The Last Compromise

The Last Compromise by Carl Reevik Page B

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will love
hearing it. And then they’ll wonder why the anti-Europe parties are on the
rise.’
    Nothing
to say to that. Hans listened to the music and the chatter for a few moments. He
didn’t want to close his eyes for fear of getting vertigo, but the atmosphere
was enjoyable whether his eyes were closed or open. Oh yes, Murphy’s was a fine
place, a very fine place to be.

5
    A new morning,
the sun in the clear sky was already blinding the crowd hurrying along the
street. Pavel looked out the window, the right side, the side that wasn’t
obscured by the flag. His morning tea was no longer hot. If we wanted he could
just hold the glass with his hands now, without using the metal handle.
    The
consular staff’s hospitality was running out. He could sense it. But he didn’t
need to try it for much longer. Even though he had just managed to relax his
mouth, he now pressed his lips tightly together again.
     
    Brussels
     
    Now
we’re making progress, Hans thought. Bright new morning, bright new progress. In
fact the morning wasn’t bright at all, outside it was still as grey and cold as
it had been the day before, plus now it was also getting wet. And he felt just
a little numb from last night’s beers.
    But
the progress was nice nevertheless. Atomic energy department, sub-department
for reporting, administrative support unit. Based in Luxembourg. Six posts,
plus one head of unit. That was where the incoming national reports were
processed and converted into the first draft of Commission reports. Hans had
made the calls from Siim’s office. If anyone had wondered why he was asking, he
had said that it was for a study on the railroad policy implications of the
transport of nuclear waste. But that it was very tentative at this stage. He
had selected numbers within atomic energy that looked like they could be
relevant. Within the list he had chosen the people he would call. No heads of
unit, only assistants and administrators, the workhorses in the middle of the
hierarchy. Three conversations later he had obtained what he needed.
    Now
Hans was sipping his machine coffee from a plastic cup as he went through the
list he’d just printed out. He had a printer in his own office, a little perk
everyone on his floor enjoyed, more or less justified by the need to print out
confidential documents sometimes.
    His
computer made a sound, telling him an e-mail had arrived. But it was only one
of the usual security warnings. Brussels police were informing Commission staff
that protests by farmers had been authorised for Friday. The farmers were
probably protesting about their milk prices having gone down, or about trade
with countries outside the European Union being opened up, which in the end
might have the same result. A square and two adjacent streets were going to be
blocked by tractors and closed for traffic for most of Friday afternoon.
Commission staff were advised to behave prudently.
    Hans
returned to his work at hand. He read the names on the sheet. The head of unit
was a man called Stavros Theodorakis. The six posts were, in alphabetical
order, Pedro Maluenda, one vacancy, another vacancy, Ilona Velikova, Anneli
Villefranche, Boris Zayek. Four people manning six desks. Poor Mister Theodorakis,
running a unit like that. Two of his six posts were vacant. At the next round
of budget cuts he would be kissing these posts goodbye forever. They would take
them away from him, since apparently the unit was functioning just fine at
two-thirds capacity. They would give the posts to another unit somewhere else.
Except this administrative support unit was not functioning just fine,
as Hans seemed to have found out. As he seemed to have indication to further
explore.
    Not
enough staff. Hans looked at the ceiling. Perhaps the irregularity in the
reporting was due to the fact that the unit was understaffed and overworked?
That the omissions in the lists were simply mistakes? Typos, basically,
something copy-pasted into the wrong line by a

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