The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (24 page)

“I think Rose has finished her report now,” said Assad, and rolled his eyes.

It was amazing, but true. Christ!

They crept closer to her door and now could hear rhythmic thuds against the wall mixed with deep, throaty groans and Rose’s utterly unbridled whining gasps.

“This is not a video, Carl. They are really shagging in there,” Assad whispered.

Carl looked toward the stairs at the other end of the corridor. How beautiful it would be if someone appeared now. The initial scandal would be followed by a month of dirty looks. The tales of Rose’s escapades at Station City’s Christmas parties would experience a renaissance. The prestige they had worked so hard for would be down the drain and Rose would have something to answer for.

He shook his head, noting with annoyance that perspiration had appeared on his brow and that the grunting and groaning behind the door was also prompting the first unmistakable signs of arousal in his underwear.

“They can’t just do that during working hours,” he protested in a whisper.

“But they are, Carl. You can hear it yourself.”

Carl looked at Assad and let out a deep sigh. It was at times like these that one knew who’d been through the police academy and who hadn’t.

“ROSE!” he bellowed, hammering his fist so hard against the door that he gave himself and everyone else a fright.

Silence descended in a nanosecond, followed after an equally brief span of time by the sound of frenzied activity. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what was going on.

“You can come out now, Gordon. We’re not going to harm you,” he growled, expecting a man displaying a certain amount of contrition to emerge. He was mistaken.

Disheveled and with a smirk all over his face, he appeared in the doorway, not at all remorseful, but triumphant. He had snared his prey after only a couple of days and was plainly confident he was going to get away with it, too, which unfortunately he was right about. Carl would be the last to complain to Bjørn about that kind of behavior among his staff. If he did, the boomerang would hit him square in the neck.

Just you wait
, he tried to signal, as Gordon trotted past him and down the corridor. The way the spindly idiot nonchalantly did up his fly as he left was a sight Carl would not soon forget.

They waited another minute before entering the scene of the love crime.

“Oh, it’s you,” Rose noted with astonishing composure from behind her desk. “I thought you said you were going straight home after.”

Carl glanced around the room. Documents swept onto the floor, shoes abandoned in a hurry, an empty bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Have you been drinking during working hours, Rose?” he asked.

She gave a shrug, still surprisingly relaxed. “I suppose we had a little sip, yes.”

“What about Gordon? Is he going to be a regular fixture down here? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Regular fixture? God, no! He’s just helping me out a bit, that’s all.”

She giggled, and Assad cracked up behind Carl’s back.

The world was going mad.

“All right, listen. We came back to pick up the car. I’m running Assad over to the hospital for his checkup. What I want to tell you is that early tomorrow you’re going over to the ministry to ask William Stark’s
colleagues if they ever noticed anything odd about his behavior. You know what I mean.”

“OK,” she replied. No defiance this time.

Funny how sex could sometimes work wonders.

—

“Good news, indeed, Assad. Congratulations.”

Carl patted his assistant’s shoulder vigorously.

“It was a very brief examination,” Assad responded.

“Yeah, and now you’re all clear. Full recovery, Assad. Absolutely brilliant.”

Carl looked around. Every white-coated nurse, doctor, porter, and auxiliary in the busy corridors of the Rigshospital deserved a hug. Only a couple of months before, the fluid on Assad’s brain had threatened his life, and now it was gone.

The doctor had said it was only a matter of time until the last accumulations of blood disappeared and the nerve paths to his facial muscles, speech center, and legs would be functioning as before. Of course a program of rehabilitation would be beneficial, but Assad’s line of work combined with brisk walking every day would be sufficient stimulation in itself. The bottom line was he needn’t come back there anymore.

Spirits were therefore high as Carl escorted Assad down to the hospital cafeteria and placed a tray of pastries and coffee on the table in front of him.

“How did it go with the librarians on Dag Hammarskjölds Allé?” Assad asked, pastry cream all over his dusky stubble.

“They’re going to call us as soon as the lad turns up again.”

