there some dairy in your constituency which is totally dependent on them?’
Jørgensen leaned forward again and said without lowering his voice: ‘All religions must be respected. Including the Muslim religion. And Muslims have the right to defend themselves against blasphemy. Just as we Christians have. But obviously I condemn this death sentence. That goes without saying. Would you like some more cheese? Another beer?’
Torsten Hansen shook his head.
‘How about an official comment? On camera?’
It was Jørgensen’s turn to shake his head.
‘Not today. I’m giving you the story today. If you can have it confirmed, then I’ll make myself available…but…’
‘But then everyone else gets it too?’
‘Right.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Naturally, as a member of the Foreign Policy Committee, I will have something to say on this matter, if you should wish to pursue it.’
To be honest, Torsten Hansen thought this was fair enough. He had an exclusive for this evening, as a pure news item, and he could contact the various parties concerned tomorrow, when he was on the early shift anyway. If he started making calls now, the other reporters would soon get wind of it. Better to run it as a pure news item on the six-thirty broadcast and then see if he could turn it into a bigger feature with a couple of comments for the nine o’clock news. It was a good story, at any rate. Santanda had never appeared in public before. Reuter’s and CNN would be on it like a shot. But he would be first with it. And no matter how long he had been in the business, an exclusive like this always gave him a nice warm feeling inside.
In just a few hours, the world would learn that Sara Santanda had chosen Denmark as the place where she would defy the mad mullahs and their barbaric death sentence. If the disclosure of this fact meant that she had to go somewhere else instead, then he could live with that. He was well aware that this was what Jørgensen was angling for. But he hadn’t become a journalist in order to keep things secret. It was a good story, and it was all his.
Chapter 5
V uk sat alone at a table on the hilltop overlooking Pale. Four plastic chairs were set around the maroon laminated table. The door of the small café hung loose on its hinges. A grimy curtain graced the one window that still had glass in it. The other had been smashed by a stray bullet on a day long ago by a couple of drunken militiamen with a petty score to settle. They had been fighting over a woman. Their anger had been greater than their marksmanship. Vuk was drinking slivovitz. It was a bad habit. There had been a time when he hadn’t needed alcohol to get through the days, but now it did him good sometimes. He never got drunk, but it had a wonderfully soothing, numbing effect. It blanked out the images that were prone to come into his mind without warning. He had survived longer than most, and statistics said his number should be flashing up on the board any time now. He had a feeling too that the past was about to catch up on them. Those acts that, in the euphoria of victory had, in some bizarre way, seemed perfectly natural, were now turning into horrific memories that presented themselves when least expected.
He drained his glass in one gulp. He could see the proprietor sitting inside behind the curtain. He was watching football on some German channel. The satellite dish fixed to his tumbledown premises still worked perfectly. But it looked out of place against the white concrete walls and the grey roof. Possibly it had been installed back in the days when there was still some hope that the odd tourist might wander all the way to the top of the hill. But the last tourist had left for home long ago. Vuk filled his glass again. The sun hung low over the green mountain slopes, and the air was heavy with the scents of high summer. Scents that always made him think of his father and little Katarina, but he didn’t want to do that. Pale, and beyond
Jørgensen leaned forward again and said without lowering his voice: ‘All religions must be respected. Including the Muslim religion. And Muslims have the right to defend themselves against blasphemy. Just as we Christians have. But obviously I condemn this death sentence. That goes without saying. Would you like some more cheese? Another beer?’
Torsten Hansen shook his head.
‘How about an official comment? On camera?’
It was Jørgensen’s turn to shake his head.
‘Not today. I’m giving you the story today. If you can have it confirmed, then I’ll make myself available…but…’
‘But then everyone else gets it too?’
‘Right.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Naturally, as a member of the Foreign Policy Committee, I will have something to say on this matter, if you should wish to pursue it.’
To be honest, Torsten Hansen thought this was fair enough. He had an exclusive for this evening, as a pure news item, and he could contact the various parties concerned tomorrow, when he was on the early shift anyway. If he started making calls now, the other reporters would soon get wind of it. Better to run it as a pure news item on the six-thirty broadcast and then see if he could turn it into a bigger feature with a couple of comments for the nine o’clock news. It was a good story, at any rate. Santanda had never appeared in public before. Reuter’s and CNN would be on it like a shot. But he would be first with it. And no matter how long he had been in the business, an exclusive like this always gave him a nice warm feeling inside.
In just a few hours, the world would learn that Sara Santanda had chosen Denmark as the place where she would defy the mad mullahs and their barbaric death sentence. If the disclosure of this fact meant that she had to go somewhere else instead, then he could live with that. He was well aware that this was what Jørgensen was angling for. But he hadn’t become a journalist in order to keep things secret. It was a good story, and it was all his.
Chapter 5
V uk sat alone at a table on the hilltop overlooking Pale. Four plastic chairs were set around the maroon laminated table. The door of the small café hung loose on its hinges. A grimy curtain graced the one window that still had glass in it. The other had been smashed by a stray bullet on a day long ago by a couple of drunken militiamen with a petty score to settle. They had been fighting over a woman. Their anger had been greater than their marksmanship. Vuk was drinking slivovitz. It was a bad habit. There had been a time when he hadn’t needed alcohol to get through the days, but now it did him good sometimes. He never got drunk, but it had a wonderfully soothing, numbing effect. It blanked out the images that were prone to come into his mind without warning. He had survived longer than most, and statistics said his number should be flashing up on the board any time now. He had a feeling too that the past was about to catch up on them. Those acts that, in the euphoria of victory had, in some bizarre way, seemed perfectly natural, were now turning into horrific memories that presented themselves when least expected.
He drained his glass in one gulp. He could see the proprietor sitting inside behind the curtain. He was watching football on some German channel. The satellite dish fixed to his tumbledown premises still worked perfectly. But it looked out of place against the white concrete walls and the grey roof. Possibly it had been installed back in the days when there was still some hope that the odd tourist might wander all the way to the top of the hill. But the last tourist had left for home long ago. Vuk filled his glass again. The sun hung low over the green mountain slopes, and the air was heavy with the scents of high summer. Scents that always made him think of his father and little Katarina, but he didn’t want to do that. Pale, and beyond
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