She lets go her grip. ‘I really hope you’re not lying to me, Bruno Mastriano. I hate guys who lie and cheat their way through relationships.’
‘So that’s us then, is it – in a relationship?’
‘Maybe – that’s if that’s okay with you; and if I decide I can trust you.’
‘Mmm, that’s two ifs and a maybe.’ He smiles – tries to make it a good one. ‘Listen, I promise I’m telling you the truth.’ He gets up to avoid the way her eyes are still scrutinising him. She touches his free hand and he revels in the connection; knows straight away that she’s not as mad at him as she’s been making out.
‘You’re forgiven,’ she says, breaking contact to smooth down her hair the way she does as if she worries it might be getting away from her. ‘I’m just feeling a bit cranky, that’s all. Besides, you wouldn’t believe what happened last night – all the stick I got from my so-called friends when you didn’t show. I guess I can laugh about it now. You know, at one point in the evening I even had a group of shirtless men posing and parading in front of me while everybody clapped and shouted for me to pick one as a substitute.’ She shakes her head. ‘Talk about insensitive – it was fokking medieval.’
‘And did you?’
‘What – pick one? You’re not seriously asking that question, are you?’
‘Only joking.’ When Krista scowls back at him, he says, ‘You know what, I’ll just go get those drinks.’
They’re playing hooky – Krista had said she couldn’t face the last lecture of the day on Bakhtin and Heteroglossia and he’d pretended the topic didn’t interest him either. Another drink will lessen his sense of guilt. The sunlight is exposing all the marks and damp patches on the walls. Looking down at the floor he notices the dirt around the edges the cleaning machines keep missing.
As he approaches the bar, a group of students bursts in through the door almost knocking him over.
‘Hey, if it isn’t no-show Mastriano!’ He identifies the speaker as Aron Tillerman – a guy from his halls who’s universally acknowledged as a dickhead. Snowflakes are clinging to the boy’s hair and he’s red in the cheeks. Tillerman belches straight into his face and he smells the beer he’s been drinking. The boy leans in. ‘I hear you had some interesting visitors in your room last night.’ He nods over towards Krista. ‘Don’t worry, mate, my lips are sealed.’ He follows that with a knowing wink.
Bruno turns his back on all of them. He walks up to the bar and orders the beers. The newcomers come across and stand right behind him; he can feel some mouth-breather warming the back of his neck. ‘Must be your round, Mastriano.’ Tillerman sniggers. ‘Us being all mates together.’ He stops short of spelling out what will happen if he refuses.
Ignoring further comments, Bruno stares up at the football game no one else is watching. It seems to take a long time for the drinks machine to do its thing. Just as their two beers are emerging, the footy is interrupted. Two words flash up on an otherwise black screen “SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT”. Everybody in the bar groans. ‘What now?’ someone asks.
The pitch dissolves to reveal a middle-aged man in a sober suit. Whatever this news is, they must have decided it needs his gravitas. The bloke’s not fully prepared – it’s obvious he’s still listening to someone’s voice in his ear.
‘Bloody hell, here we go,’ Tillerman says. ‘Fokk sake spit it the out, arse-wipe.’
Various possibilities run through Bruno’s head. If there’d been another assassination wouldn’t he know about it? His stomach tightens. Has Freyja carried out her threat to kill Avraham?
No. His instinct tells him Baltasar’s family is alive and this is something else. If he were prone to praying, he’d be doing it right now. They could be about to introduce tighter movement restrictions or some change to the curfew conditions, but the presenter’s pinned-on expression seems too serious for that.
Everyone in the bar has now fallen silent in anticipation. He’s supposed to be able to predict the future but the truth is that at this precise moment he knows no more than anyone else in the room.
The presenter at last clears his throat. “This afternoon we at EEB can exclusively report that the rumours are true.”
The man’s features soften. Might this be good news after all? “It’s just been officially confirmed that our late Governor Leifsson’s widow, Liljan Ólafsdóttir, has, of a few minutes ago, announced she will indeed be running against Governor Hagalín in the upcoming election.”
