Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Before leaving, Malene phones Paul. He is giving a lecture out of town, but luckily she gets hold of him during a coffee break.

He seems untroubled by her news. ‘It’s the kind of thing you expect if you’re involved in anything political. You just have to learn to put up with it. Of course, we’ll look into these threats, but on the other hand, don’t let them scare you.’

Malene doesn’t feel scared. ‘So you’ve had emails like this too?’

‘Yes.’

‘People threatening to kill you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are they sent by war criminals, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t. It’s mostly right-wing idiots who write to me — neo-Nazis and what have you. Everyone in our kind of job gets threatened sooner or later. All you can do is ignore it.’

Malene is breaking off small pieces of her chocolate bar, but isn’t eating any of them. ‘I’ve just talked to Iben about it. You know, about how seriously we should take the threats.’

‘It’s unpleasant, I know. Is Rasmus at home now?’

‘No, he’s in Cologne. At a trade fair.’

‘That’s not so good.’

Malene doesn’t answer. She can hear the voices of Paul’s audience in the background.

Props is nearly empty. It’s too early in the evening. A couple of years ago, Malene and Iben started going to Props where most of the regulars are men, often creative types with slightly haggard faces. Many have made a pass at Malene across the café tables that look like relics from a 1960s summer house.

Iben waves Malene over.

Even before Malene has a chance to sit down, Iben starts speaking urgently, as quickly and matter-of-factly as if she were at work. Her voice cuts through the low Steely Dan number that’s playing in the background.

‘Listen, I’ve rung Camilla and Anne-Lise. Camilla hasn’t received one of the emails but Anne-Lise wasn’t in. And I phoned Lotta and Henk from the Swedish and Dutch genocide centres. Neither of them has had emails like the ones we received and they don’t know of anyone who has.’ She smiles a little, holding a warm cup of coffee with both hands. ‘Then I contacted Anders and Karen at Human Rights and Svend at International Studies. And Paul …’

‘I called Paul too.’

‘I know. He told me. After you called, he phoned his wife and asked her to check. He hasn’t got emails like ours. It looks like you and I are the only ones.’

Malene had wanted to hug Iben because she’d been so scared, but the stream of words gets in the way. Instead she hands over a sweater she has brought and goes to order another coffee for Iben and a glass of white wine for herself. The two of them agree that Paul would be the likeliest target for a war criminal’s threats. Paul is constantly in the media spotlight and signs most of the Centre’s public statements regardless of who drafted them. So why hasn’t he, or someone else prominent in the human-rights sector, received the menacing messages?

They try to think of a war criminal they have exposed on the web, one Paul hasn’t mentioned publicly, but no one seems to fit the description.

At a corner table two men in football jerseys start arguing loudly. Iben holds her line of thought, and blinks, turning to scan the darkness outside the large window that looks onto Blågård Street. Malene can’t help following Iben’s gaze, but there is nothing to see. Iben is definitely not herself.

Wearing Malene’s coffee-coloured sweater, Iben leans forward. What she says gives little away about how she feels. You must watch her eyes and mouth instead.

‘Here we are, good people with university degrees. Day after day, we’re off to our jobs at the Centre or the Institute for Human Rights or Amnesty International or Doctors Without Borders. We discuss the news during our lunch breaks and water plants and put up posters for UN special days. And we don’t realise that at any moment we might have to fight torturers or executioners or militia bosses. Because, although we never think about it, we’re soldiers at war.’

Small muscles twitch around Iben’s mouth, indicating, as Malene knows, that what she is saying is paramount.

Malene feels a surge of warmth towards her friend and proposes a toast: ‘To us. Women at War.’

Iben responds eagerly, as if Malene has just uttered the phrase she had been searching for. ‘Yes, that’s who we are! — Women at War. We’ve never realised it until now. None of us ever thought about ourselves that way …’

Iben has said it so loud that the two men in football jerseys turn around to look.

‘We’re not much good at warfare, though. We’re so easy to find on the Internet. If notorious war criminals want to know what’s been written about them in the media they can find us, no problem.’

It sounds to Malene as if Iben truly believes that her life is in danger. She seems to be going through many of the same feelings Malene has endured for years, ever since learning about her illness. Malene feels more connected to her old friend than ever before. She smiles and says she’s going to get another glass of wine. This time Iben wants one too.

Back at the table, Malene quickly checks the dark street outside once again. ‘Why now, do you think?’

‘Because we’ve challenged somebody.’

She sits up straight. ‘That’s it. Someone thinks we’re making a difference. Enough for him to feel uneasy.’

Malene wants to call Rasmus and goes outside to escape the music. Blågård is a quiet pedestrian street. She looks around for Iben’s men with swarthy faces and a military bearing. There are dozens of them. At this time of evening the street is full of immigrants gathered in small groups, almost all of them male.

Rasmus replies this time. He’s in a taxi, taking a few clients to a bar.

Malene tells him about the emails and Paul’s advice. She adds that Iben is taking the threats much more seriously than she might have expected. ‘I’ve never seen Iben like this before. At least now she seems ready to admit that there was no one in her flat.’

Two years younger than Malene, Rasmus’s laid-back, boyish style makes their age difference more pronounced. Nevertheless he is sensitive to her moods and able to shift instantly from being narcissistic to being supportive. ‘If only I were at home with you. We could find out more about this together.’

They talk for a few more minutes. Malene feels happy because she has someone special to lean on, but she’s aware that if she discusses her concerns — even her illness — for too long, Rasmus becomes restless. She hates to think about it, but he seems to have less and less patience.

‘Would any of your IT specialists know how to trace a sender?’

His voice becomes animated at once. ‘Actually I know quite a bit about that. If your sender is smart he’ll have emailed via an anonymiser site. If he has, we won’t be able to trace him so easily. But let’s make sure. Email his mail-header to me. You should be able to find his IP address if you right-click on the mail. Choose Properties and then Details. If he uses a fixed Internet link we’ll have him cornered. If not, it will give us the name of his service provider, so we’ll know which part of the world he’s mailing us from — unless he uses an anonymiser site, that is. If he does, we’ll write a spyware program and send it back to him by using Reply. If we do it right, the spyware will pick up his personal details and mail them back to us.’

‘Is it hard to write spyware?’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll try it when I come home.’ Rasmus doesn’t sound eager to get off the phone but he has to go. ‘We’ll track down this lunatic, no problem.’

In the café the music has changed from Steely Dan to Gotan Project. Iben has been in touch with people in England and France and is feeling energised. ‘They all send their regards.’