by John Schou
why he had to die. Besides, I also appreciate the deed you made in the morning. I wish we had such people in London in July 2005. Instead, our civil service failed.”
“Seen from their intentions, they succeeded. Also the civil servants here were not to be trusted. That is why I use the occasion to meet the press before meeting the police. I have no idea how they will react.”
“I hope to see you tomorrow. We shall be at the hospital at 9 and at the airport at 10:15.”
“I’ll call this evening if I am among the free. Now you better get going, I see a man with a camera approaching.”
The explosions were little more than 6 hours old and nobody had yet told the reporters, for what to show an interest and for what not, so there was a vivid interest, many more coming than I had expected. But it heats up the mood better with too many people present in a small space than a few scattered over a large auditory.
“I was the one who threw the bomb at Vesterport,” I started. “My first bomb, by the way.” Laughing. “But I did not prepare it myself. I was with the train from Vanløse after some work there for my employer, Mr. Smith here in Hellerup, and when the train stopped, I suddenly noted a young man with a suspicious rucksack, which reminded me of the ones which had been used in London on July 7, 2005. I asked him what was in it but he panicked and took it off, running away without showing his face. Then I panicked myself and threw it away and good so, for you know what then happened.”
“And your presence was purely incidental?” one wanted to know.
“If I had expected a bomb there, I would have taken the bus,” I lied.
“Can you describe the bomber better?”
“Not particularly. I cannot remember his face, but I guess the surveillance cameras will soon do their best – I mean, that is why we have them over all; to protect us or when that fails, at least tell who the villain was.” In this moment, I saw him, Mr. X, the man with the platinum blonde hair whom I had given a healing orange juice shower Saturday morning, the one who had betrayed details of the plot at Shepherd’s without suspecting that any were listening and thus making our precautionary measures possible. Was he here to take revenge? Suddenly I longed for the police. “Who is representing the police here? Nobody? Would somebody please call them, they should also be present at this conference.”
“Who are you anyway?”
“Who is asking?”
“Bent Petersen from Ekstrabladet.”
“I am Eric Gusto, 32 years old, born in Canada, now Danish citizen as my mother, working here in Hellerup as assistant to Mr. Smith.
“Tell me more about your experience. Why did you leave the scene immediately?”
“I guess it was the shock of the explosion. I have asked myself this question repetitively. I can’t really answer it. I ran away and suddenly found myself in a taxi, heading for Hellerup. I trembled all the way here and, on reaching my employer, even had to lie down in my own office where I have the possibility. Only around noon did I tell Mr. Smith about the incidence, and he persuaded me to inform police and public – which is why you are here now.”
The conspirator was about to disappear. If he just went away, I might never again be safe. Somehow, I had to nail him. “Didn’t I see you with the bomber in the train this morning?” I asked.
He stopped and said, “But no, how do you claim that, I have an alibi for the time.”
I saw the television camera fixed on him. It was enough. But the interest for this person increased as I said, “I still have the feeling I have seen you somewhere recently.”
“Indeed, Saturday morning in the hotel.”
Should I add ‘with all the secret services people?’ No, the public is still not ripe for this revelation; it would only damage my own prospects. Fortunately, the police soon arrived, and the reporters indicated that they should secure his data as well as mine. Thereby, the press conference was also soon finished.
The reporters waited outside the hotel, probably expecting to see me being taken with the police. I was myself not certain whether I would be celebrated as a hero or arrested as a terrorist. It turned out to be neither nor. They heard my story without asking a single question, subsequently wanted to see my driving licence but I had the feeling that they knew who I was – and then, they were suddenly gone.
I skipped my promise to Torsten about visiting the bar and walked back to Mr. Smith’s house. He was enjoying his coffee in the central office.
“They were not very interested in my story. The reporters ate it with a few polite questions but the police was obviously bored. Interesting was the presence of the man with the high-pitched voice. I tricked him out and the police secured his data. I let it be with that. Denmark is not ripe for the big news.”
“And else, what about the ladies?”
“Good that you remind me. Mrs. Dumont left you this envelope and she is leaving with her lover’s remains tomorrow morning. Can I …”
Mr. Smith threw a glance at the content and interrupted, “of course, you will drive her to the airport – and when?”
“Before and during your breakfast.”
“Then don’t wake me up when you get the car.” A Bentley is not a car you leave nights on the street, so I was forced to come back in the morning, taking it from the garage without necessarily entering the house.
I looked in the TV, but they had not yet any contribution relating to my press conference. Strange, they could at least have mentioned it.
I called Alice and gave her the latest information. Then I parted from Mr. Smith, I could use some sleep now.
Mysteriously, there was no video footage of Fred’s deed. Hundreds of cameras were installed on trains and stations in the process of Terroritis, a public neurosis making moderate politicians help to demolish civil rights for fascist strategies. But when you really could use them, they do not function – and nobody misses them!
