47 Rådhuspladsen
R?dhuspladsen
It fell to Christopher to hammer out the operational accord. Gabriel, who represented no service, and therefore had no official
standing, was relegated largely to observer status, though occasionally he offered a few sage words of advice that brought
the negotiations back from the brink. On one point, though, Lars Mortensen was unyielding—the surveillance of Captain Yuri
Ivanov would last forty-eight hours and not a minute more. Christopher and Gabriel would be kept fully abreast of Ivanov’s
movements and were welcome in the PET’s op center, day or night, but under no circumstances were they to operate themselves.
This, added Mortensen, was strictly forbidden.
“That’s never stopped us before,” said Christopher.
“I realize that.”
“And when the clock expires?”
“Ivanov will be arrested.”
“He belongs to us.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t.”
“And what happens if he attempts to leave Denmark before the end of regulation play?”
“You should assume,” said Lars Mortensen, “that Captain Yuri Ivanov is never leaving Denmark.”
Unlike the British, the Danes didn’t bother with a code name.
They merely went about their business calmly and quietly, in a very Danish sort of way.
The first item on their to-do list was the installation of cameras and listening devices in Ivanov’s room at the Scandic Palace.
Two PET tech officers saw to it the following morning while Ivanov was downstairs partaking of the complimentary buffet breakfast, and all of the devices were transmitting normally when the Russian returned to his room at eight fifteen.
He watched a Spanish-language newscast until nine o’clock.
Then, after conducting two brief calls in Spanish on his mobile phone, he left the room a second time.
Outside, he reprised the role of the sophisticated urban explorer, this time for the surveillance artists of the PET. For
the next three hours he led them on a merry chase from one end of Copenhagen to the other. Once again coffeehouses and bookstores
were his preferred oases. He made and received several phone calls during his wanderings, but he met with no one, and the
watchers saw nothing that looked like a brush pass or impersonal communication.
After a traditional Danish lunch at an outdoor café in Nyhavn, he returned to the Scandic Palace long enough to collect his
rented ?koda, which by then had been fitted with a tracking device. He drove through the streets of central Copenhagen for the better
part of an hour before heading to the southeastern suburb of Kastrup, where he ate a second lunch, this time at a small café
adjacent to Copenhagen Airport. Leaving the café, he set off along the airport perimeter road, stopping now and again to snap
a few photographs. The PET watchers managed to snap a few photos of him as well, and the airport’s CCTV cameras recorded nearly
a half hour of video. He was, in the lexicon of the intelligence game, blown to high heaven.
At seven that evening he was back in his hotel room, and Gabriel, Christopher, and Ingrid, having been summoned by Prime Minister Kalla Eriksen, were once again inside the Borgen.
Also present was Denmark’s foreign minister, interior minister, and minister of defense.
The mood in the room was tense. It was the assumption of everyone present, including Gabriel, that an incursion of Russian drones into Danish airspace was imminent.
The prime minister again suggested taking Yuri Ivanov into custody.
Though it took some doing, Lars Mortensen managed to talk her out of it.
By midnight it seemed apparent that tonight would not be the night, so the prime minister went home to her family, and Gabriel,
Christopher, and Ingrid headed to the Hotel Sanders. Ingrid and Christopher made straight for the bar, and Gabriel, against
all better judgment, joined them for a nightcap. While partaking of his usual Johnnie Walker Black Label, Christopher scrolled
through the headlines on his phone.
“Bloody hell,” he said suddenly.
“What is it now?” asked Gabriel.
“Have a look at The New York Times.”
Gabriel awakened his phone and opened the Times app. The lead story had been written by Peter Baker, the paper’s chief White House correspondent. The headline read ukraine’s president, other european leaders to meet at downing street summit.
“Exactly what we needed,” said Gabriel.
“When it rains, it pours,” added Christopher.
“Where do you suppose the leak came from?”
“I’m not an expert when it comes to the inner workings of Washington, but it looks to me as though it came from someone at
the White House.”
