The Serbian Dane

by Leif Davidsen

  Lise caught sight of Peter Sørensen standing in the queue at the gangplank with his cameraman.

  ‘Hi, Lise. Where are we going? Is it Flakfortet?’

  ‘Briefing on board, Peter,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  The last stragglers filed on board. A steady breeze was blowing, but the weather was quite mild with only a light scattering of cloud, so she gathered the press corps under the canopy on the upper deck of the old fishing boat, where pots of coffee and tea had been set out, along with bottles of Gammel Dansk, beer and soft drinks. Lise climbed onto a bench and faced the assembled company.

  ‘Okay. Quiet please,’ she called out and was surprised by how calm and assured her voice sounded. ‘I’m Lise Carlsen, chair of Danish PEN. For the benefit of our colleagues from abroad I’m going to do this in English.’

  She paused. They fell silent; all eyes were on her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and was filled with the quiet composure that comes from simply pulling oneself together and getting on with things. ‘We’re on our way to Flakfortet, in the middle of the Sound, where we will meet the writer Sara Santanda. She arrived in Copenhagen this morning.’

  She heard their voices rise up to meet her and proceeded to answer their questions.

  Vuk fell asleep in spite of himself but woke before six in the morning. The camping lamp was still burning. He ate his last sandwich, drank the rest of the tea and water. He got out the little mirror and inspected his face. The hair dye was holding up fine. He mopped his face with the towel and combed his hair neatly before removing his clothes and climbing into the wetsuit. It was still slightly damp and clammy. He hung the little bag containing his money and papers around his neck then pulled his shirt and trousers on over the wetsuit. He knotted the tie and donned the tweed jacket. He studied his face and as much of his body as he could see in the mirror. His clothes were possibly bulging a little, but no more than to make him look like a man who had put on weight and was filling out his clothes a little too well, but had not yet resigned himself to going up a size. He bound the knife in its sheath to his shin under his trouser leg, checked the pistol and its magazine and kept it in his hand, sitting there on his sleeping bag. Then he extinguished the camping lamp and sat in the darkness, concentrating on keeping himself awake and alert to any sound.

  Not until around 10.00 am did he hear footsteps and voices outside in the passageways. They were making their last round. He could hear that they had a dog with them It was well trained and did not bark, but it had scented something. He could hear it whining on the other side of the door. He had been needing to relieve himself for ages, but had held it in: he didn’t want a dog picking up his scent.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ a voice said. ‘King! Come here! It’s just a dead rat.’

  ‘What about that door?’ another voice asked.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Vuk cocked the pistol. They were rattling the door.

  ‘There’s not a blind thing here. Some rats have been fighting, that’s all. Real bloody rat-catcher is King. They drive him wild. Foxes and rats, they drive dogs crazy.’

  He heard them walk off, gave them half an hour. He was guessing that once they had made a thorough search of the casemates they would position themselves on the roof of Flakfortet, from where they could see any boat approaching the island. The restaurant staff would be inside, preparing lunch. The other police officers would be deployed on the grass between the restaurant and the harbour to receive the press and, later, the Target herself. That, at any rate, was what he had gathered from the schedule. He hoped they were sticking to this arrangement and that he had read their intentions all right.

  Vuk opened the door onto total darkness. Only a faint strip of light was visible at the far end, by the steps. Very quietly he eased the heavy steel door shut and fastened it with the chain and padlock. With the pistol in one hand and the torch in the other, he crept warily along the passage. He knew the layout of the place, he didn’t need a light, but he wanted to be ready to dazzle any possible opponent. One floor up it became easier for him to see. Light filtered down into the casemates from above. He leaned against the wall and waited. There was no movement, and no sound except for a constant hum, which had to come from the generator that provided the fort with electricity. He carried on up to the main corridor, into which light fell from the open doors at either end. Again he stood for a while with his back to the wall, but still saw no sign of movement, heard no sound. He stole quickly along the passage in his rubber-soled shoes and down to the staff quarters. He pulled his lock-pick from his pocket. It took him only a minute to pick the simple Ruko lock on the door of the chef’s room.

  As he had expected, the room was empty: the chef would be getting the lunch organized. It was not much more than a shoebox containing a bed, a washbasin, a television, a large ghetto blaster, a little table and a high-backed chair. On the wall hung a picture of Denmark’s European Cup-winning team and two Playboy centrefolds. On the table stood a photograph of a buxom young woman – the chef’s girlfriend, he presumed. With a bit of a struggle he pulled his trousers down and the wetsuit fly to one side, peed into the washbasin with a sigh of relief then rinsed it carefully. It was awkward, and he felt very vulnerable, standing like that with his trousers round his ankles and his back to the door.

  He adjusted his dress and sat down on the chair, facing the door; he removed a cigarette and lighter from the waterproof bag, lit up and took a long drag, biding his time until the press corps showed up. His plan was to go upstairs and mingle with them when they were wandering around the fort, waiting for Sara Santanda to arrive. According to the schedule, they were supposed to get to the fort half an hour before the Target. One journalist more or less would never be noticed by the police. Their eyes would not be on the press. They were expecting the threat to come from outside. They would be looking outwards, not inwards. And that would be their big mistake.

