The Marco Effect

32

Carl joined up with Gordon in Eriksen’s receptionist’s office. Desert boots, gray scarf, corduroys. Was he really expecting to be taken seriously in a getup like that?

“Well, you made it on time,” the beanpole said, with the kind of arrogance best rectified by some boxing about the ears.

Some interview this was going to be.

Eriksen looked peculiarly tired. Not the way you did after a hard day’s slog, more like he’d been at it all night long and had also been in an accident.

“What happened?” Carl inquired, with a nod in the direction of the bandage stuck to Eriksen’s neck.

“Oh, that,” he replied, lifting his hand to the spot. “Silly, really. It’s what you get for taking the steps in front of your house too quickly.”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah, one little slip and all of a sudden you’re on your back.”

“Exactly,” said Eriksen, sending the idiot a rather too intimate smile.

The corners of Carl’s mouth turned downward. If the idiot was going put words in the mouth of their interviewee, things weren’t going to be easy.

“I can inform you that we’ve spoken to William Stark’s partner, Malene Kristoffersen, and her daughter,” Carl said. “Both of them have forcefully dismissed your suspicion of pedophile activity. That’s only to be expected, of course, but we’ve found nothing at all to substantiate it. Do you have anything more to say that might further support what you told us?”

“I don’t know, really,” Eriksen replied, pursing his lips in thought. “Sometimes you can observe things and overinterpret them. You brought the issue up in our discussion, not me, and it triggered some associations, I suppose.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve anything more substantial, so I can only apologize if I put you on the wrong track.”

Carl inhaled sharply through the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t feeling that good and was also confused by Eriksen’s change of tack. It was almost as if something had happened to the man since last time they spoke. As though the camel were stretching its neck toward another goal altogether.

“Quite an office you’ve got here,” said Gordon, for no obvious reason. “I thought the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was in some ancient building.”

Christ on a bike, who did he think he was working for? Ideal Home magazine?

Carl forced an apologetic laugh. “Gordon’s in law school and thinking of joining the civil service. So he’s checking out the territory while he’s here.”

The beanstalk looked surprised. “Actually, no, I-”

The lightning in Carl’s eyes could have slain an ox. Gordon shut up abruptly. Despite possessing truckloads of megalomania and a stranger to self-criticism, he must suddenly have understood who was in charge. About fucking time.

“We’d like to know more about the project Stark went to Cameroon to sort out,” Carl went on. “What was it about, exactly? We have a rough idea, but we’d also like to hear your own rundown.”

Eriksen frowned. Was it a prickly question or was he just thinking?

“Actually, it was a rather simple project, basically motivated by the fact that a large part of the world’s primitive cultures are suffering on account of civilization encroaching upon their domains. In this instance we’re talking about a pygmy tribe known as the Baka people, an ethnic group inhabiting the Congolese jungle in a geographical area known as Dja, which is located in the southernmost region of Cameroon. It was a straightforward aid project whose purpose was to compensate for intensive poaching and the timber extraction their forests have been subjected to. The Baka still live in grass-roofed huts, under quite primitive conditions. The fact of the matter is they can no longer sustain themselves unless major efforts are made to provide them with crops and reasonable living conditions. So all in all it was a pretty basic development project.”

“Was, you say. Isn’t it still running?”

“Yes, but it’s winding down.”

“Hmm. And how have these people been helped, exactly?”

“Mainly by setting up banana plantations and making sure the land surrounding their villages was cultivated.”

Carl eyed him for some time before posing his next question. He sensed Gordon fidgeting impatiently at his side, so he clamped his hand just above the lad’s knee and squeezed. There was a squeak of astonishment, but luckily nothing Eriksen seemed to notice. He was far too focused on Carl’s scrutinizing gaze.

“I can tell you we’ve received information that the project went idle quite some time ago,” said Carl. “As far as we’ve been informed, not much ever transpired in the way of banana plantations or cultivated fields. Could you explain that to me?”

