The Serbian Dane

by Leif Davidsen

  Outside the restaurant were signs advertising the day’s specialities: lobscouse and fried eel. He picked up a brochure in the little shop next door. On the front was a picture of Flakfortet, on the back a map showing its position. Vuk read about the history of the fort: Built between 1910 and 1916 as a sea fort designed to defend the Danish capital against bombardment. One of the largest of its kind, at its peak it had a garrison of 550 troops. It sat on a sand bar and covered an area of seven and a half acres. The manmade island measured seventy-five feet in height, read Vuk, who also learned that the fort buildings were on two levels, with passageways linking ammunition stores, sleeping quarters, machine shop and barrack rooms. It had been manned and fully operational during the German occupation from 1940 to 1945. In 1968 the Danish army vacated Flakfortet, and for seven years it lay forsaken and neglected. It was still owned by the Ministry of Defence, but managed by the Flakfortet Society. During the summer months it was visited by a great many day trippers and sailing enthusiasts and could also be hired for private and business functions.

  Vuk read all of this while walking down a long, well-kept, brightly lit passage under the fort, referred to in the brochure as Fortgaden. There were new brown doors in the cement walls and signs for public toilets. A flight of cement steps ran up to the old fortifications right at the very top, where cannon and anti-aircraft guns had once defended the narrow strait between Sweden and Denmark. Other steps led down into the bowels of the fort. Some of the corridors were clean and well lit. Others had not yet been renovated and were still shrouded in gloom. It was chilly down in the nethermost passages, probably no more than ten degrees Celsius. Vuk explored every inch of the fort, memorizing the general layout and every turn of its maze of passageways. He turned down one of the unlit corridors, ignoring the sign on the wall saying ‘No Admittance’ He took a torch from his bag. Its powerful beam revealed damp grey walls and rusting steel doors hung with ancient notices that told him he was down in the old ammunition and powder stores. He heard a squeak and in the cone of light saw a rat scurry along the foot of the wall and disappear into a gap between the steel door and the crumbling concrete. The doors were securely fastened with heavy padlocks. Vuk examined one of the padlocks by the light of his torch. It would be a simple matter to pick it. That had been one of many useful skills taught at the Special Forces school. He could make himself a lock-pick on the lathe at the house in Hellerup. Vuk began to discern the outlines of a plan. It would involve taking some huge risks, but he had to work on the assumption that Denmark was not geared up for hostage situations. He had to bank on having five minutes of utter confusion when his ruthlessness would afford him the head start he needed. Santanda would arrive by boat. Of that he was sure, although they might also opt for a helicopter, but he was betting on a boat: a pretty speedy craft, on which he would make his getaway. If they had a helicopter circling overhead he was done for. But he didn’t think they would. They might have one on stand-by, though, and that was okay. They didn’t know that he knew every step of their schedule inside out. That was his ace in the hole, his trump card.

  Vuk made his way back along the passageway. He heard voices, switched off the torch and stood stock-still, blind in the darkness. All he could see was the light at the end of the tunnel, and the sound of the guide’s voice reached his ears as if through a funnel:

  ‘This part of the fort is closed off. We still don’t have the money necessary for the renovation of the casemates. Flakfortet suffered from a lot of vandalism over the years when it was lying empty. Now if we go down here…’

  Vuk heard the footsteps of the little group moving away. He slipped the torch back into his bag and returned to the main entrance and the new doors. One of the doors swung open, and a young man in chef’s whites came out. He eyed Vuk uncertainly, obviously wondering what he was doing in the staff quarters.

  ‘I was looking for the toilets,’ Vuk said.

  The chef pointed to the bottom of the passage.

  ‘They’re just down there,’ he said.

  Vuk gave him a big smile.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The chef couldn’t help smiling back. Vuk’s smile was so infectious.

  ‘You must be the man who’s doing the food for us.’

  ‘Yep. How does fried eel sound?’

  ‘Mmm. Great.’

  ‘Well, you’ve still got time. See ya.’

  ‘Yeah, bye.’

  The chef nipped past him, and Vuk followed him down to the signs to the toilets. He committed the number of the chef’s room to memory. It might come in handy later.

