Cutting the Cord Page 8

  She arrives back in her apartment around midnight, flips open the laptop and activates the anonymiser software and Oscar’s customised PGP encryption key. She sends him an email asking for information on the Israeli foreign minister’s visit to Berlin. Then she performs several internet searches on open sources that reveal nothing.

  She crawls into bed at 2 am and smiles to herself: she has given the appearance of preparing seriously for her mission. An emboldened strength spreads through her.

  Reaching for the nightstand, she finds her phone, punches in a message to Lukas. Sends it. Within two minutes there is a response. She leans back on her pillow and stares at her mobile. What is she doing? And why is he awake at this hour? Is he out protecting a client, or suffering from insomnia? Regardless, in sixteen hours she’ll see him. She is learning how to reinvent herself. How to find Amira.

  There are about six people in the dojo when she arrives, Lukas among them. His eyes light up when he sees her.

  ‘How’s the cut?’ she asks.

  He lifts up his top. ‘Healing.’

  She finds herself wishing she could touch his smooth skin. ‘Lesson number one: don’t advertise your weaknesses. Got it?’

  ‘Bad day?’ he counters.

  She takes a deep breath, tells herself she is capable of doing one good deed for this man.

  ‘Lesson number two: you need to learn the power of defence.’

  She guides him through a series of drills, then a sequence of movements that he had never considered, making sure his knee is bent sufficiently, his breathing in unison with his actions. He radiates strength and determination, accepts her criticism without flinching. Not that there is much to criticise. He is truly a master at karate.

  His strong eye contact gives her a sense of euphoria. She forces herself to focus on instructing him. At the end of the lesson they do some stretches on the floor. He reaches over and, without warning, tickles her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  His fingers are relentless. She can’t help but smile, then he has her cowering in a fit of laughter.

  ‘Where’s your defence now? Huh?’ he asks.

  ‘Get off me!’ she blurts.

  Lukas’s fingers wedge deeper into her armpits. ‘Only if you let me take you out for a pizza tonight.’

  ‘No.’ She is trying to catch her breath so she can hit him, but it is no use. Then he starts on her feet. ‘Okay! Just … please, stop.’

  He leans back, crosses his arms, clearly amused with himself.

  They sit outside in the beer garden of a restaurant on Buttermarkt overlooking the Rhine, dining on the local beer, Kölsch, and pizza piccante with salami, mushrooms and hot peppers.

  They talk for a long time about places Lukas wants to see – Mexico, Japan, Australia – his approaching competition. He is the first person outside the Movement that she’s had a proper conversation with, and she is delighted by his fresh perspective. He is twenty-six years old.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  He laughs, ordering a second round of beers. ‘I’d figured you were more subtle than that.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘No. As it happens, I’m available. Why? Are you making me an offer?’

  She shakes her head, takes a bite of pizza, chewing. ‘Why don’t you have someone?’

  He looks mildly uncomfortable, but goes on to speak about his one serious relationship. The girl had dumped him, claiming he was a workaholic.

  ‘Were you in love with her?’ Amira asks.

  ‘No. If we had stayed together longer, I may have fallen in love with her, got to know her more. She wasn’t an open person, difficult to read. But I don’t want to talk about me.’ He nudges her beer closer to her. ‘I want to know about you.’

  She sips the icy cold Kölsch. Damn, it was invigorating. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she says.

  ‘You’re not playing fair.’

  ‘No kidding? Why were you awake at two in the morning?’

  He lifts his beer bottle, taking a deep swig. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I can’t discuss my work.’

  Amira stares hard into his eyes.

  He raises his hands in defence, smiling at her. ‘I was looking out for this woman. She has a psycho partner involved in some heavy crime. That’s it. Now, your turn. How are things with your boyfriend?’

  She colours, recalling the lie she told after meeting Lukas. ‘I broke it off with him. Nothing serious.’

  Lukas nods. ‘So how come a painter like yourself has a black belt? Seems an odd combination.’

