The Legacy Read online

  Ever since he’d caught the amateur radio bug in his teens he had been driven spare by the constant low-level intrusions. To begin with he had set up a simple CB radio set designed for general users to communicate on a 27 megahertz band, but his flimsy bedroom door had proved hopeless at insulating him from the everyday noises outside. It was about as much use as a sheet hanging over the doorway. His mother had refused to let him use noise-cancelling headphones, so he didn’t even have the choice of putting up with the interruptions or enjoying peace and quiet at the price of sore ears. She had got it into her head that it was dangerous for him to be unaware of background noises. She used to lecture him on the risks of house fires and all manner of other potential hazards to which he would be oblivious if he couldn’t hear what was going on in the house. She was particularly eloquent on the possibility of a burglar murdering her in cold blood while Karl failed to register her screams. Needless to say, none of these doom-laden predictions had come true, apart from a break-in in the middle of November. All the thief had got for his pains was half a bottle of brandy and some small change from the bowl on the chest in the hall. And since neither Karl nor his mother was home at the time, there had been no chance to test whether the intruder would have been seized by a killing frenzy mid-burglary.

  After his elder brother moved out, Karl had taken over the basement. By then his original interest in CB radio had developed into a serious amateur radio hobby, with the consequence that his equipment had proliferated and took up a good deal more space than the original little set he had acquired as a teenager. He had learnt Morse code and passed the exam for an entry-level licence that permitted him to transmit in Morse on a limited, low-power frequency. In due course he had taken the exam for the long-desired full licence, which allowed him to use voice transmissions and operate on higher-power frequencies. His small bedroom was crammed to bursting with equipment, books and files related to his hobby, so Arnar’s departure was a heaven-sent opportunity to move his gear down to the basement. Until he left home, Arnar had had the place to himself so he could study in peace. The new arrangement was a significant improvement, but the racket from upstairs still drove Karl up the wall. It was amazing how much noise one person could generate. Arnar, morose and taciturn, his nose perpetually buried in his school books, had never been any trouble, but their mother was a different story. She seemed incapable of staying still and was constantly bustling from room to room, fetching or tidying. If she stayed put for any length of time it was only because she was on the phone, and that did nothing to reduce the noise level.

  The sounds that accompanied her presence had been as mundane as the rest of her existence: the creaking of floorboards; the clatter of crockery in the kitchen sink as she washed up by hand instead of using the dishwasher that she insisted on saving for special occasions. Snatches of ancient, forgettable Icelandic pop songs. The metallic clicking of needles busy knitting clothes that nobody wanted. Endless enquiries from the top of the stairs about whether he’d like a snack or a drink. That had been particularly annoying as he was over twenty, for Christ’s sake, and hardly likely to starve. Or die of thirst. Though there was no denying that he hadn’t had a square meal in the three months and more since he finished the leftovers from the funeral reception. If he went on like this he would have to invest in a smaller belt. He had started using the innermost hole some time ago but his trousers were loose at the waist again and dragged on the ground like those of the teenage boys who spent their evenings hanging around the neighbourhood’s little nucleus of shops. For the first time in his life he was inadvertently trendy.

  The buzzing ceased and all he could hear was his own breathing. If he listened hard enough he’d be able to hear his heart beating. Again he was surprised at how little pleasure the long-desired peace had brought him. He actually missed the noise associated with his mother. Perhaps it was his conscience nagging at him since her death had been rather sudden. She had been three months short of her seventieth birthday, which she had been intending to celebrate with a coffee party that she had spent ages planning, without much enthusiasm from Karl. If he had known what was going to happen he could at least have faked an interest in the cake recipes that she was forever cutting out of the papers and asking his opinion about. In hindsight, he should have realised something was wrong. She’d been under the weather for a while, though not in a way to ring any alarm bells. Then suddenly one day she could barely stand, and only then did she go and see a doctor. He sent her for tests and she came home with the news that a malignant cancer had taken up residence in her body. She had tried to put a good face on things but in the end she was admitted to hospital.

