FAREED CHERUKURI HAD BEEN thinking about it a lot, and now he was sure. He had, without a doubt, one of the most boring jobs in the world. If he had a choice, he would have rather helped clean up Chernobyl than sit here at TDC customer services and be forced to answer questions, each more stupid than the last. Why won’t my Internet work? Can you help me use Google?
Even though he was overqualified, he had accepted the position because he needed the money. When your last name was Cherukuri, finding a job was practically impossible in a country like Denmark. He had been promised the possibility of a promotion as soon as they had assessed his work ethic. There’s always a demand for good programmers, they had told him. Three years had gone by, and he was still sitting down here in the bunker, feeling the heavy weight of the headset. I dropped my phone in the toilet and now I can’t use it to make calls. Can you help me?
But today, for the first time, he had received a question that woke him from his boredom. Just a few moments into the conversation, he found himself sitting straight up. He was excited.
The woman introduced herself as Dunja Hougaard. She was a police officer with the crime squad in Copenhagen. She told him that she should have called TDC’s special division for cell phone searches, but the paperwork would take too long and she would prefer to avoid starting such a major process at this early stage in the investigation if at all possible.
His job was customer service, not wiretapping. Unless she was having a problem with her TDC subscription, he couldn’t help her. No matter how much he might want to, there was nothing in his power he could do to find the information she wanted. At least, according to his job description.
In fact he had spent all those years exercising his brain and programming skills by hacking into TDC’s systems, breaking through firewall after firewall, and even reaching the Holy Grail — calls, texts, and data traffic. For the past year he had been able to eavesdrop on any call that was connected through the TDC network: it didn’t matter if it was Queen Margrethe, Casper Christensen, or Søren Pind.
Listening to people’s phone calls had brightened his days for a few months, but soon he had sunk back into a brain-dead haze. He had been hoping to find out about some juicy scandals, but he hadn’t discovered anything outrageous. It was like everyone knew someone was listening. But today was different.
The policewoman asked whether a specific number in Sweden had called a specific number in Denmark sometime during the evening of Friday, July 2. He asked whose numbers they were, but she wouldn’t tell him. He promised to see what he could do and to call her back as soon as possible.
He immediately discovered that the Swedish number belonged to an Astrid Tuvesson, chief of the crime unit in Helsingborg, and that the Danish number belonged to Kim Sleizner, the head of the Danish police. Now he knew why she didn’t want to put this inquiry on the record.
This just kept getting better and better. Sleizner was something of a celebrity. Anytime the police had to make a statement, the responsibility fell to Kim Sleizner. Fareed had no trouble with the search, and he’d been able to call Dunja Hougaard back after only a few minutes.
“The Swedish number called the Danish number at 5:33 p.m. last Friday.”
“Did the Danish number answer?”
“No, but a message was left on the voicemail. Do you want me to play it?” Fareed could hear the policewoman’s hesitation, which he understood. What right did she have to go in and listen to her boss’s messages?
“Okay.”
Fareed Cherukuri pressed play.
“This is Astrid Tuvesson with the Helsingborg police. We have an emergency situation in your jurisdiction. There is an extremely dangerous criminal at a gas station in Lellinge, and we are afraid that he may have taken one of the employees hostage. He is behind at least two murders in Sweden, and he must be stopped before he commits any more. Call as soon as you get this message. In the meantime I am going to contact the station in Køge.”
It had happened just as Fabian Risk claimed it had.
“Did the Danish number call the Swedish number back?”
“No. He didn’t listen to the message until the next day, after which he erased it.”
“Erased it?”
“Yes, but we keep the sound files for a year.”
He said “he,” Dunja thought. She knew immediately that he had looked up the name of the Danish subscriber, but she had no intention of commenting on it. She had the answer to her question. Now she just needed to figure out how to proceed.
“I found something else,” he said, just as she was about to thank him for his help and hang up.
“Oh?”
“I know the geographic location of the phone when the voicemail picked up the call.”
“Okay?”
“He was at the corner of Lille Istedgade and Halmtorvet.”
Dunja knew the address very well. It was famous for being a corner frequented by prostitutes. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” she replied, thanking him for his help and hanging up.