Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

It feels like they’re in the strangest of dances. ‘I’m not aiming at your heart,’ she says. ‘Just one shot will take out your spleen and stomach and sever your vena cava – that’s even before it turns your liver into pate.’

  ‘Can’t say that I’ve never been partial to liver anyway.’

  ‘You know, even through all these layers, I can feel how much you’re shaking,’ she tells him.

  ‘What can I say – you’re an attractive woman, you’ve always had that effect on me.’

  ‘Bullshit. All those wisecracks of yours only hide the fact that you’re a coward.’ She’s right, of course.

  ‘Busted,’ he says. ‘I’m only human; I’m not so sure about you.’ He forces a grin to his lips. ‘Before you ask, no I’m not feeling fokking lucky. Not by a longshot.’

  When she drops his hand. Bruno screws up his eyes and waits.

  Exhaling, he opens them again. ‘You’ve figured out if you open fire that lot our there will hear it. They’ll come running and your beloved vixens will be so much cooked meat.’

  Her eyes dart to the foxes inside the room. Several more of them are pushing their raised muzzles through the open doorway. It’s clear they’re awaiting orders.

  ‘So what next?’ Bruno asks. ‘Either way you’d better hurry the fokk up.’

  Freyja’s naked right hand emerges. ‘The patrolmen won’t hear this,’ she says, making a grab for another scalpel from the table. She snatches at it, cries out when the blade sinks deep into her fingers.

  The vixens are on him in a flash. He falls with them and against them; their soft pelts envelop him. With his breath knocked out, it’s impossible to struggle under the combined weight of so many. Too many to fight, they drag on his clothes tearing and scratching his skin; low growls, fishy breath and mouths openly drooling.

  He submits.

  The vixens spring back as one and Bruno’s left sprawled out on his back. He tries to sit up. With his clothes tattered and bloodied, it looks like he’s been shipwrecked.

  Freyja’s disembodied head approaches, the last of the foxes disappearing through the doorway behind her. ‘They’ve all gone now,’ she says. ‘Vanished back into the night like they were never here. So you see, no soul-searching is now needed. I’m undivided – which means I can give you the attention you deserve.’

  The head moves closer. One bare hand is crudely bandaged with a paint-smeared cloth while the other brandishes a thicker blade – the handyman variety; the sort that will cut through almost anything.

  He tries to wriggle away. Closer still, she must have dropped down to her knees. ‘I’m ambidextrous,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that lucky?’

  Bruno leans right back – as far back as he can. He feels something catch under his right elbow. As Freyja lunges towards him, he rolls sideways and the blade misses its target.

  Whilst she’s still cursing, he grabs the stray scalpel and aims the blade into her bare neck – into the pulse point just below her ear.

  She doesn’t even cry out. The instrument stays lodged in her neck as she slumps back against the table. A shower of brushes and paint tubes tumbles onto the floor all around her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. Should he pull the blade out again or will that only make it worse? Could it bleed any more? It’s impossible to stem the flow – his hands are all gore. He can’t believe this was his doing – the result of one single moment.

  Her lovely face is already becoming ghostly; her mouth has a blue tinge; that flaxen hair is turning red on one side. He should go get a medic or something.

  The rota-blade noise returns; whooshing inside his ears on and on like an unstoppable pulse. A bright light shines down from above, wavering as it lights up the air like this is judgment day and he will be found wanting.

  Surrounded by paint and brushes, Freyja’s disembodied head is caught in the centre of the beam, spot-lit like she might be the subject of an unfinished painting. A dead life-model.

  Slow unstoppable trails of blood are pouring down onto the suit, filling in the outline of one of her arm and part of her stilled chest.

  Through the skylight Bruno can see that there are now two aircraft moving in tight circles above the Avrahams’ mansion intent on illuminating the scene like it’s a movie set.

  Out in the garden, someone is using what sounds like an old-fashioned loud hailer. It’s so much quieter in the studio. Hard to make out what they’re saying out there though Bruno gets the message that anyone left alive should come out with their hands up.

