Game of Revenge

by Charlotte Larsen

  “No, I am sorry, I don’t, but if you want to wait there, please.” She gestures to a conference event with the obligatory fruit bowl and today's newspapers. “Do you want a cup of coffee or a glass of water?”

  “An espresso would be nice if you’ve got it.” Francis smiles and sits down on the couch in the reception.

  People pass by. Some are curious and measure Francis from top to toe, probably without being able to place his bespoke suit and hand-sewn shoes. He smiles neutrally at them. Others pass by with folders or laptops clenched to their chests, with dull unseeing eyes and stress lingering like a faint smell of adrenaline in their wake.

  A quarter of an hour later, the wing doors of Niels Bang-Henriksen's private office are flung open.

  “Pardon! I got stuck on an urgent call.” An athletic man running to fat comes out of the office with long steps and a brilliant smile. The receptionist flips her hair, and her eyes shine.

  Francis gets up and shakes the offered hand. “No reason,” he lies.

  “Come on in. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. On the way to Buenos Aires in a few hours. No rest for the wicked, you know.” He closes the wing doors behind them and heads for a built-in bar. “Somewhere in the world, it is cocktail time.” He laughs at his own placid joke. “At least I could use a drink. How about you, Pierre?”

  “Francis. Francis Scott-Wren.” The name does not seem to mean anything to Niels Bang-Henriksen. Which it shouldn’t. However, it is a tactical mistake not to remember the name of your guest, Francis reflects. Major mistake, in fact, as I am getting fairly angry now.

  “What can I offer, eh…Francis?”

  “Thanks! The same as you. Impressive office, Niels!” Francis gestures around the room with the amazing view of the harbor, as well as walls covered with precious modern art. An Aubusson rug is placed in front of a huge corner sofa in midnight blue velour from Edra. The low coffee table was made of creamy marble. The cost of the interior alone could buy two to three detached houses in central Jutland. “A kind of testimonial from the cool times before the financial crisis,” he adds with a smile.

  Niels’ brows meet. “I like beautiful things. There is nothing wrong with that!” he cries.

  “Of course not,” Francis assures him. “Everyone is entitled to use their own money as they want.” If Niels had been paying attention, he might have caught the little extra emphasis Francis had put on the word “own.”

  But he didn’t. Instead, he begins telling what could only turn out to be a boring and long presentation of his possessions. Francis decides on the spot that he will kill that in its infancy.

  Niels point points to a painting. It is a small canvas covered in a rich jade-green color, with layers and layers of short, reddish stokes. “This was my first. At the time, I didn’t pay much for this. But this little beauty means more to me than anything I've bought since—because I bought it with the money I made on my own for the first time.”

  “Yes,” Francis nods, knowing full well that Niels never made any money on his own, but has stood on the pile of money his father made. “There’s nothing like coming by one’s hard-earned money for the first time. It's like the first kiss, right?”

  “Yes! Yes, indeed. Like the first kiss. You are completely right. The innocence breaks and all that. “

  “Everything after becomes a form of repetition. Don’t you think?” Francis’s tone is gentle now.

  Again, Niels’ brows meet. He seems to struggle to comprehend what Francis is saying. “Well, should we?” He points to his desk.

  The huge palisander desk is clearly Niels’ fortress. He thrones like he impersonates one of the great kings of history. Francis is required to sit in one of the two Swan leather chairs, which are beautiful and comfortable to sit in, but place the guests in a submissive position, almost disappearing behind the desk's high, glossy barricade and forces one to look up at Bang-Henriksen.

  “Well, let's go to the case.” Niels’ voice is brisk and authoritarian. “As I said, I don’t have much time. What are we talking about?”

  “You,” Francis answers quietly from his low seat.

  “Me?” Niels laughs. “Are you a journalist? You should have told me. We are always good to the press.”

  “I'm not a journalist.”

