by Helen Harper
When I apparate back into the forest, Dante has already gone. I pause for a moment in case he’s still near enough to sense me but I think I’m safe. I spot a few broken twigs to my left and grin. My ‘trap’ worked. Staying on tiptoe to remain as soundless as possible, I take off. It’s imperative that I find Dante before he realises I’m here.
I twist and turn through the trees. If he’s heading into town I’m effectively stuffed. It’s already almost night time again and there will be far too many people around to stay incognito, assuming he doesn’t duck inside a building for a clandestine meeting. Let’s face it, I’m supposed to be meeting the Department in less than two hours.
I’ve barely gone five hundred feet when I hear the low hum of voices. I fist-pump the air in triumph and slow down, getting close enough to hear and see exactly what’s going on. My dark clothing is a considerable bonus in keeping me hidden.
Dante is at the far side, tall enough to loom over the others. So much for his broken relationship with the Department then. ‘She’s coming around,’ he says confidently. ‘Another day or two and the dreamweaver will be eating out of the palm of my hand.’
‘Assuming she hasn’t already agreed to our plan,’ snorts a familiar voice. Curly. Hello, you bastard.
From my concealed position, I see Dante’s lip curl. ‘I think you rather screwed yourself on that one when you attacked her. Zoe is naïve, not stupid. You’re lucky I was there to save the day. At least now she’s beginning to trust someone.’
‘Do we have a bead on her real location yet?’ another voice asks.
‘Nothing. Wherever she is, she’s keeping herself well hidden. But don’t worry, she’ll turn up sooner or later. We’ve got people checking all the CCTV footage in the area.’
‘And the police?’
‘She fucked us up on that one by manipulating Ingold.’
There’s a curse. ‘Not to mention showing up at the station early. We should have anticipated that move.’
‘That’s not fair,’ someone protests. ‘We had very little time to put anything in place. We did the best we could.’
‘Blowing up the police headquarters was the best you could manage?’
‘No one was hurt.’
Dante sighs loudly. ‘You lot can squabble amongst yourselves as much as you want. The fact remains that the only one with any hope of getting hold of Zoe Lydon is me. If you want the dreamweaver, you need to trust me and let me do this alone. Interfere again and we could lose her for good.’
‘Ha! We won’t lose her. She might be hiding for now but she can’t do that forever. We’re the Department. We’ll always be stronger.’
‘Don’t be an over-confident idiot. She’s eluded you so far.’
‘Us,’ Curly points out. ‘She’s eluded us.’
‘Whatever,’ Dante dismisses. ‘I’m out of here. She won’t be asleep again yet and I want to try tracking her again in Zurich before I follow her in the Dreamlands. You lot can sort yourselves out.’ He wags an admonitory finger at them. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ He disappears, disapparating back to the real world.
I suppress a shiver at the thought that he’s still searching for me and then I focus on the remaining Department goons.
‘We can’t trust him,’ Larry says.
‘Well, that’s a given. He wants to be in charge. He doesn’t realise that we work well because no one person has more power than anyone else.’
‘The dreamweaver does.’
‘She doesn’t know half of what she’s capable of. And the only people she’s got helping her are an old woman, a country policewoman and a scared boy.’
There’s a laugh. ‘And the cat. Don’t forget her fat cat.’
My eyes narrow, piercing the gloom to find the person who dared to denigrate the Chairman. He’s an older-looking man, probably in his mid-fifties. He’s wearing an expensive-looking suit, although his tie is loosened. I stare at him, memorising his features. There’s a flash of metal from his tie as he turns and I focus on it, catching a glimpse of an unusual looking tie pin. It’s some kind of flower twisted round a mermaid.
‘Do we think she’s going to show tonight?’
‘It’s unlikely but we should head back into town just in case. It’d show that Dante bastard if she did come.’
‘We need to get rid of him for good. He’s getting too big for his own damn boots.’
‘First we get the dreamweaver. Then we get rid of him.’
