The Woman from Bratislava

by Leif Davidsen

  They walked on in silence, then Toftlund said:

  ‘I get the impression that the Poles feel they have always been persecuted by Russia, while the Russians see the Poles as perpetually betraying some sort of Slavic brotherhood.’

  ‘A shrewd observation, Mr Toftlund, and quite true,’ Gelbert said.

  ‘But now Poland is a success story and Russia is a big mess. The roles are reversed, right?’

  Gelbert stopped again. They had been walking through the narrow streets and had now come out into a pretty little square surrounded by lovely neo-classical buildings. There were lots of shops and restaurants. In the centre of the square a number of horse-drawn carriages stood in the darkness. Business was slow at this time of day. The drivers sat hunched inside their heavy overcoats, puffing on their cigarettes. The horses had their muzzles buried in their nosebags. The absence of cars here made the silence even more marked. The mist enveloped the scene in a bewitching light which erased all sign that the buildings were actually of concrete and modern-built. A shiver ran down Toftlund’s spine. He could not have said why he suddenly felt uneasy. Maybe it was the atmosphere. But he felt he could clearly hear muffled screams emanating from the walls of the houses round about. It struck him that they were standing on piles of skeletons, that the city rested upon the bodies of thousands.

  Gelbert sensed his mood:

  ‘History lives on here. Warsaw is just one city among many which have made this the century of the victim. You Danes live in a cosy little backwater. I envy you that. Just as people in the Balkans today envy you, because you know nothing of suffering and death. This means, though, that you tend to forget history and what it can do to people.’

  ‘We’re adept at steering clear of serious trouble and keeping on the right side of our big neighbours, not least Germany,’ Toftlund said.

  Gelbert smiled:

  ‘It’s history that has taught you to do that. Just as history has taught us not to take tomorrow for granted. I had a meeting just the other day with my Russian counterpart, a delightfully diplomatic meeting. Because we are, of course, gentlemen. But there was a certain undertone to the whole thing. This was shortly after the Foreign Ministry had declared two so-called diplomats to be personae non gratae in Poland. Our membership of NATO was more or less a fait accompli. He expressed his regret about this, but I had the feeling he knew that while Russia is weak at the moment, Poland is strong, protected as we now are by the world’s only superpower, the United States. When we said goodbye he shook my hand and said: “It’s been nice talking to you, Colonel Gelbert. Might I ask you to remember that when a lion is sick even a monkey can beat the shit out of it. But what happens to the monkey on the day when the lion is back on its feet?” It was an elegantly worded threat, but a threat nonetheless.’

  ‘And an elegantly worded insult,’ Toftlund remarked.

  ‘That too. This is the place.’

  They stepped into a warm restaurant full of good smells. Almost every table was taken. The waitresses, in green blouses and short skirts, looked like something out of a bad operetta, but the beer was cold and foaming. Toftlund let Gelbert order for them both. He was so hungry that he would basically have eaten anything. The meal was heavy, but good. They started with a thick cabbage soup, and followed this with big wild boar steaks served with potato cakes, sauerkraut and gravy. Food like Grandma used to make, Toftlund thought. He ate it all with relish. So did Gelbert. What a metabolism he must have had, to be as slim as he was. They each had another large beer and rounded off with coffee. They chatted a little about their families, but mainly about the one subject on most people’s minds that spring: NATO’s war against Yugoslavia and the stream of refugees now pouring into Albania and threatening to spread to the rest of Europe.

  Over coffee Toftlund said:

  ‘It was very nice of you to invite me to dinner.’

  ‘It was the least I could do. Denmark is our neighbour. In any case, I would always consider it my duty to help one of Commissioner Vuldom’s people. As I said – a formidable woman.’

  Toftlund found his use of the word ‘duty’ – and, in fact, his whole way of speaking – interesting. In Denmark, a word such as ‘duty’ could easily give rise to some wry or sarcastic comment. Despite his American English Gelbert came over as being Central European to the core.

  ‘Can I take it that she has helped you?’

  ‘Most astute, Chief Inspector. Not only has helped, but does help me. For someone like me, appointed to this job not because of my police or legal experience, but because I am seen as having a democratic mentality and a clean sheet as far as the past is concerned, the advice which a woman like Commissioner Vuldom has to offer is invaluable.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And a word of advice to you, before we say goodbye. If you will permit me?’

  ‘Of course. I would be honoured.’ The words were out before Toftlund had time to think about it. He was starting to talk like Gelbert. In a rather antiquated, formal mode of speech which reminded him of the dialogue from an old Danish film, but which seemed to suit the situation.

  ‘Your case is a complex one, that’s for sure. I think you should be looking at the past. Especially the distant …’

  ‘What makes you think that? Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Toftlund said, more sharply than he had intended.

  ‘No. It’s just a hunch. Possibly triggered by our conversation earlier this evening. A hunch based on the fact that Maria Bujic, as you call her, has met so many different people, and that the frequency of these meetings has intensified over the past two years.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee that she has anything to do with this business at all.’

  Gelbert drank the last of his espresso and looked him in the eye:

  ‘What’s your gut feeling?’

