TROUBLESHOOTER

(Indhenter in Danish - Indhenter means "spy" in Danish).

 

By Morten Buschmann.

Here's a couple of chapters in English.

 

Chapter 1. October, 2005. Copenhagen. Istedgade.

 

– Plopf!

Direct hit. Problem number one solved. He slumps, keels and curls lifelessly onto the pavement. My breath is disciplined, my body relaxed – on to the next. Move the rifle a hair to the left …like that …that’s it … Problem number two is directly in my crosshairs. An easy shot, 42.8 metres. His glazed bug-eyes leave the impression that he is probably under the spell of today’s first fix, even though it is still early, just shy of 11. This scope is remarkable. A few millimetres up towards his face …like that … A bullet will greet this junkie’s forehead in just a few moments. I slide my right index finger forward onto the trigger, and pull: slowly, smoothly, softly.

– Pop!

Problem number two falls back onto the sidewalk next to the Maria Church courtyard. Dead on the spot. I love this sound suppressor; it produces the sound of a popping champagne cork. Status: two pieces of hot metal placed in a couple of “pale faces”, Dad’s term for addicts. With the projectiles being hurtled at 800 metres per second, they never knew what hit them. Their end was painless. Zoom out and the entire scene makes for a fine conclusion. Are they 30-years-old? 40? Impossible to tell with hard-core addicts. But in any case, they have now moved on and been delivered to junkie heaven, a place flowing with magnificently clean, uncut heroin, warehouses full of strong beer and all the Rohypnol they can handle. But their scrawny, filthy dogs don’t get to join them, I don’t do animals.

 

Today I’m wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, a pair of New Feet slip-resistant men’s shoes and thin leather gloves. I’ve glued on a small brown moustache, have a pair of flat-rimmed metal sunglasses and a light-coloured, medium-length wig of human hair. I have disguised myself differently for each scouting trip to this location.

 

Wednesday morning, another weekday on Istedgade. A few cars and a tourist coach roll past Maria Church and a man hangs out in front of his shop. Wheeled suitcases trail tourists. Down the street, a group of homeless men wrangle over this or that by the Men’s Home, Istedgade’s local homeless shelter. A couple of addicts snort away by the church. No one reacts – none dare the hassle.

Everyone will eventually be pleased with this healthy purge, especially the many young Jutlanders and their worried parents who have invested in “Little Aarhus” flats – as this part of Vesterbro nearest the Main Station is called. Glad to have been of service.

 

René Antvorskov is the priest at Maria Church. He has entered through a side entrance and is now in his office. He sets down his Fjällräven backpack, hangs his jacket on a rack and dresses in his vestments. He walks into the chancel, glances up at the alter, with its sculpted wooden cross and frescos of suffering and compassionate Jesus, and proceeds through the nave, past the pews and to the front door. He unlocks the oak door and pops his head out for a quick scan of the small courtyard, and glances both up and down Istedgade.

And who lies there? Oh, the usual. Incredibly stoned! And, so early. An unusually powerful batch of junk must be going around. Argh, I can’t be bothered with them today, thinks Antvorskov.

“May God accompany them on their voyage”, he whispers while shutting the door. Now he will have to write yet another letter of complaint to Social Services. The junkies and pushers reduce the chances of anyone wanting to – daring to – wed in the church. Or, should he just ring the nearby police station on Halmtorvet and have the courtyard guests removed immediately?

 

Yes, that’s it, shoo-away, pious minister! Save your life! You weren’t intended for this plan. But what if you sound the alarm? My two targets have collapsed in front of the iron gate mounted on a row of large stone pillars bordering the courtyard. The priest quickly retreats into the church. He seems not to have noticed the entry wounds in either of the junkies’ foreheads. But the dog reacts. Will he try pissing on the two corpses?

”Ha!”

No, I guess not. It sniffs around one of them and then trots over to piss against a tree in the corner of the courtyard. I zoom in on one of targets, the one who had been cleaning his kit in a dirty brown puddle before I pulled the trigger: stone dead, rigor mortis’ cramped fist clutching defiantly onto his syringe. Poor bastard.

I zoom in on one, and then the other, and then back again. Blood drips onto the pavement, it’s becoming obvious now. Time to move!

 

I disassemble my good buddy, a semi-automatic TCI M89 sniper rifle. Manufacturer’s suggested retail price: 74,995 Danish kroner. I fold the bipod, used for prone shooting, and disassemble the weapon into its components. Everything goes into the bag. With one exception, the barrel, which I stow in a black umbrella. I take the two shell casings with, and meticulously wipe everything down with sterile wipes; after a few all too long minutes, I’m satisfied. Until I see my pullover. A brown and white turd has just landed.

“Fucking flying rats, disease infested, hotdog-bun-fed fuckers!”

Wiping and rubbing away pigeon shit with the now smothered wipes is a bitch of a prize.

 

Shit! I crouch while inching towards the backstairs, removing all footprints along the way. Now on to a more complicated mission: I must go down and meet reality, and potential witnesses. I open the door to the back staircase, stand on the landing and listen, silence… or was that something? A door squeaking? Voices? Silence returns. I have diligently scoped out this apartment building at Istedgade 17. Most of the residents go to work, but there are a few unemployed, as well as an older couple. I steal my way softly down the back steps, into the yard and pace calmly, but resolutely to the back exit. Onto Abel Cathrines Street, up with the Copenhagen street map and stroll on, like an intrepid tourist in exotic Vesterbro. I pass a bike. Its owner has attached a note: “Please be kind enough to not use my bike basket as a trash bin, thanks!” I look into it and spot a bloody needle, peer over my shoulder at the Maria Church courtyard and the junkies. No neighbourly assistance in sight. Onwards. I head towards Halmtorvet, but… a problem in my periphery. A shady character on the other side of the street is gesturing at me, shouting:

“Merry Christmas sir! Care to invest in a copy of this week’s Hus Forbi?”

A scraggly bloke with an untamed beard, yellow-brown teeth, a ratty grey work wear vest and baggy cargo trousers staggers towards me, hawking the weekly homeless paper. I slide a 100 kroner note from my pocket, toss it in front of him, avoid all eye contact and accelerate to a speed walk. Despite his state, the vagrant could end up on the witness stand. He might even receive a quick makeover to appear more trustworthy on the stand? No, completely unrealistic.

