Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “What is she saying?” asked the other officer. “Is she telling us to pull over?”

  The team leader also had interpreted the woman’s finger jab as a signal to pull over. But he was not willing to take orders from unidentified individuals, military police or not. An unscheduled stop would endanger everyone’s life. The unmarked car had contacted the team without any warning, use of radio, or sirens, in breach of police procedures. The team leader reached for his radio to inform the Viborg police about the situation in progress and turned to the driver to tell him to keep driving. The sunlight hit the woman’s badge just right, and the team leader could read the inscription circling a golden crown and three lions: Politiets Efterretningstjeneste.

  “The Intelligence Service?” he asked. “What’s the Intelligence Service doing tailing us?”

  The Danish Security and Intelligence Service was a part of the police force, forming Department G of the Danish National Police. Technically, they were the team’s colleagues.

  “Let’s see what they want,” the team leader said quietly. “Maybe it’s a secret emergency.”

  The driver flipped on the turn signal light. He drove into Heibergs Alle road and found an empty stall in the parking lot near a small park.

  “Keep your guard up,” the team leader reminded everyone. “We’re not sure they’re really from the Intelligence Service. Even if they are, we still don’t know their motives for this stop.”

  He threw a quick glance at the detainee. Sargon seemed as alarmed as his guards.

  * * *

  The Opel entered the parking lot and rolled to a slow stop in front of the van under the watchful eyes of the escort team. The driver and his passenger came out of the car at the exact same time and strutted toward the van in quick steps. The woman was wearing a chocolate-brown suede jacket, a beige blouse, and a brown cashmere scarf. Her long slender legs were wrapped in black, skinny-fit denim. The man had a navy blue jacket and matching pants and a black woolen sweater. The team leader noticed a large leather-banded watch around the man’s left hand. I’m sure they’re both wearing guns, but they’re hiding them very well.

  The woman removed her sunglasses when they were two feet away from the van, revealing her almond-shaped blue eyes. The man waited until the team leader rolled down his window. At that time, he folded and placed his sunglasses in his inside jacket pocket, before his small brown eyes gave the team leader a piercing gaze.

  “My name’s Magnus Torbjorn. I’m a Special Agent with the Politiets Efterretningstjeneste. This is my colleague, Agent Valgerda Hassing.”

  Valgerda flashed her badge to the team. Magnus did not bother to show them his badge, since both the team leader and the driver were busy examining hers. Instead, he nodded at the two officers in the back, who were nervously staring at him. Then he found Sargon’s face and nailed him with an intimidating grin.

  “I’m Inspector Bruin Roby, in charge of taking a detainee back to his cell. Your intervention has threatened the safety of my men and of the detainee.” Bruin handed Valgerda her badge, convinced of its authenticity.

  “Inspector, I believe we’re starting with the wrong impression,” Valgerda’s voice rang out soft and smooth. “We don’t intend in any way to interfere with your assignment.”

  “Well, your actions seem to indicate a strong interest in my detainee.” Bruin toned down the roughness in his voice.

  Valgerda said, “That’s true. We need to have a chat with Mr. Beyda.”

  Bruin looked at Sargon, whose face was frozen. Magnus was still staring at him, like a starving cat drooling underneath a canary’s cage.

  “Of course.” Bruin nodded. “You can talk to him upon our arrival at Horsens Pen. And, if I may add, with Mr. Beyda’s consent and in the presence of his lawyer.”

  “Inspector Roby.” Magnus held Bruin’s black eyes long enough to have his full attention. “Since you seem to be an expert, I’m sure you’re familiar with the structure of our national security system. Anything under the jurisdiction of the Service, like terrorism in this case, takes precedence over daily routines of the local police.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of my job, Special Agent, and of our work relationship with the Service.” Bruin frowned and his voice resumed its earlier gruffness.

  He thought about it for a few moments and nodded at Magnus. “Fine, I’ll give five minutes, but we’re supervising the interrogation.” Setting those terms translated into a small victory for Bruin. He did not want to appear beaten in front of his men.