  Vuk walked up onto the top of the fort. He looked across to Sweden and then to Denmark. The Swedish coast appeared close and inviting. He gazed back at Saltholm and watched the boats out on the water while he smoked a cigarette and mulled over his plan. He spied a Russian coaster sailing northwards through the Sound. It gave a short blast on its whistle as it passed a flat-bottomed barge heading south. The Russian tricolour flew from the stern of the barge, and an idea began to take shape in Vuk’s mind. Again, it was very risky, but the odds were not impossible. If his luck held, it would definitely be worth a try.

  In the restaurant, Vuk had fried eel washed down with a small draught beer and coffee while he turned things over in his mind. He was alone in the restaurant apart from the three elderly ladies, who were sitting over coffee, pastries and cheroots. The eel tasted odd rather than good, and the boiled potatoes had an unwonted floury texture. They brought back memories of childhood dinners with Mikael’s aunt who had made what she called proper Danish food; he could almost taste the hamburger steaks with fried onions, the pork sausages and red cabbage, meatballs and roast pork with parsley sauce, and recall the scent of her tiny kitchen. She must be dead now, otherwise Mikael would surely have mentioned her. He grew a little sentimental and allowed himself to lapse into nostalgia. A lot of things in his life could have been different if he had made other choices. But maybe the fact was that the choices had been made beforehand.

  He was shaken out of his reverie by the sight of the chef emerging from the kitchen. He was puffing on a cigarette, and when he spotted Vuk he came over to his table.

  ‘Well, how was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Good. Like you said,’ Vuk replied.

  The chef nodded.

  ‘So I guess you’ll be taking the boat home now too?’

  ‘God, no. I won’t be going home until Saturday. We’re out here from Tuesday to Saturday.’

  ‘That must be pretty tough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s amazing what you can get used to,’ the chef remarked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Vuk said and got ready to pay his bill.

  He went back to the hotel, changed into his smarter trousers and jacket and put on a tie before packing the guns and the rest of his things. His luggage was still untouched. No one had tampered with it. He bound the sheath containing the doubled-edged blade around his ankle and made a thorough check of the room before calling reception to say that he had to leave, but that he would of course pay for the next night, since he was checking out at such short notice. He would be down in ten minutes and would be paying cash.

  Then he called Ole Carlsen, who answered after one ring, as if he had been waiting by the phone.

  ‘Hi, it’s Carsten,’ Vuk said.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Ole muttered. He sounded disappointed, as though he had hoped it would be Lise.

  ‘I just wanted to say thanks for a great evening,’ Vuk said.

  ‘Aah, it wasn’t the best really,’ Ole said.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it was.’

  ‘I don’t know where the hell she is.’

  ‘It’s all my fault, Ole. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘I wanted to ask if you could me a favour.’

  ‘Sure. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve got anything else to do.’

  ‘I’ve managed to rent th
e first floor of a house in Hellerup…’

  ‘Hey, that sounds great. Are you moving to Copenhagen?’

  ‘Nah, but I’m back and forth so often these days, I wouldn’t mind having a place of my own. I’m sick of hotels.’

  ‘Very sensible, if you ask me.’

  ‘I was thinking…you’ve got a car…and what with my cases and everything, I was wondering whether you…?’

  ‘But of course. Where are you now?’

  ‘Could you be at the corner of Istedgade and Reventlowsgade in half an hour?’

  ‘No problem. It’s the least I can do. I’ll leave a note to let Lise know.’

  ‘Does she deserve that?’

  Ole laughed mirthlessly:

  ‘No, not really.’

  They drove in silence. Ole reeked faintly of booze but seemed steady enough behind the wheel, and his speech was clear and coherent.

  Sad though he was, he seemed to have come to terms with things. As if he knew it was over. It would be just like the thing for them to track him down because Ole got arrested for drunk driving. The evening was dark and cold, and the tarmac glistened with moisture. The trees bent in the wind, which had freshened.

  Vuk gave directions to the house, and when they got there Ole parked outside the front gate. Vuk had put his luggage in the boot. He let Ole take the one suitcase while he carried the locked Samsonite case and the holdall. An old lady walked past on the other side of the street with her little dog on a leash. She turned in at the gate of the house opposite, looking back at the two men as she did so.

  ‘What a lovely house,’ Ole said. ‘You’ve struck it lucky here, all right.’

  Vuk made no reply, merely went ahead of Ole up the short flight of steps to the front door. He set down the case and the holdall and unlocked the door. He switched on the light, stepped aside and let Ole walk in first.

