Erika’s gasp of horror and dismay puzzled Dinah most of all. Had she seen something when she went roaming last night? Dinah wished she’d asked the man on duty at the Radisson’s front desk for the name and location of the pub where the murder had taken place. He probably knew all about it. In a town this size, it wouldn’t take long for news of a murder to spread.
She struggled against the headwind for another few blocks without seeing any evidence of the crime scene—no police tape, no sign, no barriers. And if there was a library, it was lost in the snow. Her eyeballs felt as if they were turning into gelato. Somewhere at the end of the street was the wharf and beyond that stretched the icy waters of Adventifjorden, or Advent Bay. The fact sheet posted on the Radisson notice board warned guests not to venture beyond the wharf unarmed because polar bears do not hibernate like their brown and black cousins. They range along the shores of the bay all winter, hunting tirelessly for seals. Or, if the opportunity arose, negligent tourists. A group of young campers had been mauled near Longyearbyen only a few months ago.
It was impossible to gauge distances in this blizzard. The streetlights didn’t help. Everything looked surreal. On the next corner, she discerned the words KAFFE & KANTINE in coruscating red neon and decided it was time to defrost and ask directions. She put her head down and waded through the snow toward the sign. By the time she reached the door, her nose felt brittle as a China cup. She pushed inside, blinked away the snow, and prayed that the establishment didn’t require that she take off her boots. She shrugged out of Erika’s parka, pulled off her balaclava, and shook her hair loose.
“Is that you, Dinah Pelerin?”
She looked around the dingy, dusky little café and saw Brander Aagaard slouched over a table near the back. His face was wreathed in cigarette smoke and he squinched his eyes as if he were drunk or nearsighted. “Come and sit down. What is it you Americans say? We can scratch each other’s backs, yes?”
She stuffed her gloves and ski mask in the pockets of the parka and hung it on a peg beside the door. “Hello, Herr Aagaard.”
“We Norwegians are the rustic strain of Scandinavians. We don’t stand on ceremony. I am Brander. Shall I call you Dinah?”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s my business to know things. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He held up his hand to a man behind the counter. “Two more coffees, Lars. And another bottle of Akevitt.”
“Right. Okay. Et øyeblikk.”
Dinah edged her way between the tables, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Have you heard about the murder of the protester? Are you investigating?”
“Is the Pope Prussian?”
She took that for a yes. “Where did it happen? Do the police know who did it? Have they made an arrest?”
“In the alley behind the Beached Whale, directly across the street. No one claims to have seen who did it and no, there has been no arrest.”
Aagaard plucked a pen from his rat’s nest of hair and opened his notebook. “Did the news of the murder disconcert your American senators?”
If an admission of something that obvious counted as back scratching, she would scratch. “Yes, of course they were disconcerted.”
“What did Sheridan say?”
“He was afraid…he thinks you’ll use the situation to slime him.”
Aagaard put down his pen and rumpled his hair with both hands. When he looked up, his grin was diabolical. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to tell you about the thief of their peace.”
Chapter Eight
“It takes a warped sense of humor to hang a name like Fritjoe on an innocent child,” said Aagaard, pouring a tot of Akevitt into his morning cuppa. “It means thief of peace and he has fulfilled his prophecy admirably.”
Dinah calculated how much grief she might bring on herself if she talked to this bird. Valerie’s admonition not to talk to him was practically an inducement to do just the opposite and, whether from a lack of patriotism or personal dislike, she didn’t feel any loyalty to either Senator Sheridan or Tillcorp. Aagaard probably had multiple sources. Nothing she said would necessarily be attributable to her. Even so, she hedged. “You go first. Who was this thief of peace?”
“Fritjoe Eftevang was a stringer for a Swedish alternative newspaper and an all-around gadfly.”
“He was your competitor then.”
“Not on the same level. I write for a major Oslo daily. But he and I occasionally vied for scoops.”
“You both seemed to have learned that Senator Sheridan would be bringing the Tillcorp CEO on his visit to Svalbard. How did you find out?”
“Jake Mahler’s not known here in Norge, but he gives speeches all across the continent. I recognized him when he came off the plane.”
“And you wanted to make Colt Sheridan squirm.”
“I want to make everyone squirm. Squirming liars make good copy. I would have gone after Sheridan if he’d brought another campaign contributor with a scheme to sell. I’d have gone after him if he’d brought his mistress. Happen to know if he has one?”
She tried to remain expressionless. “No.”
He laughed and drizzled more Akevitt into his cup. “Too much to hope that he’d bring her on the same trip with his wife. Anyhow, Fritjoe was more single-minded. Lots of companies genetically modify seeds and patent them, but for whatever reason, he was fixated on Tillcorp. ‘They’ve taken out a patent on hunger,’ he said. Fritjoe could wind himself up to a very emotional state.”
Dinah pictured his look of feverish excitement as he lunged through the crowd. Were there others who shared his passionate intensity? She said, “Environmentalists in the U.S. worry that modified seeds can blow astray and cross-pollinate with neighboring crops. And they’re concerned about the overuse of herbicides, which makes weeds more resistant and the herbicides have to be made more and more toxic to control them. Does Europe have a problem with superweeds or cross-pollination? Is that what he meant by ‘a patent on hunger?’”