  The dog patrol reported back to John. They had searched every inch of the place and had found nothing untoward. He glanced up at the ramparts and the four police snipers whom he had posted there. The pleasure boats had left the harbour. The only craft lying there was the harbour police’s own speedboat, which had brought them across. Another two armed policemen were stationed down by the quayside. Along with Bente, who was in constant touch with the control room. Everything that could be done had been done. He called Per on his mobile. Per didn’t trust radios. He preferred mobile phones: the press could not monitor calls on them, or not yet, at least.

  ‘Per? It’s John. Everything’s secured. You can bring the Subject in.’

  ‘Great, John. The press are on their way. We’re on schedule.’

  The restaurateur came out to join him in front of the pavilion.

  ‘Well, what’s the story?’

  ‘Your customers will be here in half an hour. Press conference in an hour.’

  ‘We’re all ready for them. Would you like a cup of coffee while we’re waiting?’

  ‘I’d love one, thanks,’ John said.

  Per was to transport the Subject in the car with the smoked-glass windows from the brunch meeting into the city centre, to the quay fronting the old converted warehouse that was now home to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Here Jon and his deckhand would be waiting with the White Whale. John looked at his watch. Per would then help the Subject into the boat and down to the cabin, where the door would be locked and the curtains drawn. Tagesen would follow them on board, and they would set sail for Flakfortet. He would receive a call once they were on their way. There was time for a cup of coffee. Everything was going according to plan. Even the weather was on their side: scattered cloud and a watery sun, although he had also noticed black clouds building up on the horizon over Sweden.

  There would be rain later in the afternoon, as forecast, and the wind would freshen, but by then this hurdle, at least, would have been cleared.

  The M/S Langø sailed into Flakfortet’s harbour. The
TV cameramen had been filming like mad for some time. It was a brilliant set-up, with Flakfortet looming larger and larger in the Sound as they drew closer. And then, as they sailed into the harbour, great shots of the armed police on top of the fort, against the dramatic backdrop of the sky. The big black clouds on the horizon, Flakfortet’s grassy slopes and the rough fieldstone of its solid walls – they couldn’t have asked for better pictures.

  Peter Sørensen turned to Lise:

  ‘It makes great television, Lise. Is all this just for us?’

  ‘No, it’s also a secure location,’ she said. She had had to answer countless questions, not least about the history of Flakfortet. The foreign journalists were particularly interested in this, so she had not had time to dwell on her grief or had at any rate pushed it down into some deep recess of her mind. It was there, she knew. It would rise to the surface again, but she would not fall apart.

  ‘Is Janos connected to this in some way?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Come on, Lise, give me something to go on, at least.’

  ‘I can’t think why you should ask that,’ she retorted, aware of a slight quaver in her voice, as the thought of Janos brought those ghastly images back into her mind.

  She was saved by the reporter from Reuters, who wanted to know who owned the old military fortress and whether it had ever seen battle. She began to tell him about it but could still feel Peter’s sceptical eyes boring into the back of her head. They docked, streamed ashore. Reporters and photographers scattered in all directions, and she took the chance to get well away from him. Some of the press people went up to the restaurant for a beer; others were taking cover shots while they waited. John observed them. There was nothing to be done about it. Their credentials had been checked, and he knew it was a waste of time asking them to stay where they were. But that was one of the other good things about Flakfortet. They knew who was on the island, and no one could get on to it unremarked.

  Vuk heard people in the passageway outside the chef’s room and got to his feet. He took his notebook from his bag, left the room and made his way to the toilet. He locked himself in there until he heard a voice crying:

  ‘She’s coming. Her boat’s on its way in now.’

  He heard running feet out in the passageway, left the toilet and followed three men and a woman who were dashing on ahead of him. He emerged from one of the main entrances to see reporters and photographers flocking round the quayside, jostling for the best position. They came hurrying out of the restaurant, down from the ramparts and out of the shop where they had been killing time by browsing through brochures. The craft that slid smoothly through the harbour entrance was a lovely, low-hulled, wooden motorboat, whose skipper stood up on the quarterdeck surveying the scene before him on the grassy quayside. Vuk saw the Target emerge from the cabin to stand between two men. The one in the windcheater looked like a bodyguard. The other was in a suit and had to be one of the organizers. Vuk’s mouth was slightly dry, and his heart was beating a little faster. But that was all right. That rush of adrenalin was essential. He was ready.

  Chapter 22

  Tagesen stood on the quarterdeck of the White Whale. He was gratified to see such a large press turnout, although somewhat less happy that the proceedings had to be conducted under the protection of armed police. Most of all, though, he was proud that he and his newspaper had made this meeting in the middle of the sea – one which he looked forward to describing in a forthcoming leader – a reality. Should it, though, have been Lise standing here alongside Sara Santanda? Had he stolen too much of the limelight? Well, he had to think about the paper and himself. He was the activist editor of an activist newspaper. Danish PEN did some sterling work, but it would have to take second place on this day when his paper made history. Somewhere along the line Lise understood that too, he was sure. Although she might well have objected, if tragedy had not struck. She was a tough cookie; she never gave up. But, all things considered, the division of responsibilities they had arrived at was probably the right one. In any case she was employed by the newspaper, and it was mainly thanks to Politiken that Sara Santanda was here at all. And hence it was only because Lise worked for Politiken that Danish PEN was able to take some of the credit, Tagesen reasoned smugly.

