Cutting the Cord Page 21

  At 7.50 pm she approaches the restaurant and she can see two couples and a group of young women, laughing, pressing glasses of wine to their lips. She hurries up the stairs. A short man in a black shirt, lacquered hair, shows her to a table near a window. He hands her a menu, asks about drinks.

  ‘Pineapple juice, for now, please. I’m waiting on someone.’

  He nods, fills a glass with iced water.

  Now she can see the group of women more clearly, their tight blue jeans, sparkly tops with overflowing mounds of flesh, and heels. They talk of actors, of who is hot. These women are her age, maybe a little older. She doesn’t understand them – never having had friends.

  The waiter comes back with the juice and a basket of bread. If only he’d bring a box of chocolates instead. She checks her watch: it’s 8 pm. Kolya is always on time. Her mobile beeps with a message, and she sees it is from Mother:

  Are you OK?

  She replies by text:

  Fine. Still waiting.

  Then she texts Kolya to make sure she is in the right restaurant. Five long minutes pass before he responds.

  Yes. Car accident holding me up. Still happy to meet, or prefer tomorrow?

  The message is casual, just like the Kolya she knows. She answers:

  I’ll wait. Keep me posted. Drive carefully.

  She picks at a piece of bread and wonders if Wilhelm will talk to the German police. If they will find her number on one of his mobiles. Ten minutes pass. Twenty. The waiter returns to her table.

  ‘Ready to order?’

  ‘The … ah … burger and chips.’ Anything to placate him.

  She nudges the food around on the plate with a fork. Over half an hour. The women are talking more excitedly but are harder to understand and music is playing from the ceiling; she has the feeling that she’s truly alone. There’s no-one watching her, no-one coming for her. She calls Mother to hear another voice, to know she’s fine. She picks up on the fifth ring.

  ‘Amira, are you all right?’ Her voice sounds stilted and overly bright, like she’s making an effort around Minette and Jack.

  ‘I’m fine but Kolya still isn’t here. How are you all?’

  There’s a moment of hesitation then she says, ‘Fine. We’re all fine. Call back in half an hour if he still isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  The line goes dead.

  She pushes her plate away, lowers her head into her hands. So tired. She feels like crying. When she looks up, the people, the movement, the music, all seem so slow and she knows in an instant that she has been stupid and foolish and that Mother’s strange voice was not because of Minette and Jack. Kolya’s moment is now, and he isn’t waiting for her to convince him of anything. She pulls out her purse, draws out a twenty and a ten, throws them on the table, leaps up and runs.

  Outside, the evening grows colder and the wind off the water has picked up. A canopy of black cloud conceals the stars and moon. Moisture is heavy in the air. She runs past the pirate ship, the submarines, towards the hotel. She dials Mother’s phone but it rings out to message bank. She texts:

  Call me.

  How did he know where they are? Tracking via a mobile phone. He could have planted one on Minette and Jack’s car. But how did he find the hotel room number? He tricked Mother, and she told him … her poor son.

  It is only a matter of minutes now – maybe three, maybe less – to the hotel. In her ears she can hear Baumann’s scream, not wanting to let go before his time.

  At the hotel the lift is empty, climbs slowly. Her breathing is rapid. The doors chime and part. Floor ten.

  She sprints down the corridor. Room 1064. Stop. Polished wooden door. No sound. No clues. Kolya isn’t that sloppy. Not like her. She swipes the electronic key card Mother collected as a spare earlier today.

  If anything happens to them, she has killed them. She has only herself to blame.

  She flicks the light switches. No-one is here. Amelia’s bottles are still beside the sink, the luggage left abandoned. The kettle is warm; mugs are on the dining table. One, two. Her eyes shift to the living room, fall to the floor next to the overstuffed chair. There is a third. Spilt coffee soaks into the thick carpet. Three mobile phones are in the bathroom bin.

