Cutting the Cord Page 7

  He holds his head in his hands. ‘Shit. I can’t believe I lost.’

  ‘Go get your water bottle,’ she says.

  Amira leaves him lying on the mat, moving on to her next opponent. She forces herself to concentrate on the next round of sparring, and resists the temptation to see how Lukas is faring. She defeats the black belt in front of her easily, but her pulse slows considerably after the high of beating Lukas.

  After the class, Lukas approaches her. ‘I want you to help train me. I’m aiming for the German nationals.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ Amira replies.

  ‘Why not?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘You’re the best opponent I’ve seen in Cologne. Man or woman. I need someone who can match me.’

  She knits her brows together. ‘I only train myself. Not other people.’ Amira heaves her knapsack onto her back and waves goodbye to Noriaki. He gives her the thumbs up.

  As she walks down the stairs, there are male voices behind her. Out on the street, into the fresh air, she is greeted by a man in ragged clothes. His hair is wild, eyes manic. He gapes at her, puts out his hand to touch her hair. She tilts her head away but there is another arm there that is faster than her own – it is Lukas’s.

  ‘The young lady doesn’t want to be touched,’ he says.

  The man is slurring, his breath sour with alcohol and smoke. There is a dangerous gleam in his eye. ‘Fuck off! What would you know?’

  Then he suddenly runs out onto the road, into the traffic.

  Lukas dumps his bag by Amira’s feet and chases after the drunk.

  A car is just about to slam into the man; Lukas pushes him hard away. The man falls onto the side of the road. The car comes to a halt, knocking Lukas over. Amira runs out to him.

  He is finding his feet.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  The drunk is up already, doing another jig. Laughing, yelling profanities.

  Lukas jerks his body in the man’s direction, and he runs off scared.

  Amira looks down at Lukas. The car has torn his uniform and there is a gash on his hip.

  ‘Bandaid,’ he mutters.

  He tells the driver of the car not to worry; all is well. Then he goes back into the dojo. Amira follows him. She grabs his bag.

  ‘Here, let me help.’

  The receptionist has a first-aid kit. She hands it to Amira.

  He goes into the male changing rooms and, after a moment of hesitation, Amira goes after him. Thankfully, they are the only ones in the room.

  Lukas unties his belt and rips off his top, looking at the wound in a mirror. His chest is smooth, muscles chiselled. Amira opens the first-aid kit. She gets out the bandages, washes and dries her hands with antiseptic lotion.

  ‘Looks like you might need some stitches.’

  ‘No. It’s not that bad.’

  She presses a bandage on the wound. She can see a fine strip of dark hair leading down from the navel. Her heart begins to race. Quickly, she attends to the wound.

  He grabs her hand, his touch almost electric. ‘Your fingers are shaking.’

  ‘What you did was stupid,’ Amira says. ‘The man was a drunk.’

  ‘Your concern for the unfortunate is admirable,’ he replies.

  She pulls her hand free and steps up to a basin. Turns a tap on and twists and turns her fingers in the water. She looks up into the mirror. Lukas has sat down, and is inspecting her handiwork.

  He glances up and catches her gaze in the mirror. ‘Not bad.’ Then he stares at her hands. ‘I think they’re clean.’

  She turns the tap off. Blinking. ‘All right,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  He looks at her. ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘I’ll train you. But I’m not reliable. I’m always out of town on business.’

  ‘We’ll work something out.’

  ‘On one condition.’

  Lukas leans back, his stomach muscles flexing. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can pull out anytime.’

  He stands up and comes towards her. ‘Anytime you want.’

  She looks away from his stare. She can smell his sweat, salty against his aftershave. Amira hopes she won’t live to regret her decision.

  He looks down at her bag. ‘Do you have spare clothes in there?’

  Amira nods.

  He steps closer, his thighs heating her own, his cologne even stronger. She bites her lower lip.

