The two men strolled into the field, which was heavy with autumn and unfit for walking. Mud clung to Stig Åge Thorsen’s rubber boots and Erik Mørk’s shoes were destroyed. He was also wet far up along his trouser legs. Mørk had only himself to blame. In spite of the light rain and dull sky, he had insisted on going out into nature. Thorsen, the country boy, had followed him and allowed him to determine the route without objection.
“How did it go in Greece? Did you have a good trip?”
Stig Åge Thorsen paused before saying, “I mostly want to forget it. There was a woman, but… well, it just didn’t work. Tell me how the campaign is going. I’d rather talk about that.”
Mørk nodded, happy not to hear any more about the woman.
“We are very busy. Support is streaming in from all corners of the country. By telephone, e-mail, fax, text messages, or even in person sometimes. So much has happened… but the best thing is that we have created a pedophile database. It has been built with the help of sentences and the population register as well as the client list the Climber picked up in Middelford. Per Clausen must have started this work a long time ago with a professional archivist behind the construction. ‘Recidivism-prone and Compulsive Sexual Deviants’ is the name of his report. It’s not exactly a bestseller but the result is excellent. In addition we’ve grown a superb network in record time. There isn’t much that happens in the world of media or at Christiansborg without me hearing about it five minutes later.
“And this evening I have a meeting with a television producer. He is a legend among documentary filmmakers but I have promised not to mention his name. Per Clausen has put him in touch with a girl and she would be absolutely fantastic. She is one of our own and they are training her for an interview.”
“That’s great, but what are the regular people thinking? That’s what I would like to know.”
“Well, the videos in the Dagbladet this morning have been a tactical hit and the most effective is without a doubt Thor Gran’s sexual self-disclosure.”
“… You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t remind me of it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. It certainly is a piece of pure gold and I tell you that I shouted aloud the first time I saw it. The expression with the little troll number three—it has etched itself into people’s heads, and peaceful sorts who don’t normally support violence are suddenly… what should I say?… more nuanced. One the one hand a murder is wrong of course, but… you know. It’s like with terrorists and torture.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’m not sure I give a damn. How many have registered on the site?”
“Almost eight thousand at this point and we are guaranteed to reach twelve thousand today. People’s generosity is surprisingly great. Many are prepared to do things that could cost them their jobs. Others want to give money. Among other things, I’ve had a meeting with a couple of nice gentlemen who represent three large American church organizations. Politically they are a good deal more to the right, but have great means. They want to support us financially, preferably anonymously, so we’ll have them pay for a string of full-page ads in the papers later.”
“What about the ones who just register?”
“We’ll divide them into three categories. Most of them will be organized into local chapters and will join the activities there. Category two we will ask to help us. For example, we now have two lawyers who are preparing a comparison of sentences for pedophilia in Denmark and other countries. Their work will appear on the home page tomorrow and the report will be sent to all of our members. The problem is that soon we won’t be able to take on more people. And then we have the third and final category: the ones who have a… how should I put it?… a fiery temperament, and there are quite a few of them, but we will handle them discreetly. And internally. Not all of my co-workers know that I am registering them. Understand?”
Stig Åge Thorsen nodded, although it seemed complicated to him. He said searchingly, “So we are directing the war, if one can put it that way. Is that how it is?”
“We absolutely have an enormous base but to claim that we alone determine the image in the media would be a real exaggeration. There have also been backlashes. Not everything is rose-colored. Take a look at this.”
Erik Mørk took a badge out of his pocket. It was oblong with black lettering on a yellow background. It read, “5, 6… 7, 10, 20!”
“A couple of gymnasium students thought of it. That is, first five pedophiles have been killed, then six—and later on seven, ten, and twenty. But it’s too extreme and pushes too many segments away. They’re also writing the slogan as graffiti and people don’t like that. Unfortunately we haven’t quite managed to stop it. There’s someone printing T-shirts with… well, take a guess …”
“Per Clausen.”
“Exactly. Have you seen them?”
“Yes, after you published the article about my arrest on the Net, people make pilgrimages here. They bring all kinds of flammable material that they throw into the minivan pit, almost like a ritual. Often gasoline but other things too. Last night it was magnesium and it lit up like shooting stars. I went over there for a look this morning and there were a dozen people and one of them was wearing one of those Per Clausen tops. Without his windbreaker on, so you could really see it. The police have all kinds of problems with this fire. At first they just put up police tape around it but that was quickly torn down, so they put up one of those mobile fences and it took them all afternoon, but last night someone removed that too, so they may have to stand guard if they want to prevent sabotage.”
They had reached the end of the field where a stone wall and a thicket of stunted nut trees and sloan bushes stood between them and a meadow leading down to the water. Both bored their way through this obstacle. Below this the autumn forest spread out in all its colorful splendor in front of a lake, that lay still and rain gray.
