He hunkered down, gently eased off his leather jacket and folded it. He pulled on the black polo-neck and packed his jacket into his rucksack. In the dark he smeared his face and hands with camouflage paint. He could do it with his eyes shut. This had been one of the main principles of the Commandant’s special training programme: any action that could be carried out in daylight ought also to be performed as surely and swiftly in total darkness. And in this case the darkness wasn’t even total. Now and again the moon cast a faint glow over the few solitary trees and the flat meadows. The scent of the water was in his nostrils. Before too long the Germans on the other side would be erecting fences topped by barbed wire. It was only a matter of time. A new wall would go up. It would have moved further east and would no longer be there to keep people in, but to keep them out. A new Welfare Wall, Vuk thought to himself. The world was still divided into the haves and the have-nots. And if you wanted something, you just had to grab it.
He settled down to wait. Emptied his mind of all thoughts and concentrated on listening, smelling and accustoming his eyes to the darkness. A bird flitted soundlessly down, landed only three feet away from him then took off again with a tiny mouse in its grip. The grass was damp with dew, and the air was cool but not really cold.
Around midnight, after a ninety-minute wait during which he had seen yet another owl bag its prey, he heard the Romanians. He counted ten shadows: seven adults and three half-grown children. They were led by a burly man in black who chivvied them along in a hushed voice. This was their guide, to whom they had paid a lot of money, all they had left, and who had promised them that he knew the German border guards’ patrolling routine. The group passed only ten yards from Vuk, but they did not see him. They were not worried about the authorities on the Polish side: they were too few and underpaid, and it was no longer illegal to leave the Free Republic of Poland. The men all carried suitcases; each of the three women held a child by the hand and had a rolled-up bundle under her other arm.
Vuk allowed the bunch of terrified refugees to pass. Then started after them. Even though the Romanians’ minds were on what lay ahead, Vuk trod warily, bringing down the soles of his feet first, to feel for loose stones or dried twigs. Suddenly the shallow river hove into view fifty yards ahead of them. He saw the guide point to it, and to the moon that had broken free of the clouds once more. Then he pointed to the ground. The band of refugees crouched down. The guide turned and headed back towards Vuk, who stepped slowly but smoothly first one, then two, then three steps to the left, glided down onto his haunches and from there onto his stomach. It is the quick movements that are noticeable in the dark. The guide stopped short, as if he had seen something. Or heard something. Then the owl swooped low over the meadow again, pounced and flew up and away. The mouse gave a little squeak, a faint sound, but one which carried clearly through the night. The guide shook his head and marched on. Vuk let him pass then raised himself back onto his haunches. He could hear the Romanians arguing among themselves.
The moon disappeared behind a cloud. It wasn’t big enough, but one of the Romanian men got to his feet anyway and waded out into the shallow river, which was no wider than the average road. The other men followed him and the women brought up the rear, holding the children by the hand. They balanced the suitcases and bundles on their heads. In midstream the adults were almost waist-high in the water, and the children had to crane their necks as the water crept up over their chests. Oddly enough they did not cry. Vuk stole after them. He slipped off his rucksack and crouched down again only yards from the riverbank. Near him was a small bush; he crept behind it. He heard a dog bark and shut his eyes when he saw the dancing beams of light and heard the swish of boots on damp grass. He slid all the way down onto his stomach and lay there with his eyes closed. He could hear what was going on.
The four German border guards waited patiently until all of the refugees were back on dry land. They were carrying blankets, which they wrapped around the soaked, fearful and bedraggled Romanians. The dog sat quietly. The Romanians blinked in the glare of the powerful torches. One of the border guards pointed and the group set off across the field. Even in the dark Vuk was conscious of the German border guard’s torch beam sweeping across the Polish bank. He heard a radio crackle and an indistinct German voice receiving a message and reporting back that a group of refugees had been caught. The beam of light swept across the pitch-black riverbank yet again.
‘No more here, Hans,’ the German voice said. ‘That’s it for tonight. Come on! We’ve got to get this lot sent back tomorrow.’