  * * *

  Bruin stepped outside the van, followed by the driver. The two officers opened the back doors and brought Sargon out. Bruin’s head gesture ordered Sargon to walk in front of them. They stopped about thirty feet away at the edge of the parking lot.

  “No, not here.” Magnus shook his head and looked across the street separating the parking lot from the park alongside Lake Søndersø. “We’ll talk by the water. More privacy.”

  Bruin shrugged and took Sargon by his arm, leading him to the sidewalk. Magnus stepped closer and coughed. Valgerda realized he did that to attract Bruin’s attention rather than to clear his throat. “Inspector, I’ll take over from here,” Magnus said. “You’ll supervise from a distance.”

  Bruin opened his mouth to protest but realized their conversation had to remain a secret.

  “We’ll bring him back in five,” Valgerda said, following Magnus, who already was shoving Sargon ahead of him.

  They cut through the green-yellowish lawns, where tiny tufts of grass were struggling for revival after the long winter. Rows of apple, lime, pear, and chestnut trees surrounded the low, grassy shore, where small waves broke gently with quiet splashes. A little farther, a solitary boat was lazily crossing the ice-cold waters.

  “Mr. Beyda, take a seat,” Magnus said in English, a language Sargon spoke with difficulty, while pointing to a bench by a narrow pathway. Valgerda stood to their left, observing the parking lot where Bruin was pacing impatiently by the police van. Magnus sat next to Sargon, leaning close to his ear.

  “How are things going, Sargon?” Magnus asked with genuine interest.

  “Good,” Sargon said. “You worried for me?”

  “No, we’re worried about your future.”

  Sargon snorted and cleaned a few imaginary specks of dust from his gray suit. “Where’s my lawyer?” he asked after a brief pause.

  “You don’t need one.”

  “You recording my words?”

  “No. Our business with you is secret. Top secret. No records. No witnesses.” Magnus gestured with his head toward the parking lot.

  Sargon nodded his understanding.

  “You won’t say a word to your lawyer or your family about our meeting. But we want you to talk to your friends about it.”

  Sargon frowned and snorted at the same time. “What friends?” he asked gruffly.

  “Yildiz, your brother. Saleh, your best friend. Fatimah, the landlady.” Magnus was counting their names using his right hand’s fingers. “Ibrahim, the explosive expert.”

  Sargon kept his long face showing indifference, annoyance, and contempt. Still, Valgerda noticed a tiny crack in his defensive façade. Sargon’s left eye twitched slightly before he could control it, and his right hand turned into a fist, even if for a brief moment. A seasoned psychologist, Valgerda was trained to spot, read, and interpret the slightest clues of body language. She decided to exploit her advantage and placed a hand on Magnus’s shoulder.

  “I know nothing and say nothing to you.” Sargon raised his shoulders and feigned disinterest.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Valgerda said after Magnus gestured that it was her turn. “We just want you to listen, listen very carefully.”

  “Eh, OK.”

  “We know about the Copenhagen cell. We have detailed information about your associates and your plans. During the trial, in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t necessary for us to reveal this information. First, because y
our friends would hear about it and go underground.”

  Sargon suppressed a tiny smile.

  He’s thinking about placing a call to his brother as soon as he returns to Horsens, Valgerda thought.

  Then he frowned.

  And now he remembered we asked him specifically to talk to his friends.

  “Second,” Valgerda continued, without missing Sargon’s lips twitch, “we still need more evidence to frame your associates.”

  This time, Sargon did not conceal his smile. “Aha! I snitch nobody,” he blurted with a quick snap of his fingers.

  “We don’t need a snitch,” Valgerda replied. “And you’ll not get a chance to tell anyone in Copenhagen about our plan. They’re all being arrested as we speak. All of them.”

  Another piece fell off Sargon’s emotional façade. He was squinting and his right foot was tapping lightly on the grass.

  “Our courts have found you guilty. Twice.” Valgerda began hammering Sargon, driving her words as if they were nails. “If I know anything about our criminal laws, and trust me, I do have a law degree, you’ll most likely be sentenced to life imprisonment. Do you know what that means?”

