Arctic Wargame

Chapter Eight

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, Presiding Judge, we have reached a verdict.”

High Court Judge Laurits Handel heaved a sigh of relief at the jury forewoman’s reply. He nodded and removed his black-rimmed glasses without attempting to hide his smile. The appeal proceedings had consumed several weeks of time on an already overloaded court docket, and the judge was looking forward to the end of another intricate legal battle. The other two High Court Judges, sitting to Handel’s left and right, impatiently swiveled in their chairs.

“What is the verdict?” the judge asked the forewoman. She stood behind the wooden rail separating the jury from the rest of the courtroom.

“On the two counts of assisting in a conspiracy to commit terrorist acts,” the forewoman replied in a stern voice, her eyes fixed on the defendant’s unshaven face, “by a majority of nine to three, we, the jury, declare the defendant, Mr. Sargon Beyda, guilty as charged.”

Pandemonium exploded in the courtroom as soon as she finished pronouncing the word ‘guilty.’ Relatives of the defendant broke into angry barks, screams, whistles, and the occasional expletive. Joyful cries from police officers and numerous spectators, accompanied by a loud wave of applause, attempted to outdo the competition. The defendant, still in handcuffs, dropped his head in despair, despite his defense counselor’s words of encouragement. In the second row, behind the counselor’s seat, Lilith, the defendant’s wife, began to weep quietly. Media photographers scrambled for the best shots of the defendant, adding to the overwhelming chaos.

“Order! Order!” The judge, already on his feet, shouted at the disorderly crowd. The other members of the court followed suit, but their voices were too frail. Three deputies, in charge of maintaining order and peace in the courtroom, stepped forward, their refrigerator-sized bodies barricading the enraged mob away from the judges.

“Clear the room,” the judge instructed the deputies in a chirping voice. He made a quick exit through the doors behind the bench connecting to his private chambers. The other two judges used the same escape route. Two police officers, who escorted the defendant to and from the courthouse, snapped out of their standing guard positions and approached Sargon.

“Time to go, man,” one of them said. The other lifted Sargon from his chair by his right arm.

“The court is adjourned,” one of the gray-haired deputies boomed in a well-practiced, solemn tone, as if he closed with these exact words all trial hearings each time the court was in session. The other two deputies ushered the twelve members of the jury away from the emotional tide rising across the courtroom and toward the door to judge’s chambers. Then the deputies proceeded to shove people out, starting with the journalists, who were tossing out questions at the runaway jury. In less than two minutes, the large Courtroom E of the High Court of Western Denmark was completely empty.

The two police officers pushed Sargon down the narrow hall leading to the west wing of the court, which housed administrative offices, press conference rooms, and a small cafeteria. A third one followed two steps behind them. Experience had taught the escort team they were most vulnerable during the loading and unloading of detainees. The courtroom disturbance had triggered the team’s defensive instincts. Worried that Sargon’s friends may have planned an escape, their eyes double-checked every door and questioned the faces of every person they passed in the hall.

“Look, mommy, the police… and a bad guy,” a young boy blurted, pulling on his mother’s arm. She stopped stabbing at her BlackBerry for half a second and whipped an angry stare at the boy before returning to her e-mail. One of the officers frowned at her indifference, but smiled at the little boy, who smiled back.

The escort team hurried down the last set of stairs, which opened into a small vestibule, and proceeded to the right exit taking them to the back of the building. Another police officer awaited their arrival in a Toyota Previa van parked less than six feet from the door. Two officers nudged Sargon into the middle of the backseats and sat on either side of him.

“We’re good to go,” the team leader said. He sat in the front passenger’s seat, removed his cap, and placed it over the dashboard.

The driver nodded and glanced at the two officers in the rear-view mirror, as he put the Toyota in reverse. “How are you boys back there?” he asked over a microphone attached to the side of the dashboard. The bulletproof glass separating the front seats from those in the back was also soundproof.

