Copenhagen
Kirstin pulled off her woollen hat and placed it on a chair. It was cold when they left England and even colder in Denmark. That didn’t bother her; she was back in one of her favorite cities and staying in one of her favorite locations. Humphrey had given her a treat. It was her birthday and he had dipped into one of his secret bank accounts.
He looked up from his computer.
‘Charlie sends his regards, Mother.’
‘That’s nice of him.’
Kirstin took off her coat and tried to maintain a casual manner. She knew Humphrey was bursting to tell her something. Charlie never made contact unless it was important. They spoke on the phone or internet and their conversations were always scrambled. That didn’t make them entirely safe. People who use sophisticated scrambling devices come under scrutiny.
‘He wishes you many happy returns of the day.’
‘Is that all?’
‘He did mention that he has just met up with David.’
‘Thank you.’ Kirstin sat down. ‘Now, perhaps, you will tell me the real purpose of Charlie’s call. I assume it has something to do with David.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Humphrey swivelled around in his chair.
‘The young man has exceeded all expectations. Within hours of landing in Cape Town he has staged a major coup … at least, that’s one way of interpreting events.’
‘What’s the other?’
‘He could have landed us in the poo.’
‘You speak in riddles.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Humphrey seemed to regard the remark as a compliment. Kirstin wondered if he would ever grow up. She listened as he told her about Sipho.
‘The gentleman sounds too good to be true.’
‘He does,’ Humphrey agreed. ‘Sipho Maduna claims to be an expert in electronics and says he is related to Petra’s mother.’
‘Does that check out?’
‘Not entirely. Petra’s maternal family are easy to trace. They are members of the Xhosa aristocracy. Charlie’s people did a search and could find no one like Mr Maduna amongst them. If Sipho is related to Ms de Villiers, then it is a very distant relationship.’
‘And the expertise in electronics?’
‘That’s undoubtedly real. David watched him wire up a communications system. They couldn’t have operated without it. Charlie is greatly impressed. With Mr Maduna’s help he is listening to conversations in the de Villiers’ household and has no doubt that they are genuine.’
‘My instincts tell me to be suspicious.’
‘So do mine, Mother. Richard de Villiers’ empire is up for grabs. Ruthless people are descending on Cape Town from all around the world. Sipho Maduna could be working for any one of them. He could be working for the very people who hired Olaf Magnusson to sabotage Richard’s plane for all we know.’
Humphrey shut down his computer and returned it to its case. Kirstin removed a camera from her handbag.
‘You’ve not asked me what I’ve been doing.’
‘No, Mother.’
She handed the camera to Humphrey.
‘While you were playing with your computer I was out in the cold gathering information. Olaf’s mother, Louise, lives in a smart apartment overlooking the harbour.’
Humphrey flicked through the images.
‘Very swish. The lady isn’t living off her state pension.’
‘No, Humphrey. Not all sons are tight-fisted. Olaf appears to be looking after his mother in her old age.’
Humphrey ignored the remark.
‘Have you spoken to Mrs Magnusson?’
‘I telephoned her,’ Kirstin replied. ‘Louise Magnusson speaks with a distinct Bornholm accent. I told her about my cousin Bendt who farms there. That got her talking. She lived on the same side of the island and vaguely knows his family. She said her husband was killed in a farming accident. Olaf was ten at the time. She sold the farm and moved to Copenhagen so that he could get a better education.’
‘That seemed to have worked.’
‘It certainly did. The Danish education system recognises bright children. It doesn’t label them autistic and dumb them down. They get scholarships. Olaf went to Princetown University, in America, at the age of sixteen, speaking perfect English and proficient in higher mathematics.’
‘Did you discover his whereabouts?’
‘That is our task for tomorrow.’ Kirstin reached for her camera. ‘We have an invitation to visit Louise for coffee. I told her that you are working in the same field as Olaf and greatly admire his work. I expect you to be on your best behaviour.’
The cold front had passed and it was pleasantly warm. Humphrey adjusted his bowtie. It was one of the props he used when he was playing the role of the bumbling academic. Kirstin wore a long dress. She preferred trousers but thought a dress more appropriate for the mother of the sort of character Humphrey was trying to be.
He was convinced that Olaf Magnusson was behind the disappearance of the missing Boeing-717. She had been sceptical. Now she was inclined to agree. Charlie had discovered that Olaf was in Cape Town shortly before Richard de Villiers left on his ill-fated trip to Canada.
Olaf had gone to South Africa to record rock paintings in the mountains to the north of Cape Town. His visit was known to archaeologists and other enthusiasts in rock art but had attracted little public attention. Humphrey didn’t doubt Olaf’s sincerity in the preservation of the past. He was interested in what Olaf did when he left the mountains and returned to Cape Town.
The big problem was to find him. Olaf had grown into an overweight middle-aged man who kept to himself and devoted his considerable talents to recording relics from the past. He worked with a small team of experts using advanced laser-scanning equipment that he had developed.
