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- Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
"More plot twists and bite than a raging anaconda." Damien Lewis The Danish government is determined to secure victory in the upcoming general election. The war on terror has been positioned as the central theme of the vote, but the administration soon gets entangled in a web of political turmoil as terrorists take a Danish soldier hostage. Amidst the chaos, an unexpected player enters the game – Holger Berg, a brilliant and unyielding lawyer with a reputation for seeking justice. With a background as a Special Forces soldier, he is used as a deniable pawn in a murky plan to rescue the hostage. Berg is soon ensnared in a nightmare of lies, deception and denial that reaches far beyond the Danish borders. Each step puts his own life, his family's safety and the very honour that defines him at risk. In this high-stakes thriller, Berg discovers the true cost of honour and the lengths to which he will have to go to save his nation and its soldiers from the jaws of terror. The fate of Denmark hangs in the balance, and the world watches on with bated breath as the deadly game plays out.
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KING’S GAMBIT
ANDERS M. HANSEN
Contents
He had still not seen Holger, and as the man raised the gun and trained it on Tatjana, Holger instinctively grabbed a screwdriver from a table. With swift steps, he reached the editing technician and sent the gun flying through the air with a precise kick. In a fluid movement, Holger grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and pressed the screwdriver to his throat while Tatjana collected his gun from the floor. The adrenaline rushed through Holger’s body and, unwittingly, he levied still more pressure against the terrified technician’s windpipe.
‘Where is your boss? Is he coming here now?’ Tatjana shouted, agitatedly, and pointed the gun to his head.
Holger was also unsettled by the sudden violence, and when the Russian gasped heavily, he briefly relaxed his grip on the man’s hair. The man suddenly grabbed the iron rod of a camera stand. Holger had no time to think. The hand-to-hand combat training kicked in automatically. In a swift move, he drove the screwdriver through the man’s throat and up into his brain. The technician went limp instantaneously. The screwdriver had pierced the man’s jugular, and the blood gushed onto Holger’s hands when he let the dead man collapse on the floor in a heap.
‘No, no – shit!’ Holger blurted and stared dumbfounded at his hands and the corpse at his feet.vi
The sight of blood made him gag, and he ran to a washbasin across the room and feverishly began scrubbing his hands of the blood. Tatjana stepped over the corpse and noticed a small box having dropped from his pocket. She picked it up and shouted at Holger:
‘Pull yourself together! Fuckin’ pull yourself together!’
Preface
This is the first time I will tell Holger Berg’s story; it is one of perseverance in the face of unjust and unreasonable challenges. A journey where the only companions are his own mental strength and a solid moral compass. I have given my decision some thought, as there are those who might look for stories other than those told here. Let me, therefore, make it clear that names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the product of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Hence, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events undertaken by organisations, businesses or private individuals are coincidental. Should anyone find passages or characters familiar, this can only be attributed to their imagination being as vivid as mine.
The story is dedicated to the many brave men and women in faraway corners of our world who do necessary things, daily, in dangerous circumstances. They do so out of a strong belief in right and wrong and to make a difference, not because they crave reward or glorification on social media. I know that a moral compass and mental strength are the only companions to be truly trusted in the darkest hours when situations beyond our control push life and death to their extremes. Crossing into this twilight zone means travelling the lonely road of lack of appreciation outside a tightly knit brotherhood of the like-minded. Those who have traversed viiithe trail of Holger’s tale know who they are and understand that his story is paying tribute to their values. However, as blood is thicker than water, this chapter of Holger’s life is first and foremost dedicated to my two wonderful children with simple advice: always remember to stay true to your hearts!
Heroes in the Bloody Field of Martyrs
‘To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but theopportunityofdefeatingtheenemyisprovidedbytheenemyhimself.’
Sun Tzu x
Prologue
Finally, Friday had arrived in St Petersburg. However, that did not mean the weekend was something to look forward to. It had been raining endlessly throughout September, and the cold, crisp winter air from the Siberian steppes was all he was longing for. AnothercoupleofbodiescanbeaddedtoPiter’shomicidestatistics, he thought. He was proud of the local nickname for the city that Russians traditionally had called the ‘Window to the West’. St Petersburg had, throughout time, seen more violence than most cities, but the city offered so much more than brute force and death. However, not even his fondness could dispel the stench from the water in the harbour that stung his nostrils. The reek inadvertently brought doubt to his mind. Willmybelovedcityever be worthy of the name of the pure apostle? wondered the old detective inspector while rubbing the bridge of his nose. Mostlikelynotinmylifetime.Drained, he pulled the zipper down on the body bag closest to him and scanned the face of the young woman with a listless look. His brain concluded that she had undoubtedly been beautiful when the blood flowed through her veins, but this result was not relayed to his heart. He pulled the zipper down further, nudging her arm out and examined her hand. Definitelynotaccustomedtohardwork.Hernailsareneatandnotvulgar, xiilike thoseof thestreetgirls, he noted and resealed the bag. With a sigh, he turned towards the second body bag and pulled the zipper down. He paused at the sight of the man and tilted his head. ClearlySlavicfeatures?The question echoed in his head as he zipped the bag shut. He pulled two passports from his trench coat and dragged on the cigarette between his yellowing fingers. ‘Only identification are these passports. Hmm, interesting. A Russian woman and a Danish citizen by the name of Holger Berg,’ he muttered, and he stared over the oil-black water of the harbour as he sucked more nicotine into his lungs. The drizzle had thickened, but he did not take any notice. In the cold blue light of the police cars, he suddenly felt as tired as his old trench coat. There had recently been far too many days like this one for him to remember, and his icy blue eyes had seen too many dead bodies for these two to ruin his weekend. Not that the end of yet another week had any significance; he felt as vigorous as the seagulls huddled up on the quay. He stuck the cigarette between pursed lips and massaged his cheeks to try to reenergise himself. But in vain.
