The Woman from Bratislava

by Leif Davidsen

  ‘At some point there might be an obituary in the paper.’

  She regarded him:

  ‘And only a handful of people would read that as anything other than an obituary, right, Toftlund?’

  ‘So those Baltic agents of ours who were executed in ’87, they’ve been sold down the river, is that it?’ Toftlund could not keep the note of anger out of his voice, even though he knew he was being given the famous Vuldom look.

  The Minister of Justice said:

  ‘Things were different then. It’s regrettable, but as responsible politicians we have to put the nation’s interests first. That is how we have to think. Denmark is at a critical juncture. Those poor souls were, you might say, the last victims in the cold war. That may sound a little high-flown, but I think we can say that at least they did not die in vain. We have won.’

  ‘Yeah, right – the hell we have,’ Toftlund burst out.

  ‘That’s enough, Per!’ Vuldom snapped and there was a distinctly icy edge to her voice, but the Minister of Justice carried on in the same calm, convincing tone:

  ‘There’s nothing to be gained by digging any deeper. Not right now. So we’re going to bury the case in the archives and it will be up to future generations to see whether they can learn any lessons from it. Irma will receive a public rap over the knuckles, just to show that we have not forgotten or forgiven the sins of the past, but that we believe it would not be in the country’s best interests to instigate a formal inquiry in order to discover whether somewhere in the Foreign Ministry or Military Intelligence or the Defence Staff, or in Parliament, there is a Danish citizen with high security clearance who has betrayed his country at some earlier date or during the first war of aggression Denmark has been involved in since …’

  ‘1864,’ Vuldom prompted.

  ‘As I say, it is not in the nation’s best interests. We need to move on,’ the Minister of Justice continued.

  ‘Alright,’ Vuldom said. ‘So neither you nor the Public Prosecutor mean to mention anything about the Serbian angle in your press release?’

  ‘The statue of limitations has run out on the case and hence it is being dropped. Edelweiss’s crimes were committed so long ago that they cannot be prosecuted in court. That is the clear conclusion. Anything else will be regarded as speculation.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Bury it, Vuldom.’

  ‘It’s as good as gone,’ came the dry reply and in spite of everything her sarcasm made Toftlund feel a little better as they all shook hands in best Danish fashion and said their farewells.

  Toftlund and Vuldom stood on the street outside the Ministry. The weather was almost summery, with a clear, blue sky and a gentle breeze smelling of salt.

  ‘Well, that was that,’ Vuldom said. ‘What’s she going to do? Do you know?’

  ‘She’s going away for a while, or so I gather from Teddy.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘It’s been planned for some months. She’s going to Estonia with some of her father’s old army chums. And some sympathisers.’

  ‘Hardly surprising. In the new Estonia they are obviously heroes. They killed Russians.’

  ‘And their new Estonian friends know nothing, of course, of the other story.’

  ‘No. It’s dead, Toftlund.’

  ‘It’s a strange world.’

  ‘It always has been – but what a weird totalitarian alliance that is, cemented by contempt for untidy, imperfect democracy. You’re right about that. What will they be doing in Estonia?’

  ‘Teddy says they’re going to erect another memorial to the Danish soldiers who fell on the Eastern Front.’

  ‘Is Teddy going too?’

  ‘Teddy said – and I’m quoting word for word: No way I’m joining them on some sentimental journey to put up a fucking monument to a bunch of hooligans and war criminals.’

  ‘Attaboy, Teddy.’

  ‘Yep, attaboy.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Shocked, upset, tired, ridden with guilt. As I am.’

  ‘It would have happened sooner or later.’

  ‘Even so. Anyway, Teddy is still Teddy, so he says he’s okay. He was allowed to bring Mira home. He’s going to bury her. And then he wants to get on with his life. That’s the way he is. He said, and again I quote: Teddy wants to walk out in the merry, merry May and see whether Nature’s turgescent blooming can’t inspire some member of the opposite sex to fall for a university lecturer who has been involved in dramatic events out in the wide, wide world. He thinks his appearances in the press and on TV might help. “The title of ths picture, Toftlund,” he said, “is obvious: Teddy the Bold Returns Home from the Fray and the Ladies Swoon in Adulation.”’

