Game of Revenge

by Charlotte Larsen

  “As soon as he has been seen by the doctor, you and I will take him to the monastery,” she says to Dhammakarati.

  The monk nods.

  The doctor is waiting for them as the cumbersome helicopter is landing. He has clearly been in a helicopter before as he heaves himself up into the cabin before it has reached the ground.

  Displays of capability assure Jo. She withdraws into the furthest corner of the cabin and calls Thomas to tell him that Francis is alive, although in bad shape.

  “Thank God!” Thomas’s voice is heavy with gratitude. “What next?”

  “I am taking Francis to Sri Lanka—he needs to get out of the way and recover.”

  “What do you want me to do about James Hampton?”

  “Nothing. He can wait.”

  “He might do more damage in the meantime, though. Are you sure we shouldn’t keep watching him?”

  “Keep watching him, but don’t do anything. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Did you find out anything about who is behind this?”

  “I did, Thomas, and I need you to find him for me. I need you to put all your effort into finding George Schwartz. Do that for me. For Francis.”

  “Sure, Jo!”

  She hangs up and returns to the chopper where the doctor is working on Francis.

  Schwartz! That he should be behind this comes as no surprise. He and Francis seriously butted heads some time ago, and Schwartz eventually came out on the losing end, as his surrogate son was murdered by Jo, and Francis maneuvered Schwartz, who was richly deserving the punishment, into prison.

  Jo recalls a conversation she had with Francis about George Schwartz. They had just learned of yet another dirty trick he had played, and Jo had passionately said that he was pure evil.

  “I am not so certain,” Francis had answered. “I know this must sound strange to you, but I sometimes wonder whether he and I are actually on the same team rather than lifelong enemies.”

  Jo had looked at him sharply. “How can you even think such a thing?”

  “You see, if you observe his operations over a long period of time, it becomes clear that none of them are successful in the terms you would expect them to be. Anybody who makes a short-term gain in one of his pyramid schemes soon finds him- or herself hopelessly in debt because they have overextended themselves. Clients who requested that a competitor be destroyed eventually find themselves working in a market that has lost its economic appeal. Those that he backed got so used to his support that they folded once he removed the props. So, it would seem that clients benefit momentarily, but because they’re building on empty air, all their savings—and then some—will disappear. But as in all other schemes of quick gains, he’ll never be short on clients. And I will forever be right on his tail as long as he continues to encourage greed and malice in the business community.”

  Francis had by then started pacing the room, getting uncommonly agitated. “Notice how, nowadays, anybody who gets rich quickly soon finds themselves on the less sunny side of the street. Just witness the community of bankers, the entire nation of Iceland. The energy of the times does not allow for easy money. Or rather, it doesn’t allow easy money to last. It’s almost as if it comes with a time bomb. It’s just a matter of weeks, months, or, if they are lucky, years before the bomb explodes in their faces. Everything is accelerating. What used to take a long time is now hatched, brought to life, enjoyed, and destroyed in a far shorter time. The global economy is intensified to a point where it has almost collapsed on us. And Schwartz has had no insignificant role in the current financial crisis. Greed is ruling the world, enslaving rich and poor alike. It is a poor state of humanity.”

  She had briefly wondered if Francis had gone off the rails.

  Francis recognized her expression of doubt. “It’s only natural you should question my assessment. But let me tell you the story of George Schwartz and then perhaps you might change your mind about him. He was brought up in fortunate circumstances. He was an only child, born into old money by a couple that had given up on having children. They couldn’t believe their luck when he finally arrived. He was lavished with attention, smothered in wealth, and sent to the best schools. In short, his was a charmed childhood, a blessed youth.

  But such was his natural energy and intelligence that, for all the pampering, which easily could have ruined a lesser man, he emerged from his childhood and youth as a determined man. The one psychological injury, so to speak, was caused by a world that fulfilled his wishes even before he realized them himself. It is an unshakable belief in his right to determine his own rules. He shares the megalomaniac and psychopath’s conviction that he, and he alone, is above the rules that apply to other people.” He had smiled wryly at this. “It’s a way of thinking one naturally sympathizes with.”

  He had continued, “But that obviously makes him a dangerous man. Not only does he have the wit and the power, the knowledge and resources, but he’s not hindered or limited by the inconvenient roadblock that stops other people—that is, conscience and regard for others. Believe me; he shies away from nothing to achieve his goals.”

  He is like you, Jo had said to herself.

  “The other thing that is characteristic of him, also in no small measure due to his early life, is that he sees the world as his playing field. Everything, every living soul, every establishment, every political party, every government institution is his pawn. For Schwartz, the world is one huge chessboard. Everything is disposable. Everything and everybody removable as he sees fit. He’s not the first man in history with this particular psychological profile, nor the last. You’ll find them in every boardroom and top political echelon, with the rampant ones going for military coups, genocides, and high crimes. They’re everywhere.”