The detective inspector’s cold eyes examined the photos in the passports once more before placing them in the pocket of his trench coat. He took a last drag of the cigarette and discarded the stub on the floor with a shrug of his shoulders. Mechanically, he snubbed it out with the toe of his shoe and headed for the small group of chain-smoking men sheltering from the rain behind a battered white ambulance. A couple of police divers were busy gathering up their gear. The divers shivered in the rain, and not even some slurps from a vodka bottle seemed able to stop the cold from getting a hold of their bodies. They were desperate to finish their work and get home and did not waste time in looking xiiiup. The dive into the waters of the harbour would linger in their bodies for a while.
‘Sir, we don’t yet know exactly what happened, but the deceased male and female were probably involved in the shooting incident in the area last night,’ said a young police officer, pushing his cap further up his forehead.
‘A dock worker reported seeing the bodies in the water. At first, he thought they were wreckage,’ another constable eagerly chipped in.
‘They were both dead prior to falling into the harbour. The cause of death is multiple fatal gunshot wounds. Not drowning. There is unlikely to be any water in their lungs, as neither body sank to the bottom. But I can verify all of that once I have completed the autopsy,’ he added, pulling off his rubber gloves and vainly adjusting his suit.
The detective inspector nodded acknowledgement at the young forensic expert. The cranes on the dock, moving containers as if they were Lego bricks, had his full attention. At a distance, the cranes looked like giants performing a slow-motion ballet with their long, graceful arms, and the rusting ships surrounding them were audience. It was hectic around the clock in the industrial harbour. Profitneverrests, he thought, and noted that a massive tanker had just docked; the quay where it had moored was crawling with workers who saw to it that the cargo was safely unloaded and forwarded to its final destination further east. Thereisnoneedtocomplicatethiscase, thought the detective inspector as he walked to his trusted but somewhat battered Moskvich. It was most likely just another internal conflict between ever-growing drug gangs, and as usual, the perpetrators would not be found. Everybody knew that, so no one expected anything of the police. Not even xivthe police themselves. And that made it somehow easier to accept widespread violence in society. Anyway,today’sheadlinesaretomorrow’sfishpaper, he thought as he climbed behind the wheel. It was a contemporary model izh-4I2ie, but its frugal instrumentation could leave no doubt that its design was still that of a model from 1976. It’sFriday,andthetourismseasonhasfinallyended, he reminded himself, and smiled at the thought that loud tourists, eager to spend their money, no longer queued in front of the Winter Palace with their video cameras. The absence of tourists meant, statistically, a fall in the crime rates, and he looked forward to a quiet weekend with his fishing rod. Myfirstcoupleofdaysoffinalongtime, he thought as he turned the ignition key. The sedan shook as the four cylinders coughed in protest at being awakened. He ignored it and floored the accelerator with resolve. The car sped out of the wharf towards the properly asphalted roads that would take him to the city centre.
Just like the foreigners who had vanished from the city, the trees had been stripped of their leaves by the wind. Their lack of colour was an omen of winter, when St Petersburg would again be reduced to a memory of bygone grandeur. Naked, grey and despairing, with its delipidated monuments and enervated buildings, neglected as orphans. It was back to business as usual: at the international restaurants around Nevski Prospekt, staff had nothing better to do than pass the time with foul-smelling cigarettes and sweet tea. It was also a return of disillusionment – an everyday marred by unemployment, falling incomes and steeply rising prices. Only the nouveau riche oligarchs could maintain a life sanitised of sorrows – something they were at pains to tell everybody when they arrived on any scene, in their big luxury cars, xvwith their wives, or mistresses, competing shamelessly to wear the most designer brands at any one time.
ForRussiansonthestreet,thewinterpromisedonlyareturntorisingalcoholismandviolencefromtheextremistgroupssowellprevalentin the city, thought the detective inspector, tiredly. Cases of overt attacks on, and even murder of, foreigners were no longer rare. Nationwide neo-Nazi organisations could often boast more than 3,000 members.
The detective inspector changed lanes and let his mind drag him back to the quay. Something didn’t add up. ADanewithSlavicfeatures,hardtoseeonthepassportphoto.Andayoungwomanwholookedmorelikeanacademicthanaprostitute.The gearbox screamed as he pushed the car into the third. NowI’mgoinghometo pack my gear, and come Monday, they will be forgotten, he tried telling himself as he focused on the wipers, which were fighting a battle with the rain on the windscreen. Somethingjustisn’tright.He flicked his lighter, a clumsy imitation of a Zippo, and lit another cigarette. The flame reflected in the windscreen blinded him momentarily, and he squinted, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs as his thoughts kept circling the Dane. Whowashe?AndwhatwashedoinginStPetersburgwithawomanwhoseemedafishoutofthewaterinthecrimescene?He inhaled once more and tried again to concentrate on the windscreen wipers, now losing their battle with the rain: it only seemed to be getting worse, and the outcome of the battle looked increasingly like a given.xvi
One
FOURMONTHSEARLIER, NORTHOFAALBORG,DENMARK
Summer had arrived early at Nørre Uttrup, north of Limfjorden, Denmark’s largest estuary. The military training area was in a landscape of cows and farms that hugged the Aalborg barracks. Even though it was only the beginning of May, the scenery was straight out of DowntonAbbey: the aristocratic Crawley family and their domestic servants would have fitted in perfectly with the winter grass looking scorched in the sunshine. And even more so, as a group of soldiers in the distance came running, kicking dust up from the gravel trail. The tempo was forced. The soldiers were not exactly young but looked lean and resilient, except for the last man, who appeared to be struggling more than the others. As they began an uphill climb, he started to lag behind and soon slowed to walk, clamping his hand to his side. The instructor, a fit man in his early twenties, ran ahead of the group to set the pace, not stopping until he had reached the top. Turning around, he turned to address the slightly overweight soldier halfway up the hill:
‘Ten kilos, just ten kilos! Then you’ll be fighting fit again!’ he shouted while giving pats on the back to the soldiers passing by him.2
As the last soldier finally reached the top, sweating and panting, the instructor gave him a smile and started jogging behind him.
