by Lotte Hammer
The morning traffic through Copenhagen moved without noticeable hold-ups. The sky was dark and rain was on the way. She drove north along Strandvejen but stopped near Trianglen, where she was lucky to find a parking space in a side street. That morning she had found and copied three video clips stored in a folder named Frode Otto on Jan Podowski’s computer, but she hadn’t yet had time to view them. She might as well do that now, while enjoying an espresso and a well-earned break.
With her Mac under her arm, she crossed the street diagonally, and avoided being caught on camera just in time when she spotted a group of Japanese tourists who, with an excess of smiles, bows and gestures, took turns photographing each other in front of a sausage stall. She watched the event while she waited for the light to turn green at the next junction. With undeterminable guttural sounds the owner of the sausage stall handed one grilled sausage with mustard and ketchup after the other across the counter, and would appear to have given up communicating with his customers at a more sophisticated level, although most of his delicacies were dumped in a bin after a few seconds, having served their purpose as props. Here commerce, balance of payments and the health of the Japanese population all benefited at the same time.
The café was half empty. She fetched her espresso and a small slice of cake from the counter and took a seat by the window. It had started to drizzle outside, and soon it was pouring down. She looked out while she ate. The drops bounced off the gleaming road surface where the reflection of the traffic lights produced red, green and amber patterns, continually spoiled by the tyres of passing cars, only to reform immediately in new configurations. A flash of lightning rent the sky and briefly bathed the street scene in brilliant light. The pressure wave from the thunder caused the windowpane in front of her to vibrate, and she flinched away from it. It wasn’t until the storm had eased off that she opened her Mac and clicked on one of the films.
Her espresso grew cold. Three films of three African women being assaulted. She had to turn down the volume, though it was already very low. The picture quality was poor, barely more than five frames per second, which made the viewing even more terrifying. Jerky, almost unreal, the girls were subjected to punches from all angles, sexual degradation and unadulterated sadism. Frode Otto was a strong man. And a persistent one.
CHAPTER 23
When Benedikte Lerche-Larsen arrived home in Rungsted, she went straight to see her father, who was out in the garden. He was on his knees in the herbaceous border, busy pulling up gout weed, a stress-relieving occupation he was reluctant to leave to the gardener. He didn’t notice his daughter until she blocked out the sun, which was now starting to peep out between the clouds. He plunged the garden trowel into the ground and stuffed the weeds into a bucket next to him, before turning his attention to her.
‘How did it go?’
‘I didn’t fail, so that’s all right. I got an E.’
‘That’s bad, what happened?’
She knew that the low grade would irritate him, especially if she dismissed it as unimportant. On the surface she had to be perfect, nothing less would do. Her real feelings were of no interest to him.
‘Nothing went wrong, I’m just not that good.’
He tried prising it out of her. She replied evasively or with a shrug, until he gave up and changed the subject.
‘That idiot who called yesterday, have you managed to find out anything about him?’
‘Frode Otto?’
‘Yes, that was his name.’
‘Forget him. I’m handling it.’
‘He also called Bjarne Fabricius. That’s not good. Bjarne was angry, you know what he’s like if he gets dragged into anything.’
‘No, I don’t, but you do. Like I said: I’m handling it. You don’t have to worry.’
‘What are you going to do? Give him money and a free pass to our services as he demands? I don’t like being blackmailed.’
‘No free passes. He wrecks the women and that would make it far too expensive in the long run. Why can’t you just accept that I’m dealing with it?’
It was as if he hadn’t understood what she was saying until now. He narrowed his eyes and looked at her for a long time, then he nodded. She would take charge and that was to his advantage, of course, there was nothing more to discuss. He asked in a lighter tone of voice:
‘Will you be going with your mother this afternoon? There is a fresh delivery arriving from Nigeria, and we need to replace seven or eight of our existing staff. She seems to think that the two of you are going together.’
‘Yes, I’ll go with her.’
‘And then there’s some data from the three poker players, which I would like you to look at tonight. It’s urgent.’
‘That may be so, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I have plans for tonight.’
‘Who with?’
‘A man, and the rest is none of your business, Svend. If it really is that terribly urgent, then do it yourself rather than waste time on this donkey work.’
She pointed an accusatory finger at the border without considering that she behaved in exactly the same way, only with her the displacement activity was lawn mowing. Then she turned on her heel and left.
CHAPTER 24
Karina Larsen loved a good deal. She always felt the thrill of anticipation when she chased a bargain. The system was the same wherever you went: antiques from Portobello Road in London, steel engravings for her husband’s study from Porte de Clignancourt in Paris or African women from a cheap hotel on Vesterbro in Copenhagen – it was all about buying low and selling high. Methodically, without rushing, she scanned the goods as she made notes on the pad lying on her lap.
