by Mark Davis
___________
The train to Trondheim was a clean, modern marvel with wood accents. Green farmland and hay rolls slid by at an even clip.
Nasrin unfolded a leaf from the wooden table between her and Elizabeth and set down a dark folder with a royal seal and a logo stamped with the insignia of the Metropolitan Police Force. She slowly undid the string on a fastener to reveal a pile of papers and photographs.
“The Hommelvik Hammers,” Nasrin said. “Founded by Norwegian bikers who had lived in New Orleans and been associated with the Banditos there. Their leader—”
She slid forward an image of a man with receding black hair, a square jaw with dark stubble. His brown eyes suggested unexpected sensitivity.
“That’s Karl Pedersen, president of the Mother Charter. He did a few years in Norway for rape, though he is suspected of multiple rapes. He is into just about anything you can imagine, and probably more.”
Nasrin slid a single sheet of paper at Elizabeth.
“Pedersen has links to organized crime in the UK, so I asked a friend at MI5 to return a favor. He gave me this.”
Elizabeth read the short report.
“GHCQ reports suspicious dark web activity from roaming mobile users connected to Hammers motorcycle gang in 12-mile radius around Hommelvik, Norway. It is believed users rotate cheap mobiles and disposable laptops for the purpose of selling unlicensed pharmaceuticals and introducing criminal elements for the purpose of establishing a digital bazaar for services ranging from murder-for-hire to trafficking in Eastern European girls and women for prostitution.”
This Pedersen had been talking with someone when the clandestine photo was taken. His expression had an open and friendly look, which could be a display of genuine warmth or the mask of a sociopath.
“When I think of cybercrime, I don’t exactly think of bikers,” Elizabeth said.
“Cyber is the only game in town—easy to learn, hard to catch and harder to prosecute,” Nasrin said. “One-percenter bikers are pure organized crime. They would be fools not to get into this. Imagine all the heavy artillery that they can now buy by phishing for industrial secrets and hawking phony impotence pills over the Internet.”
Elizabeth nodded and sipped her dark coffee.
“Do they actually believe?” Nasrin asked.
“What?”
“I mean all these locals,” Nasrin said, gesturing at the train window with her coffee cup, “out there. Do they actually cling to the old religion?”
“By old religion you might as well mean the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Norway,” Elizabeth said. “Most, I am sure, believe in soccer, high definition television and white quartz kitchen counters. And serial marriages.”
“But the country folk, like the mountain fellow you and Lars interviewed, people at the margins?”
“I am sure they are all baptized Christians,” Elizabeth said. “But from what I am reading, their parents would have told them the old stories at bedtime. They carry these tales in their hearts.”
“But gods and goddesses? I mean, really. I have trouble enough believing in the possibility of an abstract God, much less the Allah of my mother’s people. But Valhalla and Freefuck!”
“Freyja,” Elizabeth said. “Mythology is just the surface of any religion. Like a Jew recounting the story of Jonah, or a Hindu retelling of the exploits of Krishna, the sophisticated believer sees the story as a portal to a deeper truth.”
“But a Jew, Muslim, Hindu or Christian asks for wisdom, or divine guidance, or salvation,” Nasrin said. “In this religion, the—what are they called?”
“Lars calls them the folkish ones,” Elizabeth said. “Ásatrú”
“The folkish people are seeking material help from nature gods. They want money, or children, or good health. And when they die, all they can look forward to is slamming down their beer goblets and singing in Valhalla or Fuckvanger or wherever. And then I understand from what I’ve read that they and the gods eventually expect to be killed—again—in their heaven. Even their gods will one day die in battle, including top god Odin.”
“It is a stoic religion, well suited to the harsh environment from which it sprang,” Elizabeth said. “It is also a propitiatory religion, one that connects to the deepest wellsprings of human fear and desire.”
“All to go to a mead hall, to drink and feast and tell of one’s exploits,” Nasrin said. “Some religion.”
