The Quiet Girl (27 page)

Something was placed on the broad windowsill next to Kasper; Moerk handed him a glass. Kasper drank. It was a Spanish brandy, slightly sweet. Tears came to his eyes; the liquor burned the open sores in his mouth, like when flying paraffin wax incorrectly ignites for a fire-eater.

"The police are the same way," said Moerk. "Built on collaboration and open lines. A unified force. The Serious Economic Crime office, narcotics, fraud, theft, technical departments, all under the same umbrella. Regulations and plans for everything, no problems. So when they're looking for the girl and boy and call the Lyngby station, a level-headed officer tells them not to worry because ninety-nine percent of the children who disappear have just wanted to take a little walk. When they telephone again a couple of hours later, the officer investigates whether the mother and father have been divorced, or if there are young siblings; most children who leave home have wanted only to express their dissatisfaction with something. When this time there is pressure on the other end, the policeman asks that someone from the Institute come to the station with the parents and a picture. There are no parents, he is told. Then the officer asks to speak with a representative from the school. And only then does someone become aware that the Intelligence Service and the police chief have assessed this institution to be a possible terrorist target. Among eighty others in Bagsværd and Lyngby. From then on, things start to happen, so to speak. A couple of police officers search the Institute thoroughly. Nine out of ten children who remain missing after a while have hidden themselves up in an attic or something. When that doesn't pay off either, the Intelligence Service is contacted. We get out the plans for precisely this situation. Advise the patrol cars. Establish a search management team. Get hold of the police chief in Lyngby. The deputy crime commissioner in charge of the case. The police commissioner, who wants to stay in the background as long as possible. An inspector from the Intelligence Service. Line up all the basic investigative measures, which must proceed according to law and order. So that when Weidebühl here starts to be frightened and advises the Ministry of Justice police department, which gets hold of me, a week has gone by, and it's too late."

A woman stood behind Kasper. It was the aristocrat from Strand Road; she was wearing a white lab coat now, and had a small trolley with what appeared to be first-aid equipment.

She began to remove the tea towels and napkins from around his head. He vaguely noticed that she took his pulse. Measured his blood pressure. His world had begun to fade away. Some of his hearing was intact. But his field of vision was disturbed; he could focus only on a limited area.

"I started with the police force," said Moerk. "I've been through it all. Foot patrolman. Dog handler. Denmark's youngest criminal-investigation assistant. I love it. It's one of the best, most honest police forces in the world. There's just one thing wrong: It's so damn slow."

Moerk had forgotten to put up his acoustical guard; his system opened. What Kasper heard was weariness. Not temporary fatigue. Weariness that was twenty or thirty years old. He had heard it in some of the great circus directors, those who wanted something other, something more, than earning money. It was the weariness of a person who doesn't just have a job, but a mission, and who has let that mission absorb him totally. And is now slowly burning up from within.

The woman pulled up Kasper's shirt; he heard her catch her breath. She placed a hand on his midriff. Normally he would have been pleased by the touch, and especially from her. But not now. "The Ministry of Justice normally never gets involved," said Moerk. "We've got a measly five men in the police division. It's only when there's a very big case, and when politics are involved, that we get called in. And even then we know that we're putting our heads on the chopping block."

"Department IT?" asked Kasper.

He heard his own voice; it sounded like a tree frog croaking. Moerk stood up. Walked over to the window.

"The police have always used astrologers," he said. "Mediums, clairvoyants. Quietly, you understand. But toward the end of the nineties we noticed that something was changing. I could feel it brewing like a bad storm. We knew there would be new types of illegal profits. Related to mind control."

"Like trading options," said Kasper.

The official nodded.

"Time," he said. "To be able to foresee the future. That's become paramount. Intuition. It's gotten to be one of the highest-paid resources. I'm constantly trying to get the Danish police to understand this."

The woman made Kasper open his mouth. He felt the coolness of a dentist's mirror against his tongue. She straightened up.