Vuk heard the sound of footsteps receding. He waited only a moment before getting up and hastening down to the riverbank. Rumour had it that the German border authorities had installed sensors. If that were true, the Romanians and the German guards would confuse them. The water was cold when he waded out with his rucksack on his head, like an African woman going to fetch water. Once over on the German side he slung his rucksack onto his back and set off at a quick march into the German Federal Republic.
He was not much over a hundred miles from Berlin. He walked across the fields for an hour, until he came to a main road. Next to it sat a service station. It looked new and modern. Things were moving fast in the former GDR, Vuk thought to himself. Every time he came back he found more changes. The service station was lit up, and there were four or five private cars and a lot of trucks in the forecourt. Vuk had wiped off most of the camouflage paint with a handkerchief, but he couldn’t be sure he’d got rid of it all. On the other hand, you get a lot of funny-looking people wandering about in the early hours of the morning. Vuk found a toilet at the side of the service building, splashed his face with water and pressed his moustache back into place. It was the best he could do, and it wasn’t bad. He hung about beside a truck with Polish plates. The driver emerged from the shop: a short, stocky man with a five o’clock shadow.
Vuk stepped into the light with his rucksack in his hand. He gave the driver a big smile and said in German: ‘Any chance of a lift?’
The driver stopped in his tracks. He saw a young man, unshaven, but with a nice friendly smile. It was three in the morning, the driver was tired and he still had a good few hours’ driving ahead of him.
‘I’m headed for Berlin,’ he said with a heavy accent.
‘Me too.’
‘My boss wouldn’t like it.’
‘Your boss doesn’t need to know.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I could pay something towards the petrol,’ Vuk said, holding out a fifty-deutschmark note.
‘Aw, hop in,’ the driver said. ‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The name’s Karol.’
‘Werner,’ said Vuk.
They chatted about football as they bowled along. Listened to German pop music and, later, traffic reports on the morning rush hour in Berlin. Queues were building up on a number of roads. Berlin appeared out of the morning haze. There were construction cranes everywhere, towering over the grey suburbs of old East Berlin. Karol was carrying a load of textiles from Kraków. He dropped Vuk not far from Alexanderplatz. Vuk found a cafeteria where three middle-aged men appeared to be tending their hangovers with coffee and schnapps. Vuk paid for a coffee, then visited the gents. When he reappeared he was wearing the beige chinos, a clean striped shirt and a pale-blue tie. The moustache was gone and his hair slicked back. On his feet were a pair of brown loafers. If the three men noticed anything, then they gave no sign of it: it seemed that in this part of town people minded their own business. Vuk drank his coffee and left.
He spotted a sign for the U-bahn, purchased a single ticket and took a westbound train. The Hotel Heidelberg was situated in Knesebechstrasse, off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. It was a small family hotel with a restaurant just inside the main door. The reception desk was situated at the rear of the restaurant. Three sales reps were in the midst of a late breakfast.
At reception Vuk put his rucksack on the floor and presented the young woman b
ehind the desk with the Danish passport.
‘You have a room for Mr Per Larsen,’ he said in English.
She checked on the computer, found his name. She pushed a yellow registration form across the desk, leaving him to fill in the details himself. She did not so much as glance at the passport. He was Danish and hence a member of the EU.
She handed him an old-style key.
‘Number sixty-seven,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Vuk said and climbed the stairs. All of a sudden he felt dog-tired. And he could have done with a good hot meal. But the main thing was that now he could safely rest.
The room was quite big, with a double bed. He put down his rucksack and called the number Kravtjov had given him in Bosnia.
‘It’s me,’ Vuk said in English.
‘Welcome to Berlin,’ Kravtjov said. ‘He wants to see you as soon as possible.’
‘I need to get some sleep first,’ Vuk said. The tiredness had suddenly hit him. He had been on the move for three days and had used up all his last reserves of strength and adrenalin. Even during the few hours when he had managed to grab some sleep his body had been on the alert. What rest he had got had been of the most superficial sort.
‘I understand,’ said Kravtjov.
‘I’ll call you in a few hours’ time.’