A cheer goes up from the students behind him. They slap each other on the back like they’ve just won something. One of them raises a fist in a victory salute and the rest join in. Tillerman begins the chant: ‘Lil-jan! Lil-jan!’
“We’re now going over to Parliament Square where crowds are beginning to gather as we speak.”
The same simple chant is picked up by most of the other drinkers and amplified by all those streaming out into the open in response to the news. He looks around and sees Krista on her feet grinning from ear to ear. She comes bounding over to throw her arms around his neck.
‘Lil-jan!’ she chants into his ear in time with everyone else. They all begin to link arms as if they’re about to do a samba. Bruno is forced into line. It worries him that all those shining eyes share the same expression – an evangelical belief that in spite of the might of the opposition against her, Liljan Ólafsdóttir is about to save the city.
Forty-Three
Chan is meant to be working but she can’t settle to any task. She touches the solid surface of the desk in front of her; lets her fingers run across its smooth regularity. A knowledge of physics tells her that, despite appearances, this desk is really anything but solid. It’s made up of crystalline lattices, which can jiggle around though they tend to stay near or close to their “usual” places – what they know. At the quantum subatomic level, the very idea of solidness falls apart. Does this table even exist? Like Schrodinger’s cat, the table only exists right now because she’s looking at it. In an alternative world – a parallel universe – would it even be here?
There’s an invisible barrier between the version of herself sitting here now and the one who was in Nero’s apartment. In her head she replays the scene where he told her how she had a sister – the two of them identical. She’d seen the proof for herself in that factory – her own face on the dead woman staring up at her. And now she exists alone once more, while her twin’s body has been reduced to ashes. Ashes to ashes.
Dr Bjarnadóttir’s original report clearly stated that she’d found wolf genes in that same sister’s DNA – a claim Dr Magnúsdóttir at the IBR had taken great trouble to refute. Maxwell, for one, believes Jóra Bjarnadóttir’s version. If it’s true, it means that before even existing as a person, her sister Ása Sturludóttir was genetically altered in a way that made her not quite fully human.
Had Dr Magnúsdóttir and her team really been experimenting with the genetic modification of human beings? Had they grown those doctored embryos in their labs and then implanted them into unsuspecting surrogates? If not, why else would they have acted so quickly to cover it up?
Nero told her that she and her sister were separately adopted after they arrived here as refugees. It sounded plausible enough. At that time, Eldísvík was still taking in the displaced and desperate from every corner of the globe – these things – these unfortunate separations – can and did happen.
Chan stares at her own reflection in the blank screen in front of her. What does she honestly remember about her early childhood? Although she must have been tiny, she can conjure up, in vivid flashes, the moment when her mother was brutally seized and pulled away from her screaming. It’s impossible to look away; she can’t block her ears or eyes. Then her father’s arms are pinned back by two men. He pulls himself half free before one of them produces a machete and swings it high in the air. So much shouting and screaming and then there’s only the shocking colour of spilt blood.
She often used to wake bathed in sweat, still hea
ring those cries so primal and anguished. For years she avoided that colour; someone’s red blouse, the bright petals of a flower caught in sunlight – these would threaten to transport her back to that time.
What of her beloved uncle – her saviour? She can see his leathery skin, the deep lines etched into his forehead. His eyes are watering, tears run down his face. ‘I’m so sorry, Jie Ning I have to go back to find my family.’ He whispers the words like it’s bedtime and not the middle of the day. Then he hugs her to him and she buries her face in the sweet-staleness of his clothes. ‘You’ll be safe here. And I will come back some day– I promise you.’
He hadn’t.
And, if it really happened, why is there never a sister standing beside her? Where is she – her twin, the girl who became Ása Sturludóttir? Why isn’t she ever there with her?
When Jie Ning checks the central personnel locator, it tells her Dr Magnúsdóttir is currently not inside any of the IBR buildings. It fails to provide her with an alternative location. A negative instead of the positive she needs.
