Holger left the High Court through the wrought-iron gates leading to Bredgade and, on impulse, headed for the old Citadel of Copenhagen, Kastellet, on Esplanaden. Not exactly a beeline to his office, but he loved the walk when the weather was good. It reminded him of his student days working for FE in his spare time. No one ever called the Danish Defence Intelligence Service by its full name. Maybe Forsvarets Efterretningstjeneste, even to Danes, is too much of a jawbreaker, he thought to himself and let a smile pull at the corners of his lips. When leaving the Special Forces, he had wanted to maintain some kind of connection. As he had always been good with languages, he had applied for the language training that would lead to a position as a reservist and an officer rank. The Russian language had been an exciting challenge, and he vividly remembered the days at the Defence Language College at Svanemøllens Barracks.
It had been a great time; tough, though. Not physically demanding as at the Jaeger Corps, but long hours were spent studying Russia’s culture and history, in addition to the intellectually challenging language education. It fascinated him, and the fact that many of the students had been women made it fun. Although Jomfru Ane Gade, the street that had become popular for the restaurants and pubs lining both of its sides (making it one of the 16longest continuous stretches of restaurants and bars in Denmark) had made him love his stay in northern Jutland, he’d learned that Copenhagen had so much more to offer in every department. The language education had been spiced up by training as an interrogation officer, opening an entirely new dimension to his interaction with other people. Mastery of the ability to bring a prisoner of war to a point where he would relinquish all the information that was needed was a unique challenge. It was a straight, psychological game of chess with fear and stress as pawns, where the prisoner’s imaginations of what was to come was often his worst enemy. Good interrogation required equal measures of talent and skill, as information had to be procured quickly, but by means that kept the interrogation within all international conventions.
At graduation, Holger had been promoted to Second Lieutenant – a marker in his career in the reserves, which later led to his promotion to the rank of Captain. It also meant he was transferred to the Royal Guards for personnel admin reasons. Hello to the iconic old yellow buildings of the Sandholm barracks north of Copenhagen, and goodbye to his beloved burgundy beret. However, the job at FE had been perfect while he was at university, well-paid and with flexible working hours. He had been assigned to the Russian Department as an analyst. His Special Forces background had brought him extra professional recognition, and he was frequently asked to prepare briefing notes for politicians and senior military figures from Denmark and overseas.
Holger turned the corner of Bredgade and Esplanaden and crossed the street to Churchill Park, stopping for a moment at the statue of Anders Lassen. To this day, he is one of the most famous soldiers in British military service. He had been awarded 17the Victoria Cross – Britain’s highest military decoration – for his actions in the British Special Forces Units during the Second World War. Holger loved the way all things British were steeped in tradition. The fact that every Victoria Cross ever awarded was said to be struck from the gunmetal of a canon seized during the Crimean War back in the 1850s was quite remarkable, he thought and headed off towards the ice cream kiosk at the park’s eastern corner.
‘Three scoops in the biggest cone you’ve got,’ he said with a voice full of anticipation, and stuck his hand in his pocket for a 20-kroner coin.
The rigours of his week in Aalborg and his successful performance in court today warranted a treat. He knew sweets did nothing good for his body, and Holger wanted to be fit. However, sweets had crept in as a counterweight to the trials of everyday life. But on a spring day like today, Holger didn’t even need an excuse. The divorce from Susanne had resulted in long hours, immersing himself in work. Food was rarely prioritised, and he resorted to easy solutions. A pizza or ready meal and crashing on the sofa in front of the late-night news on the telly. The unhealthy way of living had morphed into a self-righteous illusion that he was entitled to comfort food to offset his hardworking days. Only the weekends were different. Then he had Louise. He tried to push work and clients to one side and give her as much quality time as he could cram into the two days. And she would not eat as unhealthily as he did. Louise made him truly feel a father, though he was only her part-time father. Even when Susanne had met someone new, Louise continued to call Holger ‘Dad’.
As the years went by, she became better and better at showing him that she was proud of him. And as she grew older, he found it 18easier to tell her about his time in the Special Forces. To feel that he was exceptional again and that she was looking up to him. Far too often, people he encountered were not particularly impressed, which irritated him immensely. They simply did not know what he was on about when he, on rare occasions, let them know that he was a Jaeger. But Louise understood. She got his pride, and Holger put her on a pedestal. She was his flesh and blood, and she had the unconditional trust a child has, and an unwavering belief in his infallibility.