 

I get to my car, a rented Peugeot. It is parked legally and the parking ticket is plainly visibly, flat on the dash. I unlock the door, sit behind the wheel and turn the ignition. Inhale, exhale. What the hell am I up to? I have just killed two Danes in the street, the street of those who “never surrender” – Istedgade’s wartime mantra. Its residents couldn’t keep the street free of Nazis, and they can’t free it of these junkies and pushers. You can open trendy cafes, build pretty plazas and squares and cultivate growth layers and urban renewal. But you can’t purge the addicts. Their presence has petrified. They are like the thousands of flattened black clumps of chewing gum glued to the sidewalk, obstinately anchored and unable to be removed, no matter how much city cleaning crews peel, scrub and blast the sidewalks with high-pressure hoses.

 

Bottom line is, that I have performed a good deed and cleaned up, and …Whoa! A familiar sound, police sirens, headed in this direction, their wail is loudening. Keep calm. Peugeot into first, nicely done, pull into the lane. Roll on. Someone has gotten around to ringing 112 for emergency assistance, but plenty of time remains, plenty. The incident needs to be registered with headquarters, the crime scene taped-off and the questioning started.

 

Next stop: the Amager incineration plant. I keep driving. Over Langebro Bridge to Christmas Møllers Plads, right onto Refshaleøen, Shit Island – Amager. It’s said that if all the Amagericanos flushed at once, Shit Isle would slip loose and float out into Øresund. Ha!

“Ahh! What have we here at the bus stop?”

My foot eases from the accelerator. A lovely miss in party dress with slightly smudged makeup. On her way home from a one-night stand, most likely with breath still reeking of alcohol from last night’s festivities. 17,18? I study her in the rear-view as she stares at the posted bus route map. Must be from the provinces. Locals don’t waste a moment with those things. I love the sight of a young girl making her way home in her nicest, yet wrinkled, party dress, with a head of wildly tangled hair from a night or morning of sex. Wonderful! It’s great that they continue to score one another, the young. Abandon reason, chuck it overboard and screw freely for the sake of fun. I hope she had an orgasm, or two. Women should orgasm whenever they have sex. They deserve it. I love to watch women come, hear them come, lose their precious control until they reach that point where they scream:

“Fuck me! Oh God, keep going – fuck me”.

Abandon prissy reason, screw away boys and girls! It would be a catastrophe to end up in a La-Z-Boy at some retirement home, reflecting on a life gone to waste because of correctness and continual shying away from sexual occasion. Fire away! Don’t end up with a burning prostrate and arthritic hip in front of a TV-screen, pissed at all the chances that you didn’t dare. Enough homespun philosophy and free thoughts. Every patrol car in Copenhagen must be on alert by now; I need to keep the mission in play.

Turn to the left down Forlandet and right onto Kraftværksvej. And roll down the windows. Ahh, fresh air, lots of cold, fresh air. Amazing! The beauty returns to my thoughts, Annesofie, my new…girlfriend, the “G-word” pops up. My mentor in Mossad commanded us that regardless of opportunity, love is incompatible with the job. But I feel a need for tenderness, for intimacy, and for all of love’s goodness and beauty! Mossad can’t keep me from it any more. Never again.

 

 

October 12. Copenhagen. Office of the Prime Minister.

A handsome, uniformed man – 56 years-old, 6 foot 3, still quite lean – the type of gentleman that a vivacious widow might dream of sharing each and every day of the rest of her life with. But she would need to be spry in both flesh and spirit to keep up with the DDIS Director’s tempo. The Director of the Danish Defence Intelligence Service, Major General Weinberg, is mid-briefing with Prime Minister & Co., irritated. He is busier than ever, and his DDIS staffers have been labouring overtime and in overdrive since the Prime Minister’s “activist foreign policy” was implemented. The Director has been forced to spend nights, even weeks on end, in his office at DDIS headquarters in Copenhagen’s Kastellet. But, it suits him fine. He can be of use to his troops on the front lines while in the office. But this, is a waste of time. The monthly meeting was scheduled as a “Status of Peacekeeping Missions”. But a new agenda was posted a few hours prior. Now, the agenda has to do with some ridiculous drawings, with what the media has dubbed, the “Muhammad Crisis”. More problems, in addition to the two land wars.

 

An oblong birch wood table is in front of him. Scattered upon it are post-box red coffee pitchers, water filled glass ones, obligatory bowls of candy and a silver tray with an assortment of sticky Danish pastries. Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen, together with his Chief of Staff Ole Vesterlund and the Foreign Minister, Per Stig Møller are seated around the table. Weinberg’s old pal, Orla Ringgaard, the Permanent Secretary at the Ministry of Justice, is also in attendance. The DDIS Director’s briefing has carried on for more than an hour, and to him, the meeting has begun to feel more and more like a middle school lecture on classical civilisation. Four uniformed men; dark suits, blue ties, freshly pressed white shirts. He abruptly opts to kerb his meticulous explanation and proceeds to a conclusion. He places the whiteboard markers down. No more red lines under “civil war”, “IED’s”, “asymmetric warfare”, “Force Protection” and “complexity”.

 

“Our information indicates that, in every regard, the situation for Danish troops in Iraq is extremely critical, and has been since 2003/2004. Islamic terrorists and militant jihadists are pouring over Iraq’s borders and are more than willing to kill “infidels”, and at any price. We lack an understanding of our enemy, and our troops are entirely dependent on reliable British and American intelligence. This fact demands extraordinary discretion with regards to our relations with our other near allies. I hope that this is widely appreciated within the Foreign Policy Committee. On that note… thank you.”

 

Prime Minister Rasmussen looks up from his notes. His eyes have been pinned to them for the past hour. He takes a quiet last sip of coffee from his cup, carefully dries his lips with a cloth napkin, and then folds it. His thin lips broaden, and arch slightly up at the ends into an appreciative smile.

 

“Thank you Director, an outstanding report. I am certain that DDIS is doing its utmost. However, I am slightly missing… yes, I would kindly ask that …no, require of you. You must come up with some concrete options, of what – specifically – we can do.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. If I may add ...my personal assessment is that we are converging towards the positions of Tony Blair and George Bush, and now, in relation to the Jutland Post’s Muhammad-drawings …”

 

“Yes, I know. This could become a problem, and not just in the media. We really need supportive statements coming from England and the US on CNN and the BBC, and I would like to emphasise, especially in media outlets like Al-Jazeera,” the Prime Minister says, repeating the message directly to his foreign minister.

“Would you agree?”

Foreign minister Møller puts on his glasses and looks at the participants one by one. There is no visible reaction from any of them.

