CHAPTER 37
Questioning the witness Bertil Hampel-Koch turned out to be one of the more remarkable experiences of the Countess’s career.
The conversation was arranged hurriedly and took place in Kastrup Airport, where the director could spare an hour before he had to board his flight to Brussels. The Countess would clearly have preferred to wait until Monday for the interview, but that was impossible. The meeting was Part One of Helmer Hammer’s carefully outlined plan to deflect the searchlights of the Danish press from Hampel-Koch’s visit to Greenland in 1983. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a very small part of the Danish press, as only two journalists had shown interest until now, but that was evidently enough for the under secretary. The second phase of the two-stage rocket would be fired according to plan at Simonsen’s press conference at five o’clock.
In the car en route, on the Øresund highway, the Countess thought that she could not remember her boss ever before having voluntarily called a press conference, if you could characterise his participation in Helmer Hammer’s project as voluntary. She also thought about what in the world she would question Bertil Hampel-Koch about, unless their chat became purely pro forma, which on the other hand she hoped it would not, for that would force her to fabricate for the journalists. So preferably an interview that had no purpose related to the investigation. And, if it were up to her, without too much openness between the two of them that could easily turn awkward. It would be more like half an hour of mutually agreed play-acting.
She turned off the highway and drove slowly into the parking area, curious to know whether the director had as much control of the logistics as his secretary maintained while instructing the Countess simply to park her car and then she would be contacted. The airport area was under greater than average surveillance, and hidden eyes presumably already followed her car on various monitors. An unpleasant thought. She rotated the rear-view mirror and quickly ran a brush through her hair.
Inattention made her brake a little too hard when a young woman suddenly materialised out of nowhere in her path. The woman looked like a spread from a teen magazine; with her whitened smile and designer clothes, she posed for a few seconds in front of the car, smiling from ear-ring to ear-ring to show her joy at nearly being run over. Then she got in on the passenger side and introduced herself fervently by her first name. Beate, she said. The Countess decided to kill her as soon as she got the chance.
On Beate’s instruction they drove around the terminal buildings and through a gate where the guard waved them on, before they stopped by one of the pavilions in the domestic area. Beate strode ahead, clip-clopping with her boot heels the final stretch into the building and over to a door, which was indicated with a wide smile, after which Beate clip-clopped off. The Countess knocked and opened the door.
Inside it looked like an inexpensive but pleasant hotel room. It was small, with more furniture than its size justified. Along one wall was a bed and parallel to it an oblong table with a chair set at either end. An armoire, hand basin and TV were also squeezed in. The walls were painted pale blue and were bare apart from two framed pictures of almost identical sunsets, decorative and indifferent, one over the table, the other the bed. Bertil Hampel-Koch was sitting in the chair farthest away, facing her. He closed his laptop, stood up and edged around the furniture to receive her. The Countess had only met him once before, and then he had behaved repellently, but it quickly became clear to her that this was not an approach he intended to repeat. His welcome was friendly, his posture open and positive.
The Countess set her handbag down on the bed, while Hampel-Koch edged back to his chair. They sat down at the table and looked awkwardly at each other.
She had tried her best to prepare for the start of their meeting in particular, and he had obviously done the same. He said, “I hope we can get this over in an hour, otherwise I would very much like to know now so I can arrange a later departure. But I would prefer to avoid that if possible.”
“An hour is fine.”
She wanted to say more than enough, but thought better of it.
“Thanks, I’m happy about that. I ordered coffee, but I think they’ve forgotten me.”
“That’s no problem, I’ll manage without.”
He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, focused on her and then said with emphasis, “I am sincerely sorry about all this mess, which I can only blame on myself. The arrangement that your boss should regularly brief me about your investigation was my idea. My bad idea, unfortunately. I thought I could combine a personal interest in that way with a… non-personal one. That was stupid, almost counter-productive. Someone in my ministry has wondered about my role and put a couple of journalists on my trail. At least, I suppose it must have happened that way. I don’t know who tipped off the press, presumably personal enemies of mine, but that doesn’t matter. In any event, I ought to have foreseen there’d be fall-out. Besides, I should have told the police long ago about my stay at the Søndre Strømfjord base in the summer of 1983, which to put it mildly I have had ample opportunity to do. But I didn’t, which has made a lot of extra work for me now. You’ll have to excuse that, and please pass on my apology.”
The Countess took note of this and appreciated his honesty, which seemed genuine enough. On the other hand she immediately noticed his wildly fluctuating tone of voice and it struck her that he was just as uneasy about their meeting as she was, a fact that did not make the situation any less awkward. She started with a question based purely on curiosity.
“How do you know that one of your own employees tipped off the press, as you put it? Couldn’t the source be the police? It would definitely not be the first time.”
He nodded, as if to acknowledge her point, and then interjected, “The journalists in question have acquired a picture of me as a thirty year old, and it is a copy of a photograph in my personnel file that can be found on our intranet, if you have access. There are other things too that point to an inside source, though I can’t be certain. Does that have any significance?”
“No, probably not. Let’s get started, shall we? Unfortunately I forgot my Dictaphone, so I’m just going to take a few notes, if that’s acceptable?”
She pointed to the pad in front of her, and he nodded.
“In June 1983 you travelled to Greenland in connection with your participation later that year with the Sirius sled patrol. Your trip was to Station North in Northeast Greenland, and en route you had a stopover at the American military base in Søndre Strømfjord. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You spent four days, more precisely from Thursday, July the seventh to Sunday, July the tenth, at Søndre Strømfjord, while you waited for good weather so you could continue.”
“Yes, that’s right too. The weather can be pretty rough that far north, even in the summer. Going home I flew by way of Mestervig on the east coast, and there were no problems.”
That was the first hurdle. Now she had heard about the trip directly from the source and could pass that on later with a reasonably clear conscience. That Søndre Strømfjord was not the only stopover on his trip to Station North, and the actual reason for why they were sitting here, remained unsaid. She wrote meticulously on her pad. When she was finished, she said, “Did you make your trip under the name Steen Hansen?”
“Yes, I did.”