Holger’s thoughts evaporated when he was handed his ice cream. Greedily, he licked the whipped cream that trickled down his finger as he turned into Amaliegade. When he reached the octagonal courtyard of the Amalienborg Palace, he instinctively looked up towards the royal standard flying from Queen Margrethe’s residence. The tourists wanting to have a selfie with the guardsmen made him smile. As he passed, a Japanese couple asked him to photograph them next to a sentry box with a guardsman wearing a bearskin.
‘Sure, smile,’ Holger said and took some pictures. ‘More?’ he said, scoffing the rest of his cone. ‘The standard is flying because the Queen is at home,’ he explained and licked ice cream off his thumb as he returned the camera.
Holger walked on, stopping briefly in the shade of the colonnade to wipe perspiration from his brow. The stroll in the humid air had made him break into a sweat, and he loosened his tie. I must get fitter. He’d been put through his paces at the Special Forces, but one week could not compensate for the years of not training. It only makes you damn sore. He knew that, but even worse, he knew he was overweight. And that annoyed him profoundly. The price 19you pay for too many hours behind a desk. And the giant ice cream cone has not helped balance the books. Well, I’ll start training again on Monday, he thought, in an attempt to convince himself. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, lit it joyously, and continued in high spirits – down Amaliegade towards Sankt Annæ Square. When he arrived at the elegant entrance to the law offices, he stopped to take a good long look at the brass sign:
He graduated from university in January 1990 and found employment as a trainee lawyer with a small practice in Nyhavn. His law degree needed to be better if he was to get a job with one of the larger Copenhagen law firms. But that had not kept him down. Over the years, it had become clear to him that he would not stay with the small firm once he passed the bar exam. When he got his certificate, his mind was already made up, and he opened his own law firm in Amaliegade. It was a risky move. Professionally, as well as financially. For many months, he’d been a regular guest at his parents’ house around dinner time. After a couple of years, he got his first partner: Jørgen Hannemann, a senior lawyer with the right of audience before the High Court. It had been a joint decision to take on a trainee. It wasn’t an extensive practice, but most Danish law firms consisted of three lawyers, so Holger was perfectly content. From the outset, Hannemann had made it clear that he wanted to wind down and pass on his clients to Holger, and the partnership had therefore been a shortcut to building his own business. Hannemann had indeed retired some years ago, but he had allowed Holger to keep the name when he’d bought the old lawyer out of the practice.20
Things started happening for Holger from then on, and the business had steadily grown. Even though more partners have joined over the years, it’s still my name on the door, he thought as he entered reception with a smile. He noted approvingly that the newly purchased le Corbusier armchairs had been installed in the front office. The clients waiting appeared to enjoy the leather chairs and the classical office design. The practice was doing well, and the designer chairs were a sign of success. Holger was aiming to make his mark as a star on the Copenhagen legal scene. The criminal case today would be his last. He still loved court cases, but it took too much of his time, and corporate work at an hourly rate was far more lucrative and satisfactory. It had been a stroke of good fortune that so many colleagues in the legal community had been actively involved in those transactions that became part of the asset-stripping scandal. Several corporate clients had been prompted to look for new advisors, and he understood how to make the most of this situation. His extensive network had opened doors in the highest places. The title of officer in the Royal Danish Life Guards reserves had kicked in many a door.
‘So, how did it go at the High Court?’ Holger’s middle-aged and self-described ‘hefty’ secretary asked, smilingly. She put that day’s mail and phone messages on his desk, taking his excellent mood as answer to her question.
‘The Officers Association have also called a couple of times. I think they want you to give a talk on your experience as a Russian language officer – and something about the fallout from Russia’s transition to a market economy. Remind me again, how did you find time to learn that language? In breaks between parachute jumps?’21
‘My oral argument went swimmingly. I sensed from the presiding judge that I did quite well, considering the odds. Thank God I’m only there when I’ve got my black robe on. I’d hate to be a defendant in one of those cases. It’s a political witch-hunt that’s swept the country like a tornado. My client is really fighting a lost battle. He’s been as good as convicted by the press from the outset. But for me, it’s just a case like any other. Please make a note that the court convenes again tomorrow at 9 a.m.’
Before leaving the office, the secretary pointed to the rising piles of case files on the desk. That look leaves no doubt that they must be cleared today. Holger drew a tired smile as he removed his jacket and landed heavily in the swivel chair.