  ‘Have you got the whole of the first floor?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got the lot,’ Vuk said. Something in his voice must have warned Ole, because he turned and stared at Vuk in bewilderment, but far too late. Vuk punched him hard in the throat and with a gurgle Ole went flying back, slammed into the jamb of the door behind him and collapsed in a heap. In his eyes shone the unspoken question: why?

  ‘You know me, you fool!’ Vuk hissed and dealt him another blow: short, sharp and precise. All the light vanished from Ole Carlsen’s eyes.

  Vuk dragged Ole’s body through the chaotic kitchen to the basement stairs. He gave it a push that sent it rolling down the stairs with him following behind. He removed the car keys from the dead man’s jacket pocket before lugging him through to the washtubs, folding him into the second tub, next to Mikael’s body, and covering both bodies with the tarpaulin.

  Vuk spent the next hour clearing up the kitchen. He emptied the rubbish bins, piled up the old newspapers in a corner, filled the dishwasher and switched it on and when all that was done popped a frozen pizza into the oven. He fetched the bottle of whisky from the sitting room, sat down at the kitchen table and studied the map of Copenhagen Harbour, which showed Flakfortet, Saltholm, the two coastlines and the shipping lanes hugging the land on either side. Between the one, known as Dutchman’s Deep, and the other, King’s Deep, was a marked-off section of the Sound shaped rather like Greenland. This was Middelgrund, the Dirty Sea. Vuk could see that the water here was very shallow.

  He picked up the phone in the kitchen and called the mobile number he had been given by Kravtjov in Berlin. He preferred to use telephone boxes, but the likelihood of the police bugging Mikael’s phone was so slight that he had no hesitation in taking the chance.

  The phone was answered immediately. A man’s voice said simply: ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Vuk,’ Vuk said in his halting Russian.

  ‘Ich verstehe nicht,’ the man’s voice said. He spoke German with a Slavic accent.

  ‘Kravtjov,’ Vuk said.

  In the silence that followed, the phone hissed in his ear, although the line was perfectly clear.

  ‘Haben Sie ein Nummer?’

  ‘Moment,’ he said. He leafed through the phone book and sure enough, there was Mikael’s father’s name. He read out the number, first in Russian, then in German. The other man hung up.

  Vuk had eaten most of his pizza by the time the telephone rang. He hadn’t expected Kravtjov to be carrying that mobile phone himself. It would be in a safe house somewhere, manned by a succession of henchmen. Vuk was the only person to have been given that number. Once the job was done it would be deleted. The mobile phone was a wonderful invention: the phones themselves were easy to carry around and easily concealed, numbers were easily acquired and just as easily cancelled. It had made life a lot simpler.

  ‘Yes,’ said a new voice in English.

  ‘Where’s Kravtjov?’ Vuk asked, also in English.

  ‘I know who you are,’ the voice said.

  ‘Where’s Kravtjov?’

  ‘They got to him. He’s dead.’

  Vuk was silent for a moment, stunned. His mind was racing. His first instinct was just to drop the phone and run, get out of the country. The man in Berlin had possibly been in the field himself at one time. At any rate he seemed to know what Vuk was thinking.

  ‘It was his old colleagues. But it doesn’t appear to have had anything to do with that other matter,’ the even voice said.

  ‘What did he tell them?’

  ‘According to our sources, not very much. Nothing of importance. His heart was weak. It gave out.’

  ‘The contract?’

  ‘It stands,’ the voice said. ‘The same terms. There’s been a reshuffle at our end. The client still intends to honour the agreement.’

  ‘I’m going to need transport home,’ Vuk said.

  ‘So the contract will be fulfilled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me what you need,’ the voice said.

  ‘A Russian coaster or one of the barges I’ve seen here. From Volga-Nefti or Volga-Balt.’

  ‘I know the ones. We have good contact with a number of them.’

  ‘It has to be at a certain spot on the twentieth.’

  ‘That doesn’t give us much time.’

  ‘Can it be done?’

  ‘For a price.’

  ‘The price is immaterial.’

  ‘We’ll arrange to have one in the vicinity from now on.’

  ‘You’ll get the exact coordinates just before.’

  ‘Fine,’ the voice said.

  Vuk paused for a moment, then said:

  ‘Have the competition got wind of the contract?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Again Vuk had the feeling that he ought to make himself scarce as fast as possible. All the signs were there: the warning tingle down his spine, the quickening of his heartbeat and the film of moisture on his palms. It was the adrenalin, he knew, but these were also danger signals.