  “Ah, you're a headhunter. I understand. The discretion. The bespoke suit. Yes, yes. Don’t think I do not notice that kind of thing. I'm grateful to be contacted, but quite content where I am. You see, H’Allure will prosper under my leadership. You wait and see.”

  Francis’s smile is vague. He learned long ago that the less you say, the more the other speaks. Nobody —almost nobody—can sustain silence, especially not men with such well-developed sales talents as Niels.

  “Obviously, I will be contacted for board posts and such trusts at regular intervals, but your types usually call first. It must be a particularly delicate position when you meet up personally. Well, let's hear it.” He tilts his head a little backward, ready to show his full attention to the topic.

  “You said you only had a short time, right?” Francis is not waiting for a reply. His voice is still calm, but now with a deeper and darker tone. “Let me make it short, so you can reach your plane. By the way, I am surprised you are flying commercial; I would have thought that a Gulfstream was one of the first things you would invest in after taking the reins of H’Allure.” He holds up his hand when Niels opens his mouth to speak.

  “Well, planes are not important. At least not when we have so little time,” continues Francis. “All we need to discuss is how you can get the Danish Financial Supervisory Authority’s approval to…well, to make the kind of investments you do.”

  “What!?” Niels is standing halfway in his chair, palms planted on the desk, body leaned forward. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Francis’s voice is ice cold. “Sit down, Niels, and listen closely.”

  “Who are you?” Niels insists.

  “You know my name. Let's not waste time on repetitions, lest you miss your commercial plane ride. All we need to do is find a solution. A legitimate solution, if you please. As it is now, you deal with other peoples’ money, even though you do not really have a brokerage permit. Paragraph 9 of the Financial Business Act, is not it? Well, that’s just as it is. I don’t yet know the technical details that have made it possible, but I'll get them soon. However, instead of waiting until I had them, I thought I would give you a gentleman’s tip. A head’s up to give you a chance to get your things in order before the press or the National Intelligence and Security Authority—whoever will be first, you never know these days—comes by and knocks on your beautiful wing doors. “

  “Listen, Francis, what the hell are you talking about? I do not care for any money other than my own! It is commonly known. This is a family affair, and I only invest my own and my family's wealth. And who…”

  Francis interrupts him, “Oh, let's skip the reprieve, Niels; you have an airplane to reach.”

  “You can’t just march in here and throw accusations like that around.”

  “I've shown you I can do that. Except I don’t march. But all right, if Buenos Aires is not so urgent a case, then we’ll take the scenic route. Let's start with this.”

  Francis puts his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper. “This is an email sent to a potential customer: ‘Nordic Sun Power helps you invest in solar energy projects in several European countries and blah blah blah.’ And this bit here: ‘No matter where in the investment process you are, our investment advisors can help you. Remember, our advice is 100% non-binding.' Very sober, in fact. However, this is an email, which clearly establishes that you are, in fact, investing other peoples’ money. Not cool, Niels.” Francis puts the paper on the desk in front of Niels and smooths it out with excessive care to all the folds.

  Niels does not look at the paper.

  “I've never seen that before in my life. It's a fake. It's not somethin
g that comes from this office!”

  “I had imagined this would be your first line of defense. But it's too weak, Niels. In the future, I would suggest that you hire some experts to protect you from hacking. As it is now, it’s kids’ stuff to get into your mail system. Should I really read the IP address out to you? Come on, Niels, what do you think you're doing?”

  “I don’t know,” muttered Niels.

  “Good, but then we are on the same side of the table. You have one month to submit an application to run a brokerage business. Thirty days. If you get the application through, your business has a promising future. Unless, of course, you make any other stupid decisions.”

  Francis gets up and reaches his hand across the desk. Niels’ hand feels limp.

  “How do you know this?” He has surrendered. He knows that he has lost this round and is now trying, as the skilled businessman he thinks he is, to limit the damage.

  “Oh, yes! How do I know that? That is always the last question they ask. Well, well. Do you remember a pretty analyst you once hired? Brunette. In her early thirties.” Niels shrugs.

