48 Strøget
Str?get
It was the appearance of the hazmat team of the Danish National Police that alerted the media to the incident on the Str?get.
Clad in their lime-green protective suits, the specialists initially cordoned off only the area outside the popular H&M boutique.
But just thirty minutes later, with no explanation to the public, they sealed the kilometer-long pedestrian street from end
to end and ordered all the shops and restaurants to immediately discharge their customers and shutter their doors.
When at last the police issued a statement, it shed little light on the matter. A man they described only as “a Spanish national”
had suffered a medical emergency while walking along the Str?get shortly after four in the afternoon. He had expired at Copenhagen
University Hospital at 6:26 p.m. A second person, a woman who had attempted to resuscitate the victim, was receiving treatment at the same hospital, for what
reason the police did not say. In the statement’s only glaring falsehood, she was characterized as a Good Samaritan who had
merely happened upon the scene. In truth she was a surveillance specialist from the Danish security and intelligence service
who had been walking behind the victim when he collapsed.
The statement made no mention of a man, described by numerous witnesses, who had prevented the woman from rendering further aid to the victim, and by some miracle there was no cell phone video to confirm the witnesses’ accounts.
He too was taken to Copenhagen University Hospital, but only for observation, as he was experiencing no symptoms of illness.
He finally signed himself out at 7:00 p.m. and, accompanied by an attractive Danish woman in her late thirties, traveled by motorcar to PET headquarters in S?borg.
Lars Mortensen met them in the lobby.
“The two of you picked a fine time to go for a stroll along the Str?get.”
“You’re lucky we did,” replied Gabriel. “Otherwise there would be more than one other person fighting for her life tonight.”
“Her respiratory system is shutting down. They’re not at all sure she’s going to make it.”
“She’d already be dead if she had tried to give Ivanov mouth-to-mouth.”
“How did you know to stop her?”
“It was obvious to me that Ivanov had been poisoned with a nerve agent.”
“We think it’s Novichok.”
“The likely candidate. The question is,” said Gabriel, “where was it administered? And by whom?”
“Not by whom,” replied Mortensen. “By what.”
They headed down to the op center and found Christopher sitting in a chair in the back row. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said
to Gabriel. “You saved a lot of lives this afternoon.”
“With one exception.”
“Wait until you see this.”
Lars Mortensen was still on his feet. “Let’s start at the end, shall we?”
One of the techs punched a key on his computer, and a CCTV image appeared on the screen—Captain Yuri Ivanov lying on the paving
stones of the Str?get, surrounded by a circle of some twenty people. A woman was kneeling beside him, hands on his chest,
fingers interlaced.
The tech set the scene in motion, and a few seconds later Gabriel entered the image from the left side of the screen. His
attempt to save the life of the surveillance specialist bordered on assault and battery. The onlookers were clearly startled
by what they were witnessing.
“That video,” said Gabriel, “must never see the light of day.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Mortensen. “It won’t. But here’s what happened before you arrived.”
The tech punched another key. The shot that appeared on the screen was from the same camera, but the time stamp was ninety
seconds earlier. Yuri Ivanov entered the image from the right. His step was heavy, and he appeared disoriented. Then his legs
buckled and he crashed to the pavement as though he had fallen from a third-floor window. The PET surveillance officer was
there in less than ten seconds. The crowd gathered quicky around her.
“Her name is Freda Hansen,” said Mortensen. “One of our best officers. She noticed something was wrong about a minute before
he collapsed. Little did she know that she was standing not ten meters away from Ivanov when he was poisoned.”
The tech switched to a new CCTV camera. Yuri Ivanov was standing outside the entrance of the redbrick Church of the Holy Spirit,
one of the Str?get’s most well-known landmarks. It was 4:00 p.m. exactly. In less than two minutes Ivanov would be lying unconscious in the street.
“Watch carefully,” said Mortensen.
A few seconds into the video, at 16:00:13, Yuri Ivanov glanced at his phone. Then, nine seconds later, he waved a hand in
front of his face, as though he were brushing away a cobweb.
“Did you see it?” asked Mortensen.
“No,” admitted Gabriel.
“That’s not surprising. Neither did he.”
The tech rewound the video to the spot where Ivanov was checking his phone, then enlarged the image.
“Now do you see it?” asked Mortensen.
Gabriel rose and walked to the front of the room to have a closer look at the screen. It took him a moment to spot it, a misty
smudge of something hovering near Ivanov’s right ear.