  Breath trapped in her chest, all at once her head rushes, and she sees herself with snow below her dangling feet, on a ski lift. Her brother crying and her mother holding him to her breast. The door clicks behind her. She turns slowly. He stands, lucid blue eyes shining out from the holes in his balaclava. Kolya’s eyes don’t fall from hers. Eyes just like Minette’s, like hers. His Beretta M9 is stretched out. They both stand still.

  Finally she says: ‘Kill me later, brother. The killing can always wait. We need to talk.’

  ‘I am not your brother.’

  ‘I’m not infected. I haven’t been claimed!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing in Australia?’ he asks.

  ‘You already know. But you don’t realise that my birth mother is also yours.’

  ‘Father said you’d try to pull rabbits out of hats.’

  ‘Minette had twins – a boy and a girl – who were stolen. Why would I want to fool you? People used to think we were brother and sister all the time. We looked the same. For a reason.’

  ‘Father lied to us? Is that what you are trying to say?’

  ‘There is more. Father is our biological father.’

  Kolya cocks his head, raises the gun.

  ‘I have photos in my back pocket. Look at them, at least!’

  ‘And entertain your lies?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to lie to you.’

  ‘It’s too late. It doesn’t matter. Turn around.’

  ‘No. Just be done with it, then.’

  He juts the gun further in her direction. ‘Turn around,’ he repeats, this time more firmly.

  She follows his instructions.

  ‘Walk towards the balcony. Stop. Not too close. Hands on head. Kneel.’

  She does so, shaking her head, determined not to cry, not now. She hears his stride, the swish of his black jeans as he steps up behind her. The barrel of the gun is cold on her scalp, through her hair. Her only solace is that her beautiful brother is on the other end of it. The thought is at once calming and comforting. That she might leave this world, just as she had entered it, with him near her. She will not fight him, will not resist. Won’t try to swivel or kick his legs from under him. Won’t reach for his Beretta. She closes her eyes and the images of Lukas come. The sessions at the dojo where they sparred; his easy, natural smile, rolled into her life like a …

  There’s a click. Not from a gun. A door perhaps. From one of the other rooms. A faint creeping of footsteps coming closer. Kolya doesn’t move.

  The newcomer slowly approaches. She can see him in the reflection of the balcony door. He reveals his face to her. His dark eyes are set like steel behind the tortoiseshell glasses.

  He looks down at her, smiles. ‘Such a horrible business … sometimes.’

  She considers leaping up in one fluid motion and smacking him in the jaw. Rage and fear course through her. Her knuckles are tense white on the back of her head. Kolya digs the gun more firmly into her scalp.

  Her eyes are locked on Father’s reflection. ‘I’m your daughter.’

  He tilts his head to one side, considers for a moment. ‘That you are.’

  Father falls silent, turns to gaze out the window. Her brother behind her breathes heavily. He would have wanted to make this quick.

  At last Father speaks again. ‘You are an example. Disloyalty is not acceptable. You have left me with no other choice.’ His voice is robotic, without any remorse. He faces her again. ‘Threatening the Resistance is the highest violation.’

  He steps closer. ‘I’m waiting for your final words, Amira.’

  She looks down at his leather shoes, taking a few seconds to collect her thoughts. She looks up at him again.
>
  ‘I love you, Kolya. Don’t feel bad about what you are going to do with me. Remember that, please.’

  Father’s face remains neutral. ‘You disgust me.’

  For most of her life such words would have caused excruciating pain. Not now that she knows what he has done. She shrugs.

  He snarls. ‘You’ve wasted enough of my time on your petty qualms. Goodbye, Amira.’

  Father strides behind her. Pats Kolya on the shoulder. ‘I have your word. Son?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  She can hear him walking towards the door. ‘Your sister will now become my First Warrior Daughter.’

  The sound of him opening the door, it closing behind him. If only she could jump up, race after him and throttle him. Use her hands for a purpose she believes in. Then she realises: she’s still a monster. Even now, on the brink of death, he has won.

