Arctic Wargame - Страница 17

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 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 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.

“This is Isabella,” he said, when satisfied the cigar passed his inspection with success. “Private reserve, just outside Havana. They only make 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 it 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.