  ‘That she does. Somehow she is the key. I just don’t know which lock the key fits.’

  ‘You see. One more word of advice?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘You’ll have no problem with our allies in Budapest and Prague. We’ve sent them the relevant documents on our friend as agreed. But later, in Bratislava, when you meet my Slovakian counterpart, if we can call him that, you should not, perhaps, be quite as open with him as we have been with one another. I don’t think he has very much contact with Commissioner Vuldom. If I can put it like that.’

  ‘Konstantin. Stop beating about the bush,’ Toftlund said.

  Gelbert gave his high-pitched laugh and reached a hand across the table.

  ‘Okay, Per. Let’s cut the bullshit, as they say in the States. My esteemed colleague, Eduard Findra, is a product of Meciar’s special forces regiment. He may not be entirely loyal to the new left-wing government, or to NATO for that matter. He used to work for the old Czechoslovakian secret service. Had he been a Czech he would have been put out to pasture years ago. The Slovaks are not quite so choosy. They have to use whatever skills these people happen to possess.’

  ‘Meciar? The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite think why.’

  ‘No, well, why should you Danes take an interest in the politics of some remote country in Central Europe,’ Gelbert responded drily. ‘Meciar is a former boxer, a gangster, prime minister, nationalist, one-time communist and far too popular with the Slovaks. Since last year Slovakia has had a new government, a broad democratic coalition. It is now racing against time, trying to get Slovakia back on track for membership of the EU and NATO. Like the rest of us. Slovakia was given the cold shoulder because of Meciar. There’s to be a presidential election in Slovakia in the summer. But Meciar could still cause trouble. Mr Findra, the head of the Slovakian secret service, was appointed by Meciar. He’s living on borrowed time, but he’s still alive. I’m sure he is doing his patriotic duty, but duty is one thing, cronyism is something else again.’

  ‘I’ll bear your advice in mind, Konstantin.’

  ‘Well, I just hope it’s good advice,’ he said and raised his hand.
The waitress came over right away. Toftlund had the distinct impression that Gelbert was a well-liked and respected regular at the restaurant, although he could tell from the prices that this was not a place where ordinary Poles, with their low wages, would often, if ever, eat.

  Toftlund took a taxi back to the hotel. His driver from the morning was waiting for him in the lobby. He worked long hours. Without a word he handed Toftlund a fat manila envelope. Then he bade him a curt goodnight.

  Per settled himself in the room’s one armchair with a whisky from the minibar. In the envelope were the photographs and the relevant reports translated into English. Gelbert’s boys had been hard at it. Instead of the characteristic typewritten characters of the originals, the copies were printed in a modern, word-processor typeface. A handwritten note was attached to the pile. In English, almost as if he had orchestrated their conversation of the evening in advance, Gelbert had written:

  Dear Per,

  Here, as promised, are copies of the documents you requested. We cannot, of course, guarantee the authenticity of the originals. If your inquiries in Bratislava should give rise to any complications you might want to consider contacting Pavel Samson. He used to work for our sister organisation there, but was consigned to criminal investigation by Meciar. This is his private number. He deserves our confidence. Godspeed to Bratislava and my best wishes to Commissioner Vuldom for her health and happiness.

  Yours,

  Konstantin.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ Per Toftlund said out loud. Then he picked up his lined A4 notepad and began to work up his meticulous notes into a report, all ready to be transferred to the computer and thereby to the case file – and, not least, to Vuldom, when he got back to Denmark. He was booked onto a morning flight to Budapest and, if the day went as planned, an evening flight to Bratislava, in order to keep his morning appointment there before flying on to Prague.

  Toftlund wrote down the facts, simply and clearly. Vuldom set great store by lucid prose. But she also liked a report to have a feel to it, or a mood: the expression on a face, an impression, such things could invest a bald case report with meaning and could always be weeded out again later when the document was filed so that, seventy-five years from now, historians and others might be allowed to dip into these top secret documents. On the other hand, one should not go any further than one deemed reasonable. There was no need to give everything away. As she said at her training courses: In a report, what is left unsaid can be both distracting and revealing. And in that paradox the truth about a person or an event will often lie hidden.

  11

  IT WAS RAINING AGAIN early the next morning when Per Toftlund went for a run through the park near his hotel in Warsaw, but the sun was shining from an almost clear sky when his plane landed on schedule in Budapest. Again he was picked up at the airport and driven into the city. The Hungarian capital seemed more prosperous than Warsaw, although it might have been the beautiful houses in the city centre which gave him that impression. The suburbs they passed through on the way from the airport resembled, however, every other place where communist architects and contractors had done their worst: long rows of identical, drab, concrete tower blocks, lined up in ranks like soldiers – a symbol of the party’s absolute power and constant efforts to make people look small, he thought, as the car drove at top speed towards the city centre. Actually, Toftlund had no real feelings about Budapest one way or the other, or Hungary for that matter. He had never been to the country before, and although as a member of the Warsaw Pact it had been on the enemy side during the cold war, Hungary had not come under Denmark’s area of responsibility. Unlike Poland. To Poland had been allotted the task of landing troops along the Zealand coastline. Poland was a near neighbour. From Poland had come the agents who recruited Danish fifth-columnists and buried military equipment and radio receivers in the woods in preparation for the day of the planned invasion. Sitting there in the back of the blue BMW he remembered the chill that had run down his spine the first time he saw the invasion plans in their entirety, after the collapse of communism. Detailed plans which dictated that the first and most important task for the special-forces units from Poland and East Germany set ashore from submarines or dropped by parachute, was to liquidate all of Denmark’s highest-ranking officers and members of the government, thereby paralysing the country. If the invasion failed, the plan was to use tactical nuclear weapons for the first time. He might have come to think of this because he had been pondering Gelbert’s words about history and Danish naivety. How the Danes somehow always expected to get off lightly, as they had done in the First and Second World Wars. And always assumed that someone else would foot the bill. Yet again it had turned out alright. But it could have been a disaster.