‘Fine. Where are you?’
‘You’ll find out, all in good time.’
‘Sleep tight,’ Kravtjov said with a chuckle.
Vuk hung the ‘Nicht Stören’ sign on the door and locked it. No one knew where he was, but he called reception anyway, from the bedside, and said he did not wish to be disturbed. His teeth needed brushing, but he lay down just for a moment and promptly fell fast asleep.
Chapter 7
Looking back on the last few days, Lise Carlsen could well understand why she was tired. What she found harder to comprehend was why she should be so strangely exhilarated. She couldn’t explain how she felt. And she had given up trying to talk to Ole about it. She didn’t know what was the matter with him. He came home late every evening, reeking of booze and the pub, then he would take a beer from the fridge or a bottle from the wine rack and just sit there drinking. She’d been avoiding him; she didn’t like the thought of him touching her. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help it: if he tried to give her a cuddle, if his hand so much as brushed hers at the dinner table she instinctively shrank away. Nonetheless, she endeavoured to keep up the pretence, kissing him hello and goodbye. She hated herself for it, detecting as she did an incipient repugnance inside herself to which she did not dare give full rein.
The nights were still hot. And she dreamed of Per Toftlund. Weird, never-ending dreams. In one of these he was riding a motorbike, in another hauling a net out of an ocean. The net was full of silvery fish with little monkey faces, and the muscles of his tanned back bulged as he pulled in the fine-meshed, green net. The fish flopped and floundered, their scales glinting like silver coins in the pale, gold light. On the horizon was a reef beset by masses of birds. They were yellow and big as gulls. She wanted to warn Per, because she was afraid that the yellow birds would eat the dancing silver fish. But she couldn’t make him hear her.
She woke up bathed in sweat. Ole was asleep beside her. He stank of tobacco and alcohol. Lise got up. She was naked, and she shivered in the cool night air. She pulled on her dressing gown, padded through to the kitchen and got herself a glass of milk. It was a few minutes to four. Soon the first light would appear as a bright band on the horizon. She was tired and yet wide-awake: a clear sign of stress. She ought to know that.
Maybe it was because things had been so hectic, after the announcement on the evening news of Sara Santanda’s visit to Denmark.
Tagesen had been furious. Although she wasn’t sure whether he was mad because the word had got out, thus increasing the threat to Sara’s life, or because Danmarks Radio, and not Politiken, had been first with the news. She had been given something approaching a bawling out. As if it were her fault. When it was so obvious that the information had been leaked from Christiansborg. Toftlund wanted the visit cancelled or postponed indefinitely, but neither Lise or Tagesen would agree to that. Nor, thank goodness, would Sara Santanda. She remained adamant. She was a brave woman. They might be able to put the visit off for a couple of weeks. Most news stories were soon forgotten, although this one had, of course, made the headlines in all the papers. Lise herself had reported on it for her own paper and written a portrait of the writer. She had also been interviewed on the radio and on both national TV channels. She had appeared on talk shows morning, noon and night: Fax, Stax, Pax – whatever they were called, all those radio programmes. A record and then a chat about some weighty issue. Ole hated that sort of thing. In fact, he loathed all electronic media, so more often than not she watched the television news on her own. All things considered, she might as well have been living alone: they no longer seemed to have anything in common. They couldn’t even be bothered arguing about things anymore. Their differences stretched like a barren desert between them.
Lise got herself another glass of milk. Then there was Per Toftlund: a pain in the neck but a very attractive one. Handsome in a rugged sort of a way. He wasn’t really her type at all. What she looked for in a man was depth. He was bossy too and a right know-it-all, always harping on about the arrangements for Santanda’s visit: the press conference, safe houses, escape routes, security corridors and the easiest ways in and out of the airport, not to mention angles of elevation and the life stories of the best known snipers and contract killers. He had a fund of horrendous stories about the Iranian security service’s liquidation of political rivals. She had learned that its people were more ruthless and every bit as professional as the hit men of the old KGB. She had also discovered that PET kept detailed files on both Danish citizens and foreign nationals. And although she could see that these were bound to be of great help in this particular situation, she was also shocked. The sheer extent of it!
