It's Ravn.

"Miss Smilla. May I have a few words with you?" Everyone stares at him, and he bears their glances the way he presumably bears everything else, with rock-hard equanimity.

I walk several paces behind him. No one could tell that we know each other. He leads me down a wide corridor with plants and clusters of leather sofas. At the end is a hall full of slot machines. They're all in use.

A young man gives up his machine for us. He takes up a position some distance away and stands there.

Ravn takes a roll of 20-krone coins out of his coat pocket. "It would please me to have my wallet back." He's standing with his back to me, playing the machine.

"I have a regular shift here one day a week," he says. I can just barely hear his voice over the hum of the machine.

"Were we followed out here?"

At first he doesn't answer. "They're looking for you. The word went out fifteen minutes ago."

Now it's my turn to say nothing.

"There are always a dozen plainclothes officers on duty at this place. Plus our own representatives. If you stay here, you only have a few minutes of freedom. If you leave right now, I might be able to delay things a little."

I slip his wallet in front of him, along with a photograph and a newspaper clipping. He takes them without moving his eyes from the machine. His wallet disappears into one pocket and he glances at the photo and clipping. When he reaches back to hand me the clipping, the photo is gone. He shakes his head.

"I've done what I could," he says. "And what you haven't been given, you've taken yourself. Now it has to stop."

"I want to know," I say. "I'll do anything. Including selling you to the Toenail."

"The Toenail?"

"That flat, hard detective who keeps turning up."

He laughs for the first time. Then his smile is gone, as if it had never existed. His image in the glass in front of him is a lifeless reflection against the machine's multicolored, wildly spinning cylinders. But when he speaks I know that I've hit home somehow.

"Chiang Rai, on the border between Cambodia, Laos, and Burma. The region is dominated by feudal princes. The most powerful is Khum Na. A standing army of 6,000 men. Offices all over the Far East and in major Western cities. Regulates the entire world trade in heroin. Tørk Hviid worked in Chiang Rai."

"Doing what?"

"He's a microbiologist, specializing in radiation mutations. All the processing of opium poppies is located up in that area. They're said to have the most modern laboratories of their kind in the world. In the middle of the jungle. Hviid worked on the irradiation of the poppy seed in an attempt to improve yield. There were rumors that he had created a new type, mayam, which-in its raw, boiled-down, but not yet crystallized state-was twice as strong as any heroin known."

"How does this concern you Ravn? Is the fraud division interested in narcotics?" He doesn't answer.

"Katja Claussen?"

"Originally an antiques dealer. Sometime in 1990 or '91 it was discovered that throughout the eighties most of the heroin coming into the U.S. and Europe had been smuggled inside antiques."

"Seidenfaden?"

"Transport. An engineer specializing in transport assignments. Arranged for the transport of antiques from the Far East for various companies. For a while he was in charge of a veritable airlift from Singapore via Japan to Switzerland, Germany, and Copenhagen. In order to avoid the risky air space over the Middle East."

"Why aren't they in prison?"

"The powerful and the talented are seldom punished. Now you have to go, Miss Smilla."

I stay put.

"What was Freia Film?"

His hand freezes on the chrome handle. Then he nods wearily.

"A film company that was a cover for German intelligence activities both before and during the occupation of Denmark. Under the pretext of filming footage to support Horbinger's Thule theory, they organized two expeditions to Greenland. Their real purpose was to investigate the feasibility of occupying Greenland, especially the two cryolite quarries, to secure for Germany the production of aluminum, which was so crucial to the aircraft industry. They also did surveys with the intention of establishing air bases that could serve as supply links for a possible invasion of the U.S."

"Was Loyen a Nazi?"

"Loyen was and is obsessed with fame. Not politics."

"What did he discover in Greenland, Ravn?"

He shakes his head. "Nobody knows. Put it out of your mind."

Now he looks at me. "Go visit a girl friend. Think up a plausible explanation for why you were on board that boat. Then turn yourself in to the police. Get a good lawyer. You'll be free in two days. Forget about the rest."

He sticks his hand out behind him. In his palm there is a cassette tape. "I took this from your apartment. To protect you in case of a search."

I reach for it, but he hides it away. "Why are you doing this, Ravn?"

He gazes at the machine's spinning wheels. "Let's just say that I don't care for the insufficiently explained deaths of little children."

I wait, but nothing more comes from him. Then I turn around and leave. At that moment he wins. Like a metallic vomiting, the robot emits a stream of coins with a spitting clink that goes on and on behind me.

I pick up my coat from the cloakroom. My temples are pounding. Now everyone seems to be staring at me. I look around for the mechanic. I hope he has a plan. Most men know everything about sneaking around, making excuses, taking off. But the foyer is empty. Except for me and the cloakroom woman, who looks more serious than she ought to, considering that she takes 50 kroner for hanging people's coats on a hanger.

At that moment I hear the laughter. Loud, harrowing, sonorous. It segues right into the trumpet, a wild, bleating attack that drops at once to a lower pitch, more suitable to the setting. But by then I've recognized the sound.

I don't have much time. I make my way through the tables and cross the empty dance floor. The three white musicians behind him are wearing pale yellow tux jackets and have faces like white dumplings. He's wearing tails. He is tremendously fat, his face a black orb of sweat, his big eyes bloodshot and protruding, as if they were trying to escape the lethal percentage of alcohol in his skull. He looks like what he is: a colossus on a pedestal that has already dissolved and disappeared.

But the music is undiminished. Even now, as he plays with a mute, it has an overwhelmingly dense, golden, warm tone, and even in the midst of the polyphony they're playing, its sound is searching, profound, teasing. I stand right in front of the low circus ring.

When they finish, I step up onto the stage. He smiles at me. But it's a smile without warmth; it's merely a drunken pose for the world around him which he probably retains even in his sleep. If he ever sleeps. I grab his microphone and turn it away from us. Behind us people stop eating. The waiters freeze in mid-stride.

"Roy Louber," I say.

His smile grows broader. He takes a drink from a big glass standing next to him.

"Thule. You once played in Thule."

"Thule…"

He pronounces it tentatively, searching his memory as if hearing it for the first time.

"In Greenland."

"Thule," he repeats.

"On the American base. At the Northern Star. What year was it?"

He smiles at me, mechanically shaking his trumpet. I have so little time to spare. I grab hold of his lapels and pull the big face down toward me.

" `Mr. PC.' You played `Mr. PC.' "

"They're dead, darling." His Danish is so thick that it's almost American English. "A long time ago. Dead and gone. Mr. P.C.-Paul Chambers."

"What year? What year was it?"

His gaze filters through glassy eyes, drunken and uncommunicative.

"Dead and gone. Me too, darling. Any time. Any time now."