I think they’re planning a more final farewell than slamming a door in his face. I look at them again, making sure I know everyone’s features. When I’m happy, I nod and disapparate. There’s no point in hanging around and increasing the risk that I’ll get caught. Not now I finally have something to work with.
Dante was right about one thing at least; I’m not as stupid as they think.
***
As soon as we land, I barrel my way towards the bank of computers set up for weary commuters to use. I waste no time in creating a new, anonymous email account and type out a message to the others, informing them that I’m safe and about my progress. While I wait for an answer, I switch to a search, scanning as many images as I can for anything to do with a rose and a mermaid. I’m on the fourth page and still scrolling when a tired-looking woman plonks herself next to me and glances over. ‘English?’ she asks, with a faint accent.
I grunt in response, hoping she takes the hint and leaves me in peace. It doesn’t work.
‘You’re waiting for the red eye too?’ She pronounces her consonants curiously. Scandinavian, I’d guess. ‘It’s the worst flight to get. Cheap, of course. But still the worst.’
I wonder what it will take to make her piss off. Maybe I should tell her I’m wanted on international terrorism charges. It might make her go away, if nothing else.
‘Listen,’ I begin.
Listening is the last thing she’s doing, she simply barrels on. ‘I’ve been in Istanbul for three hours. That’s it. Fly from Copenhagen. Get here. Meet an idiot about computer parts and now I have to fly back. My company wouldn’t even let me book an overnight hotel room. It’s as if they don’t want me to get any sleep.’
I stop my internet search and slowly turn towards her. ‘You’re Danish.’
‘Yes. I don’t eat bacon, though. That’s what you English always talk about when I say where I’m from. Danish bacon.’ She sighs.
I glance back at the computer screen and the images it displays. So far, nothing matches the tie pin I saw – but there are a lot of sites featuring mermaids. ‘I’ve never been to Denmark,’ I say. ‘But I’d love to see the Little Mermaid.’
The woman laughs. ‘All the tourists do. It’s really not very impressive. It’s very small.’
‘I guess it’s very famous though.’
She shrugs. ‘I suppose so.’
I keep going. ‘Do you know any companies which use a mermaid as their logo? Maybe with a rose?’
‘No.’ She scratches her nose. ‘There’s Frandsen, but their mermaid isn’t holding a rose. She holds a snake.’
I don’t move. It was dark when I saw the tie pin; maybe I saw a snake and not a flower. It would certainly fit better with what I know of the Department. ‘Frandsen?’
‘Yeah.’ She gazes around, already bored with the conversation.
I resist the urge to grab her by the lapels and shake her until she tells me everything she knows. ‘Who are Frandsen exactly?’ I ask.
‘Corporate bastards. They make money off poor shits like us.’ She smiles again but this time it’s tinged with sadness.
A voice comes over the tannoy announcing the next flight to Copenhagen. The woman gives me a weary nod and stands up. ‘That’s me.’ Without another word, she wanders off, leaving me staring after her. The things you can learn when you actually talk to people, Zoe, I chide myself. I’ve been on my own for far too long.
I turn back to the computer and immediately search for Frandsen. The woman was right. Within sec
onds the company website flashes up – and its logo is indeed a mermaid holding a snake. Or rather strangling a snake. If I squint, its bulbous head does make it look slightly like a flower. I don’t really care; this is definitely the same image as the one on the Department man’s pin.
I scan down the page. Frandsen is some kind of venture capitalist company but, from the looks of things, it has fingers in many pies. My mouse hovers over the menu until I find the section labelled ‘Our Team’. I hold my breath as I click. Come on. Come ON.
There. For a moment, I’m frozen, staring at the face of the man I saw in the Dreamlands forest only moments ago. Frederik Jepsen, CEO of Frandsen Incorporated.
Gotcha.
Chapter Seven
It soon became obvious that we were but on the threshold of discovery.
Howard Carter
Eight sleepless hours later, I’ve swapped the dubious delights of airports – and the continuing fear of my false passport being discovered – for a long, leafy Copenhagen street with some seriously expensive-looking houses.
