“Yes, maybe she was.”
“Don’t you ever get mad at that sort of girl? I almost can’t control myself when I’m treated that way. But maybe it’s just me?”
“No, I know what you mean, they are irritating.”
“You can say that again. Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks she shouldn’t be employed at a place like this.”
“No, I can see your point.”
“Excuse me, could you please keep an eye on my food while I visit the bathroom?”
“Yes, sure. I’ll do that.”
“Thanks. My name’s Nathalie by the way, what’s your name?”
“Pronto is what people call me.”
“Such a nice name. Pronto—I like that.”
The head of DSIS said, “What in the world is happening? Where is she going with this?”
Simonsen, who by now was starting to admire the acting abilities of the head of DSIS, kept strategically quiet, so Poul Troulsen, who to begin with did not like the man and had already had two minor encounters with him, answered acidly, “Maybe she’s going to pee.”
“Nonsense, she would have taken care of that in advance.”
Shortly afterwards the Countess’s voice was heard again: “I’ve gone out to the parking lot, actually I’m squatting behind his car, but that’s because it’s parked closest. This has failed completely, I think he knows he’s being watched. He keeps looking around furtively all the time, and he seems to have suspicions about two of the agents. As you can hear, I’m in the process of making contact, but the close surveillance has fallen through.”
The head of DSIS stood up, slightly red in the face. Without raising his voice but in an ominous tone he asked Troulsen, “You’re not sleeping with her, so now I’m asking you—is she capable? That is—does she know what she’s talking about, or is she just one of those paranoid female cops who let themselves get carried away and see ghosts when things heat up?”
Troulsen answered him confrontationally.
“She’s capable, and you’re disagreeable.”
“This is no time to argue. Okay, Simon, it’s your ass, but I assume that we break off?”
Simonsen was no great actor, and even though he had practised his line, it sounded affected. He said, “I don’t know . . . yes, that is standard procedure. I mean, I can’t really decide what I want or don’t want, and poor Pauline, she—”
The head of DSIS pounced on him, cold and confrontational.
“Make your decision, man, tell me! Don’t you realise it’s urgent?”
The harsh words did not help; almost the contrary. Simonsen shook his head heavily and breathed rapidly in short, brief bursts. Suddenly sweat was running out of every pore. The attack made him resemble a boiled crab and was far more convincing than his previous dilly-dallying.
The head of DSIS threw out his arms in despair and turned instead to appeal to the police commissioner, who after a few long seconds authoritatively cut through.
“Cancel the surveillance immediately.”
The secretary made a note.
Like the Countess, the head of DSIS also had a microphone on his lapel, on the inside. He quickly turned the lapel, made connection via a small switch that was hanging down on a cord, and slowly and clearly gave the command.
“All units withdraw out of range of vision immediately. I repeat—all units withdraw out of range of vision immediately. Without exception. Safety distance of at least five hundred metres.”
Simonsen had pulled himself together. The police commissioner stared at him, worried, and he apologised.
“I’m sorry, that won’t happen again.”
The head of DSIS supported him to his boss.
“That kind of thing is an occupational hazard. It’s good that you were here and could give the order, that was the right thing to do.”
He looked at Simonsen, who seemed to have regained control of himself.
“Brief stress attacks are normal under severe pressure. It even happens to me, that’s just how it is, but I’m sure you know about that.”
The police commissioner felt reassured and said, “Yes, of course I do. I know very well that it doesn’t mean anything.”
The Countess’s voice returned, and those present listened tensely.
“Thanks for your help.”
“With what?”
“Keeping an eye on my food.”
“It was nothing.”
“Do you come here often?”
“No.”
“The food is very good, don’t you think?”
“No, not really.”
“Are you picky? Well, I actually eat everything, within limits that is, but there is one thing that is certain, and do you know what that is? It was Ponto, wasn’t it?”
“Pronto.”
“Pronto, yes. Well, that was what you said. Do you know what is certain?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That I’m going to have a cognac with my coffee, and I would like to treat you to one too.”
“No, thanks.”
“And that is because I am simply so upset. I tell you, I am shaken.”