  At that moment, she’s startled to feel Kolya’s fingers rifling in her back pocket, then drawing out the photos, the gun no longer on her head, the sound of feet on carpet. He’s checking to make sure the front door is locked. More footsteps. Then silence, and the rustle of the photos being turned over in his fingers.

  ‘Father in his twenties,’ she says without lowering her hands or turning around. ‘Mother confirmed. When he had an affair with Minette.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Minette’s house. Her photo albums.’

  Amira hears a heavy sinking into a chair, followed by more silence. Then a clunking of what must be the Beretta on the coffee table.

  ‘You can turn around,’ he says at last.

  She stands up and faces him. He has taken his balaclava off, put it by his gun. His face is pale, shoulders slack, deep forehead lined like an old man’s.

  ‘Father admitted that he was our birth father, and that we are twins,’ she says.

  Moments pause. ‘He had an affair? Betrayed Mum.’

  ‘Minette wasn’t even communist,’ she jokes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He arranged for us to be taken from our cots when we were two. What kind of sick bastard does that?’

  For a moment Kolya’s gaze rests on the photos, frozen. She moves to take a step towards him but he lifts his eyes and stares fixedly at her face. Her eyes. His countenance is long in the shadow of the light.

  ‘Tell me something,’ he says softly. ‘Do you still believe in Authenticity? After all of this?’

  She studies the Beretta on the table. She always thought it ironic that Kolya likes a pistol often favoured by the US military. Not very Authentic: mass produced for mass killing.

  ‘Yeah, something like it, anyhow. But I don’t believe in all the killing. The lying, stealing. Maybe I’m converting to the Ten Commandments.’

  The corners of Kolya’s lips curl, offering a constrained smile. ‘Can’t believe you’re my twin.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I just never thought …’ He sinks deeper into the chair, presses the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, lowers his eyes. ‘It was insignificant to me. All this biological stuff. I had my family already, the Movement. But it was all a lie …’

  ‘Kolya, where’s Mother, Amelia, Minette?’

  He looks up at her. ‘I don’t want to go to prison.’

  ‘It’s not a certainty.’ Then she realises that a casino like this one probably has cameras all over the place, in the corridors, near the lifts. They will have Kolya and her on their records, potentially Kolya carting the others away. ‘The cameras,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  ‘Oscar fixed them for me. His computers. Nothing for twelve hours. Replays.’

  ‘Even if they were working, anything for them to pick up?’

  ‘I won’t go to prison. I won’t let that happen.’ He picks up his weapon, turns it in his hand.

  ‘Hey, we can hide,’ she says. ‘I’ve a place. Been keeping it for a time of need. Not much but something. Part of the Warrior backup system, right?’

  All his bones look slack, his eyes filled with a dull falling away.

  ‘We can start a new life. All our training. Our own group, a nonviolent one.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You always wanted to study at the Shaolin Temple. We can make it happen.’

  ‘What would any of it be for?’

  She takes a very deep breath. She doesn’t know what answer she can give him, but she has to say something. ‘Look, we need time to think. Take a few days to sort this stuff out. We’ll all make better decisions after a decent meal, some sleep.’

  Kolya presses his lips together; he looks away, eyes hollow, down at his gun. His shoulders are hunched and he suddenly appears very small and alone.

  Goosebumps rise on her arms, underneath her jacket. She can’t keep from pitying him. Where she always doubted the Movement, he has been steadfast.

  She places her palm on his cheek. ‘I love you, brother. We can make it out of this, together, you’ll see.’

  Kolya smiles somewhat tearfully, then his hand snaps up, grabs hers and presses it firmly on his cheek. She feels the wetness from his eyes, his cheekbone, jaw, below the mildly prickly skin. She’s afraid, recognising the depths of the downhill wave. He kisses her palm. Nods. Releases her hand.

  She breathes, flooded by relief. She smiles, takes the gun out of his hand and puts it back on the coffee table.

  ‘We can do it,’ she says. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies. His smile is empty.

  ‘It was you on the black bike.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You tracked my Messenger? Threatened him for the information on Knudsen?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh, Kolya. You didn’t have to do that.’

