The Serbian Dane

by Leif Davidsen

  ‘So the age of dirty tricks is not yet over?’

  ‘Like I said, Igor. We’ll never be out of a job, you and I. Would you like to have it? A nice little memento?’

  Kammarasov took the picture and gave vent to his anger by ripping it to shreds, tearing and tearing at it frenziedly, until the pieces could be no smaller, then he tossed them into the air to be caught by the breeze and blown across the gravel, round the corner of the Pavilion and into the bushes. Then he got a grip on himself again.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he croaked.

  Per Toftlund was enjoying this situation. He had nothing against having this big man from the superpower to the east dangling like a cod from his hook. ‘That’s what happens when you start thinking with your dick,’ as Vuldom had put it when he had told her about what they had on Igor.

  ‘What was the penalty in the old Soviet Union – five years in the clink, wasn’t it? Not to mention the loss of your career, your wife, your reputation and all that crap. I don’t suppose the general view on poofters in the new Russia has changed all that much, or has it?’

  By now Kammarasov had completely regained his composure; he eyed Toftlund with something approaching disdain:

  ‘That’s enough. Do try to be a little professional. I told you, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Good, Igor. And make it quick, eh? It’s amazing how easy it is to make copies from a negative. Pravda tavarijs?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Igor said and walked off.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ Per called and kept his eyes on the Russian as the latter marched off, cutting diagonally across the grass of the boys’ football pitch. He did not look back but walked with his head held high, deaf to the angry shouts from the players. Per felt a little guilty for crowing over him like that. It wasn’t professional, even if it had felt good. But Christ, the Russian had balls. Igor would deliver the goods all right. Per preferred not to think about what would happen to Kravtjov now. Igor had been trained in a hard and brutal school, and when it came to saving his own skin he would be every bit as ruthless as those men who had, down through the ages, manned the Russian security services. Tsar, general secretary or democratically elected president, it made no difference to those who worked undercover for the state. They would always believe that they had been specially chosen and were thus above the law.

  Igor knew very well that if he could not come up with something within the next forty-eight hours, he might as well just jump into the harbour and get it over with. But he had been in the business a long time and knew exactly who to call in order to have Kravtjov brought in for a little chat about life and death and a hit man hiding out somewhere in the Queen’s Copenhagen.

  Igor Kammarasov acted fast, and the three heavies whom the former KGB’s Berlin HQ had used in the past picked up Kravtjov that same evening as he was taking his usual promenade along Unter den Linden to view all the new restaurants and shops which seemed to spring up every day. He was walking along, lost in thought, when a grey Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb. At that same moment a powerfully built man drew level with Kravtjov, poked a pistol into his ribs and hissed:

  ‘Get in, Comrade! Or I’ll blow your balls off.’

  Thus began his hours in Hell.

  They took him to a basement in the Turkish quarter in Kreutzberg, divested him of his jacket and shirt, placed him on a high-backed chair, tied his ankles tightly to its legs with wire and pinioned his wrists behind his back with the same agonizing stricture by means of handcuffs.

  Then they beat him with socks filled with sand until his face swelled, and his arms, back and kidneys were sending such white-hot flashes of pain shooting through his brain that he wanted only to pass out, to die. But these were professional heavies; they stopped when they could see that he was on the brink of losing consciousness. They beat him systematically and unerringly, and only after they had given him a good going over did they start asking questions. The three men, all in their thirties, were muscular and brutal. Had they not been in the pay of a state they would have been doing the same strong-arm stuff for the Mafia or some other bunch of crooks. They didn’t really care who was paying. They did what they were told to do and never gave any thought to the rights and wrongs of it. They might not have gone so far as to say that they enjoyed their work, although they certainly did gain some satisfaction from inflicting pain on other people. It wasn’t in their nature to wonder about the meaning of life or come up with motives for the things they were told to do. There was just one thing they were good at: acting as the muscle for cooler, more rational minds that did not always care to know the source of the information they procured. Violence was an inextricable part of their lives; they were called upon when someone had to be punished, or when information had to be obtained on the spot. Two of them were married; they loved their children and respected their wives. The third had been an esteemed member of the local wrestling club back in Vladimir. Once the fat elderly man now wallowing in a pool of his own blood, vomit, urine and excrement had told them what they wanted to know, they would chuck him out of the car onto one of Berlin’s countless building sites where he would just have to hope that someone found him and got him to hospital. They had been instructed not to kill him. Somewhere along the way he was evidently part of the family and would not, under any circumstances, go telling tales. To do that, he knew, would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant.

