The Seventh Child by Erik Valeur

help us play detective. We will get to the bottom of this.”
    Orla Berntsen wasn’t sure a reporter in Taasing’s reduced position could really follow through on this threat. Air whooshed behind him, and he felt, more than heard, his mother whisper from the Other Side: What harm could it do, Orla? Let the truth come out.
    “The house is at Skodsborg Strandvej. It’s an orphanage. And now I’ve got to run.” He hung up.
    He stood and walked to the window. The snake continued to spray water on the rainbow it had created. He sneezed.
    Goddamnit.
    Closing his eyes, he sank into the mustard-yellow couch where he sometimes catnapped, never more than five or six minutes and always with his legs dangling over the edge.
    Half-asleep on this couch he’d been able to probe the contours of the biggest problems in his career, lay out new paths, and find ways to escape the sticky situations he sometimes landed in. Here he’d earned his reputation as a problem solver, the very quality that had made him a sought-after advisor whenever the administration faced a crisis. At the end of the day, he always found a way. He was a ruthless strategist and a hardened adversary.
    During the first fifteen years of his life, he’d weathered the bullying of the other boys, whose impenetrable circle he’d orbited like a tireless insect, persisting solely through his alertness and an uncanny ability to rebuff humiliations. Grinning like an idiot, his square, freckled nose sniffling as if in spite, his light-blue eyes anticipating where the fists would land. That well-honed façade and a flair for lightning quick evasion had remained in the man, long after his expression ceased to reveal his thoughts and the goofy grin of childhood had disappeared.
    If any of the boys from the street saw him today, they would only recognize the watchful eyes, the frequent sniffle, and the subtle shift of his eyes behind his glasses.
    For once, Orla Berntsen didn’t know what to do. He stood. The letter rested on his desk. Had the minister seen it? He didn’t think so, because the Fly surely would have mentioned it to him. Triumphantly.
    He sank into the chair once again. His large glasses were slightly steamed, his half-closed eyelids thick and taut, his lashes short and blond. Should he inform his boss? There was good reason to. Still he hesitated.
    There is no goal that can’t be achieved , the minister had told him long ago. Except by those who hesitate . (The words had offended Severin, a friend from his youth, but of course Severin hadn’t amounted to much.)
    Orla had loved the aphorisms Ole Almind-Enevold had impressed upon him during their first meetings following his appointment; they were all about making the right call in any situation—about the determination each extolled, about the will to find the most efficient solution for any given situation.
    He who wants to rule the world must react when it changes.
    Orla Berntsen had smiled at the obviousness of that one.
    He who prioritizes compassion before resolve loses his ability to make decisions .
    The minister had never lost his resolve.
    He who acts with leniency rather than consequence will be left behind.
    This was perhaps the most advanced insight—the very secret: the ability to unleash one’s anger without remorse.
    He who dares not kill when called upon to do so will perish , Orla Berntsen’s boss had said about his efforts during the Resistance—and the entire nation had applauded.
    The chief of staff put down his mug. The knitted white socks lay on the desk before him. For a moment he sat in silence, and then he dialed a number on his private line. After a moment, a woman answered in a soft voice: “Attorneys’ office.”
    “I’d like to speak to Søren Severin Nielsen,” he said.
    It had been more than ten years since they’d last spoken. The rift had been caused by Orla’s refusal to extend humanitarian asylum to a Syrian refugee; the media had blown it out of proportion. As