Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

‘Neat trick,’ Nero says. ‘I have no idea what all that means but remember this has to be untraceable.’ He looks the man in the eye. ‘It’s no exaggeration to say both our lives could depend upon it.’

  That does it – Rustler is high in his chair, almost pissing his pants with excitement. He peers down at the stud looking for clues to its origin. There will be none. ‘I’m guessing you’d like the results ASAP?’

  Nero nods.

  ‘I’ve got to sign off on a few things first so it might take me a couple of hours or so before I have something.’ The man is speaking the truth.

  ‘Okay, fair enough,’ Nero says. ‘Let’s not raise anyone’s curiosity.’

  ‘Come back at twelve noon,’ Rustler says. ‘I’ll make sure the corridor feeds develop a fault. People will think you and me are having a thing if we’re officially seen together twice in one day.’

  The morning drags. He works his way through the plug-ins hoping one of them will shed more light on what happened to Svensson – a forlorn hope. Someone shot two foxes outside a bar in the northern district; turned out they weren’t even vixens. Discounting both port officers’ “accidental” deaths, the city has been fairly quiet over the last twelve hours.

  Making damned sure he avoids Laskaris, Nero is back in Rustler’s office at noon on the dot. He can sense things have changed since the morning. Rustler is stressed, which makes him difficult to read.

  Without saying a word he waves Nero forward then brings out the same vodka bottle as before. ‘Don’t know about you, Cavallo, but I most definitely need a drink.’

  ‘Okay, make it two,’ Nero says. He waits for him to pour the shots, notes the slight tremor in his hand. ‘So what have you got for me?’ he finally asks.

  Rustler knocks his vodka back in one hit and then wipes his mouth. He swivels his chair then stretches sideways to fire up a holo-pro. The image of a young sports team fills the space between them. It begins to rotate, giving them a 360-degree view of each player.

  A second image peels away from the first like a second skin. The original shrinks back whilst the figure in the new one speeds through their virtual life until the readout shows the current year.

  Nero runs his eyes along the now middle-aged heads sitting atop of their youthful bodies – not a fate he would wish on anyone, himself included.

  It’s not difficult to spot Governor Hagalín as well as the central beaming figure of Commander Avraham. Behind the front row players he recognises the now balding Dr Arthur. The awkward looking person standing next to Avraham is taller than any of them.

  ‘As you can see, it’s quite a line-up.’ Rustler refills his empty glass. ‘I ran cross-matches looking for anyone using the name of Viktor and found this fella here is a match for Viktor Persson.’ Rustler’s podgy hand enters the line-up, his index finger pointing straight at the same tall, thin figure. ‘You might have heard of him – he’s a highly successful businessman here in the city. A bit of a recluse by all accounts – even has his own off shore island. We know next to nothing about him.’‘So you’re saying he’s entirely legitimate?’

  ‘Officially correct.’ Le Ruste is about to play his ace. ‘However, just to be thorough – you could call it a hunch – I ran the clock backwards, as it were, and found something altogether more interesting.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Rustler reverses the sequence and the faces grow younger until they’re all young children. ‘The youthful Viktor – is a partial match – I stress the word partial – to the young son of the late Theodor Pearson.’

  Looking at the two side by side, he sees Rustler’s point. ‘We’re talking about the cartel boss, Theodor Pearson, right?’

  ‘The alleged cartel boss.’ Rustler upends his shot glass and fails to suppress a burp. ‘The boy in question was Theodor’s only known child – Kristjan Viktor Pearson. I say was because he tragically died in a skiing accident on his tenth birthday.’

  ‘But only a partial match?’

  ‘Forward to original,’ Le Ruste says. ‘Enhance chosen subject.’

  The line-up of boys re-emerges before Viktor’s face pops up at a magnification set to double life-size. ‘Skin surface analysis suggests this young man, now around twenty years old, had undergone facial surgery. It was done well – but the techniques available were a lot cruder back then.’ Rustler’s pointing finger directs his attention. ‘We can see a few tell-tale traces on the lower half of his face here and over here.’