“Tell me, Nasrin, when a jihadist pulls the line on his suicide vest, do you think he truly imagines he is going to be serviced by seventy-seven virgins?”
“Seventy-two,” Nasrin said, straightening up a little. “Very well, I see your point—the gazelle-eyed houri of the Garden are seen by scholars as an earthly metaphor for the spiritual delights of a paradise that defies description.”
“In a similar way, Fólkvangr is a meadow paradise that modern believers see as a metaphor for something numinous, heavenly beyond description,” Elizabeth said. “Are we doing this to spite Lars?”
“Someone has to get out front in this investigation,” Nasrin said. “And I need to wrap this up. I’ve got a full plate waiting for me back in London.”
More farms slid by, this impossibly green country with its ridiculously blue sky.
At the end of yesterday’s meeting, Lars had told Nasrin to sit tight while Thor Magnusson continued to complete his forensic digital work. As the meeting broke, Lars confided in Elizabeth that he was taking a day off to escort his daughter to a chess tournament. Like practically every other adult Norwegian, Lars seemed to be amicably divorced and raising children with a happy village of old lovers, extended family and community of friends.
A short time later, Nasrin had called Elizabeth’s room. She could have knocked, but Elizabeth suspected that she would have been embarrassed to do that again.
“I’m up for a little trip,” she said. “How about you? I could use a psychologist, especially if we are to find ourselves in the company of bikers.”
“Lars won’t like it.”
“We could just do a little reconnaissance, that’s all,” Nasrin said, “I will make sure that you get to keep backups of any data we come across, digital or forensic. You could use that, couldn’t you, for your next paper?”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said. “Why not tell Lars?”
“Three British subjects are dead,” Nasrin said. “All I suggest is that we do a little looking around.”
___________
Trondheim was a college town with massive wooden homes and storehouses on pilings along the broad and gray-blue Nidelva, which merged into the immense expanse of the Trondheimsfjord.
“Every bit of scenery here seems to top the last,” Elizabeth said.
“That fjord is very deep,” Nasrin replied. “The Nazis built an enormous sub base here.”
They soon found themselves drifting through knots of people thickening into a crowd of families with strollers, men with plastic cups full of beer, children with painted whiskers and cheetah spots, packs of kids on skateboards, throngs of college students, milling around, eating pizza, dragging balloons, joking boisterously.
“I had no idea Trondheim would be so festive,” Nasrin said.
“Today is the last day of the St. Olaf’s Festival,” Elizabeth read from her phone, while Nasrin consulted a map on her own phone.
They pushed through the crowd toward a center square in front of the large, gray mass of a Gothic cathedral. On the steps of the cathedral, a blonde woman in a Lutheran pastor’s vestment and an Africa-themed stole cheerfully tapped a tambourine against her palm while a rock band played a bland hymn.
Nasrin walked up to a hot dog kiosk and bought two mustard-slathered dogs for thirty kroner. Elizabeth bought two cold Ringnes lagers to wash them down.
“What’s all this about?” Nasrin asked. “Did you Wikipedia St. Olaf?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He was an incompetent ninth-century king,
but did manage to convert his kingdom to Christianity, for which his reward was to get torn apart in battle.”
“And he apparently didn’t do a thorough job of that—of conversion, I mean, Lutheran lady ministers notwithstanding,” Nasrin said.
They wended though the crowd trying not to trip on the cobblestone streets, past a large expanse of green by a lake with an abstract, metal sculpture. At periodic intervals, there were more bands—rock bands playing old standards, Norwegian folk ensembles and Trondheim teenagers doing their best American hip-hop.
“The car rentals should be over there,” Nasrin said, pointing to a small shopping center.
Off to the side of the center was a storefront for a large American car rental chain. They went inside to rent an SUV for the drive to Hommelvik, only to be immediately stopped short by the bulk of a Norwegian policeman, a substantial man with a trim blonde mustache who placed himself between them and the counter.
“Detective Inspector Jones? And you, uh, doctor? …”
“Elizabeth Browne.”