“Absolutely, absolutely. France’s TF1 TV channel is also a good place of exposure for us. It is more vital than ever because we are working from atop a burning platform. You have also received a memo from …let me see, what is written: ‘Eleven ambassadors from various leading Muslim states.’ They would like to meet with us and…”

“Yes, good, Stig. Yes, I have read my mails,” Rasmussen interrupts. He prefers to be the herald of important news. Moreover, the Prime Minister can’t stand when his foreign minister begins to lecture.

“Yes, Director, that’s what’s afoot. And I do not know if you have already caught wind of it? In short, 11 ambassadors have requested that I distance myself from these ridiculous drawings. They are a peculiar bunch, these …”

 

“Indeed,” Møller interrupts. “The letter clearly states that Anders should, and I quote: ‘Take all those responsible to task under the law of the land’.”

Anders Fogh Rasmussen shakes his head and tries to draw Møller’s attention, to stop him. But Møller is looking down, leafing through a stack of papers. The Prime Minister doesn’t appreciate being interrupted either. He thinks to himself, Per shouldn’t undercut me in the presence of others, we must come off in agreement, both publicly, and especially in these service venues. I have mentioned this to him on countless occasions.’ Møller lights his pipe. After a few puffs he catches enough of a breath to offer,

“Based upon my experience, I propose the following: Anders meets with the ambassadors, says “sorry”, thanks and butters them up with invitations to a special arrangement or dinner at Amalienborg with Her Majesty the Queen. The royal guard lined up in gala uniforms, where…”

“Thank you, Per. And Mr. Director, what is your assessment?

 

“This must be taken very seriously! These Islamicists are notorious for engaging in unfair and extreme methods that we don’t yet have an effective approach for dealing with. Security is far from ideal. We are talking about asymmetry to the highest degree, where…”

“Thank you. We will take it from here and formulate a political strategy, and DDIS shall manage all incoming intelligence, sort it and pass on everything that is …”

“Have you spoken with the home care assistant? Pia is not at all pleased; the entire Danish People’s Party isn’t…”

“Thank you Per, I know, and I am about to cut an excellent deal with her and Kristian Thulesen Dahl. I’ve got it, Per. Thank you for a good meeting.”

Prime Minister Rasmussen tidies his pile of papers, pushing them into a perfect, even bundle. He tightens and straightens his tie, and rises. The meeting adjourns.

 

Department Secretary Ringgaard gets up and walks to the whiteboard.

“Yes. Thank you DDIS Director. Agreed, an excellent presentation.”

Orla Ringgaard doesn’t come off as a man of tremendous authority. Most would guess him to be a bank adviser, accountant or smartly dressed funeral director. He shows up to work at the ministry in a freshly pressed shirt and suit every day, and never with the same tie.

“Thank you, Orla. Would you like to ask something?”

The DDIS Director inspects the partially bald man, at his bushy eyebrows and intense grey eyes. And those ears! Monstrous. Enormous in relation to his small head, and with lobes that appear to droop lower at every moment, down his neck and down to the surplus skin hanging beneath his chin.

“Yes, just wondering …is the plan still on track?”

“The plan? Which one?”

“Diplomatic Dialogue.”

“Yes, yes, of course. The plan has been readied and is operative Orla.”

“Any difficulties?”

“We’re just in its preliminary phase, but…”

“But …DDIS Director?”

“Yes, one problem may be the chattiness of politicians. They simply can’t shut up… to state it bluntly.”

“We have sharply restricted the possibility of that.”

“Yes, that’s what you say. And I trust in that, of course. But… well, thanks for today, Orla. Good meeting.”

The DDIS Director leaves the meeting room. While walking down the corridors of the Prime Minister’s office, he wonders how DDIS is going to devise more suggestions. We’re losing many good people in Iraq. Are we good enough? Will dialogue work? Hopefully, and in fact, it has already been set in motion. Down on the street, he jogs over to a dark blue Peugeot in which his driver waits. The engine is running. As the DDIS Director hops in, the driver says,

“A constructive meeting, hopefully?”

“A bunch of patients, up and out of their beds! Drive, we are insanely busy!

 

 

October 12. Copenhagen. Café John LennON.

“I love him, he is just so wonderful. This time, it just feels so right, Sanne!” says prosecutor Annesofie Gundelach between bites of her club sandwich. Her best friend, Sanne Olafsson, sits across the table, warming her palms on a ‘skinny latte’.

“Yeah, but, why aren’t you getting anywhere with him!? You have been seeing each other for three months, right? What is he? A coward? A softy? Spineless as cooked spaghetti, Annesofie?”

 

Throughout the years, Sanne has listened to her friend’s never-ending complaints about Annesofie’s ex-husband, Christian, and the many unsuccessful dates since their divorce. Sanne’s boyfriend claims that an ”Annesofie-wrinkle” has etched its way into her right brow.

“No, no, no my dear. It’s just that there is something fantastic about him. He has clear views, is always ready to share them and is not afraid to contradict me. But, with most things, we completely agree! He is far from the type of guy who is unable to share his feelings! And when I think about how intelligent he is …”

“And when I imagine him, wait, I have never even seen the chap! You have never actually introduced him, and you are love struck. Struck hard. Wake up. You, who are usually so clear and in control, the sharp-witted prosecutor!”

“Yes, yes, and an important part of being friends is being able to listen, when a friend loses control and is flying freely in their wildest mental state, dear Miss Olafsson!”

They burst into laughter. Sanne is obviously happy for Annesofie, but there’s a dash of envy too. Thirty-seven-year-old Annesofie, so stunning that the entire male race instantaneously smiles, straightens their backs, sucks in their bellies and asks for a club soda instead of alcohol when they meet her at parties or in the city. Single men shut their traps and listen thoughtfully to the long legged lawyer with her almond shaped hazel brown eyes and perfectly proportioned and upwardly pointed breasts. She has it so easy, thinks Sanne. But on the other hand, Annesofie’s dysfunctional marriage and ugly divorce were marred with the psychological and physical violence done upon her by a lunatic husband.

 

“It will pass Sanne, you know that.”

“Sure, but it has been …a while. So, where is that boyfriend of yours right now? Why isn’t he here, so that I can poke and prod him, hear him out and find out if he really is – Mr Right?”

“Does my lovely man deserve to be treated to the “Dreaded Sanne Test”?

“Yes. Just as all guys are eligible for, and shall! And, as they have been subject to.”

“But your test didn’t work so well with Christian, did it? He could …”

“Okay, a hiccup. Except from the last year before your divorce, when I constantly begged you to leave him, because …”

“Yes, yes, yes, now listen up! My dear and darling Lucas is in the city. I am wild about him and you know how tough it is for me to …”

“Yes, I understand, except that dear and darling Lucas is not yet yours, because you have not moved a single step forward. You haven’t even been to his place, right?”