"He needs to go to intensive care," she said. "Immediately. He has a bullet wound in his stomach. His skull is fractured. Left wrist is broken. Maybe two ribs. Maybe his nose. Three teeth have been knocked loose. He needs to be sewn up; he's lost a lot of blood. He needs to get a transfusion. And be examined for internal bleeding."

He recognized her voice from another context; he had heard it sing. It was a refined alto, from the CD. She sang in the cantata.

"I need him for twenty minutes more," said Moerk.

"If an organ has been damaged, if the liver is torn, he'll be dead in twenty minutes."

"He won't die. He's made of something different than other people are. Maybe some sort of plastic."

"I'll report this," she said.

"Give him a shot," said Moerk. "I'll take responsibility."

She left. Moerk watched her go.

"They hate me," he said. "I took the investigation from Lyngby and moved it here, to police headquarters. We set up a command station. I've sat on them here for a week. Technically, we're just observers. But they're afraid, they're afraid of the publicity. And the politicians. Still, they're waiting for a chance to get rid of us."

"What about the rest of the children?" asked Kasper. "Those who disappeared in other countries."

The official's surprise could not have been registered on an oscillograph; not a muscle moved. But Kasper heard it.

Normally Moerk would not have replied; it's those who keep their mouth shut who rise to the top. But when one is close to the grand prize, it's virtually impossible to remain hermetic, "Five were reported missing. All the reports have been withdrawn."

"Except for the dead girl."

A shadow of pain crossed the official's face; it darkened his unified tone for a moment.

"I originally wanted to be a judge," he said. "I've always longed for  justice. Sometimes the longing feels like thirst. Can you imagine that? Why am I telling you this?"

"I immediately inspire confidence," said Kasper. "After five minutes people usually tell me their life story. Women. Children. Taxi drivers. Bailiffs."

The woman was back. Far away, like something that didn't concern him., Kasper felt the hypodermic needle.

"Prednisone," she said.

He began to smile. Maximillian was also full of prednisone. It's frightening and fascinating the way the fates of children and parents merge, all the way to the autopsy.

He felt the chemical relief in his body. Something was wound around his head; it was gauze binding. The woman was doing it. Moerk squatted in front of him.

"We got the request for your extradition," he said. "From Spain. Modifying punishment is not part of the official Danish penal code. Nor is money under the table. The few times the police have bought a rock star for a couple thousand kroner the issue went straight to the police commissioner's desk. So the police can't do a damn thing for you. But in the ministry we can. We can appeal the Spanish request. Get it overruled. Expedite a vote on your Danish citizenship in Parliament. Weidebühl here can speak with the Interior Ministry. We'll work out a settlement with the tax authorities. In half a year you can be back here. On the major stages. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Kasper nodded. The other man's tone was completely open. They had reached what they had been going toward the whole time.

"In a little while. When they've got the children. And we pray that they've got them. This whole operation. We set it up relying on you. And now, when we have the children, we'll still need you. To talk with them. I have some female assistants, from Department As morality office. And from Glostrup, where they specialize in incest hearings. But these children are different. So before anyone else talks to them, I want you and me to speak with the children. I want to understand what they were supposed to be used for. Are we agreed?"

Kasper nodded.

Moerk straightened up.

"Are you going to die on us?" he asked.

Kasper listened. Not to his body but outward and upward; death comes from outside.

He shook his head.

"The music," he said.

Moerk gave him a thoughtful look.

"It's true," said the official. "What you said about inspiring confidence. Though who could understand it. If you skid in the curve now, Saint Peter will start telling you his personal concerns."

"They're in Copenhagen," said Kasper. "The five surviving children. Somebody brought them to Copenhagen. And it wasn't the Institute. Wasn't the abbess. Who brought them here?"

Moerk pushed the button on the boom box.

It was the last part of the cantata. Still sorrowful, but more like the New Testament than the first part. Slowly the police chief's soprano voice opened an escape. Death is a door where there is something on the other side.