  Amira finishes off her beer, then orders another. She wants to tell him. God, how she wants to talk. But there is no way. ‘I’m from Australia, originally. Adopted. Grew up with four brothers.’

  ‘That’s why you’re good at self-defence.’

  She shrugs her shoulders. This is the first time she has told an outsider so much about her personal background. Lesson number five violated. And with only a tremor of nerves.

  ‘What about your birth family?’ he asks. ‘Ever wanted to find them?’

  Her eyes are glassy now. ‘Sometimes.’

  He stands up and pays the bill. ‘Come on, Anika. I want to take you to see a live band.’

  She should leave him to it, but the thought of returning to her lonely apartment is too much. Amira nods acceptance, and gets up. They go to the MTC and dance to the music – a combination of punk and heavy rock – until they grin and sweat like two contented fools.

  He yells in her ear: ‘Want to go to your place?’

  She hesitates, shakes her head. He takes her hands. She doesn’t know what to do. She should let them go. He’s a cop, for goodness sake. But she likes him holding her, likes the warm feeling when he is close to her. The sense of security he gives her. He has to be legitimate – why else would he disclose that he is a policeman? He leans closer, draws her in and kisses her. The music pelting, and the neon lights flickering, the strobing of the bodies around them. Overwhelmed, she puts her arms around him and presses hard against his mouth.

  ‘Why don’t we go to your apartment?’ she says. Her plan is to find out more about this cop.

  ‘Sure.’

  Lukas’s apartment is near the university across from Rathenauplatz, a park and children’s playground. Amira pauses at the carved lions on the large stonework exterior. Just like Wilhelm’s preferred meeting spot. They are a coincidence and she is just paranoid. On the footpath before the building are two gold-coloured stumbling stones to commemorate the lives of previous Jewish residents who died in the Holocaust. Lukas’s large flat is on the fifth and top floor, and overlooks the park. She walks through the rooms filled with modern furniture, obviously expensive. Clean and sparse.

  ‘This is really where you live?’ Amira asks. There is no mess anywhere, no clutter. Not like her place with all the paints and canvases.

  ‘I don’t do much living in it,’ he admits.

  There are photos of Lukas when he was a boy with his mother and father on the wall. He has his mother’s angular face, gleaming hazel-green eyes, broad smile.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asks. ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘Water would be great.’

  He pours her a glass of sparkling mineral water, puts on some music through an iPod dock. They sit on the black leather low-line sofa in the living room. An OLED television, surround sound system and Xbox are opposite them. DVDs, CDs and electronic games are stored in glass cabinets – not used for some time, by the dust on the cabinet. Amira sees a few of the titles: Enter the Dragon, Bloodsport, Fearless, Ip Man, The Bourne Identity. Real boys’ movies. But there are also German art-house films: Wings of Desire, Faraway, So Close!, Lola. An ecletic collection. Amira wonders if Lukas actually collected them, or obtained them some other way – an old flatmate?

  She leans against the sofa and his eyes sweep up her face. His hand rises and he traces a finger down her cheekbone
, over her chin, brushing her lips. Although it makes her nervous, she likes him touching her. She can feel his energy, magnetic and tantalising, pulling her towards him. He moves closer, his gaze probing her eyes, her mouth. He comes closer still, pushing her hair aside, caressing her pale neck. Delicately, he takes her earlobe between his teeth. She holds her breath.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispers in her ear.

  She forces herself to relax. Her eyes close. She curls one hand up around the back of his head. His warm kisses travel down her neck, her collarbone. She exhales deeply; she has never known this feeling.

  His hands lift and rotate her hips against his hardness. He wraps his arms around her and holds her. She buries herself into his chest and clings to him. Her fingernails dig into his skin. An overwhelming feeling catches her off guard, scaring her.

  She untangles herself, rises.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  She forces an expression of calm. ‘I want to go home.’

  He stands, extends his arms and embraces her. Her shoulders curl. He strokes her back, kisses her forehead.