“No, but it won’t be long. The next time I see …”

“Does he have money?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Tons, I believe. He just doesn’t mention it. And Sanne, he always dresses in stylish, expensive clothes. And wears a belt. And never white socks! He also gives an amazing massage. I shit you not!”

“You are laying it on thick! So, what’s the catch with mister dream guy? There is always …”

“Okay, maybe he is a bit too politically correct. You know, a little too keen when trying to score …”

“Talks about herself, talks about herself all day long”, sings Sanne.

“Huh?”

“Gitte Hænning. An old schlager singer, “Talking to myself”. What do Josefine and Samantha have to say about him?”

“Well, um, they are enthusiastic. They all went to the cinema the other night and he got along well with them, and …”

Beep-beep, beep-beep! Annesofie’s mobile phone.

“Excuse me dear, I’ve got to take this one. It’s work. Prosecutor Gundelach here!”

While talking work, she thinks of her two children, seven-year-old Josefine and twelve-year-old Samantha. Josefine has red hair and large brown eyes. Samantha is blond, and of the two, most nearly resembles Christian – that wanker – with her broad, round face, pretty and pointy nose and more often than not upbeat mood. She is proud that the divorce hasn’t had a negative impact on them. They remain sunny and outgoing, ever curious, happy and open with strangers. The younger one requires a bit of attention because she is made fun of at school for her red hair. Samantha behaves as if a fully-grown woman. But that’s the way it is. It seems like dearest Sanne adores the girls, and she communicates her pleasure about them being so happy. But isn’t she also glad that Samantha and Josefine are so easy to take care of, as she is often the one doing so? Everything is better now, definitely better, Annesofie thinks. She ends the conversation and switches off the phone.

“Annesofie? Have you shared your first fart?”

They laugh again, much too loud, and a few of the café guests turn and glare.

“Sanne, you are too much!”

After a few minutes of raucous laughter and giggles, Annesofie regains her breath to say, “Do you know what he said the other day?”

“What, that he is married?”

“Nooo! Quit it, dear! No, he told me that he has never hit anyone. Extraordinary, right?”

“Yes then, yes. I am really happy for you, it’s what you have been looking for, for so long …and Christian hit ...”

“I don’t want to experience that, ever again!”

“Excuse me, I mean …there have been many unfortunate ones? Do you remember the guy with the long hair on his nose; where you thought he was all natural and fucked like …”

“The hair was not natural! And by the way, I was hammered. Cheers!”

“Cheers with coffee! Is your Lucas potty-trained, Annesofie? And experienced?”

“Yes ma’am! And…what do you mean by experienced?”

“Can he make you come?”

“Sanne! Shhhh. Not so loud! A respectable woman does not discuss these things!”

More roars between them, as well as glowering from a few of the café guests. Annesofie could not care less. The children are fine, the job is going well and she finally has a boyfriend. Finally, a sweet, amusing and clever man. There is such a thing! They are still out there. To heck with Sanne’s incessant negativity and the surly, wimpy assholes in the café, it’s Annesofie’s damned turn for some tailwind.

 

 

 

October 12. Copenhagen.

I park by the Amager incineration plant and immediately dress while still in the car. On with the windbreaker, T-shirt, sweat pants and green rubber boots. Put in the coloured contact lenses – brown this time – and on with the fake moustache. On with the faded blue Brøndby Football Club football beanie. I alter my appearance throughout every job. A chore, but a necessary one. The two bullet shells, disguise and black umbrella with rifle muzzle bundled in it goes into a large black plastic bag. Out of the car and towards the entrance. I smile widely at the attendant, looking him directly in the eyes to signal trust, and gain immediate access. I enter the hall and walk over to an unloading trash truck and throw the plastic bag on top of the pile of crap sliding out the back. Shortly thereafter, the crane claws at the pile and swings it into the sea of flames.

 

They make an extraordinary bonfire out here. Would be fun to throw a bunch of batteries in there. Batteries are great in a fire. I remember experimenting way back when, in our summerhouse, tossing some into the fire pit. I recall the smoke, the charred hot dogs and conversations going on and on into the night. My father, Robert, was a charming, intelligent man with a dark, twisted sense of humour. Black haired, tall and a bit chubby from too much red wine. He couldn’t keep himself away from it. Mom and Dad bought reds by the case. One evening, I remember Dad saying:

“Lucas, you should know that dumb people have no idea that they are dumb.”

I was just a kid and didn’t understand what he meant at the time. But he laughed, and I laughed along. That’s when he tossed a handful of dead batteries into the fire. They exploded and spun about in every direction. We had to lie flat, pegging ourselves to the ground to avoid being struck by the flying shards of hot metal.

Mom was strict. Beautiful Ingrid. She had the broad, photogenic smile of a glamorous film star, along with distinctive and sexy dimples. Dad’s male pals coined her “Pinup-Ingrid”. Once-upon-a-time. Those were happy times back then with my parents. If only we could …No! I thrust the imagery aside, it is too difficult. Repression is a handy invention. That and lots of good red wine and a few joints, I contemplate while pausing to enjoy the flames of the furnace. Onwards, I’m officially “on the run” now and make for the exit. I summon a farewell smile for the attendant.

“Have a nice day”, he says, and returns my smile with his own.

“You too! You do a great campfire out here!”

I drive away and pull over further down Kraftværksvej to remove my coloured contacts. My transformation continues as I adopt a third new identity as an art consultant. Sporting a pink shirt, dark tie and blue suit, I drive over to Dansk Auto Rent on Amager Strandvej. It’s near. I get out and walk up to the rental agency, in through the door and say to the agent in a singsong Funen accent:

“Hey! How’s it going? May I use your vacuum cleaner? I’ve parked one of your cars out there and would like to tidy her up a bit.”

I rented the car under the alias, Tom Jensen. In less than a half hour, I wipe down the interior with sterile wipes, vacuum it from top to toe and remove all fingerprints from the exterior.

“Better to overzealously clean while free, than end up rotting in a jail cell,” one of my instructors back at base in Israel preached. Major Yaron Brenner. A 50 year-old man, only 5 feet 4 inches tall. But, a mountain of muscle. A merciless, gruesome and intelligent man from the Israeli special forces unit Sayaret Matkal. One of the heroes of the 1976 Operation Entebbe hostage rescue in Uganda. Brenner was awarded various medals, the type that one can only keep in private, at home. After dropping off the Peugeot, I take the bus out to Avis Car Rental in Tårnby and rent a black Ford Mondeo, now as “Ole Sommer”. And pay cash. Never use credit cards.

