The Rotten State: A John Flynn Thriller

by Stewart, A. J.

  “Ja,” said the muffled voice. It sounded like the guy had a busted nose, which Lund knew he did.

  “The American is in Copenhagen.”

  “You want me there?”

  “No.”

  “I should be there.”

  “Keep your head in the game. He wasn’t the only one who beat you. Where’s his friend?”

  “He’s here. They just left the commune.”

  “Going where?”

  “Don’t know yet. We’re headed toward Stenløse.”

  “Keep on them. If you get the chance, take the spare guy out.”

  “Out?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You got it.”

  Lund could hear the smile coming across the line, even with the broken nose. Or maybe because of it.

  * * *

  Engaging Lund in things above his station had been a mistake, of that Berg was certain. His men were going down like flies, and the American was still walking around like a protected species. Lund might have been good local muscle, but he was a crooked builder, good for some cash and for the odd favor, but clearly the American was something else. The fact that Lund had purposefully left out how his men on the train back from Møn had lost the American was evidence that things were out of control.

  Control that Berg had to regain.

  He wasn’t happy about what he needed to do, but it was necessary to stomp out the bug before it became a serious threat. Berg made a call, then did up his suit jacket and walked out of his office in the Folketinget. He strode out into the intermittent clouds and across the courtyard of the palace grounds then into the building that held the office of the prime minister.

  The other man met him in the foyer then both walked in silence through a maze of corridors, through a locked unmarked door, and finally down into a subterranean section. They took a meeting room that looked like any other in the parliament complex: gray carpet, baby-blue walls, and birch tables in a U-configuration. The other man closed the door before he spoke, and Berg knew to wait. The room may have looked similar, but this one was different. It had a mesh Faraday cage built into its walls to prevent electronic eavesdropping. Not even cellular calls got through.

  The man turned to Berg. He was tall and broad, and even in his civilian suit he looked like a military man. He was handsome but for the scar shaped like a sickle that ran along his cheekbone and down the side of his mouth.

  “Tell me,” he said, in his deep, authoritative voice.

  Berg outlined how the men who had been tasked with taking care of the American had lost him while coming back from Møns Klint.

  “You said you could handle it.”

  “I thought this man could. He’s only local, but he’s generally good.”

  “All evidence to the contrary. You should have brought this to me earlier,” said the man.

  Berg said nothing. He knew that would be the response. The man liked to project an aura of being in charge, even if he too was really a minion.

  “Will he go back to Østvand?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Berg. “His friend is still there.”

  “Where else?”

  There is a friend of the girl, here in Copenhagen. I have people there.”

  “The same people who lost him before?”

  Berg said nothing.

  “Where else?”

  Berg shrugged.

  “The reporter,” said the man.

  “You said she was gone.”

  “She is. But your American may not know this. Leave it with me. If he appears, if your local clowns see him, call me at once. Do you have a photograph of him?”

  “I do.”

  “Get it to me. Is that all?”

  Berg nodded, and the tall man with the scar led him back up to the ground floor. He didn’t say goodbye as he strode away to his office, and Berg didn’t watch him go as he walked outside.

  * * *

  Flynn marched.

  He strode away from the Rasmussen house into the warren of streets, row after row of homes, some single-family, some semidetached, and others apartment blocks, but all well tended. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t look back.

  He didn’t need to.

  It was close to impossible for an individual to follow someone on foot in a suburban environment, especially when the mark was watching for a tail. The only way it worked, in Flynn’s experience, was with a team, people cutting in and out, communicating constantly, with cars to move team members ahead of the mark in any direction he might go. Changes of clothes—jackets and hats and glasses—were helpful. But a lone guy following another guy? His only option was to accept that he was going to get spotted and to follow anyway.

  Flynn walked a zigzag pattern through the streets, confirming what he already knew. Two guys. One on foot, one in the blue Corsa. The Corsa had dropped back, and the guy on foot was about a hundred yards behind Flynn.

  As he walked he considered his options. He could turn a corner and run. He could make for the metro and jump on a train or even on a passing bus. He could turn around and confront them.

  Despite everything that had happened in his life, Flynn was not prone to confrontation. That wasn’t the same as saying he was afraid of it. It simply was what it was. If he found himself in a situation where confrontation was called for, he didn’t take a backward step. There was no point, no logic to that. If you had to fight, you had to fight to win. But you didn’t always have to fight.

  Flynn cut back around and headed into the center of Gentofte. He stopped in at a real estate office and grabbed a printout of the current rental listings, which he folded and slipped in his jacket pocket, and then he made for the train station. The guy following on foot didn’t swap with the driver, and he didn’t switch any clothes. Perhaps he was resigned to being spotted. But he got on the train and sat down at the far end of the carriage from Flynn, and when Flynn got off at the central station, he got off too and followed him up onto the street.