“Then we shall have to be quick, Carl . . .”

Assad stopped and placed a hand on Carl’s arm as he nodded discreetly toward a corner of the room.

Seated behind a trolley of dirty dishes was none other than Marcus Jacobsen, staring blankly into space, hands around his coffee cup.

Before the weekend, he had been their superior, bidding farewell to his old life.

The way he looked now, it didn’t seem he was able to visualize his new one.

—

All in all, a more perfect shitty day than most shitty days, Carl decided as he opened his front door and went inside.

“Nice work,” was the first thing he said to Morten as he looked around the house. Amazing what a few hours of scrubbing and vacuuming could do to wipe away the traces of even the booziest of shindigs. Magnolievangen number 73 was pristine as never before.

“How’s our old charmer today?” he asked Mika, who stood in the middle of the living room, hands glistening as he rubbed something into Hardy’s naked back that smelled more effective than pleasant.

“Hardy’s doing great. He’s given us the go-ahead to get started using some forms of assistance. We’ve had a meeting with his case workers today and agreed we want him up in a wheelchair. What do you say, Hardy?” he said, slapping his patient’s milk-white buttock for emphasis.

“I say it’d be nicer with a slap on the ass if I could feel it,” came the hollow reply.

Carl bent down and looked Hardy straight in the eyes. They were moist, so it must have been an emotional day for him.

“Congratulations, mate,” he said, feeling moved, and patted Hardy’s brow.

“Yeah, bit momentous, it is.” Hardy paused to collect himself. “Mika’s really been working hard for this,” he added, with a quiver in his voice.

Carl straightened up and turned to the brawny caregiver pummeling away at Hardy’s muscle fibers, not knowing quite what to say. His feelings of guilt had been eating away at him for such a long time. Were they now about to ease? Was that what they were trying to get him to believe?

He gave a sigh and put his arms around Mika’s sweaty torso as it worked Hardy over.

“Thanks, Mika,” he said. “I don’t quite know how to put it, but thanks a million.”

“Whoa, Carlo!” came a jeering voice from the stairs. “Gone over to the enemy, have you? I knew it! I must be the only one in this house who’s straight, ha, ha!”

Jesper, ever the joker. Like a germ always waiting to strike.

“Mum says to tell you to phone,” he went on. “She says if you don’t go and visit Gran, you owe her hundreds of thousands of kroner. What kind of deal have you got yourself into, Carlo? Sounds like you’ve lost your mind.”

Then he laughed, so no one was in doubt.

“And you better do what she says. She’s a bit off her head at the moment because of Gurkamal.”

“You don’t say! What’s with him?”

“All she’s been on about is that wedding, that it has to be in India and everything, only now it’s all been put off again. If you ask me, it’s never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Damned if I know. Mum says it’s because there’s been problems after Gurkamal was attacked in the shop, but she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, either. Do you think he’s going to share his shitty little mini-mart with her? “Course he’s not!”

Carl took a deep breath. Just as long as this didn’t mean she was going to turn up all of a sudden with her suitcases and fifteen cardboard boxes.

“Have you heard the news about Hardy?” Carl asked, eager to change the subject.

“Too right I have. I was here when all those cows from the local authority, or wherever they were from, came piling in. They were here more than three hours, they were. Anyway, don’t forget about Gran.”

“How about you go and visit her instead, Jesper?”

“You must be joking. She’s gone totally cuckoo. She hardly knows who I am anymore.”

“I’m sure she does. I’m asking you to do it.”

“No way.”

“If you won’t do it as a favor, then I’m going to have to
tell
you to do it.”

“Threatening me now, are we? In that case I reckon you should alert
the media and tell them the very important news that Gran’s too bonkers for me to waste my time. Great story. All yours, Carlo.”

He turned on his heel and homed in on the fridge. “Oh, and by the way, Carlo,” he hollered, his head among the dairy products, “I was up in the attic getting my old Action Men out today. What the hell’s that huge chest up there? And why’s it locked?”