It took some digging to find Jepsen’s address but the hour spent hunched over a computer screen was worth it. This is the first time I’ve had any kind of clue about the real identity of any of the Department members. If I play my cards right, Jepsen will lead me to more. I’ve been on the back foot for so long that identifying even one of the bastards has filled me with optimism. They’ll know by now that I’m not going to meet them and I’m not going to work with them. But they don’t know what I’m really up to.
Frederik Jepsen – never Fred and definitely not Freddie – leads a good life. He’s pushing sixty but his lifestyle, which apparently includes marathon running, makes him look considerably younger. He is old money but he took what he inherited from his family and quadrupled it. I’ve found numerous photos of him at gala fundraising events, not to mention meetings with other jet-set corporate types.
I searched through everything I could find and didn’t recognise anyone else from the Department in any of the photos but that doesn’t discourage me. They probably work hard at keeping their real lives separate to their dream ones.
Frederik certainly has the whiff of dodgy dealings about him. He’s been investigated for insider trading on several occasions but nothing has ever stuck. It’s difficult to prove someone’s got the inside track when they get that track from spying on people’s dreams. No wonder he’s been so successful.
I bounce from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do. If I walk up and knock on the door Jepsen will immediately recognise me. That kind of manoeuvre is a non-starter. Besides, as he’s a Traveller I can’t wander into his head and see what he’s thinking when he sleeps. I tap my mouth thoughtfully. Maybe I don’t have to get close to Jepsen himself; if I take a circuitous route, I’ll probably be more successful – but I need to be very, very careful. It’s lucky I’m a detail-orientated person. I can do this.
Skulking around on this street for a long time isn’t a particularly good idea. It’s the sort of neighbourhood where anyone out of place and hanging around will be the subject of a query to the police. All these houses are massive and no doubt the occupants are guarded about their privacy. I try to keep a close eye on every house for any sign of twitching curtains but it’s easier said than done. Fortunately Frederik Jepsen is an early riser and, just after seven, a sleek car pulls up with a genuine, honest-to-goodness liveried chauffeur who marches up to his door and rings the bell.
I duck behind a wall on the opposite side of the street and watch. Jepsen steps out of the door, straightens his cuffs and offers the driver a nod. Despite his age, his face is remarkably unlined; either he enjoys regular Botox treatment or he pretty much never cracks a real smile. Frankly, I could believe both theories. I suppress the involuntary shiver that runs down my spine as he gets into the back seat of the car and disappears from sight behind its tinted windows. To be this close to a member of the Department is to walk up to danger and invite it over for tea. I don’t have much choice, though; if I don’t take matters in my own hands I’ll be running until the Department catches up with me. And given their combined resources, that won’t be too far into the future. I have to go on the offensive even if it frightens the living daylights out of me.
The car barely purrs as it pulls off. I’m tempted to try and follow it but I took a taxi here and it’s long gone. Besides, I’m fairly certain I know where Jepsen is going. It’s his family I want to focus on.
Not wishing to be too obvious, I walk around the block counting off the minutes until I return to Jepsen’s front door. This time, rather than hiding I step right up and ring the bell. Moments later, a well-dressed woman appears at the door. She looks me up and down, an expression of confusion on her face.
‘Hej,’ she says.
I beam and reach up, enveloping her in a large hug. ‘Aunt! It’s so good to meet you at last!’
She immediately pulls away and stares at me as if I’m a madwoman. I don’t blame her. ‘You are English.’
I blink rapidly, giving an impression of total befuddlement. ‘Yes. It’s Lucy. Your niece. Didn’t you get my message?’
She crosses her arms and steps back. ‘I don’t have a niece.’
I scratch my head. ‘Aren’t you Bella?’
‘No.’
I let dismay filter across my face. ‘But isn’t this number 27?’
She frowns at me. ‘Yes. 27 Gronnegrade.’
I clasp my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh no! I thought this was Gronningen.’
She gazes at me with some sympathy. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make,’ Jepsen’s wife tells me, even though it patently isn’t.
I flush. ‘I’m so sorry to have bothered you.’