  This time Flynn walked out the front, onto Bernstorffsgade. He had a tail he didn’t need to shake and some time to kill. So he did what people do. He wandered across the road and into Tivoli Gardens. Growing up in Europe, he had heard of it, but he had never been. It was an old-style amusement park, as much botanical garden as it was carnival. There was a rollercoaster, a Ferris wheel, and a lake where people floated around in small dragon boats.

  Flynn didn’t take a ride or float in a boat. He walked around the garden, taking in the blooming flowers and sounds of water fountains, which drowned out the city noise. He wandered into the food hall and stopped at a place called Hallernes Smørrebrød, where he ate more of the ornate open-faced sandwiches: smoked fish and freshly sliced roast beef. He got some sparkling water and ambled around the lake, watching families at play, children laughing and adults smiling like they were children again.

  He had no doubt that the guys following him would be utterly confused. Playing the tourist was probably the last thing they expected him to do, but Flynn had time on his hands and knew better than most that when he was in a place, he should see it, because there was a chance he would never be back. People always said they would do things next time they came. Flynn hadn’t experienced a lot of next times.

  Midafternoon Flynn sat on a bench overlooking the lake and a Chinese pagoda beyond and pulled out his phone. The plus side of his burner phone was that it was harder to track and cheap and easy to replace. The downside was that it didn’t have internet access. But there were ways around such things. He dialed 113, got the operator, and asked to be connected to Washington, DC. After some empty air, the call connected.

  “Reuters,” said the voice in an American accent.

  “Helle Poulsen, please.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then, “I don’t have anyone by that name.”

  “She’s a reporter, just started last week.”

  “One moment.”

  More empty air before someone answered.
r />   “Bob Eales.”

  “Bob, I’m looking for a new reporter, Helle Poulsen.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Flynn heard the man call across the room, asking for an extension number. He didn’t hear the response, but the line went quiet and then someone else picked up.

  “Helle Poulsen.” Not an American accent.

  “Helle, my name is John Flynn. You were recently working on a story at a cohousing community.”

  “Was I?”

  “You don’t recall?”

  “I work on a lot of stories.”

  “This story was in a village called Østvand.”

  “Østvand? Yes, I have been there.”

  “What was the story about?”

  “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

  “John Flynn. I’m working for the family of one of the residents of the community in Østvand, Luna Fisker. Do you remember her?”

  “It rings a bell.”

  “There were issues around a developer wanting to knock down the community to build units.”

  “Yes, I recall that. What is it you are doing for the family?”

  “Do you remember Luna Fisker? She lived in the community.”

  “Yes, that girl. She was something.”

  “Something? What do you mean?”

  “She was kind of frantic, unstable.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I was doing background on Victor Berg.”

  “The politician?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is becoming very influential. There are people who think he will soon lead his party back into power, so we were doing background on him.”

  “You were in Østvand because he lived at the community?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what your interest is.”

  “The Fisker house was burned down, and Luna Fisker took her own life.”

  There was silence for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m just putting the pieces together of her final days, for her family.”

  “I see. Well, I only met her the once, and like I said, she was kind of all over the place with her thoughts.”

  “Suicidal?”

  “I would not have said that, but then I don’t know. If she took her life, clearly she was. But I would say rather scatterbrained. Unable to keep her thoughts in order, rather than being depressed.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I honestly don’t recall. I had many conversations during those days. I would have to consult my notes, but—”

  “You took notes?”

  “I am a journalist, Mr. Flynn. But I am afraid I don’t have the notes.”

  “You don’t have them? Why?”

  “Like I say, it wasn’t a story so much as background on a politician who is likely to burst onto the national scene. Our competitor, Nyhedsdag, had run many pieces on him. They were like his campaign team, and we had to play catch-up. So when I left, I passed my files on to a colleague.”

  “Who is your colleague?”

  “His name is Olsen, Nils Olsen. But I don’t think my notes will shed any light on this poor girl’s death.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Flynn, “but any kind of closure I can offer the family will help.”

  “Of course.”

  “So you just arrived in DC?”

  “Yes, only a week ago.”

  “Did you apply for the job?”

  “No, actually. I got a call from the chief editor. He had read my work and wanted a European perspective on US domestic politics.”

  “That’s terrific. It sounds like it all happened fast for you.”

  “Yes, it did. I got the offer about ten days ago. It happened quickly, but the news business is fast-paced.”

  “I’m sure. Listen, I want to thank you for your time.”

  “Of course. I hope you find the family some peace.”

  “I’ll try. Goodbye.”

  Flynn hung up and looked across the lake. Families were floating in the dragon boats, going nowhere in particular but enjoying every minute of it.