  Closing his eyes, he finds he’s able to see everything from a bird’s eye view; an out-of-body experience that makes him wonder if he was the one who just died here. If he keeps his eyelids closed, will it all go away and leave him in eternal peace?

  He can tell those restless lights are still prowling. Opening his eyes, the first things he sees are his bloodied hands. Proof, if it was needed. He turns them around, studies the red whorls on his fingertips like they don’t belong to him.

  His jacket and sweatshirt, even his trousers, carry the same telltale, still-wet stains that make what he’s done undeniable.

  Kill or be killed – the law of the jungle. Is self-defence ever a good enough defence? He feels culpable, is culpable – an inescapable fact. His new identity: hello, I’m Bruno Mastriano, student and double murderer.

  Loudspeaker Man keeps telling him to step outside – like he’s angling for a fight. When Bruno looks up, his eyes fix on that gory tableau again. The remarkable suit she’s wearing makes Freyja only part-formed. By rights, shouldn’t she emerge like a butterfly from that invisible chrysalis – springing into life not death.

  If he strips her of her suit, she’ll be whole again. Could he squeeze into it? Even if he managed to, he wouldn’t quite disappear – those long red streaks would still give him away.

  She looks so beautiful; ethereal is the word that comes into his mind. Someone had named her after Freyja the goddess of many things – of love as well as war. Around her tight collar, the decoy’s neck is circled in her pooled blood instead of the Brisingamen – the enchanted necklace that tempted the goddess and finally led to her downfall.

  Stumbling at first, Bruno gets to his feet. He tramps over the many tubes of paint and brushes on his way to the sink in the corner. Water turns red as he washes the woman’s drying blood from his hands. Not bothering to dry them, he takes off his stained jacket followed by the various layers underneath until he’s standing naked from the waist up and shivering.

  It’s still not enough. He unlaces his boots and kicks them aside. His bloodstained trousers drop to the floor and now he’s only wearing underpants and socks. Not quite his birthday suit but near enough.

  He remembers Avraham, how the man must be lurking down below him in his well-appointed bunker. He could be engrossed in a book or a film. When will the commander finally emerge blinking, one hand shielding his eyes? The other hand might hang on to that glass of single malt whisky, ice not yet melted, while he tries to make sense of the what’s happened here in his private sanctuary. He won’t be slow to anger.

  Loudspeaker Man is more insistent now. Bruno walks back over to the table where Freyja is slumped. He needs to check again that this is the way events have transpired and now they are immutable.

  Nothing’s changed. Her pulse is non-existent.

  His whole body is violently trembling as he raises both his hands high in the air and walks slowly towards the lit-up doorway. It’s tempting to raise a hand to protect his eyes but any such movement would trigger a fatal response – fatal to him that is.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ he shouts. ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ someone shouts. ‘Do not make any sudden movements. Keep your hands raised. That’s it. Do not lower your hands. Do not stop. Just keep walking towards the lights.’

  Bruno finds it impossible to know what future he might be walking towards.

  Fifty-Four

  ‘Like I said, sir, I saw exa
ctly what happened with my own eyes,’ she tells Laskaris. Kass is pacing the alley in her high-heeled boots like some where’s-the-party girl. ‘I would have thought you have all the evidence you need. The streetcam and satellite images couldn’t be clearer; they show how Nero was being manhandled. I mean they practically dragged him onto that damned plane.’

  She’s forced to take a breath. Laskaris is a stuck record she has to interrupt. ‘But Le Ruste has already supplied you with details of the flight; it took off a matter of minutes afterwards. We know precisely where it landed on Persson’s island.’

  It’s impossible to walk properly. Hoping on one leg, she kicks off first one boot and then the other. ‘Are you seriously telling me, sir, that you’re prepared to allow a senior policeman to be beaten up and kidnapped? Who knows what they’re doing to him over there? He could be killed. Weren’t you in the military? Don’t you guys have that “leave no man behind” thing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we’ve got our hands full over here,’ his stupid voice keeps repeating. She hates how he emphasises her inferior rank. ‘There are more than two dozen people lying dead over here,’ he says. ‘This has to be our priority.’