“We’re ready,” one of them replied on a similar microphone embedded on the side door, as he fastened his seatbelt. The other officer nodded and rearranged his baton hanging on the left side of his waist. He inspected his HK pistol resting on his holster under his right arm.

The driver looked over at the team leader and asked, “Guilty?”

“Like Cain after slaughtering Abel,” he replied. “His relatives raised some objections, and the judge kicked everyone out of the courtroom.”

“I see.” The driver turned left onto Gråbrødre Kirke Stræde, the road in front of the High Court building. “So, it’s back to Horsens Pen?”

“Yes. For now. I’m sure they’ll transfer him to Københavns Fængsler,” the team leader said.

Sargon let out a whining yelp, like a puppy spooked while soaking sunrays on his front porch. He had picked up some Danish in jail and he knew the meaning of those words. Fængsler meant “jail” and københavns was “Copenhagen.” It was the toughest prison in Denmark, beyond full capacity, ruled by thugs and flooded with drugs. Forget about the concepts of openness, normalization, and rehabilitation, held high and sought after at the detention center in Horsens. The center had a library, recreational facilities, water ponds, and separate units for conjugal visits. Any intimacy inmates could expect at the Copenhagen Prison would follow dropping the soap accidentally while sharing the showers.

Sargon groaned as the terror of spending twenty plus years in the Copenhagen rat hole began to boil in his mind. Will it be twenty? Twenty-five years? He remembered discussing the possible sentence with his defense counselor, but their legal strategy never envisioned a guilty verdict. After all, the public prosecutors could prove only that Sargon had been sending money to his brother, a fact established through witnesses during the trial. But the allegation of “conspiracy to commit terrorist acts” was a long shot, even though Sargon knew the money was for the financing of terrorist camps. Still, the jury had rendered a clear-cut verdict: he had supported terrorism. The court was pretty much at liberty to impose any jail term, even life imprisonment.

I’ll never be able to see my children grow up. How will Lilith do it on her own? Sargon dropped his head between his handcuffed hands to hide his face.

“What does your wife think, Inspector?” the driver asked his team leader. They had just turned the corner to the Lille Sankt Mikkels Gade, the road taking them to Horsens, a city sixty miles south of Viborg. Lake Søndersø appeared on their left, between green trees and shrubs hedging around two-story, red-roofed houses.

“Huh, what?” the team leader replied. He was still watching the occasional vehicle appearing in the sparse traffic behind their van.

“The transfer. What does she think of your transfer?”

“Oh.” The team leader glanced at the driver for a second before returning his gaze to the side mirror. “She doesn’t like it. Her family lives in Århus, and she wants to stay close to them.”

“But Horsens is less than an hour away.”

“I keep telling her it’s not that far, but she’s so stubborn. Our kids are in good schools and all their friends live here, she says. As if children in Horsens are ignorant and unsociable—”

“Hey, guys,” one of the officers in the back said, interrupting them. “Check out the Opel, just pulled in from the left. Two people in the car.”

The team leader turned his head around to inspect the vehicle. The silver Opel Vectra was unremarkable but gaining on them. One of the officers involuntarily placed his hand over his holster.

“Is it going to pass us?” asked the team leader.

“I’m not sure, but it’s getting really close.”

The team leader checked his pistol, as the driver steered closer to the side of the road. This provided the Opel sufficient room to pass. The distance also gave the team an extra second to avert a crash. The driver kept checking his rear-view and left side mirrors, keeping both hands on the steering wheel, ready for any last second maneuver.

The Opel crossed over the white median dividing the lanes and accelerated. The team leader stared at the dark tinted windows of the sedan, trying to make out the features of the strawberry blonde woman in the passenger’s seat sporting black sunglasses. Once both vehicles were neck and neck, the Opel lost its haste. The team leader saw something shining behind the passenger’s window as the woman began to unroll the glass.

