FAREED CHERUKURI. NOT only was the name impossible to remember, the little Indian was the worst kind of hacker, too, according to Stig Paulsen at TDC. During his years at TDC, Fareed had worked his way around every last firewall, infiltrating all the way to the inner core of the company’s code, which made it possible for him not only to eavesdrop on every mobile phone call relayed through TDC’s network, but to perform triangulations, read text messages and who knows what else.
Over the past month, they’d had a whole team working around the clock to fix all the security breaches and clean up after him as quickly as possible. But it had turned out to be more complicated than they’d thought, which was why they were still unable to give an end date when the network would be one hundred per cent secure again.
But that was Paulsen’s headache, not his. He used Telenor. Besides, they’d agreed not to report it to the police but rather to deal with it internally. Partly to protect TDC’s good name, but mostly so he could resolve the situation in whatever way he pleased. Which he was now looking forward to doing more than ever.
Suddenly, he didn’t just have little Dunja to take care of. He also had a tiny Indian man and an obese Chink with an elephant fetish, and he could already sense that the whole affair was going to be a treat like none he’d ever experienced before. A treat that, if all went to plan, was waiting just around the corner.
Now that he knew the Indian man’s real address and was sitting in his car outside Amagerbrogade 150, keeping an eye on the entrance between Synoptik and Punkt1 through his rear-view mirror, his last outstanding question was hopefully going to be answered imminently. His working theory was that all three had swapped flats with each other, which meant Dunja should be hiding in this hideously ugly building in the middle of Amager. That fact alone did wonders for his mood.
Because Amager was one of the most depressing areas of Copenhagen. No wonder the island was nicknamed Rubbish Island. Once upon a time, it had been Copenhagen’s landfill, and it still smelled worse than anywhere else. As though soap hadn’t made it here. Everyone wore second-hand clothes that reeked of mould and nowhere would you see more hammered, stinking Greenlanders than on Amager.
Islands Brygge, where he himself lived, did have a geographical link to Amager. But that was all. Culturally, not to mention economically, the two neighbourhoods were like night and day, and he was convinced the battle to introduce the postcode 2301 Islands Brygge would soon end in victory, thus severing the last connection to Rubbish Island.
But enough about that. Right now, he was dealing with that little whore, and he was almost certain his fingers would soon be wrapped around her throat.
And yet he felt anything but calm. Deep down inside, he was furious. Even after a double dose of Omeprazole, he could feel the searing burn every time his oesophageal sphincter opened, releasing stomach acid into his throat.
He should really just let what happened go and stop caring. Focus on more important things. But, true to form, he’d let aggravation get a firm grip on him and as usual there was no way to shake it.
Fabian Rask. Or was it Risk? Whatever. That prick had seriously crossed a line on Wednesday night. Going into Danish territory after being denied access – that was, quite simply, a declaration of war.
Fine, so the question of whether or not they had been right to deny the Swedish coastguard access to Danish waters was maybe open to discussion, as Ingolf Bremer of the Naval Operative Command had pointed out during their conversation. But this wasn’t about right and wrong. Let the politically correct Swedes wring their hands about those kinds of namby-pamby considerations.
No, this was about one thing and one thing only. About giving that Risk bloke, who was chummy with Dunja to boot, a proper slap on the wrist to show him who was boss. If he’d just accepted it, taken his punishment and slunk back to Sweden with his tail between his legs, the whole thing would have been over and done with and balance restored.
But no. Instead the prick had been overcome with hubris and violated Denmark’s sovereignty. He’d given him the finger, clear as day. I don’t give a flying fuck about his territorial pissing, he’d said on the recording of his conversation with the Naval Operative Command. No one talked to him that way and walked away unpunished. Least of all a fucking Swede.
He’d tried to run the matter all the way up the flagpole to Morten Steinbacher for an official statement on the ministerial level, which would in turn lead to the Swedish ambassador being summoned for a meeting. That would stir things up, and their relationship with their Swedish neighbours would deteriorate even further. And that was exactly the kind of environment in which he thrived. When the world was engulfed in chaos and everyone else felt like shit.
But he needed Ingolf to be on board, and since he was insisting on being obstinate, he’d switched tactics. He was going to sit on his hands and pretend he hadn’t even noticed the declaration of war. As though it had passed by unnoticed without so much as a raised eyebrow.
