The Serbian Dane

by Leif Davidsen

  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.

  The White Whale could do up to seventeen knots. Vuk ordered Jon to push the engine to its limits. Flakfortet dropped away astern, and when Vuk was sure that they were out of range of the snipers he pushed Lise over to Jon. He, for his part, moved all the way back to the sternpost, from where he had a clear shot at them both. He had his back to the cylindrical white canister cont
aining the inflatable life raft. Jon was standing at the old ship’s wheel. Lise was now almost demented with fear. Vuk, Carsten, Janos, or whatever his name was, was uncannily calm. Only the beads of sweat on the bridge of his nose betrayed, perhaps, the strain he was under. Jon’s hands were shaking so much that he had to clench the wheel hard. The White Whale pitched and plunged in the low swell whipped up by a wind which felt as though it was bringing rain with it. The sun had vanished, and the black clouds that had hung over Sweden were moving over the Sound. Lise looked at the vessels in the channel: the ferry to Limhamn, sailboats hugging the shore, a tanker gliding majestically down toward the Baltic. A plane was turning in over Saltholm. A coaster flying the Russian flag was leaving Copenhagen harbour; and some way ahead of them one of those ugly river barges which reminded her of holidays in France appeared to be struggling against the current, it was chugging along so slowly.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ Vuk asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Light me a cigarette!’

  She had lost her handbag, so she stood there staring at him in fear and bewilderment.

  ‘Skipper?’ he said.

  Jon stuck his hand into his jacket and pulled out a packet of Prince, handed them to Lise, along with a lighter. With trembling fingers she lit the cigarette and held it out to Vuk at arm’s length. He took it with a steady left hand, the right one still pointing the pistol at them.

  ‘Have one yourselves,’ he said, as if they were exchanging polite chitchat at a cocktail party.

  They lit up, although the wind made it difficult.

  ‘Where to?’ Jon asked after taking a long drag.

  ‘Set course due west towards the harbour.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’ll run straight into the Dirty Sea. The White Whale is all I’ve got.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, mister,’ Vuk growled.

  ‘We’ll rip the bottom out of her.’

  Vuk raised the gun, and Lise huddled against Jon.

  ‘Do as I say. Immediately before we reach the Dirty Sea you’ll receive a new order, to head south into Dutchman’s Deep,’ Vuk said.

  ‘They’ll catch you when you go ashore,’ Jon said.

  Vuk did not reply, only puffed on his cigarette.

  ‘How could you do it? Who are you?’ Lise sobbed. She was trembling from top to toe and shivering with cold in her thin clothing. ‘Why Ole? Why? What had he ever done to you?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Vuk broke her off.

  The radiophone rang. Vuk raised the pistol, motioning to them not to touch it.

  He looked at the sky. It couldn’t be too long before the helicopter showed up.

  ‘Skipper! Where do you keep the lifejackets?’ he asked.

  Jon pointed to one of the chests along the bulwark that served as benches on the small quarterdeck. The White Whale was making good headway now, bucking through the waves, and the first raindrops were falling onto the gleaming planks.

  ‘Take out two!’ Vuk commanded Lise.

  Jon eyed him. Some of his fear seemed to have dissipated, possibly because he was now in his proper element, at the wheel of his boat.

  ‘You’re expecting a ship. Is that it? You’ve got a ship waiting for you.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Vuk snapped.

  Jon turned the wheel slightly, and the White Whale slowly altered course.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Vuk asked.

  ‘She draws six feet. I’ve got to keep to the bloody sea-lane. Look at that buoy dead ahead of us!’

  But Vuk’s eyes remained fixed on him and on Lise, who had got the chest open and was peering down at the orange lifejackets.

  ‘Stay on course and get those on. Both of you,’ Vuk rapped, tossing the last of his cigarette over the rail.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Jon asked.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ Vuk said. ‘Either with or without. But this is where you get off, so move it!’

  Vuk removed a split pin, pulled the release and the white canister flew over the stern into the foaming grey water. He tugged on the cord, and the circular life raft began to inflate behind them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jon yelled.

  ‘Get a move on!’ Vuk barked.

  Lise drew the lifejacket over her head and tried to tie it but got into a tangle with the strings. Keeping one hand on the wheel, with the other Jon assisted her. In turn, she pulled a lifejacket over his head, and he knotted it with deft efficiency. Vuk heard the helicopter before he saw it. There were two of them. One big air-sea rescue machine and a smaller one, the sort normally used for monitoring traffic. They flew out from the coast at a fair height. The big Sikorsky stayed on course for Flakfortet, the smaller one passed over the life raft, banked and whirred down towards the White Whale.