“You are both to come with me,” he said.
“Are we under arrest?”
“You will be if you do not come with me.”
The policeman led them outside where a marked cruiser idled in a parking spot. It had not been there a moment before. Another policeman stood by the side of the car, holding out a cellphone with the speaker activated.
“Did you get a good look at Nidarosdomen?” The voice on the speaker asked.
“Come again?” Nasrin said to the phone. “Is that you Lars?”
“The Nidaros, Trondheim’s cathedral, one of the largest in Europe,” Lars said. “You see, we take pride in our ability to do anything as well as or better than our larger neighbors.”
“What would you like me to say?” Nasrin replied.
“That you are getting on the next flight back to London. I can do that, you know. Expel you from this investigation and from this country, if I choose.”
A long silence.
“I am certain that you can. I only wanted—”
“You, or you and Elizabeth. Are you there Elizabeth?”
“Hello, Lars,” she said.
“Enjoying St. Olaf’s Day?” he asked.
“The hot dogs are worthy of any ballpark in America.”
“I have two hot dogs on my hands right now, and I don’t know what to do with them,” Lars replied. “Nasrin, tell me your plan of action.”
“Well,” Nasrin began, “we plan to drive to the social club that the Hammers use as their public front, just to assess the scene, the people. We didn’t anticipate it, but St. Olaf’s Day makes the perfect excuse for strangers to wander by their beer hall. We could make contact with Pedersen, tell him who we are, and make a deal.”
“Before or after he rapes you both.”
“He won’t do that,” Nasrin said. “He has not stayed in business for this long by being stupid.”
“And under what authority do you plan to do this?” Lars asked.
“Acting on behalf of Scotland Yard, through Interpol, under the color of the Council of Europe’s Convention on Cybercrime.”
“Why don’t you spend a few kroner and get yourself a child’s sheriff’s badge while you’re at it? There is only one authority under which you can act in my country, and that is my authority. Are we clear on this point?”
“Crystal,” Nasrin said.
The sounds of children laughing and splashing water came through the speaker.
“I will allow you to proceed on this adventure, provided that you activate your phone to this number when you arrive in Hommelvik and slip it into your purse or pocket,” Lars said. “I will detail several police units to be no more than five minutes away from the Hammers social club. If anything truly dangerous begins to occur, just say, ‘I guess I should have never left Oslo,’ and say it twice, and we shall save your boney ass.”
“Very well,” Nasrin said. “Will do, boney ass and all.”
___________
They wanted an SUV but settled for a Fiat 500, a small, boxy car that killed any bad vibe they could have hoped to muster. The drive to Hommelvik took less than twenty minutes, a winding road through coastal forest broken by the occasional estate and ramshackle hunting cottage. Nasrin drove while Elizabeth kept an eye on their progress on Nasrin’s phone.
“Take the next left,” she said.
Hommelvik turned out to be a bit less scenic than Trondheim, a hardscrabble fishing and lumber town by a port on the Trondsheimfjord.
“We go through town, take the E-12 for three miles, then a left at the intersection,” Elizabeth said. Five minutes later, she handed the phone back to Nasrin. They parked and stepped out onto a gravel parking lot, packed with cars. A long row of Gold Wing and Harley choppers with 24-inch ape-hanger handlebars stood in a neat row in front of the hall. They were parked with military precision, each handlebar an exact foot apart.
Sessrúmnir was a single-story structure of rock and timber with a shingle roof.
Nasrin wore leather boots, blue jeans and a blue camisole under a white shirt. Elizabeth wore her one pair of leather cowgirl boots, brown, with black jeans and a black T-shirt. Perhaps that would be bad enough.
As the heels of Elizabeth’s boots crunched the gravel, she hitched a thumb in a belt loop and attempted a bored expression. The front door burst open and several young mothers with children spilled out. Music blared as the doors opened and muted as it shut.
“Poison,” Nasrin said, stepping up onto the wooden porch. “Late-century glam metal.”
“You a Poison fan? That’s a surprise.”
