Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  Is this a hostile reception committee? They wait for the shorelines to find the right bollards to fasten themselves around. She hears a few creaks as each becomes tense and begins to pull the boat, closing the gap to the jetty. A dull thud confirms they’ve officially arrived.

  ‘Okay – this is it,’ Kass mutters. Holding her police badge high in the air, she steps ashore with Bruno right behind her. They walk up the steep slope towards the six police officers. None of them salutes, no one speaks or smiles; they simply move aside – three on each side – like a guard of honour or an escort squad.

  Bruno hurries alongside her. ‘D’you think I should offer to pay for the biscuits?’

  Kass gives him half a smile. She looks back at the boat. The tarp is rolled up in its place, the upper deck is now completely clear. From the outside she looks exactly the same as she did before they borrowed her, although a keen eye would notice she’s sitting much lower in the water.

  They walk right through the main building unhindered, passing a few more silent officers in the corridor leading to Jón Benediktsson’s office.

  Kass knocks at his door but gets no answer. When she tries the handle, the door springs back. It’s a shock to see Jón still sitting in his chair in the dark. She turns on the lights. He doesn’t get up just continues to stare back at them.

  ‘Hello again,’ she says. They walk into the room and still he says nothing, his gaze never shifting from the open doorway.

  ‘Whoops,’ Bruno says. ‘I think, in fact I’m pretty certain, he’s still under.’ He turns to Kass, ‘By that I mean hypnotised.’

  He clicks his fingers several times under Jón’s chin but there’s no response.

  ‘Sjitt! I don’t believe this,’ she says. ‘You’ve left my friend in this state for fokking hours. What if we hadn’t come back?’

  ‘Look, I’m new to this, alright.’ Bruno shrugs. ‘I thought – well I just assumed he’d have come out of it before now. Not sure where I went wrong, but you have to admit this could actually work to our advantage.’

  ‘Explain to me how inducing a catatonic state in a senior marine police officer is going to help us? We need him to arrange for those weapons to be escorted right now to a high secure unit.’

  She snaps her fingers several times in front of Jón’s eyes but he doesn’t even blink. ‘How’s he going to do all that in this state? And what about the officers we just passed?’

  ‘What about them? I’ll grant you they seemed a bit quiet but, you know, nice enough.’

  ‘Nice enough!’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Exactly how are any of them going to protect that consignment of weapons by being nice enough to anyone who tries to intercept it?’

  ‘Hang on a minute – no one knows we have those guns. Our secret is safe.’

  ‘Maybe, but for how long? The people who sent them here may have been paid already but I doubt it. The likelihood is they’ll stop at nothing to get their money or their goods back. You have to remember, stevedores talk; ship’s captains, ordinary seamen, port officers – they’ll all talk given the right inducements.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I get it.’ Bruno narrows his eyes at Jón. ‘You want me to wake him up.’

  ‘Too fokking right I do.’

  ‘Then give me a minute to think about it – it’s not like there’s a manual over there on that shelf where I can look these things up.’

  ‘Fine; but you’d better think fast.’

  ‘Great – no pressure then.’ The boy rubs his chin like he’s playing the part of a psychiatrist. Then he begins to circle the chair as if he’s looking for an on switch.

  He comes back to his starting point. ‘You know, I’ve had a thought. He’s not asleep – he’s only in a trance-like state. Why don’t I just instruct him to order an armed escort for the weapons and all that? He’ll do whatever you want. He’s a senior bloke – no offence but he probably always acts like he’s got a stick up his arse. No one’s likely to spot the difference.’

  Kass is tempted to scream. ‘You haven’t been listening. This man needs his wits about him to do his job properly. They all do.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I need to explain that we’ve intercepted an illegal arms shipment and whatever they do, they mustn’t dig around too much or our whole operation will be blown.’

  ‘Won’t that just pique his curiosity?’

  ‘Not if I tell him DSD are keeping the suspects under surveillance. I’m sure I can persuade him to leave it to us.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bruno nods. ‘Good plan.’

  ‘That’s why you have to wake him up – there’s no alternative.’