Eriksen put his hand to his neck and scratched beneath his collar. The idea was probably to look relaxed, but something had definitely thrown the man. Carl thought he knew what.

“I don’t understand. It’s news to me, I must say,” he replied. “I’m shocked. We’re still making payments until the end of the year.”

In his mind, Carl ran through the six signs that indicated a person was lying under interrogation. Several of them were as clear as day. Eriksen’s hands were placed flat on the desk in front of him, as if he didn’t dare move them. Suddenly he stared into Carl’s eyes without blinking, then swallowed hard a couple of times, his mouth obviously dry. So basically, all that was left were stupefaction and rage, and he’d have the entire set. But Carl didn’t want to push him that far because then he would stop talking altogether.

“I’m sorry to have to divulge this information to you like this,” Carl said. “But it’s important for us that we understand how a project for which your department is responsible can go off the rails like that.”

He protested now, more offended than angry. Yet another sign. “I can only say it like it is. The Baka project was Stark’s and he was extremely proficient at delegating the work to the recipient countries, which is basically the purpose of our providing aid in the first place. This was a straightforward project of the kind that runs itself as long as the groundwork has been done well enough.”

“So you’re telling me no one was keeping tabs, is that it?”

“Of course there were periodic checks, but in this case they were more at the local level. Like I said, it wasn’t a very big project.”

Carl glanced at Gordon. It didn’t matter what Lars Bjørn saw in the big dope as long as he kept his damn mouth shut until they were done. He looked hurt, but if a dead leg was enough to silence him, Carl was ready to give him a couple more.

He turned back to his prey, who now sat moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. Clearly he was more than ready to defend himself. But why?

“How big was the project, then? How much money was earmarked?”

Eriksen raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I can’t remember offhand, but certainly no more than fifty million a year.”

Carl recoiled. Fifty million a year! For that sort of money he’d personally plant bananas from here to Novosibirsk. How much police work could get done for an amount like that? How many street cops could get their overtime paid, and more besides? The number of time-off hours in lieu of wages that they’d save was mind-boggling.

“But I can get you the exact figures after the weekend,” Eriksen added. “The person now in charge is on vacation.”

Carl nodded. “Thanks, we’ll get back to that. We’ve been told as well that the project’s coordinator on-site, a certain Louis Fon, disappeared only a few days before Stark. Any thoughts on that?”

He’d better have, thought Carl. Otherwise, something was very wrong indeed.

“Yes,” Eriksen said with a nod. “That was quite a strange story we never really got an explanation for. But Africa’s like that, I’m afraid. People vanish, and sometimes they turn up again. There are plenty of temptations and dangers, not to mention chance occurrences. Sometimes things go inexplicably awry. We’re talking about the world’s second largest continent, you realize, and in many ways it’s one big shambles.”

Carl wasn’t buying. If Eriksen had been more specific and tried to elaborate, or even denied ever having heard of the man, he might have come across more believably. But this sort of all-purpose waffle could mean only one of two things. Either the man was hiding something or else he was utterly incompetent at his job, and the latter option Carl refused to believe.

“I see,” he said. “Another odd story, and there are apparently plenty more where it came from, I realize that. Nevertheless, I can’t help but think of a related coincidence that I find at least as odd, which is that you happened to be in Somolomo the very same day Fon disappeared just across the river. What were you doing there?”

This time Eriksen kept himself together. If he was shocked, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

“Yes, that’s true, but there’s a perfectly simple explanation. I was there to make sure things were running smoothly. The opportunity arose because I was going to southern Cameroon anyway to discuss a couple of other projects, which for various reasons never amounted to anything after they got turned over to the EU. Purification of drinking water, checks on timber extraction, that sort of thing.”

“And was everything going according to plan in Dja in your opinion?” Carl asked.

Eriksen shook his head. “No, I did notice the project was proceeding rather slowly and I also tried to get hold of Louis Fon to get an explanation.”

Gordon could keep quiet no longer. “So could that be why Stark went down there?”

