The Serbian Dane Read Online Free PDF Page B

the majority of judges would be women, the majority of prosecutors and lawyers, the majority of civil service chiefs, the majority of…yeah, you name it. That’s just how it was.
    He waved hello to one of the guys from Traffic, all dressed in his motorbike gear and looking as if he couldn’t wait to hit the road on such a beautiful morning. Per’s headache was gone, and although his throat was still as dry as that of the ale-hound in the old music-hall song, he was actually feeling not too bad. He was ready for anything. Or anybody.
    Jytte Vuldom had him shown straight in. Per saw that she was in a good mood, she made no comment about his rather bloodshot eyes. Merely said she was sorry to call him in on his day off. She was a fine-looking woman, Per thought, even if she wouldn’t see fifty again. She had an attractive face, a slim figure, bright brown eyes and a melodious voice. Her only flaw, as far as he was concerned was that she was forever smoking those long menthol cigarettes of hers and never asked whether he minded. She stubbed out her cigarette,offered him coffee. He nodded in assent; she poured him a cup from the white thermos jug that was a permanent fixture on her desk, along with a picture of her husband and her two grown-up children. Strong women like her, Per thought to himself, they’ve had to fight harder than the men, but they’ve come a long way, they’re hungry for power and they know how to wield it.
    She passed him his coffee, then handed him a picture. It was a colour photograph of a youthful-looking, dark-skinned woman with short curly hair. She was staring gravely at the photographer, unsmiling. She had dark eyes, a plump little mouth in a round face framed by a pair of gold earrings. She must have been about forty.
    ‘Recognize her, Per?’
    Per studied the picture.
    ‘Yes. She’s been in the news quite a bit. Some writer. Sara something or other…’
    ‘Santanda.’
    ‘Yes, that’s it…Santanda. Bloody Iranians have a contract out on her. She’s in hiding in England. Like Rushdie.’
    ‘Only worse, Per. Because she’s a woman.’
    ‘What has she written?’
    He wrinkled his nose as she lit another cigarette. She curled her lip at him but said nothing about the look on his face. She was the boss, and in the boss’s office she called the shots. The anti-smoking fanatics had soon learned to keep their traps shut.
    ‘Five years ago she published a collection of essays in which she described the way in which women are oppressed by the fundamentalist clerics in Iran. How the ayatollahs misinterpret and misuse the Koran. She smuggled herself and her manuscript out of the country, but it’s doing the rounds in Iran on tape and in print. She’s becoming a political animal. She’s western in her thinking, like Tansu Çiller in Turkey. The daughter of an English businessman and an Iranian woman. But she’s an Iranian citizen. Sentenced to death in absentia for high treason. In her latest novel she tells the story of a corrupt mullah, his pathological lust for power and his abuse of his mistresses. If they don’t do what he says, he punishes them – by making them eat pork, for example. The Iranians want her out of the way, although that’s not the official line, of course.’
    Per smiled and said:
    ‘Kind of ironic, isn’t it?’
    ‘What’s ironic about this business, Per?’
    ‘That’s how Khomeini undermined the Shah. Had tapes of his speeches put into circulation. A highly effective ploy in a country where so many people are illiterate.’
    ‘Sara Santanda will be coming to Copenhagen in a month’s time. It will be your job to protect her and take care of the security arrangements for her visit.’
    ‘Who has invited her? The government?’
    ‘Politiken . Your contact there is Lise Carlsen.’
    ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘Don’t you read the arts pages, Toftlund?’
    ‘Nope.’
    Vuldom shook her head, as if he was a child who hadn’t done his homework, but Per didn’t