  ‘He’s something else.’

  ‘He’s okay. He also said that if the swooning ladies didn’t materialise he hoped I would invite some single or, even better, divorced women, preferably without small children, to the christening.’

  The breeze caught Vuldom’s hair and blew it over her face for a moment. When she brushed it away her expression had softened.

  ‘Mother and baby doing well?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You didn’t make it back in time, did you?’

  He gazed at her, wondering that she should ask this, then he thought instead of how he had walked into the hospital ward four hours too late, past a mother-in-law who had vouchsafed him only a chilly hello, and there was Lise with damp hair and tired eyes, but a beautiful smile and, beneath the quilt, a stomach which seemed to have shrunk to almost nothing. A small white bundle nestled in the crook of her arm. Poking out of the top of the bundle he saw a tuft of dark hair and a tiny wrinkled face with eyes screwed tight shut. He had wanted to say he was sorry, but had not known where to start. Then she had simply said:

  ‘Oh, Per, it’s wonderful to see you. I’m so glad you came home to us alive and well. Come and see our daughter. I’m afraid she looks like you, the poor little thing, so I suppose I’ll have to get used to that.’

  And he had felt the tears welling up and had let them run and had not been ashamed of them – in fact it was a relief to cry.

  Vuldom coughed.

  ‘And the father?’ she asked. ‘How’s he doing?’

  He looked at her. And said exactly what he was thinking. At the end of the day that was usually simplest, also where Vuldom was concerned:

  ‘Surprised by how quickly one becomes attached to such a little creature.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Those tiny toes, tiny fingers, the little bum, and then these huge eyes … I’m actually getting pretty good at changing nappies already.’

  ‘Now don’t you go getting too soft and sentimental,’ Vuldom admonished. ‘But you’ll be taking your paternity leave, I gather?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I thought so. Take an extra month. Over and above the holidays you’ve got coming.’

  Toftlund looked at her. Her shrewd eyes were smiling more than her mouth.

  ‘On what condition?’ he asked.

  ‘You stay with me?’

  He considered for a moment.

  ‘How soon do you need an answer?’

  ‘I need it now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay what?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll stay with PET.’

  ‘Good. It’s where you belong.’

  She held out her hand and he shook it. She walked off down the street and he watched her go: a slim, erect figure walking with a swift, almost gliding step. Without turning she called out:

  ‘Say hello to the mother and baby for me.’

  He smiled and raised his hand to wave, but she did not look round. Toftlund walked across to his car. He should not be driving with only one arm, but he could manage it without too much difficulty and only a little pain. Not since he was a child could he remember looking forward to anything as much as he now looked forward to coming home to Lise and the baby, and only at this moment did it actually dawn on him t
hat his life had changed irrevocably, because now he was no longer alone, he was part of a family, and to his astonishment this made him feel a little apprehensive, but also happier than he would ever have thought possible.

  Epilogue

  IT WAS JUNE 10TH. Toftlund was running in the woods north of Ganløse. Ahead of him he pushed the fancy baby jogger in which he had invested. The baby was asleep and he took the smoothest paths before turning at his five-kilometre mark and beginning the run back. The wound in his arm had healed and the stitches had been taken out a while ago, but it still ached slightly when he ran. The scar he would always carry as an unpleasant reminder. It was a lovely summer’s day, even if the sun was having trouble breaking through. The woods were a mass of green, the light from the partially clouded sky was bright and beautiful, but it was the scents he would remember. They were still so fresh and subtle as to be indefinable, but they included the fragrance of new-sprung flowers and of the withered wood anemones on the forest floor. When he reached the fringes of the woods he stopped, checked on Freya, who was sound asleep, and did his stretching exercises up against his usual oak tree. It was early in the morning, with no sound except the birdsong, so he jumped when a strange and yet well-known voice said in English:

  ‘It tires me out just to watch you, Per.’