  Karl was just beginning to grasp the severity of the situation when she passed away one night during Advent, alone in a bleak hospital ward. Had the cancer not been in such a hurry, Karl would have had more warning and could have treated her better. Visited her more often and taken her more chocolates and flowers. Looking back, the pathetic bunch he had grabbed from the local supermarket for one of his last visits was a disgrace. Even he wouldn’t have wanted that before his eyes as he lay dying.

  Mind you, Karl hadn’t behaved any worse than Arnar, who hadn’t even bothered to come home to Iceland to be at their mother’s deathbed. Karl had had to do everything: sort out the affairs she was so insistent should be taken care of, return all kinds of crap she’d borrowed, post her farewell letters and procure an overview of her finances so she could figure out the details of her estate. All of which he had performed with bad grace. He had traipsed to the post office with one letter after the other, knocked on countless doors and handed the occupants a variety of Tupperware, books and DVDs. From the astonished looks he received, Karl suspected his mother of using this as a means of breaking the news to friends and relatives that she was at death’s door. That way she didn’t have to do it herself. Oh no, that was Karl’s job. And of course it greatly increased the risk of receiving return visits, or so he had thought at the time, which made him even more resentful about being lumbered with the task. Now, though, he wished he had been more generous when fulfilling her last requests.

  He would be feeling better now, no question, if he’d let his own desires take a back seat during those few weeks; if he’d run her errands and sat at her bedside the rest of the time. Because in spite of all her messages, visitors had been few and far between.

  To be honest, though, he doubted he would have behaved much better even with more warning. What could he have said? What words were adequate to explain to someone that you loved her really, in spite of years of behaviour that indicated the opposite? Wouldn’t she have stared at him sceptically from her sickbed, remembering all the times he had been ashamed of her and refused to be seen with her?

  Until he was six it had never dawned on him that his family circumstances were any different from other people’s; it didn’t occur to him that his mother was unusually old or that there was no father in the picture. The realisation had hit him like an icy wave. It began with an innocent question – was that his grandmother? – followed by an embarrassed giggle when he answered no, it was his mother. This quickly developed into teasing; infinite variations on the theme that his mother was really his grandmother and that he had no father. The children’s words caused a deep wound that was constantly being reopened and never really healed. The odd part was that the other kids didn’t realise how much this hurt him. It never occurred to them that he didn’t find it as funny as they did, or so it seemed to Karl.

  Strange how a single incident could blight your life, force it on to a course from which it would never deviate. The mocking of the other kids on his first day at school had set the tone for his future relations with them. He was never popular. His fellow pupils were indifferent to him. He was never bullied, though, remaining under the mean kids’ radar throughout his time at school, and for that he was grateful. Arnar, who had experienced much the same eight years earlier, had no advice for his little brother. Or at least no inte
rest in sharing any with Karl. Besides, their situations were different: Arnar had never skulked around but walked tall, like the one in a position of power, however hollow this illusion. His attitude must have been provoking but the other kids left him alone, though few wanted to be his friend in any case. Karl suspected they had already sensed what it took him several years to discover – that Arnar wasn’t like other people, so it was best to leave him alone. The arrangement suited both brothers: Arnar had a very limited need for human contact, and Karl found him boring company.

  The move to sixth-form college and a new environment did little to alter Karl’s existence; he continued to plough his lonely furrow. He made few acquaintances and rarely took part in social events. The fear of being left out was usually enough to keep him at home. Unfortunately, he didn’t make proper use of the resulting free time; he passed his final exams with a decent enough grade but his average was nowhere near the heights achieved by Arnar. After that he wasted a year; instead of going on the trip to Asia with his classmates, he stayed at home twiddling his thumbs, pretending to be busy contemplating his future. Eventually, no longer able to justify his idleness to his mother, he enrolled in a chemistry degree at the university and embarked on his higher education, still in the role of class outsider. He had never left home, never had a girlfriend and still had very few friends. Most of the people he associated with fell somewhere on the spectrum between acquaintance and complete stranger. There were two exceptions, though: Halli and Börkur. They weren’t what he would have wanted in an ideal world, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  For the most part, he satisfied his need for human contact through his radio. This type of interaction worked for him, though the uninitiated would probably regard it as remote and impersonal. You spoke and you received an answer. And when Karl wasn’t in the mood to talk, he could listen instead, or transmit in Morse.

