The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (37 page)

If it hadn’t been for the buffoon Carl Mørck brought with him instead
of the Arab, Mørck might suddenly have slipped in a question that caught him napping.

Maybe he’d given himself away already. He couldn’t be sure. Even though he’d been careful to control his body language, sometimes this Mørck had looked at him as if he could see right through him. As if he knew the whole story and was only waiting to tell it.

Christ, what a terrible twenty-four hours it had been, but now it was over. A couple of minor matters to sort out and he’d be off. The proceeds from the sale of his shares in Karrebæk Bank had been transferred to his account, so now all he needed was new identity papers. There were people out in Vesterbro who specialized in that sort of thing, people Snap had boasted about. René reckoned this would take a day more, after which he’d go to Teis Snap and demand his rightful share of the Curaçao stocks.

He shoved his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. Once he’d seen Snap he needed to make himself scarce. Amsterdam or Berlin, he didn’t care, just somewhere a person could change his appearance with a minimum of bother. He could pull it off, as long as they left him alone for a day or two.

There was a knock on the door. The handle turned.

Eriksen’s breathing stopped. His subordinates wouldn’t just come barging in, so were the investigators back already?

It was the young assistant who stuck his head round the door, so Carl Mørck was most probably right behind him. What had they found out? Had they been talking to his staff? No, now he was being silly. They had nothing on him, nothing at all.

“Sorry, just two more questions,” the novice said. “Have you a got a minute?”

Eriksen put his glasses back on. Why had he come on his own? Was it some kind of trick?

“I was wondering about something you said. My father is a highly placed civil servant, too, and he’s always said that if there’s one place they keep an extra close eye on travel expenditures, it’s in public administration. Obviously one is out traveling more in the foreign office than other departments, but I still find it odd that both you and Stark made a
trip all the way to Africa, to the same region, independently of each other, and within the space of a few days. That must have been dreadfully expensive. I know the Baka project was Stark’s, and that you had other items on your agenda, but why didn’t you investigate matters yourself instead of sending Stark? That was my first question. The second is this: What were those other important projects, exactly, the ones you failed to get sorted out down there? Wouldn’t Stark have been able to deal with them since he was on his way there anyway? Please don’t take it wrong, but weren’t those two trips pretty much simultaneous? And finally, are your traveling activities in this department really that uncoordinated? Haven’t you got a separate budget ledger for travel expenditures that we could have a look at? If so, we’d like to see it on Monday together with the other things we talked about.”

Eriksen had sat quite still during the long bombastic monologue. The lad was a fool, no doubt about it, but his questions were relevant. The two trips he was referring to had indeed taken a lot of explaining to the accountants. It had cost him a reprimand, and even though it had happened long ago, it certainly wouldn’t speak in his favor if anyone decided to take a closer look.

Therefore he ignored the fledgling’s smug self-satisfaction and smiled back at him. “Naturally we have strict guidelines when it comes to trips abroad, and of course we require detailed résumés of each trip, as well as detailed reports as to their purpose, and in addition we ask which account the trip’s expenditure is to be drawn from and why. So yes, of course, you can see it all on Monday.”

The guy looked like he’d just made a scoop, which indeed he might have were it not for the fact that the documentation he required would never be forthcoming. And the bird would have flown in the meantime.

He extended a hand to Eriksen and was about to turn and leave when suddenly he raised a finger in the air. “Oops, I’d better not forget it this time,” he said, and stooped down to pick a gray scarf off the floor before finally saying good-bye.

Eriksen stared a long time at the closed door before he was convinced there would be no more surprises from that quarter.

There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind.

After this, today was definitively his last day at work.

—

From the moment he clapped eyes on Gordon as the spindly spire came lolloping along the basement corridor, Carl could tell by his gormlessly gleeful expression that something was seriously amiss.

“See, I got it, Carl,” he said with a grin, holding up his scarf. “You do realize it was a trick, yeah?” he added, flopping down on the chair opposite. “You wouldn’t let me get a word in, so I needed an excuse to go back.”

“Run that by me again.” Carl felt his nostrils begin to flare. “You mean to say you went back to question him without me being present?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if you don’t approve, but I shook him up, Carl. I pointed out to him that it was illogical for two people from the same ministry to travel to the same part of the world independently of each other at almost the same time. He may have smiled when I mentioned it, but I’m pretty darn sure I gave the man something to think about. I really believe I made some headway.”

At that moment something inside Carl snapped. It wasn’t just this twerp and his outrageous meddling, it was downright desperation. A searing sensation in his soul that manifested itself in a snarl as his heart skipped a beat and sweat trickled from his pores.