‘It’s been too long since you were here last, Holger. You might be a guardsman, but you’ll end up embarrassing the entire unit if you carry on like this.’
‘The Unit! What would the Copenhagen Bar and Law Society members say if they could see me now? You try eating three business lunches a week and see what it does to you,’ the soldier grunted, still panting for breath.
‘Turn right,’ the instructor said, pointing to a fork in the gravel trail ahead as he sped up.
Holger tried to catch up with the instructor, forcing his legs to run along the path that led into a small, wooded area marking the beginning of a primitive obstacle course.
‘Keep going. I’m timing you!’ shouted the instructor as he negotiated the obstacles like a cat. Holger launched himself at the first obstacle in pursuit of past form; however, his physical shape did not match his willpower and, having passed the last hurdle, he landed heavily and clumsily on a stone.
‘Fuck!’ Holger shouted.
‘Very elegant, Holger, very elegant. Just as well, you’re only visiting this time,’ the instructor grinned.
‘There you are, girls; did you do the obstacles twice? I was just about to do a lap to make sure you were all OK,’ Holger said, forcing a smile as he hobbled over to the others, in a clearing at the end of the obstacle course.
A few were sitting down, some lying on the floor while catching their breath. Still, all seemed to have a plethora of energy – manifesting in smiles, encouraging comments and some light-hearted 3goading. A burst of laughter roared amongst the trees. Despite the differences in physical form, it was clear that they were all part of a brotherhood. Several of them had served with Holger back in the day and knew that his lack of physical performance would be compensated for later in the bar. Although he was no longer a serving member of the Jaeger Corps, he had earned his badged status, as they all had. Ijustneedtogetfitagain, Holger thought as he rested his back against a tree and closed his eyes. Soon his mind drifted back to when he was a young soldier. The images flashed before his mind’s eye like snippets of a movie – mood shots without context, or the trailer for an action film where only the exciting sequences are shown at a breakneck pace. Images that led him back to his days at Sergeant School in Sønderborg. Many years and many business lunches ago. The memories were flowing nicely when they were abruptly stopped by the instructor’s voice:
‘OK, get ready for the last three kilometres. This time give it all you’ve got! The last man on the truck buys the first round in the bar tonight.’
Backthen,itwassomehoweasiertoputupwithloud-mouthedinstructors, Holger thought. A smile curled his lips as the others around him rose and started running. Holger was momentarily glued to the spot as he watched the blood slowly running down his hand from the wound created when he’d landed on the stone. The wound was very superficial; he was still sickened by the sight, though.
‘Come on! A Jaeger that can’t stand the sight of blood?’ grinned the instructor and pulled Holger by the arm.
Holger started running but stopped when he reached the tarmac road, instead of continuing left as the others had. Panting, 4he jumped in on the passenger side of the army green VW bus parked by the roadside as a checkpoint.
‘Take me to the airbase; I’m done with this shit for today.’
The driver gave him a look and grinned, before walking back towards the car and catching the eye of the instructor. The instructor just shook his head as he turned around and started to run after the others.
Two
As the instructor and the soldiers pulled into the central square of the Jaeger Corps compound, they saw the VW bus parked by the training wing. Clearly, Holger hadn’t even had the energy to walk from the parking lot and had ordered the driver to park right outside the locker rooms of the training wing. As they entered the locker room for their hard-earned shower, they found Holger in his underwear, drying his hair.
‘There you are,’ said the instructor. ‘I thought momentarily that you’d quit because we’re marching with full bergen tonight.’
‘As if carrying a heavy load is something special. I do that every day with this fitted permanently.’ Holger slapped his stomach and massaged the wound on his hand: ‘And I hatethe sight of blood. Especially my own!’
The instructor shook his head in silence as he tried to hide the smile creeping into his eyes. He knew Holger was nicknamed thelawyeramongst the Jaegers because he had a law firm in Copenhagen. He was, however, unaware that Holger had the right of audience before the Danish Supreme Court and that he spiced up his corporate legal work with the occasional court case. Holger had stuck with the court cases because it was the closest thing, these days, to a friendly version of an old-fashioned duel. Not only did he have to have his own strategies and points of attack mapped 6out, but he also had to think through all the rabbits his opponent could pull out of hats to derail his strategy – almost as in military tactics, where every operation had to be planned according to one’s own strengths and weaknesses, but also taking into account how the enemy would be able to counter the plan. In court, Holger had to be able to respond to his opponent’s arguments on the hoof. An intense experience. And highly satisfying. Especially when things went according to plan. But none of this was of any use to him right now. As an officer of the reserve, he had been allowed to participate, for a week, with Jaegers in the reserve cadre, the Mobs, as the mobilisation part of the Unit was called. And he knew that he would be given no special treatment. That’s how the Unit ethos went. All are in it together and expected to carry their load without fuss. This time, there was a clear purpose, as the serving operators were deployed to Afghanistan. The Mobswere thus in high demand as gap fillers in the Unit’s training wing. And ultimately, as replacements in the squadrons in Afghanistan. The lads in Mobstructure all knew each other from their time as regulars, but their bond had grown stronger over the past week, and most of them regretted that the following day would be their last at the Unit, this time around.
‘What about it, Holger? It’s time for our final exercise tonight. And we’ll be parachuting in. That has to beat being a dry lawyer,’ one of the Mobssaid as he headed for the shower.
