“I know, but you should. So who is she and why is she interesting?”
“Anita Dahlgren, a student reporter under—well, take a guess.”
“Oh no, you don’t mean what I think you do.”
“It may comfort you to know that she cares as little for Anni Staal as you do. Perhaps even less.”
“That’s not possible. But why did she come here in the first place?”
“Her boss knows that you’ve dusted me off. She wants to do a story about it.”
Simonsen sighed. It wasn’t hard to guess the angle the article would take, but he would get over it. What was worse was that his department was apparently as open as a sieve. He said, sourly, “She certainly has her sources, that Staal woman.”
“Yes, and she is always working on acquiring more.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Anita said that she was preparing a proposition for that young guy, Pedersen, about some tax-free bonus money in exchange for a first page smacker now and then.”
“Are you talking about Arne Pedersen?”
“Yes, Arne Pedersen. Rumor has it that he could do with a little extra income.”
Simonsen shook his head. “She’ll get nothing out of him.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“You’re wrong. Arne isn’t like that. But what else did you talk about, you and the girl?”
“Everything between heaven and earth. She liked being here.”
“What gives you that impression?”
“It was obvious.”
Simonsen did not look convinced.
Planck took a long, dramatic pause before he went on: “And because she told me so. In fact, she’s going to come back and see me again in a couple of days.”
He smiled from ear to ear; his opponent grunted.
“Keep telling yourself that, you vain old rascal.”
The game neared its end. Simonsen was down by a page but improved his position step by step, minimized his disadvantage, then recovered the lead and waved away his opponent’s suggestion of a rematch.
For a while Planck let the game be.
“I have been reading, have looked at pictures, talked with Arthur Elvang, and there is one thing that I’m starting to feel sure of and that is that the people behind these executions are media hounds, as we called them in my day. Today it’s called a compulsion of self-exhibition, but the essence is that they want to tell a story. It’s warm and cold at the same time; logic and passion.”
“So your little cub reporter is well planted, Meister Jakel?”
“She came to me, not the other way around. So in the best-case scenario I’m just taking advantage of a bit of good luck and you should too.”
“How do you mean?”
“Perhaps Pedersen could be convinced to be a little less principled.”
Simonsen answered hesitatingly, “Up front it sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I see it differently.”
It was not a bad argument.
“Let me think it over. You were going to say something else.”
“They want to tell a story, I said. And you’re overlooking the obvious, Simon.”
Planck fell silent and Simonsen reflected on this. He disliked Planck’s affinity for riddles.
“Can I help you with what this story may consist of?”
He hid his irritation behind silence.
“Of words.”
“And words are important. Isn’t there a word that you’ve stumbled over? Because there should be. It was used in today’s press conference without anyone reacting to it. Twice, even, and the media is using it relentlessly. I think it is exactly what our horrible men wish, so this word is a key. Forget the identities, the transportation, the platform; you’ll find out all of this sooner or later, but think about this word. I have used it many times this evening without hearing any objection from you. And recently.”
Planck’s eyes were shining. Simonsen was at a loss; he didn’t speak and could not come up with anything. His opponent struck like a snake: one move and his pawn structure was shattered. The game was lost. He resigned to his fate and gave up.
“Devil. Tell me, what’s the word?”
“Figure it out for yourself. You youngsters always think you get things for free in this world. Do you want to play again?”
“No, thanks all the same. One word, you say—do you mean ‘execution’?”
“Good work, Simon. A little slow but good. Even though it cost you a game of chess.”
CHAPTER 22
The wood shop at the Langeb?k School was not a romantic place, and Pauline Berg eyed the row of work benches critically. At the very back of the room there was a band saw. She shook her head firmly and pushed Arne Pedersen away, which gave her only a brief respite. His fingers soon wandered wayward again. Her storytelling in the car was apparently weighing on his mind, and having made her bed she now had to lie in it. Or so she thought and gave in to his persistence.
“Let’s at least go up to that classroom with all the cushions.”
Her suggestion was accepted.