The man with pockmarked cheeks said nothing. Instead he glanced into the rearview mirror and, with a flick of his head, ordered the driver to get moving. As the car slipped away from the curb, Ibrahim wondered if they were really going to Copenhagen or whether their true destination was the torture chambers of Egypt. He thought of the words Sheikh Abdullah had spoken to him in another lifetime. Rely on God, the sheikh had said. Don’t be defeated.

Denmark’s not-so-secret police are known as the Security Intelligence Service. Those who work there refer to it only as “the Service,” and among professionals like Adrian Carter it was known as the PET, the initials of its impossible-to-pronounce Danish name. Though its address was officially a state secret, most residents of Copenhagen knew it was headquartered in an anonymous office block in a quiet quarter north of the Tivoli gardens. Lars Mortensen, PET’s profoundly pro-American chief, was waiting in his office when Carter was shown inside. He was a tall man, as Danish men invariably are, with the bearing of a Viking and the blond good looks of a film star. His sharp blue eyes betrayed no emotion other than a mild curiosity. It was rare for an American spy of Adrian Carter’s stature to pop into Copenhagen for a visit—and rarer still that he did so with just five minutes’ warning.

“I wish you would have told us you were coming,” Mortensen said as he nodded Carter into a comfortable Danish Modern armchair. “We could have arranged for a proper reception. To what do we owe the honor?”

“I’m afraid we have something of a situation on our hands.” Carter’s careful tone was not lost on his Danish counterpart. “Our search for Elizabeth Halton has led us onto Danish soil. Well, not us, exactly. An intelligence service working on our behalf.”

“Which service?”

Carter answered the question truthfully. The look in Mortensen’s blue eyes turned from curiosity to anger.

“How long have they been in Denmark?”

“Twenty-four hours, give or take a few hours.”

“Why weren’t we informed?”

“I’m afraid it fell into the category of a hot pursuit.”

“Telephones work during hot pursuits,” Mortensen said. “So do fax machines and computers.”

“It was an oversight on our part,” Carter said, his tone conciliatory. “And the blame lies with me, not the Israelis.”

“What exactly are they doing here?” Mortensen narrowed his blue eyes. “And why are you coming to us now?”

The Danish security chief tapped a silver pen anxiously against his knee while he listened to Carter’s explanation.

“Exactly how many Israelis are now in Copenhagen?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“I want them on their way out of town in an hour.”

“I’m afraid at least one of them is going to have to stay.”

“What’s his name?”

Carter told him. Mortensen’s pen fell silent.