The first round of applause of the evening rang out as a relaxed sense of joy and relief that someone had finally freed the guests from the conversations in which everyone was trying not to give themselves away in the reflections of the glass walls.
The lights in the Nordhavn Arena dimmed. Only the ice remained bright, a white, smooth surface beneath bands of red light that glided across it like frozen flags. On the video ring above the centre of the hall, the ocean images faded away. For a moment, only black was visible. Then a golden bear appeared on a blue background.
Beneath it:
LEOPOLDINISCHES MILITÄRGYMNASIUM
BEAR YEAR
Harp music began to play. The cadets did not step onto the ice. They entered via a narrow walkway laid out with white carpet, which had been specially placed over the boards. Thirty-eight young men and women in uniform, golden trousers or skirts, lilac jackets. Their shoes were black, their gloves white, their faces solemnly serious for eighteen-year-olds and, for that very reason, perfectly suited to an evening that treated charity like a state occasion.
At their head walked Dennis Mutoi, the class representative.
He was not the tallest in the group, but he had the bearing of someone who had been taught early on that a voice could be a form of responsibility. His skin looked warm in the cold light of the arena; his eyes were dark and alert. On his chest he wore the class representative’s badge: a small golden bear standing upright, paws raised, as if he meant not to fight but to argue.
The crowd grew quieter.
Ilya stood at the edge of the Soviet players’ bench and crossed his arms. He had played against bigger men, against noisier arenas, against fans who had more beer than patience. But cadets carrying Nestroy onto the ice at an ice hockey gala were a very specific kind of challenge, even for him.
On the other side of the hall, Shane Hollander stood with the American-British-Ghanaian team. He was only half-listening to the team manager. His gaze was fixed on the cadets, but not really on them. He looked like someone enduring an official programme because it stood between him and the game.
Anya sat two rows above the technical guests, dark green, emerald-glowing, observing. Her necklace caught the arena’s light in such a way that the stones looked like tiny cold flames. She had immediately classified the cadets as useful: young people whose presence made every movement of others temporarily invisible.
Claudia Tiedemann sat tensely in her seat among the other scientists, but her attention was not on the cadets, but on the brochure, which she was reading intently, as far as the hall’s lighting allowed. With a small pencil she had brought in her handbag, she made her first calculations. Her shoulder pads cast a resolute geometric silhouette in the dim light of the stage. Her golden Hessian lion brooch glinted as if she regarded this evening not as a social occasion, but as an examination.
Ravn stood at the top of the gallery next to Stromberg. She was not watching the cadets, but the guests’ reaction to the cadets. That was the difference. A programme was successful if it focused attention, not scattered it.
Stromberg looked down at the row of uniformed figures.
“Austria,” he said quietly. “No one else manages to make young people appear like a footnote to the world spirit. It was the right investment. After the ceremony, send the headmaster 100,000 euros as a donation for a library and a seawater aquarium where the Bears can learn about the protection of saltwater.”
Ravn smiled briefly.
“The Bear cohort is popular in official circles. English, French, Russian. Very disciplined. Very photogenic and politically neutral. But 100,000 euros is very generous for a half-hour appearance during a whole school trip week in Copenhagen, at a hotel, not a youth hostel.”
Ravn glanced briefly at him. Then looked down again.
“We paid 10,000 euros to the Flamingo-Coloured Camel for nothing. In contrast, investing in young people is always a win if they’ve learnt to love the sea.”
Mutoi stepped up to a narrow microphone standing at the edge of the jetty. Behind him, the cadets formed a line. No movement was accidental. Even their standing still had a rehearsed quality, as if a chin raised in the wrong way might trigger an international memory of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.
Dennis spoke first in Danish, then English, then French, then Russian, each language carefully rehearsed, with the precision that only people who know that mistakes in foreign languages can destroy political careers can achieve.
Then he switched to Austrian.
“Royal Highness, Excellencies, guests of the World Energy Organisation, representatives of the five alliances, ladies and gentlemen from the worlds of science and the arts. The Bear Year Group of the Leopoldine Military Grammar School in Enns greets Copenhagen.”
A polite round of applause rippled through the arena.
Dennis waited until it died down.
“In *Lumpazivagabundus*, Johann Nestroy has the Fairy King say: ‘We shall teach you some manners, you dissolute lads, you! You shall hear what is now to happen; the Fairy King is in charge here. You shall return to order in the very next moment.’”
The sentence hung over the ice for a moment.