  ‘Good, get changed,’ he says. ‘I’m taking you out for a coffee. We’ll discuss a training schedule.’

  She opens her mouth to protest. He puts a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t over-analyse this, Anika.’

  He turns, strides over to his bag and pushes off his white karate pants. ‘You can change in here if you want.’

  ‘I … I’ll meet you out front of the ladies.’

  He is waiting for her in a black leather jacket and faded jeans with two motorcycle helmets in his arms. He looks her over as she emerges from the women’s changing room. She is wearing lycra leggings and a red sports top.

  He takes off his jacket and hands it to her. ‘You’re going to need this.’

  She looks at him, startled. She shouldn’t be going to have coffee with a cop but his intense gaze is both captivating and scary as it washes over her. She puts the jacket on.

  ‘Do you make a habit of carrying two helmets?’ she asks.

  Lukas shakes his head. ‘Noriaki told me he was expecting you tonight, and I was planning on our rematch ending in my favour. Wanted to make sure I could give you a lift home.’

  She scowls.

  A smile curves his lips. ‘What do you like to drink? A coffee, or perhaps a beer?’

  ‘Green tea,’ she replies.

  ‘I know the perfect place.’

  His black Ducati racing bike is in a car park half a block away. Wincing, he climbs on, slips the key into the ignition and offers her his hand.

  She hesitates. What would Father say if he saw her? She looks at the motorcycle.

  Lukas starts up the engine, and grins. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

  She narrows her eyes, puts the helmet on and within a second she is behind him, taking care not to wrap her arms around his fresh wound.

  They roar out of the car park, into the streets and the night. On the longer stretches Lukas guns the bike, swerving the corners, zigzagging through the traffic.

  Amira can feel his taut body against hers; the air inside the helmet becomes stuffy. When they hit a red light, impatience rises, tensing her shoulders. If he wasn’t a cop, she could’ve relaxed.

  After six minutes Lukas cuts through a side street and pulls up to a kerb, taking the key out of the ignition.

  He turns and looks at her over his shoulder. ‘We’re here.’

  Amira’s hands drop to her sides.

  He shows her to an alternative cafe called Grunge on the corner of Lindenstrasse. Bicycles line up on the side of the road, and on the footpath there are outdoor tables and chairs with orange cushion covers. Inside, original artworks dress the walls, candles flicker on scratched wooden tables, and French-antique-style chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Behind the bar are gleaming glasses stacked upside down, bottles of spirits and liqueurs, a coffee machine, and on the bench a large bowl filled with fresh fruit. A blackboard advertises the cake specials of the day. Amira eyes the pear-and-chocolate torte.

  Lukas pulls out a chair for her as they sit at a back table. He orders for both of them: a double espresso for himself and a pot of green tea for her. When their drinks arrive he adds a sachet of sugar to his coffee and stirs. Not a health-freak after all. She pours the boiling water through the strainer to produce a pale green liquid.

  She blows on her hot tea. ‘So, what kind of cop are you?’

  Lukas leans back against the wall on his end of the table, his shoulders broad. ‘Personal protection.’

  Amira scans his face. �
�You mean like a bodyguard?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  There is a long heavy pause. Amira is too busy trying to make sense of him.

  ‘Who do you protect?’

  He tips his mug of coffee to his lips and sips. ‘It varies.’

  ‘High profilers?’

  He leans forwards, elbows on the table, mug clasped in his fingers. ‘We take care of people in trouble. When they’re threatened by criminals.’

  Amira flinches. ‘Because of your mother, I suppose.’

  He is still staring at her. When he smiles she can see his jaw lock tight; she’s broken through the smooth, cocky veneer.

  ‘Noriaki’s got a big mouth,’ he says. ‘He should learn to keep it shut.’

  Her stomach knots. She is cruel to press him to remember pain, but she needs to see if it is genuine. The anguish in his eyes is unmistakable, even though he tries to mask it. While she was learning crouches and elbow crawls, preparing to penetrate the enemy, he was helpless in the face of a different adversary.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she replies.