  ‘From what I hear, Avraham’s mansion’s now wrapped up in tape and secured. Don’t the living take precedence over the dead?’

  Damnit, the cold is seeping into the bones of her feet; she’ll have to put the fokking things back on. While the DCI is saying the exact same thing in a slightly different way, she rehearses her next words in her head.

  Someone’s talking to him in the background; he’s only half listening to her. ‘Sir, this is your watch,’ Kass says. ‘I’m logging this conversation and, with respect, you’re the person who’ll be held responsible if you fail to red flag the situation right now. Oh, and for your information, the department’s TYR is still parked where Nero left it so I’m officially borrowing it.’

  There’s a pause before Laskaris asks, ‘With what intention?’

  Kass is already walking towards the two-seater. ‘My intention is to do what I can to rescue my fellow officer, sir. I strongly suggest you do the same.’ She turns off his protests.

  Kass weaves in and out of the back streets then skirts around the harbour area until she locates the turning for the old dirt road. It’s a rough ride made worse by her being dressed as she is. Without the full user code, she hadn’t been able to get the canopy to deploy. The night air is laden with icy particles that are hitting her face full on and making it hard to breathe. Like she does when she’s swimming, she turns her head sideways to gulp in enough air. Her thighs are numb with cold and the heels of her boots keep snagging the footrest. If only there was time to go home and change.

  Up ahead, the rotating red light above the monument is puncturing the night sky. Waves are pounding at the side of the narrow promontory road on both sides. She’s more than halfway along before she sees the sign declaring: MARINE POLICE.

  Kass comes to a gravel-spraying stop and runs inside heading for the same door as before. Seeing his name gives her hope. Without waiting to knock, she bursts in. ‘Jón, I’m sorry to barge in like this but I really need your help right now.’

  ‘Arnfríður, how are you?’ Jón runs his eyes up and down her. He shares a look with the other two uniformed officers – both men – in there with him.

  She struggles to find the right words. ‘Listen, I’m sorry but there’s no time for niceties. My boss – my good friend – Inspector Cavallo; he’s been kidnapped and he’s being held on an offshore island.’

  No one responds.

  She’s aware of the many holes in her wretched tights; the makeup that must be working its way off her face. ‘I’m deadly serious,’ she tells them. ‘His life is in imminent danger – they’re probably torturing him right now. I need as many men as you can muster.’

  The three men are still unconvinced. ‘Oh, and I need a change of clothes – literally anything you have has to be more practical than this.’ She holds both hands out in appeal. ‘Undercover operation,’ she says by way of explanation.

  This time they nod sagely. ‘So which island are we talking about?’ Jón asks.

  ‘It’s been renamed Asgard,’ she says. ‘Can’t remember its proper name.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Are you talking about Viktor Persson’s island?’ More shared looks.

  ‘Persson’s the one who’s kidnapped him.’ She wishes Bruno was here to persuade them. ‘If you don’t believe me, you can speak to Le Ruste – the head of surveillance. He’s been tracking their movements tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Arnfríður, but I will need official verification before I can dispatch any patrol ships.’

  ‘You never used to be so fokking cautious.’ Their expressions alter – she’s not making allies here. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘It’s okay, I’d probably do the same in your shoes.’

  Jón goes to the console on his desk. ‘It seems there’s no need,’ he says. ‘We’ve just this second received an official request to assist an officer on Asgard.’ He smiles at her. ‘DCI Laskaris has issued an arrest warrant for Persson along with someone called Dr Arthur.’

  He touches her shoulder, looks down at her like he used to all those years ago. ‘Once again you seem to be ahead of the curve, Inspector Kassöndrudóttir. I’ll go see about those clothes. Hope you won’t mind wearing a marine officer’s outfit; you never know, you could get used to it.’

  In another life things might have worked out differently. ‘No problem at all,’ Kass says, ‘as long as I can go along with you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he says.