  When they were done they would take a bath, call a mobile number in Denmark and relay the information, then they would have a few beers before going home.

  One of the hoods grabbed Kravtjov by the hair and pulled his head back until the bloody face with its split lips and eyebrows and broken nose was turned to the ceiling. Without raising his voice he said:

  ‘Who is the bastard? Your little sniper. The guy you met in the park. What’s his name?’

  For an old guy he was a pretty hard nut, but the thug could tell he was on the verge of cracking. All men cracked sooner or later. That you could be sure of. Everybody had their limit, and he was approaching his. The heavy tugged Kravtjov’s hair sharply, then let go and slapped him twice in the face. As if on cue the other two thugs brought the sand-filled socks down on Kravtjov’s back and arms. Kravtjov gurgled and rolled his head back and forth.

  ‘We’ve got all the time in the world,’ the heavy said. ‘But you don’t. Get it over with. Come on! Bastard! Who is he?’

  The Russian voice reached Kravtjov’s ears from a long way off. The language he knew so well did not seem to make any sense. He hurt all over. The pain in his chest was the worst; it felt as though they were squeezing his heart with red-hot tongs. His left arm was almost paralysed with pain. He felt more blows landing on his body and heard the crunch when one of the hoods punched him smack in the face. He couldn’t take any more.

  ‘Vuk. Vuk.’

  He did not recognize his own voice. It sounded frail and cracked. His arm and his chest were hurting so badly. They musn’t hit him anymore. He was dying.

  ‘Stop. Stop. Stop,’ said Kravtjov. ‘Don’t hit me anymore. Vuk. Vuk. The Serbian Dane.’

  The thug took a step back.

  ‘Get some water,’ he said. ‘The bastard’s ready to talk.’

  Chapter 15

  Per Toftlund received the call from Kammarasov early in the morning at his office and arranged to meet him in Fælledparken in half an hour. He got in touch with his team and asked them to be ready for a briefing session around 11.00 am. He told John, his second-in-command, that when he came back he would probably have some information that would give them a solid lead. He hoped he was right. He had a bad feeling about this whole set-up, although he could not have said exactly why, there was nothing he could put his finger on. But he was so used to trusting his instincts that it would never have occurred to him to disregard his misgivings on this occasion.

  The day was cloudy, and the wind sighed in the trees in Fælledparken as he got out of his car and made hi
s way over to the Pavilion. Igor Kammarasov was already there, leaning against one of the pillars, smoking a cigarette. He wore an elegantly tailored suit, a navy-blue overcoat and a discreet scarf. All that was wanting was the fedora and he could have been the tragic hero in a movie from the forties, except that there was nothing sorrowful about his face, his expression was one of loathing and contempt. He saw Per coming and straightened up, but he did not wave, nor did he offer his hand when Per walked up. They had the place to themselves.

  Kammarasov came straight to the point:

  ‘His name’s Vuk. Or at least, that’s what he calls himself. An assumed name, no doubt. Surname unknown. Blond, blue eyes, just over six foot in height, 168 pounds, muscular, athletic. Speaks Danish like a native. Trained at the Yugoslavian Federal Army Special Forces School. Parents were Bosnian Serbs, killed in the civil war. Your man is an ace marksman, a sniper with a lot of lives on his conscience from the war down there.’

