Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (10 page)

“That’s not how you talk to a lady,” Alisha replied and quickly but calmly withdrew her hand from one of her jacket pockets. Her fingers were wrapped around a pistol, which she pointed at Justin’s head.

“OK, no reason to get angry,” Kiawak replied, lifting up his arms slowly and gesturing for her to stop. “Put the gun away.”

“Hands up. All of you,” Alisha barked.

“What the hell are you doing?” Justin shouted back.

Alisha pulled the trigger. A bullet whistled by Justin’s head. He dropped to his left side, raising his hand to his ear.

“Stay down and don’t move,” Alisha yelled, taking a step back in case Justin decided to charge toward her. “You,” she shouted at Carrie, who still was holding her shovel. “Are you deaf or something? And you, the shivering beauty, hands up, turn around and face me!”

Anna brought her hands above her head, the left one still carrying Justin’s coffee thermos.

“You’re . . . you’re going to kill us?” she mumbled.

“What a bitch.” Carrie threw the shovel on the ground.

Alisha grinned. “I told you, all of you, to stop nosing around this Danish story and to stop looking for clues.” Alisha brandished her gun, pointing it at their heads. “Things would have been much easier if you would have listened to me and agreed the Russians were pulling the strings. But no, you didn’t want to do that. What did you call me, Anna? Self-righteous? Am I being difficult, Justin? We’ll see how difficult
this
will be for each one of you.”

“So you work for the Danes?” Anna asked. “You’re their spy?”

“Yes. The pay’s much better, and I get to kill whoever gets in my way.”

“Alisha, this won’t work,” Justin said in a shaky voice. “Whatever the Danes and you have been plotting, it will fail.”

“Think about it, Alisha,” Kiawak said, still kneeling by the hole. “This is your country, your home. This is Canada.”

“On the map, yes, this is Canada,” Alisha replied in a calm voice. “As for my home, that will be wherever I want it to be. Justin, you had no idea what was going on here and even now, right before you die, you still don’t have a clue. And you will all go to your graves as ignorant fools.”

“Alisha—” Justin began.

“Enough,” she shouted. “Give me your guns. Now!”

Justin removed his Browning 9mm pistol from his holster inside his jacket. Kiawak hesitated for a brief moment. Alisha took a firm step toward him, and his hesitation melted away. He handed over his gun. Carrie tossed her Browning pistol on the snow. Anna placed the coffee thermos in front of her feet.

“I don’t carry a gun,” she said.

“It would have done you no good.” Alisha said as she gathered their weapons. “But you have a satellite phone and a PLB. Drop everything on the ground. Everybody, do it! All electronics and anything else in your pockets. Empty them out! Come on!”

They placed their satellite phones and personal locator beacons on the log pads.

“What are you going to do now?” Justin asked.

“Can you fly the chopper?” Alisha asked Kiawak.

Kiawak nodded.

“Good, collect all that junk.” She pointed to the team’s belongings. “Put it in Justin’s backpack and walk in front of me. Very slowly! To the rest of you, all I have to say is . . . stay warm.”

Alisha began her retreat, carefully examining Kiawak’s every move.

“You can’t take off and abandon us,” Anna shouted. “We’re gonna freeze to death.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s the idea,” Alisha replied, “but that’s part of the plan. I would say it’s about minus four now, which isn’t that bad. I’ll give you a couple of hours, but I would be surprised if you haven’t turned to ice cubes by nightfall.”

“Next time we meet, I’ll tear your heart to pieces.” Carrie jabbed the air with her arms and made violent gestures of ripping something apart.

“Maybe you’ll meet me in hell,” Alisha scoffed, “where you’ll be dropping by tonight. Dressed in a cold white gown, as if you were a pretty little bride.”

Chapter Eight

Viborg, Denmark

April 12, 5:45 p.m.

The Toyota Previa police van carrying the convicted man turned onto Gråbrødre Kirke Stræde, the road in front of the High Court building. A jury had just found him guilty on two counts of assisting in a conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, since it had been proven he was funneling money to terrorist camps. He was now being taken to the Horsens Penitentiary, before being transferred to the Copenhagen Prison, the toughest jail in Denmark, a place filled beyond capacity, ruled by thugs, and flooded with drugs. Mr. Sargon Beyda was looking at spending at least twenty years behind bars, away from his wife and young children.

Two police officers sat in the backseats of the van on either side of Sargon, who was in handcuffs, his head hanging low, almost touching his chest. Their batons and pistols were ready, in case Sargon made an escape attempt or someone else tried to help him to break away. The officers knew they were the most vulnerable during the transport of detainees to and fro the courthouse. There had been a great commotion in the courtroom when the jury forewoman had read the verdict. The officers were on high alert.

The escort team leader was sitting in the front passenger’s seat. He kept his eyes on the side mirror and the rearview mirror, checking and double-checking all vehicles around them. The traffic had grown heavier now that they were on Lille Sankt Mikkels Gade, the road taking them to Horsens, a city sixty miles south of Viborg. Lake Søndersø appeared on their left, between green trees and shrubs hedging around two-story, red-roofed houses.

“Sir, check out the Opel right behind us. There are two people in the car,” the driver said.

The team leader turned his head around to inspect the vehicle. The silver Opel Vectra was unmarked, and it was gaining on them. One of the officers in the backseats involuntarily placed his hand over his holster.

“Is it trying 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 gave the Opel enough room to pass them. It also gave the team an extra second to avoid a crash. The driver kept checking his rearview and left side mirrors, keeping both hands on the steering wheel, ready for any last-second maneuver.

The Opel picked up speed. 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, who was wearing sunglasses. Once both vehicles were neck and neck, the Opel lost its haste. The team leader saw something glinting 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 glinting object turned out to be a gun. But the sight of a brass badge, which the woman held in her right hand, signaled the 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 anything familiar to him.

“What does the badge say?” the team leader asked the driver.

“I can’t tell, but it looks like an MP badge.”

“The Opel’s unmarked,” one of the officers said. “And who asked for the MPs’ support?”

“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.