The Exception: A Novel Part 2

Whats this? She leans forward, reads it all again. Without formulating the thought, she instinctively knows that she mustnt touch anything.

This is a death threat. No question. Stay calm and think. There have been stories going around about journalists receiving threatening messages from neo-n.a.z.i teenagers. Now its her turn. Maybe.

The senders address is [email protected] The English is reasonable and the spelling is correct, which exempts just about all the young local neo-n.a.z.is. The expression self-righteous among the humans is an attempt to play on the phrase righteous among the nations, part of the citation for the highest honor awarded to foreign nationals at Israels national Holocaust memorial. A foreigner who knows something about the history of genocide might have written that.

Her first reaction is pure sorrow, nothing more. She can feel her face dissolving, and her whole body seems to crumple.

That terrible African sun bears down on her again. It could be one of Omoros friends or family, she thinks. Or a Luo tribesman. She feels dizzy; its the heat and the smells. She sees the prison hut, the flies, the militia, the tall trees, and his blood. The Luos have found out what happened. They know who she is and have come here from Nairobi. Sh.e.l.l have to accept being killed if that is what they have decided.

She looks around. The bedroom door is open. She hasnt been in there since she came home. And she closed the door this morning.

Standing motionless, she scans the room. Nothing unusual about the stack of books or the cupboard or the bookshelves. What about her desk? The pile of papers looks tidier than she left it. Someone has been through her papers.

No sounds, except her own breathing and faint noises from the television set in the apartment below. Her nostrils feel dry, like when the hot dust blows in the wind. The air smells of the angry, sweating men, alert to danger.

She cannot tell why, but she is convinced that someone is hiding in her place.

Dont switch off the computer. Dont run to grab a coat from the hall.

Instead she walks calmly to the kitchen. She tries to convey that she is relaxed, on her way to do something completely ordinary. Takes her supper out of the microwave oven, which is on top of the fridge, next to the door leading to the kitchen stairs.

Breathe slowly, deeply.

She picks up her cell phone from the kitchen table, moves to the stair door, and opens it gingerly. No one is waiting for her on the landing. She s.h.i.+fts gears and flies down the narrow stairs, her feet barely touching the steps. Its important to outrun the man in her apartment, but also to be quiet enough to delay him discovering that shes gone.

She doesnt close the door, doesnt even give it a push.

Shes underdressed for the crisp October evening.

The door to the yard. She stops, just a few steps away.

It isnt likely to be one of Omoros friends. Something made her jump to conclusions. She must be sensible, ask herself who else it could be. There are plenty of suspects to choose from, she knows that. Not that it helps. Iben has always tried to forget the obvious fact that all surviving war criminals, the very ones she keeps writing about for the DCIG Web site, can access the site too. They can Google their own names from anywhere in the world and, in seconds, her articles in English as well as in Danish will flash up on their screens. The writer sits in a modest Copenhagen office with no special security features while her contact details home address, phone number, e-mail address are easily displayed.

But would an experienced ma.s.s murderer take the trouble to travel to Denmark? Of course he might. The airfare wouldnt be much for a professional soldier. And wouldnt an experienced soldier position himself right there, on the other side of the door to the yard? Hed have a direct escape route into the street, making it easier to cover his tracks. Maybe he intended to make her dash downstairs and open that door.

She listens. Not a sound.

Then a click as the stairwell light switches itself off. All too quickly, as usual. Its very dark now. But her eyes dont have time to grow used to the darkness. Above her on the stairs someone switches the light on again.

She waits for a second, badly wanting to believe that she is safe that no one is in her apartment, and that whoever is on the top landing isnt coming after her.

The sound of heavy male boots on the stairs. Before she has even turned the lock the footsteps have reached the next landing. No time to think. If someone is waiting for her outside, sh.e.l.l have to take him by surprise.

Above her the man has pa.s.sed two more landings. A deep breath. Iben yanks the door open and, in the same movement, starts sprinting across the pavement.

