to Mr. Erlandsson. For now, I wish you pleasant hours with the Rhinegold. May the best singer win. Why not send Fred to South Africa?”
He smiled. “I already did. You can leave your suitcase at home.”
6 – Four Murdered Suiciders
“I know you don’t want to tell me, but just register as a fact my curiosity about this case,” I said a week later. Fred had not come home from South Africa and our daily routine had turned into triviality. That is when you start thinking about different things; possibly not you, dear reader, but certainly me.
“Well, I shall really not tell you about the case, only why it was so valuable to me,” Mr. Smith answered. “It was the only case I lost in recent time; and that in spite of, that I partially solved the mystery.”
“Then what is there to be ashamed of, if you solved it, even if you could not turn it into money?”
“I am not at all ashamed. It is only that hardly anybody want to believe the story and the ones who ordered it are still in a powerful position, making it dangerous to attempt publishing anything about it. Perhaps I shall tell you one day.”
“Please do.” I knew that I could not drag it out of him and went to my office for some more suitable leisure than sitting in Mr. Smith’s office and listening to his heavy music. And then, only a couple of days later, he brought the topic up himself.
“I looked into the recovered file. Perhaps we can make some money on the case, in due time – or perhaps it shall only be left to you to do so, because I have died from violent or natural causes.”
I smiled. In spite of his sometimes dangerous affairs, there was not much chance that he would ever die from a violent act. On the contrary, he was not only an invalid, an utterly fat and unhealthy person; I hoped that he would be as old as he now looked.
Mr. Smith continued his story: “It was on July 7, 2005, the terror attack of London, by which 56 people were killed and many more wounded. You recall it?”
“Sure I do. That is when four suicide terrorists blew up three trains and a bus.”
“That is the official story. However, there were as little suicide assault here as there was in 9/11 – and also there, people tend to believe the official story.”
He was referring to a case, involving the dramatic incident of 2001, in which he earned a fat fee tax free, but knew that he could never give further details about the scandalous origin of the affair to the public.
“There were no suiciders involved, therefore four young Moslem men, who had no intention of killing themselves or others. I shall only give
you a few details, the rest you may gather from the Internet as you did so brilliantly for the case involving 9/11.”
These were really his words. I should perhaps be more modest in my presentation, what my own skills are concerned. At least it illustrates that Mr. Smith this day was in a good mood, a reason not to interrupt him unless he himself made an intermission – in that case, of course, a stimulating remark – not “would you like a beer” but something connected to the case – was called for.
“The four alleged terrorists had been hired to carry fake bombs to the four vehicles. They had made a previous excursion, as shown on one of the rare published surveillance recordings – unfortunately, if you believe in a cluster of coincidences, the surveillance cameras of Verint Systems in most crucial places did not work on July the 7th. However, the organizers got a terrible surprise: the four young men, who had bought orderly return tickets in Luton, where there car was orderly paid for – rather atypical for suiciders, – were delayed for reasons beyond their control: two trains were cancelled and therefore, they arrived too late at King’s Cross station. The trains were already running and shortly after, almost simultaneously, the bombs on them exploded. There was only one task left – maybe the organizers managed to postpone it – the bus.
The youngest of the four, an 18-year-old boy, was in doubt what to do. He tried to call from his mobile but, as part of the ‘exercise,’ all mobile nets were jammed and later shut-down. Another coincidence of the day, and that at a time when nobody was talking about terror attacks. He thought that maybe his mobile was not working and bought new batteries, and then he went to a fast-food store to eat something. Probably, the organizers reached him somehow, because now he took bus 91 westward on Euston Road. Then he took another bus, a particular number 30, going on Euston Road in the opposite direction. Ironically, this particular bus was for no plausible reason redirected to Tavistock Square, where the execution took place – I mean, the bomb exploded, nothing that the young man carried, the bus had been laboriously prepared the preceding evening. As for the trains, it was coldblooded murder, and it did not stop there.
As the three others were waiting for instructions, what to do now, the three train-bombs exploded, one of them quite near to King’s Cross station. They understood that they were to be framed and tried to escape. However, they did not come far. At the location known as Canary Wharfs, they were shot by snipers. This was reported in Canada and New Zealand, but else the authorities managed to keep the storey sealed off. Most preposterous, they even had an exercise running at precisely at the exact same locations which were hit by the bombs. The manager refused to reveal who had commissioned the exercise, and the public is kept in the dark what that is concerned. That was ...” He interrupted as Juanita brought the 11 o’clock coffee.
“Muchas gracias.” He loved using his limited vocabulary when she came; I talked Danish to her in what I believe was a more constructive conversation. Juanita served for both of us ‘cafe con leche’ with warm milk and too much sugar. After she was gone, Mr. Smith continued.
“But I do not want to illustrate all aspects of this amateurishly mastered incident, which also still have some dark spots that even I fail to discover. When I am in the mood for it, I shall tell you further about it.”
His mood was stopped by a cake, Juanita had brought. You do not talk business, current or previous alike, while you eat.”
It was the last case, I heard Mr. Smith talk about, and he never approached this plot further. He died the same afternoon, sometime during his siesta. It was not from poison in the cake, rather it was the heart which suddenly stopped beating during sleep. Juanita went up to see him at half past three p.m. – he always came down half an hour earlier – and this was the first time I entered his bedroom.
The organizers of 7/7, as the ones of 9/11, got away with it, as is usually the case with state-terror. Mr. Smith left Juanita and me each a considerable sum, but the largest part, further increased by the sale of the house, went to his brother Soames in Ireland. I have written down four stories that I experienced with this genius, while I am looking for a new job. It must necessarily be a different occupation, I cannot hope for something similar. There was only one Mr. Smith. May he rest in peace – while his opponents can feel another type of relief in the world that remains after him.
Author’s Construct of Mr. Smith
Mr. Smith is a lot of things I do not appreciate: Arrogant towards his employees and clients, extremely fat (I’m just a bit fat), frightened when driving (what he is seldom exposed to) and addicted to eating. I do not mind him being rich (I could use a bit of that myself) and he has a lot of qualities I set high: he is a gastronomist and oenologist (I previously celebrated these qualities), is like me fond of classical music. I would like to live in his house in Hellerup (~1 km from my birthplace, between Hellerup and Charlottenlund), but the idea of a central windowless room is that of a paranoiac and not to my taste.
Like me, Mr. Smith is dependent on an electric wheelchair (but then he has the luxury of a built-in elevator). He is a snob (I have no reason to be; whether I still am, is for others to judge). His choice of a car, the Bentley, is not mine; I claim that a car is simply a mean of transport and, as with my own disease, this has called for a bigger car. At least, he is clever, naturally in the stories restricted by the author’s cleverness (or lack of same). Like me, he is a foreigner where he lives, without direct cont
act to his compatriots (except in my case the family).
Of course, the stories are inspired by Rex Stout’s novels about Nero Wolfe and Archie(bald) Goodwin. I wanted to embed some of my essays on state-terror acts in a form that was easier for people to swallow. The stories themselves developed while I was writing them, I did not plan their course and ending in advance.
As a Dane, I would have preferred writing these stories primarily in Danish, but I have (painfully) realized that my compatriots largely are – and prefer to remain – absolutely ignorant in the crimes that are done – also to them. I have maintained the scenario with Danish localities and names – simply a nostalgic outcry.
Mr Smith’s House in Hellerup
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