Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Iben has her keys ready, but the man in the pilot’s jacket wants to show off to his boss. He has already slipped the lock and opened the door to Malene’s flat by the time Iben and Zigic reach the landing.

What if Malene is in there? Perhaps she didn’t want to let Iben in earlier. Iben would like to call out a warning to give Malene a chance to run down the back stairs, but there’s no way. Besides, if she’s at home, they will kill Iben at once and spare Malene.

Iben holds her breath, waiting for Malene’s voice. What if she shouts out, ‘Iben! You can’t just let yourself in! You should’ve handed the keys back ages ago!’ Zigic would demand to see their IDs and the next moment he’d get rid of Iben. He wouldn’t use a gun, that’s for sure. Something quiet: a plastic fork, a piece of string, his bare hands.

Pilot Jacket goes in first. Zigic gives Iben a push and follows.

The men don’t inspect the flat with their pistols drawn, the way they always do in American films. Instead they wander from room to room, completely at ease but examining everything thoroughly, while keeping an expert eye out for a possible attack. Their movements are silent, but coordinated, and within a minute or two, their inspection is complete. They have checked all cupboards, corners and recesses, switched on the necessary lights and drawn the curtains. It’s as if they had practised house searches from early childhood, Iben thinks, and now they do them as easily as telling the time or tying their shoelaces.

Luckily the flat is empty, but Malene might just have popped down to the kiosk or the corner shop. Perhaps she’ll show up in a few minutes?

Malene’s bulletin board hangs on the wall in the hallway. Iben walks on the other side of Zigic and talks to him so he’ll look away from it towards her. Four photos of Iben used to be pinned on the board, but when she discreetly glances over Zigic’s shoulder, the pictures of her aren’t there any more. Instead there are photos of Malene with Rasmus, which she had originally removed when Rasmus left her.

In the sitting room Zigic turns to her. ‘First, prove to me that you have the disk. Then we’ll talk about what you want.’

‘What makes you think it’s here? I’m not that stupid. I’ve kept copies elsewhere. I need to have the money first and deliver it. And then you get your disk.’

‘I understand that. How much do you want?’

‘I’ve been told to say one million euros.’

‘That’s not a problem.’

Iben would dearly like to say, ‘Good, let’s go get the cash now.’ Better not.

Zigic is smiling in a way that, in another man, might be charming, almost fresh.

‘Come on now, Malene! Show me. I know you have it here.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Of course you have a copy on this computer.’

Iben doesn’t answer. She tries to look confident.

Zigic is starting to lose patience. ‘Please turn on your computer.’

The ‘let’s do a deal’ game is over. But then, the whole suggestion of a deal was never realistic — anyone who has seen the file must die, and she knows it.

The computer boots up. Pilot Jacket tells Iben to type in the password.

Iben knows that Malene’s password used to be ‘lofa’, for ‘lots of future ahead’, but she might have changed it.

Neither of the men says anything. She has to try something.

She keys in the letters. This has to work. She only has one chance.

Windows opens. Iben suppresses a sigh of relief. Pilot Jacket shoves her out of the way, clicks on Find and enters ‘Zigic’.

While they’re waiting for the computer, Zigic steers Iben over to the sofa and puts his hand on her shoulder.

‘Why don’t you sit down? Stay here on the sofa. Read a magazine or something. Meanwhile, we’ll have a look around the flat.’

For some reason, something collapses inside her. She can’t hold back her tears any longer and starts to cry without making a sound.

He stands there. What does he want? He said something about reading a magazine. There is a small pile of Eurowoman on the coffee table. She picks up a copy and opens it up, holding it in front of her face. Finally he moves away.

He’s over by Malene’s bookshelf now. She hears him take out a few books, leaf through them and toss them to the floor. Iben peers at him from behind the magazine. He raises his arm and his command is like a blow: ‘Read!’

Iben turns her eyes to the pages in front of her, but the text is blurring. Is there some truth in what he has told her? Why else would he risk coming to Denmark?

It’s Malene’s fault if I die now, Iben thinks. It’s Malene who’s been in touch with Zigic, not Camilla. And, despite what the others think, I’m not the one who’s been paranoid. In fact, I’m the only one who has faced up to reality.

There’s something else: this means that it wasn’t me sending those emails after all. I did remember writing them, at least I thought I did because it all seemed so real, so vivid and convincing, but that was just a fantasy. Now it’s all gone. But then was it Malene who sent them? Ever since I came back from Kenya she’s been full of resentment towards me. Why shouldn’t it have been her?

Zigic has finished going through the contents of the shelf. He found a box of home-made CDs, which he puts down next to Pilot Jacket. If Iben heard correctly, Zigic calls Pilot Jacket ‘Nenad’. She has the impression that Nenad is uneasy, presumably because he cannot find the file.

Zigic disappears into the bedroom and starts rummaging. She’s alone with Nenad, whose back is turned. Why aren’t they taking any precautions to stop her from trying to escape? They haven’t even searched her; they don’t know that she has a knife hidden away. Maybe they don’t give a damn because they are convinced of their own power?

Her common sense is fading. She desperately wants to believe that her executioners are going to let her live — that, after all, a deal will really be possible. But if her work at the DCGI has taught her anything, it is that genocide perpetrators always give their victims a glimmer of hope that they’ll survive if they cooperate and don’t provoke anger. This illusion allows the perpetrators to peacefully take the victims’ weapons and slowly oppress them until they are incapable of resistance. In the end their execution is as easy and inevitable as swatting a fly.

Iben urges herself to accept the truth of her situation. There is no hope. After all, the inmates in the Warsaw ghetto and the Sobibor camp revolted only when they faced up to the fact they had nothing to lose.

Nenad still sits facing in the other direction.

She gets up, slowly and soundlessly. Then she takes a step past the coffee table.

Nenad’s voice is loud. ‘No!’

Zigic suddenly appears at the door. Iben practically falls down onto the sofa and quickly raises the magazine to her face. Blindly, she waits for what will happen next, but when she peeps out from behind the pages, Zigic has returned to the bedroom. She stares at an article about handbags. How did they know? Did Nenad see her image reflected in something shiny on Malene’s desk? Was Zigic merely passing by?

A reel is playing in her head showing the landscape of Bosnia, the camps and buildings, the corpses excavated from mass graves — piles of corpses with cracked skulls and cut-off fingers; close-ups of the better-preserved bodies; the black marks of the ties that held straining torture victims to their chairs.

She has spent two years trying to understand men like the ones now in Malene’s flat. Is the smell of evil around them different from the smell of ordinary people? All she can get a whiff of is a mixture of aftershave and deodorant — expensive aftershave and deodorant. Zigic has enough money.