  Sargon nodded with a deep frown. “I do,” he mumbled.

  “Life in jail, that’s what it means. No escape. Ever.”

  She was bending the truth to fit her goal. Convicted felons in Denmark were entitled to a pardon hearing after serving twelve years of their prison term. Depending on a number of factors, they could receive a pardon. Besides, Danish courts rendered life imprisonment verdicts so rarely they were more the exception than the common standard of justice.

  “You’ll rot in jail,” Valgerda said.

  Sargon buried his head in his hands. Valgerda smiled at Magnus, passing him the torch.

  “Listen up, Sargon,” Magnus said, taking over. “We’re prepared to give you a pardon. Then you and your wife will receive political asylum, and eventually, Danish citizenship.”

  Sargon looked up. He did not have to spell out his reply. His hopeful eyes did all the talking. He was ready to accept their offer, whatever it was they wanted from him.

  “We want you to organize your old gang, once you’re transferred to Copenhagen. We’ve got a job for you.”

  Sargon leaned forward toward Magnus as if doubting his ears. “A job?”

  “Yes. A big one. Keep your friendships alive. Stay in shape. And not a word to anyone.”

  “Why? What do you want us to do?”

  “We’ll give you the details later. For now, convince your friends you have a way out for everyone. A legit one. The only one. Got it?”

  Sargon nodded.

  “I can’t hear your head shake,” Magnus said.

  “I got it. Keep mouth shut, eyes open.”

  “Good, very good.”

  Magnus’s BlackBerry chirped and he glanced at the screen. “Take him back. I have to make a call,” he said to Valgerda. “Remember, Sargon, if I hear rumors about our little chat, none of your family will mourn at your funeral, because they would all be dead already.”

  Chapter Nine

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  April 12, 7:10 p.m.

  The bronze statue of the Little Mermaid, sitting on top of a large rock pile, looked with weary eyes at the Copenhagen Harbor as if wondering whether it was worth trading her soul for a pair of human legs. Valgerda stared at the statue for some time, wondering if the unexpected summons to meet with Gunter Madsen, the Assistant Director of the Danish Defense Intelligence Service, would result in the same regrettable trade. Magnus, who also was staring at the statue, probably had the same thoughts. Secrets for their souls.

  The DDSI Headquarters were situated at the Frederikshavn Citadel, better known as Kastellet, a pentagram-shaped castle, a stone’s throw away from the Little Mermaid. The castle—still functioning as a military base—stood on a man-made island, surrounded by water-filled moats and accessible only through two bridges. Magnus parked next to a pier, and they walked to the Ved Norgesporten, the northern gate, where they presented their badges to the guards.

  The evening air was cool, and a soft breeze toyed with their hair. Their boots cracked on the gray cobblestones of the narrow pathways. They glanced in silence at the red brick two- and three-story barracks and warehouses as they made their way to the DDSI offices.

  * * *

  “Welcome. My name is Yuliya Novikov. I’m the Director of Operations and a close associate of Mr. Madsen. I’ll accompany you to his office.”

  As they exchanged their pleasantries in the vestibule filled with dark antique furniture, Magnus noticed Yuliya had a slight trace of a foreign accent. Is that Polish? Russian? A small-statured woman, Yuliya was dressed in a charcoal suit and moved gracefully in her black stiletto shoes. She had no problem pushing the heavy bronze-colored door, which opened into a large oval office.

  “Welcome, Ms. Hassing and Mr. Torbjorn.”

  The man who spoke these words stood up from behind a black mahogany desk. Over six feet tall and of average build, the clean-shaven bald man was younger than Magnus had expected, perhaps in his early forties. The large office seemed to amplify his deep baritone voice. His small black eyes seemed to search not only Magnus’s face, but also his heart.

  “I’m glad you were able to come here on such short notice,” Madsen said. He shook their hands and returned to his seat.

  Magnus and Valgerda sat across from him, in two armchairs in front of his desk. Yuliya made her way to the last empty armchair, the one closest to a tall bookshelf.

  “We’ve been looking forward to this meeting, Mr. Madsen,” Magnus said.

