by David Hewson
‘Bloody hell,’ said a disgruntled voice inside. ‘This really takes the biscuit. If you want to talk to me, Buch, call my secretary. I’m enjoying a private moment if you please.’
‘The medical report about the extra hand was faxed in August,’ Buch said, squinting beneath the door. ‘But the revised report didn’t arrive until October!’
‘Is that so?’ Krabbe sighed.
Buch pushed the yellow folder beneath the door.
‘So you see the implication?’ he said, thrusting the documents towards the hidden Krabbe. ‘First there’s one report suggesting civilians have been murdered.’
A hand came down from above and took the folder.
‘What a pathetic attempt to cling to office!’
Buch got up, wondered how hard it would be to force the door open.
‘This is nothing of the kind. All I want is the truth and so do you. You see what I mean? In spite of the initial report nobody did anything for two months. Two whole months!’
His hand was banging on the door. Buch regretted that but he was getting mad again.
‘There was no need for any urgency, was there?’ Krabbe called. ‘It was the hand of the bomber.’
Before Buch could reply the door opened and the man inside walked out, marching for the sink.
‘Why did no one say anything in all that time?’ Buch asked. ‘What were they up to?’
He followed, watched Krabbe wash his hands in a very precise and punctilious fashion, plenty of soap and hot water.
‘When the first report arrived Grue Eriksen was proposing additional funding to get more troops in Afghanistan.’ Buch jabbed at the papers in Krabbe’s hands. ‘Here and here. See for yourself. The money was promptly approved when the Folketinget came back from recess in October.’
Krabbe was reading the sheets in front of him.
‘You and your party voted for that,’ Buch went on. ‘So did I. Would we have been so keen if we’d known our troops had been accused of a civilian massacre?’
‘This proves nothing. It’s just speculation.’ Krabbe passed the folder back to Buch. ‘I can’t believe Grue Eriksen would manipulate things—’
‘That’s what happened, dammit! See for yourself.’
Krabbe looked at his hands and thrust them under the dryer.
‘Go ahead and push for a stricter anti-terror package if you like. But you’ll be picking on an innocent party. Those pathetic immigrants didn’t kill our people. It was someone—’
‘Who?’ Krabbe asked.
‘I don’t know. Someone closer to home. I’m asking for your help. I think—’
‘We’ve worked so hard for this . . .’
‘Krabbe!’ Buch’s voice was high and hard. ‘Let’s be candid. What you believe in mostly I abhor. You feel the same about me I’m sure. But this I know . . .’ His fat forefinger waved in Krabbe’s narrow pale face. ‘You don’t like being lied to. And you don’t like being used.’
Buch took the yellow folder and waved it in front of him.
‘There,’ he said. ‘We’ve something in common. Now the question is . . .’
Krabbe was listening intently.
‘What are we going to do about it?’
The farewell ceremony for the new detachment was over. Torsten Jarnvig stood outside the Ryvangen Barracks hall watching the men and their families saying goodbye. Søgaard was there too.
‘I think they’re going off in a good mood,’ he said as Jarnvig approached.
‘You never told me we’d got radio traffic five days before Raben started shrieking.’ Jarnvig threw the documents on the bonnet of Søgaard’s G-Wagen. ‘I’ve been through every last one of the traffic logs. I saw this . . .’
He was still mad. The bitter look on Søgaard’s face didn’t help.
‘What?’ he asked.
Jarnvig slammed his hand on the papers.
‘We got a message. August, two years ago. When I was in Kabul.’
Søgaard picked up the logs.
‘Five days before the incident.’
‘So you said,’ Søgaard muttered. He flicked through the pages.
‘It was from a special forces unit. No ID in the records. No names.’
Søgaard shook his head.
‘I don’t understand. What are you implying?’
‘Implying?’ Jarnvig bellowed. ‘It’s here in black and white. We had a unit operating just thirty kilometres from the village where Raben’s squad ended up.’
‘I never saw any of this.’
He put the papers back on the bonnet.