“Most controversial herbicides and pesticides are banned in the E.U. and in spite of pressure from the bureaucrats in Brussels, genetically engineered seeds are still banned in most countries. Europeans are picky eaters. We’re afraid of cancer or the transfer of antibiotic resistance through adulterated seeds. No, Fritjoe was on about something else.”
“You talked with him?”
“Before your plane arrived.”
Dinah didn’t ask if it was Eftevang who alerted him to Mahler’s presence rather than his instant recognition, but she thought it. “What did he tell you?”
“He hinted that he had a monster of a story. Something that would make headlines all over the world.”
“He didn’t say what it was?”
“He didn’t have to. He’d just returned from Africa. There’s a rumor circulating on the Internet that Tillcorp took advantage of the political upheaval in Myzandia. While the country was busy with the redistribution of land and fighting the spread of AIDS, Tillcorp’s so-called agricultural advisers introduced a virulent cutworm that devastated the corn crop. Facing famine, the Myzandian dictator cut a deal for the purchase of Tillcorp’s cutworm-resistant seeds.”
“Tillcorp instigated a famine?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“But that’s depraved.”
“It’s a journalist’s dream. Fritjoe must have lucked into some witnesses, maybe even documentation. He said he had all the proof he needed.”
If Dinah had her way, the laws regulating the food industry would be strengthened a hundredfold. She felt she had a right to know what weird or unnatural additives had been used to color and flavor the food she put in her mouth and she didn’t trust companies that refused to divulge the whole enchilada on the label. But truth
in labeling was picayune compared to this. If this rumor was true, if Tillcorp had precipitated a famine just to promote its products, it was an international outlaw of the highest order. “Maybe Eftevang exaggerated. Maybe he was tweaking your nose with talk of a monster story to make you jealous.”
“Maybe,” said Brander. “But if it’s true, Senator Sheridan and Jake Mahler would rather see the story and the man who dared to tell it drept.”
“Killed?”
Korrekt.” He fished an unfiltered cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and inhaled with tantalizing sensuality.
Dinah fought off a resurgent craving and turned her mind from Tillcorp’s alleged crimes to Fritjoe Eftevang’s intentions. “If he had proof of something that explosive, why didn’t he just publish it? Why bust into the press conference, make some cryptic anti-American remarks, shoot the Norwegian minister in the eye with a laser, and get himself arrested? That just gives you a headline for your paper.”
“Because he was first of all a crusader. He was a journalist only by accident and a second-rate one, at that.”
Dinah raised an eyebrow. If Aagaard was an example of a first-rate journalist, the profession didn’t have much to brag about. She wondered if Eftevang had had any contact with WikiLeaks, but she didn’t want to kindle Aagaard’s suspicions if he didn’t know already. That really could get her in trouble. “Do you know where Eftevang was staying?”
“In a room over the pub. It’s been padlocked by order of the police.”
“How about the bartender? Did you interview him?”
“Yes. He recalls that Fritjoe was there last night, drinking beer and preaching about the evils of American biotechnology until shortly after ten. He seemed sober when he left.”
“Did he leave alone?”
“The bartender couldn’t be sure.”
“Could he give you the names of any of the customers the man was preaching to?”
He grinned. “I’ve talked enough. It’s your turn now.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Brander, but I don’t know anything.”
“You know whether Senator Sheridan and his Tillcorp cronies are, how do you say, circling the wagons.”
“They are concerned about the possibility of unfavorable publicity.”
“They should be. I’m going to pick up where Eftevang left off.” He flicked his cigarette against the edge of the table, raining ashes onto the floor. “The murder took place sometime after ten o’clock. Has anyone got an alibi?”
“No one’s accounted for his time to me.”
“Inspektor Ramberg will demand it. My sources tell me he’s persistent. Often at odds with the establishment, but effective. They say he’s a Sami from over the border in Finland.”
“Sami. Is that the same as a Laplander?”
“Lapp is no longer politically correct. The etymology of Lapp derives either from a word meaning ‘dumb and lazy’ or a patch of cloth used for mending. I’ve heard he got his job through Norway’s affirmative action program. ”
Dinah felt a knee-jerk defensiveness. Her Seminole ancestors had been despised and persecuted at a different latitude, but she felt an instinctive solidarity with anyone whose tribe was dissed by the dominant culture, even if the only member of the tribe she’d met had the personality of an iceberg. “Inspector Ramberg impressed me as a very competent investigator.”
“I don’t know. The Finns are a backward lot. Cold, stubborn, glum. But I’m told that Ramberg’s no respecter of pomp or power. Your senators won’t intimidate him.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled with a smile of deep satisfaction. “Ramberg interrogated me at my hotel last night about the missing laser. Did he interrogate the senators?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“How did the female lawyer act? I’ll bet she yowled like a wet cat.”