  He sips his coffee. ‘Your accent sounds a little unusual, like Cologne but then there’s something else …’ he says.

  ‘I spent a few years in France, maybe that’s it.’ A lie, which she can’t avoid.

  ‘Ah. And you said you were out of town a lot on business? What do you do?’

  She shifts in her seat. ‘I’m a painter.’ A half-truth this time. She is improving. ‘I use the pseudonym Ava Schwarz.’

  ‘Must be a difficult industry to break into.’

  She shrugs her shoulders. Her fingers are on the rim of her cup; she stares into her tea for a brief moment.

  When she looks up, he is still gazing at her.

  He clears his throat. ‘It happened in a small village bank,’ he says unexpectedly. ‘We lived in Füssen. My mother went to withdraw some money for groceries while I was at school. The police said the man was probably a drug addict. Drug addicts aren’t difficult to find. Too desperate. But they never caught him.’ Lukas turns his head, stares out of the window into the black night.

  He won’t understand how she is hanging on his every word.

  ‘My father took it hard,’ Lukas continues. ‘He moved us to the city. Turned into an alcoholic.’ He glances at her hand. ‘Amazing how something so beautiful can throw such a punch.’

  She blushes and smiles.

  ‘So you can,’ he says.

  She looks at him quizzically.

  ‘Smile.’

  She stands up. Her head is throbbing now and her face is hot. ‘I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. His expression is controlled. ‘When should we meet for our first training session?’

  ‘Give me your number. I’ll call you.’

  He looks at her.

  ‘I will,’ she says. ‘Just be patient with me. It might take a few days.’

  He writes his number down on a serviette. ‘Let me give you a ride home.’

  She wants to say yes, but pulls out her mobile. ‘No. I’ll call a taxi,’ she says, noticing a missed call on her mobile.

  Inside her apartment she looks at her call list: Withheld.

  Wilhelm.

  She showers without listening to the message, and lets the warm water wash over her skin. The time with Lukas has left her driven by a splendid intoxication, unlike any she has ever known. She can’t stop thinking of him, imagines him in the shower with her, his smooth bareness on her own, warming her, his fingers sliding through her hair, down her neck, stroking her. She closes her eyes and her muscles tense and, in an instant, become weak like jelly. Then there is Britta’s face, menacingly gloomy, bereft of all happiness. A mere child.

  She squeezes out a blob of shampoo and scrubs it into her scalp, working it into a rich lather of foam that flops over her shoulders, onto the tiles, down the drain. After the shower, she tries to paint something. But the only image that comes to mind is of a woman with thousands of little pliers, plucking all the hairs from her body, and she doesn’t fancy painting something gruesome. Then there is the persistent missed call on her mobile.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she mutters, selecting the message.

  ‘Best buddy here,’ Wilhelm’s voice says. ‘Let’s meet at seven thirty-five tomorrow night. The place of fun.’

  She deletes the message and the next second the phone rings. She checks her watch: 11 pm. Hopefully Wilhelm cancelling, leaving her with an evening free to paint. The number on the display reads Withheld. She picks up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You are homesick?’ The Australian voice is rich, deep and unmistakably Father’s.

  She is frightened and has to think for a moment. Why is he calling her? Has she made a mistake in her order at the Baker’s?

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You are trying to find out information about your birth parents. Why?’

  She grimaces. Mother will not have divulged their telephone conversation. Father must have a listening device on Mother’s phone. ‘I only wanted to talk with Mother. The birth parent was an excuse.’ The lie is only partial.

  ‘Are you keeping up with your daily meditations?’ he asks, as if that explains her emotional problems.

  ‘I try.’

  ‘This homesickness is a sign of your lack of commitment.’

  ‘Yes,’ is all she can say in a detached tone. She has learned that the appearance of submission allows her to hold on to the unseen part of herself, to survive.