  ‘Are they ahead of us?’ he asked.

  ‘No. They’re fumbling in the dark. They’re not as far ahead as us.’

  ‘Okay,’ Vuk said. ‘We proceed.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the voice in Berlin.

  Vuk poured himself another small whisky and drank it in the kitchen. He had tuned into CNN on the television in the corner. There was still nothing but bad news from Bosnia. CNN switched to a new item. Vuk saw the Tibetan leader, the Dalai Lama, come out of a door and walk towards the waiting press. The Dalai Lama was surrounded by people who were crowding in on him while his aides did their best to shield him. Vuk saw a couple of uniformed police officers struggling to keep the reporters, press photographers and television cameramen at bay, but they just went on jostling to get close to the monk, who looked so small and defenceless in his orange robes. They jabbed their microphones into his face like long lances. Vuk observed the scene with some interest. He did not understand the reporters and all their pushing and shoving and shouting. But their impatience and their lack of consideration gave him an idea, one which he considered that same night as he
drove Ole’s car back and parked it, with the doors locked, outside the apartment in Østerbro. He threw the car keys down a drain and took the train back to the house in Hellerup.

  He went upstairs and switched on the computer. He could see from the little envelope in the email icon that there were some messages for Mikael. He went into the programme. There were eight new mails. Vuk read one of them. It was from Australia and had something to do with a programming tool unknown to Vuk. All of the other electronic mail also had to do with computers and programmes. None of them required an immediate answer, but from the list of mails Vuk could tell that Mikael had been corresponding with people all over the world. He exited the email programme, formatted the disk from Lise’s apartment and stuck it into a pile of fresh disks lying on the desk.

  He collected the whisky bottle and a glass from the sitting room and went back upstairs. There were numerous rooms on the first floor, among them Mikael’s parents’ bedroom overlooking the Sound, a room that appeared to do duty as a lumber-room, a large bathroom and a guest room with a bed already made up and covered with a patterned bedspread. Vuk drew the curtains and lay down on the bed with the bottle of whisky. He had to down two large ones before he felt sleep stealing over him. He dreaded sleep and the way it robbed his subconscious of all control, but he slept peacefully and dreamlessly. He had two full days in which to make the final preparations. All the pieces of his plan had now fallen into place; he knew exactly what he had to do.

  Chapter 19

  Lise Carlsen stood on the veranda of Per Toftlund’s apartment, smoking a cigarette. She couldn’t sleep and had gone out onto the veranda to have a ciggie. Not that Per hadn’t told her she was welcome to smoke in his apartment, but she didn’t like to. He was so tidy it was uncanny. She didn’t feel right in these almost stringently masculine surroundings. She thought of Ole. She had stormed out of the apartment in high dudgeon the night before and had more or less told herself that she wasn’t going back until he was out of there, but she supposed that wasn’t really feasible. They had bought the apartment together and they would have to sell it together. She would need to start looking around for something else once Sara’s visit was out of the way. She couldn’t stay at Per’s place. It was too small, too much his own, and they would soon start to get on one another’s nerves, once they stopped spending most of their time in bed. Could she afford to go on living in that big apartment on just one income? Probably not, but she would have to do her sums. There always seemed to be something she had to do. And no matter what, tomorrow she would have to go home for some fresh clothes. Or today, rather. She was wearing Per’s thick bathrobe and nothing else, and the night air was cold. She shivered; her eye was drawn to the dark shadow of Vestskoven and the flashing lights in the distance. Somewhere out there, she thought to herself, an assassin was waiting. If what they had been told was right. The police had been asking around on the street, as Per put it. They had checked out scores of hotels, put their snouts to work and asked the mobile units to make a few inquiries when called out anyway to incidents in the Copenhagen underworld. But no luck. She thought of the hired killer, assassin, hit man, or whatever one was supposed to call the nameless, Danish-speaking foreigner who might be lying in wait out there, somewhere in the city. She tossed her cigarette over the rail of the veranda, her conscience pricking her, but this place was simply too neat and clean. She tried to concentrate on the thought that had been just about to surface: a sense of something important that had come to her at that point between waking and the beginnings of sleep, when they were snuggled up together, spoonwise, after making love. But she couldn’t remember what it was that had struck her, and now she was thinking of Per and his strong agile body.