I was racing toward disaster.
The night before, a chartered MD-11 Trijet had blown up after take-off from Bangor International, killing all four hundred and eight people on board. I was the State Department’s representative on a federal terrorism task force and I had to be on the 6:00 P.M. Global Air Lines flight from Copenhagen to New York. I dodged around less hasty travelers, a blond woman in no-name running shoes loping past Kastrup Airport’s duty-free shops.
Brilliant strips of neon in primary colors slid by me. I saw masses of Nordic furs, Swedish vodka, Georg Jensen pipes. Passed travelers lugging heavy bags from the liquor store. Spotted a plainclothes cop dressed too warmly for a Danish June, scrutinizing the passersby.
Up ahead the readerboard listed the status of departing flights. Beyond, harshly-lit corridors branched off towards the gates.
A six-foot monument blocked my path. The cop, immovable as stone. I stopped abruptly, breathing hard. I moved to one side. So did he.
Slightly stooped, topcoat hanging open in front, showing the regulation white shirt and tie, concealing the reason for his underarm bulge.
I flashed my passport, black with the gold embossed eagle beneath the logo. DIPLOMATIC, United States of America. “U.S. State Department,” I said. “Urgent and official business.”
“My business is also official.” The cop’s eyes were charcoal, pouched in sooty-colored flesh that gave his face a melancholy cast. “Also urgent,” he added somberly. “You are Kathryn Collins?”
The worried gaze, the regretful tone. A messenger of death. My alarm was instant.
“Stefan Krajewski?” I asked. “Has something happened to Stefan?”
His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know that name,” he began slowly, “but—”
I interrupted. “My father?”
His features smoothed out. “I have no news of your family.”
Not my lover. Not my father. I shifted my weight from right foot to left, ready to sidestep him again. “I don’t have time—”
He pushed his card toward me. “This is official business of the Danish police.”
Reluctantly, I took the card and read. Politiassistent Niels-Jørgen Jespersen. And under that in French, Liaison, Corps Diplomatique. The policeman assigned to interview members of the diplomatic corps when they ran afoul of Danish law.
A mistake then, stopping me. The digital clock on the departures board read five-fifty. “I can’t miss this flight. You’ll have to talk to someone at the embassy.”
“I have spoken with your security officer.”
“Bella Hinton? Didn’t she tell you? I don’t have time for this.”
“I must ask you to come with me,” he said unhappily.
“You know an American airliner exploded last night in Maine?”
His nod was mournful. “And you will be taking part in that investigation.”
Not a question. So Bella had told him why I was leaving Denmark. I said, “I have to be in Bangor tomorrow morning.”
“That will not be possible.” A pair of uniformed policemen appeared beneath the fluorescent lights behind him, coming our way. I felt the short hairs rise on the back of my neck. He’d brought backup. Was he anticipating violent resistance?
“You think I’m a criminal?” Disbelief made my voice rise. “You aren’t going to arrest a diplomat—”
“I would not do that.” Jespersen’s hand was on my elbow, his grip firm. He motioned to his two cohorts, cookie-cutter Vikings with collar-length blond hair swept back from their pale faces, boxy jackets accenting the breadth of their shoulders. They stepped behind me. Other travelers cut to the right and left of our compact quartet. I caught a few curious glances, but nobody tried to intervene. Jespersen added, “Bella assured us you’d be eager to cooperate.”
He was letting me know he’d checked my status. I wasn’t an accredited member of the U.S. Mission, my special assignment to Denmark short-term only. Not protected by diplomatic immunity. He could arrest me if he felt like it.
The digital read-out on the departures board jumped ahead another minute from five fifty-four to five fifty-five. I’d never make my flight. Except they’d have to hold up the plane while they extracted the suitcase of a passenger who failed to board. I had one, maybe two minutes to talk my way out of this.
I said, “I’ve been ordered home by the President.” Technically, it was the Attorney General who’d called in the special interagency task force on terrorism, but Jespersen wouldn’t know that.
The task force had six members and our qualifications didn’t overlap. To achieve good results, we had to work together from the beginning of the investigation. Each of us had accepted the one fundamental rule of membership: When we were called, we’d drop everything else and be on-site from Day One. I hiked the strap of my carry-on bag higher on my shoulder and tried to free my elbow.
Jespersen’s grip tightened. “I’m sure your President will forgive a few hours’ delay,” he said. “And don’t worry about your luggage. The airline company will send your suitcase to the American embassy.”
I searched my mind frantically for a compelling argument that would break Jespersen’s hold. I couldn’t think of one. “Very considerate,” I said in a voice flat with resignation. I let him start me moving toward the concourse, the other two cops sauntering behind us. Twenty feet along one hallway he took us through a door marked PRIVATE, down a set of metal stairs and outside to the area between the arrivals lounge and the police substation.
A breeze off the Øresund added the briny smell of the sea to the airport’s overlay of exhaust fumes. Jespersen propelled me toward an iron-gray BMW. Its color matched the skin around his eyes. He pulled open the front passenger door. “We’ll take my car.”
“Take your car where?” I slid onto the leather.
He pushed my door shut. The two uniforms had disappeared into the airport cop shop. Maybe they’d decided I was harmless. Or more likely other cops were at our destination.
“What is it you need me for?” I asked as soon as Jespersen got behind the wheel.
He maneuvered us out of the parking space and headed for the highway leading into Copenhagen. He kept his eyes on the traffic and said, “Kriminalinspektør Blixenstjerne would like to ask you some questions.”
A police inspector had questions for me? “About what?”
“A case he’s working on.”
The case had to be a homicide. The aura of death hung over Jespersen’s every movement. Anxiety knotted my stomach. Who had died?
A former United States Foreign Service officer, Diana Deverell began her career in 1981 by serving as a vice-consul at the American Embassy in San Salvador, later becoming commercial officer. From 1984 to 1986, she was the personnel officer at the American Embassy in Poland. Her next novel of suspense featuring Casey Collins is Night on Fire, available in July 1999. She lives in Oregon with her husband, a former Captain of the Royal Danish Army, and their three children.
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