Holger suppressed a smile. Although he never much missed soldiering in his daily life, the reality was that the military had given him many good moments and had turned out to be an excellent platform for his business career. That was why he still had a contract as an officer in the reserve structure of the Royal 7Guards Regiment. It was a way of paying back some of what his time in the service had given him, and as the cherry on the top, it gave him the possibility of being back at the Unit every so often. Images started flashing through his mind, and his thoughts took him back to a day in September 1978. The clouds had set the tone on the day he’d arrived as a conscript at the Queen’s Life Regiment. The first three months of his national service had been a blur. Everything was new to him, from sleeping in bunk beds in small quarters with nine other young men to getting up at dawn every day to clean their quarters for inspection and constantly having to keep their rifles and kit immaculate. The contrasts to the jolly and carefree years in high school were mind-blowing, and much to his surprise, he’d been picked for Sergeant School. The six months in Sønderborg were a fantastic time where he’d found an independence he didn’t know he possessed, and the friendships forged had turned out to be for life. It was all a bit like boarding school, and when graduation day arrived, they were tinged with sadness – despite the sunshine against the blue skies. Sadness because they would, from then on, be dispersed to their respective regiments across the country. Back at the Queen’s Life Regiment, Holger had been allowed to serve in the patrol troop, a special unit which formed part of the Long-Range Reconnaissance Unit of the Jutland Division. He recalled Major Jørgensen’s words: It’saboutlettingtheenemyadvancepastyousothatyoucanreportbacktothedivisionfrombehindenemylines.Asortofeliteunit.He still remembered it word for word. Holger had immensely enjoyed the time in the patrol troop, which spurred him to apply for the basic patrolling course at the Jaeger Corps.
The Jaegers were stationed on Aalborg Airbase, which meant he 8could stay in the Aalborg that he’d come to love. He and another ninety hopeful blokes had started on the course in the spring of 1980. Holger did really well, and that whetted his appetite. The eight weeks on the course had been hard, but he applied for the advanced course without hesitation. The two punishing months that followed had only strengthened his determination to apply for Jaeger Corps selection. Deep down, he knew that he would eventually pursue a civil career. Politiciansdon’tgivethemilitaryenoughmoneytodoitsjobproperly.He had heard this often enough in the Sergeants’ mess, but his mind was made up. If he managed to pass selection, he would only commit to the mandatory three years of service in the Unit. There had only been five completing the advanced patrolling course, and one decided he had, for now, had enough of gruelling challenges. Another was told by the instructors that he had not cut the mustard. They were thus down to three when they started the final week of selection. The physical and mental pressure had just been taken up a couple of notches, when one quit. Holger was in fantastic physical shape at this stage and was set on passing selection with the last guy. Holger smiled at the thought of the final challenge, hanging by his hands on a rope suspended ten metres above a lake, asking the course director for permission to let go. The feeling of triumph still gave him the chills. Completing something where so many had failed was intoxicating. He shook his head free of nostalgia and tucked the towel into the green bergen, straightening the uniform trousers and placing the maroon beret on his head. The cafeteria was still open for lunch, and a soldier never missed an opportunity for grub.
‘Anyone wants anything from the cafeteria?’ he said out loud as he left the locker room without waiting for an answer.
Three
PARLIAMENT, COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
Two weeks later, the Prime Minister left the weekly Cabinet co-ordination meeting looking pleased with himself. He had given an account of the newly launched election campaign, emphasising that early opinion polls showed a clear lead for the governing parties. His own party looked particularly strong amongst constituents, something he’d cleverly downplayed during the meeting. He had casually remarked that he supported the Coalition Party having influential Cabinet posts after the election, based on its share of the vote, of course.
‘You tabled the idea of a reshuffle very elegantly,’ his press secretary said as they strode through the corridors of the Parliament.
‘I was thinking of the Foreign Secretary, but you guessed it as much. I simply can’t stand him and his constant attempts to be the holder of the correct diplomatic assessment on interacting with other countries. After all, I’m the one who usually talks to Heads of State,’ he replied in a whisper, letting a smile brighten up his face as he continued: ‘Let’s go to the office and run through my diary for the coming week. I take it you’ve already drafted a comprehensive strategy for announcements I should make.’
The PM was looking forward to the election campaign. He had 10won the last election by a landslide, and after some initial criticism of his dress code, he soon had that side of things down to a tee, even to the degree that his wife barely recognised him. He revelled in his new-found self. The new public persona: the image of strength it conveyed. The myth he now had to maintain. He could look forward to another four years in power if he managed that as effectively as last time. Power.The word was almost palpable. He enjoyed calling the shots and felt he was good at it. Better than any of his government colleagues. No contest. Seeing his reflection in the glass doors, the PM straightened his back and nodded at the security guard as they passed through access control and headed for his office.
‘Right, let’s have it, your plan,’ he said, turning towards the press secretary as the door closed behind them.
The press secretary extracted a document from his briefcase, handed it to the PM, and settled himself comfortably on the sofa.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all,’ the Prime Minister murmured as he paced back and forth, absorbed in the strategy paper.
‘It’s best just to parry off all questions and let the opposition appear to be rocking the boat. Not much policy content in that, but never mind, as long as we win,’ the PM continued and sent the press secretary a rapturous look.
‘And they haven’t got anything on us. Whether it’s our fiscal policy or our support for the US in the war on terror, our line comes across successfully in the press. Any criticism will ring hollow in the ears of the citizens.’
Andyetagain,itwillmakemestandoutasagreatstrategistandamanofthepeople, he thought. He felt once again extremely 11satisfied with the image that had come to prevail with the public, an image created mainly by his skilful press secretary.
