The Serbian Dane (25 page)

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. 

T
agesen 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 alongside 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.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vuk saw a man in plain clothes pull a pistol from a holster at his belt. Vuk whirled about, gripped the Beretta with both hands and shot John twice in the chest, then he flung an arm round the throat of the woman standing closest to him, Lise, and held her in front of him, with the barrel of the pistol pressed against her neck.

Lise gasped but did not give way to tears. She was filled with a mixture of fear, anger and despair.

The two wounded were moaning. John lay lifeless on the ground, blood trickling from his chest and from under his back, where the bullet had exited. Bente stood with her arms outstretched, mouth gaping in a mute shriek. The cameraman lay on his stomach with blood gushing from his throat. The other press people had drawn back a little and stood silently staring, or lay on the grass, gaping in horror. A number were in tears. Others, ashen-faced, were in the first stages of shock. Peter Sørensen kneeled down next to his cameraman. Sara Santanda writhed in agony under Per’s weight. He had covered her completely with his body and had pulled out his gun.

‘Stay down,’ he hissed at the prone form beneath him.

‘You’ve broken my shoulder and several ribs,’ she hissed back with something that might almost have been a laugh in her pain-wracked voice. ‘Is that what you call saving me?’

‘Stay down!’ he said again. This woman was something else.

Vuk raised his pistol and aimed it at Per.

‘Move. I have no quarrel with you,’ he said.

Per yelled:

‘If he shoots just one more, take him out. Hostage or no hostage. That’s an order.’

The two uniformed policemen had kept their heads. They had cocked their machine guns and moved one pace to the side, so that they had Vuk and Lise in their line of sight. Per knew them from previous security assignments.
They were good solid men, not easily panicked.

Lise felt Vuk’s hold on her neck tighten. It suddenly struck her what Per had said.

‘Per,’ she tried, but the pressure on her throat was so hard that she couldn’t get the word out. She could see it in Per’s eyes. He had made his choice. She gazed at him imploringly, but his eyes left her to focus instead on the man with the pistol.

With his gun trained on Vuk, Per said:

‘Janos. You can’t have her. If you shoot again, you’re a dead man. You’re not getting her. You know that. We will not relinquish the Target.’

Vuk shot a swift glance to right and left. The two uniformed officers had assumed the standing firing position, their guns pointing steadily at him. He knew there were snipers up on the ramparts. It was time to admit defeat and put his escape plan into action. Vuk, with Lise as a human shield, kept his pistol trained on Per, who was covering Sara Santanda with his body.

‘Okay,’ Vuk said coolly and began to back slowly towards the quay. There were stirrings in the crowd, and the policemen took a step closer.

‘Stop!’ Vuk bellowed. ‘Nobody move. I’ve got nothing to lose. This one’ll go first, then Santanda and then a couple more. I will not be taken. Is that understood?’

‘Understood,’ Per said. He could hear Santanda’s laboured wheezing, she was crying softly now. He only hoped she hadn’t punctured a lung. ‘Stay down,’ he breathed, then said out loud:

‘Name your terms.’

Vuk shot a quick glance behind him. Skipper Jon was standing on the bridge of his boat along with his deckhand, staring in stunned disbelief at the scene. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

‘He’s to take me away from here. The deckhand leaves the boat. She’s coming with me. If any boat leaves Flakfortet or if a boat puts out from Copenhagen to intercept me, they both die.’

‘You don’t stand a chance. Give yourself up,’ Per argued. He was white as a sheet, but the hand holding the gun was steady as a rock, and his eyes were locked on Vuk’s own.

‘Fuck you,’ Vuk said.

Per glanced over at John’s lifeless body, knowing that others had also been hit. The main thing right now was to help the wounded and get Janos out of here. They would get this guy later, one way or another.

‘What about the wounded?’ he said. ‘They need help.’

‘If any boat leaves the harbour within the next half-hour, they die,’ Vuk said in his clear expressionless voice.

Per gripped his pistol more firmly, as if wondering whether to risk it. Lise was terrified out of her wits by now. Not just because of the man who was gripping her so tightly round the neck, but also because the man who had been her lover now seemed like someone who was prepared to sacrifice her.

‘Don’t try it,’ Vuk said, and she silently thanked him.

‘It’s a deal,’ Per said.

‘Per,’ Lise ventured again, but the stranglehold on her neck tightened even further as Vuk dragged her backwards, still holding her as a shield.

‘Out!’ Vuk barked at the deckhand, who bounded the four steps onto the quayside and scrambled away.

Vuk sidled down to the boat, still with his arm locked around Lise’s neck. She was conscious of how strong he was, but his arm felt odd, as if he were wearing something rubbery under his jacket. There was a split-second when he almost tripped, and the grip on her throat slackened, but he neatly regained his balance and resumed the agonizing stranglehold.

‘Cast off!’ Vuk shouted to Jon, deathly-pale on his bridge.

He had edged behind the
White Whale
’s skipper so that he was now screened by both Lise and Jon. He didn’t trust the policemen on the fort ramparts. One of them might just try to play the hero.

With his hand on the ignition key, Jon looked to Toftlund.

‘Cast off!’ Vuk said.

Toftlund still lay spread-eagled across Sara.

‘Cast off,’ Vuk repeated, adding: ‘I’ve got nothing against dying. I come from a country where death is commonplace. But you’ll go first. Then her, and probably one or two others as well. So cast off!’

Toftlund nodded, and the deckhand on the quayside slipped the moorings. The
White Whale’s
carefully maintained engine sprang smoothly to life, and Jon manoeuvred her away from the quay. When the boat reached the
harbour entrance, and the frothing water round the propeller indicated that Jon had opened the throttle, Per jumped up.

‘Værløse, helicopter now!’ he roared at Bente, who fumbled with her radio, but kept a cool head and steadily proceeded to make a brief report. Most of the reporters and photographers were still on the ground, as if they had not yet grasped exactly what had happened, but others were getting slowly to their feet.

Toftlund looked back at the
White Whale
, which was now heading out of the harbour at full speed.

He turned to Bente:

‘Find the restaurant first-aid box and take charge here!’

He pressed the transmit button on his radio and proceeded to outline the situation, emphasizing the fact that the fleeing hostage-taker was extremely dangerous and that no one was to go near the
White Whale.
He wanted a helicopter dispatched to Flakfortet with a medical team. Then he walked over to John and kneeled down beside him. No doctor could help him. Rage and desperation welled up inside Per as it finally dawned on him that it was Lise on that boat. She had been the hostage who had to be sacrificed to protect the Target. But now she was no longer simply a hostage, she was Lise. His eyes went to Sara Santanda who was being helped into a sitting position by Tagesen. She was weeping and holding her side with her right arm while her left arm dangled limply at an odd angle. That she was alive was the only bright spot in a situation that could have turned out a lot worse. He watched the low, sleek wooden boat with Lise on board drawing further and further away.