by Holt, Anne
He attempted to swallow a belch.
“The trade unions want to have their say. Central figures in the party. The Party Secretary. And so on and so forth.”
He belched now, touching his chest.
“Heartburn,” he mumbled apologetically.
“But what about Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden?” Hanne asked again. She had pushed her plate aside and leaned her elbows on the table. “Who chose her?”
Øyvind Olve fished out a little sachet of Balancid indigestion remedy, and tried to ingest the contents as discreetly as possible: not easy.
“You shouldn’t eat Indian food if you have stomach problems,” Hanne advised. “What about Nordgarden?”
“It wasn’t Birgitte who wanted her, in any case. Ruth-Dorthe was brought in over her head.”
“By whom?”
He gave her a lingering look, and then shook his head.
“Honestly, Hanne. You’re not even a party member.”
“But I vote for you!” She grinned. “Every time!”
She understood all the same that she would obtain nothing more. Not about that. But perhaps about what interested her most.
“Did Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden have an affair with Roy Hansen?” she ventured, so directly that Øyvind Olve belched violently again, and as a little streak of Balancid ran from the corner of his mouth, he picked up the ill-treated napkin once more.
“You of all people should be above listening to rumors, Hanne,” he said quietly.
“Does that mean you’ve heard this before?”
Øyvind Olve rolled his eyes.
“If I were to tell you everything I’ve heard about who is sleeping with whom in Norwegian political circles, then we’d have to book in here for the rest of the week,” he said, smiling faintly.
“No smoke without fire,” Hanne replied.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Hanne,” Øyvind said, leaning toward her, his voice intense. “I’ve seen rooms thick with smoke but without so much as a tiny flame anywhere. I learned that long ago. You should also know that. How many men’s names were linked with yours until people began to guess the truth? And how many women do you think you’ve been involved with, according to the rumor mill?”
This was no longer pleasant. The remains of the tandoori smelled strong and pungent, and the beer had gone flat. The restaurant felt overheated, and she tugged at the neck of her sweater. Hanne Wilhelmsen had lived in faithful monogamy with Cecilie for almost nineteen years, and was aware that at Oslo Police Station her name was mentioned in connection with the most unlikely sexual alliances. She glanced at the time.
“One thing, though,” she said. “Did they know each other? Birgitte Volter and Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden?”
“No,” Øyvind Olve said, gesturing for the bill. “Not in the sense you would define knowing each other. Not outside politics. They were party comrades.”
“And you don’t know anything about whether Ruth-Dorthe … What kind of name is that, by the way!”
With a smile, she continued. “Whether she knew Roy Hansen at all?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Øyvind Olve shook his head.
“So if I tell you that I—”
The waiter appeared with the bill, and after a moment’s hesitation placed it in front of Hanne, even though Øyvind had asked for it.
“There. You see what kind of authority you radiate.” Øyvind grinned.
“If I tell you that I saw this Ruth-Dorthe woman and Roy Hansen sitting together, drinking beer in Café 33 about six months ago, would you be surprised?”
He looked at her with a furrow between his teddy bear eyes.
“Yes,” he said, cocking his head. “It surprises me greatly. Are you quite sure that was who it was?”
“Quite sure,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, pushing the bill across to the other side of the table. “I’m not working at the moment!”
“That possibly applies to me too,” Øyvind Olve muttered, but he picked up the bill all the same.
23.10, VIDARS GATE 11C
“You have to help me,” whispered the security guard. “Bloody hell, Brage, I need help!”
Brage Håkonsen, dressed in a brilliant white T-shirt and camouflage boxer shorts, could not believe his eyes. The guard from the government complex was standing outside his front door, looking completely demented. His hair was sticking out in all directions, tangled and uncombed, and his eyes were popping as if he had seen a real-life vampire only a couple of minutes ago. He was wearing baggy clothes and his shoulders had disappeared entirely underneath his over-large military jacket.
“Are you off your head?” Brage hissed. “Coming here! Now! Get away with you, and don’t show your face here again!”
“But, Brage,” the guard grumbled. “Damn it all, I need help! I’ve—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done!”
“But, Brage,” the guard bleated again. “Listen to me at least! Let me come in and talk to you!”
Brage Håkonsen placed a massive fist on the guard’s chest. He was a good head taller and he towered over him.
“For the last time, get away from here.”
Someone down below opened a door. Startled, Brage Håkonsen gave the guard a forceful push across the landing, then slammed his door; the guard could hear him making a racket with the security chain.
A young man came up the stairs, and the guard pulled his jacket lapels up under his ears, staring at the wall as the man walked past. Then he stood listening to his footsteps all the way up to the fourth floor.
What was he to do? His eyes filled with tears as his mouth trembled. He felt awful, and had to sit down on the steps to avoid falling over.
“I need to go away,” he said to himself. “I fucking need to get away.”
Finally he stood up and stumbled aimlessly out into the Oslo night.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9
08.32, OSLO POLICE STATION
The gun lay inside a padded envelope, addressed only to “Oslo Police Station” in thick black felt-tip pen. The consignment was not franked. The officer who stood at the door of Assistant Police Chief Håkon Sand’s office was panting breathlessly.