‘It is no problem.’ She offers another polite smile as a tall, blond-haired teenager pushes past her and marches out. I stumble and fall against him and he gives me an almighty scowl before shoving his hands in his pockets and sloping off down the street. Mrs Jepsen gazes after him and sighs.
I shake my head. ‘Sorry,’ I say again, taking advantage of her distraction to turn and start walking off in the opposite direction. I can feel my heart in my mouth and her eyes on my back; when I finally hear her close the door, I let out a sigh of relief even though my hands are still shaking. Two for the price of one. Not bad, Zoe. Not bad at all. With any luck, she’ll have so many other things going on in her day that she won’t mention the strange English girl on her doorstep to her husband.
I keep walking until I’m away from the Jepsens’ house and then I hail a cab. I make an attempt at rudimentary Danish gleaned off the internet but the driver simply answers me in English. I yield to his superior language skills and ask him to take me to Frandsen’s headquarters. I’m betting I can find people closer to Jepsen than his wife and son.
I smile to myself. Mess with me and I’ll mess with you right back. I’m not that helpless after all.
***
I’m not quite desperate enough to waltz into the heart of the Frandsen building. I’ve got enough time before nightfall to find others who are connected to Jepsen, so there’s no need to take unnecessary risks. All the same, the longer I spend as predator rather than prey the bolder I feel. For the first time, I begin to appreciate why Dante and the Department do what they do. Power can be heady indeed. And, if I’m completely honest, the chase is as exciting as it is terrifying.
After my third cup of tea in the upmarket coffee shop across the street – and no sign of Frederik Jepsen – I begin to put alternative plans into place. After all, I am apparently a terrorist. The Department can’t blame me for doing what they started.
It takes me a bit of time to find a public phonebox. Unfortunately it’s out of sight of the Frandsen monolith, with its gleaming windows and shiny steel girders, but in this age of mobile phone technology I can’t complain that it’s a five-minute walk away.
I use my own phone to find the number for the main Frandsen desk then I take a deep breath and punch the numb
er into the public phone. As soon as it starts to ring, I use my sleeve to muffle the receiver. It’s hardly a state-of-the-art voice garbler but I reckon it’ll do the trick.
‘God morgen,’ a cultured voice says. ‘Dette er Frandsen Limited. Hvordan kan jeg hjælpe dig?’
I don’t bother making an attempt at Danish. Instead, I deepen my voice to further disguise both my gender and identity. ‘There is a bomb in your building. It is timed to detonate in eight minutes.’ I pause. I suppose I could make a demand but it would only waste time and it’s probably unnecessary. I shrug. ‘Have a wonderful day.’ I immediately hang up.
Whistling in a bid to remain calm, I wander back towards the coffee shop – and the towering Frandsen headquarters. Chaotic panic greets me. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such a gratifying thrill as when I see hundreds of people spilling out of the revolving doors at my bidding. Several alarms are screaming from somewhere deep inside the building. I try to look as worried as everyone else and join the hordes at the front. I keep my shoulders hunched but no one’s looking at me, I’m just another worker bee turfed out as a result of a dodgy bomb threat. Whether my phone call is being taken seriously or not is a moot point; corporations like Frandsen take heavy security precautions and, after the events in Switzerland, no one is taking any chances.
I keep to the edges of the crowd so that I can see as many people as possible. As a barrage of police cars pull into the street, Jepsen and the other senior executives finally exit. I pin my eyes on him; he looks more irritated than concerned. Whatever. Even if all this succeeds in doing is interrupting his day, it’ll still be worth it. When I spot the men flanking him, however, I know I’m going to manage better than that.
There are two of them, both of whom I recognise from the website: Chief Financial Officer and Chief of Security. They are keeping close to the boss. I allow myself a tiny smirk as I wonder if they’re preparing to leap on top of Frandsen to protect him should a real bomb suddenly explode or if they’ll use him as a shield to protect themselves. In any event, they’re clearly the ones I need to get close to. Even though there’s an arc of space around them, befitting their status, the milling crowds will make it easy for me to reach them – as long as I can hold off the last vestiges of my agoraphobia.