But Per was also fun to be with.
The other day he had treated her to a hotdog, and they had sat on a bench overlooking the Sound, munching companionably. It was as if he already knew that she loved to eat. The weather was still glorious, the air not quite as close. Sweden was hidden by a heat haze, and she had the sudden urge to go off somewhere. It didn’t matter where. All she wanted was to be on the move. To just get into a car and drive south, head for Spain. To drive and drive, for so long that the car wrapped itself around you and you became a part of it, came to smell of it, and your scent rubbed off on it. To climb out and stretch, feast your eyes on the red soil of Spain and decide to drive inland to where the country was vast and deserted.
‘Hey, where did you go?’ Per Toftlund asked. He was wearing a thin windcheater over a short-sleeved, open-necked shirt. She was slowly getting used to the gun at his belt, but it still made her feel a mite uneasy. She had never spent hours in the company of a man who wore a gun as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She knew nothing about his world.
‘Out travelling.’
‘Sounds good. Where to?’
‘Spain,’ she said and took a bite of her hotdog. ‘Umm…this is so disgustingly delicious.’
‘España sea muy buena,’ he said.
She carried on chewing. They seemed to be warming to one another. Sitting on a bench, eating hotdogs and talking with your mouth full: that’s the sort of thing you only do when you feel comfortable with someone, she thought.
‘Where did you learn to speak Spanish?’ she asked.
‘In South America. I spent some time hitchhiking around out there after I left the service – I’d made good money there. And at evening classes. And in Spain.’
Toftlund’s jaws were working too.
‘Macho man,’ she said, with no note of disparagement in her voice. ‘I bet you were in the commandos or something daft like that.’
‘Nearly right. I was a frogman.’
‘Ooh, like the Crown
Prince. Not bad.’
‘Hm, well I was there first. What about you? And Spain, I mean.’
‘Where I learned to speak Spanish? In Spain. A long, long time ago.’
‘It’s a great country, isn’t it?’
He got up, turned to face her and did a little sashay. He looked a bit silly, and a couple of passers-by stared at him. A big man doing a really quite elegant imitation of a bullfighter, dodging the bull with a flourish of an imaginary red cape. It would have been very effective, if he hadn’t been clutching a half-eaten hotdog in one hand. He let the bull pass to his right and then to his left, crying out in Spanish as he did so: ‘Andalucia. Estremadura. Euskadi. Madrid. Valencia. Sol y sombra. Toros. Vino. Señoritas. Olé!’ He would never have made an actor.
She laughed at his clowning and choked on her hotdog. He plonked himself down on the bench and thumped her gently on the back.
‘Do you go there often?’ she said, once she’d got her breath back.
‘At least once a year. What about you?’
‘Oh, it’s a few years since I was there.’
He had looked at her. He had the kindest blue eyes.
‘Ole’s kind of gone off Spain,’ she had said, a little more dolefully than she had intended. But Per had handled it perfectly. He had pulled a napkin from his jacket pocket, lightly dabbed her lips and then shown her the little red spot.
‘Ketchup,’ he had said, and she had started to laugh again.
She was stressed out. That had to be the explanation, she told herself, standing there by the scrubbed deal kitchen bench. For the fact that she was acting like a giggly schoolgirl.
No wonder she was tired and tense. She hadn’t really been home at all in the past week. Imagine if they’d had kids. If they’d been able to have them. How would she and Ole have fitted them into in their busy lives? She supposed that was one positive aspect of their childlessness: they weren’t tied down. As always, though, it hurt to think about it and feel the emptiness inside; the longing, like a hollowness that could never be filled. Maybe a baby would have added a new dimension to their relationship, lent it meaning, forged a bond between them. They had actually talked about this. They had talked it through and agreed that nature’s perverse logic had simply dictated that she couldn’t get pregnant and they were not going to try to change that by resorting to artificial means of any sort. They didn’t want to adopt. They had each other and that would have to do. That is what they had said, back then. So why did it still hurt?
The Serbian Dane Page 8