  The meeting took place in a modern office building overlooking the Danube and the imposing Parliament building. Two armed guards were stationed at the entrance to the office block where he was dropped off; he was then led past another guard and up to the tenth floor, where he was shown into an empty office. Through the small windows he could see the muddy grey river running past down below. A barge flying the Russian flag slipped slowly past. A woman was hanging out washing in front of the small wheelhouse. Sailing towards the Russian vessel was another barge with the Romanian flag fluttering from the stern. He was offered coffee and mineral water by a middle-aged secretary with a peroxide beehive who smelled heavily of jasmine. She apologised in German for the fact that he was being kept waiting, but Herr Direktor was in a meeting which had run on a little. ‘Der Krieg, wissen Sie, mein Herr.’ She gave him that day’s edition of the Herald Tribune to help pass the time. The big story in the paper was, of course, the NATO bombings. Everything was going according to plan, a NATO spokesman said. Each day new targets were designated and hit. The weather was giving some problems. But there could be no talk of sending in ground troops. They were doing all they could to avoid allied losses. This was a high-tech war, waged from afar. Civilian losses were minimal, NATO said. He read the words: Minimum collateral damage. Other articles painted a less rosy picture. They told of hundreds of thousands of Kosovo Albanian refugees. Fleeing from what? The intensive ethnic cleansing of the Serbs? Or NATO’s bombs? They sought refuge in Macedonia and Albania, both of which were almost collapsing under the weight of refugees. In the parliaments of the wealthy European countries they debated whether they should accept a thousand, or maybe two thousand, refugees. The world was all upside-down, he thought to himself as two men entered the room and introduced themselves.

  ‘Colonel Karoly Karancsi, head of the Intelligence Service. An honour to meet you. May we speak German?’

  ‘By all means,’ Toftlund said, thanking his stars that he had grown up in Tønder, near the German border. ‘Detective Inspector Per Toftlund.’

  Karoly Karancsi was a short, stout man with a narrow moustache. He looked a little like Chaplin in his later years, but his hair was black, possibly dyed, his cheeks were round and smooth as a baby’s and slightly reddened by his close morning shave, his eyes close set under a low brow. His handshake was firm and dry. His well-fitting suit looked tailor-made. With it he wore a pale-blue shirt and and a dark, self-coloured tie. A bureaucrat with dress sense.

  ‘Laszlo Krozsel, criminal investigation department,’ the other man said and offered his hand. He was dressed in a crumpled suit, his tie loosened at the neck. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but was already bald. His face was lined, his eyes grey and beady and his fingers stained with nicotine. He looked like a cop with too many cases on his desk and more landing on it every single day. It was also he who was carrying the case files. In his hand the colonel had just one grey folder. There was something stamped on it in Hungarian – Toftlund guessed it might stand for ‘Strictly Confidential’ or ‘Top Secret’ or something of the sort.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Karancsi said. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. But only days after becoming members of NATO Hungary now finds itself at war with one of it
s neighbours. The situation is anything but simple. There is a large Hungarian minority in Vojvodina. The war has generated a lot of uncertainty in Hungary. The people may not altogether understand NATO’s decision. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how complicated the security situation could become if we permit bombing raids to be made from Hungarian territory, or the passage of military supplies through our country. You were regrettably kept waiting because I had been asked to brief the cabinet on this matter.’

  ‘I understand,’ Toftlund said. ‘These are difficult times we’re living in.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Inspector. Thank you,’ the colonel said. ‘We are allies now, after all. Fighting on the same side. Danish pilots actively, at that. Such a drastic step would be too much for the Hungarian people – the idea that Hungarian pilots might have to drop bombs on their own countrymen, people who, simply due to the vagaries of history, have ended up living in Yugoslavia. But we civil servants have to leave such decisions to the politicans.’

  The two men sat down across from Toftlund at the gleaming wooden table. He could not help feeling that they were about to haggle over fish or butter quotas. The colonel nodded to the policeman, who opened one of the files. First, though, Karancsi said:

  ‘We have studied the material we received from Denmark and from Poland. We would, of course, like to help you, but to be honest I don’t think there is much we can do for you. You may, however, be able to do something for us. We’ll come back to that. First, though, might I suggest that Inspector Krozsel gives you a rundown of that side of the matter pertaining to the murder of the Danish citizen. Herr Krozsel?’