It isn’t difficult to obtain the woman’s home address. Safer to memorise than record it. She does everything she can to remove any incriminating traces of her search.
It seems Magnúsdóttir lives in one of the city’s most upmarket districts – she’s certainly been well rewarded for her work at IBR.
Chan pushes back her chair. ‘You know, I’m feeling a bit knackered,’ she tells Maxwell, aware that the excuse might be wearing thin. ‘Laskaris said I should take it easy, so I think I might head home a bit early.’
‘Good idea.’ Maxwell turns from her screen. ‘You look a bit pale still, Jie Ning. You should definitely take it easy.’ The girl’s monitor bleeps. ‘Damnit!’ Maxwell says, ‘I’m wasting my fokking time here, getting precisely nowhere trying to locate the origin of those weapons they found in that factory. According to forensics the serial numbers have never been tampered with but I keep drawing a blank when it comes to identifying their country of manufacture. The damned things seem to have sprung into existence fully formed.’ Maxwell shakes her head. ‘If I were you, I’d go home and put my feet up.’
‘Yes, I plan to do just that,’ she tells her.
Chan pulls her hat down low then positions her scarf to cover her mouth. Thanks to the cutting wind she looks pretty much like everyone else out on the street.
The building is easy to locate. Magnúsdóttir’s flat is somewhere up on the third floor. She passes no one in the rear walkway. When she buzzes, she’s surprised to hear movement inside. The door is opened by Magnúsdóttir herself. She narrows her eyes as she tries to penetrate Chan’s disguise. ‘Do I know you?’
She removes her hat and pulls down her scarf and Magnúsdóttir looks startled – caught out. ‘Can I come in?’ Chan asks. She would say more but doesn’t trust herself yet.
Without a word the woman retreats into her flat. The door opens like a reluctant invitation. She steps inside the woman’s sanctum.
Chan follows her insubstantial figure through into a spacious and light apartment. The woman’s hair is pulled back from her face into a bun held in place by unseen means. Up this close, how small and physically insignificant Magnúsdóttir is.
The lighting is low except for a reading light positioned beside a leather armchair. In the hands of a less traditional decorator, the place might look stunning, but with so much heavy, dark furniture it’s oppressive. Books line most of the walls; the air redolent with their age and all that stored-up knowledge. There’s no sign of anyone else. Magnúsdóttir appears to be alone.
Chan goes across to the window. Cloud hangs low against the dying light. Through a gap in the high-rises, she glimpses the lights streaming across the waters of the fjord.
‘Nice view,’ she says, turning around to face her.
‘I’m sure you’re not here to admire the outlook from my apartment.’
Magnúsdóttir sits down in the leather armchair. A hand gesture suggests Chan should occupy the one opposite. The woman’s eyes, hair and clothes are iron grey. It serves well as camouflage. The reading light reveals a sallow hue to her cheeks; there’s a weariness in her expression that suggests some underlying condition.
‘It must upset you that the decoy patrols have been suspended,’ Jie Ning says. ‘I can’t be the only one wondering what’s become of all those vixens you bred. How very stressful to have your life’s work hanging by such a thin thread.’
‘That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss,’ Magnúsdóttir says. She taps the empty chair, ‘Why don’t you sit down over here where I can see you?’
Reluctantly, Chan complies. Remembering her ID, she’s about to show it when Magnúsdóttir flaps her hand as if shooing an annoying pest. ‘No need; I know exactly who you are, Constable.’
The woman settles herself into the chair. ‘I’m sure you’re about to explain to me why you’re here.’
‘I’m here because I want to ask you about the woman’s body you examined – the one they found in that factory,’ she says. ‘In her report, Jóra Bjarnadóttir claimed the woman’s DNA had been genetically altered. That it included wolf– ’
Magnúsdóttir holds up a hand. ‘Please don’t bother to elaborate. I can assure you I’m fully aware of the contents of Dr Bjarnadóttir’s report. Fortunately, we were able to conduct our own tests on the remains of the female and those completely contradicted her findings and established the truth.’