  “Gunter. Call me Gunter. May I call you Magnus? And Valgerda?”

  “Of course,” Magnus replied.

  Valgerda nodded.

  Gunter reached for a small wooden box on his table and offered it to Magnus. “Care for a smoke?”

  Smoking in public places was outlawed in Denmark in 2007, but the ban apparently had forgotten to knock on Gunter’s door.

  Magnus and Valgerda declined his offer. Gunter shrugged his disappointment and helped himself to a fat cigar from the wooden box on his desk. Toying with it for a few seconds, he rolled it between his fingers, feeling for soft spots. He brought the cigar to his face for a closer look.

  “This is an Isabella,” he said once the cigar passed his inspection. “Private reserve, just outside Havana. They make only a thousand boxes each year. I can afford to buy only ten.”

  Gunter reached over and picked up an item from his desk. The sharp blade of a cutter—a small gold-plated replica of the French guillotine—flashed as Gunter beheaded the cigar. He brought it to his face again and took a deep sniff of the tobacco. He lit it while rolling and drawing on it, making sure the match’s flame did not touch the end of the cigar. No words were spoken until the Assistant Director had enjoyed the first few puffs.

  “Yes, a true beauty,” Gunter described his smoking experience. “But I didn’t call you here to talk about cigars. We could have had this conversation over the phone, but one cannot be too careful. At times, spies have been able to breach even our most secure lines of communication.”

  Magnus nodded.

  “How’s the COP mission coming along?” Gunter asked without specifying from whom he expected an answer.

  Magnus exchanged a look with Valgerda. The anticipation was clear in her eyes, and Magnus gave her the go-ahead with a head gesture.

  “The Convicts Operation Project is going fairly well, sir.” Valgerda glanced briefly at the manila folder resting on her lap. “The first stage of recruitment is near completion, with the last men being added as we speak. Agents will soon begin the hands-on training of the cons, and, once the wargame’s ready, the unit will be ready for deployment.”

  “Great. What’s our current number?” Gunter asked, dragging on his cigar.

  “We have almost two hundred recruits.”

  “What’s the risk one of these cons you’ve selected may threaten
the secrecy of our mission?”

  “They’re all felons, doing time for crimes they’ve committed, and for which they were found guilty,” Magnus replied. “We’re fully aware we’re dealing with criminals, willing and able to backstab us and switch sides at a moment’s notice. The information we spoon-feed them is very, very limited, provided on a need-to-know basis only. None of the recruits are aware of the exact nature of their duties, the location coordinates, or the time of landing, or even the name of the country that is their target. All they know is that someone in the Danish government is requesting their services.”

  “That’s good. Let’s continue to keep their knowledge about our operation to a minimum,” Gunter said. “Now, since information is power, let me inform you of a few changes to our initial plans. One of our Assistant Directors of Operations, who was going to lead this mission on the ground, has been held up in Karachi, taking care of an urgent task. I have talked this matter over with your director, and he shares my views about the new Chief of Operations for the Arctic Wargame. Magnus, the job is yours.”

  Magnus’s face was calm. He knew where Gunter was going as soon as he mentioned the director. Valgerda congratulated Magnus with a big smile and a light pat on his shoulders. But Magnus found his promotion unusual. The DDIS had no shortage of capable directors or assistant directors. Why didn’t my director tell me about this before going on holidays? Something doesn’t feel right.

  “You have a very good knowledge of the background and most of the details of this operation,” Gunter said. “Yuliya will brief you on those few aspects withheld from you because of jurisdictional divisions. She’ll work closely with you on finalizing the remaining elements of the wargame.”

  Yuliya cocked her head and smiled at Magnus and Valgerda.

  “Do the Canadians suspect anything about our true intentions?” Magnus asked.

  “They had no clue until a few days ago,” Gunter replied.

  Magnus leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “Nothing to lose sleep over. Three days ago, someone at the CSE detected our two icebreakers delivering military supplies to our provisional depots on Ellesmere Island. The DND and the CIS have dispatched a recon team to the Arctic.”