 

The mission continues – on to Odense. The people of Funen are also burdened with junkies, and my research has shown that there are plenty of macked-up targets that congregate out on Pantheonsgade. I turn up the volume on the car radio; bumping loud music is good for the soul. I can make it to Odense within a couple of hours and will then check into a hotel, a different one than on my previous scouting trip. James Blunt is baring his soul in “You’re Beautiful”. I hate the ex-Brit soldier’s bubble-gum pop.

In the Mondeo’s trunk are my TCI, and a virgin barrel. I’ve been firing this TCI M89 for a year, it’s a beautiful machine. Weight, 4.5 kg. Length, 850 millimetres. Ten and twenty round magazines can be used. Designed for urban warfare or cover support for troops in the field. Accurate at 800 metres, but a good shooter can take out a target at 1500+ metres. Plus, an easily detachable sound suppressor, one that is cleverly designed to also conceal muzzle flash.

 

I am an expert, Israeli trained sniper. An officer, whose family is in weapons manufacturing. The company bears the family name, “Zickermann Water Trade”. In 1948, Uziel Gal worked with them to develop the UZI submachine gun. The weapon enjoyed huge success. The state of Israel ordered huge quantities of them, and as a result, also reserved a slot for my family in the Israeli Defense Forces, first in Sayeret Matkal, a special forces unit, and then in Mossad. I was privileged to be bestowed with this honour.

“You won’t get anything from anyone else! You are on your own; your weapon is your friend! The weapon is the only one you can trust! And me, of course!”

Another of Major Brenner’s refrains – always hollered at us hopefuls, the only tone he knew.

We were driven to the utmost limits of human endurance, beyond the extremes that both the US Navy Seals and British SAS Special Forces were subject to. The Israeli Special Forces are imaginative. A black and white world that consists of sleeping, eating and training on land, sea and air. Three years of exercises until aspirants are physically sick and psychologically traumatised. 80% of my group dropped out …

 

One day, I was conducting an important exercise with the team. The objective was to target Palestinian civilians in a Gaza village. At first, we were to fire a warning shot in the air, and thereafter shoot as near to them as possible as they fled. The perfect shot – one that traced millimetres before their eyes – would receive the highest score. I refused to participate. Standing atop a hill, we could sense the Palestinians’ worried gazes and feel their anxiety. But it was still, completely still – as if before a murder. They expected violence. They expected a killing. It was evident, it was understood.

 

“Permission to speak, sir.”

“Permission granted, Sweety.”

Major Brenner had nicknamed each of his candidates. Mine was “Sweety”, referring to Danish pastries. Behind his back, we had christened Brenner the “SS-Standard Führer”.

“I refuse to carry out these orders, sir!”

“So, Sweety refuses? Did you hear that? Sweety refuses! You damned Danish softy! Obey god dammit! Soft, sticky, sweet Danish!”

He bellowed, spit in my face and plunged his clenched fist deeply into my abdomen. While regaining my balance, he kicked me from behind, in the hollows of my knees. I crumbled onto my knee as he thrust his pistol forcefully into the side of my neck.

“Sweety, obey!”

I did. The exercise endured for more than an hour. I shot downwards – over the winding dirt road, the dusty brick houses and their flat, leaky roofs – across the satellite dishes, donkeys, date palms and olive groves. But I avoided nearing any of the villagers. I went out of my way to not get as close as ordered. For this, I earned 72 hours in Camp Dotan’s “Box”. It was a two square metre, windowless wooden shed. No furniture, just a wooden floor, a bucket for a toilet and a metal door with a peephole. During the daytime, the sun beat down upon the house and the heat baked me. At night, the temperature dropped to a few degrees below freezing. And naturally, no blanket was included with the accommodation.

 

In the darkness, a spotlight scanned the terrain. The beam swept across the building’s facade in regular intervals and shot through the cracks in the walls. After being released, I was sent to the infirmary for two days of “special treatment”, as the nurse called it.

 

Upon my release from hell, it was back into the unit and onto yet another nasty exercise – interrogation. I soon learned that it was no training exercise. The accused was purportedly a member of Islamic Jihad. Again, I neglected to participate. And again, my defiance earned me three days in The Box. Ultimately, I was excused from future interrogations after some backstage string pulling by my family, one of some influence in Israel. But that didn’t save me from being interrogated by my instructor. Twice, I was abducted from our barracks and led away to interrogation. I was shackled to a chair, questioned and beaten for hours, and doused with cold water whenever I passed out.

 

“You are dead, Sweety! You died the moment you walked through our doors!”

The instructor was right, but it is an expedient tool to consider oneself dead, it makes a mission more effective; we are dead, the team is dead, don’t worry about that. Don’t think about being captured or tortured, the goal is what matters, the goal is the state.

Mossad shit! Or …ya, yes, no, maybe. Maybe Mossad is right, those devils have definitely proven themselves. But I want to love! I want to feel, love, communicate, pamper, chat, be a …normal human being. I love those difficult, unbearable, intolerable, demanding, fantastic …beautiful women. It is advised to completely avoid …If it weren’t for that part about genitalia, we are so damned addicted to spanking our genitals against one another.

“You are God’s punishment! God’s dark humour! That’s the way God punishes us, by creating us to be addicted to one another’s genitalia. Ha, ha!”

But Annesofie …she is so much more than just fun between the sheets. Dearest, sweetest, Annesofie. I speed along the infinitely grey motorway, stare at license plates and listen to the pop on the radio. External to my thoughts I hear a sound, atonal compared to Katie Melua’s little girl vocals being sung on the radio. The sound approaches …yes, it is them. A patrol car passes me, and a stick with a “STOP”-sign on it slides out the right side window.

“Shit!”

I release my foot from the accelerator and shut off the radio. How the fuck have they picked up on my scent!? Already?

What the devil am I doing!? My TCI rifle is dissembled and on the back seat. The cops might not suss it out. Not immediately, at least. But my SIG Sauer is under the front seat, and the pistol is loaded. Eight shots, they should be enough. But I need to find out what they have on me first. My mobile – with my lawyer’s number – is in my jacket pocket.

The patrol car pulls into a rest stop, I follow. We park, and an officer steps out. Tall, broad shouldered, wearing sunglasses and of course with a holstered service pistol. I can see that it’s a Heckler & Koch USP 9 mm. I roll down my window.

 

“Uh-um, good afternoon sir,” says the officer without removing his sunglasses.

