The Foreign Secretary let his eyes wander over the old stock exchange’s oxidized, green copper rooftops to Copenhagen’s harbour inlet until they fixed on the Opera House. He was in a good mood, not only because of the night at the Falkoner Hotel that had turned out to be far more sexually exploratory than anticipated. It was, to a large degree, also down to the information Rikke Enevoldsen had given him about the Prime Minister’s order to initiate illegal surveillance.
The Prime Minister wanted to avoid surprises during the election campaign by ensuring the hostage situation wouldn’t undermine the Cabinet’s policy on the war on terror and the decision to deploy Danish Special Forces to Afghanistan. He had given Rikke the impression that it was all about safeguarding the government’s policies. But he had no doubt that it was equally about giving the PM the option of framing the hostage situation in the election campaign to his benefit. The government’s policies! He snorted at the thought. How many times had he, at Cabinet meetings, asserted his opposition to Denmark’s military engagement? It was too dangerous, he’d said, and now he’d finally been proven right. But 256the Prime Minister had refused to listen; his only focus had been to say how high whenever the United States said jump. And now, the PM wanted to hide the truth about the hostage situation from the public by using illegal means.
Deep down, it wasn’t the fact that the PM wanted to use illegal wiretaps to secure his re-election that made the Foreign Secretary angry. The fact that the Prime Minister wanted to hide from the public that his own criticism had been right all along was what made him angry. That was completely unacceptable, regardless of whether or not there was an election campaign raging. His fury made the blood rush more forcefully through his body, and he let his hand grab hold of his crotch. Lust rose up once more, and he closed his eyes as recollections of that fantastic night flickered through his mind.
When he opened his eyes again, his thoughts refocused on the PM – on the numerous times the Prime Minister made him feel small over various issues, sometimes all but humiliating him in public. When measures to combat the growing narcotics problems in Afghanistan had been top of the agenda, the US and Great Britain emphasised the need to deploy allied soldiers to curb the rising number of opium fields. Each year, roughly five thousand tons of raw opium was produced in Afghanistan, and he had warned against being drawn into a whole new war: one that couldn’t be won, and one where the enemy was the global narcotics networks. He had pointed out that there had been more than twenty years of attempts to combat narcotics barons in Colombia, supported heavily by the Americans, without apparent success. The Prime Minister had brushed him aside and ridiculed him. Even when the Foreign Secretary of Great Britain had publicly warned against 257mission creep, the PM had been obstinately supportive of the American agenda. The way he wagged his tail for the American President was pathetic. But now it was payback time, he thought, and moved closer to the window, almost as if to get a better view of the missile he had launched towards the Prime Minister’s office on the other side of the harbour inlet.