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.”