  “No, I understand; many young analysts come through the office. Hard to keep track of them. Sara Kristensen, does it ring a bell?” Niels nods shamefacedly.

  “Oh, Niels, it's always risky to hit on young ladies in one's employment. You should know that. But it's definitely stupid to fire them when they politely decline your most personal services.” Francis examines his opponent whose face is now covered in red spots. Wrath, Francis thinks, rage over being caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. No guilt, no shame. Well, he did not need people to feel ashamed or guilty. As long as they followed minimum ethical business conducts, he didn’t care what they felt.

  “Oh, by the way,” Francis turns back at the door, “you should not have let me wait, Niels. It always makes me irritable.”

  Chapter 21

  One early morning, the dam breaks. Weeks of silent, frozen despair give way to a flood of tears, provoked by the sight of two sparrows grooming themselves in a windowsill. It could have been anything, she realized. It just so happened that two birds are present when my psyche is finally ready to make a shift. She cries for hours. Silently, softly, unstoppable. Fortunately, nobody calls upon her during that time. She is allowed the luxury of spending herself completely without having to explain or apologize. By the end of her crying spree, she is wasted and tired.

  Hours later, Camilla wakes to the sun warming her face. Her body feels new and tender, her mind clear and strong. A thought spirals into her consciousness, “It’s a new day!” She feels a strong sense of purpose; only it isn’t clear exactly what purpose that is.

  Ms. Nielsen looks up from a pot she is stirring as Camilla enters the kitchen. “I am ravenous!” she announces. “Do you have anything I could have for breakfast, Ms. Nielsen?”

  The smile on the old woman’s face could have lit up a city. Shortly, she has Camilla sitting at the old kitchen table in front of eggs, toast, and bacon.

  “You’re looking good, Camilla.” The calm voice of Mrs. Scott-Wren brings Camilla back to reality.

  She nods. “I’m feeling good.”

  “That’s fortunate, for my son—that is, Francis—just called and asked for you to meet him.” She fixates the young woman with a penetrating glance. “If that is convenient for you.”

  “Of course,” Camilla nods, “will he be coming here?”

  “No, unfortunately, he cannot leave the house in Copenhagen, but he is sending Peter to pick you up. You have met Peter, no?”

  “Yes, eh, the driver who brought me here? The guy in the cap?”

  “You are definitely better,” Mrs. Scott-Wren establishes before she leaves the kitchen with a nod to Ms. Nielsen.

  Camilla’s surprise increases as they follow the narrow, winding driveway. Sitting in a car waiting for the gates to open electronically was, after all, not part of her everyday experience. The luxuries she had been used to in her days of glory had been contemporary and usually found in hotels, restaurants, and transportation. Not in private homes. Not even in her grandfather’s. He had always made a point of not splashing their wealth.

  The headlights of the car make a passageway in the approaching darkness. Ancient trees lining the driveway seem alive in the shadows, and the house, when it finally appears, looks like something out of an old-fashioned fairytale. A fairytale from the days where it was okay to scare kids to death that is. She cranes her neck to see the top of the house, but it disappears into the dark skies. Light streams out of white-paned windows and ivy twines its way around most of the front, only broken by windows and a dark-stained heavy timber door.

  Who lives in such a house, she wonders? Who on earth can even afford to live in such a place? And Francis. What kind of man is he? He seems so correct and old-school polite, yet friendly. And yet underneath that friendly exterior, something darker lurks. Although a smile always seemed to linger in his eyes, they had an unusual cool depth. That, and the man’s movements. Even though he moves almost lazily, she had a strong impression that it was the laziness of a cat that could turn ferocious if necessary. If she is honest with herself, that is the reason she half-wishes this meeting is a date.

  Now he comes around the car with a smile on his face and opens the door for her. It occurs to her that the house would not accept just anybody who tried to enter. She hangs back, willing him to make a more formal invitation into this massive, ancient, and slightly forbidding house.

  Francis takes her by the hand, “Come on. It’s okay.”

