The Serbian Dane (4 page)

It was a small team, but it would have to do for now. When the subject herself came to town he would have to get help from the Copenhagen Police Department’s surveillance unit. The room was a good-sized one, with two double windows through which the glorious August sunshine streamed onto some worn desks, a couple of computers, telephones and an overhead projector, by which Per was sitting. There was also a whiteboard. On the board, in red, Per had written: SIMBA. A coffee machine hissed in the corner, and steam was already rising from four paper cups. They were all in plain clothes: jeans and shirts, almost a uniform for anyone who had done their stint with the undercover squad.

‘Right then,’ said Per. He set down his paper cup of black coffee, stood up and placed an overhead on the projector. His hangover had diminished to a faint rumbling in his stomach.

On the overhead was an
en face
picture of Sara Santanda: the round face, the little, lopsided smile, the short, black curly hair and a striking pair of earrings.

‘Here, my friends, is our subject,’ Per went on. ‘The writer Sara Santanda, whom I’m sure none of you philistines has ever heard of. But she has written a
couple of books for which the mad mullahs in Iran have sentenced her to death. From now on the subject will be known as “Simba”. That is how we will refer to her amongst ourselves, in reports, memos and computer files.
Comprende
?’

They nodded and smiled. They knew Per. He liked to show off a bit and pepper his speech with Spanish words and phrases. Some people found it pretentious, but John went along with it because he knew that this was Per’s way of bringing some structure to an assignment. It was as if he had to put his thoughts into words in order to sort them out and remember them later. He also had a thing about Spain and South America.

‘Where the hell do you get those codenames from, Per?’ John said with a laugh. ‘Simba! What’s next? Mowgli?’

The others laughed too. Bente’s teeth were slightly crooked, and she brayed a little too loudly when she laughed, but it was probably just nerves. That would go once they found a way of working together.

‘It’s the name of a dog I had as a boy,’ Per said. This elicited more laughter. He let them laugh. There was nothing wrong with starting their first operational meeting with a good laugh. They would make a fine team.

Per raised a hand.

‘Settle down now. Simba will be arriving here in just under a month. She has chosen to show her pretty little face in Copenhagen after a year in hiding. The police in London are guarding her round the clock. She’s a writer, which means she’s probably mad as a hatter. She’s going to be surrounded by Danish writers and reporters – who are, as you know, a pain in the arse and don’t know the first bloody thing about security.’

Bente cleared her throat. Per broke off and eyed her encouragingly:

‘Yes, Bente?’

‘We don’t have that many Muslim extremists here in Denmark. We’re keeping a careful eye on the Egyptian’s cells. We know the people he associates with. And I’m sure the majority of Muslims in this country would be only happy to help, so if we just keep the handful of extremists under surveillance…’

‘It’s not just the fanatics we’re up against.’ Per picked up a marker and tossed it from hand to hand. ‘Any true believer who bumps her off will go to paradise and sit at Allah’s right hand. That’s their drug. But the state of Iran is
also allowing us infidels a crack at the whip. The reward for taking out Simba now stands at four million US dollars.’

He enjoyed his colleagues’ reaction to this. They exchanged glances, whistled through their teeth. The mention of the sum involved would bring it home to them that this was a big job and an important one.

‘I know. Tempting, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘To the professional hit men and the amateurs. To anyone who can get close to little Simba.’

Per turned to the board and went on talking while he wrote up a few keywords:

‘We have to look over some safe houses. We have to work out a route from the airport to the safe house as well as an alternative route and transport from the safe house to the press conference. We also need to find a nice secure venue for the press conference. And whether the reporters like it or not, there has to be strict monitoring of everyone who wants to meet Simba.
Comprende
?’

‘What have we got in the way of resources?’ Bente again, wanting to make sure that she was seen to be contributing right from the start.

‘Not enough. Not what we’d have for a state visit,’ Per said. ‘So what it boils down to is: keep Simba’s visit a secret. Into the country with the woman. Press conference. Out again. End of operation.’

‘Right,’ said Bente.

‘Way to go, Per!’ said Frands. He was a burly character who had trouble holding his stomach in. He looked like a man who was soon going to give up the fight and let his belly hang over his belt.

Per laughed, straightened his shoulders and intoned with affected solemnity:

‘The Secret Service lost Kennedy. Reagan got hit. We’ve never lost anyone yet. And Simba’s not going to be the first.’