  Jo had smiled. “Francis, it sounds as if you admire this man.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Sometimes, I even think that we’re two sides of the same coin, just using slightly different means. And that is mainly because I suspect him of actually acting out of what could be construed as goodwill to the human race. I believe he’s trying to put the world back in order through financial collapse.” He stands up, gesturing grandly. “And out of the ashes, a new world order shall be born.”

  Jo interjected, “Only nobody elected him. By his own admission, he’s playing God.”

  “Exactly! That he does. So, all in all, I actually do suspect him of wanting to correct the world, but where we try to protect and prevent, he enhances the madness and plays into the bad and the corrupted, pumping it bigger and bigger until eventually, it destroys itself. But sometimes I do wonder which of us is the smartest.”

  George Schwartz must be out of prison by now, she thinks now. And he must be pissed off, enough to hurt Francis so cruelly, enough to come after her, too.

  Chapter 41

  A message pops up on Jo’s phone screen as she is driving back from the airport. She glances at the screen, then immediately pulls the car to the side of the highway. Trucks thunder past her, their powerful momentum and massive weight reverberating in the car’s windows. She instinctively leans toward the passenger seat to get as far away from the threat as possible.

  She zooms in on the text to make it bigger. It is from Thomas and contains a link to Berlingske. The headline runs: Another one bites the dust: The sordid truth behind the massive stock crash of H’Alllure. She quickly scrolls through the article until she hits upon a sentence that catches the breath in her throat:

  Berlingske learns from trusted sources that the devastating fall in stock prices is likely caused by one investor who dumped their share at a pittance. Naturally, all other major investors followed suit soon thereafter. Left to pick up the pieces of this once great and proud family company is the current CEO Niels Bang-Henriksen, the one surviving heir after H’Allure founder Marius Bang-Henriksen.

  Berlingske has talked to a number of experts from the financial markets. None of them want to come forward with the identity, but they all offer
the same bleak future prospect for H’Allure: the company is dying, and it is unlikely that it can be saved, except through a sale. Whether or not any prospective buyer will come forward is an open question.

  The news is startling, yet somewhat expected. She and her colleagues had all known and discussed whether the roller-coaster that the Bang-Henriksen family seemed to be on would stop its devastating plunge before all the passengers hit rock bottom. She shudders to think that James has that kind of intent, a man she has willingly, even desirously, let use her body as he wished. She suddenly feels cold. He has to be stopped. She needs to stop him. Now! Right now!

  Half an hour later, she is parked a hundred meters from James’s house in Hellerup. She has driven slowly past the house twice and ascertained that the gate is closed and that his beloved Bentley is gone, which means one thing: he is not traveling and will likely be back the same day. James, she knows, never takes his Bentley to the airport but protects his baby behind his own electrical fence and a high level of security.

  She ponders how to get into the house without alerting the security company, who will see her on their screens if she attempts to break into the house or even climb the fence. The trouble is too great. She decides to wait for James. She thinks she could position herself close to the gate, just outside the reach of the cameras. Then, if all works out well, she may slip in undetected after the car or just meet and greet James as he waits for the gate to open. This is a quiet, residential area, but most of the properties are owned by people who are either living abroad or spend a lot of time away from home. There is the risk of a pedestrian coming by, but then she will just have to pretend she’s out for a run and she’s experiencing a leg cramp. She is still in her running clothes and may easily pass for a sports freak who has overdone her daily jog.

  Jo digs into her backpack and draws out her gun and exits the car.

  She doesn’t have to wait long. Within an hour, the Bentley turns the corner from Ryvangs Alle and glides slowly up the street. Its low purr reminds her of a panther that is satisfied for now, but ready to turn lethal in an instant. And not just the car, but the man too, she muses. He too is like a huge cat, with a pleasant and friendly attitude covering a ruthlessness that more than matches her own. In fact, his ruthlessness and willingness to inflict pain has her looking like a delicate school girl.

  As the gate swings open, she crouches low behind the Bentley as she follows the car into the parking lot. As James is getting out of the car, she slides up behind him and taps him on the shoulder.

  “Hello, James,” she murmurs close to his ear.

  He gives a violent start and snaps around, one hand raised.

  Jo takes a step back, lifting both her hands in a gesture of protection and surrender, then laughs. “But James, darling, it’s just me.”

  James quickly recovers, but there is no “darling” in his attitude. He grabs Jo by the elbow and frog-marches her into the house. Not until they reach the lounge on the first floor does he let go of her arm. They are standing, facing one another, two boxers in the ring, a pair of prowling animals. The tall, solid man with his red hair in slight disarray, gray eyes alert and penetrating, and the blonde woman, packing long muscles in a slender frame. She looks at him with a challenge in her eyes, a barely hidden desire: a desire to surrender, a desire to hurt him.

  He speaks first. His voice is hard, demanding, “Where have you been? I have called and texted you several times.”

  “I had something to take care of.”

  “What?”

  “Just some business that needed dealing with.” She realizes that he, again, has turned the tables and has put her in the submissive’s position. She needs to take back the reins.