  Toftlund froze in mid-stretch, turned round and saw Konstantin Gelbert standing behind him. Gelbert was wearing his usual designer jeans, together with a light-coloured shirt and blue tie. There was dust on his shoes. Toftlund’s face lit up in a smile:

  ‘Konstantin!’ he cried and went to shake his hand, but Gelbert did not merely grasp the proffered the hand, he drew it to him and gave Per a hearty Central European hug.

  ‘Good to see you so happy, Per.’

  Toftlund was still out of breath, but managed to gasp:

  ‘This is quite a surprise, Konstantin. Come on home and have a cup of coffee. You must meet my wife.’

  ‘Ah, but I already have. Your lovely wife gave me coffee and told me that I would find you here. You’re a lucky man, Per.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I hope you do.’

  ‘What are you doing here.’

  ‘I paid a routine visit to your charming Commissioner Vuldom yesterday. We have a lot to talk about in connection with Poland’s integration with the rest of Europe.’

  ‘Come on home and have another cup of coffee.’

  ‘My car’s parked at your house, but I have a plane to catch. However, if you will walk with me at a normal, human pace I will fill you in on a last little piece of the Maria Bujic story.’

  ‘Great,’ Toftlund said, although he did not mean it. He had been doing his best to put that story behind him. The baby saved him from having to say any more. She gave a little wail and looked up at him with those amazing blue eyes which were unlike anything he had ever known before. Her dummy had slipped out. He popped it back in her mouth, stroked her cheek and listened to her contented little sucking noises.

  ‘Fatherhood suits you,’ Gelbert said.

  Toftlund glanced up. He felt vulnerable in his shorts and sweaty T-shirt next to Konstantin Gelbert, the cool chief of Polish counter-intelligence.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I said thanks.’

  Gelbert eyed him and grasped the handle of the pushchair, which at the moment functioned as a small pram in which Freya could lie down:

  ‘May I? That way I can keep our speed down.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘It’s very American. This jogging pushchair thing. What is her name?’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘Very Nordic. Very beautiful.’

  They had started walking, but Toftlund halted and said:

  ‘It’s good to see you, Konstantin, but why the hell are you here?’

  Freya had begun to whimper again when they stopped moving, but Gelbert bent over the pram, said something in Polish and when he started pushing again the baby stopped crying.

  ‘To tell you a small part of what now constitutes the end of the story,’ he said, then went on:

  ‘The bombings will cease today.’

  ‘I listen to the radio, Konstantin.’

  ‘It’s the beginning of the end for Milosevic. The peacekeeping force is moving into Kosovo. I’m certain that next time round the Serbs will elect another president and Milosevic will have to stand down. After four wars and four defeats even his supporters have had enough. It may take a little time, but it will happen. Oh, by the way, the excellent Commissioner Vuldom asked me to say hello.’

  ‘Thanks. Now get to the point, Konstantin!’

  They emerged from the woods and walked down the road towards Toftlund’s house. The occasional car went by, but otherwise traffic was light. The birds were singing fit to burst and Toftlund felt light and easy, despite the fact that the large sweat-soaked patch on his T-shirt was chill against his chest now that he was not jogging the last bit of the way home.

  ‘There was a Serbian side to your investigation. We no longer believe this had anything to do with your little spy, her past or her half-sister. That is the official line.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘We won the war. Now we have to win the peace. In its present position the alliance can do without having a rotten apple being exposed in the media. The case has been laid to rest. America’s, and hence NATO’s, view is that there is not, and never was, a Serbian spy within the system.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  Gelbert pushed the pram along the side of the road, looking like a man in his element. He glanced round about him. Was clearly very happy with what he saw. The soft, pretty countryside, the freshly opened leaves on the trees, the blossoming bushes. The little nettle shoots unfurling. The peaceful, orderly Danish landscape with the clutch of new, functionalist, red-brick houses and a farm at the foot of a hill. They might have been taking a perfectly ordinary stroll on a perfectly ordinary Danish summer day.