  ‘Okay, jump – now!’ Vuk shouted, raising the pistol. But they simply stood there, benumbed. The sea was grey and streaked by the rain that was falling harder and harder, and to Lise the boat seemed to be travelling appallingly fast. The helicopter drew closer, dipped over the White Whale. Vuk pressed the trigger twice in rapid succession, shattering the glass next to Jon’s head and sending splinters showering down into the wheelhouse. They must have had binoculars trained on him, because the helicopter swung off to the right and rose steeply, as if to say it would be sure to keep its distance.

  ‘I said now!’

  Vuk raised the gun again and aimed it right between Jon’s eyes. Jon took his hands off the wheel, stepped up onto the rail and threw himself as far out from the side as possible. Vuk turned the gun on Lise. She was shaking uncontrollably, didn’t know how she was to get up onto that rail and make herself jump. She only knew that she was more afraid of staying on the boat than of being in the cold grey sea. She saw Jon bobbing up and down in the waves behind the White Whale, and then she sprang, gasping as she ducked under the chilly water. She was seized by panic and swallowed water, but the life-vest turned her right side up and brought her to the surface, where she lay on her back, staring up at the big black clouds. She trod water and watched the White Whale speeding away from her. She was, in fact, a very good swimmer, and although the water was cold, after the long hot summer the temperature still hovered around twelve to fourteen degrees. And she was relieved to be free of that cool, calm man who never smiled. She waved to Jon and they backstroked towards one another. The helicopter flew down and circled around them. They waved up at it; it rose, turned and came back. Something square and yellow was dropped from the side of the helicopter; it landed on the sea between Jon and her and automatically began to inflate into a life raft. Lise started to swim towards it. She reached it at the same time as Jon and clung to it, at once laughing and crying. Jon clambered into the raft and pulled her in after him. Once there she threw up and cried and cried until she thought she would never stop.

  Jon kneeled beside her. He gazed after the White Whale, took his bearings from the coastline. The motorboat skimmed across Dutchman’s Deep, but instead of turning either south or north it carried straight on.

  ‘You bastard!’ he roared, shaking his fist at the White Whale. ‘You mean, fucking, murderous, destructive bastard!’

  Seconds later the White Whale exploded in a flash of red and yellow as Vuk steered her full throttle into the Dirty Sea, where an old railway sleeper tore a hole in her bottom and checked her speed with such force that the diesel tank burst. Diesel oil mingled with the gas from the flask in the galley and was ignited by the red-hot steel of the engine.

  The observer in the helicopter had been keeping an eye on the two people in the sea, to make certain that they got themselves into the life raft, so he could not substantiate Jon’s claim that he had seen a black-clad figure leave the White Whale seconds before she ploughed full tilt into the Dirty Sea. Nor could the observer say for sure whether the motorboat had been manned or not, for he had only managed to get his binoculars focused on her just at the moment when she exploded.

  The helicopter flew low over the area, searching the waves. They
spied a buoy drifting outwards on the current, otherwise no sign of life down there. Two sailboats had changed course and were heading towards the site of the explosion, but the captains knew all about the Dirty Sea and maintained a respectful distance. A Russian river barge and other, larger vessels in the vicinity also reduced speed – as required by maritime law in the event of a shipwreck. The shipping wavebands crackled with inquiries in a host of languages. All shipping was told to stay on course. Navigation conditions were difficult, and help was on the way.

  But by the time the first pleasure boats reached the vicinity of the wreck, the man who had sailed the White Whale into the Dirty Sea was gone. The only trace of him was his tweed jacket, found drifting not far from his right shoe, a thousand feet away from the wreck. His clothing had presumably been ripped off him when he was hurled into the water by the explosion.

  Visibility was rapidly deteriorating as the easterly storm from Sweden swept across Zealand, bringing high winds and driving rain. At nightfall the search was called off.

  The Russian barge which had been battling with engine trouble at a less than felicitous spot in the sea lane just off the Dirty Sea managed to get its tired old turbine turning again and ponderously proceeded on its scheduled passage to Limhamn in Sweden, where it discharged a load of ground soya, and the captain was given a right bawling-out for sailing the Sound in bad weather with such poor engine power, especially when he had been laid up for two days because of trouble with that self-same engine, which wasn’t powerful enough to drive a bloody Skoda. The captain explained in broken English that what with all the upheaval in his own country he had to go where the money was. And if his freight rates were lower than some others, well, he thought that was all part of the market economy to which he obviously had to adapt. The harbour-master at Limhamn informed him that he would never again be allowed to enter a Swedish port and that that went for all his fellow Russians and their leaky old tubs as well. Sweden had already banned his sister ships, the oil-carrying Volga-Neftis, from docking at Swedish ports.