John and Frands cheered and stamped their feet. Bente looked as if she found it hard to see what was so funny.

‘Yes, but remember, this
is
Denmark,’ she said.

Per looked at her.

‘Exactly, Bente, and from a purely statistical point of view our luck’s bound to run out some time. So…
vamos
!’

Per Toftlund found a parking space for his blue BMW down by the canal on Gammel Strand. He popped some coins into the parking meter and walked
along the canalside. People were sitting with their legs dangling over the edge, drinking beer and cola. He was early on purpose. The heavy fug of summer hung over the city, a blend of exhaust fumes, sunshine and the smells of food and drink emanating from pavement cafés and kitchen doors. The arms and legs of people cycling past were every shade of red and brown. He strolled to the café through the hot afternoon and found himself a table inside, in the far corner, from which he could keep an eye on the door. He fetched a cup of coffee from the bar and sat down with a copy of
Ekstra Bladet
in front of him, as arranged.

He spotted her right away. She was obviously looking for someone, but he would have noticed her anyway. She had a pretty face and a nice body, but then so do a lot of women. No, it wasn’t just that. He liked the way she lifted her head and tossed back her fair hair, and her light springy step on the paving stones. She had good legs too under her filmy summer skirt, and she wasn’t wearing much make-up. He guessed she must be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older. She would probably still look like that at forty. If she wasn’t the stroppy type, it would be a pleasure working with her.

He noticed a certain hesitancy about her when she entered the café. Although she seemed like a typical café-goer, used to frequenting the hot spots of the moment in Copenhagen. Yet here she was, glancing round about as if unhappy about having to stand and wait for a total stranger. As if she wasn’t used to waiting at all. She looked like a rotten actor in a bad B-movie, he thought to himself. He let her sweat for a minute, then raised his
Ekstra Bladet
and gave the ghost of a smile. She smiled back, which did her face no harm at all. Then she walked smartly over to him and sat down. Per immediately started talking. He saw the look on her face turn to one of confusion, then of anger. In his experience, you had to take the lead from the word go. Show who was boss. It was always easier to work with someone once the pecking order had been established. Intellectuals always thought they had the right to call the tune, but that wasn’t on, not when he was in charge of security.

‘You’re late,’ he said.

‘I just had to finish something first.’ Her voice was warm and musical, and there was definitely a hint of a Jutland accent.

‘I don’t like it when people don’t turn up on time. It’s sloppy.
Comprende
?’

She stared at him as if he had fallen down from the moon. He was about to defuse the situation with a joke, but her reply stopped him short.

‘Entiendo, coño
,’ said Lise Carlsen quite coolly.

Per leaned back in his chair with a laugh that sounded more supercilious than he had intended it to be:

‘Well, I never,’ he said.

‘Yes, thanks. I
would
like a coffee.’

‘Anything in it?’

‘Black.’

He got up and went over to the bar. Lise followed him with her eyes. He was a rude son-of-a-bitch, that much she had discovered. And first impressions were usually right. Which was a load of crap, of course, but that was how she liked to put it. He wasn’t bad looking, though, if you went for the athletic type with designer stubble. He was a nice dresser. A bit on the classic, conservative side perhaps, but neat and clean. She didn’t know much about policemen or the life they led, but she guessed it wasn’t exactly the biggest brains in the country who chose a career that bore more resemblance to the army than to civilian life. But perhaps the air of confidence he had about him came from carrying a gun and having physical power over people. If she could hold onto that thought, she might actually have the germ of an article. Well, at least she had got them onto an equal footing right at the start. He’d given her all that Spanish crap, but she’d thrown it straight back in his face: ‘Understood, arsehole.’

Toftlund reappeared and placed a cup of coffee in front of Lise with a ‘There you go’. Lise held out her hand, and Per almost knocked over his own half-full cup as he made to shake it. She introduced herself: ‘Lise Carlsen,’ she said. And Per responded, somewhat flustered:

‘Per Toftlund…arsehole. Me, I mean. Not you. As you said.’

She laughed with him. He had a nice smile. Even white teeth and a dimple. A strong chin, brown eyes and dark hair that was thinning a little at the temples, although this he was making no effort to conceal. She liked that, she thought to herself involuntarily and suddenly felt a little shy.

‘So you speak Spanish,’ she said, lifting her cup.

‘Like Hemingway.’