  ‘Per, I haven’t been in this job very long, but one thing I have learned is that idealism and ethics are one thing, practical politics is something else again. We’re the new boys in the club. If Washington and Brussels say that is how things are then I have to go along with that.’

  ‘That’s the easy way out.’

  ‘No, it’s not, it’s hard. But it’s also realistic. We’re working in the real world. It has its own laws. Either I accept them, or I go back to my nice, safe academic world, free of all responsibility.’

  ‘And Pavel Samson?’

  Gelbert pulled up short, but when he did so Freya started grizzling. Once more he leaned over the pushchair and said something in his native tongue – which clearly seemed to have a soothing effect – because again the baby stopped crying. He strolled quietly on, saying:

  ‘I know you feel guilty. Don’t. It actually occurred to me that you might have been the real target. Or both of you. Pavel was trying to protect his old love by leading you up the wrong track. But it was all one to the Russian mafia. You were both expendable. Human life means nothing to those guys. Far better to take someone out than to take any chances. You swat a fly to stop it buzzing or producing more flies, don’t you?’

  ‘But still.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Per.’

  They walked on in silence. Toftlund had more questions he would have liked to ask, but in another way he did not really care. His life had fallen into another pattern, one that revolved solely around Lise and Freya. And the little everyday concerns, such as getting enough sleep with a new baby in the house.

  He had not thought much about the case, but Gelbert had touched on a sore point: the fact that he felt guilty because he had got there too late. For more than one thing.

  They reached the house. Lise was outside. Toftlund waved. It suddenly struck him how good she looked. When had he last regarded her as a woman? With desire in his eyes rather than protectiveness or concern? She had on a pastel-coloured T-shirt a
nd a pair of blue shorts and her hair was held back by a hairband. Bare feet in a pair of sandals. She looked young and vulnerable and very attractive and he felt a surge of pride and happiness. Gelbert gave him charge of the baby jogger while he gallantly kissed Lise’s hand before shaking Toftlund’s and saying:

  ‘Goodbye, Per. You’re a very fortunate man. Make sure you appreciate it.’

  Per lifted the baby out of her harness and passed her to Lise. Freya whimpered again, but quietened down when she felt Lise twiddling the dummy in her little mouth.

  The driver in the new Polish Embassy BMW with the blue plates turned the key in the ignition. Gelbert opened the door to get into the back seat. Watching him, Toftlund had a sudden flash of insight – how it came to him he did not know. With a couple of bounds he was by the car and placed a hand on Gelbert’s arm:

  ‘Do you know what I think, Konstantin?’

  ‘No, Per. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s most odd that there should have been so much speculation about the possible presence of a Serbian spy somewhere within the NATO organisation. Who was he? Where is he? And we’re not the only ones who’ve been looking for him. It was taken very seriously. But now that the war has been won everybody seems to be in a great hurry to kill that story.’

  Gelbert stood with his hand resting on the door. The driver stared straight ahead, giving a good impression of the three wise monkeys – seeing, hearing and speaking no evil.

  ‘I think, Per, that you should tend to your child and your wife.’

  Toftlund held on to his arm:

  ‘But say this spy did exist?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, theoretically, it might be that some organisation has had a particular interest in having the case buried. And maybe it was clever enough to use another investigation as a smokescreen. Even if it cost the life of an innocent man like Pavel Samson. The thought suddenly struck me. Although it’s just a theory, I suppose.’

  ‘Theories are what academics are paid to propound. You and I inhabit a somewhat more concrete world.’

  He made to pull his arm away, but Toftlund kept a tight grip on it, even though he could tell from Gelbert’s eyes that they were reaching the stage where the driver would become something more than a mere driver.