He pulled out his pistol. The driver clenched the steering wheel, gearing up to drive into the bushes along the road, if the shining object turned out to be a gun. But the sight of a brass badge, which the woman held in her right hand, signaled the escort team was not under attack. The team leader squinted, but the letters engraved on the badge were too small. The shield shape of the badge did not resemble any official symbol familiar to him.

“What does the badge say?” the team leader asked the driver.

“Her arm’s shaking, but it looks like a MP badge.”

“The Opel’s unmarked,” one of the officers said. “And who asked for the MP’s support?”

“What’s she saying?” asked the other officer. “Is she telling us to pull over?”

The team leader had interpreted the woman’s finger jab as a pull over signal too. But he was not willing to take orders from unidentified individuals, military police or not. An unexpected stop would endanger everyone’s life, including the detainee’s. The unmarked car had contacted the escort team without any warning, use of radio or sirens, in breach of police procedures. The team leader reached for the radio to inform the Viborg police about the situation in progress and turned to the driver to tell him to keep driving. The sunlight hit the woman’s badge just right, and the team leader could read the inscription circling a golden crown and three lions: Politiets Efterretningstjeneste.

“The Intelligence Service?” he asked. “What’s the Service doing tailing us?” He frowned and decided to stop the van.

The Danish Security and Intelligence Service was part of the police force, forming Department G of the Danish National Police. Technically, they were the escort team’s colleagues.

“Let’s see what they want,” the team leader said quietly. “Maybe it’s a secret emergency, and that’s why they couldn’t radio it. They’re probably from the Århus department.”

The driver flipped on the turn signal light. He drove into Heibergs Alle road and found an empty stall in the parking lot, awaiting the arrival of the Opel.

“Keep your guard up,” the team leader reminded everyone. “We’re not sure they’re really from the Service. Even if they are, we still don’t know their motives for this stop.”

Sargon was as alarmed as his guards. The woman’s badge was unknown to him, and so were the identities of the people in the car. He had a gut feeling this story was just not going to end well.

The Opel entered the parking lot and rolled to a complete stop in front of the van under the watchful eyes of the escort team. The driver and his passenger came out of the car at the exact same time and strutted toward the van in quick steps. The woman was wearing a chocolate-brown suede jacket, a beige blouse, and a brown cashmere scarf. Her long slender legs were wrapped in black, skinny-fit denim, some designer’s brand the team leader recognized, with a tongue-twister Italian name. The man had a navy blue, tweed jacket and matching pants, complemented by a black woolen sweater. The team leader noticed a large, leather banded watch around the man’s left hand. I’m sure they’re both wearing guns, but they’re hiding them very well.

The woman lifted her sunglasses over her hair as soon as they stopped in front of the van, revealing her almond-shaped blue eyes. The man waited until the team leader rolled down his window. At that time, he folded and placed his shades in his inside jacket pocket, before his small brown eyes gave the man a piercing glance.

“My name’s Magnus Torbjorn. I’m a Special Agent with the Politiets Efterretningstjeneste. This is my colleague, Agent Valgerda Hassing.”

Valgerda flashed her badge to the escort team. Magnus did not bother, since both the team leader and the driver were busy examining hers. Instead, he nodded at the two officers in the back, who were nervously staring at him. Then, he found Sargon’s face and nailed him with an intimidating smirk.

“I’m Inspector Bruin Roby, in charge of taking a detainee back to his cell. Your intervention has threatened the safety of my men and of the detainee.” Convinced of its authenticity, Bruin handed Valgerda her badge.

“Inspector, I believe we’re starting with a wrong impression,” Valgerda’s voice rang out soft and smooth. “We don’t intend, in any way, to interfere with your assignment.”

“Well, your actions indicate a strong interest in my detainee.” Bruin toned down the roughness in his voice.

“True. We need to have a chat with Mr. Beyda.”

Sargon’s face froze, in apparent recognition of his last name. Magnus was still staring at him, like a starving cat drooling underneath the canary’s cage.