7 – Home with Honour
I got up a bit more early than I had planned. I was curious to see the newspapers, but since I did not subscribe to any – it was part of my job to screen them for Mr. Smith – I decided to enter the house and by that occasion ask Juanita for coffee.
I had perhaps expected to be celebrated as a hero, but that was not reflected. One of the headlines concluded that ‘The Terror has come to Denmark’ and described the explosions and the panic. It was mentioned that two brave passengers, one of whom had been identified, had thrown the bombs away from the crowd but unfortunately on the rails, so that the traffic would be disturbed for days to come. You could almost feel a disappointment that nobody had been killed. It was noted that several trains had been stopped in advance to the explosions, but that was attributed to a brave engineer who had reacted to an anonymous call from a Danish al-Qaeda group. Dear me, with such quality of reporting, I was grateful that my name was not mentioned.
It was time to leave. I went out and took the olive-green Bentley out of the garage, and then I drove to Alice. She and Jeannine, both clad in black but more elegant than sorrowful, were waiting at the street – I had called and asked them to do so, since there never was a possibility for parking a big noble car in that street. From there, it was a short step to the hospital.
We were asked to wait, but that gave us the possibility to study who else would escort the late Mr. Osborne to the airport. Two cars were unexpectedly carrying the British ambassador – after all, George was a governmental serviceman, but I was surprised now to learn that he was of higher ranks – and the chief of the Danish police secret service, whom I had seen at Shepherd’s and who had been presiding the meeting. The latter person also recognized me, saying, “wasn’t it you who threw away one of the bombs yesterday?”
“I had the honour,” I answered.
“Hmm,” was his comment to that. “Who threw the second bomb?”
“I have no idea yet, the police failed to find out.” We ended the discussion there, and he gave Jeannine some comforting comments.
The ambassador was accompanied
by a young man, holding a Union Jack. The white coffin was now decorated with the flag, giving the whole procedure such a great distinction of honour that I felt myself forced to ask, “But he did die of a heart attack, didn’t he?” which the other men hastily confirmed.
Now four policemen on motorbikes arrived, in order to enable an uninterrupted cortege. I felt sort of important to be worthy of participating in this show. A black Bentley might have been more appropriate, but the other cars were large black Mercedes so it was still the crown jewel of the convoy.
While driving to the airport, Jeannine handed me an envelope: “Just in case your boss forgets to split, I also want you to get this proof of my gratitude.”
“Thanks a lot. I hope to see you again in Copenhagen under more happy auspices.”
“Certainly. I have met Alice quite unexpectedly and hope to see her again somewhere this summer – perhaps in your company?”
We came to the airport where first the coffin was loaded on the plane, and then Jeannine parted from us. I had enough of the police company and wanted to get away. Alice stayed behind, changing some of her clothes, so I could drive her to work on the way back.
“Do you think there will be another bombing now you disturbed this one?”
“No. First of all will it be difficult for them to hire new patsies, as their scheduled fate as involuntary ‘suicide bombers’ has been exposed. Second, our civil servants got their terror attack and will, as usually, play the Terroritis-game accordingly, although to their deep regret nobody was killed. New civil servants will be employed and the civil rights further reduced.”
“Merry Christmas,” Alice said with a tired voice.
I drove to her working place, where she slowly left the car. I knew she had a pleasure to arrive with the big limousine, but as I once offered to borrow a cap and open the door with a slight bow, she refused. Spread on the backseat were now her black clothes, which I promised to take care of.
The chances of incidentally meeting somebody you know in Central Copenhagen are very small. The atypically warm weather, which led several people walk around here in December without a coat, facilitated perhaps my recognition of Mr. X, clad as I had seen him at Shepherd’s – meaning that his jacket had now been cleaned from the orange juice. It was hardly more than a glimpse, and it was impossible to park the Bentley here to sneak after him on foot. He was walking in company of a black-haired man in a dark suit. When you travel nowadays, the wardrobe is limited and most men travel in the same jacket and trousers, which they also use for official purposes. Although I had only seen the potential murderer of George from behind and even for a second only, I instantly had the feeling that this was the man. Maybe the two crimes were linked closer together than I previously had assumed?
But why were the two men staying in the country? Were more malicious events to follow? Perhaps revenge act toward Mr. Smith and his humble servant? Knowing that at least Mr. X had a crucial position in the terror-plot and the police had registered his data yesterday, I decided to find out a bit more.
There was only one person whom I thought could help. I called Mr. Erlandsson.
“Dear Mr. Erlandsson …”
His good mood from yesterday had disappeared. “What do you want to obtain, Mr. Gusto? The chances of learning anything through me are next to zero.”
I explained what I wanted. His answer was slightly more reconciling, therefore also said: “Everything relating to yesterday’s terror attack is taken care of by a special commission, and they are not very talkative. It is, in fact, a one way communication: We shall tell them everything and get nothing in return.”
“But the mysterious death of Mr. Osborne has officially nothing to do with the terror attack?”
“No, it has