  ‘Like I explained, technically he’s not asleep.’

  She gives him a warning look. ‘I don’t care what fokking state he’s in – just wake him up.’

  ‘Right.’ Bruno rakes his hair back from his eyes – such an annoying habit. ‘I could try the counting method.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever – just get on with it.’

  ‘Can’t remember whether you’re supposed to count down or count up.’ He throws her a look. ‘Okay, I’ll just go for the countdown.’ Then he hesitates. ‘I’ll miss out “blast off”.’

  Kass has to smile. ‘I don’t think a psychiatrist would say that bit.’

  Against all odds, the countdown method works. Jón appears to recover more or less instantly and, so far, hasn’t once brought up any of the previous irregularities. His eyes are on stalks when they prise open one of the crates. Like a stuck playback, he keeps congratulating Kass on a job well done. Of course the man’s not naïve – he’s wise to the fact that such a substantial seizure will do only good things for his division’s quarterly statistics.

  Bruno had to use the same awakening technique with the other officers; though they still seem a bit dozy, they’re talking again; it has to be said without a lot of animation. Maybe he should have added that “blast off” after all. He shakes his head – perhaps they’re always like that. In any case, he’s fairly sure they’ll be okay after a good sleep.

  The skinny DSD sergeant comes back into the office and salutes. Why do they waste so much time doing this? It’s Jón Benediktsson’s rank and not Kass’s that’s attracting so much deference. ‘That’s all 35 crates loaded and waiting for your approval, sir,’ the man says, looking only at Jón.

  ‘It’s no reflection on you or your fellow officers, Sergeant, but I’d personally like to check things over one last time,’ Kass tells him.

  The man looks to Jón for verification, waits for him to nod before he says, ‘Certainly. This way, ma’am.’ Bruno can tell he’s irritated by her excessive caution but then he hasn’t seen what’s inside those crates.

  Outside, three patrol vehicles are standing by. All are the usual sleek lozenge shape with no discernable windows. The marine officers make an impressive armed guard. Trailing behind Kass, Bruno walks past all their bristling weapons. The rear hatches of each of the vehicles are wide open. Kass climbs up inside the first one to check the crates and then does the same with the other two. Bruno wishes he too could take a better look inside just one of them.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, jumping down, ‘All present and correct – you can seal the doors.’ Benediktsson nods his agreement and each lozenge instantly becomes a seamless whole.

  ‘As agreed, ma’am,’ the sergeant says, ‘these vehicles will be taking separate random routes to the facility. Now those rear doors are sealed, only the receiving officer – Superintendent Lanhsson – will be able to open them again. Everything will be checked off meticulously against the official port manifest.’

  ‘Right then,’ Kass says, ‘don’t let me keep you, Sergeant.’

  He gives a final salute before he bangs on the side of the first vehicle. It glides off soundlessly. A door opens at the front of the last one and he climbs inside before that too slips away into the darkness.

  Kass stands there looking like a mother watching her precious offspring go off on a trip. ‘Don’t worry – no one ambushes them,’ Bruno
tells her.

  ‘I never know when to believe you,’ she says.

  Back inside, they take their leave. ‘I’ll be submitting my report to Superintendent Lanhsson tomorrow,’ Kass tells Jón. ‘I guess it’s time I went.’ She swings a foot like she’s rehearsing the movement. ‘Better go get some sleep and all that.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then,’ Jón says getting up. The two share a look.

  Bruno coughs. ‘I’ll be right outside,’ he says.

  Nine

  It’s impossible to guess Naglfar’s exact position but Nero’s fairly certain he’s far enough away from the point where he’d cut the motors – the point where, in this darkness, she should have disappeared from every intel system on the planet.

  He daren’t risk powering up the navigation screen in case some eagle-eyed analyst sees a stray thermography image pop up. Besides, if he doesn’t know exactly where she went down, no one will be able to drag that information out of him in future however hard they might try.

  The yacht is hardly moving now; the tide has slackened and will soon begin to turn. Luckily, the sky has cleared and the emerging moon affords just enough light for him to see what he’s doing.