  Their boat sets out ahead of the others. Once free of its moorings, the hull rises up sending salt spray out into the night air; God how she loves being on a fast boat at night.

  It’s not easy changing inside the cramped cabin. The uniform is stiff but she’s grateful to be wearing warm, practical clothing again. She straps on the shoulder holster. Appraising her, Jón says, ‘Mmm, I think it needs a final touch.’ When he hands her a photon gun, she’s tempted to kiss him.

  They reach the first of the islands in a matter of minutes. Their launch makes swift progress along the narrow straits between the islands – the helmswoman expertly navigating a passage through the many rocky outcrops. The sea around them is choppy but they’re hitting each wave square on.

  Asgard appears out of the mist, its cliff face lit by the plane circling just above the headland. The letters DSD are written on the plane’s underside.

  The boat’s motor slows and her bow drops down as they prepare to dock. They drift in towards the floating pontoon; a shudder runs through the boat as she makes contact with the fenders.

  One after the other they make the easy leap ashore then race up the wide pathway towards the high ground with its landing strip. Kass reaches the top more out of breath than she should be.

  An executive plane is parked squarely on the landing pad preventing the department’s plane from landing. Instead, officers are sliding down ropes – one after the other they keep on coming. Laskaris may have needed persuading but he hadn’t skimped on resources in the end.

  Kass stops to check the registration numbers on the parked plane’s fuselage and relays its identity to Rustler. He confirms it’s the same plane they’d dragged Nero onto.

  She catches up to the others – they’ve all slowed to a jog. Looking towards the main buildings, Kass spots around twenty smartly dressed individuals coming towards them with both hands raised high in the air. All of them appear to be blond-haired men.

  There’s a lot of shouting and cursing. Pulling her gun from its holster, Kass squares up to the nearest man hoping he’ll run or make a grab for a weapon but he’s unarmed and simply stands there letting himself be cuffed; his grey suit remains immaculate.

  She shoves him in the back, pushes him forward to where his colleagues have been rounded up like so many sheep.

  Aerial intel had showed a large inner courtyard
behind those high walls. It would be easy enough for the hovering plane to drop more officers inside but there’s no need – the doors stand open wide. It seems Viktor Persson is no longer king of this particular castle.

  Someone grips her upper arm; she swings her weapon round to nothing. ‘Kass, it’s me.’

  A whisper. Quentin – voice only; has to be wearing the suit. ‘You bastard, you betrayed us,’ she says. Now she’s looking for it, she sees a fault line in the air.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ he says releasing her arm. ‘Nero’s up on the second floor. Take the rear entrance and look for a big meeting room. Hurry, he’s lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘I need a medic!’ she shouts out. ‘Now!’

  Fifty-Five

  Whine of a motor. Rota blades. Someone squeezing his hand. ‘You’re okay.’ Woman’s voice. He can’t …

  Nero opens his eyes. Everything is lit up – too damned bright. Too much.

  His mouth’s so dry. Squinting, he turns his head slowly, follows the path of the various tubes to where they terminate on the inside of his elbow in a cannula. His left shoulder is numb. Someone’s dressed him in a hospital gown. Here we go again.

  He hears a familiar sound; no, not a machine but someone or something quietly snoring. Turning his head by increments the other way, he sees Kass slumped in a chair, head thrown back with her mouth wide open. Catching flies – isn’t that what they say in English? Then again she’s not English. She’s wearing a blue uniform. Strange. ‘Dreymi þig vel,’ he says shutting his own eyes.

  When he wakes again she’s not there.

  Nero’s not sure how long he’s been lying in this bed – long enough that’s for sure. It’s not easy to sit up but he does his best to raise his upper body.

  A medic appears – something must have alerted him. ‘Whoa; need some help there, buddy?’ American accent. Tall, dark-skinned, well-built and wearing scrubs. The man comes forward, does something that makes the head of the bed rise. Up close, Nero can see he’s very different from Nelson – only a superficial similarity; the result of too much wishful thinking.