“I wasn’t present for any of the inspector’s other interviews.” Dinah didn’t doubt that Val would have questioned Ramberg’s authority to search the senators’ rooms. Following news of the murder, her first instinct had been to claim diplomatic immunity. Even if she had yowled a bit, Keyes’ inclination to cooperate had probably prevailed. In any case, the inspector had searched the Sheridans’ room while Erika was present—just before she vanished like a mirage. Dinah wondered if she had told the truth about not having any friends in Norway. “Do you know anything about Fata Morgana?”
“Mrs. Sheridan’s musical alma mater, you mean?”
“Yes. They were a few years before my time, but I’ve listened to some of their hits on golden oldie radio. They were good.”
“They were a sensation despite the fact that they recorded only in English. Fata Morgana was the name of their first big hit and they took it for the band’s name.” He rested his cigarette in a saucer, closed his eyes, and erupted into song. “That girl, whose kisses drive you to the brink,” he drummed his fingers against the table, “that girl spells danger and it’s closer, closer, closer, yeah, it’s closer than you think.” He picked up the cigarette between his thumb and index finger and squinched his eyes. “Erika Olsen was the inspiration for that song. Fata’s main songwriter was hung up on her. He wrote a lot of songs about mirages and distorted images and castles in the air.”
Dinah said, “Fata Morgana seems an incongruous name for a Scandinavian band. I thought mirages only occurred on hot days in the desert.”
“We see Fatas here in the Arctic, mostly on cold days when looking out over sheets of ice.” He poured a couple of inches of Akevitt into his empty coffee cup. The peppery aromas of caraway and anise were almost stronger than the smell of his cigarette. He said, “I’d like to know if Erika Sheridan is as captivating as Erika Olsen.”
If she were, thought Dinah, there’d be no intimation that her husband was philandering or that Erika had sneaked off for a secret assignation. But whoever Sheridan suspected her of meeting, it appeared not to have been Brander Aagaard. “Erika told me there were hard feelings when she left the band.”
“They never made another album. Not that it would’ve been worth a crap without her.” Aagaard sounded like a disappointed fan. “The thing I’ve never understood is what she saw in Sheridan.”
Dinah was tempted to blurt out her fear that Sheridan was holding Erika prisoner, but she had to be wrong about that. Erika was a smart woman. If her husband abused her, she had the intelligence and the means to get away from him. It was easy to see Erika as fey and vulnerable, but she had demonstrated a bent for deception. It crossed her mind that the senator might be terrified that his wife had run amok and murdered Eftevang. “Did the bartender notice any strange women go in or out of the pub last night?”
“At last you’ve told me something.”
“No, I haven’t. What?”
“That Erika went out last night without her husband. Interesting.”
“I didn’t say that. There are lots of female tourists in town.”
“The only two women you could have been referring to are Valerie Ives and Erika Sheridan.” He stubbed out his cigarette, belted half his Akevitt, and squinched his eyes. “I can’t see how Erika Sheridan would know Eftevang or why she would meet with him. But Mahler’s lawyer knew him. Eftevang knew that Mahler would be on Sheridan’s plane. He told me so. Maybe Mahler knew that Eftevang was here waiting for him. Maybe he sent the lawyer to meet with him. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” And she didn’t, but if she did, she wouldn’t tell Aagaard. She had the sense that he was more interested in trashing Mahler and Tillcorp than discovering the truth. She should confide what she’d seen and heard to Thor Ramberg and let him suss things out. “Did you tell Inspector Ramberg what Eftevang told you about Tillcorp in Africa?”
“Yes. I asked Ramberg if he’d found documents or a computer disk in Eftevang’s room. Without evidence to substantia
te his allegations, it’s all hearsay.”
“And had the inspector found evidence?”
“He was a musling.” Aagaard pinched his lips between his thumb and forefinger.
“Is that a clam?”
“He must keep to the rules.”
“So he wouldn’t tell you.” Dinah gave Ramberg his due for professionalism.
“No. But if Eftevang tracked down the evidence, so can I. And I will be smarter than Eftevang. It’s clear that Sheridan and Mahler will go to any lengths to squelch the story.”
“Squelching a story is different from squelching a human being, if that’s what you’re implying. Senators and CEOs don’t go around stabbing people with knives. They kill with words. Do we even know that the murderer used a knife? Did the police find the weapon?”
“You sound like a detective.”
“I have detective acquaintances. Did they say what kind of weapon it was? Knife? Screwdriver? Icepick?”
“The inspector wouldn’t answer that question either. But even if the murderer left it behind, it’s unlikely there’ll be fingerprints. Everyone wears gloves outdoors.” He leaned across the table and leered. “So was it the insidious Ms. Ives or the intriguing Mrs. Sheridan who went out last night?”
“Neither reports her comings and goings to me, but why do you say Valerie Ives is insidious?”
“Isn’t she?”
Dinah had grown wary of his contemptuousness and his aspersions. She didn’t know if he had had a previous brush with Valerie or if he was just making up details as he went. She sensed a certain ethical flexibility in Brander Aagaard, a willingness to say and do whatever served his interests and fostered his career. She placed a mental asterisk next to everything he’d told her. “I should be going. Senator Frye may have errands for me.”
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