The room where they were up for inspection wasn’t much bigger than an ordinary living room, and yet the hotel had the cheek to call it a suite. Along one wall, facing the street, sixteen Nigerian women were lined up, some sitting on chairs, others standing, with a single one seated on the windowsill. At the far end their mamma was sitting in an armchair watching the women with cold eyes. She spoke Hausa and Yoruba as well as perfect English, the official language of Nigeria. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and her mother, two buyers from Aarhus – one African and one Dane – were sitting opposite the women. The Danish man had a cold, he kept sniffling. It was wearying to listen to and eventually Karina Larsen handed him a packet of paper tissues from her handbag. He accepted her gift politely and carried on sniffling.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen glanced at her mother’s notes, then she leaned closer and whispered into her ear:
‘I don’t think the girl to the left of the window has been broken in.’
She nodded in the direction of the girl, whose eyes were moist. She had clearly been crying earlier. Mamma was vigilant. Though she couldn’t possibly have heard what Benedikte Lerche-Larsen whispered, she said in a sharp voice:
‘All my girls have come here of their own free will.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen replied to her in the same language. Karina Larsen, whose English was average, asked:
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I said that of course they’ve come here of their own free will. And if they haven’t, they’ll get a beating until they understand what free will means in Danish.’
‘Why do you put it like that? It’s essential that they’re here of their own accord. Otherwise many of our customers won’t want them.’
‘Because I’m so fed up with the hypocrisy, but all right, let’s go with that: right from when they were very young, each and every one of them dreamed of coming here to our legendary welfare state to be screwed by ten to twelve men a day, until they’re so old and sagging that no one would pay fifty kroner for them. Their Danish dream has come true, look how they smile at us! Let’s just buy the ones we need so we can get out of here.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen spoke the truth. Every single one of the sixteen volunteers was beaming as if her life depended on it, each of them sincerely hoping they would find favour with Karina Larsen.
They were just a few of many, many thousands of sex slaves exported to Europe each year from Africa, primarily from countries such as Niger, Chad and Nigeria, known as the Triangle of Shame. Human trafficking was the polite term for this – organised rape would have been more accurate.
All the women were trying to appear sexy and eager to work to the older, blonde woman sitting at the opposite end of the room, scrutinising them. Rumours had long since spread among them: if Karina Larsen owned you, you would only have to service one client a day. It sounded incredible, but it was the truth. And what luxury it would be – just one customer a day! In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
At length Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and her mother agreed on five applicants – that was Karina Larsen’s term for them – whom they would examine more closely. Mamma handed over the girls’ passports, and the chosen ones followed the two women from the suite into an adjacent hotel room. A young man was waiting here. He got up when they arrived and greeted the women nervously. It was his first time doing this kind of work, and he wasn’t sure whether he was involved in anything illegal, but the money was good, and he was being paid in cash, to avoid troubling the taxman. He dried his sweaty palm on his trouser leg before he offered it politely to the two Danish women. He had put his doctor’s bag on the bed.
‘Take off your clothes, please,’ Karina Larsen ordered the girls in her best school English.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen nodded to the young man and remarked to her mother:
‘You usually pick a woman doctor.’
‘He was the only one available, not that it matters. Blacks have no modesty. They’re primitive, nudity is natural to them.’
Karina Larsen found a pair of latex gloves in her pocket and put them on; then, like an experienced horse trader, she carried out a thorough examination of the women, one after the other. She opened their mouths, ruffled their hair, widened their eyes, lifted up their feet and checked the soles. Then she compared them to their passport photos. On paper they had to be at least eighteen years old before she would buy them; how old, or rather how young, they really were, was of no interest to her.
Two women were rejected, one due to saggy breasts and limp, drooping labia. Probably the result of having a kid along the way, a kid she might even be hiding somewhere over here. It had been known to happen. The other was rejected due to her teeth, which would be too expensive to fix, triggering a discussion between mother and daughter. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen used all the accountancy skills she had learned at Copenhagen Business School. Investment, depreciation, net profit – after a quick estimate, the numbers proved that the dental treatment would quickly pay for itself. However, her mother’s experience and gut feeling said no, and that was the end of that.
Then it was time for the doctor to carry out essential medical check-ups. Years ago Karina Larsen had been tricked when she had bought a woman who later turned out to be pregnant, and only after great difficulties had they convinced her to abort the baby. That could never happen again. Karina Larsen now demanded to have the goods checked for venereal diseases, pregnancy and other such inconveniences before the deal could proceed.
All that was now left was to decide the price. Mamma and Karina Larsen withdrew; to her immense irritation Benedikte Lerche-Larsen wasn’t allowed to join in. As always, the negotiations were animated. The two women haggled and argued, their language a Tower of Babel mix of Danish, English and non-verbal communication, the numbers in Euro, international, easy to understand.
Karina Larsen had three women to return – barely used, as good as new – which formed part of the deal and should be offset to reach a reasonable price. This complicated the bargaining, but finally they reached an agreement. However, with one proviso.
‘On strict condition they don’t have any hidden diseases. Half now, the other half when the doctor reports back.’
‘Sure, Madam, sure.’
