by Ethan Jones
“Hey, guys,” one of the officers in the back said, interrupting them. “Check out the Opel, just pulled in from the left. Two people in the car.”
The team leader turned his head around to inspect the vehicle. The silver Opel Vectra was unremarkable but gaining on them. One of the officers involuntarily placed his hand over his holster.
“Is it going to pass us?” asked the team leader.
“I’m not sure, but it’s getting really close.”
The team leader checked his pistol, as the driver steered closer to the side of the road. This provided the Opel sufficient room to pass. The distance also gave the team an extra second to avert a crash. The driver kept checking his rear-view and left side mirrors, keeping both hands on the steering wheel, ready for any last second maneuver.
The Opel crossed over the white median dividing the lanes and accelerated. The team leader stared at the dark tinted windows of the sedan, trying to make out the features of the strawberry blonde woman in the passenger’s seat sporting black sunglasses. Once both vehicles were neck and neck, the Opel lost its haste. The team leader saw something shining behind the passenger’s window as the woman began to unroll the glass.
He pulled out his pistol. The driver clenched the steering wheel, gearing up to drive into the bushes along the road, if the shining object turned out to be a gun. But the sight of a brass badge, which the woman held in her right hand, signaled the escort team was not under attack. The team leader squinted, but the letters engraved on the badge were too small. The shield shape of the badge did not resemble any official symbol familiar to him.
“What does the badge say?” the team leader asked the driver.
“Her arm’s shaking, but it looks like a MP badge.”
“The Opel’s unmarked,” one of the officers said. “And who asked for the MP’s support?”
“What’s she saying?” asked the other officer. “Is she telling us to pull over?”
The team leader had interpreted the woman’s finger jab as a pull over signal too. But he was not willing to take orders from unidentified individuals, military police or not. An unexpected stop would endanger everyone’s life, including the detainee’s. The unmarked car had contacted the escort team without any warning, use of radio or sirens, in breach of police procedures. The team leader reached for the 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 Service doing tailing us?” He frowned and decided to stop the van.
The Danish Security and Intelligence Service was part of the police force, forming Department G of the Danish National Police. Technically, they were the escort team’s colleagues.
“Let’s see what they want,” the team leader said quietly. “Maybe it’s a secret emergency, and that’s why they couldn’t radio it. They’re probably from the Århus department.”
The driver flipped on the turn signal light. He drove into Heibergs Alle road and found an empty stall in the parking lot, awaiting the arrival of the Opel.
“Keep your guard up,” the team leader reminded everyone. “We’re not sure they’re really from the Service. Even if they are, we still don’t know their motives for this stop.”
Sargon was as alarmed as his guards. The woman’s badge was unknown to him, and so were the identities of the people in the car. He had a gut feeling this story was just not going to end well.
* * *
The Opel entered the parking lot and rolled to a complete 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, some designer’s brand the team leader recognized, with a tongue-twister Italian name. The man had a navy blue, tweed jacket and matching pants, complemented by 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 lifted her sunglasses over her hair as soon as they stopped in front of 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 shades in his inside jacket pocket, before his small brown eyes gave the man a piercing glance.
“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 escort team. Magnus did not bother, 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 smirk.
“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.” Convinced of its authenticity, Bruin handed Valgerda her badge.
“Inspector, I believe we’re starting with a 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 indicate a strong interest in my detainee.” Bruin toned down the roughness in his voice.
“True. We need to have a chat with Mr. Beyda.”
Sargon’s face froze, in apparent recognition of his last name. Magnus was still staring at him, like a starving cat drooling underneath the 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 defense counselor.”
Bruin’s reply distracted Magnus from his prey. His look told Sargon he was not off the hook, but at least he could breathe easier for a few moments.
“Inspector Roby.” Magnus held Bruin’s black eyes long enough to have his full attention. Then, he dropped his gaze to the officer’s badge on the inspector’s chest. “Since you seem to be an expert in our rules of engagement, I’m sure you’re familiar with the structure of our national security. Anything that falls 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.” Bruin frowned and his voice resumed its earlier gruffness. “And of our work relationship with the Service. May I see a court order that allows you to interrogate my detainee?”
Magnus smiled politely and tapped his jacket’s outside pockets, as if to remind himself where he had placed the court warrant. Finding what he was searching for, he produced a BlackBerry and handed it to Bruin, who stared bemused at the palm-size device. They’ve started to hand out court orders electronically?