“Fuck off out of here, you idiot,” he yelled, upending his desk and everything on it in the man’s direction.

Gordon fell backward against the wall but got to his feet immediately, looking at Carl as if he’d gone insane, before giving him a wide berth and retreating through the door.

“And this time, you dickhead, you keep your fucking mouth shut!” Carl bellowed, as the man vanished.

Carl stared down at his desk that now lay on its side, a deluge of folders and documents strewn across the floor.

Then he felt a jab of pain in the region of his heart that made him gasp for air but in vain. The feeling of suffocation was profound and impossible to suppress. His fingers cramped up, his arms clasped themselves
tight around his diaphragm, and his legs trembled as though his body had suddenly been exposed to extreme cold.

“What’s going on?” he heard Rose’s voice cry out, as he slid off his chair onto the floor, legs splayed.

He sensed her presence, and that she immediately asked him where it hurt. But he couldn’t feel a thing as she pulled him over to the wall and sat him up against it.

She put her hand on his shoulder and suddenly he heard himself sobbing profoundly as he felt an increasing undulation in his midriff.

“What’s happened, Carl?” she asked him calmly, as she cradled his head.

At first he couldn’t reply. Her skin and scent and breathing made him hold his breath. Her nearness, his angst, and all that seemed so inexplicable overwhelmed everything else.

“Do you want me to call for help, Carl?”

He shook his head as his sobs subsided into abrupt, soundless intakes of breath.

“Has this happened to you before?” she asked.

He tried to shake his head, but couldn’t.

“Sort of, maybe,” he stuttered after a moment, not knowing if it was true.

Then she asked him to listen to his own breathing and close his eyes. “You don’t need the world at the moment, Carl,” she said gently, drawing him close and holding him tight. “We’ll just sit here until you’re feeling better. I’m not going anywhere, OK? We’re family, whether we like it or not.”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Apart from lingering on the thought of it actually being a woman and not just Rose who was soothing him, he listened to his breathing and shut out the world.

For Boy, this was
a day filled with considerations about leaving.

The years he had spent in the service of Brage-Schmidt had been rewarding. He had no cause for complaint, but times had changed.

His suitcase lay packed on the bed in his room back at the consulate. Suits had been selected from his walk-in closet, and watches and jewelry neatly placed in his little strongbox. His plane ticket for the flight tomorrow evening was already bought.

He hadn’t discussed his decision with Brage-Schmidt for good reason, but this was the way things had to be. It was best to stop while the going was good.

It had been a creative period in his life. While his employer often presented him merely as his private secretary and personal assistant, the reality of the matter was that behind the scenes he had been given free rein to deal with any problems or situations that might arise. This had led to blackmail of overzealous business contacts, false accusations leveled against and among competitors and deals to smuggle gems with a supplier of airline lifejackets. There was also the time five years ago when he recruited Mammy and a couple of her boys to feign a robbery of Karrebæk Bank in order to cover up a fatal liquidity crisis. Not to mention the numerous threats to public officials and insurance providers in nearly a dozen different countries. Yes, during his association with Brage-Schmidt he’d been able to deliver the goods, including murders and kidnappings farmed out to local or global subcontractors.

And now he had to perform one of these tasks himself, for his own
sake as well as his employer’s. Just this one last time and then he would be gone. That was the plan.

He had followed Mammy’s movements all day. She had already deployed decoys—ostensibly disabled individuals in wheelchairs—at strategic locations in the city, ready to pounce on Marco if he should happen by. In Østerbro her crew had beaten up a handful of Ukrainians for refusing to take orders from them, and at every S-train station and some of the busiest bus stops men had been posted, with the promise of a ten-thousand-euro reward if they apprehended the boy.

Earlier in the day they had almost succeeded in bringing him in. It had cost one of Mammy’s boy soldiers a twenty-centimeter gash in his hip before they managed to extract him from a rubble chute, and another one now sported an eye so bloodshot that he had to wear sunglasses in order not to attract attention. They had almost caught him, which was good, but insufficient.

This Marco was the fluttering butterfly in South America that could trigger a storm in Japan. The one that could start a domino effect. And Boy no longer wished to be a part of it. He took his precautions out of principle, for Brage-Schmidt had taught him that principles were more important than anything else.

If they captured this boy, everything would be all right. If they didn’t, or if he managed to get the police involved, there was no telling what might happen. Zola had assured him that Marco couldn’t possibly know anything of significance, but then why had there been police speaking with Eriksen at the ministry today? They had come too close by half, so from now on Boy had his own agenda.