They shook hands, and the women were sold.
CHAPTER 25
Princess Blå on inner Nørrebro overlooking Lake Peblinge was one of many Copenhagen restaurants to open on the strength of a Nordic kitchen and an innovative food culture. Visionary and brilliant craftsmanship had attracted international gastronomists and at the last assessment it had earned a rising star recommendation in the Michelin guide – an indication of a future star, if the high standard continued.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had made an effort with her appearance prior to her dinner engagement with Bjarne Fabricius. Apart from the venue itself encouraging it, this evening – should the opportunity arise to talk business – might be of great importance to her. She had chosen a black, sleeveless, knee-length dress cut simply, apart from the back, which from her neck down to her waist consisted of black, see-through lace. She had applied discreet make-up.
Bjarne Fabricius received her gallantly with kisses on both cheeks Continental-style, complimented her on her appearance and escorted her to their table, which was in a bay, almost a separate room, at the back of the restaurant. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen looked around. There was space for at least another two tables. Bjarne Fabricius pulled out a chair for her so that she could sit down, and said as if he had read her mind:
‘I’ve arranged things so that we can talk undisturbed. I thought that was for the best. But let’s eat first. I’ve ordered for both of us, I hope that’s all right with you?’
She nodded, it was fine with her. He held up one finger and a young waiter in a white dinner jacket and black trousers with silk stripes along the outside seam materialised and reviewed their menu nervously. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen asked about a couple of the dishes, the man replied as if he was being examined, correctly but stiffly. When he had left, she asked:
‘Tell me, do you own this place?’
Bjarne Fabricius poured wine for both of them before he replied.
‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Benedikte. You notice the details and draw the right conclusions.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen ate quickly and finished before him. At his invitation she told him about herself and her studies, but when he moved to top up her glass, she held her hand over it. Slowly he poured wine over her fingers, until she removed her hand. The waiter appeared immediately. Bjarne Fabricius demanded a fresh tablecloth and: ‘A warm, wet towel for my young friend.’ She washed and dried her hands, while the waiter and a second man replaced the tablecloth with impressive speed.
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’
His laughter was dry, bordering on hostile.
‘Not on Chablis Les Clos 2002, that would be a waste of good wine.’
‘So why humiliate me? To show me that you can? Because there’s no need, we both already know that.’
Bjarne Fabricius bowed his head and scratched his neck with one finger, pausing for a moment in this slightly awkward position apparently unconcerned by her watching him. At length he said:
‘You’re beautiful, Benedikte, no doubt about it, and you have style. Besides, you have a brilliant mind. The gods have blessed you.’
It wasn’t a compliment, only a statement of fact, a starting point that couldn’t be contradicted. She didn’t reply, simply shrugged, this time without smiling.
‘Are you scared of me?’
‘Only when you laugh.’
‘Answer me properly.’
She made eye contact.
‘Of course I am. Or rather: I’m scared of getting on the wrong side of you. Only a fool wouldn’t be.’
During the next course the mood lightened as if by magic. He talked about the old days when he and her father were young. She listened with interest and laughed in all the right places. And again when he told her the story her parents had always refused to tell her of how they met. Her father had won the pools, sixty thousand kroner, most of which was blown on a three-day bender. She accepted Bjarne Fabricius’s conclusion: if AGF hadn’t equalised against KB following some incomprehensible penalty in extra time, she would never have been bo
rn. She shook her head and her red hair undulated in slow motion. A toast to crap Danish referees! They clinked glasses, he continued telling her anecdotes from his youth and the waiter arrived discreetly with another bottle of wine. At one point she interjected:
‘I have to drink some water now. I don’t want to be tipsy in case I get the opportunity tonight to tell you how we ought to expand my father’s businesses. I’ve come prepared, and I want to do it properly.’
Bjarne grinned.
‘You won’t be presenting anything. It would be a waste of time and way too boring. You underestimate me, Benedikte, that’s why I poured fine wine all over you. I think.’
He then reviewed her plan, without unnecessary discussion, paring it down to the bare bones. The poker business should be set up internationally, still legally – or rather as legally as possible – but with two to three players in each of fifteen to twenty different countries. Money-laundering transactions would happen in the same way as the one used by traditional internet swindlers, by going through a long line of international financial institutions, banks in San Marino, the Ukraine, El Salvador, Lebanon and so on, with each player given his own individual sequence, which should be changed regularly. The hooker business should be closed down, as it was sheer foolishness to run it using the same structure as the Poker Academy. The brothel business was doing well, but it must be kept at arm’s length from the card games.
If Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was surprised at his review, she didn’t show it; she was too practised at the poker table for that. When he fell silent, she quizzed him.
‘From Jan Podowski?’
He confirmed that Jan Podowski had passed on her ideas long ago, which didn’t make them any less interesting.
‘But you have a problem. What about Karina and Svend? What am I going to do with them? Or perhaps I should ask you: what are you going to do with them?’
