almost recognised me has set me on edge and I’m still waiting to be stopped at any time. I try not to dwell on the fact that I’ve gone from being a recluse to a wanted criminal but it’s next to impossible. I’m starting to feel as if I’m living someone else’s life. This certainly isn’t what I dreamed of for myself when I was growing up.