The face was fleshy and pale with tiny beady eyes, and the thin girlish mouth looked painted on. The gaze was directed downward and the features crumpled into wrinkles as many people have the habit of doing when difficult decisions need to be made. A sour fish-face.
The head filled two-thirds of the frame, and the headrest, decorated with the Danish flag, made up the rest.
For a brief second nothing happened, then the face broke into a grin while an eager tongue tip flicked out a couple of times and moistened the red lips.
Something was said, whereafter the video sequence froze and caught the man in an unflattering grimace.
Anni Staal—reporter at the Dagbladet, whom Simonsen preferred to see banned from the country—was disgusted. The flag and the man made her feel unclean even though she did not know who he was or hear what he was talking about. She halfheartedly looked around for her headset and realized that as usual someone had taken it. At which point she gave up. The message accompanying the video had been anonymous. The sender was only noted as “Chelsea,” which she didn’t know what to make of. Anonymous messages were nothing new. She received several every day, so she shouldn’t really be wasting more time on a single one.
The telephone rang. She grabbed the receiver and smiled when she recognized the well-known voice. After a short while she said, “I certainly remember Kasper Planck and that will be a sensation, so you’ll get two thousand if we have a feature on him tomorrow.”
She gave a time and a place and added, “All right, we’ll say twenty-five hundred, but tell me something while I have you on the line. Arne Pedersen—you know, Konrad Simonsen’s right hand—there’s a rumor that he has gambling debts. Do you know anything about that?”
Again she listened, though not for as long this time, then she said, “I know, I know. With regard to Kasper Planck, do you think that I can get a comment from either Simonsen or Planck himself?”
While she listened to her answer, she deleted the e-mail and read the next one. She received two new messages before she wrapped up the call.
“I think I’ve got the right little Lolita-Anita for the job. The girl has such high morals she should be studying to become a minister rather than journalist, so she meets both of your criteria. And for God’s sake, call me back soon.”
She hung up and called out into the editorial cubicle area, “Anita!”