  Igor Kammarasov rattled all of this off as if delivering a report, with deadpan features and an eye that studiously avoided Per’s. And not merely out of shame. Something had gone wrong, Per could tell.

  ‘What papers is he travelling on? I suppose Kravtjov must have procured them for him?’

  ‘A Danish passport and a British one. Both clean.’

  ‘Names, Igor?’

  ‘Something ending in “sen”. Common name. Our informant couldn’t remember the British name. He became a bit vague. Turned out he had a weak heart.’

  Kammarasov looked at Per, as if entreating him to ask about the interrogation instead, but the policeman was not to be put off.

  ‘How come he speaks Danish?’ he asked.

  ‘Would you like to know how I obtained this information?’

  Per shook his head. It wasn’t too hard to figure out how Igor had come by these facts so quickly and efficiently.

  Kammarasov looked him straight in the eye:

  ‘Your man was born the son of Yugoslavian immigrant workers living somewhere in Copenhagen, probably in ’69.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘That information was not forthcoming.’

  ‘This is much better, Igor. But there are still a few gaps.’

  ‘There’s no more where that came from. My source suddenly dried up. But this Vuk will be hard to track down. He looks just like all the rest of you.’

  ‘What about your informant’s contacts?’

  ‘I don’t seem to remember that being part of the deal.’

  Toftlund weighed up the situation. He could possibly ask Kammarasov to make use of his Russian military connections with the Serbs to get hold of this so-called Vuk’s army file. But that would be a slow business, even at best, and they didn’t have much time. Besides which, strictly speaking, Igor had paid his dues. Per tried not to imagine how Kravtjov had died and under what circumstances, but it would not be easy to live with. Nor could he share this knowledge with anyone else. He would have to keep it to himself.

  ‘Right, Igor,’ Per said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of this man?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Per stood for a moment. They regarded one another, and that which remained unspoken, the fact that a man had lost his life because of them, and that they shared the burden of guilt, was an invisible chain binding them to one another. Per removed the negative from its flimsy little envelope and handed it to Igor. The latter stuffed it into his coat pocket without looking at it.

  ‘There are no copies, Igor.’

  Igor eyed Per. Then he said:

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Toftlund. I doubt if we shall meet again.’

  He turned and left. Per watched the lean Russian stride off across the dew-spangled grass. No, it was hardly likely. Igor felt very much at home in Denmark, but he would have to seek another posting or return home to Moscow. Knowing what they now had on him, he could no longer operate openly or undercover. In the old days Per would have taken advantage of this situation to try to turn him, get him to spy for Denmark, but he was glad that such a move was not called for in this instance. To be honest, he had always liked Igor. If circumstances had been different, they could have been friends.

  Toftlund rounded up his team and filled them in on the new development. It was still going to be extremely difficult to find Vuk in a city the size of Copenhagen with so little to go on; nonetheless, Toftlund wanted them to instigate a systematic check of all small hotels and produce a formal description for distribution to the mobile units, just in case one of them should come across the Danish-speaking Serb. They knew that it was an almost hopeless exercise, that if they did turn him up, it would be more by good luck than anything else. The town was crawling with fair-haired, blue-eyed, athletic men who spoke Danish. But if he were to put a foot wrong, at least now they knew what they were dealing with. Toftlund warned them that Vuk was dangerous. He was a killer; they should on no account try to play the hero by taking him on single-handed in the unlikely event that they ran into him. Things weren’t looking too good, and yet somehow the mood in the room had brightened. The case seemed more concrete now. There was an assassin in the city, they had a description to which – while it was by no means perfect – they could relate when it came to guarding Simba. They also had evidence of a definite threat that would, with any luck, prompt Politiken and Simba to cancel the visit and, if nothing else, would make it easier to scrape together the necessary resources for the assignment.

  By the end of the meeting everyone was feeling more positive.