  A welcome crackling from the transceiver caught his attention. Karl put on his headphones and rested his fingers gently on the fine-tuner. As he did so, he surveyed the wall above his desk. It was papered in framed QSL-cards that he had collected over the years. They were proof of his contacts with other radio amateurs in far-flung parts of the world that he would never visit in person. Only the cards he was most proud of were given this place of honour; the rest he kept in a drawer. It was a long time since he had bothered to request confirmation via QSL-card since by now he had made contact with operators in most countries and it was rare that he came across a transmission from a new region. The last time he had actively sought the cards was during a competition to form as many connections as possible within a given time limit. That had been a year and a half ago. Although these competitions were still held, he could no longer be bothered to take part in them.

  He didn’t like to admit to himself that this was because he never won. Never came close. Even when he took part in team competitions he seemed to act as a jinx – a jinx that the other radio hams couldn’t fail to notice. Like in dodgeball games at school, he soon ended up being the last person to be picked for a team. The rejection hurt, like it had at school, but he didn’t betray the fact. He didn’t know why, since all his pride achieved was to make the others feel less guilty about ditching him. Going off in a huff would probably have been a better policy, but it was too late now.

  Karl bent towards the microphone. ‘Charlie Quebec Delta X-ray, this is Tango Foxtrot Three Kilo Papa standing by.’ The code CQDX signalled that he wanted to make contact with amateur radio operators abroad, while TF3KP was his call-sign: TF for Iceland, 3 for the Reykjavík area and KP – Karl Pétursson. Not that he had any real claim to this patronymic: Pétur had been his maternal grandfather. He was adopted and had never known the names of his real parents. Apparently their story had not been a happy one, and his mother took the view that there was no call to rake up the past. If she was to be believed, they were both dead, so there was no point trying to trace them. It had quickly become apparent to him as a child that questions about his biological parents were unwelcome and achieved nothing. So Karl had stopped asking; ceased to give them any thought. It was a different story with Arnar, who never stopped asking questions. He was adopted too, and although the brothers had the same patronymic they were no more related than two strangers who happened to sit next to each other on the bus. Different in appearance; different in their habits. ‘Tango Foxtrot Three Kilo Papa. Standing by.’

  He listened but there was no reply. Perhaps he had just caught the tail end of a transmission. He tried again, anyway. ‘Tango Foxtrot Three Kilo Papa. Standing by.’ Nothing.

  He remembered his old ambition to collect a card from every state in the US. Maybe he should revive the idea? It wouldn’t take long as he had already picked up quite a few. Now that he was alone he had nothing to do outside his classes except pursue his hobby. But he couldn’t decide if he could be bothered. Any more than he could decide whether or not to attend the amateur radio club meeting that was due to start in forty minutes. He would have to make up his mind soon. Probably best to skip it and get down to some studying instead. He was falling behind; the vague interest he’d had in chemistry when he enrolled was fast disappearing. His desk at the other end of the basement was gathering dust and the poster of the periodic table on the wall above it was peeling off at one corner.

  Perhaps his interest would rematerialise if he knuckled down. The club meeting wasn’t important. He had nothing special to say and doubted the others had either. Membership was dropping off every year and almost the only hams left were old men who didn’t share his interest in making contact with foreign amateurs. They mostly operated on channels in the 14 and 21 to 28 megahertz frequency range, while Karl preferred to listen to amateurs transmitting in Morse or used three and a half megahertz. Perhaps it was an age thing. There weren’t many hams transmitting on 28, and those who did tended to be too philosophical for his taste. The old blokes were also more interested than Karl in hardware and building sets; very few shared his enthusiasm for more recherché pursuits, such as listening to numbers stations. In fact, since Börkur and Halli stopped coming along to club meetings, he was the only one left who was into that.