‘Ah, yes. I bet he’s just the writer for you.’

‘I can even spell if I put my mind to it.’

‘Really?’

He drank the rest of his coffee and regarded her. She forced herself to put down her cup, rummaged in her bag and pulled out her cigarettes.

‘D’you mind?’

‘Just keep it away from me.’

‘A hardliner, eh?’

‘Just sensible,’ he said.

She lit up and blew the smoke away from him.

‘Now, where were we?’ she said.

Per leaned across the table and spoke softly, as if they were lovers having a tête-à-tête.

‘We’re here to talk about a character by the name of Simba.’

‘Who?’

‘Sara S. Who from now on will be known as Simba. When speaking of her, we will refer to her as Simba. We two have to find a way to work together, so that you can present Simba to the public and I can keep Simba alive. All right?’

‘All right! But I do have a mind of my own, you know. And you giving the orders while I and the rest of PEN click our heels and say “Yessir!” like so many raw recruits is not my idea of working together.’

He looked at her.

‘Who knows about Simba’s visit?’ was all he said.

‘Tagesen – my editor-in-chief, that is. Me. The prime minister and his permanent undersecretary. Tagesen knows the prime minister personally and informed him, in order to get your lot involved.’

‘Right. Let’s confine this to as small a group as possible.’

‘You can’t keep Santanda under wraps…’

‘Simba.’

‘What a lot of nonsense! She has to get out and meet people. That’s the whole point, don’t you see…?’

‘No, that is not the point.’

‘Oh, and what is the point, then?’

‘To keep her alive,’ said Per.

T
he Foreign Policy Committee is the Danish parliamentary body responsible for monitoring the government’s activities on the foreign policy and security policy fronts. It meets once a week and is presided over by a chairman responsible for drawing up the agenda. The prime minister, foreign minister and minister for defence can all be requested to appear before the committee to account for their actions. Or they may ask to attend a meeting in order to advise the committee of existing situations. The heads of Military Intelligence – FET – and Security Intelligence – PET – may also keep the MPs on the Foreign Policy Committee up to date on threats to national security and ongoing matters. The matters discussed by the committee are private and confidential, and its members are forbidden to divulge any of the information to which they are made privy behind the closed doors of the committee room, most of which has been gathered by Denmark’s two intelligence services or is based on
top-secret
reports from the country’s foreign ambassadors.

Johannes Jørgensen MP knew all of this, but he was angry, so angry that he had decided that somehow this matter had to be made public. And if it meant breaking the Official Secrets Act in order to save good jobs in Jutland, then he knew where his duty lay, and to whom he owed loyalty. The voters, that’s who. Not some foreign heathen. He was the elected representative of the people, he had been for fifteen years, and he was in his element at Christiansborg. He was familiar with all the political and practical shortcuts through the corridors and recesses of the House. He had no wish to return to his dull law practice in Central Jutland. His brother was managing that just fine. Johannes Jørgensen was fifty-six years old. He was an accomplished spokesman and felt that he would soon be ready for an actual government
post. But for that he needed to be re-elected, and in this country you could never tell when an election might be called. The slightest and most unexpected thing could cause the veneer of peace and stability between the centre parties to crack.

So this matter had to be made public. It was his duty; it was as simple as that.

In any case, it wouldn’t be the first time that a committee member had made discreet use of information that he or she had acquired at its meetings. It wasn’t as if you had to advertise where you’d got your information from. But first he had to try to make the prime minister see reason.

Jørgensen was a slim, broad-shouldered man. In his youth he had done a bit of boxing, and this had left him with a nose that was slightly off-kilter. At one point he had considered getting it fixed, but the voters seemed to kind of like the rather tough masculine look the nose gave him. He never made any secret of the fact that he was an ex-boxer and often used boxing metaphors when interviewed on TV. He had read law in Copenhagen and spoke perfect
rigsdansk,
but on television he auto-matically modified his speech, lacing it with a healthy dash of his original Jutland brogue. Not too thick, of course. But a grain of Jutland credibility tended to work like a charm these days.

