“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.