put him in touch with on-site command.
At that moment a hard, flat bang resonated—both inside and outside his earpiece. In three quick steps, Søren moved over to the half wall that ran around the edge of the roof, and now for the first time in the cool, sharp reality of morning, he had the same bird’s eye view of the area that he had had earlier on the screen in the surveillance van. The back end of the refrigeration truck was hanging open and a diffuse cloud of grayish-white smoke was wafting out over the railway yard.
“Berndt?” he said quietly into his microphone headset.
Twenty-eight seconds passed. Søren counted them. Then Berndt’s voice responded with the unnatural intimacy that came with in-ear receivers:
“It’s okay. We’re in, and we have control.”
B Y THE TIME Søren made it down to the refrigeration truck, they had the handcuffs off the hostage and a blanket around his shoulders. Apparently Gitte was the one charged with the thankless task of removing the flat, black object that was attached to his chest. The man made a face as she tried to tug the wide tape off.
“Do we have any rubbing alcohol?” Søren asked. “That’ll make it come off a little easier.”
“Never mind,” said the former hostage. “Just get it over with.”
His naked torso was too muscular for him to be completely believable in the role of a captured head of state, and although Søren could see him flexing his fingers in a pumping rhythm to get the blood flowing to his hands again, he didn’t otherwise look like a man who had been bound and helpless for more than four hours. Torben Wahl—deputy director of PET’s counterterrorism section and Søren’s immediate supervisor—was not a man who was easily rattled.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Not that great,” Søren admitted. “The intelligence side of things went okay, and Berndt and the SWAT team went in like they were supposed to. However, liaising with the rest of the emergency services was a total failure. Someone had better get a handle on that before the summit, because if this had been the real deal.…”
“Well, that’s why we drill,” Torben said, but he didn’t look happy.
D ESPITE THE SHOWER , a fresh shirt, and four hours of sleep with the curtains drawn, the effects of the training exercise were still lingering inhis body as Søren parked in front of PET’s headquarters in suburban Søborg late that afternoon. He yawned on his way up the stairs. He could have used a couple more hours of downtime, but he had to check in to see what had turned up on his desk while he had been off playing cops and robbers in Rovsingsgade. His mood was not improved when he was forced to skirt around several young men in yellow T-shirts struggling with a giant, cube-shaped monstrosity and a plastic drum of drinking water that were apparently destined for the little niche in front of the lavatories farther down the hallway.
A water cooler. He had seen machines identical to this popping up throughout the building. They might keep the water cold, but they also gave off a constant irritating hum. Personally, he managed just fine with water from the tap in the men’s room, but in recent years the younger people, especially the women, had insisted on the phthalate-saturated energy wasters. Now it appeared that their bit of the corridor would have one, too. Of all the frivolous, useless fads—and he could reel off quite a few without even trying—water coolers ranked among the very worst, on par with the spider catchers he had recently seen in Kvickly, followed closely by patio heaters and ceiling fans. But apparently this was what the younger people wanted these days. Søren sighed. “The younger people?” When had he begun to call them that? Of course the majority of the eighty men and women who worked in the Danish Security and Intelligence Service’s counterterrorism branch
were
younger than him, but still—“the younger people”? He was going to
At that moment a hard, flat bang resonated—both inside and outside his earpiece. In three quick steps, Søren moved over to the half wall that ran around the edge of the roof, and now for the first time in the cool, sharp reality of morning, he had the same bird’s eye view of the area that he had had earlier on the screen in the surveillance van. The back end of the refrigeration truck was hanging open and a diffuse cloud of grayish-white smoke was wafting out over the railway yard.
“Berndt?” he said quietly into his microphone headset.
Twenty-eight seconds passed. Søren counted them. Then Berndt’s voice responded with the unnatural intimacy that came with in-ear receivers:
“It’s okay. We’re in, and we have control.”
B Y THE TIME Søren made it down to the refrigeration truck, they had the handcuffs off the hostage and a blanket around his shoulders. Apparently Gitte was the one charged with the thankless task of removing the flat, black object that was attached to his chest. The man made a face as she tried to tug the wide tape off.
“Do we have any rubbing alcohol?” Søren asked. “That’ll make it come off a little easier.”
“Never mind,” said the former hostage. “Just get it over with.”
His naked torso was too muscular for him to be completely believable in the role of a captured head of state, and although Søren could see him flexing his fingers in a pumping rhythm to get the blood flowing to his hands again, he didn’t otherwise look like a man who had been bound and helpless for more than four hours. Torben Wahl—deputy director of PET’s counterterrorism section and Søren’s immediate supervisor—was not a man who was easily rattled.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Not that great,” Søren admitted. “The intelligence side of things went okay, and Berndt and the SWAT team went in like they were supposed to. However, liaising with the rest of the emergency services was a total failure. Someone had better get a handle on that before the summit, because if this had been the real deal.…”
“Well, that’s why we drill,” Torben said, but he didn’t look happy.
D ESPITE THE SHOWER , a fresh shirt, and four hours of sleep with the curtains drawn, the effects of the training exercise were still lingering inhis body as Søren parked in front of PET’s headquarters in suburban Søborg late that afternoon. He yawned on his way up the stairs. He could have used a couple more hours of downtime, but he had to check in to see what had turned up on his desk while he had been off playing cops and robbers in Rovsingsgade. His mood was not improved when he was forced to skirt around several young men in yellow T-shirts struggling with a giant, cube-shaped monstrosity and a plastic drum of drinking water that were apparently destined for the little niche in front of the lavatories farther down the hallway.
A water cooler. He had seen machines identical to this popping up throughout the building. They might keep the water cold, but they also gave off a constant irritating hum. Personally, he managed just fine with water from the tap in the men’s room, but in recent years the younger people, especially the women, had insisted on the phthalate-saturated energy wasters. Now it appeared that their bit of the corridor would have one, too. Of all the frivolous, useless fads—and he could reel off quite a few without even trying—water coolers ranked among the very worst, on par with the spider catchers he had recently seen in Kvickly, followed closely by patio heaters and ceiling fans. But apparently this was what the younger people wanted these days. Søren sighed. “The younger people?” When had he begun to call them that? Of course the majority of the eighty men and women who worked in the Danish Security and Intelligence Service’s counterterrorism branch
were
younger than him, but still—“the younger people”? He was going to
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