“Why do you suppose they would have done a thing like that?”
“Spite, I imagine. Whatever their motive, you can be sure Downing Street is livid. After all, they were counting on the element of surprise to help secure the summit.”
“So much for the special relationship,” said Gabriel.
“There’s no such thing. Not anymore, at least. Vauxhall Cross is withholding intelligence from our friends at Langley on a
broad range of issues, including Russia. You can be sure the Americans know nothing about Yuri Ivanov.”
“They will the minute the Danes put the cuffs on him.”
Christopher glanced at his wristwatch. “By my calculation we have exactly twenty-four hours before his arrest. At which point
the curtain will fall on Operation Sapphire.”
“It was fun while it lasted.”
“I’ll say,” said Christopher, and ordered another drink.
Captain Yuri Ivanov began his last day of freedom with a leisurely breakfast at the Scandic Palace. Then he set off on another
walking tour of Copenhagen, tailed by no fewer than eight PET officers on foot and a dozen more in unmarked vehicles.
This time his wanderings took him farther afield to Assistens Cemetery, burial place of Denmark’s most notable citizens, including
the writer Hans Christian Andersen and the philosopher and theologian S?ren Kierkegaard. While Ivanov was standing before
the grave of the nineteenth-century Danish painter Christen K?bke, a woman of perhaps forty went to his side and their hands
briefly touched. Four members of the surveillance team, after witnessing what appeared to be a rather sloppy brush contact,
gave up the chase of the primary target and followed the woman instead. She led them from the cemetery straight to the Russian
Embassy.
At which point Prime Minister Kalla Eriksen and her senior ministers reconvened in emergency session, this time with no outside observers present.
Christopher went to the British Embassy to have a secure word with Vauxhall Cross, but Gabriel hid out at the Sanders with Ingrid.
By midafternoon they were both stir-crazy, so they slipped out of the hotel and wandered over to the Str?get, Copenhagen’s pedestrian shopping street.
Ingrid held Gabriel’s arm as they walked.
“Are you afraid you’re going to have a relapse?” he asked.
“Office doctrine, Mr. Allon. Remember?”
“A fancy hotel and a pretty girl?”
“Exactly. Besides, the Str?get is my home turf.” She pointed to a CCTV camera. “And you can be sure our friends at PET headquarters
are watching our every move.”
Gabriel’s phone rang suddenly.
“See what I mean,” said Ingrid.
He drew the phone from his pocket and checked the caller ID. There was no name, but he recognized the number. It was the op
center at PET headquarters.
He tapped accept and lifted the phone to his ear. “Drones?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Allon,” said the voice at the other end of the connection. “But you and Ingrid need to get off the street immediately.
Your friend from the GRU is headed straight for you.”
Gabriel killed the connection, then explained the situation to Ingrid. She pointed toward a busy café and said, “Let’s have
a coffee, shall we?”
They went inside and were seated at a table against the window. Ingrid placed their order at once and then peered into the
busy pedestrian street. Two minutes went by with no sign of Yuri Ivanov.
“I wonder what’s keeping him.”
“He must be doing a bit of shoplifting.”
“I got my Givenchy blazer just up the street.”
Gabriel shook his head with dismay. “Perhaps we should enjoy a moment or two of silence.”
“An uncomfortable silence, you mean? Yes, let’s.” The waiter delivered their coffees. Ingrid added artificial sweetener to
hers and resumed her contemplation of the street. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Go see what he’s doing.”
“So much for the uncomfortable silence.”
“Pretend to walk out on me.”
“With pleasure.”
Gabriel tossed a banknote onto the table and went into the street. A crowd of about twenty people had gathered in a circle
outside a nearby H&M boutique. He walked over at an unhurried pace, only to discover a man lying unconscious on the paving
stones. A young woman was compressing the man’s chest in a desperate attempt to restart his heart. As she lowered her mouth
toward his, Gabriel forced his way through the crowd and pulled the woman away. “Don’t!” he shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t
touch him.”