“Good afternoon, officer. What is the problem?”

“Driver’s license please.”

I loosen my safety belt, pull out my wallet, find the license and reach it out to him. That, and a healthy smile.

“Ole Sommer. Hmm. Ole, is this your vehicle?”

“No, it’s a rental.”

I catch a distorted reflection of my facial features in his Ray-Bans, find the rental papers in the glove box and give them to him as well.

“Here you go.”

Problems? What is the officer thinking? My bogus driver’s license is made by the very best counterfeiters, and the rental contract is legitimate. What the hell does this cop have on me?

“Where are you coming from?”

“I had to swing into Copenhagen for some business, and am now headed to Funen. What’s the problem?”

I position my right foot on the floor besides the pistol, so that I can slide it forward, grab it and fire off a quick succession of shots.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?”

Oh no! ‘Stay calm’ I think, and tell a quick lie…

“Maybe. I have worked in television and on a couple of films, maybe that’s where…”

“I think I have seen you before. You are driving a little fast, Ole, did you not see the 110 sign?”

“Ohhhh, sorry. I thought it was 130 here.”

“Yes, you were driving exactly 131 km/h. It is your obligation to pay attention to the road signs. Some pretty cool films you have done… I’m not the type to get all worked up about celebrities, but I was really touched by that film you did, The Inheritance.”

“Ya, I was really pleased with that one. And again, I apologise for driving too fast. I was listening to some crappy pop music and forgot …”

“But I still have to check you out, Ole.”

“Understandable.”

He returns to the patrol car. When there, he consults with his partner, who then grabs the radio, a bit too quickly. I slowly pick up the SIG Sauer off the floor, switch the safety to fire, without taking my eyes off of the cops, and place the pistol on the passenger seat beneath a newspaper. They are keeping a constant eye on me, but smiling. And so am I. Officer #1 is now on his way back. Only now, there is no more friendly display of his teeth. Something is wrong. The fake ID didn’t check out? Did the counterfeiter fuck up? I can easily take #1 out, but the other officer is well covered by the car and in contact with dispatch. I can feel the adrenaline pumping through me, shit! Now he is just outside my window, he bends over, an easy target. One shot to the middle of the forehead at a distance of 20-30 centimetres, and then I have to throw myself out the passenger side door, down to the ground and empty the clip on officer #2.

“No problem Ole, but you may not drive so fast …”

“No, I definitely …”

“The Eagle!”

“The Eagle?”

“A great series, with great, realistic action. OK, I’m talking nonsense. I shouldn’t …but I’ll let you off this time. You’ll get a warning, Ole. Enjoy the rest of your day. And do make more films.”

“Thanks, and you too.”

“And remember! The speed limit is the same on Funen, Ole. I know it well, but just resist the temptation to race across that dead boring island.”

“Ha-ha, officer! Many thanks …And your name is?”

“Peter.”

“Thanks Peter, I will enjoy the ever-so-fine island at a more leisurely pace.”

“More of The Eagle, Ole,” he replies, and heads back to his car.

Whoa! All-clear. I stare upwards, my pulse thumping, definitely didn’t want to go down. I can feel the warm blood rising to my face.

“I am a fucking amateur, busted for speeding!”

Engine noise? What now! Yet another patrol car. Now there are four cops, and it will be even more difficult to take out all four. One of them gets out, takes down my license plate number, nears and shoots a gruff stare. I smile. He casts his evil eyed gaze for almost a minute and moves on to his colleagues. They greet one another and talk for a bit. Mr Wicked Dick returns and points at me. From inside his car, Peter points as well. The surly cop says something, but I can’t hear exactly what. He moves in my direction, to quick for my comfort. Again, I grasp my pistol. He is standing besides the hood …but then smiles and raises his thumb. And moves away. I check the rear-view and his patrol car starts up and returns to the motorway. There is also movement ahead. The other car’s brake lights blink, its engine revs and it pulls out as well. What just happened?

 

“I am a cool, famous movie star? Well then, thanks to Danish film and TV, and the celebrity factor.”

I return the SIG Sauer back to its shelter beneath the front seat, pull back onto the motorway, keep to the slow lane and obey each and every traffic law. A smoke would be outstanding right now. But danger hasn’t passed; the homeless guy on Halmtorvet may have had a lucid moment and scribbled down the license plate number of my car. Him, or some other heedful commoner. Commoners… what is it that the Family always said about them to the mothers? Oh yes. “Commoners with their petty-bourgeois automaton views”.

Their views are that anyone can carry out a heroic deed in kitchen conversations surrounded by expensive wine, juicy steaks and mixed organic baby-greens. The kind of discussion where there are angry cries of: “Someone should do something!” And which usually end in some pleasant consensus: “Yes, yes, yes, calm now. There are others to take care of this. Cheers! Shall we just enjoy ourselves? Where was it that we parked the car?”

 

Three years into my Israeli military training, the time for me to specialise came. I chose to become a sniper. We are lone wolves. No one thinks of us while we are out on the front lines. We are commissioned to fulfil lone killings, at the time and place of our choosing, pissing and shitting in a container, eating miserable rations, freezing or sweating and laying motionless for days on end while waiting for one thing: the perfect kill. Just one shot, or we die. The main advantage was this: the officers of Circus Milli could not terrorise us – out there - because we were alone.

One day, Major Brenner called me into his office. On the table in front of him were papers that indicated my specialty training preferences.

“Sniper Sweety! Sniper? Suits you perfectly, you dumb soft Dane!”

“Sir, permission to speak?”

“Granted.”

“Sir, I am neither dumb nor soft. Sir, I received top marks throughout, and…”

“Shut your ass up, you dumb Dane! You hate Mossad, and we have experienced – on numerous occasions – that you do not enjoy killing Arabs. Now I must tell you something, Sweety! All soldiers dream of a quick and easy death. A perfect shot from a sharpshooter, and just one is needed to spell their demise. Gone in an instant are all their worries.”

“Sir, I do not follow?”

“Snipers are merciful killers. Your victims will not be disfigured, nor will they lose their limbs or suffer for hours with intestines hanging out from their bellies. No screams of ‘mother’! Quick and easy. A neat, swift death, Sweety. The dream death!”

“Sir, it’s just…”

 

“Shut up Sweety – number 7 510 521 – 236 – fucking Zickermann Fischer. Your sniper training has been approved from above. Scram, idiot! But, try to be number one! Just try to be number one!”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for your training throughout these years. It has been …”

“Shut up! I want to see you again – alive! Understood!? The door is there!”