Carl shook his head. What on earth was this psycho-infantile lout on about
now
?

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he hollered back. “I don’t know anything about any chest. It must be something of your mother’s.”

This was another of
those calls he could do without. Teis Snap had been sitting in the twilight, enjoying a lemon vodka with the palm trees in front of him and his wife indoors in her negligee. A quick shag after a hectic day did them both a world of good, and this evening was no exception. Heads and glands emptied, muscles soft and relaxed. Which was why the voice on the phone had exactly the same effect on him as a cold shower on the nether regions.

Teis put his drink down on the table. “How dare you phone me after what you’ve done, René?” he growled. “The agreement was that you were to inform us if you needed to sell your A shares and, more important, that we were never to sell to anyone outside our own circle.”

“Agreement? To my mind we’ve made so many agreements, it’s impossible to administrate them. For instance, I hear from the bank that you and Lisa happen to be in Curaçao. In which case I have to ask myself what you might be doing there. You wouldn’t be trying to impress upon the bank that the power of attorney you’ve undoubtedly secured by forging my signature is genuine, would you? Or perhaps you’ve already done so? I’m also wondering if it might be a good idea to call the bank as soon as they open and ask what you’re up to. My guess is that the authorities in Willemstad might be interested, too. As far as I know, the jail there is hardly a first-class establishment, but perhaps you won’t mind?”

Teis took his bare feet off the table. “You’re not calling anyone, do you hear me, René? I’m your only friend in this matter, and if I were you I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Very well, Teis. That’s all I wanted to know. Now, since you’re still
my friend, I suggest you put my share certificates in a plain brown envelope and send them to me by UPS courier as soon as the sun comes up. I expect you to e-mail me a scan of the receipt for the dispatch no later than ten minutes after you’ve handed over the envelope. If I haven’t heard from you by ten fifteen, local time, I shall alert the MCB immediately, do you understand?” And with that he hung up.

Teis was stunned. Of course he knew René was not only unused to bossing people about but that he also possessed the courage necessary to rebel, which was exactly what he had just done.

He sat for a while, staring at his phone as the shrill song of the cicadas pierced the descending darkness, trying to ignore his wife’s contented humming from within. Then he downed his drink in one. It was night in Denmark now, but he didn’t care. He may have been an old man, but Brage-Schmidt was going to have do without his beauty sleep.

—

The voice that answered the phone wasn’t as wizened as usual but younger and considerably more dynamic. Teis swallowed. Had it gotten to the point where Brage-Schmidt passed on even his private calls to that damned assistant of his? An African whom Brage-Schmidt, following good old imperialistic colonial tradition, insisted on referring to as
boy
, just like all his previous servants. Was even their most nefarious business now being channeled through him as well?

“OK, so this is where Eriksen is pulling out,” Brage-Schmidt’s assistant said. “We expected it, though perhaps not as quickly and openly. So it’s a good thing we’ve already planned his retirement, as it were. And with this latest development, I think we should have it all sorted within a couple of days.”

Teis’s surroundings seemed at once to merge. The branches of the palm trees sank into the darkness, the ocean fell silent, and the pale Dutchmen who sat underneath his balcony counting bats was no longer there. “Have you found the boy?” he asked with bated breath.

“No, but he’s been seen.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re going to catch him. Who saw him, and where?”

“Zola’s people. They spotted him last Saturday and came close to pulling him in. Now they know he’s still operating in the area.”

“Hmm. What makes them think that?”

“They know him. He’s a stubborn little guy, so now the clan’s extra prepared.”

“And what if they don’t find him?”

“Relax. I’m putting my men on the job, too, and they’re professionals.”

“Professional what?”

“Let’s just say soldiers. Trained since they barely could walk to track down and finalize.”

“Finalize”? Such a neutral word. Was that how one came to terms with killing? By calling it something else?

“Eastern Europeans?”

The voice at the other end laughed. “Nope. Rather more conspicuous, I’d say. Or perhaps not.”

“How do you mean? I want to know.”