‘As always, you’ve concocted a good plan,’ the PM said when he finally returned the paper and sat down, smiling broadly.
‘Coffee?’
Four
HIGH COURT, EASTERN DIVISION, COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
It was not a spectacular case on the cause list for the twelfth division at the High Court for Eastern Denmark. The turnout confirmed this. The presiding judge ran his eye over the prosecutor, the defence lawyer and the defendant. He did not seem affected by the fact that the public galleries were deserted but looked longingly at the bright sunshine outside the windows. SpringhascertainlyarrivedinCopenhagen, he thought and pushed the half-rim glasses up from his nasal ridge, signalling to his two assistant judges that the final plea of the day from the defence lawyer could proceed. The subtle signal was lost on the court usher seated at the back of the room as he suppressed a yawn resting his head against the wall. The jurors, too, had clearly lost interest in the proceedings.
One stared at the ceiling as if this would make time pass faster. Another mouthed the word crookto the person beside him, while raising his eyebrows at the man in the dock. A younger, unshaven man in an expensive-looking suit – probably Armani – looked bored by it all. Maybe because he was convinced that the jurors had long since decided on the verdict: guilty of stripping a string of companies of liquid assets rightfully belonging to the tax 13authorities. That the panel of judges was very much in agreement with this conclusion was unquestionable. The presiding judge repeatedly interrupted the defence lawyer and let it unequivocally be known that he had more pressing matters to see to after lunch. However, this did not throw the defence lawyer off his game. He had prepared his closing remarks and was determined to deliver them perfectly. Form over substance; his performance mattered more than the outcome. No one was going to accuse him of not doing his best. Even though he, too, agreed that his client was guilty as accused.
‘…and this, my Lord, concludes the case for the defence,’ said Holger Berg in a well-prepared tone and glanced confidently around the courtroom now that he had concluded his oral argument.
You could hear a needle drop after the concluding words: they had told everyone that they would soon be able to leave the room, which injected a palpable energy. The presiding judge abruptly removed his semi-rimless glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and straightened his back. The youngest of his assistant judges frantically jotted down the defence lawyer’s closing arguments on his yellow notepad. He was acutely aware that the presiding judge, in a moment, would remind him that being the youngest on the panel meant that he would be the first to cast his vote and would thus have to argue the verdict before his more senior colleagues. Though the guilt had undoubtedly been settled in advance, it was important for his career prospects to present the arguments for the verdict as thoroughly thought through. This new breed of cases, dubbed theasset-strippingshebangby the press, had attracted much political attention. Although the courts were, of course, 14independent from the political system, the young judge could not free himself of the prevailing political sentiment. Holger gathered his papers and stuffed them into a briefcase, glancing reassuringly at his client. The young man stared at the tabletop, experiencing no apparent elatedness over his lawyer’s performance. The presiding judge replaced his spectacles, gathered up his notes and looked at the jurors:
‘Following the closing arguments, the summing-up is postponed until tomorrow at 9 a.m.
‘Court adjourned,’ he said in a loud, clear voice.
He scribbled a note on the bottom corner of the yellow case note cover. He nodded at the assisting judges and pushed back his chair, standing with energy while adjusting his robe. Then the three judges turned right and headed for the door leading to their office. The court usher had now kicked into gear and was scrambling to his feet as he signalled for everyone to rise. The room was buzzing with the feeling of break-up, and Holger nodded briefly at the prosecutor as he hurried out of the courtroom. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw a couple of police officers escorting the Armani suit out of a side entrance for further remand in custody. On his way down the stairs to the ground floor, Holger passed several young men and women clutching their briefcases while studying the daily cause list for the different divisions. He remembered going to the High Court as a clerk with a small law firm while being a student. Reaching the bottom steps, he caught himself whistling. Itwentreallywelltoday!
Five
Holger left the High Court through the wrought-iron gates leading to Bredgade and, on impulse, headed for the old Citadel of Copenhagen, Kastellet, on Esplanaden. Not exactly a beeline to his office, but he loved the walk when the weather was good. It reminded him of his student days working for FE in his spare time. No one ever called the Danish Defence Intelligence Service by its full name. MaybeForsvaretsEfterretningstjeneste,eventoDanes,istoomuchofajawbreaker, he thought to himself and let a smile pull at the corners of his lips. When leaving the Special Forces, he had wanted to maintain some kind of connection. As he had always been good with languages, he had applied for the language training that would lead to a position as a reservist and an officer rank. The Russian language had been an exciting challenge, and he vividly remembered the days at the Defence Language College at Svanemøllens Barracks.
It had been a great time; tough, though. Not physically demanding as at the Jaeger Corps, but long hours were spent studying Russia’s culture and history, in addition to the intellectually challenging language education. It fascinated him, and the fact that many of the students had been women made it fun. Although Jomfru Ane Gade, the street that had become popular for the restaurants and pubs lining both of its sides (making it one of the 16longest continuous stretches of restaurants and bars in Denmark) had made him love his stay in northern Jutland, he’d learned that Copenhagen had so much more to offer in every department. The language education had been spiced up by training as an interrogation officer, opening an entirely new dimension to his interaction with other people. Mastery of the ability to bring a prisoner of war to a point where he would relinquish all the information that was needed was a unique challenge. It was a straight, psychological game of chess with fear and stress as pawns, where the prisoner’s imaginations of what was to come was often his worst enemy. Good interrogation required equal measures of talent and skill, as information had to be procured quickly, but by means that kept the interrogation within all international conventions.