Carl could have murdered him on the spot, but opted for another dead leg. What the hell was he playing at?

Eriksen nodded, of course. The answer had already been handed to him on a plate. “Yes, Stark flew down there a couple of days later to go through everything in more detail. Unfortunately I didn’t have enough time on that trip to do it myself.”

Carl took stock. Was René E. Eriksen really the kind of senior civil servant who never did a damn thing and left everything to his subordinates? Who took all the credit when projects succeeded and blamed others when they failed? If he was, then any number of scenarios were open, including ones where William Stark had exploited the situation. Because what it all came down to was that Stark had disappeared immediately following his last visit to the place, and as far as Carl could tell, a hell of a lot of government foreign development aid had disappeared as well, and into the wrong pockets. There was something to suggest that Stark’s pockets had been in there somewhere, but that others had also been involved in the circus. People who might have had an interest in making off with the whole bundle themselves.

Carl thrust out his lower lip. Sometimes one was allowed to take a shot in the dark. “I reckon Stark was on the make, siphoning off funds for his own purposes,” he said.

Eriksen did not appear to be particularly surprised. His reaction seemed solemn and pensive. “Our books are under constant scrutiny, so I can’t imagine anyone not having noticed if that were the case.”

“But accountants don’t go to Africa and count the number of banana trees, do they?”

“No, of course not. Very rarely, anyway.” He allowed himself to smile. In Carl’s opinion, however, he didn’t have much to smile about.

Fifty million a year. Hell’s bells.

“So what it comes down to is that only you and Stark could tell if there were any irregularities down there. Don’t you think that gave the two of you a bit too much clout?”

Eriksen fell silent for a long time, staring into thin air, lips pressed thin. His expression was neutral rather than empty, like when a person knows there’s absolutely nothing he can do about a situation.

“But that’s terrible, if what you’re thinking is correct,” he answered after a while. “In which case, the responsibility is mine.”

“Anyway, we’re going to have to ask you to look more deeply into it.”

He nodded, his brow knitted in a frown. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll give it my full scrutiny together with the administrative officer I mentioned who’s on vacation. I’ll call him as soon as he returns on Monday and report back to you that afternoon.”

They left Eriksen almost paralyzed on his chair in the midst of his governmental clutter and Carl didn’t mind a bit.

Finding the motive behind a person’s disappearance was the surest way of uncovering what had actually happened, and at the moment he felt they were getting close.

He walked along immersed in his own thoughts until Gordon interrupted.

“I think I’m rather too old to be pinched on the knee,” he said, his mouth puckered with indignation. “Next time we’re out on a job together I suggest we act like substantially more mature individuals. I take it you agree.” He extended a hand. “Shall we say it’s a deal?”

Carl studied the stairs they were approaching. A discreet nudge and a couple of somersaults on the way down could easily cause a small rupture of his neck vertebrae. He was sorely tempted.

He considered the outstretched hand and came to a halt. “Listen, Gordon. Once you’ve dried yourself behind the ears and taken your exams, get yourself a nice little job as managing clerk somewhere in the sticks where you have to take care of the local housing associations’ squabbles about the maintenance of basement storage rooms. By that time you’ll probably be able to look back with joy and gratitude on the day Carl Mørck took you out on a job and prevented you from making an utter idiot of yourself, don’t you think?”

Gordon let his hand fall to his side. “You’re saying I’m childish?” he said. “That’s what people say about you, too.”

Carl’s safety valve was almost ready to blow. One more wrong word and he would explode right in the middle of a government institution.

“Anyway, I’ve left my scarf in his office,” Gordon added. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

He turned and started walking away. That was precisely the angle Carl preferred to see him from.

–

Eriksen felt like he’d been slammed against the wall. Mørck had given him a hell of a grilling. How come they knew so much? About Fon’s disappearance. About plantations that had never been planted. If they knew that, chances were they knew a lot more besides. At least that was the feeling he’d got when they’d been questioning him.

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.