Page 118 of Ransom

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.”

49

Copenhagen–London

The speech was twelve minutes in duration but meteoric in its impact. Russia’s military intelligence service, said the Danish prime minister, had conducted a reckless and barbaric assassination on Copenhagen’s busiest shopping street using a miniature drone armed with the world’s most lethal nerve agent. She identified the victim as Captain Yuri Ivanov of GRU Unit 29155, the same unit that had carried out numerous acts of sabotage and disruption in an attempt to destabilize and undermine the democracies of Western Europe. Any further action by Russia on Danish soil, the prime minister warned, would be met with a swift and forceful response. No options, she added ominously, would be off the table.

The Russian retort, delivered by the mendacious Kremlin spokesman Yevgeny Nazarov, appeared only minutes after the Danish premier had concluded her remarks, which led some in the press to speculate that his statement had been prepared in advance. It was a masterclass of mockery and misdirection, a truly bravura performance. As Yevgeny Nazarov saw it, it was the West that was trying to undermine Russia, not the other way around. GRU Unit 29155, he claimed, was nothing more than a clumsy piece of Western propaganda. If anyone was to blame for what had taken place inCopenhagen, it was the Ukrainians. Or perhaps, he suggested, the Danish intelligence service had carried out the assassination to create a pretext to attack Russia.

But the most powerful rhetorical question in the Kremlin’s arsenal was the question of why. Why would Russia’s military intelligence service assassinate one of its own? The rented television experts had no good answer, and neither, admittedly, did Gabriel. He met Christopher and Ingrid downstairs in the lobby of the Hotel Sanders shortly after seven the following morning,and they crawled into a PET sedan for the drive to Copenhagen Airport. The prime minister’s plane waited on the apron, surrounded by a formidable ring of protection officers. Lars Mortensen stood at the foot of the airstair.

He handed Christopher an external hard drive. “A little reading material for the flight to London.”

“The contents of Yuri Ivanov’s phone?”

“As promised,” said Mortensen.

Ingrid led the way up the airstair, and they settled into their assigned seats. The prime minister boarded a few minutes before eight, along with a half-dozen aides. She looked at Gabriel and gave him a warm smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Allon. Sleep well?”

“Not a wink, Prime Minister. You?”

“Never better.”

The cabin steward closed the forward door, and the engines whined. Christopher peered warily out his window. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that now would be the perfect time for the Russians to shut down this airport with a swarm of drones. Or better yet, they might disable the plane’s navigation system.”

Gabriel frowned. “Why do you think I couldn’t sleep last night?”

Only Ingrid had brought along a laptop. She waited until the plane was airborne before attaching the external hard drive and opening a folder labeledPet 9055-8337. Inside were several additional folders. Emails and text messages, browsing history, location data, telephone metadata, photographs. It was the lifeblood of an illegal Russian intelligence officer, his very operational soul. And it was theirs to explore at their leisure, all because the GRU had sent a miniature drone to kill Yuri Ivanov instead of a man with a gun.