46 The Borgen
The Borgen
arguably the West’s staunchest defender of Ukraine. In perhaps its most dramatic show of support, Denmark had provided the
Ukrainians with nearly all of its available weaponry. It had also declared its intention to acquire long-range missiles capable
of striking deep inside Russia, a move that raised tensions with the Kremlin to the boiling point. The drones appeared in
Danish skies soon after. Copenhagen Airport was not the only target. Smaller airports around the country saw drone incursions
as well, as did several Danish airbases and other military installations.
At the sharp end of Denmark’s shadow war with Russia was Lars Mortensen, director-general of the PET, the country’s small
but capable security and intelligence service. Shortly before three o’clock that afternoon he learned, much to his alarm,
that an illegal Russian intelligence operative linked to previous European drone incursions was headed his way. Even more
troubling was the fact that this news had been delivered by none other than Gabriel Allon. Mortensen had worked with the legendary
spy several times in the past, most recently on an operation in Moscow involving a Danish national named Ingrid Johansen.
“How is he traveling?” inquired the Danish spymaster.
“TAP Air Portugal.”
“Name?”
“Felix Serrano.”
“Portuguese passport?”
“Spanish, actually.”
“Real name?”
“Yuri Ivanov.”
“Affiliation?”
“GRU Unit 29155.”
Mortensen swore softly.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lars.”
“I’m used to it by now. But why am I hearing it from you?”
“I’ll explain everything when I get to town.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Don’t even think about letting him out of your sight.”
Much was left unsaid during that brief phone call, including the fact that it nearly didn’t happen at all. The debate that
preceded it was tense and unwieldy, for the participants were scattered from Vauxhall Cross to the Costa de Prata. There was
one camp, led by a hardliner in the Russia House, who condemned it as heresy. Yuri Ivanov, he insisted, had been bought and
paid for by SIS, and therefore his very existence was not to be disclosed to another service, even one as friendly as Denmark’s
PET. There were others, though, who insisted they had an absolute duty to warn, regardless of the consequences. In the end
it was a close-run thing, with the deciding vote cast by Graham Seymour. He wisely asked Gabriel to serve as his messenger.
He and Mortensen were as close as two old spies could be.
Gabriel had placed the call from the back seat of an SIS car, with Christopher at his side and young Harry Wilson behind the wheel.
They stopped at the apartment in the Alfama long enough to collect Ingrid, then headed to Lisbon Airport.
By the time they arrived, Yuri Ivanov was already airborne.
They caught the 5:00 p.m. Scandinavian Air flight and were on the ground in Copenhagen by ten o’clock.
A PET reception committee met them at the end
of the jetway and placed them in an official sedan bound, they assumed, for PET headquarters in the northwestern suburb of
S?borg. It delivered them instead to the Christiansborg Palace, the fortresslike government compound in central Copenhagen
that Danes referred to colloquially as the Borgen. Lars Mortensen waited in the central courtyard.
“The prime minister,” he informed Gabriel, “would like a word.”
“In that case, Lars, you probably shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
Mortensen placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’m not the one she wants to see.”
Little about Kalla Eriksen’s life and career had prepared her for the role in which she had been cast. A committed environmentalist and proponent of human rights, she had earned a master’s degree in African studies from the University of Copenhagen and had worked briefly as a trade unionist before being elected to Parliament.
A decade later she was the leader of the Social Democratic Party.
During her first term as prime minister, her skillful management of the COVID-19 pandemic resulted in Denmark recording one of the world’s lowest rates of illness and death.
Her second term had been dominated by the war in Ukraine and the threat posed to Western Europe by Russia.
To make matters worse, she was contending with an erstwhile ally in Washington that had declared its willingness to use military force to annex Greenland, the strategic Arctic island that had been a Danish territory for more than three centuries.
Tiny Denmark was now caught in a vise between two global superpowers, an unenviable place to be.