  ‘Centre yourself. Remember who you are and your true family, the one that would never abandon you.’

  The phone goes dead.

  The dining room is unbearably and completely still, as though life has never moved within the walls. The light from the kitchen shines on a blank canvas, casting a long shadow. Looking at such emptiness and with the phone still pressed against her ear, Amira wipes her wet cheek. To please Father, she abandoned herself long ago. She stares vacantly at the lifeless room.

  8

  14 MAY – 1 JUNE

  Amira catches the tram on Line 16 to Rodenkirchen in the south of Cologne and walks for five minutes, arriving at Wilhelm’s house at 7.40 pm. The two-storey property is on a corner block and faces two roads. The white exterior looks over a hundred years old, but Wilhelm and his wife Marie have modestly renovated the interior.

  When Amira is inside, Wilhelm goes straight into the kitchen, pops open an Alsterwasser, a concoction of beer and lemonade, for her and a pilsner for himself. Marie is out tutoring a teenager. He serves out two bowls of spaghetti.

  They sit down at the dining table. The TV is on in the nearby living room, some soccer match. Amira swigs the alcohol, feeling it spread warmth into her muscles, and looks at the photos on the dining room walls. She has seen them before, but tonight they make her feel a stab of unexpected hurt. Pictures of Wilhelm and Marie at the Eiffel Tower, Wilhelm and Marie dressed up in clown costumes at Cologne’s Karneval, smiling on top of Sydney Harbour Bridge. Her face tenses. She will never have such photos of herself and a man she loves. Amira kills people. What man will want to marry her?

  ‘Have you eaten anything today?’ Wilhelm asks.

  ‘A croissant.’

  ‘A whole one?’

  ‘It was stale.’

  Wilhelm shakes his head despairingly. ‘The lemonade is good, then?’

  She raises her glass to him. ‘As always.’

  He guzzles a third of his beer as she tells him Max’s coded number. ‘You need this to arrange the transport of the goods.’ Marie and he will make a series of car trips to obtain the supplies and store them in their cellar.

  Amira looks down at the bowl of pasta with meatballs. Normally she doesn’t like pasta because it bloats her stomach, but tonight it’s looking good. She eats it with a fork, and Wilhelm seems pleased.

  ‘So what is the exchange?’ he asks.

  She informs him and he puts down his bottle; h
e appears pale, lighter than the pilsner.

  ‘Impossible,’ he says.

  ‘Father doesn’t seem to think so,’ she replies, taking another mouthful and chewing.

  Wilhelm pushes his food aside. ‘Tell them you need more time.’

  She licks some pasta sauce from her lips. ‘This is their window.’

  ‘Well, they should have organised it earlier,’ he says.

  ‘The information only became public a week ago.’

  ‘This is suicide.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  He wipes his brow.

  ‘You wanted a spectacle,’ she says in jest.

  ‘But the public won’t even know it’s us.’

  ‘This is for a private audience,’ she replies. ‘Father showing off his muscle to a working group.’

  ‘I’m going to get a whisky; want one?’

  She’s never had whisky before. ‘Better not. The Alster has made my head dizzy.’

  When Wilhelm returns from the kitchen he wants to know her intended strategy and appears disappointed to learn that she doesn’t have one. The highest risk as far as the Israelis are concerned is a Palestinian suicide killer. That means they’ll be expecting explosives or a pistol at close range – someone who doesn’t care about getting away. A sniper will be less predictable, but not without dangers: protective service spotters will be on the lookout. Also, security will analyse where possible sniper shots can come from within a certain radius, although for a foreign minister they might not have the resources to monitor them all day. Poison in food is unreliable; there are too many factors that can’t be controlled. Or something like ricin could work – but how to get close enough to prick the target without being noticed?

  In the end, they both agree that the best option is a long-range attack, if they can think of a where and how. They will reconvene after forty-eight hours of research. Poor Wilhelm, he will stress about this. He won’t sleep for two and a half weeks.