  ‘All right,’ he whispers. ‘You’re okay. I’ll take you home.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No,’ her voice hoarse. ‘I want a taxi.’

  He orders her one, walks her down the stairs, speaks to the taxi driver, gives him a twenty-euro note. He opens the taxi door for her.

  ‘Send me a message when you’re home. I want to know you made it safely.’

  She nods, climbing into the car. Then she is gone.

  On Sunday night there is an email from Oscar. He has sent her three pages of usable material, the most interesting of which is a communication between the minister’s advisor and the German Ministry of the Exterior’s diplomatic relations advisor indicating that on 2 June at 10 am the Israeli foreign minister would be participating in a wreath-laying exercise at Berlin’s Grünewald Railway Station, Gleis 17.

  She begins her own search on the venue and discovers it is a memorial to the Holocaust, at the platform from which Jews were transported out of Berlin to concentration camps. This is where she will strike the target. It will be seen as an atrocity to kill him while he is laying flowers for the deaths of millions of innocents but, for this very reason, security might not be so stringent if they believe the Palestinians won’t attack there. The newspapers and the Israelis will have a field day. Wilhelm will be pleased. She decides to tell him she will use a long-range sniper attack on the basis that it is unlikely that the Israelis, constrained by budgetary limitations, will have a large number of spotters on hand.

  There are certainties about the security operation: glittering SUVs, protected cars, binoculars, submachine guns hidden under security service jackets. The foreign minister is considered an important cabinet member and therefore is closely protected by guards from the Shin Bet VIP security unit. Given his reputation and his right-wing philosophy, the Israelis will also be aware of his cachet as a target. German security will also be present.

  From Google Maps she can see that Grünewald Railway Station is a working cargo station with the S-Bahn running alongside it. There are a number of horseriding venues nearby and a famous tennis club.

  She books herself train tickets to Berlin leaving the next day and sends Wilhelm an encrypted email letting him know where she’ll be.

  On the train the following day, she imagines a life with Lukas. She doesn’t care if it is in the New World or not. She can show him her little hut in the rainforest on the New South Wales and Queensland border, a secret hideaway she keeps for emergencies without the Movement’s knowledge. It’s not a place that she can live in permanently. Built by hippies, its wood is largely rotten, covered in mould from the humidity, and the garden is overgrown. There is no hot water or electricity, but Father doesn’t know she has it, and of course it was cheap. Six thousand dollars had earned her a share on the community land and the hut. She had used her life savings, and Mother had given her half of the money.

  ‘Just don’t tell anyone where it is, including me,’ she had said, handing over cash. ‘I want you to have your own special place, that’s just yours.’

  She had helped Amira to organise a four-day holiday, and thought up the excuses she could make to the rest of the Movement in order to visit the property alone. Once Amira had bought it, and with the rainforest community’s consent, Mother had collected a few items for her on the sly. Things like gas bottles, candles, torches. Amira occasionally makes weekend trips there, and she pays a man to slash the grass from the weekly wage she earns as a Warrior.

  Storage is a problem because of the mould. She had to buy special airtight containers to hold mosquito nets, blow-up mattresses, plates, cups, cutlery. She never takes blankets, pillows or mattresses. She will need to buy those when and if she ever uses the place. She imagines taking Lukas there, and having to navigate through the house spiders, pythons and bush turkeys. The thought makes her smile. But she can’t get around the Movement. Also, there are finances to think about. She won’t be able to support herself on painting alone. Without a formal education she has no qualifications. There is an aching in her head; she tries to breathe regularly, deeply, to establish clarity of mind. A waitress. She will have to work in a cafe, or as a fitness instructor, until she finds her feet.

  He texts her, asking how she is, when they would next meet. She doesn’t respond.

  Halfway to Berlin, she searches different news websites on her laptop. She is behind with the news because of the Israeli task and her constant fantasising about Lukas. She types an Australian news site into the web browser and goes to the breaking-news column. One of the items listed reads:

  Police Yet to Name Sydney Beach Body.

