Holger drove up to the gate, rolled the window down and presented his military identity card. The guard stepped closer, and when he realised he was facing an officer, he stepped back smartly and presented his rifle. The Royal Life Guards is one of the few places in modern society where manners still prevail, thought Holger, smilingly, as he parked the black Audi Cabriolet.
Holger enjoyed visiting the guards’ barracks. It embodied many of the values he had learned to appreciate as a soldier. Everywhere you looked, it was clean and orderly, and in the entrance hall, old military drums, bearskin hats and polished cuirasses were displayed as a subtle reminder of the regiment’s centuries-long history and traditions. It must fill the Commanding Officer of the regiment with pride every day when he arrives, Holger thought as he scaled the stairs to the first floor and walked down the narrow corridor leading to the mess hall. He stopped briefly to glance at the portrait collection outside the regimental museum. Black-and-white photos of all officers of the regiment. Holger located the section with his year group and was again taken aback by how young and inexperienced he looked; a young Lieutenant straight out of 109officers’ academy. The small photo starkly contrasted his recollection of how he had felt. As Holger neared the officers’ mess, he could see that the turnout would be considerable. He hardly knew any of the young officers, which made him realise that it had been ages since he had last been to one of these events.
The atmosphere was already high-spirited as he walked through the door. The hubbub was a testimony of the majority having attended the pre-talk dinner. Everything is on an even keel, he thought and pushed through the crowd towards the section of the mess hall where he was to give his talk. He had only made a couple of metres when he felt a large hand grab his shoulder.
‘Holger! It’s been too long, old boy!’
It was Gunnar Jørgensen, the curator of the museum and one of the regulars at the association events. Holger gave a feeble smile and squirmed free, gesticulating through the noisy crowd of young officers to indicate that he needed to prepare. The attendees clearly enjoyed the reunion with old colleagues and friends. As he concentrated on his notes, the crowd faded into a jovial backdrop, until the association’s chairman called for order.
Holger’s talk spellbound the crowd – his current knowledge was spiced up with a story about the assassination, in broad daylight, of the editor of an American business magazine in Moscow.
He soon found himself talking energetically and glanced around the room. They’re eating it raw, he thought and continued until the chairman’s discreet nod told him that it was time to break.
‘Today, we are presented with a clear choice: either we include Russia in peace-making as well as peacekeeping operations, or we continue the integration of the Baltic states into NATO at our peril. Without Russian involvement at all, it will be perilous for 110future stability in our part of the world. We thus have to accept that Russia doesn’t always have the same level of control over its soldiers as we are used to, which is exactly what we saw in the latest special operation incident in Afghanistan. Russia is economically and socially at risk of collapse, and therefore we must work together with anyone who can keep anarchy in Russia at bay. Part two will address the worst-case scenario involving ultra-nationalistic and criminal groups. Let’s take a ten minute break,’ Holger concluded cheerfully.
He waited for the audience to get up and then made a beeline for the adjacent room, where he headed to a table in the far corner and poured himself a cold Tuborg. A group of his old fellow officers cornered him, and soon they were reminiscing about the old days. The same old stories they had told over and over. Holger missed this predictable, safe bonding amongst friends in his day-to-day life and had no problem being the centre of attention. The defence budget cuts meant that many of the others had been out of uniform for a long time, and for them, Holger’s stories of his latest training with the Jaeger Corps were as welcome as rain to a dry riverbed. The conversation rolled back and forth, and soon the press conference in Vedbæk and the mission of DANSOF in Afghanistan was front and centre. From the corner of his eye, Holger saw Gunnar Jørgensen making his way through the crowd waving a couple of cigars. It was clear that he wanted to talk to Holger, and Holger stood to one side as he moistened the cigar he had accepted. All of a sudden, another man joined and offered him a light. Holger tilted his head while puffing at the cigar, shifting his right eye to avoid the smoke. He tried desperately to remember who the man was, and it irritated him that he couldn’t place 111him. Holger prided himself on recalling people’s names. There was something familiar about the man, but he just couldn’t be found in the archive of Holger’s brain.
‘Lars Danielson, FE,’ the man said, extending his hand.