  “And you, what have you been up to these past weeks?” she asks, taking a step closer to him. If she reaches out her hand, she is close enough to touch him. She takes another step closer. She can feel his breath. Her right hand involuntarily lifts. Her hand remembers the feel of his skin. But instead of the caress her body craves, instead of cupping her hand close around his face, she slaps him. Hard.

  They are both startled, but she recovers first.

  “Sit down, James!” she points to an Eames lounge chair. The chair is low enough that he will be leaning back and hence be less dangerous than if he is standing in front of her with the intense energy that pulsates from him and weakens her defenses. “Sit down!” she repeats.

  He does so with a small gesture of ironic supplication. If she thinks she has won this round, he seems to say, think again.

  “You need to stop, James. Right now. We know—”

  “—We?”

  She doesn’t answer but continues, “We know what you have done to the Bang-Henriksen family. Whatever your reason, I want you to leave them alone. This has been going on for far too long. You need to stop hurting that family, James.” She is fully aware that her appeal is weak. And worse than that, it comes from the woman, not from the agent. It is Sarah speaking, not Jo. He distracts her. His very presence brings her out of composure. She looks away from him, her hands moving casually over the gun at her lower back.

  His eyes turn darker. He has seen her gesture and realizes she is armed. A glint of fear flashes in his eyes.

  That flash is what she needed. She walks over to him and leans over him, her hands gripping the soft leather armrest on either side of him.

  “James.” Her voice is under control. “You let those people be, or you will never see me again.” I cannot force him. We don’t have enough evidence, she thinks. I only have myself to bargain with. But am I sufficient? Am I important enough for him? Her spine chills.

  He stares into her eyes, his calm restored. But instead of answering, he asks, “Is your name Sarah?”

  She shakes her head slowly.

  “Tell me!” she shakes her head again.

  “You don’t think you owe me your real identity after having uncovered mine?” He sits up and leans forward, staring intently at her.

  “No,” she says. Her voice is raspy, her breath short. She is much too close to him.

  But before she can move back, he is on his feet, his hands gripping her upper arms like vises. He jerks her closer.

  I have made my request, she thinks to herself. Nobody can expect more. I have done my duty to the agency. To Francis. But she knows she is lying to herself. She could do so much more, but instead, she allows this man to pull her closer. And closer. Right into the orbit of his power.

  Chapter 42

  He never treated her more violently. She allows him to do so, wanting to drown and needing to disappear into his will. She imagines she will either die or be released. She considers this coolly without preference. She just is. Pure existence. Pure being. Complete surrender.

  His forearm is on her throat and face, pressing her face sideways into the pillow, almost choking her. But just before he inflicts any real damage, he pulls back. She marvels at his skill, at his amazing control. Lifting himself up, freeing her face that suddenly feels bereft of his heavy weight, he pulls her with him onto the floor with his fingers entangled in her hair, his hand on the back of her head, pushing it hard against him repeatedly. She can’t breathe. Tears are streaming down her face. She has never felt so complete.

  “You are very delicate,” he murmurs later. “I don’t want to bruise you.”

  “I am yours to bruise.”

  “I want you to experience the edge, but I will not bruise you. Never.”

  Night has fallen, and James has turned on a few lamps in the bedroom. The room is softly lit with long shadows in its corners. They are curled up in each other’s arms. To Jo, this moment is more peaceful than she has ever experienced, even during meditation in the monastery. The image of the monastery in the jungle brings back Francis, and with him, the job she is on. She cringes slightly. He pulls her closer.

  “Let me tell you a story, Sarah. It was back during the Second World War. In 1944, more specifically, when a snitch denounced a married c
ouple and their eldest son for resistance activities. The snitch was their neighbor, as was so often the case with people who ratted on one another back then. At any rate, the mother was separated from her husband and son and sent to Bergen-Belsen. The husband and son were sent to Dachau. None of them returned, ever.” He pauses. “The snitch was Marius Henriksen. Later known as Marius Bang-Henriksen.”

  She looks up sharply. Something shifts inside her. The balance of right and wrong tilts. She is deeply disturbed, as are most Danes, when confronted with the devastating horror of the Nazi regime, and specifically with the incomprehensible inhumanity of the camps.

  “The couple had a young daughter. It was she, for recognition or out of boredom, who had told Marius Henriksen that her parents and older brother were members of the secret sabotage unit that destroyed the infrastructure the Nazis needed. Marius put this information to profitable use in his dealings with the Gestapo. He prospered during the war by selling meat to the German occupation, who at one point rewarded him by handing him the keys to a large, filled warehouse full of precious oils, cosmetics, and perfumes owned by an unfortunate Jewish family. When the war ended, he had the choice between being lynched or getting the hell out of the small provincial town. He chose the latter and eventually settled in Copenhagen, far away and long before the internet made that kind of distance irrelevant. He added a Bang and a hyphen to his name for good measure and to gain access to higher levels of society.

  Seventy years later, the H’Allure company is a global market leader in cosmetics and building a strong fashion arm. The old man is dead now. His two surviving children are middle-aged, his grandchildren, five in all, are active in various fields.”

  He pauses, “Well, I should say, they were active. Most of them have been stopped.”