Some guests laughed, believing that one was supposed to laugh at Nestroy. Others applauded, because cadets in uniform always received applause, provided they weren’t delivering bad news. Claudia raised her head almost imperceptibly.
Order that restored itself was usually another word for disaster in technical installations.
Anya smiled with interest.
Ilya looked over at Shane.
Shane hadn’t laughed; he liked that less than he should have.
Mutoi continued.
“Tonight, teams are taking to the ice that are otherwise separated by maps, treaties and general staffs. We welcome the Commonwealth Defence Pact team, comprising Ghana, the United Kingdom and the United States of America.”
A spotlight swept towards the western players’ bench.
Shane raised his hand, just the right amount. He waved the British flag discreetly in acknowledgement of an audience that had paid to see him. Standing beside him were players from Ghana, the United Kingdom and the United States, in white jerseys with red and blue stripes. The sponsors’ box reacted audibly more warmly; the velvet royal box framed the princess’s friendly demeanour.
Dennis waited.
“We welcome the team from the Socialist Solidarity Pact comprising Bulgaria, China, Yugoslavia, Poland, Romania, Thuringia, the Czech Republic, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and Hungary.”
Now the spotlight turned to the opposite bench.
Ilya stood up and took the Soviet flag; at first he waved it deliberately, but then his gaze lingered on Shane for a second too long. He threw the flag into the air, spun it round once and caught it again with one hand. The crowd leapt to their feet in excitement.
Shane whispered, “Was that necessary?” But in his mind he answered himself: Of course!
Anya noticed that Shane was looking for too long.
Ilya noticed that Shane wasn’t looking for long enough.
Claudia noticed that two opposing captains thought they shouldn’t do it.
Dennis continued speaking.
“We welcome the Continental Defence Community team comprising Belgium, the Dominican Republic, France, Greece, Haiti, Italy and the Netherlands.”
The French contingent applauded in a very controlled manner whilst the flag was being waved. De la Motte did not stand up. She sat next to Princess Indulan in the royal box, who clapped with consummate calm and gazed at the ice as if the arena did not belong to her, but rather the moment in which she became formal. De la Motte had a small notepad on her lap. She wrote nothing. That was more suspicious than if she had been writing.
“We welcome the Pan-Asian Pact team with India and Japan.”
A Japanese captain gave a brief bow and waved the flag. An Indian defender raised his stick. The cameras immediately picked up both movements and turned them into a display of international harmony.
“And we welcome the Sword of Islam Pact team, comprising the Ottoman Empire and Iran.”
The spotlight swept over two players in dark green and gold, and, unusually, both flags here waved in rehearsed harmony. In a row of honour, Ottoman and Iranian representatives nodded to one another, politely enough not to give anything away.
Dennis took half a step back.
The cadets behind him formed the letters “Protect the Oceans” with their arms, first in Danish, then English, then French, then Japanese, Ottoman and Russian.
The applause surged massively. Some guests leapt to their feet, others were grateful for clear images: uniforms, teams, flags, youth and sport for the protection of the seas.
The cadets reformed for the Danish national anthem, to which everyone rose and turned towards the royal box. Then Waltz No. 2 from Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich’s Suite for Variety Orchestra rang out, which the cadets performed to perfection on the ice. Once the final note had faded away, a surge of movement began in the arena. Team managers gave final signals. Officials wearing headsets ran across the rubber mats at the edge of the ice. A Danish presenter stepped out and began, in English, French and Russian, to invite the captains forward for the symbolic puck handover.
Shane rose from his bench.
Ilya watched him, even though he had resolved not to do just that.
Anya wasn’t watching Shane. She was watching the paths around Shane.
Claudia watched the monitor above the inner passageway.
There, the time code was off again.
Just a single jump of less than a second, as if the arena had briefly decided that the future would become the past.
Claudia furrowed her brow.
Down at the edge of the boards, Dr Lind stepped out of the side corridor. He was both too early and too late. Too early for someone who was only supposed to attend the presentation. Too late for someone who still wanted to watch the game in peace. His suit fit perfectly, but his face did not. He looked as though he’d been wrestling with his conscience just a few minutes ago.
Ravn looked down at him.
“There’s Lind,” she said.
Stromberg followed her gaze.
“It looks as though our good doctor has lost his own courage. Make sure he doesn’t do or say anything rash. In any case, he won’t be attending the technical presentation.” Stromberg ate a few fish flakes before scattering a handful into the aquarium beside his seat.