She scrambles over bicycles and garbage cans, and over the fence into the neighboring yard. One more yard to go before she finds an unlocked gate. She runs out into a street that is not her own.

After about a hundred yards she stops to look behind her. There are people, but none of them seems to be in pursuit. Here she will be harder to spot.

Whom has she written about recently?

Barzan Aziz, a small dentist with a large mustache, who lives in a penthouse apartment and has a history of personally having taken the lives of at least 120 Kurds and many Iraqi journalists and intellectuals. Aziz strangled his victims with a steel wire, except in some cases when he hammered nails into their skulls.

Romulus Tokay, an ex-member of the Romanian secret police, was put in an orphanage at the age of eighteen months. He escaped after killing one of his teachers and is currently employed in Colombia, where his usual practice has been to hang people upside down in trees and light fires under their heads.

And what about George Bokan? He was raised in the United States and played football in college, but he went back to Serbia in the early 1990s to help fight the war. Bokan trained snipers, one hundred men at a time, in the skill of killing innocent civilians from vantage points in the hills around Sarajevo.

There are so many more. Iben has summarized the witness statements and other evidence of the activities of ma.s.s murderers such as Najo Silvano, Bertem Ygar, William Hamye, and others, who between them have killed hundreds of thousands of their fellow men. It is all on the Web site, as are her condemnations of a whole array of military units, regimes, and power-mad dictators.

Have they been hunched over their PCs in Serbia, the Philippines, Iraq, Turkey wherever studying her accounts of their crimes?

She looks around in all directions as she walks toward Nrrebro Street. The autumn air is cutting through her thin blouse and the sweat is beginning to dry on her skin, adding to the chill. She overtakes a pale girl with a ring through her nose, military boots, and pink highlights.

Iben dials 112 emergency services on her cell phone and tries to explain quickly to the woman at the other end what has happened.

Hold on, please. You say that someone sent you an e-mail and now youve run out into the street?

Yes no. Not exactly. It was a death threat. The sender is probably a war criminal. Maybe from Iraq!

The womans voice is dry, tight: This is an emergency number. It is reserved for serious calls. I have to ask you to get off the line. Tomorrow you can phone your local police station if you still feel this matter is important, that is.

Iben tries to explain that its her job to write about international war criminals and that the threat is not just a practical joke played by an ex-lover, or whatever the woman is imagining. But she is not convinced and replies abruptly: Youre blocking an important emergency line. Thats an offense and you may be fined. I can see your number in front of me. If you dont end this call, well have to fine you.

Iben is about to reply when the woman hangs up.

Is she right? Iben asks herself. Is this an attack of hysteria? It would be good to think so. Then she could simply turn around and walk back home.

Shes walking quickly now, keeping an eye out for suspicious-looking men. The trouble is that they are everywhere. Small gangs of swarthy men are driving up and down Nrrebro Street in souped-up cars and hanging out in the many Middle Eastern takeout places. Men in black leather jackets walk toward her, follow behind her.

Who knows how a war criminal reacts when he first reads the description of himself on a Web site? Is it a blow to his sense of honor? Might not his claim for asylum in some European country or his pending court case be affected? Some of these men would slit her throat as easily as theyd swat a fly. She has seen photos of ma.s.sacred people and listened to survivors speaking at conferences. These men do not murder because they hate: even being vaguely irritated is enough.

But why should a killer take the trouble to go after her? Iben is so insignificant. Or is she? Her articles and abstracts describe events involving many hundreds of thousands of men, all experienced killers and mentally unstable. If just one of them is irritated enough, her fate is probably sealed.

There are no police patrol cars around, and by the time shes reached Nrrebro Circus she decides to phone the emergency number once more. Sh.e.l.l try to explain things better this time and insist on talking to somebody whos prepared to listen.

At that moment her cell phone rings. Its Malene. Iben! Ive tried to phone you at home. Where are you?

