The Seventh Child (22 page)

“I suppose it generates the right kind of attention—rather than the kind of attention you’re getting right now with the anonymous letters. And the ministry’s treatment of the orphaned Tamil boy who is about to be expelled?” Peter didn’t know why he was suddenly connecting the two cases. Maybe it was the wine. He felt an urge to provoke the man—a feeling no good TV reporter should give in to.

“Yes,” his guest said plainly.

Peter opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out his copy of
Independent Weekend
. He read aloud the headline and a few of the passages
he’d
underlined:

“Famous Orphanage Accused of Hiding Thousands of Children
…
potentially politicians, officials, or actors who didn’t want to risk their reputations and careers because of an extramarital affair
…
They could safely go to Skodsborg Strandvej and talk to the matron who is now celebrating her sixtieth anniversary
…
She would handle their problem discreetly and to their satisfaction.”

The minister sipped his wine but didn’t react.

“Would you care to comment on that story?”

“Is
that
why you asked me to come here on such short notice? To do a story like
that
? I don’t find that dignified.”

“But it’s your newspaper, in a way
…
the administration’s paper.
Independent Weekend
still receives considerable financial support from the party, a holdover from the old days.” Peter still didn’t quite understand his sudden urge to provoke the man.

“It
was
my paper,” the minister said, “before this reporter”—he tapped Knud Taasing’s byline—“before this reporter deliberately tried to scandalize the administration with this
muck
.” He pronounced the last word as if an earwig had bitten his tongue. His pale skin had developed a rosy hue, like the sky over Såby Church and Tølløse right before sunset.

“
Muck
?” Peter was genuinely surprised at his expression.

“Yes. The kind of thing that gets pulled out of a bog, smelling of rot and brackish water. But don’t quote me on that.”

“The paper nonetheless says that you’ve asked an old acquaintance, a former policeman, to dig into the matter, discreetly. So I gather the story is of interest to you?”

The minister leaned toward Peter, his forehead shining. “Listen, Trøst. When something like this gets out—and the letter writer was smart enough to send it to a tabloid—you have to take it seriously. Or rather,
pretend to take it seriously
. And then it’s wise to use a private investigation bureau rather than waste taxpayer money by stirring the entire apparatus, the police, and the secret service. Don’t you agree? Waste of public money is a favorite theme of Channel DK, isn’t it?”

Peter kept quiet. The blue envelope
he’d
received was in the locked drawer only a few feet away, but he didn’t want to reveal his own involvement—which he hadn’t even admitted to the Professor.

“According to the newspaper, your right-hand man, Orla Berntsen, was actually placed in that orphanage for a while, long ago. What do you make of that?”

“I assume this is off the record?”

“To the best of my knowledge, there’s no recording device here,” Peter said, glancing demonstratively about the room.

“I have no idea.”

The TV star nearly giggled.
How impertinent
, he thought, staring at the minister, who was still sitting with his hands folded on the table. “You think it’s a coincidence that he got that letter,” Peter said.

The irony couldn’t be missed, but the minister merely shrugged as if he feared an invisible microphone would reveal his foolish ignorance of the subject.

“The article implies that you were aware that covert things were taking place at Kongslund. And that you didn’t intervene.” Peter let the innuendo hang in the air. He was in dangerous territory now.

The man in the armchair looked as though he was studying a distant fog—a formidable squadron of words that filled the air between his universe and the reporter’s—and then he said, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re so interested in this matter? Why are you so eager to do a program about this muck?”

Peter looked up, a little startled. Did the minister know about his past? No, it wasn’t possible. He took a deep breath. “Was Kongslund involved in something of that nature?”

“I know this orphanage well, and I have never heard of anything like that. That’s not to say that all kinds of things couldn’t have happened—I didn’t live there after all. I was just a good friend. I knew Magna—Ms. Ladegaard—during the war.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I helped her realize her dream, and I am proud to have done that. I think
that’s
what Channel DK ought to focus on this week when Kongslund is celebrated by thousands of people, and not just in Denmark. There’ll be guests from all over the world.” He raised his glass in front of Peter’s face.

“Cheers,” he said as he drank the last of his wine and began to stand.

Peter considered a final question:
Did she ever help you or someone you know?
But it would trigger the Almighty One’s unrestrained fury and no doubt put an end to all further contact with the ministry.

The minister sat back down, as if
he’d
perceived a shadow of the question in his eyes. “No. I haven’t personally been involved in something secretive or stealthy”—he smiled coldly—“and if I had, I imagine that would be of interest only to the sensationalist media.” He set his empty glass on the table.

“You’re part of an administration that always talks about humane values and honesty and about giving all the nation’s children a good upbringing and a good life in a stable Danish family.” Again Peter felt an inexplicable, unprofessional anger toward this man. “Naturally, it would be of interest to the public if any members of your party are or were living according to a completely different set of principles and bent all the rules in doing so, like hiding their offspring to protect their own fragile careers. How much could have been under the rug?”