“Former child soldiers, of course. Tried-and-true professionals from Liberia and Congo who are used to slipping in anywhere and killing with no regrets. Cold, muscular machines that a person would do well to have on his side.”

“Are they in Denmark now?”

“No, but they’re on their way with their so-called chaperone, a lovely black lady we call Mammy.” He laughed. “Sounds so nice and peaceful, Mammy, doesn’t it? But I can assure you the name couldn’t be more deceiving. Just like the others, she learned to do her thing during the civil war and her motto is quite unambiguous:
No Mercy
. So she’s not the kind of mother to give you a cuddle.”

Teis felt a chill run down his spine. Child soldiers. It was practically the worst he could imagine. Was this what he had got himself mixed up in? Were the people he dealt with really capable of everything? And was he?

“OK” was all he could say. There seemed to be no other words that suited the moment. “What about René?”

“We’ve got something else planned for him. Fortunately we know
where he is, more or less. But the boy is our first priority. The order in which one proceeds is not always without consequence. Especially when it has to do with killing someone.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Teis, even though he didn’t want to understand. “May I speak to Brage-Schmidt? I’ve got an urgent situation concerning the Curaçao shares that needs to be dealt with within the next few hours.”

“He’s asleep.”

“That’s quite possible, but I wouldn’t be phoning from the other side of the world at this time of night if it wasn’t of the utmost importance, would I? I need to know what to do.”

“One moment.”

A few minutes passed before he heard Brage-Schmidt’s rasping voice at the other end. More irritable than usual, though his message was clear: “René E. Eriksen will not be sent his Curaçao shares,” he said curtly. If the fool really did call Curaçao with intimations of fraud, Brage-Schmidt would personally make sure the authorities were satisfied that Eriksen’s signature and the date were genuine, as well as the rest of the document. He would say he couldn’t help it if Eriksen had regretted giving the power of attorney.

“Call Eriksen at nine fifty local time, and tell him you’re sending him the receipt for UPS’s dispatching of the shares. Put something in the package for customs to intercept, if you like. Little plastic bags with flour in them, for example. And explain to him that if he’s thinking of making trouble it’ll be at his own peril. You can probably get hold of him at work before he goes home.”

—

It was a sleepless night for René. Since his conversation with Snap his mind had begun spinning like a centrifuge. Now he had confirmation that he was drifting away from the decision-making process, and this tormented him. If true, he risked losing control of his own fate, and this was the last thing he wanted. If they ripped him off and took his shares in Curaçao anything could happen. If they could murder Louis Fon, Mbomo
Ziem, William Stark, and now a boy, they could murder him, too. But if they left his shares alone he would take it to be a concession and a consolidation of his own status within the group.

For that reason, what happened when the banks opened in Willemstad was crucial, which was why he was unable to sleep.

To begin with he paced the living room floor, glancing at the clock every five minutes. And when he’d had enough of that he went down the steep staircase into the basement and retrieved Stark’s laptop from the crawl space under the floor.

Since then he’d been sitting there in the gloom, staring at William Stark’s computer screen.

There were the two user names: one without a password, which he had long since trawled his way through, and the other with a code he’d found simply impossible to break.

He looked down at his notes once more. Here was a wide variety of data on Stark, his girlfriend and stepdaughter that might possibly comprise elements of a password. And with these he had tried out endless combinations and abbreviations both with and without numerals, and now he was at a loss.

William Stark had been the most systematic man in the department, and René could simply not imagine him having used a password without some logical relation to Stark himself. But which?

He switched back to the first interface and went through the list of Stark’s e-mail correspondence. Here, too, there was a clear system, everything filed according to logical subject categories, then by name and then again in chronological order.

Stark was a diligent man and had copied all his work-related mail from the ministry’s server onto this laptop. Presumably so as to be able to delve into his ministerial tasks at home, as seemed to be evident from the times at which he had sent e-mails out, often past midnight or very early in the morning. The man obviously didn’t need much sleep.