At Nrrebro Circus. Without a coat. Im freezing. Iben begins to describe what has happened, but doesnt get far before Malene interrupts her.

Ive had a threatening e-mail too! It says Im evil and must die. I only just opened it!

Iben cant help shouting. You mustnt stay in your apartment!

Malene sounds confused. I cant stay here? I dont know I didnt take it that seriously. Should I have?

Iben hesitates. Its a comfort that someone else has been threatened too. Everyone in the Center might have received one of these e-mails, and perhaps dozens of people in similar organizations abroad.

Malene, I was so sure there was someone in my apartment. It couldve been I mean, if there was n.o.body in your place Anyway, they could just be trying to scare us. If they really wanted to kill somebody, itd be silly to send an e-mail first.

Thats what I thought.

Iben is perfectly aware of what her friend Grith, a trained psychologist, would say about her reaction: it is a response conditioned by her experiences in Kenya, one of exaggerated watchfulnesshyperalertness which is the lasting effect of previous exposure to danger.

A thought suddenly strikes Malene: Iben. Do you think your reaction is because of Nairobi and all that?

I suppose Listen, find a taxi and come on over. Ill wait for you in the street and pay for the cab.

But if these people break into your apartment, theyll find both of us.

Iben, I dont think so. Look, it wont happen.

Iben doesnt answer, so Malene hesitates. Okay. What do you suggest then?

What about meeting in a cafe?

But well have to go back to our own places afterward.

Iben hates playing the part of the weak female, especially with Malene, but suggests that there are lots of peoples places where they could crash until they have a better idea of the danger theyre in.

Oh, Iben. Okay, Ill come. They agree to meet at Props Cafe.

Iben feels she has been leaning too heavily on her friend, and cant quite bring herself to ask Malene to make sure that she isnt being followed.

Iben sets out toward the cafe, along the road by the a.s.sistens Cemetery. Suddenly, for no reason, she starts running. She never cared for sports of any kind, despite her friends attempts to persuade her, but now running feels right. She overtakes pedestrians on the broad pavement, where deep shadows are pierced by shafts of light from shops and pa.s.sing cars.

A white car skids to a halt not far ahead, and two men jump out so quickly that a cyclist almost collides with one of them. He calls out angrily. The men shout back in reply, and Iben slips through the slow-flowing stream of cars to reach the other side of the street.

It is time to calm down and take stock. She turns to get a look at the two men. Theyre standing in the street talking to a third man, whom they must have spotted from the car. All three have dark sideburns and one of them wears metal-framed gla.s.ses with small round lenses.

She starts off again, jogging now. The pavement is narrower here and cluttered with a greengrocers stall, bicycle racks, and advertising boards.

It occurs to her that the e-mailer might not have had far to travel. There are thousands of political refugees in Copenhagen, all of whom have had terrible experiences and whose family members or friends have been victimized in armed conflicts, persecution, torture, and murder. Some may have carried out acts of violence themselves. If Iben has exposed someone, this might be his response.

She feels breathless and slows down. Ahead of her is a tall, sickly-looking man with messy pale blond hair, wearing a torn camouflage jacket.

Over the last ten years, almost five hundred journalists have been killed worldwide, mostly in undemocratic states. Did any of them receive e-mails from ? Iben hasnt heard of them being tracked down in Western Europe. Who would be well informed about this?

Gunnar would, of course.

When the traffic lights change, an old BMW accelerates, its tires screaming, and races to the next intersection. The lights turn against it and the driver has to brake again. A pa.s.serby laughs.

Iben wants to phone Gunnar right away.

She had a strange feeling about him all weekend, speculating about what his apartment might be like and his lifestyle. The fantasy of moving in with him gives her an odd but comforting sensation. She would fit right in, she felt. But how could she know? a man whom she has met just once and spoken with for an hour at most? But then, she explains to herself, over the years his writings must have taught her so much about the way his mind works, what his favorite words are, and the nature of his thoughts.

She swerves to avoid a group of noisy teenage boys.