  ‘How are your sea legs, John?’ Per asked.

  ‘You know very well how they are. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘Because we’re taking a trip out to Flakfortet. But first we have to pick up a lovely lady.’

  ‘A-ha! I thought there was something different about you. Christ man, you’re in love.’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘But she’s married.’

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ said Per.

  ‘My God, you’re an unprincipled bugger!’ cried John, picking up the jacket that hung over the back of his chair. It was the same style as Per’s, only in air force blue. John had been married for ten years to a girl he had gone to school with, and they seemed to Per to be as much in love now as when he had seen them being married in church. Part of him was happy that he hadn’t been with the same woman for ten years, and yet he was a trifle envious of John’s stable relationship, his cosy home and two lovely boys. Maybe he too was about ready for that, to give it a go at least, although the thought of suddenly having to share everything with another person and always feeling under an obligation to someone else also scared him. But he had meant what he said: Lise was a lovely lady.

  In her office in the Politiken building Lise Carlsen was writing a press release for distribution to the newspapers and television stations. It took the form of an invitation by Danish PEN to a press conference with the German writer Herbert Scheer. Journalists were to meet on the quayside in Nyhavn, next to the old warehouse now housing the Hotel Nyhavn. From there they would be taken by boat to a certain location in the city – although due to threats against the writer’s life by German and Danish neo-Nazis this was being kept secret – where Scheer would be waiting to meet them. Only those members of the press who had put their names down in advance would be allowed on board. A light lunch would be served. She would be glad when the Santanda visit was over and she could get back to practising proper journalism again. And turn her attention to all the other work that was piling up on her desk. She was way behind in the correspondence that fell to her lot as chair of Danish PEN. It involved a lot more work than she had envisaged when she had accepted the post, feeling flattered to have been chosen as a respected journalist and a skilled organizer. But she had also wanted the job. It had been time for a generation shift and for a woman to take the chair. Tagesen had relieved her of all other duties during the run-up to Santanda’s visit, so she didn’t feel she was letting down the paper, but she missed the da
y-to-day routine. Afterwards she would find the time and energy to sort out her own messed-up life. Talk things through with Ole, figure out what it was she wanted from Per. She hardly saw Ole at all. She had gone home early the day before, but there had been no sign of him. They had had breakfast together but said very little. Her heart had gone out to him. He looked slightly pathetic, a bit tired, older. With none of Per’s vigour and robustness. He looked so frail sitting there, with his shoulders drooping. Greyish, porcelain-like pallor. It wasn’t fair to compare them, but she did it all the time. She felt so much younger and stronger. She had a lot of laughs with Per. When had she and Ole last had a good laugh together? She felt sorry for him but knew that if she showed the slightest sign of pity, he would hit the roof.

  ‘Should I make dinner this evening?’ she had asked in one such fit of compassion, even though she knew very well that when it came to it she would probably cry off and go into the office or home with Per instead.

  ‘I’ll be eating out tonight,’ he had replied.

  She had been surprised to find that he actually had a life outside of her.

  ‘Oh? Who with?’

  Ole had studied her with his weary, slightly bloodshot eyes, but there had been a touch of the old Ole sarcasm in his voice when he said:

  ‘A man, Lise. A young man I met, and whom I’ve spoken to a couple of times. A lonesome Jutlander, all on his own like me.’

  Then she had left, calling back over her shoulder that she would be late home, and bang went yet another opportunity for reconciliation or, if nothing else, a chance to talk. The worst of it was that as soon as she walked out of the door she felt on top of the world: she was on her way to a newspaper office where she really enjoyed working, and afterwards she would be meeting a man she was mad about and with whom, with any luck, later that same day she would make love, if he asked her to come home with him. She didn’t like being the dependent one, but at the same time she couldn’t do without him. It was like being a teenager again. It was dreadful, really, and yet absolutely wonderful. She felt so alive.