  Karl unplugged the headphones from the transceiver and plugged them into the old Collins shortwave receiver instead. Then he carefully scanned the low-frequency spectrum until he reached a numbers station he knew of, in the hope of catching a transmission. He could make no more sense of the broadcasts than anyone else, yet he found them utterly compelling. They consisted of long strings of numbers and letters read out by synthesised female or sometimes children’s voices, or sequences in Morse code, static and interference, and even folk melodies. The broadcasts would have had limited appeal were it not for the mystery of their origins and purpose. No one knew for certain what they meant or who operated on the high-frequency shortwave bands between 3 and 30 megahertz, which used waves reflected off the ionosphere, thus achieving a far wider dispersal than conventional radio broadcasts. The most popular theory was that the transmissions were coded messages from government intelligence services to their agents in the field, though some may have been communications between drugs networks and the smugglers they employed. Phone calls could be tapped, letters and e-mails could be read and traced, but it was impossible to track the recipients of a radio broadcast.

  Therein lay the fascination. The number sequences recited by those coldly dispassionate yet innocent-sounding voices might be orders for executions or attacks. Like the other hobbyists drawn to them, Karl dreamt of successfully cracking one of the codes used by the stations, though cleverer people than him had been forced to admit defeat. Even Arnar had given up, after finally condescending to take notice of Karl’s hobby. He had pored over the number groups for hours, pencil in hand, only to throw it down and declare angrily that it was a load of bloody gibberish. But Karl knew better. It was code: code that was impossible to crack without the key. But that didn’t stop people from wrestling with the problem.

  He
was in luck. The stations usually broadcast on the hour or half-hour, and it was now just gone half past seven. He stumbled upon a familiar transmission from a station popularly known as ‘the Russian Man’. A harsh male voice recited a string of numbers in Russian, repeating them over and over, embellished with static interference. ‘A-deen, a-deen, pyat, syem, pyat, null, null.’ Most of the stations followed a set template: the broadcast began with a characteristic prelude that could be a specific word like ‘Ready? Ready?’, ‘Achtung!’ or ‘¡Atención!’; a melody, or a series of letters or numbers. This was an identifier and in some cases probably also indicated the intended recipient. Usually this opening routine was repeated several times before the body of the message itself was transmitted. This consisted of sequences of numbers or letters, often preceded by an announcement about how many number groups there would be, also repeated several times. After this came the sign-off, which was individual to each station, though more often than not it simply consisted of the words ‘end’ or ‘end of message’ in the relevant language. There were also cases where the end of a broadcast was marked by music or a series of zeros.

  This was how the Russian Man ended, for example. Karl listened to him signing off: ‘Null, null, null, null.’ Silence and crackling. ‘Null, null, null, null.’ Silence again, then finally: ‘Null, null, null, null.’ The broadcast went off air.

  Karl quickly searched for another station and this time encountered one he didn’t recall having heard before. He pricked up his ears when he realised that the language sounded Nordic. After adjusting the fine-tuner, he was able to hear the speech quite clearly, which only intensified his astonishment: ‘… nine, two, zero, five, six, nine.’ The number group was repeated and this time he caught the whole thing. ‘One, seven, zero, three, nine, two, zero, five, six, nine.’ The voice was female and, as usual, machine-generated. ‘One, seven, zero, three, nine, two, zero, five, six, nine.’ The voice fell silent. Karl leant back in his chair, ran his fingers wonderingly over his forehead, then clasped his hands over his head. ‘One, seven, zero, three, nine, two, zero, five, six, nine.’ Dropping his hands he reached for the notepad and pen, which he always kept close by. As he was about to write the numbers down the voice began to recite another group: ‘Two, four, one, two, seven, nine, seven, three, one, nine.’