“It was in a mail sack at the central post office,” he gasped. “The mail sorters realized it might be important and have just delivered it.”
Håkon Sand wore latex gloves on his hands. The envelope had already been opened, in itself a gross error of judgment: it could have been a bomb, of course. However, it was not an explosive device. Håkon Sand fished out the revolver and with extreme care placed it on a white sheet of paper in front of him.
“A Nagant,” Billy T. whispered. “A Russian Model 1895.”
“Not you too.” Håkon sighed. “Do you and Hanne hold Saturday night quizzes, or what?”
“Guess,” Billy T. said softly. “About guns and motorbikes. She knows all there is to know about both.”
“Don’t touch,” Håkon Sand warned as Billy T. leaned toward the revolver.
“I’m not stupid, you know,” Billy T. muttered, studying the gun from a distance of ten centimeters. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter anyway. I’ll bet this gun has been clinically cleaned of any possible traces that might lead us to anything at all. It’s been scrubbed and polished and looks good as new.”
“You’re probably right there.” Håkon sighed again. “But don’t touch, regardless. Not the envelope either. It’s all going to Forensics.”
“But wait a minute!”
Billy T. suddenly brightened.
“If this was lying in one of the sacks at the central post office … What about videotape? Isn’t that whole damn place crawling with cameras?”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Håkon lied. “You!”
He was pointing at the officer who was still standing in the doorway, craning his neck.
“Instruct someone to go through the CCTV tapes for the last twenty-four hours. No, as a matter of fact, make it the past forty-eight hou
rs.”
“And then we’ll find an insignificant, uncouth guy in a baseball cap who at least had the wit to turn away,” Billy T. mumbled.
“Do you have a better suggestion, then?” Håkon said, slightly too loudly.
Billy T. only shrugged his shoulders as he headed back to his own office.
12.03, JENS BJELKES GATE 13
Of course, it had been crazy to say he was sick. Talk about stupidity. However, his boss had at least regarded him with concern and confirmed that he looked dreadful. About as dreadful as he felt, he assumed.
He had to get away. Preferably flee the country. But that would seem suspicious; he appreciated that. He could travel to Tromsø. He could go skiing. It would do him good. Morten was his best friend and had said many times that he should come. There was so much fucking snow up there this winter.
Packing a capacious rucksack, he made his way to Fornebu Airport without having bought a ticket. It was impossible for flights to be full on a Wednesday in April. Not in the middle of the day, anyway.
THURSDAY, APRIL 10
LATE MORNING, GOVERNMENT COMPLEX
“All predictions now center on the new government being similar to the old one, with the single change that Joachim Hellseth, currently spokesman for fiscal policy in Parliament, will be brought in as Finance Minister. Any further replacements in the government line-up would come as a great surprise.”
The Minister of Agriculture switched off the radio and leaned back in his office chair. The reporter was probably correct. That was certainly the impression he’d got from Tryggve yesterday. He had smiled, although the smile had not appeared particularly sincere, and clapped him on the shoulder.
Not that it was so terribly important. Naturally, he wanted to continue. He was enjoying it. The Ministry of Agriculture was an exciting place to be: he was doing a challenging and important job and would like to continue in the role. However, if it was not to be, then it was not to be. There were plenty of other jobs out there.
The phone rang.
For a moment he sat looking at it, smiling broadly; he felt calm and well, knowing that he would be fine regardless of what the message was. Then he lifted the receiver.
“Tryggve Storstein,” the secretary intoned.
“Put him on,” the Minister of Agriculture responded; then, after a short pause, “Hello, Tryggve. How’s it going?”
“Better. Now at least I’m managing to get some sleep. Six hours last night. I feel like a new and better person.”
Chuckling, the Minister of Agriculture took out his snuffbox.
“Churchill always managed with four. And he had a more peaceful time than you’re having, didn’t he?”
He thought he could hear the smile at the other end of the line.
“Well,” Tryggve Storstein said. “You’ll stay on in the team, won’t you?”
The Minister of Agriculture felt the hand holding the receiver begin to shake. Had this been more important to him than he would admit? Swallowing, he coughed briefly.
“Of course. If you want me to.”
“I do. The party does.”
“I’m really pleased about that, Tryggve. Thank you very much.”
His voice sounded genuinely happy.
The Culture Minister was leafing through four faxes that had just arrived on her desk. Lighting up a Prince Mild, she noticed with annoyance that she had smoked more than she usually permitted herself prior to lunchtime.
They were offers of employment, from two TV stations and one newspaper. And one from a large multinational company that required someone to deal with external communications. She let her gaze run over the sheets of paper without reading them thoroughly, then folded them and stuffed them into a drawer marked “PERSONAL” in Dymo lettering.
The phone rang.
She took the call and the conversation that ensued lasted all of forty-five seconds.
When she replaced the receiver, she was smiling from ear to ear. She phoned through to her secretary, after having retrieved the faxes she had just filed away.