He let the other committee members leave the room ahead him. Most of them hurried off, intent solely on avoiding the little clutch of reporters waiting outside. A couple of the less well-known MPs seemed more inclined to dawdle, in hopes that the reporters might ask them for a word. But the television guys were only interested in the prime minister and his feelings about the latest developments in Bosnia: the reason for this extraor-dinary meeting of the Foreign Policy Committee during the summer recess. Everyone was talking about the Danish troops that were to be sent to the region under NATO command. And if the television people were interested in that, then you could bet your boots the papers would be too. Less experienced members of the committee would never dream of passing on the confidential information which the country’s prime minister had asked them to keep to themselves, after presenting them with it under AOB. Although they might drop a discreet hint or two in a couple of days, to a spouse, a lover or a mistress. To show that they knew something nobody else knew.

These were the thoughts that were running through Jørgensen’s mind as he stood there waiting. He knew his fellow MPs, knew their burning ambitions. Once politics got into your blood, you were hooked for life. Politics and power were more addictive than the worst narcotic. If you gave it up too abruptly or were dumped by the voters, you could slide into the depths of depression. He thought of Jens Otto Krag, who had left politics of his own free will. He had expected to enjoy life, unburdened by power, but his final years had been a dismal tragedy because, when it came to the point, he could not live without politics, without the sweet taste of power. He knew other people too who had been consigned to obscurity by the fickle electorate and lapsed into alcoholism and self-loathing if they didn’t make a political comeback very quickly.

Not a fate Johannes Jørgensen wished for himself. He wanted to stay where he was and to one day belong to the inner circle.

Jørgensen said a friendly hello to a couple of reporters, nodded to a cameraman who, he remembered, had been behind the lens on several occasions when he had been interviewed on TV2, then moved a little further down the corridor. He could see that the prime minister was preparing to leave and would shortly be shaking off the journalists with his characteristic, long brisk stride as he made for the glass doors leading to the safe haven of his office.

Prime Minister Carl Bang was a tall, slightly stooped man. Like most prime ministers of Denmark, his existence depended on his ability to unite the many different camps within parliament and persuade them to bow to one another in order to ensure the survival of yet another minority government. He was a good card player and adept at playing people and parties off against one another. But he was also a man of his word and scored well in the Gallup polls, so his position was as secure as that of any Danish government can ever hope to be. He had learned early on that in Danish politics it is better to take one year at a time and push through whatever compromises the reigning majority at any given moment would allow. That, more or less, had been the practice in Denmark since the war, and that, so it seemed, was how the Danes liked it. The government was enjoying a period of stability, and Carl Bang himself really did feel that everything needful was being done and that things were going well.

Johannes Jørgensen fell into step beside him. He could see Svendsen, the permanent undersecretary, whispering something in Bang’s ear, but he didn’t
care. If he asked for a formal meeting it could be days before the prime minister could squeeze him into his schedule.

‘Prime Minister! Hello! Could I have a moment?’

Carl Bang stopped and switched on his famous smile.

‘I don’t really have the time right now,’ he said, looking at his watch. Jørgensen glanced round about. They were alone. Svendsen stepped discreetly back a pace. Although he could just as well listen in, since he would get it all from Bang anyway.

‘Well, you’ll just have to make time. Because I won’t bloody well stand for this.’

‘Okay, Jørgensen.’ Carl Bang was no longer smiling. He inclined his head, motioning for them to move over to the window. Svendsen would screen them. Jørgensen and Bang were much of a height, wearing similar dark suits and ties patterned with tiny squares of a design that everyone seemed to be sporting that year. The halls of Christiansborg were cool, despite the heat outside. A summertime hush hung over the House, and the air smelled of varnish and paint. ‘I refuse to go along with this,’ Jørgensen hissed. ‘I have no intention of seeing three billion good honest kroner in exports thrown out the window.’

Carl Bang eyed Jørgensen: all this, over such a piddling little matter. But he concealed his irritation:

‘I was merely passing on the information. This is not a government undertaking, you know.’

‘Now you listen to me, Bang! I helped put you where you are today. And if you think I’m going to stand by and see a major employer…’

Bang couldn’t resist it:

‘A dairy firm in your constituency…’ he said with a smile, but Jørgensen chose to ignore this jibe and continued:

‘…go under because of a stupid, empty little gesture, then you don’t know me very well.’

The look Carl Bang gave him said that unfortunately he knew the populist politician all too well. As the sort who didn’t give a toss about objectivity and would happily send up a couple of political balloons during the summer recess just to get his face on TV.

‘It’s not a government undertaking, Jørgensen. There’s nothing we can do.’