‘You were officer in command in my absence. Every message comes through the office—’
‘I’m telling you. I never saw it.’
Jarnvig’s fist pummelled the vehicle.
‘It’s in the file, Søgaard. Even if you were half asleep on duty, which I doubt, you investigated Raben’s claims. He said someone from special forces was in the vicinity. We didn’t believe him because you . . .’ Jarnvig’s hand went out. ‘You told us no one was there.’
Nothing. Not a word.
‘You said they were seeing ghosts.’
‘They were. This doesn’t prove he wasn’t lying.’
‘It proves he could be right! And you never mentioned it.’ Jarnvig took a step closer to the tall precise man in the neat dress uniform. ‘Why was that? Come on. Out with it.’
‘I’ve no knowledge of this. I never saw the message. I never knew special forces were in the area.’
‘It’s here!’ Jarnvig roared, waving the papers in his face.
‘If there’s an official complaint being filed I’d like to see the details. I want Operational Command informed. General Arild’s team was involved in the investigation too.’
Jarnvig stared at him, waited.
‘Look,’ Søgaard pleaded. ‘I don’t have time for this now. I’ve got to go to the airport. We’re due to fly in five hours.’
‘You’re going nowhere. I’m suspending you from duty as of now. I’ve got someone to take your place on that plane. You’re confined to barracks until I know what the hell went on there.’
‘I’m due in Helmand!’ Søgaard shouted.
‘Not this time,’ Jarnvig told him. ‘You’re staying here.’
Forty minutes later, after eating supper with a silent Louise and a tired Jonas, Jarnvig retreated to his office. Jan Arild was waiting for him.
Jarnvig tried to smile at him. It was obvious what had happened. Søgaard had been on the phone.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he said, taking a seat opposite the general. ‘I was about to call you.’
‘You’ve been unreachable all day, Torsten,’ Arild said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.
‘I was checking out the hunting,’ Jarnvig lied. ‘We ought to pick up on that again. Get out of these uniforms once in a while.’
‘I told you,’ Arild said with a scowl. ‘I don’t have time for that any more. Not your kind anyway.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Not really. Those days are long gone. I went somewhere, Torsten. You just . . .’ He looked round the little office. ‘You just served, didn’t you?’
‘Raben could have been right,’ Jarnvig said, ignoring the taunt. ‘There was radio contact with a Danish special forces unit five days before his squad was attacked.’
Arild, in his green uniform, cap on the desk, ginger hair perfectly combed, looked bored.
‘We must tell the police,’ Jarnvig said.
‘Aren’t we putting up with enough shit from them already? Why invite their attention any more?’
‘Because Raben could be telling the truth!’
‘The man’s mad,’ Arild declared. ‘A shame. He was a good soldier once, or so I gather. We’re the army. We don’t need civilians to come and tell us what to do. I don’t understand why this concerns you so much.’
‘It’s possible Søgaard withheld information. Covered up what went on. I was in Kabul at the time
. He was in sole command. He says he never saw the radio traffic. That can’t be true. It came across my desk every single day.’
‘That’s a very serious accusation.’
‘I know.’
‘And you’re right,’ Arild agreed. ‘Something is amiss.’ He stared at Jarnvig. ‘But it isn’t Søgaard, is it?’
Torsten Jarnvig looked at Arild’s smiling face and knew this was going wrong.
‘You’re a rotten liar,’ the general said with a laugh. ‘Always were. Let me prove it. Look me in the face and tell me. Did you help Raben escape PET the night of the ball?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a simple question. So simple I already know the answer. I told you in confidence he was under surveillance. Yet he still got out of the building. Someone saw you go into a side room. Raben was in there, wasn’t he?’
‘What happened in Helmand is important, Jan. We need to investigate.’
‘Don’t use my name, Colonel. Twenty years ago that might have worked. Not now.’
Arild picked up his cap.
‘You’re a small man. With limited ideas and meagre ambitions. Dammit!’ Arild’s voice rose in sudden fury. ‘You can’t even lie to save your own skin.’