Mørk stopped on top of the wall and took in the scene. “It must be quite a pleasure to live here.” He jumped down, enchanted, and took steps into the sank meadow.
The country man managed to stop him. It was impassable bogland. “Better than prison, of course. But you shouldn’t go that way unless you want to risk me getting the tractor to pull you out of the mud.”
Stig Åge Thorsen led them along an animal path that ran next to the stone wall. Mørk asked, “Well, how did your interrogation go? It’s your turn to tell.”
“I was under arrest for almost one day but not much happened the first few hours. From time to time they questioned me, always by someone different, but they did not manage to take me down.”
“And how would they? Starting a bonfire on your own property?”
“No, that must be the conclusion they came to as well. On the other hand… there was no doubt that they would have liked to keep me there. And I was there for almost the full twenty-four hours they were allowed before they had to involve a judge. At the very end there was a policeman by the name of Arne Pedersen from Copenhagen. He was very nice while at the same somehow more dangerous than the others. His biggest interest was in what I had done with the money. The money I claimed that I was given by the stranger.”
“What did you say to that?”
“That I had donated them to Sanlaap, and that part is actually true in a way. He didn’t drill deeper into the issue but as you know I’ve been called in for another round of talks in Copenhagen tomorrow.”
“Yes, and I will make sure there are reporters. It won’t be difficult but you should maintain your silence, although you should feel free to mention your interview with me on Thursday.”
“Go to WeHateThem.dk on Thursday evening if you want to know more.” Stig Åge Thorsen grinned. Mørk did not. The advertisement was deadly serious.
“Yes, something like that. We’ll also spread the word of course. High and low. Anything else?”
“No, not really. Well, actually—I’ve received a letter from Helle, a real letter. She wrote that she isn’t doing very well. You know how she has trouble with thoughts of her uncle at night. So last night I drove to Hillerød and called her from a telephone booth. What should I say? She sounded almost intoxicated and extremely unhappy, but she wanted me to send you her greetings. And to the Climber of course, if I see him, though I hope I don’t.”
Mørk answered briskly, “And you won’t. He will very soon be on his way to Germany. Most likely in a couple of days and at most by next weekend.”
“Why hasn’t he left already? I’m not the least bit comfortable with him, not after this business with the hot-dog stand. It was part of our agreement that he was supposed to leave as soon as it was over.”
“And he will. Unfortunately, he thinks he is invincible because so many people are backing us, but I haven’t been pressing the issue either, I should add. He’s not a bad thing to have up one’s sleeve. In a way he is my ultimate trump card with the media, even more than you, if you can see what I mean.”
They walked for a while without speaking. The wind swept through the tops of the trees above their heads and drops showered down from the branches. Mørk slapped his arms across his chest to get warm, and Stig Åge Thorsen asked, “What now?”
“We’ll build you up the next couple of days and then we’ll do your online interview on Thursday. I’ll introduce it this afternoon and then we’ll call for a demonstration on Friday.”
“What if they sentence and jail me?”
“They won’t. They simply don’t have enough evidence to hold you.”
“And what about after that? What about our demands?”
“They will be made public immediately following the interview.”
“They aren’t up on the home page already?”
“No, until now there isn’t anything up there except vague formulations about combating child abuse. No one can disagree with that. In the final analysis all this comes down to politics and here we will have some heavy hitters, but apart from the fact that the people’s sentiment supports our populist-minded minister of justice, none of the others have shifted. They are leaning back, winning time, and hoping that things get back to normal in a couple of weeks. And of course that we will be found. Those are the ones we need to shake up, but believe me—they aren’t losing any sleep over a couple of days of a school strike. That isn’t enough to get them to act.”
“Then they’ll be indifferent to a demonstration and also to my interview.”
“Of course they are. But the situation is in our favor. We’re only missing the last little bit. Unfortunately, this bit will negatively influence public opinion. That can’t be helped. So we’ll have to create the illusion that public opinion hasn’t changed and I think that is possible to a degree. At least for a couple of days and that is sufficient. It’s mainly a question of angles and timing.”
Stig Åge Thorsen stopped and put a hand on the shoulder of his comrade.
“I know that you and Per Clausen discussed these things in great detail but you sometimes forgot to inform the rest of us. You’re talking as if I know what the next step is but I don’t. To be perfectly honest, I don’t always understand what you are talking about.”
Mørk made a disarming gesture and said, “I’m sorry, I should have said as much, but the next step was taken this morning. The pedophile database has been distributed to our category-three members.”
Stig Åge Thorsen’s face showed that he was still not following. Mørk had to spell it out: “Violence.”