  ‘So, to be completely clear about this, you’re saying it’s highly likely that the well-known and respectable businessman Viktor Persson is, in actual fact, the son of the late cartel boss Theodor Pearson.’

  ‘My analysis suggests they’re very probably one and the same person.’

  Nero knocks back his vodka. ‘So what else do we know about Viktor Persson?’

  ‘He’s a man of mystery. Fabulously rich so the security around him is pretty much impenetrable. He pays his taxes – never been investigated for fraud. Interestingly, not too many questions have been asked about where his money came from in the first place. Rumour has it the man is backing Hagalín’s current election campaign. Makes sense given we know they’re old mates. Next to nothing is known about Viktor’s private life. The only thing on the system relates to an incident at the airport. He was briefly detained for importing a non-native species – some kind of falcon.’

  ‘Let me guess – no charges were brought and the whole thing was smoothed over, just like that.’

  ‘You must be psychic,’ Rustler says.

  Thirty-Eight

  Bruno’s day has exceeded his expectations – it’s turning out even worse than he’d imagined. Thursdays are always a pain and this one hadn’t begun well. He’d roused himself only after the piercing tones of his new, so much more fokking inferior, stud woke him for the second time. Stiff and aching from the restrictions of the couch, he’d stumbled into Nero’s bathroom having forgotten about the erratic nature of that shower until, for no good reason, it dumped a load of freezing water on him. He’d left a note suggesting Nero should get the damned thing fixed.

  Of course he’s running late again – that’s a given. Though the pod is packed-out and stifling, the memory of that shower makes him shudder all over again. Against the manmade light and the snow-covered mountains the sky still seems as black as – well, something pretty black. He’s always liked that phrase of Chaucer’s: “Blak as fende in helle”. How about as black as a raven in a cave? Looking eastwards, he thinks he can just see the pale tendrils of the aurora flickering. The next moment it’s gone again.

  Most of his fellow travellers are students. It might be good that they’ve got their collective mojo back but all that loud exuberance is unreasonable at this hour. Bruno has to sit with his backpack stuffed into the gap between his feet. He’d much rather stand up but standing isn’t permitted for safety reasons. In case anyone were to forget, there are notices everywhere with crosses against vertical people – like some fokking state religion has decreed an upstanding person has no right to exist.

  When is he going to get that stud back? It’s an ace bit of kit compared with the crap version he has now. Will Nero ever give it back? He hates to think of that state-of-the-art AVR lying forgotten inside some evidence bag.

  His first lecture today is on Abbot Suger and Gothic architecture. Riveting stuff. With his stuttering delivery and lengthy asides, Professor Hennessey is guaranteed to make the topic drier than a nun’s privates.

  At the main campus stop, the doors open with a hiss and the enthusiastic students pour from the pod, Bruno nestled amongst them. Today the two security guys on the university’s main entrance seem less on their guard; their attention easily drawn upwards to the disturbance in the air as a tilt-rotor craft begins its descent. It’s a new twelve-seater; Bruno shades his eyes as he watches it drop vertically to land on a nearby rooftop.

  ‘Hi there.’ The voice belongs to Krista. He’s no idea how she picked him out in this st
ream of people – had she been watching out for him? She looks so beautiful – the sort of girl who would never be paired with someone like him in a movie.

  When she takes his arm, the day is instantly transformed. Damn she smells fresh – so wholesome and… unsullied. ‘I hear you had supper at the Avrahams’ house last night,’ she says.

  They fall into step. He can think of nothing to say except, ‘News travels fast around here.’

  ‘What do you expect – I mean we’re practically neighbours. I’ve known Baltasar most of my life. Silla’s such a sweetie – always playing tricks.’

  Bruno squeezes her hand, thrilled that he’s allowed such a gesture in public like this. ‘Baltasar’s a really nice guy.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean exactly?’

  ‘Well for a start he’s dating my sister and, whatever else you might say about her, she’s no easy ride.’

