Cutting the Cord Read online

  Amira pauses, swallows, then replies, ‘I just don’t know if I can go on with my task, Father; that’s the honest truth. I’ve been shaking, panicking. I don’t know why.’

  He reaches across and pats her hand. ‘I know I ask a lot of you and that sometimes you find it difficult. But Authenticity dwells within you; you are strong; I have seen it so often. You are capable of bringing in the New World; you only need to push through this doubt, this fear.’

  She wants desperately to believe him. ‘What happened with Randy, Father?’

  He goes pale. His hands drop into his lap. ‘He’d been claimed. He was my son, my boy, and he became infected. You should have seen him, Mira. Your heart would have broken. All he cared about were drugs and money. I tried everything – you must believe me – to help him. But he spat in my face. Told me I was sick! He threatened our Authenticity, said he would even go to the police. What would you have me do, my beautiful daughter? Have your Mother, brothers and yourself thrown into prison? Who would look after your baby sister?’

  And then something very unexpected happens: Father begins to weep, quietly, in the booth.

  Amira is astonished. But naturally he is as devastated as she, as Kolya. Her hands tremble and a tear tumbles down her cheek, in shame. She hates herself for criticising him, for being a disloyal, unloving daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  He nods, smiles faintly, looking up at her. ‘There is something else,’ he says.

  ‘Yes?’

  He sits forwards. ‘I have a confession, of sorts, to make.’

  Amira listens intently.

  ‘Before I started the Movement, before your Mother, I had some lady friends.’ The comment is made casually, almost carelessly.

  Amira’s mind works this over. She can’t see its immediate relevance.

  ‘You must be careful who you have flings with. Romances that are light and fun at first can become heavy and burdensome, and before you know it, they can destroy you and everything that you and our family have worked so hard to achieve. The slave mentality rubs off, you see. They sometimes make you feel safe; they inadvertently have you start thinking and feeling in slavelike ways and that’s when a person can be claimed. Also, slaves talk to the police. So you must be cautious.’

  She realises now why he is telling her this: Wilhelm or Kolya have seen her with Lukas and reported her.

  He picks up a coaster, turning it over in his fingers. ‘I know you wouldn’t fall in love with a slave. They can be very manipulative.’

  Amira says nothing.

  He lifts up the glass in front of him and drinks the Korn in one mouthful. ‘Agh! Ghastly!’ He pulls a face, throwing back his head and laughing.

  Amira chuckles because his cheeks have blossomed red, the colour of cranberry. But mostly she laughs because he hasn’t excommunicated her, despite knowing about Lukas. He is giving her another life.

  ‘Now, let me buy you a decent meal,’ he says. ‘It looks like you need a good feed.’

  14

  14–16 JUNE

  Over the next two days he barely leaves Amira’s side. He guides her meditation sessions. Accompanies her as she jogs, he on her bicycle. Feeds her proper meals with fresh organic vegetables. Never before has she received such individual attention from him. His eyes are bright and glossy. He believes she is a fantastic Warrior – strong is the word he keeps using – capable of squashing inAuthenticity like a bug. Her hand is made for holding a gun because she can shoot better than anyone he knows (except Kolya, of course; no-one is better than him).

  He tells her stories about when he was a boy letting off petrol bombs and firecrackers and how his mother had to take him fishing because his father never had the time, as the virus had taken him early. He speaks of his first love, Mother, and how fortunate he is to have such a strong woman stand by his side for all these years.

  ‘Your mother has much integrity, Mira, and she has nurtured this in you.’

  She focuses on the training, the preparation and listening to Father talk while she works. For the most part her concentration doesn’t wane. She thinks of Lukas often enough but manages to conceal the extent of her feelings. Things change on Tuesday afternoon, though, when she is doing push-ups in the living room. She is up to number 123 when Father, sitting on the couch munching on an apple, asks her about the man she’s been seeing.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  She stops midair on number 124, her elbows bent. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ she stammers.

