Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Now I know it will never happen. I’ve become too weird for him. It shouldn’t — should not — have been like this.

A tall man with long, blond hair is approaching me. He speaks to me. Does he say that he wants to drop something into the bin? I get up, but he keeps saying things.

I have to speak to him. ‘Are you trying to use the litter bin? Is that it, the bin? I’ve moved off it now.’ Then it dawns on me that the man is speaking English, with a drawling accent. What’s that he’s saying?

‘Now tell me. What’s your plan?’

I don’t understand what he wants, but decide I’d better change to English too and repeat the bit about the litter bin.

He looks annoyed. ‘What’s wrong with you, Malene? I don’t care about that bin. What’s your plan?’

‘What? My name isn’t Malene.’

I look properly at him. He could have been an ageing rock star, once cool, but now on his way out. His skin is in poor shape and he has gone flabby, like men do when they’re past their prime. I want him to go away and leave me in peace.

‘My name isn’t Malene.’

He stares straight into my eyes.

‘I know who you are, Malene. I’ve waited for you when you come out of the Centre. And when you leave your house.’

I shake my head. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, I’m not …’

It is only then that Iben realises who the man is.

Like when you’re off, flying across the handlebars on your bike. Then, in the fraction of a second before you crash to the ground, all your muscles go tense and your mind suddenly focuses one hundred per cent.

How can she escape? She glances about her. Some five metres away from Iben and Mirko Zigic, a strong-looking man stands with his hands in the pockets of his pilot’s jacket. When his eyes catch Iben’s and he realises she has seen him, the corners of his mouth twitch slightly — something that is not quite a smile.

And opposite him, fifteen metres or so away, another man is standing. He too observes her. His hair is cut very short and there’s something very Eastern European about his matching jeans and denim.

Now she looks at Zigic again, sensing the weight of her knife against her leg. Her heart is pounding. Could she win a fight against him? Of course she couldn’t. Are these men armed with weapons other than knives? Of course they are.

Zigic interrogates her. ‘Who do you work for?’

‘The Danish Centre for Genocide Information.’

‘I know that. Who else?’

‘No one.’ She has no idea what he is after and how she should respond. Should she pretend to be confident? Friendly? Pathetic?

Zigic is already irritated. ‘You will tell me! Who are they? And what do they want? Or else, no deal.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I work for DCGI and nobody else.’

He stares as if wanting to see straight through her. Her words only seem to make everything worse. ‘What? Malene, do you want me to believe you sent that email all on your own?’

‘I haven’t sent any email.’

Iben cannot understand why she didn’t instantly recognise Mirko Zigic. He looks exactly like the man in the old family photos unearthed by Interpol. Through a mutual friend, Iben had got hold of the photos from an information officer in DCGI’s British counterpart. The pictures were accompanied by a video and documents about his parents and younger siblings. His family had also made statements, swearing that Mirko couldn’t have been the executioner and torturer of the Serbian camps. He was kindness itself, they insisted. They must have got him mixed up with someone else. It was impossible that he could have built up his own section in the Serb mafia.

The video was a grainy black-and-white copy of CCTV footage from a Munich burger bar. As far as Interpol was concerned, it was the last time Zigic had been spotted. Poor-quality images showed him, a tall man with long, blond hair, having a row with one of the counter staff about his change, or something like that. Then Zigic jumps over the counter. He grabs the other man’s head, bends his neck back and pushes the handle of a white plastic fork up one of his nostrils. By driving the fork home Zigic caused so much brain damage that the man died almost instantly.

The camera records Zigic jumping back and calmly leaving the bar before anyone understood what had happened. Since then, no one has seen him.

Iben picks up a strong smell of male genitals. She can’t be sure if it’s coming from him or whether her mind is still malfunctioning.

He smiles when he notices her looking around at the men he has posted. Why make such a fuss about an ordinary Danish office worker?

He answers without being asked. ‘I take no chances, Malene. You’ve been a very smart girl.’

A pause, and he goes on. ‘I’d like to handle this peacefully. We will do a deal with you and your bosses. But if you and your people won’t play along, I’ll defend myself — with force. And I can promise you won’t like that at all.’

‘OK. Let’s talk.’

‘That’s better. You’re being sensible. Now, tell me who you work for.’

A bus halts. Zigic edges forward, just enough to ease himself between Iben and the bus. She has no doubt what would happen if she tried to board it with the other passengers.

She watches as the lovers in their long coats, the teenage girl, and a few others disappear into the warm yellow light of the bus. The doors close with a loud sucking noise and the bus pulls away, leaving Iben and Zigic standing in the stench of diesel fumes.

‘I work alone.’

He laughs out loud. ‘That’s good. You won’t tell me who you’re acting for. I think I like you. But you must know I’m not stupid. I know what you’re saying isn’t true. If it were true, I would kill you right here. And you know that too, Malene; you have guts.’

As if she has passed some kind of test, he grins at her. She tries to smile back. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

She observes how the skin on his face is oddly lifeless. It is exactly as Ljiljana Peric described it: carved in wax. In a horrible way it seems somehow to fit the way he smells. She looks down the dark street. No one is around now except his men.

‘I appreciate it that none of my men has been charged. That’s good and I understand. You want to do a deal.’

Iben doesn’t have a clue what he is talking about. Obviously, if she has any chance of getting out of this, she must remain calm and tough. She can do it. She is able to stand still, without trembling, she is able to look him in the eye. ‘I’m pleased you think so.’

‘But you know what we want from you.’

‘Well, no … it could be quite a few different things.’

He winks. ‘Come on then. Let’s go to your flat and start your computer. And we’ll see what’s in it.’

He signals to his men, turns and starts to usher Iben in the direction of Malene’s flat.

‘All I need is to get my list of addresses back, along with my diary and all the back-up copies. Please. Then you’ll be free to go.’

As they walk, everything Iben has learned runs through her mind.

He apparently believes that Malene got hold of a computer disk that contained not only his address book but also information that would indict everyone whose name appears in it. Without their support, Zigic will no longer be able to escape the clutches of the War Crimes Tribunal. He will wait for the file as long as he believes that she has it. But as soon as he realises the truth, he will kill her. She’s well aware that he has raped and mutilated hundreds of victims until they told him everything they knew.

It’s only thirty metres from the bus stop to the entrance of Malene’s building. The man in the denim outfit is posted outside to keep guard.