“Temper, temper, Carl. Just a little misstep, I’m sure, but let’s move on. It is my impression the time has come to make a few changes in Department Q. You will remain as leader of the department, of course, but during the last couple of years our work seems to have overlapped somewhat, which both Marcus and I have found disruptive.”
Carl shifted forward in his chair.
What the fuck was this?
–
Carl’s hands still trembled with rage as he accepted Assad’s intricately decorated little cup of pungent spiced tea. He stared dejectedly into the slimy substance. It looked poisonous, but that was nothing compared to its smell.
“Take it easy, Carl,” said his assistant. “We just carry on as normal. No one is going up to the third floor, and I will not work for Bjørn. That I will take care of.”
Carl raised his head. “And you reckon you’ve the clout for that, do you? May I ask what makes you think that? Was it part of the deal for looking after his house?”
Assad’s eyes wavered for a second like those of a criminal who stops himself from confessing at the last moment, or those of a boy loath to reveal his true feelings for a girl.
“I don’t know what this ‘clout’ means, but I will take care of it, Carl. Lars Bjørn will listen to me.” He tried to smile his way out of his predicament, well knowing the issue was still open.
But then his face lit up with a sly look. This was going to be about camels, Carl could tell.
“Just remember the story about the camel who thought he was an ostrich but got sand in his eyes when he was frightened and stuck his head into the dunes.”
Carl shook his head wearily. If he added up how many camels Assad had driveled on about, the Sahara wouldn’t have room for them all.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Assad?”
“You see, Carl, if only we stick to our true nature we will never get sand in our eyes.”
“Thanks for the advice. The fact of the matter, however, is that I am not a camel. Remember that, Assad. Besides, I haven’t a clue as to that animal’s intellectual capacity, but I can tell you that to me it looks like you’re the one sticking his head into the sand. Don’t you reckon it’s about time you came clean and told me how come Bjørn suddenly out of nowhere, and despite your apparent inexperience, places you down here with me, whereupon you begin to demonstrate skills and abilities normally associated with years of policing experience? If I want an answer to that, do I go to you or Bjørn?”
Assad frowned, and deep in his trouser pockets Carl sensed a pair of clenched fists.
“What’s going on here?” came Rose’s blowtorch voice from the doorway. “There’s enough sparks flying around in here to light a bonfire.”
Carl turned his head reluctantly toward her. “That arsehole Lars Bjørn has decreed that Assad is going to be working for him and that you and me, Rose, are being moved up to the third floor. And now Assad claims he can talk him out of it. Naturally I asked him what the hell made him think he had the clout.”
Rose nodded pensively. “And what did you say to that, Assad?”
The bulges in Assad’s pockets smoothed out. The sparkle in his dark eyes returned. He’d extracted himself from Carl’s web. Shit!
“Bjørn and I go back some time and he owes me a favor. We know each other from some work in the Middle East. I cannot tell you more. I’m bound hand and foot.”
“Can’t, or won’t, Assad?”
“Yes” was all he said.
Fifteen minutes later Carl’s phone rang and Lis informed him that Assad was now sitting in Bjørn’s office and if it wasn’t too much to ask, might the esteemed Detective Inspector Mørck care to join them immediately and bring Rose with him?
“I’m not keen on Assad and Bjørn chumming up like this, Carl,” said Rose, as they trudged up the stairs. “What’s your feeling about it? Any idea what’s going on with those two?”
Carl raised an eyebrow. Had she really just asked him for his opinion? There was a first time for everything.
“I-” was all he managed to say before she cut him off. Back to normal.
“Personally, I don’t like it one bit.”
And that was all she had to say on the matter.
–
Bjørn’s office had undergone a transformation during the last two hours. Lis and an army of workers had raided the shelves and cupboards, leaving them all but empty, and now a service technician was busy screwing an enormous whiteboard on to the wall just where Marcus Jacobsen used to have photos from crime scenes.
Assad was seated in a chair that had doubtless been removed from the commissioner’s office. Hopefully without her consent, Carl thought, imagining the repercussions with glee.
“Assad and I have been discussing matters a bit,” said Bjørn. “It seems he’s declining the offer I’ve made him.”
Assad nodded emphatically. Couldn’t have been much of an offer, Carl mused, feeling increasingly like for the time being he couldn’t be bothered with anything or anyone on top of the hangover he was still nursing after the weekend’s exploits.
“Far be it from me to spoil his plans, or your routines, for that matter. I just want the three of you to know that the administration of Department Q belongs under me, for which reason it is imperative I maintain the necessary control over what’s going on down there.”
Carl looked over at Rose. She was already about to blow.
“I’m sure you know that all private businesses of a certain size use so-called controllers whose job it is to keep an eye on the viability of the organization’s various operational sections. In our case we can say that viability is determined on the basis of two main factors. One factor is our success rate in clearing up individual cases, and in this respect your department scores reasonably well, thank God.”
Fucking prick, I’m going to get him for this, Carl promised himself. He deserved to be skewered on a stick and toasted in boiling oil, he did. Reasonably well! Was understatement the new leadership strategy?
But Rose beat him to it. “Now you listen to me, Mister So-called Boss of Department A. I’d give my right arm to head up Department Q’s investigations and do it half as well as Carl.” Then she turned to Assad and bellowed into his face: “And you, Assad! What’s the matter with you? Have you gone soft in the head, since you can’t give up your seat for a lady when she’s standing up?”
The shock almost launched his eyebrows into orbit.
“Right,” she continued, having sat down in the vacated chair. “Now we’re at eye-level, Bjørn. Get used to it.”
“On the other hand,” Bjørn went on, unmoved, “your level of expenditure is unsatisfactory. In terms of man-hours against budget, Department Q is nearly twice as costly as Department A. That needs to be rectified. For that reason, I’ve taken on a new man to keep an eye on costs. I believe you’ve already met Gordon Taylor.”
Carl was gobsmacked. Gordon? Bjørn had hired Gordon to control Department Q?
“No way am I having that gangly scaffold snooping around in my basement. He’s still wet behind the ears, for Chrissake! Is he even out of secondary school yet?”
“He’s in his final year of law school and getting top marks to boot. He’ll be joining us full-time before long.”
“Like hell he will!” Carl threw up his hands as though in self-protection and made ready to back out of Bjørn’s office. “You can send him back where he came from, we simply haven’t the time to waste on him.”
Then the situation took a turn that Carl never, in his wildest imagination, could have predicted.
“We can give it a try, can’t we, Carl?” said Assad.
“C’mon, he’s not that bad,” Rose pitched in.
Checkmate. Thanks for nothing.
–
Carl watched the fizz in his glass and tried to remember how many headache tablets he’d actually taken since their meeting with Bjørn.