  Bruno laughs out loud. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  She elbows him in the ribs. ‘I didn’t mean it like that and you know it. Anyway, back to Baltasar, underneath those perfect manners of his, he’s very judgemental. Probably takes after his father. Would you believe he warned me off you? Of course he refused to go into detail – like I was supposed to take his word for it. He said I should – and these are his exact words – “give you a wide berth from now on”.’

  Bruno stops walking; people carry on flowing past them like they’re two rocks in a river. ‘Perhaps he’s right,’ he says. ‘You know how much I like you but maybe for your own good it would be better if you had nothing more to do with me.’

  ‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘Bruno Mastriano, are you trying to tell me you’re a bad boy?’

  ‘I’m saying Baltasar is probably right – you should steer clear of me.’

  Her face becomes serious. ‘Is this your way of dumping me? I mean – have you got cold feet already? The other night I thought we made quite a connection. Am I reading this all wrong?’

  ‘No, God forbid; I mean there’s nothing I’d like better than for us to – well, you know, carry on seeing each other. It’s just that –’

  She pulls her hand out of her glove and seals his lips shut with a warm finger. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you there’s nothing more attractive to a nicely brought up girl than hanging out with a really bad boy.’

  Thirty-Nine

  It’s still early so there aren’t too many other diners in the place. Nero chooses a table about equidistant between the chef’s pass and the outer door. The smell of frying fish is almost making him drool. He’d like to order food but settles for a soft drink to start with.

  She walks in five minutes later, exactly as he knew she would. She gives him a smile that tells him unequivocally that she’s happy to see him. After shedding her outer clothing at the door, Anna comes forward on those swinging hips. ‘Well, if it isn’t the emperor himself; fancy seeing you here. Mind if I join you, your eminence?’

  ‘Take a seat,’ he says. ‘I was hoping to catch you. Sorry about the other night – I can only apologise.’ He wishes it weren’t necessary to add, ‘Turned out to be a false alarm – bit of a fuss about nothing.’

  She pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. ‘So you’re not planning to run out on me again?’

  ‘Promise you’ll have my undivided attention. Don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ he says. ‘Let’s order. After that, I want you to tell me all about yourself.’

  Without glancing at the menu she says, ‘I recommend the cod in oatmeal and honey. I know it sounds a bit weird but, I’ve found unlikely combos can often be delicious.’ Her grin subsides. ‘I know what I like. Guess that makes me a creature of habit.’

  ‘In an uncertain world, there’s nothing wrong with being predictable,’ Nero says, thinking of Chan.

  ‘Wow– a philosopher as well; you Italians really do have the edge.’

  Their fish comes on wooden platters with fried potatoes and lemon wedges. The smell of crushed thyme threatens to take him back to the past. He resists. Instead he stares into the flame of the candle burning between them. ‘I can see why you like it here,’ he says, ‘this food is delicious; honest ingredients honestly cooked.’

  In between mouthfuls he keeps it light – small-talk that allows him to gauge her response. She’s drinking gin and he orders another round.

  She sits back replete from the food, her cheeks reddened by the warmth and the alcohol. ‘I really love this place,’ she says.

  Her friend comes over to clear away their empty plates. It seems an unlikely friendship – though youngish, Hilde is almost matronly, the front of her apron has multi-coloured streaks of food. Poor woman seems to be doing everything herself.

  When she disappears, Anna cuts to the chase. ‘So, Nero, tell me more about yourself.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Well, let’s see – when you’re not seizing other people’s countries and plotting against your rivals, what you do?’

  ‘Sadly, the busy life of a despot gives me little time for much else.’

  Anna chuckles – a pleasant throaty sound. Her shining eyes look up into his suggesting an uncomplicated attraction. He’s thankful when Hilde returns with fresh drinks. Like before, the woman pours generous measures.

  Anna’s conversation is easy, relaxed. ‘This place is like the complete antithesis of the dreaded Nordic Cross – that’s why I come here. It feels cleansing, if that makes sense.’ Leaning in a little closer she says, ‘Nothing’s what it seems in that fokking place. It’s all smoke and mirrors.’ She swings her glass over in his direction. ‘Skál!’ she says, for the second time tonight.

