Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  They’re almost there. ‘I suppose some of them sort of mooch,’ she says at last.

  ‘Mooch? What the hell do you mean by mooch?’

  ‘If it was me, I’d go for furtive. Don’t make eye contact with anyone; keep your head down, shoulders hunched; even if it’s stuffy in there, keep your hood up and your hands in your pockets.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit of a stereotype?’

  ‘You asked for my suggestions,’ she says. ‘In any case, it’s not like they’re fokking theatre critics.’

  Once they’re through the outer doors the temperature rises by about thirty degrees. Bruno hangs back after wiping his boots but Kass goes straight to a door marked: CHIEF MARINE OFFICER.

  Her first knock is ignored. She makes her second louder and more insistent and, this time, a voice from inside calls, ‘Come in.’

  A tall man with white hair and weather-cured skin rises from his desk. Instead of a handshake, he holds out both arms and enthusiastically embraces Kass in a bear hug. ‘Arnfríður,’ he says, ‘how many years has it been? You haven’t changed one bit.’

  ‘Flatterer!’ She seems reluctant to extract herself from his embrace. ‘It’s good to see you again, Jón.’

  They step back from one another to an awkward silence. Bruno notices the deep blush on her face. It could be due to the sudden change of temperature but he knows it isn’t; knows too that she hasn’t told her wife about this man from her past.

  Kass clears her throat. ‘Great as it is to see you, Jón, as you might have guessed, I’m out here on official police business.’

  His face sobers. ‘Then perhaps you and your young friend would care to take a seat.’

  ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ Pulling off his glove, Bruno shakes the man’s hand. ‘I’m Salvatore, by the way.’ He takes the offered chair, sliding both hands underneath him until he can control his body’s trembling. The connection had been strong. Jón is a man who knows his own mind and now Bruno knows it too.

  Sitting down next to him, Kass glares her disapproval – it’s not hard to know what she’s thinking.

  ‘Right, well, if this is an official visit, what is it I can do for you, Sergeant Kassöndrudóttir?’

  ‘It’s Inspector these days,’ she says.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Jón bestows another wide smile. His teeth are in good shape for an older guy. ‘Glad to hear your many fine qualities are appreciated over at DSD.’

  She smiles back and they share a long look before she says, ‘I’m working a lead at the moment. My informant here has provided us with important but time-sensitive intelligence concerning a recently docked ship and its possible cargo.’

  Remembering his part, Bruno furrows his brow and looks down at his boots.

  Jón frowns. ‘But I thought you were working in Homicide.’

  ‘I am.’ She shouldn’t have hesitated. ‘Thing is, this relates to an on-going investigation of the highest importance. I’m afraid I can’t go into more details. I’m sure you can understand – these are testing times.’

  ‘I see.’ He rubs at his chin. ‘Then I assume you’d like my officers to accompany you and– ’

  ‘No!’ Leaning forward, she lowers her voice. ‘Jón, you have to understand this situation is very delicate and potentially volatile. The whole thing needs to be kept completely off the radar – well, not quite literally, of course, but the point is that if the people involved were to catch sight of your officers, they’d take flight.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Which means I need to do this alone – well, with Salvatore here to guide me. And I’ll need to borrow one of your larger vessels – one with its own lifting gear. It has to be large enough to carry a quantity of illicit goods should that prove necessary.’

  Exhaling loudly, Jón sits well back in his chair. ‘I’m really sorry, Arnfríður, but you can’t seriously expect me to waive all official protocol and simply hand over one of our large and very expensive sea-going vessels. I mean – do you even know how to operate a craft of that class?’ He opens his hands in appeal. ‘Can you, for example, provide me with the details of the requisite A18 Certificate of Competence for that class of vessel?’

  Kass jumps to her feet. ‘You know as well as I do, Jón Benediktsson, I’ve spent half my lifetime out on these waters. I can operate any craft you care to mention with or without an official entry that says I can.’