Kasper heard the harmony among the music, the building, and the men before him. The hall had the same reverberation and acoustic clarity as a church. He heard how religious the police actually were. He heard the sense of justice. The idea of cosmic justice. Moerk could have held any leadership position in Danish business life. Instead he was here. Gray with fatigue. Sustained by an internal carbon arc lamp. Kasper could hear it whispering. What it whispered was a credo: Evil is not necessary; it's a tumor; it can be removed.

Moerk was the human community's head surgeon. The police station was its cloister hospital.

It was a beautiful philosophy; Kasper sensed it within himself. The belief that if we just have the discipline, energy, and courage to clean out the muck, we will reach the goal. For a moment he wished he could have believed it.

A cell phone rang; it was Moerk's. He spoke briefly. Broke off the conversation. Stood looking out the window.

He pulled a chair over next to Kasper and sat down.

"They've taken the place apart," he said. "The children aren't there. No sign that they have been there. No sign that you have been there. My people say there are guards; the wall has infrared security; there's no place you could have entered. They've located all personnel, and several passersby. The only person who saw you is a young girl from a chocolate shop. Who says you bought an Easter egg for your sweetheart."

Kasper looked at the brandy glass. It was empty.

"I was mistaken about you," said Moerk. "You screwed me. Was it to buy time?"

"There was a way out of the place," said Kasper. "Which you didn't manage to close."

For a moment Moerk lost his composure. His left hand tightened around the back of Rasper's neck. The pain exceeded what Rasper thought possible. Pain is never depleted; it always has room for more. He lost consciousness.

* * *

The world was restored; perhaps he had been unconscious only a few seconds. Moerk supported the bandaged head with both hands, carefully now. His face was right next to Rasper's.

"I would have liked to question you," he said. "But you understand. I've sent two hundred men from the anti-terror unit on a wild-goose chase. After having taken the case away from the local police. Now they will all be after me. The minister. The police. The families. So now you won't be questioned. You will explain."

The monks stood behind Rasper; they lifted him up.

"Were you in there?" whispered Moerk. "Were the children there?"

The monks closed in on him. This time they carried him.

* * *

The car rolled past the fire engines and the trailer trucks carrying Pioneer Corps rubber boats. If he could get them to stop somewhere with low buildings, there might be a chance.

"My father is dying," he said. "I'd like to see him one last time. Could we please stop at Rigshospital? It will take only a couple of minutes."

They did not reply; they drove across the Zealand Bridge, onto the highway leading to the airport. His consciousness flickered.

"In my obituary," he said to the two silent backs, "they will write  that he contributed two hundred million in taxes for the benefit of the common good, and that he gave Denmark more free international publicity than Niels Bohr and a million pallets of bacon ever did. Nonetheless, the men who accompanied him--when he was taken away to torture and execution--were as boorish as hip-hop gangsters. And as unshaven as Indian swamis."
 

PART FOUR

1

They gave him a cell in the Third Bardo, between one nightmare and the next. On the second floor in the immigration-police facilities at Kastrup Airport.

The cell was one of six that, along with two toilets, adjoined a reception room in which there were benches, a counter, two cubicles for body searches, and three armed officers, two men and a woman. Everything was white concrete, even the counter. You could hear a child crying in one of the cells. Somewhere a person in severe pain groaned rhythmically. Elsewhere a woman softly sang La illaaha illa llah, There is no other god than God.

The place had no windows. From far away came the penetrating mechanical roar of accelerating jet engines.

An officer set a metal tray on the counter; the monks emptied Rasper's pockets and placed the contents there. The officer took the violin case, counted the objects, and handed Kasper the paper money, the lottery ticket, and a receipt. The man's face was like a mask. In
commedia dell'arte
he would have played Kassander, a stern, powerful father figure. Even in the Third Bardo state we do not escape our deep-seated Oedipal conflicts.