René stretched his muscles. His own fatigue was getting the better of him, but he needed to stay awake. He didn’t have much time. In three hours he had to be in his office at the ministry, and later in the day he would have to decide whether he needed to phone Curaçao. He hoped it
wouldn’t be necessary because he didn’t want the war against Snap and his associates to commence before he himself elected to initiate it.

He scribbled some more notes down on his pad, prompted by his scrutiny of Stark’s files and documents. There was a snippet about Stark’s mother, scraps concerning his stepdaughter’s hospital treatments and some chess tournaments Stark had taken part in years before.

After that he felt like he’d pretty much been through everything. But who was to say whether the answer lay here? Some people made up passwords on the basis of previous exploits, like a mountain they had climbed. Others used incidents that had left a lasting mark on their life. In the movie
Citizen Kane
, the newspaper magnate’s dying word was “Rosebud,” and the whole film revolved around the mystery of who bore the name and whether it would reside in Kane’s thoughts until the very last. René shook his head as he pictured the deceased magnate’s belongings going up in smoke with no one noticing that among them was a sled embellished with the name
Rosebud
, surely a relic of Kane’s happiest moments in childhood. Thus the answer to the mystery remained forever undiscovered.

But what about Stark? How many incidents, brief impressions, people, animals, and things might have made a lasting impression on the man? The possibilities were boundless.

He stared at the empty field as though hypnotized, as if it might reveal the password of its own accord.

Come on, come on, he urged himself. If he didn’t work it out now, he would have to give up. He certainly wasn’t going to involve anyone else in figuring out the log-in details of a computer that in theory did not even exist.

But what might he find in that virtual landscape if he
did
get inside? Would there be anything he needed to know? Had Stark stored incriminating information, or was René merely going to find pictures of naked women and e-mails that concerned no one but Stark himself?

He stretched the muscles of his neck to loosen them and took another crack. First he typed in the name of Stark’s mother, then her civil registration number, then her initials
and
her civil registration number, followed by her name spelled backward and in all sorts of combinations. Eventually, he crossed her off his list.

After that, he tried the names of various grandmasters of chess: Ruy Lopez, Emanuel Lasker, Bobby Fischer, Efim Bogoljubov, Bent Larsen, Anatoly Karpov and all kinds of other hits he found on the net relating to the game. Tournaments, concepts, and terminology in both Danish and English, the names of the pieces, one by one, followed by different combinations of famous moves.

No solution. A needle in a haystack.

Again, he shook his head, looked at the time, listened to hear if his wife was getting out of bed. Then he cocked his head to check the weather outside, before returning to the empty log-in field.

What could have meant something to William Stark besides his work? As far as he was aware there was nothing but chess, his lady friend, and her daughter. But they were parameters he’d already been through from every angle.

But what about the less obvious?

Nicknames? Special dates? Their first encounter? Their first kiss? What could have meant something to him?

He looked at Malene and Tilde Kristoffersen’s names, trying for the umpteenth time to rearrange them, but there were far too many possibilities.

What had been most important to them? The most important of all? Most likely the daughter’s illness and their efforts to make her better. Yes, it could well be that. Nothing had occupied Stark’s mind up to the time of his disappearance like Tilde’s health. René knew as much from the few occasions on which he had listened with rather reserved admiration to Stark’s description of how much they strove to help the poor girl.

He looked again at his notes, nodded to himself and typed “Crohn’s disease,” expecting yet another rejection.

And then it happened. He was in, and like the phoenix from the ashes a virtual desktop appeared with a background photo of Tilde, taken in a carefree moment. No intricate combinations, no hyphens, no numerals, nothing. Just “Crohn’s disease”—and voilà, he’d entered the promised land.

As his eyes widened, he heard the slap of bedroom slippers on the tiles of the bathroom floor, the door closing hard as though his wife had got out of bed on the wrong side again. He had ten, maybe fifteen
minutes until he had to close the laptop and pretend he’d just gotten up himself. Otherwise, Her Majesty’s prying questions would know no bounds and his fatigue would be compounded beyond endurance.