  He stands up, towering above them both. ‘I want to help you, Arnfríður, I really do, but the bottom line is that you’ll need to officially stipulate the reason for your request and I’m sorry but you won’t be permitted to operate one of my craft without that A18 qualification.’ His face softens. ‘I’m prepared to authorise the use of a suitable vessel but I’m afraid you can’t be at the helm and at least two of my officers will have to accompany you.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Kass says. Her face softens, ‘Listen, you’re just going to have to trust me, Jón – it has to be my way.’

  ‘I can see this is important to you,’ he sits down heavily, ‘but you can’t ask me to risk my whole career on our past friendship, Arnfríður. I’m sorry – those are my conditions. Take it or leave it.’

  When Bruno coughs loudly, Jón looks over at him. Moving closer in a rather awkward, crouching position, he stares into the man’s wide blue eyes. ‘You really want to help your friend.’

  Jón’s face takes on a faraway look.

  ‘All this official stuff – all those protocols and whatever – mean so much less than the word of someone you know, someone you can trust; someone you love.’ He allows a short pause before he adds, ‘I want you to nod if you agree.’

  Blindly, Jón nods several times.

  ‘Stop it, Bruno,’ Kass hisses.

  Without breaking eye contact with Jón, he puts a finger across the man’s lips. ‘You’re going to walk with us down to the moorings. You’ll tell anyone who asks that you personally authorise our use of whichever vessel we choose. Do you understand?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Good. When I snap my fingers, you will stand up, put on your jacket and button it up and then put on your hat. Once you’ve done that, you’ll open the door and lead the way down to the moorings.’

  The snap is loud – like something breaking. Without a word, Jón Benediktsson complies in every way.

  ‘Look at him,’ Kass whispers. ‘He’s moving like a fokking automaton. His men will think this is the start of the zombie apocalypse.’

  ‘They’ll think no such thing,’ Bruno tells her. ‘I can make sure of that, too.’

  They leave the room a few steps behind Benediktsson. ‘You know you really scare me sometimes,’ Kass mutters in his ear.

  Three

  Quentin sweeps aside the clutter on the table knocking some of it onto the floor. Unconcerned, he sits down before extracting two coffees from his bag. ‘Given your name, I guessed you’d take it black,’ he says.

  ‘Good guess.’ Nero perches on the narrow opposite bench. ‘Though I’m not sure the theory of nominative determinism extends to choice of beverages.’ Joking aside, the coffee smells good. He takes a sip and it tastes good too; as far as he can tell it’s untainted. He observes the decoy closely as he pulls out a large carton and removes the lid. Inside, there are two very large bread rolls. Quentin grins at him before prising a circular area from the top of the nearest one to reveal its liquid centre – the soup inside the bread “bowl”.

  Rising steam shows it’s still warm. ‘After schlepping those packs through all those tunnels,’ Quentin says, ‘I reckoned we deserve a decent meal.’

  The aroma of lamb and root vegetables takes over the cabin. ‘I just hope it tastes as good as it smells,’ Nero says. He tears a strip of bread from the other lid, dips it into the soup and takes a bite. It’s delicious.

  ‘The trick is to eat the bread from the top as the soup goes down –just try not to get ahead of yourself.’

  ‘Always sound advice,’ Nero says. The hot liquid quickly s
oftens the hard-baked bread. ‘So how much do I owe you for this?’

  Quentin shakes his head. ‘On me this time.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m afraid we may not have time to finish it all – at their current rate of progress, Kass and Bruno will be here in around sixteen minutes.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you know that.’ The decoy breaks off a large chunk of his crust. ‘I guess I’ll have to take you at your word. In any case, I’m a fast eater. You learn to be in my line of work.’

  Whilst he’s chewing, he gives Nero a long look. ‘You and me – we need to trust each other.’ After he’s swallowed it, his face becomes solemn. ‘There’s something I should tell you in case – well, just in case. One of my contacts is a bloke calling himself Jesper Knutsen, though I doubt that’s his real name.’ Quentin pulls off more crust and waves it around. ‘He said something to me once – admittedly after we’d downed a bottle of vodka between us – something that’s stuck in my mind ever since.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said there was only one person he was truly afraid of. Jesper wouldn’t even tell me his name but he said this guy has people everywhere; that he pretty much controls this entire city. He said I should look out for this tall, fair-haired bloke.’