The minister finally stood. He cocked his head. “This conversation verges on offensive. There is nothing to what you’re suggesting, and I’m entitled to a certain level of respect, even from the press.” He stared angrily at the reporter. “Not suspicion and scandal-mongering.”

At that moment the door opened, and the Professor entered without knocking; he walked directly to the minister and took him by the shoulders in an almost jovial manner. “My dear Ole. You know what we reporters are like. We have to uphold some of the old traditions—for the sake of democracy. You yourself praise the independent press because it assures the population of a higher justice, because it’s a guard dog, a guarantee that anything and everything is open to debate
…
We need that guard dog.”

“Sensational stories don’t represent the freedom of speech,” the minister said, shaking off the Professor’s hands.

“True, and that’s why we’ll go easy on this matter, I can assure you. We’ll treat you right, and with fairness, just as you and your administration have always treated us. We’re grateful for that.”

Staring south as if
he’d
suddenly developed an interest in the woods between Borup and Kirke Hvalsø, the minister said, “Yes, we treat one another as we deserve
…
and I would like it very much if we do no harm to the reputation of our finest orphanage.” He grabbed his coat. The four bodyguards entered the office and spread out around him.

Peter looked at the Professor, who was still facing the minister. He had the sense that the two men had entered into some sort of pact long ago, and that he might have broken it with a single unasked question.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have changed the course of events over the next few months if he had asked it. At that level, men rarely caved to one another—and they almost never yielded.

Even if they’d seen the danger (and perhaps they ought to have), neither would have taken responsibility, and the process would have continued toward absolute zero, where nobody could change anything at all. That’s the way it was in the old fairy tales, and in matters of war and love, and that’s how it is in the universe of the very powerful, where ambition rules and all other feelings are inconsequential.

But, of course, punishment is meted out.

Three people stood in the sixth-floor executive office that day, and six months later, two of them were dead.

Later, the Professor approached Peter the way a teacher approaches a student: “You handled that well until you threatened him. That was
stupid
.”

Peter realized then that the Professor must have eavesdropped on the whole conversation from the other side of the door.

He walked over to Peter. “I agree with him that you’re completely exaggerating the significance of the anonymous letter. Any idiot could have written that drivel.”

Peter stared at the chairman of the board. The Kongslund Affair went directly against the Professor’s plan to raise ratings in ways that would keep competing stations at bay. Sure, you attacked problems, but the bad guys had to be easily identified individuals: pushers, terrorists, Muslims—not faceless authorities and certainly not the welfare state itself.

“We’re
for
everything that is good in life!” Bjørn Meliassen had roared at the strategy convention in January to the other executives, commonly referred to as the Nine Highest. “We have to find happiness on behalf of our viewers. And happiness—that’s what we’ve already got: our families, our kids, our TVs, our social services, and our country. That’s what we’ve got to defend! All those who disagree, all the misfits, they ought to just go back to where they belong. We can’t adopt every silly tradition and custom in the whole world.”

Now, Bjørn Meliassen took a deep breath. “I know things that you have no idea I know, Trøst. You were at that orphanage as a baby; you lived in Rungsted; you’re adopted. I’m aware of Knud, and I also know”—he leaned toward the TV star, whose hand, holding the wineglass, was frozen in midair—“that your principal had a stroke after a case of aggravated vandalism at your school. I know much more than you realize, and I understand that it takes an extraordinarily strong man to go through everything that you’ve been through.”

Peter’s face was flushed. Instinctively, he felt the makeup artist’s brush on his neck, but it was merely the Professor blowing cold air between his lips.

“What did you expect, Peter? That I hadn’t done a background check on my biggest star? Ha-ha. Though many do, you’ve never sought out your biological parents. You don’t even know who they are, and you don’t want to know. That’s why Kongslund has such a hold on you. It’s your own past you’re chasing through this ridiculous
John Bjergstrand
character. You ought to go see one of our excellent psychologists and get it all off your chest.”

Peter felt the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. The Professor had mentioned episodes from his past that he, under no circumstances, should know about. The private school, the vandalism, his friendship with Knud Mylius Taasing. How had he gleaned that information?

“Listen, Trøst”—when he lectured, the Professor never addressed Peter by his first name—“even though we are subsidized by a rich uncle in the United States, our future depends not on charity but on hard commercial revenue. That’s how it works in our world. We’ve got no use for stories like this, believe me. And one more thing.” The Professor’s cruel eyes gleamed like the night he made his first and most brilliant television appearance. “Right after you called me, Carl Malle telephoned on behalf of the ministry. As security advisor, he is very indignant about our involvement. It could harm his investigation.”

Peter pictured him—Malle, the surveillance specialist, the hunter—and in that moment he understood where the Professor had gotten his information. Another wave of nausea hit him.

“He was the one who checked out my past,” Peter said. “You asked Malle for that information.” This truth flickered into the twilight sky and disappeared.

The Professor shifted his glance, but only for a second. Then he shook his head regretfully, and a hissing and rumbling sound seemed to rise from the man’s chest. “That story will be the end of you, Trøst.”

It sounded like a curse.

With the empty wine bottle in his hand, Peter left the office.