world,” Søren muttered.
“I think we should go in,” Mikael said. “While we still have the element of surprise. Seize them before they can push the button.”
“And if it goes wrong? You don’t know how powerful those explosives are,” Søren pointed out. “They’re only about twenty to thirty meters away from the traffic on Rovsingsgade.”
“And they could easily have a lookout outside—someone we haven’t spotted,” Gitte said.
“Well, if they do, then why didn’t
he
spot Berndt?” Mikael objected.
“Because Berndt is Berndt.”
“But it’s every bit as dangerous to wait. They could kill the hostage at any time. With or without the explosives.”
“No,” Gitte said. “Because they haven’t made the recording yet.”
Mikael emitted a sound of frustration, half wheeze, half sigh.
“Terrorism is called terrorism because the goal is fear,” Gitte said. “Isn’t that what you’re always preaching, boss?”
“Yes.” Søren permitted himself the hint of a smile. Killing a man, however important, in a refrigeration truck in Copenhagen certainly wouldn’t be the ultimate goal of any terrorist group. They would want the whole world to
watch
while they did it. To have the recording played on as many TV screens as possible, thus getting attention, instilling fear, and changing people’s behavior. Without a video recording, there was precious little point to the act as far as the terrorists were concerned. They might even suffer the affront of having another group claim responsibility.
Suddenly Gitte sat up in her chair. She was a tall woman, as tall as mostmen and had the shoulders of an Olympic swim star. When Gitte straightened up, people noticed.
“What is it?”
“The traffic,” she said, pointing to the screen that gave them the aerial overview. “It’s stopped.”
She was right. The sparse a-little-past-six-in-the-morning trickle of cars had completely dried up. Rovsingsgade was deserted.
“
Shit
.” This time Søren did say it out loud. What the hell was going on here? Who was the idiot that had blocked off the road without checking with them first? And how long would it take before the group in there realized it? Seconds, maybe, if they really did have another lookout outside the truck. “Now!” he said into the earpiece in Berndt’s ear. “We’re going in
now
!”
L IGHTS, COLD, MOVEMENT . The still-faint daylight felt like a birth shock after the dark incubator of the surveillance van. He hit the asphalt running, crossed the first parking lot, and jumped over the low beech hedge into the next. The refrigeration truck wasn’t his goal; Berndt and the strike team would take care of that, and Søren had no intention whatsoever of getting in the way of people trained for that sort of thing. His goal was a man with a radio, standing on the roof of the four-story residential building their bird’s eye view was coming from, a radio that could hopefully communicate with the rest of the emergency services, so he could find out what the hell was going on. He burst through the back door—considerately taped so the latch couldn’t click into the strike plate—and sprinted up the smooth terrazzo stairs. First floor, second floor, third floor … past the fourth and up the last narrow service stairwell to the roof. There was an uncomfortable burn in his knee where he had had surgery on his cruciate ligament, and his lungs were on overtime. But he had enough breath left to snarl “Give me that radio!” at a startled young officer, uniformed police. In his own earpiece he could hear static and breathing and short, terse statements, but no shots. Thank God, no shots yet.
He snatched the radio—or “terminal” as they were supposed to call them now—out of the officer’s hand and stood frozen for a second, staring at the unfamiliar keys. Then information he knew, but which had yet to become second nature, coalesced, and he entered the sequence that was supposed to
“I think we should go in,” Mikael said. “While we still have the element of surprise. Seize them before they can push the button.”
“And if it goes wrong? You don’t know how powerful those explosives are,” Søren pointed out. “They’re only about twenty to thirty meters away from the traffic on Rovsingsgade.”
“And they could easily have a lookout outside—someone we haven’t spotted,” Gitte said.
“Well, if they do, then why didn’t
he
spot Berndt?” Mikael objected.
“Because Berndt is Berndt.”
“But it’s every bit as dangerous to wait. They could kill the hostage at any time. With or without the explosives.”
“No,” Gitte said. “Because they haven’t made the recording yet.”
Mikael emitted a sound of frustration, half wheeze, half sigh.
“Terrorism is called terrorism because the goal is fear,” Gitte said. “Isn’t that what you’re always preaching, boss?”
“Yes.” Søren permitted himself the hint of a smile. Killing a man, however important, in a refrigeration truck in Copenhagen certainly wouldn’t be the ultimate goal of any terrorist group. They would want the whole world to
watch
while they did it. To have the recording played on as many TV screens as possible, thus getting attention, instilling fear, and changing people’s behavior. Without a video recording, there was precious little point to the act as far as the terrorists were concerned. They might even suffer the affront of having another group claim responsibility.
Suddenly Gitte sat up in her chair. She was a tall woman, as tall as mostmen and had the shoulders of an Olympic swim star. When Gitte straightened up, people noticed.
“What is it?”
“The traffic,” she said, pointing to the screen that gave them the aerial overview. “It’s stopped.”
She was right. The sparse a-little-past-six-in-the-morning trickle of cars had completely dried up. Rovsingsgade was deserted.
“
Shit
.” This time Søren did say it out loud. What the hell was going on here? Who was the idiot that had blocked off the road without checking with them first? And how long would it take before the group in there realized it? Seconds, maybe, if they really did have another lookout outside the truck. “Now!” he said into the earpiece in Berndt’s ear. “We’re going in
now
!”
L IGHTS, COLD, MOVEMENT . The still-faint daylight felt like a birth shock after the dark incubator of the surveillance van. He hit the asphalt running, crossed the first parking lot, and jumped over the low beech hedge into the next. The refrigeration truck wasn’t his goal; Berndt and the strike team would take care of that, and Søren had no intention whatsoever of getting in the way of people trained for that sort of thing. His goal was a man with a radio, standing on the roof of the four-story residential building their bird’s eye view was coming from, a radio that could hopefully communicate with the rest of the emergency services, so he could find out what the hell was going on. He burst through the back door—considerately taped so the latch couldn’t click into the strike plate—and sprinted up the smooth terrazzo stairs. First floor, second floor, third floor … past the fourth and up the last narrow service stairwell to the roof. There was an uncomfortable burn in his knee where he had had surgery on his cruciate ligament, and his lungs were on overtime. But he had enough breath left to snarl “Give me that radio!” at a startled young officer, uniformed police. In his own earpiece he could hear static and breathing and short, terse statements, but no shots. Thank God, no shots yet.
He snatched the radio—or “terminal” as they were supposed to call them now—out of the officer’s hand and stood frozen for a second, staring at the unfamiliar keys. Then information he knew, but which had yet to become second nature, coalesced, and he entered the sequence that was supposed to
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