–
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.