  Curious, she clicks on the link and there is a sketch of a man who looks just like First Warrior Brother, Randy.

  Perhaps there is some mistake. Sketches are often inaccurate. But somehow she knows that this one isn’t.

  Her chest constricts as she continues to read the article.

  Forensic pathologists have determined several characteristics of the unidentified person found floating off the northern end of Coogee Beach in Sydney on Saturday evening. The victim was a young man, believed to be in his mid-twenties, physically fit, 189 cm tall and weighing approximately 80 kg. The autopsy examination reveals that he had been in the water approximately 11 days before recovery. He was shot at close range with a Beretta M9 pistol. A police sketch of his face appears below. Police urge anyone who has information about the identity of the man to phone Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000. ‘The death is being treated as suspicious and investigations are continuing,’ a police spokesman said.

  Images come at her, rushed and fierce: Kolya whispering in Father’s ear, the door closing on her, Kolya and Amira eating

  chocolate at three o’clock in the morning, laughing about times when they threw saucepans of water on each other.

  The Beretta M9 was always Kolya’s weapon. Better than the Glock. He prefers the low recoil.

  Then there’s the broken egg. The half-formed dead bird.

  Noise. Screaming. Always Britta screaming.

  She dry-heaves, snapping the laptop shut and racing to the toilet. That’s why Randy never showed for Amelia’s party.

  In Berlin her actions are mechanical and kept to a minimum. Her mind glazes over in some kind of fog that she can’t seem to see through. She checks out the venue, finds a building from which she will make a sniper shot if she has to, and performs range estimates before returning to Cologne.

  The next week passes laboriously and she struggles to eat. Thinking of Kolya is the worst, and how he must have put up a facade during their conversation when he told her not to talk about Randy.

  Yet there are momentary breaks from her gloom: Lukas calls her regularly and they chat each day. She felt unable to answer his messages while operational in Berlin, but now she is glad for the distraction. She has no idea how he is managing to keep up with his karate training and w
ork at the same time. In each phone call, despite her attempts to be upbeat, he asks her if something is wrong. Eventually, he threatens to come to her place and tickle her into a better mood. Luckily he doesn’t know where she lives. He wants to see her and she makes excuses, saying she has to finish a painting, when really she is afraid that she can’t control herself around him and will regret the consequences.

  Finally, on Thursday – just over a week after she has been to Berlin – they have another training lesson and afterwards he convinces her to see a movie. But she can’t concentrate on the storyline because thoughts of Randy keep intruding. Lukas asks her again if she is okay and her voice catches in her throat when she says ‘I’m fine’.

  She works on a new painting, Grenade Girl, in which a young woman in a dark colour is devouring a brightly coloured grenade, a grin on her face, sparks flying in her clearly visible brain. The brain is a mixture of a computer grid and human intestines. She signs it Ava Schwarz.

  When she is not painting or training Lukas, she goes through the motions preparing for the Israeli. By 30 May, three days before the elimination is scheduled to take place, she meets Wilhelm at the Botanical Garden. He is now confident that she can make the hit.

  ‘Marie and I have already moved half the supplies into the basement. I don’t think the Internationals would be pleased if we didn’t deliver,’ he says.

  By Monday she has the sniper rifle and the ammunition, and her inner cheek is bleeding from over-chewing. It is becoming more difficult to stick with her plan to teach Father a lesson.

  On Tuesday, the day before she is to go to Berlin, when her neighbours are at work, she throws a carton of milk down the stairs but the stupid thing doesn’t burst. Not even a bit. So she throws it again and again until the milk spurts out. Then she runs up and down the steps, forcing herself to slip. Deliberately causing a fracture is not as easy as she’d imagined. It takes her an hour and four attempts before her left ankle is swollen like a balloon. The pain is so unbearable that she struggles to walk on it. It has to be a fracture.