Mortensen was the chief of the PET, Denmark’s small but efficient internal security and intelligence service. Officially, it was a branch of the Danish national police and operated under the authority of the Ministry of Justice. Its headquarters was located in an anonymous office north of the Tivoli Gardens. Mortensen’s office was on the top floor. Its furnishings were solid, pale, and Danish. So was Mortensen.

“As you might expect,” Mortensen was saying, “Allon’s death came as a terrible shock to me. I considered him a friend. We worked together on a case a few years back. Things went bad in a house up north. I took care of it for him.”

“I remember.”

“You worked on that case, too?”

“No.”

Mortensen tapped the tip of a silver pen against the contents of an open file. “Allon struck me as the sort of man who would be difficult to kill. It’s hard to imagine he’s really gone.”

“We feel the same way.”

“And this request of yours—it has something to do with Allon’s death?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“And I’d rather not be having this meeting,” Mortensen said coolly. “But when a friend requests a favor, I try to be accommodating.”

“Our service has experienced a terrible loss,” said Keller after a moment. “As you can imagine, we’re focused on nothing else.”

It was thin gruel, but good enough for the Danish secret policeman. “What will we be looking for in the video?”

“Two men.”

“Where did they meet?”

“A restaurant called Ved Kajen.”

“In the New Harbor?”

Keller nodded. Mortensen asked for the date and the time. Keller supplied both.

“And the two men?” asked Mortensen.

Keller handed over a photograph.

“Who is he?”

“Reza Nazari.”

“Iranian?”

Keller nodded.

“VEVAK?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the other man?”

“He’s an SVR hood named Alexei Rozanov.”

“Do you have a photograph?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Mortensen laid the photograph of the Iranian thoughtfully on his desktop. “We are a small country,” he said after a moment. “A peaceful country, except for a few thousand hotheaded Muslim fanatics. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I believe I do.”

“I don’t want any trouble with the Persian Empire. Or the Russians, for that matter.”

“Not to worry, Lars.”

Mortensen glanced at his watch. “This might take a few hours. Where are you staying?”

“The d’Angleterre.”

“What’s the best way to reach you?”

“Hotel phone.”

“What’s the name?”

“LeBlanc.”

“I thought you said your name was Merchant.”

“I did.”