Then she thinks about the word self-righteous in the e-mail. It seems they used different words in Malenes e-mail.

Iben begins to run again.

malene.

chapter 4.

malene is in the train, on the way back from a lecture tour in Jutland on behalf of the DCIG. Her lectures have gone well, but shes used to that.

Rasmus is away on one of his sales trips, so back home their apartment stands empty. Iben is in Nairobi. She has been away for a month, and so much is happening to her that for days on end she hasnt answered Malenes e-mails or phone calls. Three of Malenes best friends have had babies during the last year; all of them have moved out of the center of town and are completely absorbed in their new families.

Nothing else for it: Malene must expand her circle of friends. Theres no way she can just hang on for two more months, waiting for Iben to write or phone. Which is why Malene is getting off in Odense before going on to Copenhagen. She has arranged to see Charlotte, a contact she made through the a.s.sociation for Young Arthritic People, which offers volunteer buddies as a means of support. They have never met, but they have exchanged lots of e-mails and spoken on the phone. Charlottes fighting spirit is tremendous. At last they have a chance to meet.

Malene steps from the taxi in front of a small terraced house of bright yellow brick. She rings the doorbell. Sheltering under the roof of the porch stands a well-cared-for plant in an old blue enameled pan. Behind the gla.s.s in the door hangs a little wreath made of straw, suspended by a silver ribbon.

Charlottes face is pale under her ma.s.s of blond curls. In her baby blue blouse she looks pretty but bland, like a catalog model, and completely unlike any of Malenes friends.

They smile and hug.

Oh, how smart you are. So chic! You can tell youre from the city.

Strange to meet someone youve written to so often. Charlotte keeps smiling. Her lips are glossy with rose lipstick.

Lets make ourselves more comfy.

Malene leaves her coat in the hall. Charlotte leads the way, moving slowly and hesitantly. The living room is too warm.

Please sit anywhere you like. The coffee is ready.

Malene settles down on a cream upholstered armchair opposite a matching sofa. A large framed poster is hanging on the wall behind the sofa. Just as in her e-mails and on the phone, Charlotte is bursting with energy and optimism and there is something basically open and friendly about her. But Malene notices that Charlotte is finding it difficult to get over to the sofa.

Im sorry today is one of your tough days.

Not at all. You mustnt worry about me. Im fine. Lets just enjoy this.

Charlotte smiles again, drawing back her small, prettily shaped lips over perfect teeth.

But it must be Something makes Malene stop.

Her eyes travel quickly around the room. The furniture is more spread out than normal. She sips her coffee, thinking about what she sees. The gaps are the same everywhere, between chair and table, chair and chair, chair and wall. The simple answer is that this room is furnished to suit someone who often has to use a wheelchair to get about, even at home. There is no wheelchair to be seen, but it could be elsewhere. Maybe in the bedroom.

She notes that the light switches are operated by string-pulls. She has seen that kind of thing in shops selling gadgets for the disabled. People with severe joint problems find pulling a string easier than turning a switch. And what about the cus.h.i.+ons on the sofa? There are lots, not in absurd quant.i.ties, but too many to fit in with the plain furnis.h.i.+ngs and very subtle colors of the room. The cus.h.i.+ons, piled up, would allow Charlotte to half sit, half lie on the sofa.

It baffles Malene to find Charlotte so much more badly afflicted than herself. How can Charlotte carry out her job at Odense City Council? Why did Malene believe that they were more or less in the same shape? Discreet questioning about the job reveals that it is a specially designed post of only twenty hours per week, personally devised for Charlotte. As Charlotte speaks, Malene feels that she has heard this before, probably in one of their phone calls. As likely as not she has simply forgotten about it, the bad news being outdone by all the good, cheerful stories from Charlottes life.

The conversation moves on. They talk about a series of doc.u.mentary programs on the radio and the best way of chopping almonds when your hands hurt and how good it would be to have Wellington boots designed for arthritic feet.