‘Can’t we leave the personal issues to one side . . . ?’
‘Come on!’ Arild urged. ‘Just answer, will you? Look me in the face and say it. Did you see Raben or not?’
Torsten Jarnvig took off his glasses, stayed silent.
Arild threw back his head and laughed.
Then was serious in an instant.
‘I’ve called the military police. You’ll go with them. Don’t make a fuss.’
‘This . . .’ Jarnvig brandished the documents from Operational Command. ‘. . . will not go away.’
Arild smiled.
‘But it has. And so will you.’
He looked at the down-at-heel office Jarnvig had occupied for the best part of a decade.
‘This place can be Søgaard’s now. It needs a lick of paint if you ask me.’
Lund spent the best part of an hour trying to track down Frederik Holst. It seemed hopeless. Then Brix walked in, something in his hand.
She finished the call, thanked Holst’s father who was playing scared and ignorant again.
‘No one wants to talk about Frederik Holst,’ Lund told Brix. ‘Even his relatives.’
‘Maybe they’ve got good reason. I got through to someone in Operational Command. We just missed him. Holst’s back in Afghanistan. He’s been on home leave in Copenhagen for a month. It seems he was renting a short-term apartment in Islands Brygge, not far from where Grüner died. Maybe he didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Brix showed her a plastic evidence sleeve. A photograph inside.
‘We found this in the rubbish he left when he cleared out.’
An army picture. Soldiers in a brief moment of relaxation. Raben’s team set against the Danish flag, cans of beer in their hands. Happy. Drunk. Sebastian Holst was at the front shouting, arm raised in the air. Behind the rest of them. Myg Poulsen. Lisbeth Thomsen. Grüner. The others.
Combat fatigues. A table full of food and drink. A moment off-duty.
There were cross marks in black felt pen through all the faces except one: Jens Peter Raben.
Lund walked to the desk, checked her calls, her papers. The idea had been nagging her for a while.
‘You can get us on the soldiers’ flight tonight.’ She thought for a moment. ‘If I need my passport I’ll have to go home first.’ Lund looked at him. ‘Will I need my passport? It’s Danish territory, isn’t it? We’ve got jurisdiction.’
Brix was so surprised he couldn’t help but laugh.
‘What the hell are you saying?’
‘We’ve been running round in circles.’ Lund pulled out some files she thought she might need. ‘Frederik Holst saw his brother’s video diary. He sent the camera back. The father confirmed it.’
‘Lund—’
‘Frederik was at the field hospital when they brought in his brother’s body. If he was here we’d be bringing him in for questioning right now. We can’t let it go just because he’s in Helmand . . .’
‘I need to talk to Hedeby. There are avenues to go through. The permission . . .’
It was her turn to laugh.
‘Come on. That’ll take days. We can’t wait on paperwork.’
‘There are procedures.’
‘Don’t give me that.’ She kept her eyes on him, wouldn’t let go. ‘You pulled that information about Holst out of Operational Command when I couldn’t. You know the people to talk to.’
She picked up the files, asked one of the desk officers to check some medical reports.
‘I can’t get you on the army flight,’ Brix told her. ‘It’s too late.’
‘There’s nowhere else left to look.’
‘It’s a war zone!’
She gazed at him and knew it had to be said.
‘If this was Ruth Hedeby’s show I’d be back in Gedser already. I don’t know what you’ve got over her and I don’t care. Just do it, will you?’
He was wavering.
‘You can’t go into Afghanistan on your own.’
‘I know that.’
‘So what . . . ?’ Brix went quiet for a moment. Knew what she was thinking. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘Fix the flights and the paperwork. Leave the rest to me.’
Brix was on the phone straight away. This would happen, she thought. There’d be a brief chance to see the distant, enclosed world of Helmand. Then home, with answers.
The last stamp in her passport was for a holiday in Mallorca with Mark two years before. Her son had moped most of the time. Lund had hated it.
She walked down the black marble corridor, found the interview room, kicked out the uniform man deputed to watch Strange.