At graduation, Holger had been promoted to Second Lieutenant – a marker in his career in the reserves, which later led to his promotion to the rank of Captain. It also meant he was transferred to the Royal Guards for personnel admin reasons. Hello to the iconic old yellow buildings of the Sandholm barracks north of Copenhagen, and goodbye to his beloved burgundy beret. However, the job at FE had been perfect while he was at university, well-paid and with flexible working hours. He had been assigned to the Russian Department as an analyst. His Special Forces background had brought him extra professional recognition, and he was frequently asked to prepare briefing notes for politicians and senior military figures from Denmark and overseas.
Holger turned the corner of Bredgade and Esplanaden and crossed the street to Churchill Park, stopping for a moment at the statue of Anders Lassen. To this day, he is one of the most famous soldiers in British military service. He had been awarded 17the Victoria Cross – Britain’s highest military decoration – for his actions in the British Special Forces Units during the Second World War. Holger loved the way all things British were steeped in tradition. ThefactthateveryVictoriaCrosseverawardedwassaidtobestruckfromthegunmetalofacanonseizedduringtheCrimeanWarbackinthe1850swasquiteremarkable, he thought and headed off towards the ice cream kiosk at the park’s eastern corner.
‘Three scoops in the biggest cone you’ve got,’ he said with a voice full of anticipation, and stuck his hand in his pocket for a 20-kroner coin.
The rigours of his week in Aalborg and his successful performance in court today warranted a treat. He knew sweets did nothing good for his body, and Holger wanted to be fit. However, sweets had crept in as a counterweight to the trials of everyday life. But on a spring day like today, Holger didn’t even need an excuse. The divorce from Susanne had resulted in long hours, immersing himself in work. Food was rarely prioritised, and he resorted to easy solutions. A pizza or ready meal and crashing on the sofa in front of the late-night news on the telly. The unhealthy way of living had morphed into a self-righteous illusion that he was entitled to comfort food to offset his hardworking days. Only the weekends were different. Then he had Louise. He tried to push work and clients to one side and give her as much quality time as he could cram into the two days. And she would not eat as unhealthily as he did. Louise made him truly feel a father, though he was only her part-time father. Even when Susanne had met someone new, Louise continued to call Holger ‘Dad’.
As the years went by, she became better and better at showing him that she was proud of him. And as she grew older, he found it 18easier to tell her about his time in the Special Forces. To feel that he was exceptional again and that she was looking up to him. Far too often, people he encountered were not particularly impressed, which irritated him immensely. They simply did not know what he was on about when he, on rare occasions, let them know that he was a Jaeger. But Louise understood. She got his pride, and Holger put her on a pedestal. She was his flesh and blood, and she had the unconditional trust a child has, and an unwavering belief in his infallibility.
Holger’s thoughts evaporated when he was handed his ice cream. Greedily, he licked the whipped cream that trickled down his finger as he turned into Amaliegade. When he reached the octagonal courtyard of the Amalienborg Palace, he instinctively looked up towards the royal standard flying from Queen Margrethe’s residence. The tourists wanting to have a selfie with the guardsmen made him smile. As he passed, a Japanese couple asked him to photograph them next to a sentry box with a guardsman wearing a bearskin.
‘Sure, smile,’ Holger said and took some pictures. ‘More?’ he said, scoffing the rest of his cone. ‘The standard is flying because the Queen is at home,’ he explained and licked ice cream off his thumb as he returned the camera.
Holger walked on, stopping briefly in the shade of the colonnade to wipe perspiration from his brow. The stroll in the humid air had made him break into a sweat, and he loosened his tie. Imustgetfitter.He’d been put through his paces at the Special Forces, but one week could not compensate for the years of not training. Itonlymakesyoudamnsore.He knew that, but even worse, he knew he was overweight. And that annoyed him profoundly. Theprice 19youpayfortoomanyhoursbehindadesk.Andthegianticecreamconehasnothelpedbalancethebooks.Well,I’llstarttrainingagainonMonday, he thought, in an attempt to convince himself. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, lit it joyously, and continued in high spirits – down Amaliegade towards Sankt Annæ Square. When he arrived at the elegant entrance to the law offices, he stopped to take a good long look at the brass sign:
Hannemann & Berg Law Firm
He graduated from university in January 1990 and found employment as a trainee lawyer with a small practice in Nyhavn. His law degree needed to be better if he was to get a job with one of the larger Copenhagen law firms. But that had not kept him down. Over the years, it had become clear to him that he would not stay with the small firm once he passed the bar exam. When he got his certificate, his mind was already made up, and he opened his own law firm in Amaliegade. It was a risky move. Professionally, as well as financially. For many months, he’d been a regular guest at his parents’ house around dinner time. After a couple of years, he got his first partner: Jørgen Hannemann, a senior lawyer with the right of audience before the High Court. It had been a joint decision to take on a trainee. It wasn’t an extensive practice, but most Danish law firms consisted of three lawyers, so Holger was perfectly content. From the outset, Hannemann had made it clear that he wanted to wind down and pass on his clients to Holger, and the partnership had therefore been a shortcut to building his own business. Hannemann had indeed retired some years ago, but he had allowed Holger to keep the name when he’d bought the old lawyer out of the practice.20
Things started happening for Holger from then on, and the business had steadily grown. Eventhoughmorepartnershavejoinedovertheyears,it’sstillmynameonthedoor, he thought as he entered reception with a smile. He noted approvingly that the newly purchased le Corbusier armchairs had been installed in the front office. The clients waiting appeared to enjoy the leather chairs and the classical office design. The practice was doing well, and the designer chairs were a sign of success. Holger was aiming to make his mark as a star on the Copenhagen legal scene. The criminal case today would be his last. He still loved court cases, but it took too much of his time, and corporate work at an hourly rate was far more lucrative and satisfactory. It had been a stroke of good fortune that so many colleagues in the legal community had been actively involved in those transactions that became part of the asset-stripping scandal. Several corporate clients had been prompted to look for new advisors, and he understood how to make the most of this situation. His extensive network had opened doors in the highest places. The title of officer in the Royal Danish Life Guards reserves had kicked in many a door.