“Of course.” Bruin nodded. “You can talk to him upon our arrival at Horsens Pen. And, if I may add, with Mr. Beyda’s consent and in the presence of his defense counselor.”

Bruin’s reply distracted Magnus from his prey. His look told Sargon he was not off the hook, but at least he could breathe easier for a few moments.

“Inspector Roby.” Magnus held Bruin’s black eyes long enough to have his full attention. Then, he dropped his gaze to the officer’s badge on the inspector’s chest. “Since you seem to be an expert in our rules of engagement, I’m sure you’re familiar with the structure of our national security. Anything that falls under the jurisdiction of the Service, like terrorism in this case, takes precedence over daily routines of the local police.”

“You don’t have to remind me of my job, Special Agent.” Bruin frowned and his voice resumed its earlier gruffness. “And of our work relationship with the Service. May I see a court order that allows you to interrogate my detainee?”

Magnus smiled politely and tapped his jacket’s outside pockets, as if to remind himself where he had placed the court warrant. Finding what he was searching for, he produced a BlackBerry and handed it to Bruin, who stared bemused at the palm-size device. They’ve started to hand out court orders electronically?

“The judge’s number is on speed dial.” Magnus encouraged Bruin to pick up the phone.

Valgerda contributed a big smile to contribute to Bruin’s persuasion. “All you’ve got to do is dial 7.”

Bruin hesitated. Are they bluffing or has Judge Handel really authorized this interrogation, illegal as it is? Bruin turned to the driver, but he just shrugged.

“The judge has already given us the go ahead,” Valgerda said, “but if you must check…”

Bruin looked at the BlackBerry again and sighed. I don’t think they’re bluffing. “Fine,” he conceded with a grunt, “but only five minutes. And we’re supervising the interrogation.” Setting those terms translated into a small victory for Bruin. He did not want to appear beaten in front of his men.

Bruin stepped outside the van, followed by the driver. The two officers opened the doors and brought Sargon out. Bruin’s head gesture ordered Sargon to walk in front of them. They stopped about thirty feet away from a white pickup, the only other car in the parking lot.

“Not here.” Magnus shook his head and looked across Gammel Århusvej, the street separating the parking lot from park land alongside Lake Søndersø. “We’ll talk by the water. More privacy.”

Bruin shrugged and took Sargon by his arm, leading him to the curb. Magnus stepped closer and coughed, in order to attract Bruin’s attention rather than to clear his throat. “Inspector, I’ll take over from here. You’ll supervise from a distance.”

Bruin opened his mouth to protest against such an idea. He wanted to listen to the secret agents grilling of Sargon, not babysitting while they played in the park. But before he could utter a single word, Bruin realized their conversation had to remain secret. Magnus and Valgerda would use the judge or some other jurisdiction trick to force him into obedience.

“We’ll bring him back in five,” Valgerda said, following Magnus, who already was shoving Sargon ahead of him.

They cut through the green-yellowish lawns, where tiny tufts of grass were struggling for revival after the long winter. Rows of apple, lime, pear, and chestnut trees surrounded the low, grassy shore, where small waves broke gently with quiet splashes. A little farther, a solitary boat was lazily crossing the ice-cold waters.

“Mr. Beyda, take a seat,” Magnus said in English, a language Sargon spoke with difficulty, while pointing at the bench by a narrow pathway. Valgerda stood to their left, observing the parking lot where Bruin paced impatiently by the police van. Magnus sat next to Sargon, leaning close to his ear. Bruin could not see any facial expression or body gestures, neither of the interrogator, nor of the detainee.

“How are things going, Sargon?” Magnus asked with genuine interest.

“Good,” Sargon said, his face giving a hint he was lying. “You worried for me?”

“No, we’re worried about your future.”

Sargon snorted and cleaned a few imaginary specs of dust from his gray suit. “Where’s my lawyer?” he asked after a brief pause.

“You don’t need one.”

“You recording my words?”

“No. Our business with you is secret. Top secret. No records. No witnesses.” Magnus gestured with his head toward the parking lot.