When he was gone she sat next to him on the bench seat. Jeans and a T-shirt. Tattoo just visible on his shoulder. Strange looked like the kind of man who could go anywhere at the drop of a hat.
He puffed out his cheeks, sighed, said nothing.
‘My old partner . . . Jan Meyer,’ Lund said. ‘We got to this warehouse.’
Strange stopped staring at the floor, looked at her instead.
‘It was dark. I went inside. I didn’t think there was anyone in the building.’ Lund’s hands wouldn’t keep still. This was so hard to say. ‘Then Meyer came in too. He knew someone was in there with me.’
Strange’s eyes wouldn’t leave her.
‘I shouldn’t have gone in on my own. It was all my fault. We found the man who shot Meyer.’ She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her black and white Faroese jumper for no reason. ‘What good does that do? He’s still stuck in a wheelchair.’
A pause. She didn’t know whether to say it or not.
‘Sometimes I wonder if he wishes he was dead. He looked that way when I saw him in hospital. But—’
‘People can change. Get better,’ Strange said.
‘Sometimes,’ she agreed. ‘Sometimes they’re who they are for ever.’ Another moment of hesitation. ‘Like me.’
He watched her, hands on knees, that odd, calm, angular face interested as usual.
‘I shut myself down. I got that job in Gedser and I told myself . . .’ Her voice was firm and unwavering. ‘If you can’t feel anything then it can’t hurt you. Gedser suited me fine.’
Strange raised an eyebrow.
‘I wanted to stay buried there for ever. If you hadn’t turned up I would have done too.’ She fidgeted a little closer to him, looked into his eyes. ‘Not happy. Not sad. Not anything.’
The eyebrow went down. A ghost of a smile on Strange’s stubbly face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, staring directly into his grey-blue eyes. ‘It’s hard to trust people if you can’t trust yourself sometimes. Do you understand?’
A moment of indecision. It could go any way.
&n
bsp; Then he laughed, that low, self-deprecating chuckle she’d come to like.
‘Yeah,’ Strange said. ‘I always pick the difficult ones. Now what?’
Closeness.
It frightened her. Always would.
‘We have to leave.’
‘Where to?’ Strange looked at his T-shirt and jeans. ‘They didn’t even let me get my jacket when they dragged me in here.’
She slapped his leg, got up.
‘We’ll pick it up along the way. And your passport too.’
Ulrik Strange sat on the bench seat, mouth wide open.
‘Are you coming or not?’ she asked. ‘We’ve a plane to catch.’
One hour later. Kastrup airport. Brix had organized for the scheduled flight to be held for fifteen minutes so they could make it. He walked with them down the gangway. Passed over a folder.
‘There’s Frederik Holst’s personnel details and a warrant for his arrest. Some contact phone numbers in Afghanistan. Here . . .’
A satellite phone in a case with some instructions.
‘This should work anywhere you’re going. If the army give you trouble call me. Strange?’
He had his jacket back, and his swagger.
‘Yeah?’
‘According to your file you speak Pashto.’
Strange laughed.
‘Don’t shoot. Where’s the toilet? Can you get a beer round here? That good enough?’
Brix wasn’t in the mood.
‘You’ve got military experience. Lund hasn’t. I want you to take the lead on the ground.’ The chief looked at her. ‘You hear that? You do what he says.’
Strange laughed again and shook his head.
‘It’s three hours to Istanbul,’ Brix said. ‘The visas and authorities have been sent ahead by fax. When you get to Turkey the army will meet you and put you on board one of their flights to Camp Bastion. Five hours. You’ll be there in the morning our time. Midday theirs. Try to get some sleep.’
‘You haven’t been on an army plane,’ Strange told him.
The door was open. The flight attendant was beckoning them on board.
‘You’re under military control for the duration,’ Brix added. ‘Don’t go wandering off. You’ve got one day there only. You come back the same way. The flights are fixed. You’ll be in Kastrup thirty-six hours from now. Any questions?’