  Nero scoffs. ‘Around here that doesn’t exactly narrow things down.’

  ‘No, but it seems Blondie has this bird of prey and Jesper told me he’s trained the damned thing to take out the eyes of anyone who crosses him.’

  ‘And you believed him? I mean, no offence, but that sounds like complete bullshit. Some made-up story to scare off the feeble-minded.’

  Quentin shakes his head. ‘You had to be there. Jesper’s not exactly Einstein but it was the way he said it, like he half expected that damned bird to swoop in right there and then. He said you wouldn’t see the bird coming because it’s brilliantly camouflaged against the snow.’

  ‘Sounds like a female gyrfalcon – a rich man’s plaything. Not sure the rest of the story makes any kind of sense.’

  ‘You may be right but, like I said, I thought I should pass it on.’

  They continue to eat, saying very little.

  Nero tries not to think about Chan; tries not to picture her lying on that cold factory floor surrounded by corpses, tries not to imagine about how a person is supposed to recover from an experience like that.

  He feels sated before the soup is half finished. ‘Right, we need to go,’ he announces. Standing up, he discovers that, aside from a touch of indigestion, he feels much better for having eaten. The decoy had been right about that.

  ‘We need to leave these packs here for the time being,’ he says.

  Reluctantly abandoning the last scraps of his bread, Quentin gets to his feet ‘I’m really not happy with that idea.’ He shakes his head. ‘Between our two packs there are four suits and a whole arsenal of weapons; it can’t be sensible to leave them lying around. What if the boat’s owner comes back?’

  ‘He won’t,’ Nero says. ‘Trust me. We are the only ones who know this stuff is in here and right now we need to blend in out there. Look at these things – seeing them, anyone would be suspicious. You have my word that once we’ve loaded the consignment, we’ll come straight back here to get these.’

  ‘Okay, you win,’ Quentin says pulling on his jacket. ‘Just remember this is on your head.’

  Looking down, Nero sees the level of the water has already risen dramatically. The sounds of the port are muted as if someone has turned down the volume to allow him to hear only the slap of the tide and the shrill moaning of the wind through the massed lanyards.

  They leave the safety of the boatyard and make their way towards the port authority offices. The temperature is dropping rapidly as the last vestige of daylight begins to leach away. Despite the salt-spray, every hard surface is frost-coated and slippery. The seawater is glazed with shards of ice though none of it solid enough to present a hazard to shipping.

  ‘It may be quiet here, but the main docks may still busy; try not to arouse suspicion,’ he says. ‘Unless we’re attacked, keep your weapons well out of sight.’

  ‘For fokk sake, Cavallo.’ The decoy spits over the rail. ‘You don’t need to remind me – I’ve been undercover for more years than I care to remember.’

  Most of the cranes are now stationary with their cabs empty. Aside from fishing boats off-loading their catch, there’s very little activity; everyone eagerly off home before curfew begins. The lights of the port authority buildings shine out through the thickening onshore mist. They head straight towards them.

  ‘Stop right there or I’ll fire.’

  They freeze.

  ‘Now show me your hands. Do it slowly.’

  With little choice, Nero complies. Quentin reluctantly does the same.

  Port Officer Svensson steps out of the shadows brandishing a photon gun. His hands are shaking so much there’s a serious risk he’ll discharge the thing by accident.

  ‘It’s alright, Svensson,’ Nero says, ‘It’s only us.’

  His weapon still raised, the man takes a step towards them and then grins. ‘Inspector Cavallo – thank God it’s you.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to put that thing away,’ Nero says.

  After holstering the gun, Svensson ushers them over to the building.

  ‘How come you’re still on duty?’ Quentin asks as they follow the man down a short corridor. ‘I would have thought your shift finished hours ago.’

  The room they enter is pleasantly warm and smells of wood smoke. ‘It’s this bloody curfew,’ Svensson says. ‘There’s a duty roster but they’ve all let us down – just one damned excuse after another. I don’t know what they’ve heard exactly but no one’s showed up to relieve us and we daren’t leave until a relief crew arrives.’