Sargon nodded his understanding.

“You won’t say a word to your lawyer or your family about our meeting. But we want you to talk to your friends about it.”

Sargon frowned and snorted at the same time. “What friends?” he asked gruffly.

“Yildiz, your brother. Saleh, your best friend. Fatimah, the landlady.” Magnus was counting their names using his right hand fingers. “Ibrahim, the explosive expert. Bill, the computer techie.”

Sargon kept his long face, showing indifference, annoyance, and contempt. Still, Valgerda noticed a tiny crack in his defensive façade. Sargon’s left eye twitched slightly before he could control it, and his right hand turned into a fist, even if for a brief moment. A seasoned psychologist, Valgerda was trained to spot, read, and interpret the slightest clues of body language. She decided to exploit her advantage and placed a hand on Magnus’s shoulder.

“I know nothing and say nothing to you.” Sargon raised his shoulders and feigned disinterest.

“That won’t be necessary,” Valgerda said after Magnus gestured with his eyes that it was her turn. “We just want you to listen, listen very carefully.”

“Eh, OK.”

“We know about the Århus cell. We have detailed information about your associates and your plans. During the trial, in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t necessary for us to reveal this information. First, because your friends would hear about it and go underground.”

Sargon suppressed a tiny smile. He thought about placing a call to his brother as soon as he returned to Horsens, but then he remembered Valgerda asked him specifically to talk to his friends.

“Second,” Valgerda continued, without missing Sargon’s lips twitch, “we still need more evidence to frame your associates.”

This time, Sargon did not conceal his smile. “Aha! I snitch nobody,” he blurted with a quick snap of his fingers.

“We don’t need a snitch,” Valgerda replied. “And you’ll not get a chance to tell anyone in Århus about our plan. They’re all being arrested as we speak. All of them.”

Another piece fell off Sargon’s emotional façade. Valgerda caught his left eye squinting and his right foot tapping lightly on the grass.

“Our courts have found you guilty. Twice.” Valgerda began hammering Sargon, driving her words as if they were nails. “If I know anything about our criminal laws, and trust me, I do have a law degree, you’ll most likely be sentenced to life imprisonment. Do you know what that means?”

Sargon nodded with a deep frown. “I do,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly turning dry.

“Life in jail, that’s what it means. No escape. Ever.”

She was bending the truth to fit her goal. Convicted felons in Denmark were entitled to a pardon hearing after serving twelve years of their prison term. Depending on a number of factors, they could receive their pardon. Besides, Danish courts rendered life imprisonment verdicts so rarely they were more of an oddity rather than the accepted standard of justice.

“You’ll never touch your wife, Lilith, again,” Valgerda continued. “You’ll rot in jail.”

Sargon buried his head in his hands. Valgerda smiled at Magnus, passing him the torch.

“Listen up, Sargon,” said Magnus, taking over. “We’re prepared to give you a pardon. Then you and your wife will receive political asylum, and eventually, the Danish citizenship.”

Sargon looked up. He did not have to spell out the words. His glowing eyes did all the talking. He was ready to accept their offer, whatever it was they wanted from him.

“We want you to organize your old gang, once everyone is transferred to Horsens. We’ve got a job for you.”

Sargon leaned forward toward Magnus, as if doubting his ears. “A job?”

“Yes. A big one. Keep your friendships alive. Stay in shape. And no word to anyone.”

“Why? What do you want us to do?”

“We’ll give you the details later. For now, convince them you have a way out for everyone. A legit one. The only one. Got it?”

Sargon nodded.

“I can’t hear your head shake,” Magnus said.

“I got it. Keep mouth shut, eyes open.”

“Good, very good.”

Magnus’s BlackBerry chirped and he glanced at the screen. “Take him back. I have to make a call,” he said to Valgerda after reading the short text message. “Remember, Sargon,” he added, “if I hear rumors about our little chat, none of your family will mourn at your funeral, because they’d all be already dead.”