Ravn glanced briefly towards the royal box, where de la Motte sat in its velvety alcove alongside Indulan and her ladies-in-waiting.
Stromberg understood immediately. His voice remained calm.
“Make sure the ladies over there aren’t…distracted.”
“Of course not.”
Ravn raised two fingers. One of the security guards at the upper railing reacted almost imperceptibly, a glance that set two men in ice-white suits in motion below.
Stromberg looked further down.
Down below, Lind had meanwhile reached the vicinity of the American-British-Ghanaian bank. The symbolic puck handover created exactly the sort of chaotic order he needed: captains, officials, cameras, a presenter, two children in sea anemone costumes, a photographer on one knee, three security guards who weren’t quite sure whether a man with accreditation was a guest or a problem.
Shane stepped up to the mark.
The official puck was already resting on a small silver tray. Black, pristine, bearing the Stromberg Foundation emblem.
Lind stopped next to a Danish assistant who was about to send him away and then glanced at his ID. The appearance of a man who might have access was almost as effective as actual access in moments like this.
“Mr Hollander,” Lind said quietly.
Shane turned his head.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Then it’s perfect.”
Lind didn’t smile. He held out a second puck to Shane, half-hidden in his palm. Black, matt, looking heavier than the official one. On the side, a finely engraved Atlantis sigil, but beneath it a thin ring of dark metal, as if someone hadn’t made the puck but sealed it.
Shane looked at it.
“Take it!”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the sort of person who hands things straight away to the right ministry. For Francine de la Motte. Just for her!”
Shane looked at him more closely now. The man shoved the puck aggressively into the pocket of his ice-hockey trousers.
An official waved to Shane. The presenter smiled in his direction. Cameras were waiting. The world didn’t like to be saved without the right timing.
Lind stepped closer.
For a moment, Shane heard nothing from the arena. Not the applause, not the music, not the presenter, not the children in their seaweed costumes. Just that sentence.
Ravn didn’t see her. Stromberg didn’t see her. Both were looking at de la Motte at that moment, because she had risen to say a few words to the guests alongside Princess Indulan.
But Anya saw her.
Not the puck first. The hand. Lind’s movement. Shane’s slight delay. The way an object changed hands without being a gift. To Anya, it was a dead letterbox in human form. A scientist using an athlete as a courier because athletes were shielded by cameras and underestimated by security guards.
Interesting, she thought, very unprofessional, but interesting. But who would be the recipient?
Claudia saw the handover on the monitor, but the image was half a beat too early, then too late, then in sync again. Lind handed the puck before Lind handed the puck. Shane turned away before he had turned towards her. The error was small, but this time it carried weight.
Ilya wasn’t watching the puck, but Shane. That was his problem. He saw how Shane changed for a fraction of a second, visible only to cameras, not to sponsors, not to people who knew Shane only as a face on posters. But Ilya saw it. The shoulders remained still, the mouth remained polite, yet somewhere behind the eyes a door closed. Someone had given Shane something.
Ilya didn’t know what it was.
“Captain Hollander?” called the presenter.
Applause, camera flashes, the Stromberg logo on the video ring. 
For a moment, Lind looked as though he hadn’t saved himself, but had merely decided who should inherit his fear later.
The presenter asked the captains to come to the centre of the ice rink. Shane went. The official puck was visible in his hand. The other one was invisible, and that made it dangerous.
Mutoi and the cadets had meanwhile left the jetty. At the exit, he turned around briefly once more, not because he had understood anything, but because well-educated young people sometimes sense when a space is shifting its order. Then the Bear cohort disappeared to their seats in the stands next to a school class from Hesse in blue school uniforms, where Magnus was also sitting, offering Mutoi a sip from his hip flask.
Down below, the two men Ravn had sent moved inconspicuously behind Lind.
Lind noticed, but pretended not to.
On the ice, Shane lowered the official puck for the cameras. The arena applauded louder. The five alliances stood beneath flags and lights, as if the world had been translated into jerseys for one evening.
A red glow flickered above the ice.
Upstairs, Stromberg said quietly:
“Bear-like appearances.”
Ravn didn’t reply. She watched Lind, who was now heading towards the glass walkway, accompanied by two shadows that were meant to go unnoticed.
De la Motte sat down again.
Princess Indulan placed a hand on the armrest of her throne, as if she’d decided something that no one was yet allowed to hear. Brass instruments blared. The cameras focused on the ice. And Claudia stood up to follow Lind.