“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 5:00p.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 Søborg. 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 touse 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 Gate19 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 aŠkoda hatchback at the airport and went straight to his hotel. He’s staying at the Scandic Palace on the Rådhuspladsen.But if the prime minister has her way,” added Mortensen, “he won’t be there long.”
