The Serbian Dane by Leif Davidsen

four or five private cars and a lot of trucks in the forecourt. Vuk had wiped off most of the camouflage paint with a handkerchief, but he couldn’t be sure he’d got rid of it all. On the other hand, you get a lot of funny-looking people wandering about in the early hours of the morning. Vuk found a toilet at the side of the service building, splashed his face with water and pressed his moustache back into place. It was the best he could do, and it wasn’t bad. He hung about beside a truck with Polish plates. The driver emerged from the shop: a short, stocky man with a five o’clock shadow.
    Vuk stepped into the light with his rucksack in his hand. He gave the driver a big smile and said in German: ‘Any chance of a lift?’
    The driver stopped in his tracks. He saw a young man, unshaven, but with a nice friendly smile. It was three in the morning, the driver was tired and he still had a good few hours’ driving ahead of him.
    ‘I’m headed for Berlin,’ he said with a heavy accent.
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘My boss wouldn’t like it.’
    ‘Your boss doesn’t need to know.’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘I could pay something towards the petrol,’ Vuk said, holding out a fifty-deutschmark note.
    ‘Aw, hop in,’ the driver said. ‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The name’s Karol.’
    ‘Werner,’ said Vuk.
    They chatted about football as they bowled along. Listened to German pop music and, later, traffic reports on the morning rush hour in Berlin. Queues were building up on a number of roads. Berlin appeared out of the morning haze. There were construction cranes everywhere, towering over the grey suburbs of old East Berlin. Karol was carrying a load of textiles from Kraków. He dropped Vuk not far from Alexanderplatz. Vuk found a cafeteria where three middle-aged men appeared to be tending their hangovers with coffee and schnapps. Vuk paid for a coffee, then visited the gents. When he reappeared he was wearing the beige chinos, a clean striped shirt and a pale-blue tie. The moustache was gone and his hair slicked back. On his feet were a pair of brown loafers. If the three men noticed anything, then they gave no sign of it: it seemed that in this part of town people minded their own business. Vuk drank his coffee and left.
    He spotted a sign for the U-bahn, purchased a single ticket and took a westbound train. The Hotel Heidelberg was situated in Knesebechstrasse, off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. It was a small family hotel with a restaurant just inside the main door. The reception desk was situated at the rear of the restaurant. Three sales reps were in the midst of a late breakfast.
    At reception Vuk put his rucksack on the floor and presented the young woman behind the desk with the Danish passport.
    ‘You have a room for Mr Per Larsen,’ he said in English.
    She checked on the computer, found his name. She pushed a yellow registration form across the desk, leaving him to fill in the details himself. She did not so much as glance at the passport. He was Danish and hence a member of the EU.
    She handed him an old-style key.
    ‘Number sixty-seven,’ she said.
    ‘Thanks,’ Vuk said and climbed the stairs. All of a sudden he felt dog-tired. And he could have done with a good hot meal. But the main thing was that now he could safely rest.
    The room was quite big, with a double bed. He put down his rucksack and called the number Kravtjov had given him in Bosnia.
    ‘It’s me,’ Vuk said in English.
    ‘Welcome to Berlin,’ Kravtjov said. ‘He wants to see you as soon as possible.’
    ‘I need to get some sleep first,’ Vuk said. The tiredness had suddenly hit him. He had been on the move for three days and had used up all his last reserves of strength and adrenalin. Even during the few hours when he had managed to grab some sleep his body had been on the alert. What rest he had got had been of the most superficial sort.
    ‘I understand,’ said Kravtjov.
    ‘I’ll call you in a few