by Anne Holt
‘She didn’t want any sort of surveillance in the suite itself. And that was why we were so particular about the corridor.’
He turned his laser pen on again and pointed.
‘As you already know, the cameras show no movement whatsoever either in or out of the room between twenty to one, when Madam President returned from an official dinner, and twenty past seven in the morning, when your men . . .’ He stopped himself and started again: ‘Twenty past seven in the morning, when the Secret Service thought it necessary to enter the suite. She was due to report to them at seven a.m. The cortège that was to take her to breakfast at the palace was due at seven thirty. And as far as the terrace is concerned . . .’
He walked around the model and pointed to the sliding glass doors.
‘It was of course difficult to install a camera on the terrace without this conflicting with the President’s explicit wish not be under surveillance in her room. It was a problem. So we fitted the doors with sensors.’
Bastesen allowed a short pause before he concluded: ‘An alarm would have gone off if the doors had been opened. And they weren’t. The sensors have, obviously, since been tested and are in perfect order. So we have to conclude that no one went in or out through these doors.’
‘No one has come in and no one has left.’ Warren Scifford ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Quite apart from the fact that Madam President has disappeared and someone has left a note in her room.’
If the Chief of Police had been better at English, he would have noticed the biting sarcasm. However, he now just gave an affirmative nod.
‘That aside, yes.’
‘The air vents,’ Warren Scifford said mechanically, without looking away from the model. ‘Emergency exits. Other windows.’
‘They are all being investigated. Everything will, of course, be examined in detail. But we have already spoken to the hotel’s technical operations manager and he has ruled out any possibility that the air vents may have been used to get in or out of the room. He said that they’re not big enough, and furthermore, they’re blocked by fixed grates at fairly regular intervals. As far as the windows go, they’re all alarmed, as I said. And they, quite simply, have not been opened. Emergency exits?’
He swept the red spot over a door from the office into the corridor.
‘Well, the lock is sealed with one of those green plastic cases that have to be broken before the door can be opened. The mechanism is intact. The door has not been opened. And in any case, the exit is covered by the cameras in the corridor, and as I said . . .’
‘No one went in,’ Warren Scifford repeated, ‘and no one went out.’
There was a knock at the door. The policeman looked at Bastesen, who nodded.
‘Ambassador Wells and the Minister of Foreign Affairs are waiting for Mr Scifford,’ a young woman said in Norwegian. ‘I got the impression that they were getting a bit impatient.’
‘They’re asking for you,’ Bastesen translated, and handed Scifford his jacket.
He didn’t take it. Instead he loosened his tie even more, and produced a notebook from his back pocket.
‘I suggest that for the time being, we have three meetings a day,’ he said and wiped his nose with a finger. ‘I would also like to have a liaison person.’ His smile was almost boyish, as if he was apologising without really meaning it. ‘If that suits you and your people,’ he added. ‘If you think that is the best way to exchange information.’
Bastesen nodded and shrugged. He was still holding Scifford’s jacket.
‘And I would really like to have . . .’ Scifford scribbled a name down on a sheet of paper and gave it to the Chief of Police, ‘her. Do you know the name?’
Bastesen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he studied the piece of paper.
‘Yes, but that’s impossible, I’m afraid. She doesn’t work for us. She never has done, even though she . . .’ He hung the jacket over the back of a chair. ‘She has helped the police on a couple of occasions,’ he continued. ‘Completely informally. But in the current situation, it would not be possible to use—’
‘Well, I almost insist,’ Warren Scifford replied.
His voice was different. The arrogance was gone. The drawling, slow manner of speaking had been replaced by an almost pleading tone.
‘No,’ Bastesen repeated and tried to give the American his jacket again. ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible. But I’ll find the best person for you, immediately. I think you should go now. Apparently they were very impatient.’
‘Wait,’ Scifford said and scribbled down another name on his pad. ‘Can I have him, then? He should at least . . .’
‘Adrian Stubburt,’ Bastesen read out slowly and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But I—’
‘Adam Stubo,’ came from the door.
Both men turned round. The policeman blushed.
‘I’m sure he means Adam Stubo,’ he stuttered. ‘He’s in the NCIS. He lectured us in—’
‘Adam Stubo,’ Bastesen repeated, waving the first piece of paper that Scifford had given him. ‘He’s in fact married to this lady here! Do you know them?’
Warren Scifford straightened his collar. Finally he put his jacket on.
‘I’ve met Stubburt on two occasions,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know him. Johanne Vik, on the other hand . . . I knew Johanne well once upon a time. Can I use Stubburt?’
‘Stubo,’ Bastesen corrected him. ‘Stubooooo. I’ll see what I can do.’
They walked towards the door together. Bastesen stopped abruptly, his face full of curiosity as he put a hand on the American’s arm and exclaimed: ‘That’s right! Johanne Vik has a connection with the FBI. Something that I’ve never really worked out. Is that how you know each other?’
Warren Scifford didn’t answer. Instead he tightened his tie, straightened his jacket and went to meet his ambassador.