Holger gave it a firm squeeze and nodded thoughtfully as his mind worked overtime to recall the context in which he had previously met Lars Danielson. Was it when I worked part-time at FE during law school? Lars Danielson stood silently. Holger turned towards his old mates and tried to get his mind back on track, but he simply could not.
‘Interesting situation in Afghanistan,’ said Carl Jessen, who had just entered the debate.
Holger knew that he was a landowner from South Zealand, but apart from that, Holger knew him only vaguely. He was from an older year group, and they had only met once, on an exercise on Zealand. Carl Jessen had allowed the soldiers to use the grounds of his estate. He was old school and was all about God, King and Country. An archetypal reserve officer from the Royal Life Guards. Politically conservative and either landowner or lawyer – like most, thought Holger, smiling at his sweeping generalisation.
‘Are you often in Russia?’ Lars Danielson asked suddenly.
The unexpected question, and the abrupt change of subject, surprised Holger to the extent that a mouthful of beer went down the wrong pipe. Coughing, he tried to buy himself some time.
‘I go there several times a year. On behalf of some of my clients who have set themselves up in Russia, you know – Dandy, Danfoss and Rockwool. Sort of further education in Russian.’
‘A good excuse to keep up to date with the intelligence scene, too, right?’ Lars Danielson cut in.112
‘My tasks are no longer intelligence-related, but I still have good contacts there and keep myself informed. People involved with human rights groups and other like-minded organisations. I believe I’m still amongst the best when it comes to having an ear to the ground,’ Holger said cautiously. He felt that the noise in the room had become muted.
‘That sounds like more than just average assets,’ Danielson noted with a mischievous grin.
Holger ignored the remark, and feeling himself blushing, he tried to suppress it; he noted he had Lars Danielson’s undivided attention. ‘One is a young woman who is part of one of the most organised groups. It’s called the Russian Documentation Centre. They are about to map out the political ambitions of the Russian underworld. They have contacts with direct access to criminal networks and nationalistic groups. Sometimes, they have to play them off against each other to get street cred, so they’re leading a pretty dangerous existence. Exciting, though. Almost a double life. Following their activities has become something of a hobby of mine,’ Holger continued.
It was apparent that Lars Danielson was more than interested in his Russian contacts as he leaned closer to Holger:
‘Then we know who to call about the next secret mission,’ Lars Danielson whispered.
‘Ha, ha. My days are long gone. I make too much money and live too comfortably.’ Holger patted his stomach then continued with a more serious demeanour: ‘But if Russia isn’t sorted, one way or the other, it could be as dangerous as before the wall came down. Nuclear proliferation, drugs, nationalism. You name it. It’s 113a poisonous cocktail. It’s almost a national duty for FE to sort things out over there.’
The others in the group nodded as if they understood what he had just said; they were saved by the bell, and the chairman tapping his watch:
‘Five minutes then back to your seats. There’s beer on tap and late supper once we’re done.’ He looked at Holger. ‘Forty-five minutes to wrap it up. Is that all right?’
As people began to drift back to their seats, Lars Danielson caught Holger’s eye:
‘What do you know about the Black Widows and Chechen terrorist activities in Russia?’
Holger was no longer in doubt; this was more than just polite interest.
‘The Black Widows,’ Holger answered thoughtfully and paused for effect before continuing: ‘They’re a group of female Chechens under the command of the Chechen terrorist Shamil Basayev. They are suicide bombers bound by a hatred of Russians. Their husbands have been killed by Russian occupation troops in Chechnya, and widows have no rights in that clan-divided, male-dominated society. Some have been disgraced – raped by Russian soldiers – so they’re exiled by Chechen society, and the choice to become a human bomb is not that difficult.’
Holger studied closely the eyes of his examiner, but there was not even a constriction of the pupils.
‘Over the years, the Chechens have been involved in several bombings in Russia, especially in Moscow. Two young Black Widows blew themselves up last year at an outdoor rock concert at 114Tusjino Airport on the outskirts of the city. Nineteen-year-old Sulikahn Elikhadjieva and twenty-six-year-old Sinaida Alijeva. They took fourteen people with them to their deaths and wounded more than forty-five,’ Holger continued, glancing at Carl Jessen’s watch as he turned to face Lars Danielson:
‘I’d better get going with the second half.’