Uptown Girl
“I’d like you to spend the next few days with me in Lambertville….” Swede said to Heinlein as they headed down US Route 206 towards Flemington.
Heinlein was surprised. This dialogue with her father at NordPharma must’ve really spooked her. She seemed distant…preoccupied.
Her professional schedule at Flemington Trauma Center as Chief MD didn’t allow for much downtime. Most weekends she worked long – sometimes double – shifts. Their relationship was mostly spontaneously arranged by cell phone texts or quick Email over the ether.
This “new” Swede was odd. Her home in Lambertville was an exquisitely renovated, rambling Victorian within sight distance of the Delaware River and New Hope – Lambertville Bridge. She said she “rented it” from a corporation who handled her father’s “Real Estate Portfolio”… right. She leased her 2025 BMW M8 Competition Coupe from Princeton BMW – no doubt where her father leased his. Her clothes were straight outta’ Nordstrom…sometimes Neiman-Marcus. And don’t forget those red-soled Christian Louboutin pumps with some Jimmy Choo sandals throw in for good measure. She never seemed strapped for funds. Why she even gave him a second look and tumble in the sack amazed him.
Papa. All roads led to Papa. He had to admit – it annoyed him. He wanted to be the only He-Bull in her life. And the guy was so Goddamn successful! How does a cop compete with such a freekin’ Master of the Universe?
“You want me to stay in Lambertville for a few days?” Heinlein could hardly believe he was asking the question.
“What’s got you so riled, Swede?” he asked.
She paused and then finally responded like her old, confident self. Whatever critical thing she needed to decide – she’d decided.
“I gotta’ stop at Flemington Trauma and take care of some quick business. Wait for me. I’ll treat you to some food at Matt’s Red Rooster Grill – and then we can head back to my place – and talk. I’ll call in reservations now. Deal?”
The view from her bedroom was outstanding. The Delaware was churning in the distance, and cars were bumper-to-bumper over the bridge heading back to trendy New Hope PA and Bucks County. Lambertville had won three years in a row a New York Times survey about the “Best Place to Live in New Jersey”. It was officially hoity-toity.
The reddish fading light of dusk made the view even more impressive. This place made his shack in Warren seem pathetic. Still, the magic of the place was intoxicating. Then, reality intervened.
Heinlein glanced down to the street below where her front yard’s black wrought-iron fencing met the flagstone sidewalk and beech trees and saw the van. It was a plain-Jane Mercedes panel van that could’ve been used by Amazon or DHL, parked by the curb. A guy sat in the passenger seat. Heinlein couldn’t see the driver’s side but since the engine was running, he assumed there was a driver in there, too. Curious.
“There’s a van parked out front…” He mumbled out loud. Swede was in bed checking her phone.
“Of course there is…” She replied. “Go down and get another bottle of red…it’s time we had our talk”.
Heinlein wandered naked down to the wine cooler in the kitchen and selected a particularly enjoyable Australian Shiraz. He was glad he didn’t push her to talk during their dinner at the Red Rooster Grill or sooner. When she came around to things on her own talking with her was easier.
He poured the wine and settled in under a mountain of pillows and fluffy duvet next to Swede. She propped herself up and got comfortable, looking serious.
“I’ve just resigned at Flemington Trauma…I’m done. There’s – obviously – a lot you don’t know about me. You’re a cop. I’ve noticed how you look at me sometimes with questions that you hold back. But I have to be able to trust you. What I’m about to say is confidential. I could get, well – silenced – for saying it to you. Just so we’re upfront with each other – you too could get silenced for repeating it to anyone….
You still want me to proceed?”
Heinlein nodded in the affirmative. “I’m all in.”
“Our world is not as simple as it appears. I know you. You’re very linear. Black and white. Right and wrong. A Manichaean construct that’s good for cops – but not realistic.
Centuries ago in Central Europe – around the time of the Byzantine Empire – Nordic Vikings sailed the inland waterways of the continent that connected the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. Rivers like the Dnieper, the Volga and Volkhov. They traded their way through all of ancient Rus and set up mighty commercial hubs at Kiev and Novgorod. Furs from Northen Europe, Silver and Gold from Constantinople, silk and ceramics from the Silk Road connecting the Crimea to China.
One thinks of Vikings as indiscriminate butchers and killers – but they were actually more interested in trade and amassing wealth than they were in destroying the very people they profited from. Viking Gods were embraced by certain local warriors – tribes like the Varangians. Soon, Scandinavians and Slavs struck up powerful alliances for mutual benefit. The peoples intermarried, mixing their blood and customs.
Ultimately, Orthodox Christianity brought the races even closer together. The Rus – the primordial Russian peoples – joined with the Varangians and Vikings to form a society of sorts. A Felag (pronounced “Fee-Log”) or confederation based on wealth, Orthodoxy and loyalty to each other. Over the centuries this union of common interests and blood yielded fruit and became an Extra-National polity that invested its money and people in endeavors solely calculated to bring it benefits. This Good Fortune – or Tur (pronounced “Toor”) was its Raison d’etre. Since it was sired by founders from the North – their Association was christened the NordTurFelag.