‘So, how did it go at the High Court?’ Holger’s middle-aged and self-described ‘hefty’ secretary asked, smilingly. She put that day’s mail and phone messages on his desk, taking his excellent mood as answer to her question.
‘The Officers Association have also called a couple of times. I think they want you to give a talk on your experience as a Russian language officer – and something about the fallout from Russia’s transition to a market economy. Remind me again, how did you find time to learn that language? In breaks between parachute jumps?’21
‘My oral argument went swimmingly. I sensed from the presiding judge that I did quite well, considering the odds. Thank God I’m only there when I’ve got my black robe on. I’d hate to be a defendant in one of those cases. It’s a political witch-hunt that’s swept the country like a tornado. My client is really fighting a lost battle. He’s been as good as convicted by the press from the outset. But for me, it’s just a case like any other. Please make a note that the court convenes again tomorrow at 9 a.m.’
Before leaving the office, the secretary pointed to the rising piles of case files on the desk. Thatlookleavesnodoubtthattheymustbeclearedtoday.Holger drew a tired smile as he removed his jacket and landed heavily in the swivel chair.
Six
AT THE SAME TIME, IN SOUTHERN CHECHNYA
Nokhchallah, thought Shamil, as he lowered his binoculars and ran a finger down his nose. His mother had called it a Roman nose when he was a boy. His loving mother insisted that her firstborn should not be named Ruslan like many other newborn boys. Instead, he was to be named after the famous twentieth-century Chechen rebel leader. The thoughts darkened Shamil’s mood for a moment, and his jaw clenched. ThosedamnRussiansoldiers, he muttered as he tried to push the memories away. To push the shooting of his parents from his mind. It was now three years ago, but it remained etched on his inner eye.
He raised the binoculars and… no movements. As he lay there on the hillside, he looked overdressed, as though for winter, on this sunny spring day. He wore a pair of worn-out black cotton trousers, a dirty, white woollen sweater with traditional patterns knitted in horizontal bands, a sheepskin vest – worn with the woolly side towards his body, and a long, blue-grey coat bought from one of Grozny’s Russian supermarkets. But he’d grown up in Chechnya’s harsh climate and knew that the weather, without warning, could turn to a chilling cold when the rain and storms from the north closed in, extinguishing the spring sun beating 23down on him as he lay in the shade afforded by the grass. Shamil was proud to be Chechen. Chechens had inhabited these mountainous, often pitilessly barren regions of the Caucasus since the seventeenth century. And throughout that time the Chechens had been proud – if necessary, taking up arms in defending their right to be themselves. To be free.
Even after the Russians defeated Imam Shamil and his resistance fighters in a final, bloody battle in 1858, the Chechens remained defiant and proud peoples. The Russians’ behaviour then resulted in an indomitable opposition up to the Russian Revolution in 1917. And the struggle was so ingrained that it had carried on after the fall of the Tsar when imperial rule had been replaced by an even more brutal Bolshevik regime. Nokhchallah!No Chechen man would ever submit to foreign rule, and centuries of repression had only strengthened their resolve. Every Chechen male was taught to handle weapons from a young age and, as an integral part of their upbringing, taught to use these weapon skills without hesitation. Their society was built on ancient codes of honour and the belief that a man’s duty to protect his family was front and centre. Violence was not alien. Besides, the Russians had taught them that merciless violence was the only answer to brutality. When General Dzhokhar Dudayev declared Chechnya’s independence in Grozny in 1991, Russia replied with unprecedented force. Yeltsin had unleashed his far superior military might on the independent republic. The Russian military was a relic from the heyday of the Soviet Union, but still Grozny had been flattened to the ground and more than 70,000 civilians killed. But Dudayev and the Chechen bandits, as the Russians called them, remained defiant, and in 1996 the Russians were humiliated and forced to withdraw. Nokhchallah!24
Shamil adjusted his position as he checked his watch: it was 11:25. To avoid being spotted, he had walked to the hilltop before the break of dawn. Ihopetheintelligenceiscorrect, he thought, stroking his beard, which only partly concealed the blue-black scar on his right cheek. Something on the horizon caught his eye, and he trained the binoculars on an approaching dust cloud. Yes,theinformationwas correct! Through the binoculars, he could see the contours of the vehicles, and as they drew closer, he recognised the familiar armoured personnel carriers: the type used by the Russians. Although the vehicles had no markings and the number plates were covered in mud, there was no doubt in his mind.
Russian soldiers heading for one of their much-feared ‘sweep operations’, which entailed brutal house-to-house searches of small villages under the pretext of hunting bandits. Shamil slid his focus towards the east, until he could just make out the nineteen dwellings of the village of Duba-Yurt in the far distance. As was often the case, rumours of the impending sweep had spread like wildfire, and the male inhabitants had used the final hours of darkness to seek hiding in the mountains to the north. Invariably, that, unfortunately, meant that the women and children would be left behind. Vulnerable. Being a seasoned fighter who, over the years, had made a friend of the cruelty of war did not mean that Shamil had no feelings, and he closed his eyes at the thought of what was in store for the women when the soldiers reached them. Shamil would never forget what happened in his village in February. It was etched into his soul. His sister told him what happened on that dreadful day. She had been alone with her son when the Russians arrived at their home. They had surrounded the village so 25that no one could get away. The soldiers had all worn balaclavas to hide their identity as they went from house to house, hammering on the doors with rifle butts until they were opened. The soldiers had been drunk when they forced their way into the house, and they’d immediately started looting the family’s meagre valuables. However, that was not the full extent of their ravaging. Three of the most drunken soldiers had begun making lewd remarks as they sized Shamil’s sister up and started questioning her about where the bandits were hiding. But it was just an excuse for hitting her and tearing the fabric of her dress until it hung in shreds around her shoulders. When they demanded that she remove what was left of her clothes, she had tried desperately to defend herself, but to no avail. They had battered her with rifle butts before two of them held her down, while a third had ripped the underwear from her body. They had taken turns until she lost consciousness.
