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care. He read the political and economic news, crime reports and the sports pages. He wasn’t interested in the arts. Most Danish artists did nothing but whine about money and only appeared to be interested in sticking their trunks into the state coffers and siphoning off as much as they could. When he did read a book, it was usually an international thriller in English, but he’d really rather see a film.
    ‘Lise Carlsen is chair of Danish PEN. One of the youngest chairs in the organization and one of only a handful of women in the world to hold that post. She’s very bright. She also happens to be a reporter on the staff of Politiken. And in this matter she will be playing the hostess.’
    ‘But the host is in charge, right?’
    ‘Host and hostess have to work together to ensure that their guests feel welcome. Is that clear, Toftlund?’
    ‘Yes, quite clear.’
    She leaned across the desk between the two neat little piles of green files. Lowered her voice. Per loved that voice. It was deep, husky from the cigarettes and reminded him of Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep.
    ‘It’s a complex surveillance operation, Per. I know that. For one thing, our resources are limited. We’ve got this summit meeting in the autumn. Preparations for that are already eating into what we have…and for another, you’ll have tobe prepared for the fact that Danish PEN, the writer and the newspaper will be looking for as much publicity as possible. That’s the whole point of the exercise. As far as they’re concerned, that is. We, on the other hand, want maximum security. So keep Sara Santanda under wraps, Toftlund.’
    ‘Maximum security and maximum publicity. The two don’t equate.’
    ‘Well, it’s your job, along with Lise Carlsen’s, to make them equate. But we don’t want to lose her. Is that understood? Safety first. Then the press.’
    ‘There’s also another side to this,’ Per said.
    He took a sip of his coffee. Vuldom waited. This was one of her good points. She gave an order, presented you with an assignment and expected it to be carried out, but she also gave people time to think before answering. She liked good answers, not smart ones. Per took another sip and continued:
    ‘The politicians will be up in arms. There’ll be a helluva row…’
    ‘And…?’
    ‘Well, Denmark makes somewhere in the region of a couple of billion kroner a year from exports to Iran. There have been reports in the paper about a company in Randers receiving an order for railway rolling stock. From Iran. And this is a company that’s in financial difficulties. So…’
    ‘So that particular matter is of no political relevance,’ Vuldom said, glancing pointedly at her watch. Per let this pass. But he knew this was not true. With both journalists and politicians involved, he knew there was no chance of keeping anything secret. These people lived by leaking information and foisting things onto one another. Most politicians would sell their grandmother for a two-minute spot on the evening news. He suddenly realized what a real bugger of a job Vuldom had so elegantly dropped into his lap. He raised his head, but she beat him to it.
    ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve plenty to be getting on with,’ she said, concluding their meeting.
    Toftlund hung his jacket on a hanger in his office and called John Nikolajsen. John and he had worked together before on a number of big cases, and both had acted as bodyguards for the royal family and visiting VIPs. They trusted one another, and trust is one of the most essential elements of police teamwork the world over. Fortunately, John had not been assigned to the summit meeting. They would be allowed two more officers for theplanning phase, so Per asked John to round them up for a meeting in one hour in the second-floor office they had been given as a temporary operations room. He called Politiken and made an appointment with Lise Carlsen. Her voice was soft and pleasant. Was there a trace of a Jutland