“Come clubbing in London with me and you can learn all kinds of things.”
Nasrin opened the door and they went inside.
Elizabeth had imagined that their entrance would stop the music, prompt all heads to turn to them in a deadly silence, just as it does when the movie tenderfoot steps into a saloon full of desperados. But no one took any notice of them.
“The phone!” Elizabeth said.
“Oh bugger!”
Nasrin looked into her purse, hit a button to autodial the number Lars had left for them, and slipped it back in. Elizabeth worried this might look suspicious, but still no one took any notice of them. And why would they? People check their phones all the time and the room was packed with celebrants in rowdy conversation. Almost all the men wore denim jackets with the club’s emblem on back, a large yellow hammer tumbling through the air and a logo in a cartoon explosion that ran above it—819-MC—and “Kongeriket Norge” in a semicircle underneath.
Some of the men looked like refugees from the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan, with tattoos rounding their shaven scalps and scrollworks that rolled around the bony protrusions on the backs of their heads. Others had faces obscured by blonde or grayish-black beards. Some had their thick hair pulled into ponytails. Others allowed their long hair to unfurl in pyramids that framed big, round faces with porcine eyes.
Some were giants, with massive jaws, like Viking warriors ready to man a shield wall. Some were wiry men, lithe and agile, the sort who could run the back line of the shield wall to supply fresh water and replace broken spears. Some wore no shirt under their jackets, showing off elaborate prison tattoos over torsos that varied from buff to potbellied. Rings sprouted from lips, nostrils, eyebrows and occasionally from an ear.
Some of the women looked like housewives on a weekend picnic, blue jeans with tasteful blouses and makeup. Others wore leather pants that gleamed like black glass. The leather-wearers also wore black T-shirts and leather jackets with the arms cut off to sport tattoos, mostly abstract runic designs. These women had the same assortment of facial rings as the men, but they wore makeup, just like the housewives-types.
Children played and scurried between the adults like hungry rodents in a maze.
“Let’s saddle up to the bar,” Nasrin said.
A fat man in civil
ian clothes gestured to them. The music had died down, and Elizabeth could hear him saying something in Norwegian. As soon as she addressed him in English, he switched to almost perfect, unaccented American English.
This was something she had noticed throughout the country. Once she addressed any Norwegian in American English, there was always a slight of flutter about that person’s eyes, a switching of linguistic tracks. Then it was almost like speaking to someone from Kansas. Their proficiency shamed Elizabeth. She had earned an “A” in all her French courses at Smith, but all that meant was that she had a talent for memorizing conjugated verbs. For all her degrees, Elizabeth could barely understand French or Spanish.
“One hundred kroner each,” the fat man said. “It’s all going to the children’s wing of St. Olaf’s hospital.”
They paid him and maneuvered through the crowd toward the bar.
The scent of beer, perfume, cigarette smoke and male sweat was almost overpowering. Nasrin found an opening at the bar large enough for her to squeeze through and order two local craft brews. The beer was cold and crisp and tasted of apples. A new round of music started up, something that sounded like a fresh take on Norwegian folk music. The bikers and their old ladies began to sway, some singing along with the lyrics. Men with women, women with women, and parents with children, all shuffled and swirled. A circle of dancers began to form.
As the people moved, Elizabeth caught glimpses of motifs painted on the wooden wall behind them. She saw vibrant and well-executed Thors and Odins and other gods standing in front of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge between worlds. They were not at all like comic book characters or their heroic derivations in the movies, but realistic people with expressions of haggard defiance drawn in lines of dark, ink-like paint and filled in with faint colors, weathered on the wood. At the opposite end, she saw a formidable-looking Freyja, tall and strong with a tilted head and penetrating expression. She held an unsheathed sword at the ready in one hand, and a falcon high on a gloved hand on the other. The falcon had fierce humanlike eyes, observant and ready to pounce. Freyja stood in the shade of Yggdrasil, which dug thick roots toward the floor and stretched its thick limbs ever outward.