To this day, Shamil’s dark face still twisted at the thought of the shame. The Russians’ lack of respect for women once again filled him with uncontrollable rage. Nokhchallah! This is an untranslatable Chechen word. Nokhcho meant Chechen, and Nokhchallah was the collective noun for the numerous moral and ethical norms that had helped shape the Chechen code of honour over centuries. It embraced manhood, defiance, respect for women, diplomacy, honesty, reliability and generosity. In short, the age-old characteristics of a people forced by harsh nature to develop a system for survival and co-existence. From the earliest times, it had been customary to invite strangers into one’s home as the winter weather might very well claim the life of a traveller.
Equally, pride and family honour could spark clashes in which 26the use of arms was just a small step away when words ran dry. Diplomacy and good manners were therefore essential in helping to avoid blood feuds. Nokhchallah demanded fundamental respect for all men irrespective of background, status, nationality or religion. And the respect for women was legendary. According to old folklore, a man had once arrived in a village where his wife’s relatives lived. He had knocked on the door of a house on the outskirts of the village, unaware that the woman who lived there was alone. Unable to refuse his request for shelter or declare that she was alone, the woman let him in. When the stranger had retired for the night, she had stayed all night in the living room watching over him. It was not until he rose the following day that the stranger realised, she had given him her bed for the night. After breakfast, he insisted on helping with the dishes and inadvertently touched the woman’s arm with a finger. The stranger cut off the finger to show her respect as he left the house. The old folk tale had been passed down through generations to instil in all Chechens that respect for women was sacrosanct. The frequent incidents of rape by Russian soldiers were not just an offence against women but also against one of the pillars of Nokhchallah.
Allthesesacredvalueshavebeenputtothetestbythosebloody Russians, he thought. Andallbecauseofoil.Shamil was no scholar, but he knew the basics. His local imam had seen to that. He knew that Chechnya was producing more than four billion tons of oil a year, and it had been refining eighteen million tons when Dudayev proclaimed independence. This production constituted ten per cent of Russia’s GDP, and oil pipelines ran through Chechnya to the Black Sea. Fear of losing control over these vital resources was the real reason, he knew, behind the invasion in 1991.27
Shamil wiped the sweat from his leathery face with the palm of his hand, checking the battery status on the small device in front of him one last time. He then raised the binoculars again while, with his right hand, adeptly switching the control on. A low bleepwas followed by a red light. Shamil concentrated on the armoured personnel carriers on the dirt road below and the two lonely trees that were his trigger point. At the precise moment when the first vehicles passed the trees, he pressed the white button on the control device with his thumb. A lightning flash, followed by dust and plumes of black smoke, erupted from the three bombs he had planted there last night, disseminated via the binoculars to his cerebrum. TheRussiansoldiersaresodelightfullywell-trainedthattheymaintainapredictabledistancebetweenthevehiclesinformation.Whichmakes it so much easier to place the roadside bombs to causemaximumeffectonasmanyvehiclesaspossible, he thought, and a smile spread across his lips. He squinted through the smoke from the explosions, seeking survivors, running terrified from the burning personnel carriers. Theretheyare.With satisfaction, he detonated the improvised explosive devices – an assortment of paint tins filled with nails he’d placed on the other side of the road. His expectations had been met: the soldiers had run there for cover.
Shamil lowered his binoculars without checking the outcome and packed up his gear, leaving the hillside without a backward glance and heading for the distant woods where he had hidden his car. He knew all too well the mayhem that the swarms of sharp nails would unleash on the unsuspecting soldiers; it would maim them, or kill them outright. Just another day in the bloody field of martyrs. As he walked across the barren landscape, everything emanated tranquillity. Had anyone been observing him, they 28would have had difficulty reconciling his joyful stride with that of an avenger incarnate who’d just satisfied his hatred. Shamil looked like any other local peasant who had survived a brutal life with his honour intact. However, his upright posture was no longer a sign of pride. Everyone that met Shamil immediately noticed his sunken black eyes, glowing with hatred. Hatred towards the Russians who had inflicted so much pain upon him and ripped away his parents. His sister, too, had been dead to him since her attack. No, his straight posture and steely handshake were signs of the rage that made him boil with a hatred that was waiting to be released. He had stared death in the face many times but always came out on the other side alive. As if he had a pact with the devil. Many of his enemies had not been so lucky. They had seen the violent, smouldering hatred as their lives ebbed away.
Shamil thought of his brothers, who he had not seen since they’d left for Afghanistan. Chechen resistance had acquired many new faces, of late, and many foreign brothers had been enlisted into the ranks of holy warriors in Russia’s Afghan war. As a Sunni Muslim, he welcomed them all, and fully understood why it was necessary to co-operate with the Russian security services over acts of terrorism in Russia. These acts had domestic policy ramifications, yielding intelligence on Russian operations in Chechnya. Heroes were made in Moscow, and intelligence enabled the insurgents to fight the superior enemy in Chechnya, precisely as he had done today. He was not entirely comfortable about the new alliance his brothers had forged. An alliance with a Russian nationalist party. They were to safeguard a shipment of drugs to Russia. He shook his head at the absurdity of the venture and, again, felt his gut clench. He would soon join his brothers and would then be able 29to keep an eye on them. Until such time, he prayed for their safety every day. Anextraprayeratsunset.Yes,anextraprayer–thatIshalllive to exert my revenge on the infidels once more