  He looked at Sara Santanda and from her to the pointing camera lenses, the flashes, the eager faces and jostling bodies. Sometimes he found himself wondering about the profession which he had chosen and which he represented. This lot were like a pack of wolves scenting their prey. Even the most levelheaded journalists forgot all about politeness and good manners when faced with a good story; when all that mattered was to be in the front row.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s such an out-of-the-way place,’ he said in English.

  She gave him the soft, friendly smile that he had come to cherish during the few hours they had spent in each other’s company. He couldn’t understand how this charming, mild-mannered middle-aged woman could have sent the clerics in Teheran into such blind paroxysms of fury. He found it incomprehensible, but, irrational though it was, it made him happy to think that literature could have such an effect. That the written word mattered so much. Had so much power. He had said this in today’s leader. And he was looking forward, tomorrow, to lambasting those spineless Danish politicians who hadn’t dared to put in an appearance here, so worried were they about export figures. Follow the money. He could make that the headline.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Sara said, waving to the reporters. ‘It’s perfectly all right. And I love the sea. Just the smell of it. I think this is great. And it’s only the beginning. The first step. Like a little child, I’m taking my first steps into the open.’

  The reporters were all shouting at once. How did she feel? Was she afraid? When had she arrived? And photographers cursed one another as lenses were blocked by other camera-wielding hands and arms.

  ‘Easy,’ Tagesen shouted. ‘Take it easy, now. Let Sara Santanda get ashore and into the restaurant, then you’ll have plenty of opportunity to put your questions to her. And Sara has agreed to give separate interviews to the television stations after the press conference. So let’s just take it easy, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Per Toftlund beheld the spectacle. He had never understood the members of the Fourth Estate, to him they were a right royal pain in the ass and so totally self-centred; their behaviour now only confirmed his low opinion of them. He came ashore first, taking the four strides onto the quayside and waiting there for Sara Santanda, holding the journalists at bay with his broad back. He took the writer’s hand and helped her out of the low wooden vessel and up onto the grassy wharf. The reporters and photographers kept pushing and shoving. Per motioned to John, who elbowed his way through to him, and together they succeeded in creating a little space around the slightly-built writer, who was smiling and waving and looking as if she were enjoying all the attention, though with a growing unease over the disorderly crowd flickering in her eyes.

  ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen. Please. Let’s be civilized,’ she said, and her quiet voice seemed to have a calming effect. At any rate she was given a bit more room as they all drew back a pace or two, forming a circle around her. Peter Sørensen was at the very front with his microphone in his hand and his cameraman right behind him. The cameraman nudged Per aside, obscuring his view. He cursed the man but couldn’t bring himself to push the camera away. Relations between the police and the press were not exactly great as it was.

  ‘How are you, Ms Santanda?’ Peter Sørensen asked.

  ‘I’m very well, young man, and very happy to be here,’ she replied.

  All eyes were on Sara Santanda. No one noticed Vuk, who had made his way from the main entrance of the fort to the fringes of the crowd of press people encircling the tiny writer. In his right hand he held a notepad and a pen. He let these fall to the ground, slid his hand across his stomach and into his satchel, drew out the pistol, cocked it and held it straight down alon
gside his leg. He pushed the man in front of him so hard in the back that he stumbled forward, dragging another reporter with him. Like ninepins they teetered but did not go down. Voices were raised in complaint, but it gave him the room he needed. Vuk was now only three feet away from the Target, who had her back to him, speaking into a microphone. Becoming aware of ructions in the ranks, the television reporter looked up, straight into Vuk’s eyes. Even with the beard and the dark hair he knew him.

  ‘Janos!’ Sørensen cried.

  Vuk’s arm was on its way up, but for a second, recognizing his old friend and staring him in the face, he froze.

  Lise was standing on the edge of the crowd, but Vuk’s shove had created an opening in the mass of bodies, and suddenly there he was, as if he had risen out of the ground itself.

  ‘Carsten!’ she screamed.

  Vuk’s arm was moving upwards again, but Toftlund had spotted the movement. He launched himself into a flying tackle, which spun the TV cameraman round on his heel as the policeman shot past him, and rammed into Sara Santanda, all thirteen and a half stone of him, sending both her and himself crashing to the ground, which she hit first with a dull thud. Per heard the wind being knocked out of her lungs and the snap of an arm breaking or a shoulder dislocating. She groaned, but he flattened his broad frame over hers, twisting round as he did so to look up at Vuk.

  Per heard a shot and felt the gust of air as the bullet whizzed over the back of his head. He heard another ring out. Vuk’s first shot hit the television cameraman in the throat, went straight through and into the shoulder of the man standing next to him. His next shot pierced the upper arm of a female reporter and carried on into the calf of a press photographer. Both started to scream, and the panic spread. Some people threw themselves to the ground. Others tried to run away. Still others stood transfixed.