The clock had just passed 11 p.m., and turnover at the bar was evidence that, for many, it was payday. It was a good night at Mrs Jensen’s: the beginning of a new month was always a cause for celebrations in Jomfru Ane Gade. The street had one of Denmark’s most extended continuous stretches of restaurants and bars, and they were all gearing up for yet another big evening. The weather had been glorious the past week, and the girls had dressed accordingly: short skirts and low-cut shirts – provocative, but not so much so that they would deprive the young men of fantasies of what could be conquered. And in a couple of hours, such fantasies would provoke the first rash of drunken brawls to break out. Plain-clothed officers patrolling the area would see that the night stayed calm. In the cold light of dawn, the truth in the proverb expectation is the root of all heartaches would become clear, and many of the night’s princesses would fade into obscurity again.
In short, it was business as usual this July night in Aalborg.
For Kaare’s team, however, there was nothing usual about this Friday. It had been their last day at work in a long time: they had earned extensive leave after their deployment to Afghanistan. Earlier that day, they had packed their gear in the patrol room, checked 126out with the squadron Sergeant Major and together they had left the courtyard of the Choir – as the Jaegers called the Jaeger Corps. This evening they were gathered with their wives and girlfriends to celebrate their homecoming. There was no holding back. The operators had, from the word go, treated this as their last night on the town, although that was far from the case. They just would not be living together in the many weeks to come. The waiters had already noticed that the group on the table in the corner was loose with their cash. That this was down to the group having recently completed a dangerous mission without casualties, rather than a mere payday, made no difference to the service. The group created an atmosphere, and that was all that mattered.
‘Cheers to the Victory Kiss!’ Mads Andersen cheered as he pouted at Ulla.
They collapsed in laughter; Johan held his beer aloft, and everyone clinked glasses, as musketeers. Aalborg was a small town, and although they would invariably run into each other during their leave, they would, for many months, not need to trust each other with their lives. The sharing of life and death moments, far from the safety of Denmark’s shores, was not something you could just shake off. Emotions were well and truly accelerated by the many pints. The team members had not had a drink in over three months, and the mood was both sentimental and exuberant. In a good way.
‘Oh, shut up, Mads, you’re just jealous. Some get it on the mouth, others get it here,’ Ulla said, pointing at her cheek.
Mads turned her head and kissed her full on the lips. Kaare just smiled, emptied his glass and gave the group a look like a father might give his boisterous children. They were, after all, his ‘boys’, 127and even if they were not in uniform tonight, he still felt responsible for their wellbeing. He shook his head, pushed back his chair, and signalled that he would get another round.
‘Cheat, cheat! Mads is buying the next round,’ Johan shouted, gesturing for Kaare to sit down while he hailed the waiter and held up ten fingers.
‘I need to clear tables outside, so it’s self-service at the bar,’ the waiter shouted over the banter, balancing a tray of glasses through the room.
‘I’m paying, Mads, as penance for the Victory Kiss. But you’ll go get them,’ Kaare blared loudly across the table, vainly attempting to hide his slurred voice.
Kaare sprang to his feet, hoping to mask his addled reflexes with a show of action, and nearly tripped over his chair as he headed to the bar to pay. Oops; the beer is hitting me hard. He glanced at the others. Satisfied that they were at least as drunk as he was and all far too engrossed in conversation to notice his intoxication, he straightened his shirt. All of them except Ulla that is. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t used to this amount of beer, and when his eyes met hers, he read her thoughts: I know that you’re drunk, but tonight is your night. She blew him a kiss and turned back to the group.
‘I don’t know about you, but I think I’ll let the boys get drunk. They’ll stop making sense, soon. Does anyone want to share a cab?’ she said, addressing the three other girls with a wink.
The girls nodded and rose. They had attended countless Jaeger parties and well knew that the protestations that followed were far from sincere. The boys have fun in a different way when they’re together and we aren’t there, Ulla thought and sauntered to the bar, 128wrapping an arm around Kaare as she kissed his neck. It was her way of showing him that she was prepared to give their relationship another chance. Kaare, however, was too drunk to appreciate her attempts at intimacy; slightly annoyed, Ulla kissed him, coldly, goodbye. He didn’t even ask why I was leaving early. Ulla shook off her irritation and caught herself giggling at a group of patrons howling loudly to Bobby McFerrin’s ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’.