XII
Abdallah al-Rahman was still a good swimmer. He cut through the water with long, steady strokes. His rhythm was slow, but the efficiency of his long arms and unusually large hands meant he kept his speed. The water was not chlorinated. Chemicals made him feel nauseous, and as no else had permission to use the large pool, it was filled with salt water. The water was changed frequently, so it never made him ill. The man sitting by the edge of the pool in a comfortable chair full of cushions, smiled at the beauty of the mosaics in and around the pool: tiny pieces of tile in myriad shades of blue that glittered in the light from the flares along the stone wall to the east. The evening air was gentle compared with the harsh heat that had harassed him all day. He would never get used to the heat. But he loved what was left behind, the stored warmth of the sun that made the evenings balmy and eased the pain in his damaged knee.
The Arab’s body ploughed through the water. The man by the pool was drinking tea as he followed his friend’s progress.
His name was Tom Patrick O’Reilly and he had been born into appalling poverty in a small town in Virginia in 1959. And things had got worse. His father had disappeared when the boy was barely two. He went out to fill up the car one day and his family had seen neither hide nor hair of him or the twelve-year-old pick-up, the family’s only car, since. His mother literally killed herself trying to feed the four children. She died when Tom was sixteen, in 1975, and already at her modest funeral, Tom had decided to invest everything in the only good card he’d ever been dealt. From being a talented player in the local football team in his last two years at high school, he managed to become the most promising quarterback that Virginia had produced in decades. He was given a scholarship to Stanford and left his home town with only a rucksack for his clothes, three one- hundred-dollar bills in his back pocket and the absolute certainty that he would never set foot in the town again.
He injured his knee in the first year. Lateral and cruciate ligaments, and meniscus. Tom O’Reilly was twenty years old and saw no future for himself. His academic performance was at best mediocre,
so the only way he could continue his education was to pay with his spectacular passes.
He had been sitting in his room crying when Abdallah came in without knocking. The young man, whom Tom had only spoken to a couple of times, sat down on a stool and looked out the window. He said nothing.
Tom O’Reilly remembered drying his eyes. He gave a forced smile and pulled at the arms of his sweater, which was too small for him. Tom’s training meant that he was getting bigger. His scholarship only covered absolute necessities, fees and a modest living. Clothes were a luxury. The young man who had come uninvited into his room and started to finger the few belongings that Tom had stuffed into his rucksack was dressed in expensive jeans and a silk shirt. His shoes alone would cost more than Tom’s annual clothes budget.
Now, sitting in this palace outside Riyadh, drinking sweet tea and managing a fortune that he could never have even dreamt of at the time when he stood on the threshold of a promising career as a sportsman, it struck Tom that what had happened that warm spring day in 1978 was absurd.
He didn’t know Abdallah. No one at Stanford knew him. Not really, even though he was invited to the most popular parties and occasionally turned up, sauntering in with an enigmatic smile. The young man was filthy rich. Oil, everyone thought when they saw his black hair and sharp profile. No doubt it was oil, but no one asked. Abdallah al-Rahman did not invite questions about his private life. He was friendly enough, though, and a very good swimmer in the university team. He didn’t seek the company of his peers in the way that others did, but he was not a loner either. Girls always turned their heads. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and his eyes were unusually large. But nothing ever happened; after all, he was a foreigner.
And it seemed he was happy to keep it that way.
And then suddenly there he was, sitting in the messy student room that smelt of boys’ socks. When he threw Tom O’Reilly a lifeline, the penniless young man grabbed it with both hands.
And he had never let go since.
The tea was so sweet that his tongue felt furry. Tom O’Reilly put the glass down. He ran his fingers through his strawberry-blond hair and smiled at the Arab, who, with one graceful movement, emerged from the water.
‘Good to see you,’ Abdallah said, and shook his hand. ‘Sorry to make you wait.’
Always a handshake, Tom O’Reilly thought to himself. Never a traditional embrace or kiss. Nothing more, nothing less, a simple handshake. It was cold and wet and Tom O’Reilly shivered slightly.
‘You’ve had too much sun,’ Abdallah told him and picked up a towel to dry his hair. ‘As usual. I hope you haven’t been bored. I’ve had quite a bit to do.’
Tom just smiled.
‘How is Judith? And the kids?’
‘Well,’ Tom replied. ‘Very well, thank you. Garry is starting to get good now. Will never be much of a quarterback. Too big and heavy. But he might have a future as a defence player. I’m trying to pull some strings.’
‘Don’t pull too hard,’ Abdallah advised him, and tugged a white tunic over his head before sitting down on one of the empty chairs. ‘Children should learn to look after themselves. More tea?’
‘No thanks.’
Abdallah poured himself some from a silver pot.
They sat in silence. Tom caught himself studying Abdallah when he thought he wasn’t looking. The Arab had an unusual calm that never ceased to fascinate him. They had known each other for nearly thirty years now. Abdallah knew everything there was to know about Tom. The American had shared his sad story with his friend on that first night, and since then he had kept Abdallah informed of everything, big and small, that happened in his life: girls and stories, work, love and political preferences. Sometimes, when Tom was lying awake in bed and couldn’t sleep, he would look at his wife in the dark and think that Abdallah knew more about him than she did. Even after nearly twenty years of marriage.