  Time to get on with this.

  He walks through the galley to the rear deck, unhooks the little shore boat and pulls her down until she’s held parallel to the deck. Inside, there are numerous lifejackets. It’s vital these all go down with the ship. They’re awkward to carry – it takes him two trips back to the galley to stow them inside one of the larger lockers.

  Nero then inspects the contents of the waterproof compartment underneath the boat’s rear seat. Inside, he finds a small torch. By its light, he locates and identifies a pack of five distress flares, a tin containing basic rations and a bottle of drinking water. Finally, he picks up a state-of-the-art survival blanket – odd that there’s only one. He’s impressed that someone had so thoroughly provisioned a boat normally only used for a quick hop over to shore.

  Lastly, he checks for the third time that the rope he’d attached to her bow is secure. Silently, he thanks Nonna for teaching him how to tie a decent slipknot.

  The launch mechanism works without a hitch and the little boat hits the water with hardly a splash. She continues to ride in the wake some five metres off the stern.

  Once he’s holed the yacht below the waterline, he’ll run back up here, pull the boat closer and jump inside. It seems a sound enough plan. He decides against putting on the life jacket – its bulkiness is bound to hamper his progress in the passageway below. Instead he hangs it over the rope that’s attached to the boat.

  Satisfied with his preparations, Nero walks down the narrow stairway to the lower deck. His torch beam highlights the opulence of exotic veneers and polished brass; there’s the distinctively musty smell of wealth and entitlement. Dr Arthur certainly had no intention of slumming it on his way to a new life.

  Using the vessel’s schematic, he’s already identified an area on the starboard side as the best place to shoot a few holes through her. Part of him is beginning to regret having to inflict fatal damage on such a fine vessel.

  Clamping the torch between his teeth, he pulls out the photon gun. Though he hasn’t fired this model before, he’d chosen this 7.3 because of its range of possible settings. To make his escape, he needs to hole her in several places – colander style – rather than blow half her side away.

  He walks past the first two cabins. Straight ahead of him, he sees a door labelled “Citadel”. Bruno had described this reinforced master cabin. Whatever they’d used to achieve this – possibly some type of graphene compound – had to be remarkably light not to have seriously unbalanced the yacht.

  That word – Citadel– must have appealed to Dr Arthur’s ego. It makes Nero think of the Cittadella of Alessandria – a place that now seems as far away as any mythical castle.

  He looks at the boarded deck below his feet. This is it. Standing well back, he rehearses the first shot. Better to angle it sharply. He’ll start with the lowest charge and see what damage that inflicts. A practice shot on the first setting ought to give him an idea of the charge he’ll need for the next few blasts.

  It’s really difficult to see the weapon’s gauge in such poor light – a flaw that surprises him; it’s hard to comprehend the gun’s designers hadn’t envisaged drawing this weapon in less-than-ideal light conditions.

  Nero gets himself ready with a few deep breaths. Out loud, he says, ‘Okay – let’s do it.’ With his legs braced, he stands back, takes careful aim and fires.

  The blast-back hits him like an invisible wall. Splintered wood and a million shards of carbon fibre come at him so fast he can only shut his eyes. A hot cloud envelops his body.

  Wiping his face, he opens his eyes to see water rushing in through a massive hole in her side. Fokk! Icy seawater is covering his boots. As he turns to run, the yacht groans and tilts with the extra weight in her bow. His torch falls from between his teeth. Before he can retrieve it, the light goes out plunging him into total darkness.

  Beneath him, the corridor becomes a waterslide and then a mountain to be climbed. Nero blindly grabs at whatever finger-holds he can find to haul himself back towards the stairway.

  A change of level tells him his boot has located the first flooded step. There’s a series of creaks and bangs as the yacht tilts to a suicidal angle. Nero grasps the handrail with both hands; his boots and clothing weighing him down, he drags himself up step by step until he’s finally clear of the water.

  Shivering uncontrollably, he gropes around on the upper deck trying to locate the rope he’d attached to the shore boat. Looking out, he can just make out her dark, reassuring shape moving independently in the swell.

