Leaf of the Tree.Blad av treet.
There was a folder of accounts, mainly showing the man credited from his research as being the lead of Blad av treet accepting payment from a high up, prominent Scandinavian politician.
Then there were the arms that had been bought; transcripts of conversations, photographs of meetings and finally, a folder hacked into by him, with Blair as its star. Her movements, the people close to her, where she liked to shop, eat, fuck. A picture of her in a club wearing a mask so it was impossible to tell it was her apart from her eyes.
I wasn’t affected. I didn’t have the urge to head out to hunt and end whoever had targeted her right now. That would come later, when I knew more. When the dish had grown cold and no one expected revenge to be served.
Ben’s folder was a sole one. The plethora of information on Majken was a feast compared to the lack of information on the man who was my lover.
Redacted.
Everything bar his schooling and his admittance into the army was gone. Hidden from any prying eyes which tells me one thing.
He’d been more than just a soldier.
* * *
Copenhagen’s a world away from London. It’s clean and airy and light, the architecture distinctly different, the sky an odd ceiling that’s clearer. It’s a short flight across the water into the top of Europe and I wonder why I haven’t been here before. At some point, I’ll make the time to return here, to see The Little Mermaid and Frederiksstaden and I imagine being here with Ben and Blair and if we were free – if she was free – from those restrictions and bars her position imposes.
I find Majken where I thought; in a library facing a man who looks like he should still be in school.
She doesn’t see me at first, too deep in a whispered conversation and pointing at diagrams on a pad of paper that mean nothing to me right now but will in a few hours when I’ve taken them with me.
Majken looks at me without recognition as I sit down. Her hair’s dark brown and her face void of make-up. She’s wearing thick rimmed glasses and looks frumpish with what she’s wearing.
A librarian disguise. But it doesn’t hide her eyes, which would be known anywhere by anyone who knows her.
“Can I help you?” She tries to subtly hide the pad of paper.
I pretend to ignore what she’s doing.
“I’m looking for Majken Rennolds. Or Smith. Those are just two of the names that she goes by. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find her, would you?”
She doesn’t flinch at the politeness of my tone or the softness of the words. She doesn’t turn her head or look to her friend or colleague – whatever he is.
“Why would you be looking for her?” She holds my gaze and she knows that I know who she is.
“I have some news about her brother.”
“I’m not sure she’d be interested in him. Is he still alive?”
And then I see it etched discreetly across her eyes. She thinks he’s dead.
“Very much so. He gave me a note to give to you.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull it out, a single sheet of cheap paper, written on in Ben’s firm script.
She takes it from my hand and devours it with her eyes. I know what it says, I looked and memorised it the night I found it in my room at the castle, the night of the intruders, the night Ben was there.
Sleep shall neither night nor day.
Macbeth. A veiled threat.
She pales.
“When did you receive this?”
“About ten days ago. It was with another note that was dated.”
“Can I see that?”