“It’s a mosquito drone,” said Mortensen. “Probably no bigger than two or three centimeters. It sprayed the nerve agent in
his face, then fled the scene of the crime.”
The tech once again set the scene in motion. Yuri Ivanov, after casting another glance toward his phone, turned away from
the door of the church and started across its small brick courtyard. Within a few seconds his step was noticeably slower.
Then he turned to the left and set off in the direction of the H&M boutique. Freda Hansen and a male colleague followed after
him, oblivious to the fact he was already dying.
“That’s quite enough,” said Mortensen. “We know what happens next. You just witnessed the first documented assassination carried
out by a miniature drone. No political leader or opposition figure will ever be safe again. Welcome to a world gone mad.”
The tech froze the image, and a heavy silence fell over the room. Gabriel was the first to speak. “It looked as though Ivanov
was planning to meet someone at that church.”
“He was,” replied Mortensen. “At least he thought he was. He was sent there to die.”
“By whom?”
“You tell me.”
“The woman from the cemetery?”
Mortensen nodded. “Ivanov was still carrying the message she handed to him. Guess what it said.”
“The Church of the Holy Spirit. Four o’clock.”
“Words to that effect.”
“But why would his own service want to kill him?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
“They generally reserve that sort of punishment for those they regard as traitors.”
“The GRU thought that Ivanov was working for us?”
“Perhaps,” said Gabriel. “But the more likely explanation is that they thought you were about to take him into custody. Either
way, he had to go. Their weapon of choice was a drone the size of an insect. It was a perfect hit. With the exception of his
phone, of course,” said Gabriel. “He was carrying it when he collapsed. A real Russian assassin would never have left it behind.”
“We’re trying to unlock it as we speak.”
“If you need any assistance—”
“We can handle it.” Mortensen looked at Christopher. “And don’t worry, the PET will forward a copy of the contents to your
service.”
“Much obliged, Lars. But in the meantime, Downing Street is wondering whether your prime minister is still planning to attend
tomorrow’s summit in London.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“The Russians just used a weapon of mass destruction in the middle of Copenhagen.”
“All the more reason she’ll be there. She will, however, address the Danish people at nine o’clock this evening from the Borgen.”
“What is she planning to say?”
“Knowing the prime minister, she won’t mince words. But she agreed to let me review the speech before she delivers it.” Mortensen
turned to Gabriel. “She’d like you to read it as well.”
“I’m honored. But do you really think it’s a good idea for me to be around her?”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Mortensen, “our prime minister doesn’t frighten easily.”
They listened to the breaking news coverage on Danish radio during the twenty-minute drive to the Borgen. The closure of Denmark’s
most famous shopping street had left the country decidedly on edge. Already there were accusations of a cover-up from the
far right, and social media was awash with conspiracy theories, several of which were undoubtedly concocted at GRU headquarters
in Moscow. Even with a reckless assassination of one of its own, Unit 29155 had somehow managed to sow discord and division
in the West.
It was approaching half past eight when they were shown into the prime minister’s office. Her closest aides were gathered
around her desk, reviewing the final draft of the speech she was scheduled to deliver in just thirty minutes’ time. Mortensen
acquired a copy for Gabriel. It was in Danish, of course, but Ingrid provided a quick translation. The wording was unambiguous.
“Russia is now at war with us,” Prime Minister Kalla Eriksen would soon tell the people of Denmark. “It’s a so-called hybrid
war, but it’s a war all the same. We have no choice but to defend ourselves.”
Ten minutes before airtime she chased her aides from her office and, taking a compact from her handbag, quickly freshened her makeup. She directed a glance toward Gabriel while applying a new coat of lipstick. “Well, Mr. Allon?”
“It’s rather detailed where Captain Ivanov is concerned.”
“Have I betrayed any sources or methods?”
“Not quite.”
“What does that mean?”
“The British have identified another Russian officer currently living in London. The minute you say Yuri Ivanov’s name and
occupation, she will know that she is in danger.”
“Are the British watching her?”
“She’s under round-the-clock surveillance.”
“In that case, I will deliver the speech as written.” The prime minister closed the compact with a snap. “How long are you
planning to remain in Denmark?”
“We’re returning to London in the morning.”
“What a coincidence,” said the prime minister. “I’m going there myself. You’re welcome to fly to London with me, if you like.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“If it were an imposition, Mr. Allon, I wouldn’t have extended the offer.” She rose to her feet. “We board at eight o’clock
sharp. Don’t be late.”