Approximately a thousand kilometres from St Petersburg, Flemming Kragh read yesterday’s report from his surveillance team Gamma 7. Nothing of genuine interest yesterday either, he thought and grabbed the phone, dialling a number he had by now memorised.
‘It’s Flemming Kragh. There’s still nothing significant, but if anything should arise over the day, I’ll let you know.’
Hearing a string of fierce curses from the other end of the line, he hung the receiver up tiredly. I’d like to know what the Prime Minister is so desperate to uncover that he’s decided to do it this way. For a moment, he just sat staring vacantly into space. He then gathered the documents on his desk, locked them in the steel safe, turned off the lights, and left the room. Another boring night shift. As he walked down the corridor, he hardly thought any of this was of fundamental importance to Denmark. His assumption was way off the mark; he was unaware that he was focusing on the wrong things. For the Prime Minister, it was paramount to be on top of this situation. That, however, did not justify the illegal wiretap.