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Egyptian’s cells. We know the people he associates with. And I’m sure the majority of Muslims in this country would be only happy to help, so if we just keep the handful of extremists under surveillance…’
    ‘It’s not just the fanatics we’re up against.’ Per picked up a marker and tossed it from hand to hand. ‘Any true believer who bumps her off will go to paradise and sit at Allah’s right hand. That’s their drug. But the state of Iran isalso allowing us infidels a crack at the whip. The reward for taking out Simba now stands at four million US dollars.’
    He enjoyed his colleagues’ reaction to this. They exchanged glances, whistled through their teeth. The mention of the sum involved would bring it home to them that this was a big job and an important one.
    ‘I know. Tempting, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘To the professional hit men and the amateurs. To anyone who can get close to little Simba.’
    Per turned to the board and went on talking while he wrote up a few keywords:
    ‘We have to look over some safe houses. We have to work out a route from the airport to the safe house as well as an alternative route and transport from the safe house to the press conference. We also need to find a nice secure venue for the press conference. And whether the reporters like it or not, there has to be strict monitoring of everyone who wants to meet Simba. Comprende ?’
    ‘What have we got in the way of resources?’ Bente again, wanting to make sure that she was seen to be contributing right from the start.
    ‘Not enough. Not what we’d have for a state visit,’ Per said. ‘So what it boils down to is: keep Simba’s visit a secret. Into the country with the woman. Press conference. Out again. End of operation.’
    ‘Right,’ said Bente.
    ‘Way to go, Per!’ said Frands. He was a burly character who had trouble holding his stomach in. He looked like a man who was soon going to give up the fight and let his belly hang over his belt.
    Per laughed, straightened his shoulders and intoned with affected solemnity:
    ‘The Secret Service lost Kennedy. Reagan got hit. We’ve never lost anyone yet. And Simba’s not going to be the first.’
    John and Frands cheered and stamped their feet. Bente looked as if she found it hard to see what was so funny.
    ‘Yes, but remember, this is Denmark,’ she said.
    Per looked at her.
    ‘Exactly, Bente, and from a purely statistical point of view our luck’s bound to run out some time. So… vamos !’
     
    Per Toftlund found a parking space for his blue BMW down by the canal on Gammel Strand. He popped some coins into the parking meter and walkedalong the canalside. People were sitting with their legs dangling over the edge, drinking beer and cola. He was early on purpose. The heavy fug of summer hung over the city, a blend of exhaust fumes, sunshine and the smells of food and drink emanating from pavement cafés and kitchen doors. The arms and legs of people cycling past were every shade of red and brown. He strolled to the café through the hot afternoon and found himself a table inside, in the far corner, from which he could keep an eye on the door. He fetched a cup of coffee from the bar and sat down with a copy of Ekstra Bladet in front of him, as arranged.
    He spotted her right away. She was obviously looking for someone, but he would have noticed her anyway. She had a pretty face and a nice body, but then so do a lot of women. No, it wasn’t just that. He liked the way she lifted her head and tossed back her fair hair, and her light springy step on the paving stones. She had good legs too under her filmy summer skirt, and she wasn’t wearing much make-up. He guessed she must be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older. She would probably still look like that at forty. If she wasn’t the stroppy type, it would be a pleasure working with her.
    He noticed a certain hesitancy about her when she entered the café. Although she seemed like a typical café-goer,