‘I’ve just ordered another round,’ Kaare yelled after her, but he was unable to make himself heard above the chorus.
Halfway to the door, Ulla turned: ‘Don’t be too late, please,’ she said, but her words were overpowered by the noise; she sent him a smile and continued on her way.
‘I can’t bloody hear what you’re saying,’ Kaare murmured and turned towards the guy behind the bar extending a card machine at him.
The girls walked to the corner of Jomfru Ane Gade and hailed several taxis. The town’s pulse was quickening in earnest, and on the other side of the street, the casino at the Limfjord Hotel was getting into gear. In dimmed lighting, the boorish interior looked almost fashionable to the guests – although fashion had no place at the roulette table. Ulla was the last to get into a cab, and she was deep in thought, organising everything she and Kaare had on the following day’s agenda. As she pulled the taxi door shut, she did not notice the black Toyota Hi-Ace mini-van parked outside the hotel.
The Hi-Ace’s lights were off, and only the red glow of a cigarette gave Shamil and his brothers away. For several hours the three of them had kept an eye on Jomfru Ane Gade from the car. Thoughts of what was to come made the wait bearable to Shamil. He lit 129another cigarette from the one he’d smoked almost to the butt. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift to one of the many successful operations in his past, prior to the fateful mission in Afghanistan. It had been another suicide mission undertaken by the Black Widows under expert supervision from his preferred bombmaker, Arbi Mushakhojeva. He was a young man from Ingushetia, who had explosives experience from his time with the Russian military engineers. Yet another young man able to seize on a business opportunity due to the knowledge the Russians had given him. On this occasion, he had carefully taught the young woman and helped her place the metal stomach plate beneath the MON-50 landmine taped to her waist.
The plate would deflect the explosives. ‘Then the shrapnel and debris will be directed away from your body and into the street, understood?’ Arbi Mushakhojeva had told her in a voice instilling confidence. Shamil could almost see Mushakhojeva’s boyish smile as he instructed the young women. He made it sound so natural, somehow. Uncomplicated. Clean. The televised images from Strastnoi Boulevard in central Moscow the following day had, however, spoken their own language. The woman’s body parts had been scattered across asphalt, splattered with the blood and limbs of customers of the famous Cafe Maxima.
From a PR point of view, it had been a successful operation. And his contact in the FSB had paid handsomely for the attack, which once again provided an opportunity to legitimise the security service’s conduct against non-Russians. The perversity in his championing of Chechnya’s nationalistic struggle, while at the same time aiding the Russian president’s security efforts to combat the nationalist wave in Chechnya, had, over time, sat with him as a 130logical, economic element of his freedom fight. After his fledgling attempts to finance his growing private army through random kidnappings, the Saudi Arabian money had subsequently secured his ambitions – and secured a lifestyle based on material values. The Saudi relief organisations such as the Muslim Brotherhood and the Islamic Relief Organisation had provided a shortcut to volunteers willing to give their lives for the cause. An almost inexhaustible source of desperately impoverished, scarcely educated Muslims. The flip side of the coin was that he ensured the financial stability of their bereaved families. This business model was, indirectly, the reason for his co-operation with Mother Russia. Andrej Nitchenko’s organisation could satisfy far more than the ambitions of his FSB contacts. Andrej Nitchenko could guarantee to establish business alliances in every corner of the Russian apparatus of power. My ambitions have cost my brother’s life. The thought ignited rage inside him, once again. It was time to revenge the price his brother had paid. All because that busybody of a Danish soldier had interfered in Afghanistan. Shamil turned in his seat and tapped on the partition separating him from the car’s cargo hold.
‘The wife has left the premises; now all we have to do is wait!’ he said in a raspy voice, dragging on the cigarette.
It’s time to act, he thought and rolled down the window, threw away the smouldering butt and adjusted his black sheepskin vest as he rolled the window back up. Finally, I’ll have my revenge. He relished the smoke that lingered in his lungs.