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.
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.’