Needless to say, Brage-Schmidt would be no hindrance, but a rebellious Eriksen, or an obstinate Teis Snap in particular, was another matter. Snap was the only one with a hotline directly to Boy, and if it wasn’t disconnected it could end up like the cannula delivering a lethal drug into the veins of a condemned man.

The fact of the matter was that the attempt on Eriksen’s life had been a spectacular failure, so consequently the man was now doubtless clutching his Danish share certificates tightly to his chest, not letting them out
of his sight for an instant. A while ago Boy had called Eriksen’s home number pretending to be a colleague and had learned from the man’s wife that the little worm had not come home from work and she had no idea where he was.

He assumed, therefore, that Eriksen was already on the run. It was just as well.

Zola wasn’t much of a problem either. He didn’t have Boy’s number because the SIM card was changed after every call between them. They had never met in person, and it was Boy who phoned him, never the other way round. Zola was a conceited, arrogant fool, hurtling toward the abyss like a lemming. It was only a question of when and where he would finally go over the edge.

Teis Snap, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. An amorphous type who could break down at any time, which was unfortunate given that the man had to complete an overview of the facets of their operation and would be able to point a finger in any number of directions if things went wrong, which for him they already had. He had gambled with his bank’s assets. He had miscalculated when they selected their stooge in the ministry. Snap was the man Eriksen threatened because he was the easiest. Moreover, at this moment he was in possession of the gold Boy had been digging for, namely the unregistered stocks even a half-wit could hardly fail to turn into double-digit millions. Euros, at that.

And Boy was determined to take all of it with him.

—

The long gravel track leading up to Teis Snap’s house near Karrebæksminde was lined by an avenue of trees. This remote location was ideal for those who craved space, horses, and affordable land, allowing the leeway for personal extravagance in the form of lavish buildings and a fleet of cars.

Boy had never been there before yet quickly realized that in order not to draw attention to himself he would need to park behind the outbuildings, where his car couldn’t be seen from the main house.

He got out of the car and listened. If there were dogs, he would deal with them first. He hated the erratic nature that dogs in the countryside
often displayed. In fact, he hated all dogs, apart from the one he himself had owned.

There were four buildings in all. White, well-renovated stables and a main house that reeked of a man who let his wife make the decisions. He had expected the property to be grandiose and sterile, but instead he found himself looking at black wagon wheels decorating the end wall and trellises resplendent with purple clematis.

Boy scanned the courtyard in front of the house. Besides a black 4x4 and the ubiquitous white Mini Cooper convertible, there wasn’t much to meet the eye, but it was enough.

He frowned, pausing for a moment with his finger poised at the brass doorbell, considering what he would do if it turned out there were guests in the house.

Then he pressed the bell and waited.

Incredibly enough, Snap was still married to his first wife, Lisa. Brage-Schmidt’s theory was that the age difference was what kept them together, but judging by her photos, looks might have had something to do with it, too.

Boy heard her inside the house, but the door remained closed. Most probably she was peering at his CCTV image on a screen in the hall. The camera was pointed straight at him.

“I am Brage-Schmidt’s private secretary,” he announced, looking into the lens.

The possibilities were several, providing she heard what he said. Most likely she wouldn’t let him in, in which case he would have to go round the back of the house and smash a window. He would gain entry one way or another.

“I see. Is my husband expecting you?” came a voice from a speaker he couldn’t locate.

“Yes. Hasn’t he come home yet?” Her silence told him she was alone. “I can come back,” he went on. “Although we’d agreed a time. Actually, I’m ten minutes late, so perhaps he’s on his way as we speak. I can wait out here, the weather’s nice, and I’ve all these lovely flowers to admire.”

He stood quite still for a moment, smiling benignly, his gloved hands folded in front of the bottom button of his jacket, like an undertaker who
stands in the background as the bereaved pay their final respects. It signaled humility and unobtrusiveness, the kind of strategy one learned only from the best of teachers.

Twenty seconds passed before she opened the door and barely had time to introduce herself before he grabbed her head, jerked it to the side, and broke her neck. Soundlessly and without pain, so swiftly that she could hardly have registered what was happening.

He carried her body upstairs to the bedroom, propping her up at an angle with pillows on the bed, then turned her face to the side and switched on the television.

He took his time checking the house. Rifling discreetly through people’s things was a skill long since acquired. Items could be opened or inspected in many ways using the proper fingertip touch. It took half an hour to go through the place without finding what he was looking for. The scenario was more complicated now, though not unexpected.

After deleting all footage from the security camera at the front door, he discovered the wife’s turned-on laptop stationed on a high-gloss black dining table in the spacious room that covered more than half of the house’s ground level. The online auction on the screen revealed her interest in flowers was not limited to those found in nature. It also included paintings, a fact amply confirmed by the still lifes with flowers that decorated many of the walls.

