The old man paused in front of the beautiful, whitewashed property on Bolshaya Alleya 13 and shot a glance at the red enamelled sign on its wall:
He did not understand the words but quite liked the three blue lions on the golden shield beneath the regal crown. He continued up towards the entrance, shuffling as if his shoelaces were tied together. The last rays of the setting sun were dappled on the building’s red-tiled roof. The long shadows made him look like one of the beggars that, little by little, had appeared everywhere on the streets of St Petersburg. Many were merely tired, worn-down pensioners for whom the changing times had brought insecurity and poverty. Although pensions were rarely paid on time in the Soviet years, the widespread natural economy had at least made life bearable. Now that had all been replaced by profit and entrepreneurship. The compassion of years gone by was no longer fashionable. The old man stopped at the top of the steps, trying to catch his breath as he tightened his grip on the newspaper-wrapped package 170in his left hand. He pressed the doorbell. When the door wasn’t immediately opened, he impatiently pushed the button again. Twice. Suddenly, the door was opened a fraction; a young woman was staring at him with a quizzical expression. Before he could say anything, the young woman unleashed a tidal wave of words. His hearing was far from what it used to be, but he got the drift: the Consulate was closed for today. He tried to shrug his shoulders in reply, but the energy was not there; instead, he pushed the package through the narrow opening.
‘For the Consul,’ he said in a rusty voice.
The staff member did not get a chance to tell him that it was a mere coincidence that the Consul was today still in his office: the old man turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness of the shadows. The young employee closed the door, opened the package, looked in bewilderment at the videotape and headed straight for the Consul’s office.
The General Consul raised his gaze from the mounds of paper on his desk when the young woman barged into his office without knocking. His gaze made her straighten her skirt; she regretted not just having left the package on the secretary’s desk. The Consul allowed his eyes to move off around the office, in an attempt to break the tension, before speaking:
‘Well, I think we might as well call it a day. I won’t get through these piles before I leave, anyway. I need a drink. Do you want one?’
Absentmindedly, the Consul shut down his computer; he hoped the invitation would defuse the tense atmosphere.
‘Ugh, thank you, but no thanks,’ the young woman replied, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her cheek as she continued: 171‘An old man just delivered this. He said it was for you,’ she said, quickly adding: ‘Sir.’
The General Consul was about to mix himself a double gin and tonic but put the bottle down and looked curiously at the videotape that the young employee handed him.
‘Hmm, interesting. Let’s see what it is.’
He searched amongst the piles on the desk, pausing on a brief concerning Dandy’s new factory in Novgorod that he had been looking for; he finally found the remote for the TV. The B&O TV instantly came to life, and he handed the videotape back to the assistant. As soon as the tape had been inserted into the video recorder, the screen flickered with white noise and suddenly the electromagnetic blur was replaced by colour images. Slowly, the bruised Kaare Strand appeared, and the bizarre recording from the warehouse filled the screen.
‘Jesus Christ!’ the General Consul blurted out.
Dumbstruck, they stared at the black screen at the end for several seconds, and then the assistant pressed rewind. In silence, they watched the video one more time. It was as if time had stood still in the room, and neither of them had the strength to break free of the vacuum. They were engrossed in digesting what they had just witnessed. The message delivered by the muscular giant with the leather mask was hard and fast. Having spent a couple of minutes taking the images on board, the Consul finally broke the spell; resolutely, he reached for the phone.
‘Lena, get me a line to the Ambassador in Moscow. Immediately, please.’
He slammed the receiver back in its cradle and stared blankly into the room. Without registering the reaction of the young 172employee, he dropped heavily into his large Eames leather armchair. Suddenly, he felt a chill in the office and shuddered. A few minutes later, the phone rang, but he was so engrossed in thought that it took him a few moments to identify that the annoying sound was coming from the telephone. He took a deep breath and reached for the receiver.
‘The shit’s hit the fan! Some lunatics here in Russia have kidnapped a soldier. Kaare Strand. You know, the guy from Afghanistan the papers have been writing about. I’ve just received an absolutely bizarre videotape. They want thirty-seven million dollars. Thirty-seven million!’
The Ambassador’s response did not do much to calm him down, but he made an effort to come across as decisive:
‘No, I don’t know anything else. And of course, I’ll come to Moscow immediately. My assistant will brief Copenhagen while I jump on the train. I should be in Moscow in five hours with a little luck, provided I catch the next one.’
Pensively, the Consul hung up and made a few quick notes on the corner of a newspaper. He was distraught but issued his assistant with precise instructions. The Consul asked her to read back the instructions to him. He thought no mistakes could be made in this matter and started putting things into his briefcase. The young assistant checked her notes and recited the instructions word for word, suppressing her excitement; this was the first time in the eight months she had worked at the Consulate that something significant had happened.
Satisfied, the General Consul nodded, poured his gin and tonic, took a swig and loosened his tie. The young woman hurriedly left the office while he stared into the darkness outside the windows. 173So, this wasn’t the end of a long working day after all, but the beginning of a long night, the Consul thought. The sole comfort was that he would not be the only one working overtime tonight. Many Foreign Office colleagues would soon realise that – both in Russia and Copenhagen. Even though he liked to say that no one felt warm just because everybody else was freezing, he felt some contentment in knowing that he would be sharing faith with many others this evening. He downed the rest of his drink, grabbed the videotape and switched off the lights before he left the office, shoulders drooping.