Olaf’s projects were funded by the media tycoon, Cuthbert Maguire, who made a big splash publicising them on his many TV-channels. Humphrey recalled that Cuthbert’s father, John Maguire, was one of the people identified, by MI5, as a Nazi sympathiser. That sensitive piece of information would have been lost to history if Steven Mason had not rescued a Top Secret file from a shredder and hidden it under his floorboards.
Louise Magnusson lived in a stylish apartment on Copenhagen’s famous waterfront. The exterior retained the charm of a bygone age. The interior had been extensively renovated and was tastefully modern. Humphrey followed Kirstin up a narrow stairway to a landing with two doors. One opened and a face appeared.
‘Come in out of the cold. I’ve been expecting you.’
Louise Magnusson’s country accent sounded even stronger now. Perhaps it was her appearance. She had the ruddy complexion of a farmworker and her choice of clothes was not what one would expect of someone who lived in such an elegant apartment.
Kirstin looked around. Pictures of Olaf hung on the walls and littered shelves. Those of him as a child were of poor quality. Then highly professional shots appeared. She scanned through a row of images of a pale-faced teenager with ultra-blond hair. He was dressed in a dark suit and receiving prizes. The suit hung loosely on his fragile frame in the first shot and clung tightly to him when the last shot was taken.
Louise turned on a coffee percolator and joined Kirstin.
‘That’s my son, Olaf.’
‘Yes. He has grown into a very famous person. My son, Humphrey, greatly admires his work, both in information technology and the preservation of the past.’
Kirstin got in a plug for Humphrey but to no effect. Louise started to chatter about Olaf and totally ignored him. Humphrey wondered if the reference to information technology had gone right over the woman’s head. Kirstin spoke a very formal sort of Danish. Louise sounded like a country bumpkin. He doubted if she had the slightest idea of what her son did and why he had become so famous.
His eyes strayed around the room. A battered teddy bear had pride of place in an old armchair. Models made from Lego decorated a sideboard. Degree certificates hung in gilded frames. A graduation hat and gown hung on a hook. The place was a shrine to Olaf.
His later photographs showed the chubby fellow that he now was. His hair was gathered in a ponytail. Sometimes he wore a headband. None of the shots provided any indication of where they were taken and he was always alone. Nothing could be learnt about where he went and the company he kept.
A large vase caught Humphrey’s eye. It stood in the fireplace and was stacked with expensive-looking blooms. He recognised them at once. They were proteas. He knew them from a walking trip he had taken in the mountains near Cape Town where they grew wild and covered whole hillsides. A label poked out from one of the stems. He bent down and squinted at it.
‘Olaf sent them.’
Louise Magnusson approached with a cup of coffee.
‘They really are magnificent,’ Humphrey enthused. ‘Wherever do they come from?’
‘I don’t know …’
Louise set the cup down beside him.
‘They look foreign,’ Humphrey prompted.
‘He often sends things from foreign.’
‘Does he say where?’
‘No. It’s his work you see.’
‘His work?’
‘It’s very important. Sometimes I wonder why they don’t leave him alone. I mean there can’t be anything wrong with talking to me and asking if I’m well. It’s the least a son can do for his mother.’
‘It certainly is,’ Kirstin agreed. ‘I can’t think why anyone would want to do such a thing.’
‘The other day he phoned and asked how I was. I could hear people talking English. I know English when I hear it and it didn’t sound like how Americans speak it. So I thought he might be in England. That’s not very far away.’
‘Little more than an hour by plane,’ Kirstin said.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. So I asked if he was going to come and see me. He said he had time to drop over for a day. Then someone told him to stop. I know “stop” when I hear it. You can’t mistake that.’
‘And did he stop?’
‘The phone went dead.’
‘You mean like he’d been cut off.’
‘Yes. It was the anniversary of his father’s death. He always phone’s me then. He knows how upset it makes me.’
Tears came to Louise’s eyes.
‘That was so heartless of them …’
Kirstin oozed sympathy. Humphrey guessed she really meant it. Sometimes it’s not necessary to put on an act and tell lies to get information. All you have to do is be your normal self.
‘My son, Humphrey, would very much like to get in touch with Olaf. As I said, on the telephone, he greatly admires your son and wishes to acquaint him with some priceless murals in remote monasteries in Tibet. The authorities there are aware of Olaf’s work and are keen to speak with him.’
‘Oh. That’s nice …’
Louise’s mouth hung open. Humphrey suspected she only half understood what had been said. He ventured a question.
‘How do you contact Olaf?’
‘You mean write to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I use his drop box. They don’t know about it. I thought it would be difficult but it’s not when you know how. You just type what you want to say and click where it says “Send”. Olaf gave me his computer.’
Louise pointed to a small laptop.
‘Wow!’ Humphrey sounded impressed.
‘Is it special?’
‘One of the very best!’
Humphrey switched on the computer and located Olaf’s drop box. Everything was going swimmingly. Lady Luck was definitely on his side. He had penetrated the inner secrets of Louise’s computer. His next task was to rip the label off her proteas.