  Too late: Father, seeing that he has caught her off guard, smiles sourly. ‘Then why do you keep checking your mobile phone for his messages? Come on, tell me his name.’

  An ache rises in her forehead. She still wants Lukas to be her secret. But Father will not give up until he has the name. For all she knows, he already has it, and this is another one of his tests.

  ‘Lukas,’ she mutters.

  ‘And is he recruitable, do you think? If he is any good, he must be.’

  Amira pushes herself up off the ground. Her throat is dry and she needs a drink of water.

  Father follows her into the kitchen. ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Father.’

  ‘Too slavish?’

  She downs a full glass of water and gasps for breath. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then you need to break it off with him.’ She can’t do that, and Father seems to sense it. He returns her mobile. ‘At least text him that you are busy painting. For now, you need to think about your work. Focus on one task at a time. Otherwise the fog and confusion that has plagued you will return.’

  She regrets mentioning Lukas’s name; she’d been concentrating on the workout and was swept away by the good feeling of having Father as a constant companion. Nonetheless, she gives in and texts Lukas. He calls her back almost immediately and Father insists she answer it, the One standing over her as she speaks into the phone.

  ‘I have this amazing idea for a painting,’ she says. ‘I need some time to focus on it.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some food,’ Lukas says.

  ‘No, please don’t; I have plenty at the moment.’ She looks uncomfortably at Father. ‘Call you when I run out?’ She wants to finish. It’s painful speaking to him with Father looming over her, hanging on every word.

  Lukas is silent for a moment. ‘The thing is, I miss you.’

  Her head whirling, ‘I know,’ she says softly. ‘Look, I have to go now. Someone’s at the door. Talk soon?’

  ‘Sure we will.’

  She hangs up, goes to the pantry, but there is no chocolate.

  On Tuesday evening Wilhelm has the information: Knudsen will be attending a supper the following night at his local church where a missionary from Uganda will be speaking. He will not have bodyguards protecting him. The vehicles are in place for her mission.

  Father and Amira eat spaghetti bolognaise that night and finish going over the plans for the fourth and last time.

  ‘You are ready for this task,’ he says. ‘I believe it in my heart. When it’s finished, why don’t you come home for a while, have a rest, recover, find out about your birth family? Spend time with your baby sister.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ she replies. She will go after some serious downtime with Lukas. But there is no need to tell this to Father.

  ‘There’s a good girl.’ He smiles and plants a kiss on the top of her head.

  They say goodbye on Wednesday at noon. Wilhelm delivers a silver Opel in a street near her apartment. Father, walking her to the car, carries her backpack. He pats the bag with a palm. ‘I have a little treat in here for you,’ he says. He unzips the bag and points down at two prisms of Toblerone. Amira looks up at him, puzzled.

  He chuckles and claps a hand on her back. ‘To add authenticity to your Swiss experience.’

  She can’t hide her surprise at Father’s generosity. Brand product and all
.

  ‘And here.’

  He hands her a box wrapped with a bow. She stares down at it, overwhelmed by his kindness.

  ‘Go on, open it.’

  She unfurls the ribbon, unwrapping the paper. Inside the box is a print of a baby’s hand and foot, and a caption in Mother’s calligraphy:

  For my big sister, Amira.

  Love, your little sister, Amelia.

  ‘Lots of As for Authenticity, aren’t there?’ Father grins.

  Amira is unable to find words.

  Father laughs again. ‘Mother thought you’d be pleased. Now, off you go; make us proud!’

  She kisses Amelia’s print as if it is her salvation, and carefully puts it in her backpack. Father embraces her and whispers in her ear.

  ‘Remember: for your family, for humanity.’

  Amira climbs into the car and glances in the rear-view mirror as she pulls away. Father stands at the kerb waving and blowing kisses at her.

  She drives out of Cologne, heading south towards Lausanne. The sun glares through the windscreen. Sunglasses sit atop her nose. On the back seat are the backpack with the chocolate Father bought her and the three chicken-and-salad rolls he’d made, and her sister’s gift. African drums pound through the car stereo, and she feels as though she has slipped into an old skin like a hand gliding into a well-used glove.