  Lapping water threatens to drag his feet away. Beneath him, the yacht shudders as she prepares to go to her watery rest. Finding the rope, he grabs the life jacket and pulls it over his head. He hauls the little boat towards him knowing that if he doesn’t untie her she’ll be pulled under. He makes just enough slack on the rope to loop it around his left hand. Finally, he tugs at the loose end of the slipknot attaching both him and the boat to Naglfar.

  Nero’s feet are lost from under him and he’s dragged beneath the freezing water. His whole body goes rigid with shock. He surfaces gasping for breath. The rope is still wound around his left hand and the keel of the little boat is nudging at his shoulder.

  With his free hand held clear of the icy water, he reaches up to the gunwale ridge. His frozen fingers clamp onto it. Letting go of the rope, he brings his other hand up. He gets enough purchase to haul himself out of the water before falling back again. The boat rocks alarmingly. On his second attempt, he’s able to lift himself over the side and he flops down into the boat like a landed fish.

  On righting itself, the boat begins to rock gently. Above him, the sky holds a million stars. Nero stares up at them ALL. Unable to drag air into his chest, he feels lightheaded like he might float away. He knows his core temperature must be dangerously low, that he’s about to die. The thought doesn’t fill him with panic. Closing his eyes, he can feel the icy breeze beginning to seal them shut.

  So peaceful.

  Wait. This boat, along with his corpse, will act like a marker beacon pointing the way to the wreck of Naglfar. He forces his eyes open again. The pain of it rouses him.

  Can’t let that happen. Rolling his head to the side, he discovers his shoulders are almost wedged into the bow. He must make it over to the bench at the stern. Ice particles have already begun colonising his body like coral on a wreck. Around him the moonlight is shimmering seductively on the shallow pool of water inside the boat

  Reaching for the gunwale ridge, Nero pulls himself up into a sitting position. Crawling on all fours, he makes it to the stern. His hands are so numb he can’t be certain they’ll move at will. It seems impossible he can muster enough strength to lift the lid of the bench but he does. Something shines up at him like treasure – it can only be the su
rvival blanket.

  It crackles then gives out a shrill tearing noise as he pulls it apart and then wraps it round his near-to-frozen body. A luminous dial requires him to make a choice of settings – the irony isn’t lost.

  He wonders if they ever test these things in such extreme conditions. Fifty metres away, the broiling and bubbling sea claims the stern rail of Naglfar as she slips below the water.

  Ten

  Out in the corridor an icy wave hits Bruno with force. His whole body goes rigid; he can’t breathe, his legs will barely hold him up. Fighting the illusion, he bangs hard on Benediktsson’s door.

  Kass comes out with Jón right behind her. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Her irritation turns to concern. She touches his forehead. ‘You’re freezing – you look terrible.’

  ‘Should I send for a first-aider?’ Jón steps back a little. ‘He looks really sick.’

  Kass shakes her head, utterly bewildered.

  ‘I’m having … re … reaction,’ Bruno stammers, ‘allergic type.’ It’s a struggle to say more. ‘It’s rare. Get me to hospital. Now.’

  ‘Go!’ Jón says. ‘Take my two-seater. It’s just outside.’ He points to the main entrance. ‘The activation code is Andvari – as in the dwarf king.’ Rather reluctantly, Jón puts a hand underneath Bruno’s arm to support him. ‘Let’s go.’

  The two-seater is a Valkyrie 7. Bruno would normally be thrilled to be riding in one. Kass jumps into the driving position while Jón helps him into the passenger side. ‘Andvari,’ she says and the vehicle springs to life. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring her back in one piece.’

  ‘Should I alert the hospital?’ Jón asks.

  ‘No,’ Bruno says. ‘They all know … what to do.’

  Wheels spinning, the Valkyrie takes off. In less than a minute they’ve reached the end of the promontory track. Kass hesitates at the junction. ‘Fokk – this intel is confusing. I’m not sure which is the quickest route from here.’

  ‘Head for the boathouse,’ Bruno tells her.

  Instead, she turns right. ‘Not before I get you to the hospital.’