The Seventh Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

light-blue handkerchief to his mouth, and Ole half expected blood to seep through, as though on clean, heavy blotting paper.
    Slowly, the premier’s persistent cough ebbed. The handkerchief remained unblemished. The conversation resumed.
    “They think I’ll survive a year,” the prime minister declared in a surprisingly strong voice.
    The desk he sat behind wasn’t large, but it was a treasure from his childhood home, constructed in fumed German oak, lavishly ornamented with dark carvings. In front of him was a copy of Independent Weekend . He read aloud from the front page, his voice once again dry and raspy: “Ministry sources anticipate that the prime minister will step down within a year. The official announcement may come as soon as the Party Congress convenes this fall. Due to health concerns, the prime minister and his advisors are discussing his possible successor.”
    The prime minister accepted this statement without batting an eyelash; he even tried to laugh. But that brought his cough back, and he doubled over so far in the upholstered chair that Ole feared the nation’s leader might capsize.
    Once the fit had subsided, he resumed reading aloud: “Since the successor appears to have been found already, a power struggle leading up to the congress is not anticipated. In spite of his advancing age, it is expected that Ole Almind-Enevold, the experienced minister of national affairs and a true patriot, will be tapped. He enjoys unparalleled, nonpartisan public support.”
    The prime minister eyed his friend and colleague of many years. “You’ve already been elected,” he said.
    Ole didn’t know how to interpret his tone. It was well-known how exacting a boss the prime minister was; he didn’t forgive colleagues their mistakes. Quite a few had been deceived by his seemingly friendly smile and bowed confidentiality. This was no doubt still the case, in spite of his weakened condition.
    “Unless you screw up, it’s a done deal,” he said, adding, “But you don’t make mistakes, do you?”
    His meaning was clear. The prime minister was loath to hand over his scepter to a man who’d bring shame upon it. That would, no doubt, disturb his eternal slumber.
    “You never had any children … ” he said, as if in simple observation, but the questions were implied: Any skeletons in the closet that I should know about? Mistresses, love nests … ?
    All the minister of national affairs could do was smile reassuringly.
    “You didn’t want to adopt—many people do that.” The prime minister already knew the reason for this decision, but he continued, “I understand your wife never liked the idea of adopting a child, so … well … yes, not much to be done about that.”
    The prime minister was clearly trying to provoke his subject. Everyone knew that the leader of his country would never have kowtowed to a woman—only four served in his entire administration—nor would he expect any different from his cabinet members. He suffered the women’s presence, reporters joked, merely to placate the electorate.
    The premier tossed the newspaper onto his desk and suppressed another cough. “In this office—and at your age—it is likely only an advantage … ” he concluded, referring to the man’s childlessness, his voice dwindling to a whisper. “You will have to maneuver the actual successor into place … the next generation. That will be your task. To bring the party into the next great era.”
    There was nothing left to say.
    The two men shook hands. And it was a handshake they both knew committed them unto death.

    That morning—just a few feet from the dying prime minister’s office—the so-called Kongslund Affair began, though it revolved less around the house that was identified as the scandal’s point of origin than it did around a group of individuals: high-ranking politicians, career officials, and media personalities.
    The day was May 5, 2008—the sixty-third anniversary of Liberation