Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (11 page)

“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 your 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.”

“That’s very serious,” Magnus said. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew deep.

“It did have the potential to turn into a serious problem,” Gunter said. “But we have an ace in the hole. One of the DND employees, with strong connections to the CSE, was able to blur the satellite images. The same person is a crucial part of this recon team. This person will do everything, I repeat everything, to stop the Canadians from discovering our plans.”

The revelation took Magnus and Valgerda by surprise. They exchanged a skeptical glance, while Gunter savored his triumphant moment behind a thick veil of smoke.

“The chances of the Canadians finding any evidence incriminating our Siriuspatruljen are so improbable one has a better luck of surviving naked in the Arctic,” Gunter said. “But our mission is too important to leave anything to chance.”

Magnus nodded.

Gunter placed his elbows over the black folders scattered over his desk. He said, “The Canadians have much less sovereignty over the Arctic’s barren lands than we do. We even discovered and first explored some of those islands. And now Canada claims them as theirs simply because they forced some people to go and live up there? The Arctic belongs to us.”

He drew on his cigar, which had begun to die out. A couple of deep puffs and the sparks of the burning tobacco were alive once again. “Once climate change has melted half of the Arctic ice over the next few years, our patrol vessels will escort merchant ships through the Northwest Passage. That passage will end up being more lucrative than even the Panama Canal, raking in billions of dollars each year. And all of that will belong to us.”

Gunter stopped long enough to take in another puff of his cigar and blow a large cloud of gray smoke. “Once our advance troops, led by you,” he pointed at Magnus, “succeed in completing this mission, then our Greenland Command will establish a permanent presence along the Northwest Passage.” He gestured with his left hand to Yuliya to take over.

“Our teams are made up of mainly hardcore criminals, from suspected Al-Qaida members and former Taliban fighters to gang members and bank robbers,” she said. “They’ll get the job done for the sake of their freedom. And we’re going to be right there as well, to monitor every step of their progress and to make sure things end up the right way.”

“So I take it you’re going with us and the advance troops?” Valgerda asked Yuliya.

“Yes, I am.”

“I want to review the report on final preparations by tomorrow afternoon. Our assault will begin early next week,” Gunter said. “That’s when we’ve told the Canadians our ‘wargame’ is taking place. They think we’re going through international waters to conduct a search and rescue exercise. The fools won’t know what hit them until it’s too late.”