  He pushes open a double door on the far left of the hall and Camilla follows him into what could only be called a gentleman’s library.

  “What will you drink?”

  “Something strong,” she answers.

  “Scotch all right?”

  She nods, and Francis leaves the room. She is alone, but strangely, she feels quite at ease here.

  Even though the room is enormous, the library is dark and cozy. It is a place you want to spend long winter afternoons and nights hidden from the world, immersed in an atmosphere of yesteryear. She walks around the room, taking it in.

  The walls are painted a deep burgundy. Aubusson carpets are strewn carelessly across the floor without obvious design. Two deep Chesterfield leather sofas are placed in front of the fireplace, a low coffee table between them. Several deep armchairs are next to small tables in a way that allows you to grab a book and sit down to read without moving very far. Deep green velvet curtains frame the windows, and an eclectic mix of modern art ensures that the room doesn’t look like a museum.

  And there are books. Lots and lots of books. The room is furnished by dark mahogany shelving from floor to ceiling along two walls, bursting with books ranging from old leather-bound volumes to modern paperbacks. He seems to be a voracious reader rather than a connoisseur or literary snob.

  Her fingers trail the spines from poetry to fantasy, from philosophy to mathematics and finance, thrillers, and biographies. She cannot discern an order or system. All the books are placed randomly.

  “Find anything you like?”

  She jumps.

  He is right next to her, and she hadn’t heard him come in. Relax, for God’s sake! Don’t let him get to you, she admonishes herself.

  “How do you find anything?” she asks as calmly as she can.

  “By date.”

  “By date?”

  “Yes,” he smiles. “I have this rather peculiar ability to remember when I read something. So, it just seemed a sensible method to organize them by date.”

  “That pretty much leaves anybody else at a loss,” she says.

  “Not exactly my problem, is it? I don’t usually bring people here. Anyway, here is your drink.”

  She takes the offered glass and sniffs. Pure, undiluted alcohol. Just what she needs. In the silence, she hears that the wind has picked up, teasing the old house so it creaks and moans.

  “I need to talk to you about what happen
ed, Camilla. And about your family.”

  “My family! Why?”

  “As you know, your uncle Jørgen committed suicide in what appears to be a tragic set of misunderstandings. Or deliberate slandering. I know from his wife, Henriette, that you are familiar with the circumstances.”

  She nods, a shadow crossing her face.

  “Do you have any idea, however far-fetched, why somebody would set your uncle up like that?”

  “None!”

  “You answer without thinking, Camilla. Think! Why would anyone want to hurt your uncle—or his family?”

  She is silent for a while. The fire crackles. “Uncle Jørgen is—was—a nice man. Nicer than my dad. And he went through life determined not to do anything wrong. To be honest, he was a bit boring. I never knew him well, even though we spent the holidays at my grandparents’ when we were children. It seems to me, we never saw the grown-ups, except my lovely grandmother. Otherwise, it was just me and my two smaller brothers, Johan and Henrik, and Jørgen’s children, Merete and Mads. We were close in age, and in my mind, the holidays were full of play and laughter. Except…” Her brow furrows.

  “Except what?” Francis prompts

  “Except, come to think of it, Merete and Mads were never as wild as we were. They were quite well-behaved, actually. As opposed to me and my siblings, who never respected the rules.”

  “No intrigues or sibling jealousies?”

  “Of course. What you would expect, but nothing that significantly jarred the atmosphere.”

  “And Jørgen. How was he? Do you recall?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he never quite came to terms with my grandfather’s way of doing business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it is whispered in the family that my grandfather came to his first business in a disreputable manner.”

  “You mean that he took over his neighbor’s business when he was sent to the camps during the war?”

  She is surprised. “How do you know?”

  “I made it my business to know as much about you as possible, Camilla, when I took you to stay at my mother’s place. But what I don’t know is whether there is a connection between what happened to you and to your uncle. And to be perfectly honest with you, there are rumors circulating that your dad is in trouble too. Financially, most likely.”