The Execution by Dick Wolf

figure out Fisk’s game. “No, this we don’t have in Sweden.” He studied the dessert treat. He could smell the coffee and chocolate scent of the frosting.
    Fisk said, “I made this myself.”
    “For me?” said Jenssen.
    Fisk said nothing.
    Jenssen sat back a bit, trying to assume control over the conversation. “I presume this little culinary presentation has some didactic purpose?”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “Don’t play stupid. It offends me. Was I caught by a stupid man? I don’t think so.”
    Fisk said nothing.
    Jenssen continued, “I read the articles about you. I know you speak five languages. And I killed your girlfriend with my bare hands.” Jenssen cocked his head a bit. “You did not come here to bring me sweets as a peace offering. So? By all means. Instruct away. Teach me your pious little lesson.”
    Fisk shook his head, as though Jenssen had just proved his point. “See, that’s the thing. There’s no ulterior motive here. No lesson, really. It’s just a cupcake. Something for you to contemplate.”
    Jenssen stared at it. His eyes were shining. He was engaged. “You have poisoned it, and need to trick me into eating it.”
    Fisk smiled.
    “No? You certainly hate me enough.”
    “Why would I want to release you from the years of deprivation awaiting you in prison?”
    “Because of the satisfaction you would receive from the sight of me dying before you.”
    “That would be your final triumph, wouldn’t it?”
    “I don’t follow you, Detective.”
    “If I did something to cause your death, and then ended up spending my life in jail for it? I’d really be giving you the last laugh then, wouldn’t I?”
    Jenssen eyed the cupcake again, this time with undisguised loathing. “You made this thing?” he said. “This glob of unhealthy garbage? In one small package, you have managed to encapsulate everything I hate about your world.”
    “Dessert?”
    “Your compulsion to appeal only to animal appetites. To disgrace your bodies with this filth.”
    “Lighten up, Jenssen. You’re eating healthy in here? It’s not going to get any better in the penitentiary. Poor nutrition is just another circle of hell for you.”
    Fisk reached out, pushing the cupcake toward Jenssen.
    “This is the last treat you’ll ever be offered. You can eat it, or not. See, I haven’t sat around thinking about you. I’ve been busy.”
    “So my lawyer told me. But do you think those two crossing the Canadian border are the end of it?”
    “Of hatred disguised as a holy war?”
    “The ground is crumbling away beneath your feet and you can’t even feel the tremors. Your failing is the same as your entire society’s. You have no real beliefs. And so you lack will.”
    Fisk held up one hand. “Don’t waste your time with this.”
    “I know your type,” said Jenssen. “Remote. Superior. So you came here to gloat. To visit me in my cage. Knowing you are safe. You have every advantage. You can afford to be magnanimous and patronizing. It makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it? Like a winner. Like an American.”
    Magnus Jenssen would never give Fisk an inch. He was a highly disciplined man going to seed, but he would not crack. Fisk had zero interest in sparring with him, allowing Jenssen to spin out his tired brand of Islamic fundamentalism to justify what he felt in his own rotten little heart.
    “The problem,” Jenssen continued, “is that I, too, know I am safe. This is why your country is so vulnerable to jihad, because it cannot and will not respond to blood with blood. Thanks to your outdated Constitution and your Byzantine system of justice. What is a jury trial now but a television entertainment show? I do not fear you, Detective. As you yourself said, in wounding, maiming, or even killing me, you would only be harming yourself. I have nothing else to lose. You have everything.”
    “You are correct and wrong at the same time,” said Fisk. “I could certainly kill you right