  Authenticity is great, Authenticity for all people …

  Driving through Cologne she passes an old cemetery, a strip of shops, a tramline, the old Müngersdorfer Stadion now branded by some giant conglomerate, the Galleria, gardeners weeding on the side of the road. Once on the autobahn she can see flat green fields with brown bales of hay, neatly rolled and ready to be collected. After Koblenz the landscape grows more mountainous and there is an abundance of cornfields. She climbs higher and the drive quickly becomes a spot-the-castle one. Near Mannheim she exits off the A5 and locates the first stop: a house with a car in the driveway. The curtains are all drawn – the signal that all is clear. All she does is change cars.

  Kill the enemy wherever you find them …

  The stretches of autobahn where she can go as fast as she likes are broken up by sections that impose a speed limit and by slow-moving trucks and campervans. There are Burger King and Nordsee restaurants along the way, motels near service centres and, looming above the road, a sign for the furniture store that Knudsen owns.

  Amira envisions Father embracing her, his eyes aglow: ‘For Britta, so that her pain is not for nothing.’

  She changes car again in Freiburg, making sure it has the vignette sticker on the windshield that pays for the Swiss road tolls, and switches on the radio. A survey has found that job satisfaction in Germany has gone down and someone wins a barbecue from a pop quiz. Near the Swiss border there are signs sorting vehicles for customs inspections and a truck traffic jam with a tailback of at least four kilometres. She passes the border without being stopped for a customs spot check. Almost instantly the temperature is warmer than in Germany. An eagle circles above the road looking for mice. She drives through long tunnels and it is only after Bern that she sees through the haze the white-tipped Alps rising up from the earth, and German Ausfahrt signs change to the French sortie. A man sells pumpkins on the side of the road.

  At a farmyard near Murten in Switzerland, there are balloons at the letterbox indicating that everything is in order. In the barn there is the motorbike: a red Kawasaki Ninja, four cylinders, about 600 cc. She smiles to herself. This is Wilhelm’s idea of a joke. It isn’t the most powerful bike, but it is a good fit for her weight and strength. Under a horse’s saddle in the hay is a kit with a weapon, disguise, protective motorcycle clothing and the instalment of the Manifesto that she’s to leave with the body.

  She quickly changes and puts on the helmet with the dark shielding visor. Her gloves are on her hands. She’s encased within her own little shell. She familiarises herself with the motorcycle controls. A bird prattles and cars drone in the distance. She climbs onto the Kawasaki, rides towards Épalinges, and it is then, with the humming between her legs, that the quivering begins. She’s been on the road for seven and a half hours.

  She was seven. Leaping down plains of grassland towards the beach, laughing with her brothers. She was free to run, away from the watchful eyes of their parents. The hot wind whipped at the backs of their calves, and the dry, loose sand scratched their bare skin, but they didn’t care. They were reckless in their swimmers, their lack of hats and sunscreen. Afterwards, Mother would berate them for the sunburn. The children dug deep holes and played battles in the sand dunes, and she was the Authenticity princess that her brothers pretended to fight over.

  She thinks about Lukas, his strong gaze on her, his eyes alive, and knowing nothing of Britta’s relentless screaming, so loud it could split the bike helmet off her head. His full smile and the way it offers a chance at a new life. Then there are thoughts of Randy: how did he become infected?

  Father’s words: ‘Fight for the slaves who, weak and oppressed, can no longer fight for themselves.’

  She rides past houses, weaving in and out of traffic, and just outside Épalinges, on the Route de Berne when she reaches the signs for a sports centre on her left, she turns the motorcycle around, easing it up a grassy patch on the side of the road at the top of the hill. She can see the cars approaching down the street from Épalinges and Lausanne. Twenty minutes early. Plenty of time. She kills the engine and pulls out a map, pretending to look at it, readying herself for Knudsen’s approach.

