THE HEAVY METAL TABLE was bolted to the far wall. Two chairs were set on either side of it.
One chair was empty. The other one held a man, hooded and shackled.
The white hood turned as the door lock clicked behind Fisk. The prisoner was listening.
Fisk stared at him. Waiting for Jenssen to speak.
He did not.
Jenssen wore an orange jumpsuit and plastic flip-flops. His ankles were shackled tight to the legs of his chair. His wrists were shackled together, but at Fisk’s request his arms remained in front of him, chained to the chair back behind him. Just long enough to reach onto the table, though his empty hands rested in his lap now.
Fisk walked toward his chair. The hooded head tracked him until Fisk was opposite Jenssen, the hood facing forward.
Fisk placed the carton in the exact center of the table, equidistant to both of them. He pulled out his chair and sat.
He did not remove the hood at first. He let Jenssen bake in silence.
He watched the little patch of hood get sucked in and out on Jenssen’s foul breath. He wanted to hit him so hard. He wanted to shatter teeth.
Link wouldn’t be able to get inside fast enough to stop that.
After some amount of time—one minute or ten, because everything had slowed down for Fisk—he reached across and slowly pulled the hood from the prisoner’s head.
The blond hair was short, as he had seen it in court. So was the beard Jenssen wore now. He wore a white knit skullcap. His face had lost the health it once had: Jenssen was a marathon runner and fitness buff. Now he had to make do with sixty minutes a day outside his eight-by-eight cell in an “exercise” room that was entirely empty and nicknamed “the rat cage.”
But his blue eyes still burned bright. Brighter now as he recognized the man across from him.
Jenssen brought up his shackled hands to rub his blond beard. He smiled, and Fisk briefly entertained a fantasy of grabbing Jenssen across the table and strangling him to death with his own handcuffs.
“Jeremy Fisk,” said Jenssen.
The smile held, trying to come off as superior, but behind it was concern, even worry. Fisk could see that. Jenssen was utterly vulnerable here.
So Fisk just looked at him. Jenssen stared back for a while, then bailed out on the staring contest as though it were beneath him. But he was nervous. Fisk watched his throat work as he swallowed saliva three times in quick succession.
Jenssen looked at the carton in the center of the table. He was surprised and intrigued, wary.
“You brought me some dinner,” said Jenssen.
It was supposed to come off as bravado, but when Fisk did not respond, the words hung in the air like a foul odor.
“I was disappointed that they could find no role for you in that courtroom farce,” Jenssen said. His Swedish accent was recognizable, but like most educated Scandinavians, his English was better than that of a great many Americans.
Fisk was regretting coming here. He thought about standing and walking out now, and leaving it at that. Putting the hood back on Jenssen and walking away from him forever was a very attractive option. His one goal was to allow Jenssen no satisfaction whatsoever.
But he was here, and he stayed. He let his eyes drop once to the carton.
Jenssen said, “Ah. A prop. Bravo. I’m supposed to inquire about it? Fixate on it somehow? We’re to go back and forth about it? And then you’ll never reveal what is inside. And that is supposed to haunt me for the rest of my days.”
Fisk reached out and unfolded the top of the carton. He peeled back the flaps and lifted out the small white foil-lined bakery-style bag inside. He opened that and pulled out a cupcake.
He set the cupcake, nestled in its ridged foil baking cup, on the table. The cake was yellow, the frosting mocha.
“Dessert?” said Jenssen. But he was truly mystified. He regarded the cupcake as though it contained a bomb.
Fisk said, “You don’t have cupcakes in Sweden?”
Jenssen could not 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 now. With ease. But where is the sport in that? What you see as weakness—my forbearance—is in fact a sign of strength. But you can’t know that, because you can only function in terms of revenge, of lashing out, of punishment. I could kill you where you sit right now. Instead I bring you a cupcake.”