For close to ten centuries there have been three branches of our NordTurFelag: The Northmen, whom we call BratvaNord, are at the forefront of our banking, investing, shipping and scientific pursuits. Farmland, commercial real estate, heavy industry, heavy construction – BratvaNord is a major player in every country. NordPharma’s new Princeton Headquarters is one of their properties. They own three other Pharmaceutical Companies headquartered in New Jersey alone. The BratvaNord are based in Stockholm, Sweden.
The BratvaRus are based in Saint Petersburg, Russia, and are behind our political power, international influence, Atomic, oil, gas and energy industries. The BratvaRus are at the forefront of mining, mineral extraction and energy exploration and production. Arctic research, Titanium refineries, Rare Earths, Uranium – the BratvaRus have their hand in every pie. The Russian Federation values their friendship and interventions on their behalf in “sensitive” international matters that require tactful handling and anonymity. Many times, these are “wet” assignments.
Finally, there are the BratvaVarang. Varangians. They are our muscle, enforcers and avengers. Warriors for Centuries. The Palace Guard of Emperor Constantine during the Byzantine Empire – updated through the centuries to today. The Varang are killers, pure and simple. They follow orders explicitly. They will ask no quarter – and offer none. Their bravery and self-sacrifice are legendary. Their fighting skills are blood-borne. Weapons are their forte. Many Russian armaments are designed with input from the BratvaVarang. Their hands-on experience “in the field” from Eastern Europe to Africa, the Middle East, Afghanistan and South America are invaluable.
It’s interesting to note that at the time of Augustus Caesar – 27 BC – the Roman Legions had a special unit of Varangians in Britain that the Roman historian Suetonius wrote about. These Varangian fighters became the personal “Knights” of a Roman General named Artorius. Artorius defeated the Saxons and later became King of Britain when Rome left the Island for good. We know of him today as Arthur. Yes – that King Arthur! Point of the story? King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table were probably Varangians!
How do we tell who’s who? I wear a Rune tattoo on my left hand – the Elder Futhark Berkano Rune signifying nurturing or healing because I am a Medical Doctor. The BratvaVarang wear a small but elaborate Orthodox Crucifix tattoo on their left hand as do the BratvaRus. But true to its origins in Byzantium and the Caucasus, BratvaRus also embraces certain members of the Moslem Faith. Our Moslem brothers have their own distinctive tattoo. I was given special dispensation to wear a Rune because of my father’s Finnish blood and influence in the organization. He wears an Ansuz Rune signifying wisdom, leadership and sovereignty. My father and I wear Runes it to show our devotion to the Old Gods. Our religious beliefs are – let’s just say – complex.
In any event, my dear…. that’s who are inside the van parked in front of my house. BratvaVarang. They are probably out back, too. With any luck, they’ll have a few drones up by now. They wanted us to see them; if they didn’t, you’d never know they were looking. We must go about our lives like they don’t exist. Let them do their job. One more thing…they don’t like cops.
Well…I assume you have some questions…”
Swede settled back into the deep folds of the shared duvet and looked in Heinlein’s eyes. Yeah…he had some questions.
“So… are you an American? Where were you born? Do you have a real home somewhere?”
Ilse laughed out loud and reached over to rub his arm.
“I was born in Switzerland. I am a citizen of Switzerland and Liechtenstein. I speak Swedish, Russian and German. My French is passable. My English is all-American with an infamous ‘Jersey accent. I received my Medical Doctorate at the University of Zurich and served my residency at The University State Hospital, also in Zurich. I still maintain a residence there – in Seefeld District – #34 Seefeldstrasse. It’s a lovely place right across from the Rieterpark. I love Zurich. It’s really quite beautiful and suits my temperament. My father maintains a residence in Gstaad – he is an excellent skier – and in Helsinki, Finland. My mother died years ago.
Listen Heinie…I want us to understand each other. My life is my own business. And I simply don’t care what you think about it. You must take me as I am – or leave me now. If you maintain my confidences, you’ll be left alone. It’s up to you.”
Ilse Sommerlund, MD got out of the bed and stood by the window in all of her glorious, luscious nakedness. As she stared towards the Delaware River, she finished her statement.
“Everything we have, use, live-in and possess is property of the BratvaRus. We are a society unto ourselves. A wealthy and powerful society. We have endured throughout the centuries because we are loyal, united and ruthless. We are rarely concerned with Collateral Damage. Killing is second nature to us and, frankly, inevitable in our world. I care deeply about you, Heinie. But I am what I am.”
Heinlein was bowled over. His head hurt – the one on his shoulders. “Sweet Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath. “Talk about an Uptown Girl….”