‘It’s not just the feta cheese, you know. Trade with the Middle East is booming. It’s a market with enormous potential. I don’t see why we have to be the boy scouts of Europe.’

‘You know we’re keen to pursue a critical dialogue. And, as I say, it’s a private visit. The government has nothing to do with it.’

‘So she won’t be meeting anyone from the government?’

Carl Bang was quiet for a moment.

‘It’s a private affair. There’s nothing we can do. One way or the other. That is not our job,’ he said.

‘Well, think of something, Bang. This is a matter very close to my heart.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. But now I really have to run.’

Johannes Jørgensen nodded stiffly and watched the prime minister and Svendsen stride off down the corridor.

Carl Bang took care of the most urgent matters with Svendsen and then, alone at last in his office, he picked up the phone and himself dialled Tagesen’s direct number at
Politiken
. They were old friends from their student days in Århus. Well, ‘friends’ was probably too strong a word, but they met socially from time to time and always enjoyed talking to one another about politics and books. Each was glad to see that the other had done well for himself, even though one of them had chosen a career in the media, and the other in politics. And although it was never said in so many words, there was also a tacit understanding between them that they were not on opposite sides: that the symbiosis formed by a responsible media and responsible politicians in Christiansborg constituted the very cornerstone of Danish democracy. That they needed one another. Denmark was a very small country, so it was inevitable that top people in the press and television, the civil service and the political arena all had at least a nodding acquaintance with one another.

He had called Tagesen’s private number, and it was the newspaperman himself who picked up the phone. They chatted politely about the summer and the hot weather, asked after each other’s wives and children and groused a bit about the fact that busy men like them had to slog away at their desks while everyone else was basking on the beach.

Then Bang said:

‘There’s a little matter I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘Feel free, Carl.’

‘The visit by this author. Any chance of cancelling it? Or at least postponing it until later in the year?’

Tagesen was instantly on his guard; the warmth disappeared from his voice:

‘Why on earth would we do that?’

‘There are those who feel it’s bad timing. And what with the political situation as it is, I need to…particularly when we think about Bosnia and the fact of the Danish troops who are being sent down there. This has to be our top priority, and it will have the support of a wide majority. Party politics shouldn’t enter into it. You said the very same thing in one of your leaders, didn’t you?’

‘You brought it up with the committee!’ There was anger in Tagesen’s voice. He had told Svendsen about the visit in strictest confidence and made it quite clear that it was not something that need go any further. Parliament was on summer recess, so there was every chance that the whole thing could pass off without any great debate. But Bang had got cold feet. There had been too many cases in which parliament had accused the government of not keeping them well enough informed, so he had covered himself and mentioned Santanda’s visit, seeing that the Foreign Policy Committee had convened and called him in for a meeting anyway…

‘It’s just a friendly piece of advice,’ Carl Bang said. He wished he hadn’t called Tagesen. You never knew where you were with journalists. One minute they could be bought for a helping of roast pork with parsley sauce. The next they were taking their independence so all-fired seriously.

‘And one which I will do you the favour of forgetting that you ever offered,’ Tagesen said coldly, and they bade each other a curt goodbye without the ritual assurances that the four of them really should get together soon.

Johannes Jørgensen usually chose the lunch restaurant Gitte Kik as the place for a confidential chat with a fellow MP or a reporter. As a young district councillor in Jutland, he had learned the importance of keeping on the right side of the press. And the difference between establishing a good relationship with a reporter from a small provincial paper and one from the television news,
Ritzau Bureau or one of the leading Copenhagen papers was really not that great. The trick was to treat them decently, answer their questions and every now and again give them a good story over lunch. A story they could use. One that held water – at least for a while. Politicians and journalists were heavily dependent on one another, and it didn’t pay to badmouth the press. Denmark has the press it has, and it’s a waste of time moaning about it, as he always said. Use the reporters. They use you. This was the advice he usually gave to green, newly elected MPs as they crept diffidently up and down the corridors of Christiansborg looking like little kids who had lost their mummies.

As always, Gitte Kik was packed to the gunnels. The restaurant lay only a stone’s throw from the seat of power, and civil servants, politicians, journalists and business people met here to partake of good solid
smørbrød
. The health and fitness tidal wave had not swept through these low-ceilinged premises. On the menu here were pork dripping and jellied stock, liver pâté and salami, herring and mature cheese, beer and schnapps, and ashtrays adorned every table.