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 o
f 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.
There were a couple of women in the place, but this was primarily a male preserve. Johannes Jørgensen sat at a table for two at the very back, from which he could keep an eye on the door and the two steps down to the basement restaurant. He saw the journalist come in and look about him. He was a tall, middle-aged man, thinning on top. His shirt was a bit crumpled and his tie askew. The top button of his shirt was undone. There were beads of sweat on his brow. A band of low pressure had moved in across the North Sea, bringing some cooler air, but it was still very close, as if the Almighty had spread a duvet over Denmark.
Johannes Jørgensen waved to Torsten Hansen, who waved back. He dumped his bag on the floor next to the table and shook Jørgensen’s hand. They ordered smørbrød: one apiece with herring, one with smoked eel and one with cheese, along with beer and a shot of aquavit. They chatted first about the political situation and about the Danish troops who would be joining the NATO forces in the former Yugoslavia. Jørgensen assured Hansen that there was a broad political consensus on this question. And he could quote him as saying that parliament would not be summoned back from summer recess. The government’s decision was backed by a good solid majority.
Torsten Hansen made a note and ate his smørbrød. It was very warm in the restaurant, and all the men had taken off their jackets. The cigarette smoke stung the eyes. Hansen didn’t smoke and often longed for the USA’s restrictive smoking regulations. It might have rendered it difficult for the smoking minority to enjoy a cig, but it made offices and restaurants pure heaven for the non-smoker. In Denmark, however, he was wise enough not to say anything. It wasn’t worth the hassle.
Johannes Jørgensen laid down his knife and fork and knocked back the last of his aquavit.
‘This here is off the record, Torsten,’ he said, leaning across the table.
‘I’m all ears!’ Hansen said, demonstratively laying down his pen.
‘You know that writer who’s been sentenced to death, Sara Santanda?’
Torsten Hansen nodded and took a swig of his beer.
‘She’s coming to Denmark.’
‘But she’s in hiding somewhere in London, isn’t she?’
‘Right. But now it’s to be our turn. It beats me why Denmark, of all places, should be used for the making of such an empty gesture.’
Torsten Hansen cut a slice of his cheese. He knew there was a great story here and was experienced enough to keep quiet and let Jørgensen do the talking. The latter had given him a good tip-off before, and even though it had been off the record it had been solid enough. Jørgensen was a reliable source: a somewhat frustrated politician who did have a degree of influence certainly but who also felt that he had been passed over by Bang in the last cabinet reshuffle. Such people were the lifeblood of a newspaper, which relied on there always being someone with something they wanted made public. Torsten guessed that this must have come up at yesterday’s meeting of the Foreign Policy Committee, but Jørgensen wasn’t going to come right out and say that. He would expect Torsten to work that out for himself and realize, therefore, that the information was rock solid.
Johannes Jørgensen took another sip of his beer before continuing in a hushed voice:
‘I don’t think it’s wise. Trade figures aren’t as healthy as they have been. Why go upsetting a foreign country that has been a good trading partner and has the potential to become an even better one? And all because of some foreigner who has written a book of, from what I hear, somewhat dubious literary merit. A book which, by the way, nobody seems to have read!’
‘When is she expected?’
‘Quite soon. I don’t know exactly. It’s Politiken who’s invited her. But it’s the taxpayers who’ll have to foot the bill for the security arrangements, of course. It’s always the same. But everyone involved is trying to keep it a secret. And in a democratic society that, in itself, is all wrong. Which is why I’m telling you all this.’
Johannes Jørgensen sat back in his chair.
‘And then there’s the question of the feta cheese exports, isn’t there?’ Hansen said. ‘Isn’t there some dairy in your constituency which is totally dependent on them?’
Jørgensen leaned forward again and said without lowering his voice: ‘All religions must be respected. Including the Muslim religion. And Muslims have the right to defend themselves against blasphemy. Just as we Christians have. But obviously I condemn this death sentence. That goes without saying. Would you like some more cheese? Another beer?’
Torsten Hansen shook his head.
‘How about an official comment? On camera?’
It was Jørgensen’s turn to shake his head.
‘Not today. I’m giving you the story today. If you can have it confirmed, then I’ll make myself available…but…’
‘But then everyone else gets it too?’
‘Right.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Naturally, as a member of the Foreign Policy Committee, I will have something to say on this matter, if you should wish to pursue it.’
To be honest, Torsten Hansen thought this was fair enough. He had an exclusive for this evening, as a pure news item, and he could contact the various parties concerned tomorrow, when he was on the early shift anyway. If he started making calls now, the other reporters would soon get wind of it. Better to run it as a pure news item on the six-thirty broadcast and then see if he could turn it into a bigger feature with a couple of comments for the nine o’clock news. It was a good story, at any rate. Santanda had never appeared in public before. Reuter’s and CNN would be on it like a shot. But he would be first with it. And no matter how long he had been in the business, an exclusive like this always gave him a nice warm feeling inside.
In just a few hours, the world would learn that Sara Santanda had chosen Denmark as the place where she would defy the mad mullahs and their barbaric death sentence. If the disclosure of this fact meant that she had to go somewhere else instead, then he could live with that. He was well aware that this was what Jørgensen was angling for. But he hadn’t become a journalist in order to keep things secret. It was a good story, and it was all his.<
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Chapter 5
Vuk sat alone at a table on the hilltop overlooking Pale. Four plastic chairs were set around the maroon laminated table. The door of the small café hung loose on its hinges. A grimy curtain graced the one window that still had glass in it. The other had been smashed by a stray bullet on a day long ago by a couple of drunken militiamen with a petty score to settle. They had been fighting over a woman. Their anger had been greater than their marksmanship. Vuk was drinking slivovitz. It was a bad habit. There had been a time when he hadn’t needed alcohol to get through the days, but now it did him good sometimes. He never got drunk, but it had a wonderfully soothing, numbing effect. It blanked out the images that were prone to come into his mind without warning. He had survived longer than most, and statistics said his number should be flashing up on the board any time now. He had a feeling too that the past was about to catch up on them. Those acts that, in the euphoria of victory had, in some bizarre way, seemed perfectly natural, were now turning into horrific memories that presented themselves when least expected.
He drained his glass in one gulp. He could see the proprietor sitting inside behind the curtain. He was watching football on some German channel. The satellite dish fixed to his tumbledown premises still worked perfectly. But it looked out of place against the white concrete walls and the grey roof. Possibly it had been installed back in the days when there was still some hope that the odd tourist might wander all the way to the top of the hill. But the last tourist had left for home long ago. Vuk filled his glass again. The sun hung low over the green mountain slopes, and the air was heavy with the scents of high summer. Scents that always made him think of his father and little Katarina, but he didn’t want to do that. Pale, and beyond it Sarajevo, lay shrouded in mist. All was quiet down there. The war was drawing towards an end, and it was not a good end. He knew that many of the others would not accept it, but they had lost. The first round, at any rate. Now they would have to wait and see what happened once another winter had gone by. It would not be long before the cool air, and after it the cold, breathed its white breath over those same slopes which now lay drenched in a golden light that danced with insects.
The Serbian Dane Page 5