  Waiting on the strip. Terribly exposed to the eyes of those in passing cars. Potential witnesses. The longer she stands here, the more likely …

  She shuts her eyes for a few seconds, attempting to clear her mind. When she opens them she sees Knudsen’s Volvo approaching from down the road. He’s ten minutes early. Frugal and prompt. The timing for Amira Knox is perfect.

  She quickly folds the map, stuffs it into her backpack, hauls herself onto the Kawasaki and starts the ignition. The Volvo passes her and, as expected, Knudsen is alone.

  Fight for those starving, for those without a voice, without a home!

  She twists the accelerator grip: rev, rev, rev. Suddenly Knudsen crawls down the Route de Riau; he’s taking a detour. Where are you going, Knudsen? This isn’t the plan. He is supposed to continue down the Route de Berne before turning onto the Route à l’Allaman. She needs to make the hit before he can reach the church in Montpreveyres. The abrupt change places her in a quandary. Time is running out.

  Adapt. Survive.

  She speeds up until Knudsen is in sight once again. He turns onto Riau Graubon. There’s a car trailing thirty metres behind them, along with a black BMW motorcycle. Spots of sun-dappled light filter down through the surrounding pines onto the road.

  Authenticity, ring in this dead man’s heart and in mine.

  Knudsen’s car is just in front of her. Speeding up, she aligns her motorcycle with the driver’s seat. The billionaire’s frail face flickers through the glass, through the changing shades of light and dark cast by the sun streaming beyond the pines. His eyes are fixed ahead, and he is mumbling. She clutches her weapon and feels through the glove the familiar trigger.

  Britta’s screams crack deafeningly in her ears. Her face, jagged with pain, haunts Amira’s view of the target. She has to consciously pull herself into the present. She points the Glock at Knudsen. He looks at her with an expression of shock and horror.

  His is the face of the infected.

  Now is the time. Her moment.

  Yet her finger won’t press down on the trigger. Her intentions fall fast.

  Press it! Easy. Breathe.

  A feeling, a sense of Father taking something from her that she can’t give.

  Then there is a flash of blackness. A rush of movement on the other side of Knudsen’s car. The black motorbike. The motorcyclist pulls out a weapon, keeping it close to his body. The visor is too dark for her to see a face. Knudsen’s eyes are still on
her; he doesn’t see the other motorcyclist pulling a trigger.

  ‘No!’ her yelp is muffled, made inaudible, by her helmet, the zooming of the vehicles.

  Pft! The motorcyclist fires once. Knudsen’s face twists and distorts in pain.

  ‘May you find peace before your moment of death,’ she whispers.

  Pft! Pft! The killer quickly shoots two, three times and speeds up ahead. Knudsen’s car reels out of control to the right, swerving off the road and smashing into a large pine. The bonnet of the Volvo is a mangled compressed mess. She was supposed to leave the Manifesto in the letterbox, but given the intruder she should just get out. She dumps the pages of the Manifesto by the road, and speeds off.

  Refocus. Keep riding.

  She hears the screeching halt of tyres behind her. In her side-view mirror she sees a woman and man leap out of a car and rush towards Knudsen.

  Accelerate! Get out of here! Now!

  Her limbs quiver and there is no sign of the killer on the black motorcycle. She careens around a bend and then another, riding as fast as she can. For a brief period, she is lost. Knudsen’s detour confuses her momentarily and it takes her valuable minutes to find the Route de Berne once again. GPS on her phone is no use; it can be tracked.

  Father had Randy killed because he failed.

  Will she be next?

  The infected must be cleansed.

  Amira rides and the sun glares through her visor. Knudsen’s killer has to be Kolya. Neither Laith nor Oscar is capable of manoeuvring a motorbike on the road while delivering accurate shots at a moving target.

  Father sent Kolya to back her up. Kolya always succeeds.

  After half an hour she switches on the local French radio through her iPod, and within minutes there is an emergency announcement. A female newsreader says:

  Seventy-four year old furniture tycoon Pelle Knudsen has been shot dead near Lausanne by an unidentified person on a red motorcycle.