3The scrambler phone clicked and sputtered in my ear, struggling to make the secure transatlantic connection. I held the instrument tightly and stared at the bare wall, the top floor of the embassy building silent as the grave at nine o’clock on a balmy night in June. It was midafternoon in DC and I was trying to reach my boss in the State Department’s counterterrorism office. I had to explain why I was still in Denmark.
I’d spent the early evening at the cop shop. A few minutes being printed. A couple of hours giving my statement, over and over. Jespersen followed all diplomatic protocols. Blixenstjerne was systematic. I was a fly caught on sticky paper. Not a move I could make that wouldn’t bind me tighter.
The phone crackled. “Renton Funke,” my boss answered.
“It’s Casey,” I said. I