Then, one day, when everything seemed blessed state fucking peaceful, he’d pounce. Then Mr Rusk would find out what it was like to have him as an enemy. It would hurt, really goddam fucking hurt. Granted, he’d already laid the groundwork, but exactly how and when he would strike in earnest was still an open question. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a year from now. The only thing he knew for sure was that when the opportunity presented itself, he would be ready to unleash an Armageddon that would obliterate that son of a bitch and everyone around him.
In the end, it was his phone that broke the silence, and when he saw that it was the useful idiot Jan Hesk at Homicide, he answered, mostly to distract himself. ‘Yes, what do you have for me?’
‘Hi, Kim, it’s only me, Jan.’
‘I know, and I wouldn’t mind if you cut to the chase.’
‘Right, well, the reason I’m calling is that I just spoke with Astrid Tuvesson from the Helsingborg Police and—’
‘What, wait, hold on,’ he broke in, glancing up at the mirror aimed at the entrance. ‘You’ve been in touch with the Swedes?’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t the one who—’
‘Ap-ap-ap, let’s calm down and rewind the tape. Haven’t I been perfectly clear about all contact with the other side of the sound being conducted by me and no one else?’
‘You have, but, like I said, she called me. I didn’t call them, and since you weren’t here—’
‘You should have referred her to me.’
‘And I did. But she insisted and in the end, I had no choice.’
‘Jan, I have to say I’m disappointed. You of all people should understand what—’
‘Kim, if you want to keep bickering about this, that’s fine,’ Hesk broke in. ‘But if I were you, I’d listen to what she had to say instead.’
Hesk had never talked back or interrupted him like this before. ‘You would, would you?’ he said, and let the silence between them grow. ‘I see.’ Hesk had never liked him, that much was certain. Ever since that Christmas party a few years ago when he’d stormed into his office trying to play the hero after seeing Sleizner on top of Dunja on the sofa, he’d held a grudge. ‘But then, you’re not me, you’re you. At least, I hope that’s the case.’ Hesk had never mentioned it again, but he’d concealed his growing dislike behind a thick layer of sycophantic smarm. Until now. ‘And if I were you, I’d seriously consider plastic surgery, then I would think carefully about what I said and above all, to whom.’
‘Look, I didn’t mean to sound rude. If that’s how it came off I apologize, and for what it’s worth, I would never call you unless it was important.’
There. Back in your hole. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’
‘From what I gather, for the past few weeks they’ve been hunting a perpetrator of Asian descent suspected of committing a number of murders on randomly selected victims. And they now believe he has crossed the sound to strike here, at Tivoli.’
‘They believe?’
‘Yes, they found his notes, and though they don’t explicitly mention Tivoli, they’re saying it’s highly likely that’s where it’s going to happen. The problem is that they don’t know exactly when. It could be tonight, tomorrow or the day after. He might even be there now. So what they’re suggesting is working together to formulate a plan of action to—’
‘Our cooperation with the Swedes will be kept to an absolute minimum.’
‘Yes, I know that’s the official line, but—’
‘Absolute minimum! Am I making myself clear?’
‘Right, I hear you, but what does that mean in real terms? We can’t just ignore this. From what I’m told, a detective called Fabian Risk is already on his way over, and if it turns out they’re right about—’
‘Risk?’ Of course that prick was involved. Fucking fantastic. ‘Just so you know, that man has already violated our sovereign borders once. So if he’s planning to run around Tivoli, waving his gun around, our top priority is to have him arrested. Okay?’
‘Okay, but surely we still have to—’
‘No buts! If you want to retain whatever slim chance you still have of getting promoted, you’ll make sure that bastard’s arrested! As far as the other thing goes, it’s all guesswork, no more, no less. You know what it’s like. He might be on his way to Tivoli or he might not. He might come tomorrow, he might come never. We don’t know,’ he said, just as he saw the door between the two shops open. ‘That being said, of course we will take the threat seriously.’
Out stepped none other than the Indian man and the obese gook, scanning the street like two freaks in cheap sunglasses. It was almost enough to make him believe they suspected they were under surveillance.
‘Okay, so what do you suggest we do?’
But he wasn’t worried, not in the slightest. They could look around all they wanted. They would never spot him.
‘Kim, are you still there?’
Granted, he’d hoped to see Dunja herself, but this was almost better. That half of Asia had just been in there and were now parting ways suggested they’d had some form of meeting at her house.
‘I’m going to have to call you back,’ he said, and climbed out of the car.
And that should in turn mean she was still in the flat.