“Shred these, please,” she said, handing the papers to her secretary.
The older woman sighed in relief.
“Congratulations,” she whispered, winking with her right eye. “I’m so pleased!”
Health Minister Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden could not get anything done. Every time the phone rang, she hurled herself at it, and every time she came away disappointed. Now she was no longer crestfallen. She was furious.
For a while she had considered phoning some of the others to discover whether they had heard anything. But it would be the greatest humiliation of all to have confirmed what she was finally beginning to suspect: that the others were to continue, but she was not.
In a rage, she took hold of her large handbag and rummaged through its contents. She eventually found what she was looking for: a carrot wrapped in greaseproof paper.
A painful crunch seared through her head as she chomped on it.
13.46, SECURITY SERVICE SECTION, OSLO POLICE STATION
“This can’t possibly be sheer chance. It’s totally impossible.”
The police officer who had burst into the Security Service Chief’s office without knocking was agitated and out of breath as he slapped his right hand down on the papers he placed before Ole Henrik Hermansen.
“The Swedish Security Police are of the opinion that it was sabotage. A fuel pipe was damaged in a way they can’t put down to either wear and tear or an operational fault. The entire plane was thoroughly examined only a few hours before departure, and they found nothing then.”
Ole Henrik Hermansen had lost his inscrutable poker face. Now his expression was tense and alert; his brow wrinkled and his eyes flashed with intense anxiety.
“Is this confirmed? Or to be more precise: how certain are they?”
“Naturally they don’t know yet. They’re making further investigations. But that’s not all, Hermansen. There’s much more!”
Producing a red folder from his own briefcase, the police officer flicked through to a large, grainy, color photograph of a young man with blond hair combed back; he was staring to one side of the camera lens, wore rimless glasses and had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Tage Sjögren,” the officer said. “Thirty-two years old, from Stockholm, leader of a group of right-wing extremists who call themselves ‘White Struggle.’ They’ve been in trouble with the police before, but that’s mostly been street protests on the anniversary of Karl the Twelfth’s birthday and suchlike. In the past year, though, it seemed as if the group had gone underground. The Security Police had lost sight of them, though they know they’re still active. And a week ago …”
Now the police officer was so enthusiastic that he laughed: he reminded the Security Service Chief of his own son when the boy came racing home with his report card before the summer recess.
“… Tage Sjögren came to Norway!”
Ole Henrik Hermansen was holding his breath, but only realized this when his ears began to ring; he exhaled through tightly compressed lips and a faint trumpeting sound underlined the sensational nature of the new information.
“Bloody hell,” he said softly. “Do we know anything at all about his movements here?”
Leaning back in his chair, the police officer placed his hands behind his head.
“No. The devastating thing is that this Tage guy isn’t of such interest to the Swedes that they would tell us as a matter of course. They only know that he traveled here, and returned to Sweden on …”
By now the man was beaming; like a dog straining on a leash, he was in full cry and just waiting to be set free.
“… on Saturday morning!”
Ole Henrik Hermansen stared at his subordinate for some considerable time.
“Get me the Head of the Swedish Security Police on the telephone,” he snapped. “We need to ask them to bring the man in for interview. Without delay.”
22.30, MINISTRY OF HEALTH
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br /> The chauffeur had been waiting in the basement since five o’clock that afternoon. She knew that her use of chauffeur-driven cars annoyed everyone, including the Senior Private Secretary and her political colleagues, but then they couldn’t know how irritating it was to have to make conversation with all kinds of taxicab drivers whose sole aim was to prove that they knew better than the nation’s elected representatives. Anyway, you were entitled to some fringe benefits in this job.
Besides, it looked as though this would be the last day she would have use of her own chauffeur. Tryggve Storstein had still not phoned.
It had taken so long that the journalists had started to speculate. Little Lettvik had called on her confidential cell phone number, wanting to know if it was true that she had not been asked to continue. Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden had slammed down the phone. The news roundup on television had been cautious, admittedly, but nevertheless they had placed a question mark beside her photograph when they made their predictions for the new Cabinet.
She needed another carrot. Peevishly, she rummaged in her handbag, but found nothing. However, she knew there was a bag in the kitchen area.
She paused momentarily in the doorway leading to the outer office. Could she hear the phone from the kitchen? Before she had made up her mind, it rang. She had transferred all calls to her direct line and had sent the entire staff home. She did not want any witnesses to her great mortification.
“Hello,” she yelled into the receiver; having dashed across to her desk, she was now standing at the wrong side, with nowhere to sit.
“Hello?” The voice sounded surprised. “Who am I speaking to?”
It was Tryggve.
“Hello, Tryggve. It’s me. Ruth-Dorthe.”
“Are you still working?”
“Just tidying things up.”
A pause ensued.
“You can stop that. You’re going to continue.”
Another lengthy pause.
“Thank you so much, Tryggve. I’ll never forget this. This day, I mean. Never.”
At the other end of the phone, Tryggve Storstein felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.