“I stood straight, saluted and left my mentor. The following months would consist of intense sharpshooter training and a further three years of training to become a “Katsa” – a Mossad collections officer. I’m not too keen about their methods, but military experts agree, the Israelis provide their soldiers with the best training on earth. Israel acts as if they are at war; they harden their soldiers and not least, their Special Forces and Mossad spies.

On one occasion, one of our Mossad instructors – Miss Katz – literally spelled out the soul of Israel. In the classroom, she wrote the following words on the board in capital letters:

SHOULD MY OWN HAND THREATEN ME, I WOULD CHOP IT OFF.

“We spare no cost! The Arabs can lose many wars. But, we cannot lose a single battle, or they will have already advanced too far across our borders!”

She then folded her hands together into a wedge shape and made an up and down chopping motion right in front of the heads of four or five of the candidates, while she nearly screamed:

“Hitler’s Mein Kampf still sells well in the Middle East!”

 

But enough reminiscing about Miss Katz, now it is time for the easy part of the Odense mission.

I’ve booked a room at City Motel Odense, which according to the receptionist is currently packed with guests. Some sort of conference. Flocks of business people, all dressed in suits so drab and anonymous that they may have been designed in a parking structure. It will be easy to fit in among this crowd – spout a few lines about performance, synergy, teambuilding, sparring and innovation, should anyone approach me for a spur-of-the-moment chat among brethren.

 

 

Chapter 2. October 13, Copenhagen, Police Headquarters.

 

“I hereby declare that we have gotten to the bottom of these murders in the Maria Church courtyard only 24 hours after their taking place?”

Fifty-nine-year-old homicide chief John Milner chuckles at his opener, but only investigator Poul Reintoft laughs along.

“Funny, John!”

Milner is a ruddy-faced man with a bawdy edged sense of humour who has an intuitive sense for what generates laughs. Singing in the police choir is his hobby, and over the years he has fought his way up the ranks to successfully become lead vocalist in many of their numbers. Half-bald, but a neat and trim half-bald. His remaining tufts are all well-cared for, as if he gets a quick do at the salon every day before work.

Sitting together in the room are Deputy Chief Kenneth Larsen, investigators Reintoft and Finn Svendsen, and officers Pia Olsen and Jens Sørensen, all at the ready with their coffee-filled plastic white cups and yellow note blocks.

Three unshaded fluorescent tubes stretch overhead and light the meeting room. None have bothered to raise the blinds and allow sunlight in. On one of the walls hangs a faded Crime Prevention Council poster announcing, “Alcohol hits harder than you think”. And in the corner, a whiteboard with red and blue lines, photos and sentences from an old case.

“Oh, it’s not solved yet? But you guys have it, right? Kenneth, Poul – get on it!

Deputy Chief Larsen looks down at his papers:

“We know that the two paramedics who reached Maria Church Courtyard before us were irate about having been dispatched to the third addict resuscitation of their shift.”

The others laugh, but not Milner.

“That’s enough! This is nothing to laugh at.”

Deputy Chief Larsen responds, “No, of course not, but, but, but! We also know that the paramedics’ day was itself saved by the fact that John-John Gluesniffer and Kimono-Jan were stone-dead in the courtyard – a couple less difficult customers to deal with.

More laughter, including from Milner this time. The team knows that they can speak freely in the absence of management and journalists. They are all familiar with the two junkies. They have gobbled up police time for years; uncountable trips into and out of detention, transport between stations and of course questioned hundreds of times. Neither of the deceased ever could – nor cared to – provide any important information about the kingpins, or the routes heroin travelled on its way into Denmark. Or, for that matter, any useful information that may have helped them bust anyone other than the usual feeble degenerates.

“We’re talking about Jan Mogensen and Kim Bentsen. And what about King? Did he make it?”

Milner’s tone is heavy on irony. After 30 years of police work he has grown cold, but tries to conceal it. His wife calls it, “The Easy Solution”. She considers him to be a clinically-diagnosed cynic. Though he doesn’t think that it’s all that bad; for example, he has a clean, full baritone. And do cynics sing the pretty songs of the Højskole Song Book?

“I think that Jan Mogensen called the mongrel – his third consecutive mutt – ‘Prince’. However, I am pleased to report that “Prince” has now been responsibly accommodated at the ‘Men’s Shelter’”, answers Larsen.

“I mean the ‘Animal Shelter’.”

Once again, they all share a chuckle. Easy points, and Larsen knows it.

“OK, ok! Calm down, jokes aside. This here concerns a serial killer! Is the area cordoned off? Have officers been knocking politely from door to door?”

“Already initiated.”

“Good. What do we have? A crazy sniper has shot two addicts, first in Aarhus then Aalborg, and now two more over on ‘The Street’. Our colleagues in Jutland have produced fine reports, but without any good leads. And, the media now has easy to peddle crime content. Reintoft, what do you have?

“In brief, I can inform that the sniper hit our two friends with projectiles placed directly in the centres of their foreheads. Both died on the spot. The time of death was on Monday, October 12 at approximately 11 o’clock in the morning. The deceased lay for roughly 15 minutes, perhaps a half hour, before priest René Antvorskov ventured into the courtyard and realised that they were in fact, dead. I don’t think he shot them, but perhaps he had a motive?”

A contagion of muted giggles and snorting erupts. Reintoft’s presentation is, as always, both amusing and ice cold.

“The priest rang 112. The Centre of Forensic Services was quick to act and has already analysed the bullets. The same analysis was performed in both Aarhus and Aalborg, and there is, nearly, consensus that the sniper used the same projectiles in all three cities.”

“Are the technicians 100% in agreement, Reintoft?”

“Yes and no, and not entirely, because they are unfamiliar with this type of ammunition. Copenhagen Forensic Services has never come across it before, and our friends in the provinces are also in the dark about them. The meat slicers sent an immediate query out to their fellow meat slicers abroad. And yours truly has forwarded their query on to the CIA, Interpol and Europol. But the bullets are all of exactly same calibre and from the same manufacturer, and it is therefore enough evidence for the media to run stories that point to a solitary murderer.”

Yes, yes, I know. I’m the one that informed the journalists of this earlier today, or… said, or, they got it out of me. Those shitheads. But they kept asking and… ya, shit. What’s done is done, partners.

 

Officer Sørensen crumbles a sheet of paper and says:

“Seriously! Shouldn’t we get back on the trail?”

“Yes, yes, yes. “Oh yes Jens, yes indeed. But, don’t let that smart-looking metro sexual hair get to your head!” snickers Milner.