  He smiles. ‘Father was ready to turn you into cow fodder if you made another mistake.’

  Returning now, slowly the wave is hitting the shore. ‘And tonight, how did you find us?’

  ‘Called Mother. Told her I wanted to defect and was afraid. She believed me … of course. She believes anything.’

  They both fell silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘Kolya, where are they?’ she asks.

  His eyes are on her, clearly stung by the uncertainty, the fear in her own. ‘You believe I killed them. Say it.’

  ‘No. I don’t know what you’ve done with them.’

  ‘But you think me capable of murdering my little sister. A baby. My mother, who rubbed my head at night when I had headaches. I killed Randy, so what difference is a few more, right?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I just think they will be worried.’

  He sighs. ‘They’re here at the hotel. In another room. That Jack’s a handful.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ She pauses and they both laugh. He has to wipe his wet eyes. ‘Come with me to get them?’

  ‘No, you go. I want to clean my face first. Don’t want Mother to see me like this.’

  ‘She won’t care.’

  ‘No. I’ve caused her enough anguish. You get them. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll knock three times. The electronic card is on the kitchen bench. Room ten thirty-five.’

  ‘Okay.’ She ruffles his hair.

  Then, without warning, and rather awkwardly, Kolya grabs her and holds her tight like he used to when they were little. She can’t say it’s an entirely pleasurable experience. His grip is too firm, expelling the air from her body.

  She laughs. ‘I swear, one of these days, you’re going to kill me with your bear hugs.’

  Now he chuckles. ‘Your luck only extends so far.’

  ‘Don’t be too long?’

  He punches her in the upper arm and for the first time in her life she enjoys the burn.

  ‘Get going, will you?’ he says. ‘Before Mother has a coronary.’

  She turns towards the door and walks like she’s floating, her heart light,
and believing that perhaps life will for once be generous, that the suffering and the pain and the senselessness will be worth something: freedom to start anew, to find herself. Giddy with the thought that the sun might shine down on her loved ones and her. Mother. Amelia. Minette. Lukas. Randy. Laith. Oscar. All of them flash before her with smiles, wide and full, and she drifts towards something greater than herself that has always been familiar and has always been with her, even though she has never seen it. An authentic returning. Then, at the very moment when the vastness appears soothing, no longer daunting, her hand on the door handle ready to open, his gun fires once: a whoomp of metal released. Air explodes within her chest. She turns around to see Kolya, one final time.

  He is thrown to one side of the chair, blood pouring down his right temple. A mist of red on the leather chair, splattered as far as a wall near the television.

  She races to him – too late – his face is white as snow under the scarlet and she sees him as the little boy crying on the ski lift, a fire of fear in his blue eyes … Without thought she pulls herself to him, presses him against her, kisses his dank face. An odour of burnt sulphur fills her nasal passages. And blood, still warm. Only this time, it is her brother’s blood. Death creeps into him, just as it did to Jonas Baumann, Gerard Clément, Pelle Knudsen, and her first victim, Evan. During her whole life, Kolya’s sadness, his joy, they were her own, and now he is slipping away from her. She clasps him tighter, pressing him to herself. Do not leave me alone, brother.

  She sobs and shakes him, trying to jolt life back into him, just as Britta had done with her grandfather. His face slackens. Already he is growing cold. He doesn’t move at all, not even with the effort of breath. The bullet has gone right through his brain. The way Father taught them. Better to take your own life than succumb.

  She doesn’t want to let him go. She can’t … Sitting aimlessly for a long while, she doesn’t let her arms fall from him. There is the feeling of being washed away by a wave, of being dunked successively, where there’s no time for breath. She fumbles for clear thought, resisting the wave, and shuts his eyes. Eyelids delicate as the wings of a butterfly. Then she sees a piece of paper on the table that she’s sure wasn’t there before. She lets Kolya slide back down onto the chair and picks up the note in his neat scrawl.