Despite the late hour she was still at her desk. Dressed in a businesslike pantsuit, with her hair pulled into a careful chignon,
she radiated seriousness and resolve. “Mr. Allon,” she said, looking up from a stack of paperwork. “It’s a pleasure to finally
meet you.” She came out from behind the desk and offered Gabriel her hand. “Lars has told me so much about you.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
She smiled, then turned to Christopher. “And you must be Mr. Marlowe.”
“Guilty as charged, Prime Minister.”
“Secret Intelligence Service?”
“On my good days.”
The prime minister greeted Ingrid quietly in Danish, then led them to the seating area and poured five cups of coffee. Lars
Mortensen removed a photograph from his attaché case and handed it to Gabriel. It was Captain Yuri Ivanov, emerging through
the doorway of Gate 19 at Copenhagen Airport.
“Is that your man?”
“One version of him,” replied Gabriel.
Mortensen handed over another photograph—Captain Yuri Ivanov gliding through passport control. “We ran the name Felix Serrano
through our immigration records. He was definitely in the country during the first wave of drone incursions. He arrived two
days before they began and left the morning after the last one.”
“Where is he now?”
“He picked up a ?koda hatchback at the airport and went straight to his hotel. He’s staying at the Scandic Palace on the R?dhuspladsen. But if the prime minister has her way,” added Mortensen, “he won’t be there long.”
Gabriel turned to Kalla Eriksen. “Don’t do it, Prime Minister.”
“Whyever not?” she asked.
“Because you would be making a dreadful mistake.”
“It wouldn’t be my first, I assure you.”
“We have that in common, you and I.”
“But I’m the prime minister of Denmark, Mr. Allon. Which means that I’m responsible for the security of my citizens. Some
of my countrymen have taken issue with the fact that I didn’t order our armed forces to shoot down the drones that entered
our airspace last autumn. I won’t make that mistake again. Nor will I allow Captain Yuri Ivanov to slip through my fingers.”
“Arresting him tonight won’t make Denmark any safer.”
“But it will prevent the Russians from launching those drones.”
“Possibly,” Gabriel conceded. “But it will also rob you of an invaluable opportunity to gather intelligence that might help
you defend Denmark in a future conflict. They’re probing you, and you have to probe them in return.”
“The future is already here, Mr. Allon.” With a glance at Ingrid she added, “I shouldn’t think I need to explain that to you.”
“You don’t, Prime Minister.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“We watch and wait.”
“Sit on our hands and do nothing?”
“I don’t believe I said that.”
She gave him a stern look over her cup. “Go on, Mr. Allon.”
“Lars and his officers will watch Yuri Ivanov’s every move. In the meantime you will place your air defenses on a heightened
state of alert.”
“And when the drones come?”
“You will have undeniable proof of Russian involvement.”
“The Kremlin will deny it, which is what they always do.”
“They won’t be able to if one of their GRU officers is sitting in a Danish jail cell.”
The image clearly appealed to her. She exchanged a look with her intelligence chief, then said, “Lars and I need to have a
word in private.”
Gabriel followed Christopher and Ingrid into the prime minister’s anteroom. From inside the office there soon came the sound
of a heated debate. “Poor Lars,” said Ingrid. “I don’t envy him.” She looked at Gabriel and added, “Or you, for that matter.”
“She wasn’t impressed by my plan?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Perhaps I should go back in there.”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
The argument grew increasingly contentious, though now it was Lars Mortensen who was on the offensive.
“The tide has definitely turned,” said Ingrid.
“Not for long,” murmured Christopher as the prime minister issued a sharp retort. “She has a touch of Mrs. Thatcher, doesn’t
she?”
“More than a touch,” replied Gabriel. “She terrifies me.”
Suddenly there was a silence from within the office, followed by a temperate final exchange.
“It appears,” said Ingrid, “we have a resolution.”
“Which way?”
The door swung open before she could answer and Lars Mortensen, his face red with exertion, stepped into the anteroom. “We
have forty-eight hours. And God help us if anything goes wrong.”