“OK. We have a total of four-five bullets, each identical to the other, yet unknown to our ballistics experts. Nothing else? Svendsen?”

“Our two friends … were targeted from the roof of the building at Istedgade 19, across from the small courtyard. No useful leads were discovered. Group one’s dogs sniffed around. We don’t have any good witnesses either. And let’s be honest, dearest friends. There is not a soul on “The Street”, or in the rest of Copenhagen – for that matter – that cares too much about the murders of a few addicts!”

Silence. Svendsen looks around at everyone, none meet his eyes. They are all looking down at the table or elsewhere in the room. Svendsen is indifferent:

“But two dead junkies means two fewer competitors, and therefore more drugs for the rest of the junkies, no? And, you are familiar with Aarhus and Aalborg’s conclusions from August and September, right? Each has a dead junkie. So in all, four junkies have been shot from long range, most likely by a specially constructed rifle that has yet to be discovered at any of the crime scenes. The local pushers have not been in contact with us, for obvious reasons. But we will find them, we will be damn sure to get them to spit out whatever they know,” he says loudly while poking holes in the air with his index finger.

“Yes, um …thanks, for that …colourful telling. So! Until now, the case belonged to Aarhus and Aalborg, now it is ours! A professional serial killer has come to town. And what can the local officers report? Pia? Jens?”

“Nothing to report from The Street. A couple of our regular clients were in the vicinity of Maria Church from 10:00 to 13:00, but they were completely stoned or hung over. Everyone except for priest Antvorskov that is.”

“Who theoretically, may have also been hung over,” contributes Pia Olsen. Laughter returns. Milner pauses and lets them settle down.

 

“So! No more nonsense. What do you suggest? This is where you earn your wage!”

Olsen raises her hand while Milner takes a drag off his cigarette. He nods in consent.

“Yes, he or she kills in large cities … And, in relation to that, the next logical crime scene would be Odense. Odense Main Station? Just a guess …”

The group’s laughs begin yet again, and it is barely audible as she continues, “Sorry, just a guess.”

“Settle down gentlemen. Excellent Pia. To me, it sounds like a highly likely scenario. The sniper does not know his victims. I will contact our colleagues in Odense and provide comment to the media with a few standard lines about needing help from the public. Kenneth and Jan! You take the case here in the Capital Region, but I believe that you also have a couple or more other important cases to deal with. Finn, you are the co-ordinator for the day shift, right? And Pia and Jens – down to the bumper cars. Drive around and extend your greetings with residents, prostitutes and pushers. And what about the homeless? Isn’t there anyone who saw something? A rifle muzzle extending over the edge of the roof could have been spotted from the street below. I … yes, Pia?”

“Sweater-Mogens, despite his usual morning buzz, claims to have witnessed a young male sprint from the crime scene up towards Enghave Plads immediately following the episode.”

“Terrific Pia, bring him in once he has sobered up or …sober him up with a pitcher full of hot strong java. Overall, excellent reporting. I will work to assemble more troops. And, I suppose heightened levels of readiness in the country’s four largest cities are also in order? Pia, check with all of the homeless! The killer will strike again – somewhere, he’s a clever bugger! I can feel it in my prostate.”

More laughter erupts and Milner laughs along while reaching for an ashtray.

“So! Great that I may smoke during these meetings with you all. I thank you for it. Good meeting. Listen up! Let’s haul in this madman before he kills anyone else!”

Svendsen holds a stack of papers up in front of him and mumbles:

“Paki-ranian-fag-lesbian-habib-berber-kaffir-nigger-gypsy-loser-unemployed-loser-junkie!

“Yes, thanks Finn! All the children may now be excused. Junkies or not, and I mean it! I know exactly what your thoughts are about these people, but they pay taxes too!” Milner grabs his dossier and rises.

“Or maybe just sales tax …or … but ya, you would all like to get a raise and have longer vacations, right? So get moving! Reintoft, you have something to add?”

“I was thinking … Shouldn’t we alert the local addicts?”

“Yes, sure, you go ahead and do that. Absolutely, good idea. But don’t you think that it will take more than a sniper to keep them away from their pushers?”

“I know, I know, but it …”

“It is a decent thing of you to do, absolutely, Reintoft. No, you know what my good man? Also disseminate a warning about him in Vesterbro’s local paper.”

“Him? Couldn’t it just as well be a woman?”

“Shall we say m/f then? All right then Reintoft, you are right.”

For a moment, the homicide chief envisions the two murdered, he knows them well. Two men, who at all too young of an age were transformed into old and tattered vagrants. “The Gluesniffer” and “Kimono-Jan” and their countless lies and slew of failed treatment offers. They were actually nice lads on their good days, but there were simply too few of those. No, he will not miss them. Wasn’t there a case at that shady underground bar, “The Black Bush Bar” in Istedgade with “Dildo –Svend” and “Kimono” and a shipment of drugs hidden in beef? Nothing became of the case. Milner’s team wasted a year and a day on the junkies; time that could have been spent on bigger and more important assignments. Or better yet, days and evenings relaxing, cosily spent with his wife Lone and kid…

“Helloooo, Milner? Earth to Milner!”

“Yeah, sorry Reintoft. Well then. I will speak with our friends over in Aarhus and Aalborg, and you collect as much information as you can about the sniper. Does he use dental floss? Does he sleep in pyjamas? What car did he drive off in? And so on. Get back down to The Street and ask around. And make calls!

 

Milner walks out the meeting room and down the hall. It is an incredibly important case, one of his biggest ever. He will tell Lone, but her blood is certain to boil.

“Tons of overtime? So the coast-to-coast trip of the United States is off? Yah, it sure does seem that way, darling. You promised that it would be different this time, that it would really happen!”

End of conversation. He pours a cup of coffee and then some milk from the pitcher, too late to realise that the milk is borderline rigor mortis. The team of investigators will be getting to work just in time for the explosion of the “Muhammad Crisis”. Some satirical drawings have antagonised what seems to be each and every Muslim in Denmark. Reactions have also flared abroad and the National Police Commissioner and department management have convened an emergency meeting. He allows thoughts of the cartoons to pass and walks into his office. Instead, he revisits the reports about the serial killer. Something still doesn’t add up. A highly skilled sniper uses time on killing junked-up losers? Doesn’t this type of person have more important things to do?

 

 

Morten Buschmann has also published the novel "Medløber" - in the same series as "Troubleshooter".

A third novel, "Udstikker" released 2016.

"Skygger" released 17. march 2017.

 

Morten Buschmann is currently writing a fifth.

Working titel: "Marathon".