“Listen, Assad. You know the drill. Easy does it, all right?”
“OK, Carl, but I don’t have a drill.”
“Never mind, Assad. It’s a figure of speech.”
There was a knock on the door. Carl opened it.
It was Gordon, for Chrissake.
“Have you finished yet?” he inquired. “We’ve got another one waiting.”
Did he say “we”?
–
Responsiveness to the opinions of others was not a concept often applied in the office of Lars Bjørn, as Carl had long since noted.
“Even if you consider this Marco to be a key witness in the case of William Stark’s disappearance,” Bjørn said, “you can’t just set the entire manhunt apparatus in motion, Carl. I’ll be docking Department Q’s budget three hundred thousand kroner in man-hours for this if you do. Maybe it’ll teach you to run your dispositions by your superiors in future. So the search for the boy is off, as of now.”
Carl bit his upper lip. “OK, but considering how close we are to tying up the case, I regard that as a totally imbecilic decision. Moreover, if you really want your hands on my budget, maybe you could start by instantly giving Gordon his marching orders. I don’t know if three hundred grand’s enough, but if it isn’t you can take the rest out of the coffee tin.”
Bjørn was completely unfazed and just smiled at him.
“Sorry, Carl. I’m not taking Gordon off your hands. He may have been a bit clumsy interviewing that official over at the foreign office, but he’s been forgiven.”
“Forgiven?”
“Yes. You hadn’t briefed him properly beforehand, he told me.”
Carl felt an extra surge of blood in his arteries, and his cheeks began to glow. “What the fuck are you on about, man? You’re sitting across from an experienced investigator and telling him a skinny infant like Gordon has to be briefed in a case he’s got nothing at all to do with? You do realize we’re close to getting a really good handle on what happened to William Stark, and that it may well turn out to be a murder, or something just as bad? And now Gordon, the fucking idiot, goes off on his own, questioning one of our prime suspects and letting the bloke know we’re onto him and that we’re ready to start digging in his doings until we reach the bottom. For Christ’s sake, Bjørn!”
“You already have.”
“Have what?”
“Reached the bottom. If you can’t manage a trainee on the job, I’d say you’re not as fantastic as you think you are.”
Carl got to his feet. In the old days this office was the place where he could summon energy to go on with his work. Now the only thing he got out of being there was a compelling urge to see how long it would take an acting homicide chief to fall from a third-floor window to the pavement below. The fucking idiot!
He heard Bjørn shout at him to stop as he slammed the door behind him and, seething with anger, strode past Ms. Sørensen, who was applauding languidly behind the counter. He even forgot to flirt with Lis.
–
Not surprisingly he found Gordon drooling in Rose’s doorway.
“My office. Now!” he barked at the lad, underlining the order with a rotating index finger pointing the way.
The cheeky sod had the audacity to ask what he wanted, but Carl let him roast a while, tidying the folders on his desk into a pile in the corner, throwing his feet up, and lighting a cigarette whose smoke he slowly inhaled deep into his lungs.
“From now on you’ve got two options, son,” he said eventually. “Either you pack your bags and fuck off back to Legoland, or else you start making yourself useful. What’ll it be?”
“I’d say I already have made myself-”
Carl pounded his desk. “What’ll it be?”
“The latter, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I do.”
The pose that Mussolini struck when he wanted to impress the crowds-chin thrust up, chest and lower lip thrust out, clenched fist at his side-was the same one Carl used now. “Say you’re sorry!” he commanded.
“Dumbfounded” was about the best word to describe the expression that appeared on Gordon’s face. But he apologized nevertheless.
“Right, now you’ve officially begun your apprenticeship at Department Q. But before we get started, here’s your Cub Scouts’ test. And if you don’t answer properly, I’ll kick you out anyway. I want you to tell me the nature of your relationship with Lars Bjørn.”
Gordon shook his head and shrugged. “It’s nothing. He’s my dad’s best friend, that’s all.”
“I see. That would explain a lot. Public school chums, I shouldn’t wonder. And let me guess, you went to the same school as well, yeah?”
He nodded.
“Right. So Bjørn wants to do your dad a favor and takes you on as his private spy so he can keep tabs on me. He’s a bit of a control freak, in case you didn’t know. Typical of beanpoles and second-raters.”
Here the kid’s defiance bubbled to the surface in spite of himself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, apparently. Bjørn’s tougher than anyone here.”
Carl thrust his head back. What the hell was that?
“Are we talking about the same man? The teacher’s pet with the perfect creases in his slacks? What could possibly be ‘tough’ about him? Go on, enlighten me.”
“Ask him to roll up his sleeves. You’ve never seen scars like that in your life. Could you withstand a month of constant torture, I wonder? Well, Lars Bjørn could, and I could tell you a lot more besides.”
“I’m all ears.”
Gordon hesitated, but in his youthful arrogance he was unable to resist temptation.
“You won’t know what BCCF stands for, obviously.”
“Can’t say I do,” Carl replied, hands held up in submission. “But let me hazard a guess. Bjørn’s Comical Ca-ca Face, perhaps?”
“You haven’t a clue. What it stands for is Baghdad Central Confinement Facility, or what Saddam Hussein called Abu Ghraib prison.”
“OK, and now you’re going to say Bjørn worked there, right?”
“Worked? No.”
What did he think this was, Trivial Pursuit? “Go on, then,” Carl said, sharpening the tone. “What’s Bjørn got to do with Abu Ghraib?”
“What do you think? Why do you suppose I told you to get him to roll up his sleeves?”
Carl stared at the floor, drumming his fingers on the desk. He didn’t like what he was hearing now. He didn’t like it one bit.
“What else, Gordon?”
He looked up at the lad and saw to his surprise that his face had turned red.
“I can see you’ve already told me more than Bjørn would approve of, am I right?”
He nodded.
“And you’re not even supposed to know that much about him, are you? It’s something you heard the folks talking about at home, isn’t it?”
He nodded again.
“OK, Gordon. I think we’re back on track. I’ve got enough on you now to bounce you out of HQ on your ass. Bjørn’s been protecting you so far, but my guess is he won’t be much longer if I go upstairs and ask him to roll up his sleeves at your request. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he squeaked.
“So from now on, you only tell Bjørn things about Department Q that I want you to tell him. Are you with me?”
“Yes.”
“Right, it’s a deal.”
Carl got up, thrust out his hand and gave Gordon’s a squeeze that made his eyelashes do a river dance.
“Now, get yourself upstairs to Bjørn and tell him you’ve discovered we’re dead close to clearing up a very interesting case, and that this Carl Mørck bloke is simply the most brilliant thing since sliced bread.”
Gordon’s mouth twisted with uncertainty. “Do you really mean it?”
“Yes, I do. Be sure to remember the word, ‘brilliant.’ And after that, you phone René E. Eriksen at the foreign office and ask him to stay behind after work. We want another word with him.”
“Why? We’re seeing him on Monday anyway.”