It took him about five minutes to compose Snap’s account of why he had murdered his wife and subsequently committed suicide. It was easy: his criminal activities had gotten to the point where he could no longer cope. Now René E. Eriksen, head of office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, would have to shoulder the full responsibility for the fraud, the killing of William Stark, everything.

Boy printed out the document, considering whether to sign it but opting instead to wait, folding the paper over the middle.

Then he went upstairs to the bedroom; sat himself in a floral patterned high-back wing armchair at the dresser with all its little bottles of perfume, scented notepaper, and envelopes that lay ready to accommodate the lady of the house’s effusions; opened the sash windows wide; and gazed far out across the rain-drenched fields, waiting.

—

The halogen beam of the Mercedes’s headlights cut through the darkness, announcing Snap’s arrival almost a full minute before the car rolled up in front of the house.

Boy listened to the rummaging downstairs: shoes flipped off in the hall, briefcase dumped on the floor, a bit of food prepared in the kitchen, and then finally the ascent up the stairs.

Snap entered the bedroom with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other, closing the door behind him with his knee.

“How’s your day been, darling?” he said, placing his supper on the bedside table, then turned to the chair next to the bed and began to undress. “Mine wasn’t exactly sublime. I told Brage-Schmidt on the phone about René’s crazy behavior this morning, so now he’s in for it.” He laughed as he turned to look at her in his underpants, halfway into his pajama top. “What are you watching? Have you fallen into a trance?”

He smiled and gazed at her, head tilted slightly to the side in puzzlement over her lack of interest in his arrival.

“Are you angry? I said I wouldn’t be back until late. And why have you got the windows wide-open, it’s freezing in here,” he said, going round to the other side of the bed. He had just buttoned his pajamas when his eyes met Boy’s.

The shock sent him recoiling backward. Boy had never seen anyone so frightened.

“Mind you don’t fall,” Boy said. Snap sat down heavily at the foot of the bed, his mouth agape, lips quivering as his breathing went haywire.

“Who are you?” he stammered, then turned to look at his wife.

Another jolt shook his entire body.

A minute or two later, when the human wreck finally backed away from his wife’s corpse, he tried to look the black man in the eyes.

“Are you one of Brage-Schmidt’s boy soldiers? How come you speak Danish?” And when Boy didn’t answer, Snap began to tremble. “Who sent you? Not Brage-Schmidt, he’d never do a thing like that, why should he? He knows I can keep my mouth shut.”

Boy’s lips curled in a faint smile. Snap apparently found it provoking.

“What the hell are you smiling for? You can just tell me what you want. A million? Ten million? I can give you ten.”

Boy shook his head. “I only want your signature, then I’ll leave.”

Snap was bewildered. His entire being protested against that utterance. His arms fluttered and his head bobbed up and down.

A signature? His astonishment shone like a neon sign. The man had just killed his wife, and now all he wanted was a signature?

Boy produced his folded sheet of paper and placed it on the dresser in front of Teis Snap, the blank half facing up.

“Just sign here.” He pointed to the empty white of the paper.

“What’s on the other side? I won’t sign until I’ve seen it.”

Boy stood up calmly and adjusted his jacket. “Sign here or else you end up like your wife. I’ll count to ten. One, two, three, four”—he produced a ballpoint pen from his inside pocket and handed it to Snap—“five, six, seven . . .”

Snap took the pen.

“What did you do to her?” he stuttered, on the verge of breaking down in tears.

“Sign,” Boy replied, indicating the empty sheet of paper. And Snap signed. His hand trembled as he drew the pen unsteadily across the page, exactly as if he were signing his own suicide note.

“Thank you,” said Boy. “And now I want you to give me the Curaçao stocks. Then I’ll leave.”

“You said—”

“Give me the stocks. I know Lisa brought the certificates home with her in her suitcase. And now the suitcase is empty.”

“How do you know that? Brage-Schmidt is the only person who knew. Did he tell you? Is he behind this, the bastard?”

“Give me the shares and continue to live. Your wife broke her neck. She fell down the stairs. If that’s what you tell the police, they’ll believe you.”

Snap began to weep uncontrollably. It was not a good sign. People breaking down in situations like this meant you never knew if they were capable of making a rational decision. Right now, acting rationally meant fighting for one’s life.

“Give me the certificates. Where are they? I’ve been through the whole house. Is there a hidden safe somewhere?”

Snap shook his head. “What makes you think I can tell you where Lisa put them? How am I supposed to know?”