  It was time to lose the tail. Flynn wandered away from the lake toward the park’s central station exit. He followed one of the paths that wound around the gardens, then cut across a large open green where people reclined in lounge chairs. Shortly before he reached the steps up to the exit, he cut into a restaurant. He strode across the patio thick with diners and in through the doors. He paced the length of the space until he reached the end, where he stepped back onto the patio beyond all the people dining and around the corner.

  Flynn found himself in the front garden of a white Moorish palace. It was lit with fairy lights and featured a large onion-shaped minaret. He dashed up the stairs and into another restaurant to his left. He strode through the dining room and into an ornate hotel lobby with modern furniture but antique fittings.

  He didn’t stop to look, marching through, not slow but not too fast as to draw the eye. He saw a bellboy heading back through a service door, and he followed. The hotel seemed like any other—utilitarian. Flynn strode down a corridor to another service entrance and pushed in through the door, where he found himself back in the food court. He marched to a side door, and once outside he followed a path around the edge of the park until he reached an exit on the north end. He walked out of the gardens and straight across Vesterbrogade into an office block of tall cylindrical towers. Weaving around the buildings past more stands of bicycles, Flynn strode out onto Jernbanegade, past an Irish pub and away.

  There were plenty of people on the street, so much more cover for a tail. Although he was confident he had shaken the guys in the park, he couldn’t be certain that in the hours he had spent in the gardens the bad guys hadn’t staked out every exit, so he weaved and zigzagged and turned back on himself. Eventually he came right back kitty-corner with Tivoli and the City Hall Square.

  City hall itself was a grand building in the tradition of city halls in Europe, with a large public square out front. Flynn stayed to the north end of the square and walked past the Burger King and the KFC, the 7-Eleven and the Hard Rock Café and the Starbucks, ending up across the street at the offices of the Politiken newspaper.

  The ground floor was a bookstore, and it took him a moment to find the entrance to the office. Once there, he found a security guard at a desk and asked for Nils Olsen. The guard made a call and Flynn waited, smiling at a woman who appeared beside him. The guard finished the call and then shook his head.

  “Olsen is not here,” he said. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  “Maybe?” asked Flynn. “Does he work part-time?”

  The guard shrugged. He didn’t seem to know, and he didn’t seem to care.

  The woman beside Flynn said, “You are looking for Nils Olsen?” Her nose wrinkled a little as she spoke, as if the request made no sense.

  “Yes,” said Flynn.

  “You are a restaurateur?”

  “No. I’m following up a conversation I had with another journalist—Helle Poulsen. I was sort of a source for a story.”

  The woman nodded like this made a lot more sense. “Of course. Helle has left us.”

  “Yes, I know. She told me to contact Olsen.”

  “I see. But Nils does not come into the office a lot,” she said. “He is the food reporter.”

  “Food reporter?”

  “Yes, he does restaurant news, openings, that sort of thing.”

  “Like a critic?”

  “Not really, we have a full-time restaurant critic. Nils is like the junior.”

  “I see. You don’t know where I might find him?”

  “Not really. He sort of does his own thing.”

  The security guy suddenly came to life. “I can call the food editor, if you want. He might know.”

  “Thank you. That would be helpful.”

  The security guy waited with the phone to his ear while the woman beside Fl
ynn took out her phone and made a call, spoke in rapid Danish, and then hung up. “He will be at a restaurant opening tonight.”

  “Olsen?”

  “Yes.” The woman gave Flynn the name and general location of the place. He thanked her.

  “Of course. I hope it is helpful.”

  “Very, thank you.”

  Flynn turned to leave, and the woman did the same in the opposite direction. She got into an elevator as Flynn reached the front door.

  “Sir,” called the security guard. Flynn turned to him. “I have the food editor. Do you want to leave a message for Olsen?”

  Flynn figured why not. He stepped back over to the desk and took a piece of notepaper, wrote down his number, and asked for Olsen to call him about a story.

  The security guard relayed the information in Danish and then hung up. “He will pass it on.”

  Flynn thanked the guard again and walked outside, then turned into the bookstore to pick up a map.

  * * *

  The woman got out on her floor. Although the space was clogged with cubicles, it was quiet. Lots of reporting got done via email these days, so the din of typewriters and the buzz of reporters hustling a story with the phone tucked into their shoulder was largely a thing of the past.

  She didn’t head to her desk but looked at a photo on her phone as she walked to a copy room. None of the three large copiers were in use. The photo was of the man from the lobby, only he appeared to be sitting on a train. But it was clearly him, so she hit a contact on her phone and waited.

  “Yes,” said the man with the sickle scar on his face, who sat in an office only a kilometer away on the islet of Slotsholmen.

  “It’s Krista, from Politiken.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “The American was here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I had the photo you sent out, and he mentioned Poulsen by name.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He left, but I know where he’s going to be tonight.” She told the man about the restaurant opening.

  “Restaurant? Explain.”

  “He was asking about a reporter called Olsen.”

  “Who?”