‘The truth.’ When Chan looks directly at her, she appears to flinch. ‘What a high ideal it is to seek out the truth. I suppose that’s why I joined the police force. Perhaps that’s why you became a scientist. Tell me, Dr Magnúsdóttir, are you still able to recognise the truth or do you consider it a naïve concept?’
The woman’s expression remains unaltered – there’s a calmness about her that infuriates.
‘Tell me, Constable,’ she finally says. ‘What is the real reason you’ve come here this evening? What is it you want from me?’
Chan stands up, goes over to the window. ‘Speaking hypothetically, I’d like you to tell me if it would be difficult for a scientist with your impressive background to genetically alter a human in the same way you routinely alter the DNA of those vixens?’
Magnúsdóttir takes in a breath and lets it out again. ‘Hypothetically, it would be very similar; we would use exactly the same techniques.’
‘What about cloning – I assume that’s something you do routinely?’
‘Yes, of course. Cloning animals is a long-established process.’
‘How is it done?’
‘Well, if you must know, we begin by extracting a somatic cell – such as a skin cell – from the animal we wish to copy. We then transfer the DNA of that donor cell into an egg cell that’s already had its nucleus removed.’
Magnúsdóttir shrugs. ‘After that, we use an electrical current to fuse the somatic cell with the empty egg. With luck, that egg will then develop into an early-stage embryo. Finally, we implant that embryo into an adult female’s womb.’
‘And at the IBR you like to mix genes from different animals together.’
The woman sits forward. ‘Are you suggesting gene research is a bad thing? Tell me, do you consider it unethical to try to eliminate hereditary diseases like cystic fibrosis, haemophilia, cancers even?’
‘I’m talking about your fokking experiments with human beings – playing God with people’s lives.’
Face blazing, Magnúsdóttir gets to her feet. ‘I won’t allow such profanities in my home.’
‘Profanities? Surely inserting animal DNA into humans is a profanity in the truest sense of the word.’
‘Ha! I’ll remind you there’s not a scrap of evidence behind that accusation.’ Magnúsdóttir spits the words out. ‘Now that you’ve said what you wanted to say, given voice to your baseless accusations, I’d very much like you to leave my home.’
‘No evidence – on the contrary, I believe there is a whole body of evid
ence against you.’
Chan walks straight at her, only stopping at the last second.
‘Empty threats; is that all you’ve got?’ Magnúsdóttir’s forced to take a step back. Something’s shaken her.
Chan grins. ‘You’re right – I am threatening you, but let’s be clear about this, the threat I just made is far from empty.’
Forty-Four
It’s early on Saturday evening – too early for a lot of people to be out and about but that will come later. The relaxation in the curfew means the full Saturday night experience is unlikely to kick off for a few hours.
As far as Kass can recall, she’s never set foot in this alley before. It’s uncomfortable to be walking in boots that were never designed for walking. Fortunately, each boot top can easily accommodate a knife and she’d opted for symmetry.
The cold air is sneaking under her skirt to cool her thighs. Her eyes sting more easily without a layer of glass to shield them. Her visibility is further restricted by the ice fog that rolled inland over the last couple of hours. Nothing about being here dressed like this feels right.
It’s a relief when the walkway opens onto a small square. The sign for the Nordic Cross is shining out through the mist like a beacon.
As if directing some drama, Nero had allotted each of them their roles for the night. Hers is more of a bit part – strictly walk-on.
A shockwave of music assaults her ears before she’s opened the door. In Nero’s mind, the worst that’s likely to happen to her tonight is she goes home with a thumping headache. He’s trying to protect her out of some outmoded sense of chivalry – he should know by now she’s neither weak nor defenceless.
The lighting is so low she’s forced to squint. A few customers – all male – are loitering in booths near the door. Ignoring the insistent “we serve you” signs, she keeps walking until she reaches a wide wooden counter. The stools arranged on both sides are empty.
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