  ‘Very noble of you – good man,’ Nero says. ‘So where’s Andersen then?’

  ‘Grabbing some shut-eye. I’m only supposed to wake him in an emergency. Have to say, we’ve been nervous as hell since you left; what with your men surrounding the port and all that.’

  Nero’s glad the two port officers are still wholeheartedly buying into that story. Yawning, Svensson goes over to the whistling kettle on top of the old cast iron stove in the corner. ‘I was about to make some coffee to keep myself awake,’ he tells them. ‘You two fancy a cup?’

  ‘Sadly, we’ve no time.’ Nero gives a pained expression. ‘And I’m afraid you’ll need to postpone making that drink and go and wake up Andersen. In a few minutes, the Marine Police will be tying up alongside the bonded warehouses. Once your boss has signed off the paperwork, we’d appreciate some assistance in transferring the consignment we seized earlier onto their boat. After that, we’ll all be on our way.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Svensson smiles. ‘Have to say, it’ll be good to see the back of… well, you know, have everything back to normal around here.’

  ‘Once that lot is safely on its way,’ Quentin says, ‘I assure you it’ll be a relief to us all.’

  Four

  Kass slows the police boat as she approaches the first of the breakwater berths. The tide is on the turn – they’re in slack water with hardly any movement on the surface. Once they’re near enough, she throws the motor into reverse and edges the boat towards the floating jetty. Keeping the boat parallel, she lets it drift close enough for Bruno to make the short leap ashore.

  ‘See you later,’ he says, giving her a mock salute. Though it’s not much of a distance, unbalanced by his backpack, he lands awkwardly; his leading foot slips and he has to grab the handrail to keep his balance.

  With the police boat running silently on its battery, Kass gives him the thumbs-up as she expertly steers her towards the warehouses at the far end of the harbour.

  Bruno’s left alone in the gathering darkness. A sea mist is coming in but at the moment it poses no threat. There’s no one around, the only sound comes from the boat’s wake lapping against the swaying jetty. He opens his backpack and, within a few minu
tes, he has that amazing suit back on.

  With only his instinct guiding him, he makes his way along the frosted walkway past all the stilled pleasure craft. He’s drawn towards a narrow pontoon and then on down an impressive line of yachts as he searches for the names on each one. CALYPSO. LIQUID ASSET. SEAS THE DAY – how those jokes must have worn thin with the scarcity of diesel. Alongside ADRÍANNA’S DREAM and towering over all the smaller boats, he finds the name he’s been looking for: NAGLFAR.

  Here she is at last – the boat Dr Arthur had so disgustingly named after the Norse myth about a ship made from the fingers and toenails of the dead.

  She’s a good size – about fifteen metres from front to back and seems to be in immaculate condition. Despite the fact that he’s invisible, he still looks both ways before he ducks under the mooring ropes and steps onto the water level platform.

  For this bit he needs to take off a glove. Dammit – he can’t see enough to do this properly. Ignoring his promise, Bruno retracts his hood.

  After the very first touch, he easily fools the Enhanced Security Entry console. The chain across the steps has a crude padlock – laughable given he could have vaulted over it if he’d chosen to. As it is, it delays him by less than a minute.

  Sensing his presence, a few lowlights flicker on as he climbs the short flight of steps to the rear sundeck. According to the gold lettering along her side, the NAGLFAR is a Waveskipper 45. More lights reveal his wet boot-prints over the pale rugs in the luxury seating area. He walks past an empty dining table then on through the galley into the cockpit.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Bruno finally eases himself down into the captain’s chair. Before him there is only the vessel’s bow, several unlit screens and a single small joystick. Behind him, the deck lights go out in phases leaving him to stare into the dark mouth of the fjord. Tiny ice islands are floating on the surface of the water – a warning of the worsening weather to come.

  Bruno takes a deep breath and stretches his interlocked fingers out in front of him until he hears the quiet snap of each knuckle in turn. It’s pretty cool to see his hands apparently floating in mid-air as if they were conducting music.