“The judge’s number is on speed dial.” Magnus encouraged Bruin to pick up the phone.
Valgerda contributed a big smile to contribute to Bruin’s persuasion. “All you’ve got to do is dial 7.”
Bruin hesitated. Are they bluffing or has Judge Handel really authorized this interrogation, illegal as it is? Bruin turned to the driver, but he just shrugged.
“The judge has already given us the go ahead,” Valgerda said, “but if you must check…”
Bruin looked at the BlackBerry again and sighed. I don’t think they’re bluffing. “Fine,” he conceded with a grunt, “but only five minutes. And 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 doors and brought Sargon out. Bruin’s
head gesture ordered Sargon to walk in front of them. They stopped about thirty feet away from a white pickup, the only other car in the parking lot.
“Not here.” Magnus shook his head and looked across Gammel Århusvej, the street separating the parking lot from park land alongside Lake Søndersø. “We’ll talk by the water. More privacy.”
Bruin shrugged and took Sargon by his arm, leading him to the curb. Magnus stepped closer and coughed, in order to attract Bruin’s attention rather than to clear his throat. “Inspector, I’ll take over from here. You’ll supervise from a distance.”
Bruin opened his mouth to protest against such an idea. He wanted to listen to the secret agents grilling of Sargon, not babysitting while they played in the park. But before he could utter a single word, Bruin realized their conversation had to remain secret. Magnus and Valgerda would use the judge or some other jurisdiction trick to force him into obedience.
“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 at the bench by a narrow pathway. Valgerda stood to their left, observing the parking lot where Bruin paced impatiently by the police van. Magnus sat next to Sargon, leaning close to his ear. Bruin could not see any facial expression or body gestures, neither of the interrogator, nor of the detainee.
“How are things going, Sargon?” Magnus asked with genuine interest.
“Good,” Sargon said, his face giving a hint he was lying. “You worried for me?”
“No, we’re worried about your future.”
Sargon snorted and cleaned a few imaginary specs 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 fingers. “Ibrahim, the explosive expert. Bill, the computer techie.”
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 with his eyes that it was her turn. “We just want you to listen, listen very carefully.”
“Eh, OK.”
“We know about the Århus 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 your friends would hear about it and go underground.”
Sargon suppressed a tiny smile. He thought about placing a call to his brother as soon as he returned to Horsens, but then he remembered Valgerda 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 Århus about our plan. They’re all being arrested as we speak. All of them.”
Another piece fell off Sargon’s emotional façade. Valgerda caught his left eye squinting and his right foot 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, his mouth suddenly turning dry.
“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 their pardon. Besides, Danish courts rendered life imprisonment verdicts so rarely they were more of an oddity rather than the accepted standard of justice.
“You’ll never touch your wife, Lilith, again,” Valgerda continued. “You’ll rot in jail.”
Sargon buried his head in his hands. Valgerda smiled at Magnus, passing him the torch.
“Listen up, Sargon,” said Magnus, taking over. “We’re prepared to give you a pardon. Then you and your wife will receive political asylum, and eventually, the Danish citizenship.”
Sargon looked up. He did not have to spell out the words. His glowing 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 everyone is transferred to Horsens. 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 no word to anyone.”
“Why? What do you want us to do?”
“We’ll give you the details later. For now, convince them 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 after reading the short text message. “Remember, Sargon,” he added, “if I hear rumors about our little chat, none of your family will mourn at your funeral, because they’d all be already dead.”
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 weary eyed 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, thinking if the unexpected summons to Gunter Madsen, the Assistant Director of the Danish Defense Intelligence Service, would result in the same regretful exchange. Magnus, who had also been staring, likely had the same thought. Secrets for their souls.
The DDSI headquarters were situated at the Frederikshavn Citadel, better known as the Kastellet, a pentagram-shaped castle, a stone’s throw from the Little Mermaid. The castle, still functioning as a military base, stood in a man-made island, surrounded by wide, 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 t
he 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 what Magnus had expected, perhaps in his early forties. The large room seemed to amplify his loud, baritone voice. His face was as clean-shaved as his bald head. 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 at such short notice,” Madsen said. He shook their hands and returned to his seat.
Magnus and Valgerda sat across from him, on two armchairs in front of the 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 had been outlawed in Denmark in 2007, but the ban 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 a brown 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.