The Marco Effect

20

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.

He skated across the folders on the desktop. They were neatly ordered, labeled according to the period in which the files they contained had been created, from 2003 to 2008. He clicked on a couple, finding their contents rather uninteresting at first blush, mainly large numbers of scientific studies, correspondence with doctors and the families of patients all over the world, Tilde’s test results, copies of medical records, letters of protest, and respectful acknowledgments. All with the sole aim of getting to grips with Tilde’s illness and trying to do something about it. Nothing new or surprising as far as René could make out.

He proceeded into the Documents library to see if there could be folders containing information that might compromise the group or reveal whether Stark had been cognizant of the Baka project fraud. For while Stark’s disappearance had given rise to general consternation, René himself was more interested in finding out why Stark hadn’t already gone missing in Cameroon as planned. Why had he come back early? Something must have happened in Cameroon, and knowing Stark as he did, René could only presume that some kind of prior knowledge had prompted him to react so unexpectedly.

But this was still mere conjecture.

Upon hearing his wife open the bathroom door rather less demonstratively than she had closed it and that the sound of slippers had now been superseded by the padding of bare feet, he knew it was time to stop.

He clicked on a couple of icons and took a quick look at the rest of the folders under Documents. And so it was his eyes came to rest on one without a name.

Five minutes, surely he could allow himself five minutes. So he clicked on the folder, whereupon at least twenty subfolders appeared, each specifying a geographical location and particular subject.

Some bore the names of African states, like Tanzania, Mozambique, Kenya, or Ghana. Others were more cryptically labeled: CNTCTNME, BESTKS., CNTRCT, POL1, POL2, POL3, and so on.

René found it odd. His ministry no longer provided aid to several of the countries in question, and some of them belonged to a category of states with whom they’d had considerable problems in recent years when it came to getting them to report back properly.

He clicked on a random folder. CNTCTNME, it read, clearly a file containing the names of Stark’s most important contacts. He quickly ran through the list. Many of them had been crossed out in red and replaced by others a fair amount of time before Stark’s disappearance, but René recognized them all.

He shook his head and opened the next folder: CNTRCT. In many ways this one seemed more complex.

René frowned as his wife slammed the doors of her wardrobe upstairs. So this was going to be another day on which nothing would please her.

He saw now that several of the contracts in the folder were the kind of confidential material not normally removed from the ministry. But upon opening the first of them to investigate further, he discovered to his surprise that it contained not the contract in its entirety, but merely an appendix.

What would he want with an appendix to a contract? he mused, moving on to the next. Here, too, the contents were an appendix rather than the contract itself. As he proceeded through the entire list of subfolders he realized that Stark had added appendices to at least twenty-five ministerial contracts. Each specified an atypical transfer of money, and only in connection with a development project of considerable magnitude whose budget Stark was responsible for.

He began to add the sums together and when he reached two million kroner René knew for certain that his had not been the only criminal activity taking place in the ministry.

He could hardly believe it. His most trusted and honest coworker, William Stark, had systematically siphoned off funds from their development projects and defrauded the state of two million good Danish kroner!

René smiled to himself, ignoring the sudden appearance and automatic nagging of his wife. Things were beginning to shape up.

Earlier this very same day he had managed to imply to the police that Stark had been a pedophile as well as pressured Teis Snap into abandoning the theft of his stock in Curaçao. And now this, the most important of all: he had found the man who, with complete plausibility, could be set up as being the brains behind the Baka swindle if it proved necessary to deflect the blame. The perfect scapegoat. A man who had previously embezzled a considerable sum of money from his ministry. In short, he had discovered an individual of extremely dubious morals, who precisely for that reason had rationale enough for disappearing from the face of the earth.

So, Lady Luck, it seemed, was still smiling upon him.