  ‘Salute!’ he insists. Their glasses touch. ‘Here’s to always prevailing against our bitter enemies.’ He takes the smallest of sips. ‘What did you mean when you said nothing’s what it seems in the Nordic Cross?’

  He waits.

  ‘Well, for starters you must have noticed how loud the music is over there. How – what’s the word – incongruous it is. The boss, Robert – you must never call him Rob – he likes to keep it that way downstairs. I swear it’s designed to deliberately put off the punters.’

  Nero frowns. ‘Why would any bar owner want to discourage customers?’

  ‘Because he gets all the money he needs from a little clique of high spenders – a select few. Don’t get me wrong they’re mostly big tippers like I told you before…’

  ‘I sense a but coming.’

  ‘Robert is what you might call well-connected; he’s got these rich cronies who treat the place like it’s their own secret club. They like to play poker upstairs. Not every week – I mean it varies. It’s my job to set the room up but they never tell me about it in advance.’

  Her face is very close to his. He smells the alcohol on her breath. ‘They’re very particular. You wouldn’t believe how smart it is up there – real leather and wood. I have to arrange everything to their precise requirements. Set the table out and the chips they use. Robert makes a huge fuss if he thinks it’s not absolutely perfect.’

  Nero can tell she’s now concentrating on not slurring her words. ‘These bigshots arrive separately along with their entourage of bodyguards. The musclemen always stay downstairs in the bar to make sure no one else goes upstairs. Those guys pretend to be drinking schnapps but it’s only water. It doesn’t stop their goddamn hands wandering.’

  ‘Sounds like a demanding night.’

  ‘Robert likes to serve them personally. You should see the way he fawns over them. If everything’s satisfactory upstairs, he gives me a tip and tells me I should go home.’

  ‘The money must come in handy, you being a student.’

  Anna’s eyebrows come together. ‘Did I tell you I was a student?’

  ‘Must have done,’ he says. ‘How else would I know?’

  ‘Good point.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, they pay me well. I’ve got no reason to complain except, like I said, the place makes me feel d
irty. D’you know what I mean? One of the weekend barmen told me they get a load of hookers in later on. I’m not sure if that’s true or whether he was just fantasising – what he’d do in their place.’

  Nero treads with care. ‘Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got to go soon. This was really nice. Are you working this weekend?’

  Drawing a finger slowly around the rim of her glass, she gives him a flirtatious smile. ‘You want to meet up?’

  ‘If you’re free.’

  She pulls a face. ‘Saturday night might be awkward – timing wise. I’m not supposed to know, but I’m pretty certain the poker game is on, which means I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to get away until nine-ish – could be later.’

  ‘That’s awkward,’ he says. ‘But you’re not certain it’s on?’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve noticed that a few days before, one of them calls by to arrange it. It’s almost always on a Saturday.’ She toys with her drink. ‘Come to think of it, he came in just before you did.’

  ‘I remember following some guy inside. Short. Bald. Sort of furtive?’

  Anna laughs. ‘Yeah, that sounds like him.’ She gives an involuntary shiver. ‘I’ve gone all cold.’ She crosses her arms to rub her shoulders. ‘My mum always used to say that happens when someone walks across your grave.’

  Forty

  All day Bruno’s been wearing yesterday’s clothes. He hasn’t even shaved and the stubble on his chin is beginning to itch. Given the state he was in, it’s nothing short of a miracle Krista has agreed to meet him for a drink later.

  With his final lecture over, he heads across the campus towards his halls. The daylight hours have come and gone without him really seeing the outside. His throat is dry from breathing too much recycled air. He hasn’t done his laundry in a while but there should be fresh underwear and a clean t-shirt in the drawer. He needs to be prepared for all eventualities in case tonight progresses along the lines he hopes. Should he shave or not? From what she’d said earlier, it’s possible she’d prefer the more badass look of stubble.