That was the deal.
Even way back then, on that warm afternoon when spring had finally arrived and Tom had received the letter saying that his scholarship would be withdrawn from the following school year, due to medical circumstances, he was clear what the price of this fantastic gift would be.
Abdallah would know everything about him.
But both then and now, Tom felt it was a small price to pay. It was always a pleasure to be with Abdallah. At school they hung out every now and then, but were never seen to be good friends. At least not by others. And when they had finished school, they never met in the US. Their paths sometimes crossed in Europe. Tom often had meetings in metropolises where Abdallah happened to be on business. Then they would meet for dinner at some local Arabic café in London, or for a walk in the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower, or along the Tiber, after a couple of coffees at a Roman café.
Occasionally Tom was called to Riyadh.
‘How was the journey?’ Abdallah poured himself more tea.
‘Fine.’
Tom O’Reilly liked being in Riyadh. He was always taken to this place, even though he knew there were other palaces, which he was led to believe were bigger and more impressive. The invitations were always sudden, never more than three hours’ notice. Always from a local telephone number. A private jet was ready for departure at the nearest airport. All Tom had to do was turn up. He might be in Madrid or Cairo, or Stockholm for that matter, when the invitation came. His work as the CEO of ColonelCars took him all over the world. In the days when he was lower down the ladder, it was sometimes difficult to suddenly rearrange everything. That was easier now, and in any case, the invitations had become less and less frequent.
It was a year and a half since he had last been here.
‘This will be the last time we meet,’ Abdallah said out of the blue and smiled. Tom O’Reilly tried to straighten up in the sea of soft cushions. His knee was hurting again. He had been sitting in the same position for too long. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew that he had to say something.
‘That’s a shame,’ he murmured, and felt like an idiot.
Abdallah al-Rahman’s smile widened. His teeth were pearly white against his dark skin. He drank down the rest of his tea in one go and put the glass down carefully.
‘It has been a pleasure, Tom, a real pleasure.’
The affection in his voice surprised Tom; it was as if Abdallah was talking to a favoured child.
‘Likewise,’ he mumbled, clasping his hand round the glass so his fingers had something to do.
Again they were both silent. The only thing that broke the vast, warm silence of the palace was a dog barking in the distance. The water in the pool was like a mirror. The gentle breeze at sunset that had made the air so pleasant earlier had now died down. Certainly in here behind the high old walls that surrounded the garden.
When Tom O’Reilly had accepted Abdallah’s generous offer in 1978, he had done so without any great reservations. He had swiftly managed to suppress the faint twinge of something that might be bad conscience. It was just stupid to question things that you didn’t quite know the answer to. The remainder of his studies would be paid for in return for no more than a small favour. The money would not only cover his school fees, but would also afford him a generous lifestyle. He could stop taking on extra jobs and concentrate on his studies. And as he was no longer training four hours a day, his academic work improved immensely. He qualified with a good grade, a valuable network of contacts from Stanford and the will to succeed that so often drives those who have found themselves on the edge.
But as he got older, doubts crept in.
Not overwhelming, but enough for him, in his thirties, to try to find out more about the foundation that had made it possible for a poor and not particularly promising student to finish his studies at one of the world’s most prestigious universities. As a student, the only thing that had concerned him was that a sizeable sum was paid into his account every summer and every Christmas, from the anonymous ‘Student Achievement Foundation’.
The found
ation did not exist.
That worried him and gave him a couple of sleepless nights. However, he quelled his doubts after a while and assumed that it might well have been disbanded. Nothing strange about that, really, when he thought about it. No point in wasting valuable time investigating any closer.
Tom O’Reilly was an intelligent man. When Abdallah al-Rahman started to contact him in Europe, he of course realised that it could be misconstrued by others. By those who couldn’t understand that they were, in fact, good friends from university. By those who didn’t realise that the conversations they had were completely innocent.
‘Has life turned out the way you hoped it would?’ Abdallah asked him now in a calm voice, almost uninterested.
‘Yes.’
Tom had everything. He was faithful to his wife, though there had been temptations along the way. Even as a student, he had sworn that his father’s legacy would not cast any shadows in his own life. He was blessed with four children and an income that meant he could afford to house his family in a twelve-bedroom villa in one of Chicago’s best suburbs. He worked hard, and long hours, but had worked his way high up enough in the system to safeguard his weekends and holidays. Tom O’Reilly was a respected man. In quiet moments, when the children were younger and he tucked them in before he went to bed, he felt that he epitomised the American dream. He was content.
‘Yes,’ he repeated and coughed. ‘I am extremely grateful.’
‘You have only yourself to thank. I just helped when the system turned its back on you. You did the rest yourself. You’ve done well, Tom.’
‘Thank you. But I am . . . grateful. Thank you.’
Abdallah’s choice of words made him feel uncomfortable.
The system.
He had used a concept that Tom did not like. Not in the way that Abdallah had used it; to refer to the system in that way seemed . . .
Abdallah is not like them. He understands us. He operates within our system, our economy, and has never, not once, said anything that would indicate that he is like them. Quite the opposite. He respects me. He respects American values. He is practically . . . American.