Death in Oslo

by Anne Holt

  ‘So he wandered the streets of Oslo until it was late enough to take a bus up to the forest,’ Bastesen summarised. ‘And then he walked into the forest for a while, hid himself in a ditch and killed himself with his own government-issue weapon. Poor man, he can’t have been in a good way, walking up towards Skar, knowing that he only had a few more minutes to live. That he would never—’

  Adam felt a slight flush rising in his cheeks as a result of the Chief of Police’s clumsy speech, and quickly interrupted. ‘Could Jeffrey Hunter’s suicide be an explanation for why we haven’t heard anything from the kidnappers? After all, they said in the note that was left in the suite that they would be in touch.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Warren said. ‘Particularly as Jeffrey Hunter was nothing more than a cog, really. There is absolutely no indication whatsoever that he was involved in anything other than getting the President out of the hotel.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to contradict you a bit there,’ Adam said. ‘I don’t see how the information about the President’s clothes can have come from anywhere other than inside.’

  ‘What do you mean? Clothes?’

  ‘The two cars that were driving around . . .’ Adam lifted two fingers, and then interrupted himself. ‘We’ve found the driver of the second car, by the way. We’re getting just as little out of him as we are from Gerhard Skrøder. Same sort of lowlife good-for-nothing, same methods, same incredible fee.’

  ‘But the clothes,’ Warren repeated. ‘What about them?’

  ‘The red jacket, the elegant blue trousers. White silk blouse. The national colours of the States and Norway. Whoever is behind the kidnapping must have known what she was going to wear. The lookalikes had the same clothes on. Not exactly the same, but they looked similar enough to make the decoy successful. We lost a lot of valuable time and effort chasing shadows.’

  Adam took a deep breath, hesitated and then continued: ‘I take it as given that Madam President has both a hairdresser and a dresser with her when she travels. What have they got to say?’

  Warren Scifford was obviously having problems. His poker face, which normally made it possible for him to lie without blinking, had disintegrated into a dejected, tired expression. His mouth seemed narrower and Adam could see the muscles in his face tensing.

  ‘I’m actually quite impressed by the way you consistently manage to underestimate us,’ Adam said in a low voice. ‘Don’t you think that we considered that problem a long time ago? Don’t you realise that we have long feared that it might be an inside job? Don’t you understand that you, by playing Mr Secret, have poured petrol on the flames?’

  ‘The President’s clothes are recorded on a computer,’ Warren said.

  ‘Which anyone has access to?’

  ‘No. But her secretary has an overview. And she has a very good relationship with Jeffrey Hunter. They are . . . were good friends. They had talked about the . . . national day that you celebrate here at an information lunch in early May. We have of course questioned the secretary and she can’t for the life of her remember who brought up the topic. But anyway, they talked about the fact that the President had bought lots of new clothes for her first overseas visit. Including a jacket that she was going to wear on the Norwegian national day in exactly the same shade of red as the Norwegian flag. Someone had told her that you are quite . . . sensitive about things like that.’

  A fleeting smile crossed his face, but no one responded.

  ‘And you are a hundred per cent certain that no one else from your people is involved? That Jeffrey Hunter was operating alone?’

  ‘As certain as it’s possible to be,’ Warren Scifford said. ‘But with all due respect, I have to say that I don’t like the direction this meeting has taken at all. I’m not here to be lectured by you. I’m here to give you the information you need to find President Bentley. And to hear how far you’ve got with the investigation.’

  There was a hint of irony in his voice as he straightened his back. Terje Bastesen cleared his throat and put down the coffee cup that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his hand. He was about to say something when Adam pipped him to the post.

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ he said.

  His voice was friendly, but his eyes narrowed enough to make Warren blink.

  ‘You know everything from our side,’ Adam said. ‘We give you the information as soon as we can get hold of you. Which has proved to be difficult at times, by the way. We have two thousand people . . .’ he stopped, as if he had only just grasped the huge number, ‘working on this case, from the police organisations alone. In addition, there are the people from the ministries, the directorates and, to a certain extent, the mili—’

  ‘We have a total of sixty-two thousand Americans,’ Warren interrupted without raising his voice, ‘who at this moment are trying to establish who kidnapped the President. In addition—’

  ‘This is not a competition!’

  Everyone looked at Peter Salhus. He had stood up. Adam and Warren exchanged looks like two boys who had been caught quarrelling in the playground by the headmaster.

  ‘There can be absolutely no doubt that this is a top-priority investigation in both countries,’ Salhus said. His voice was even deeper than normal. ‘And I’m quite sure that the Americans are looking at the possibilities of a bigger conspiracy and context. The CIA, FBI and NSA have adopted quite a new . . . let’s say attitude to exchanging information and intelligence over the past twenty-four hours. It is counterproductive to say the least, but doesn’t prevent us from seeing the direction in which you’re working. We also have our sources, which I’m sure you know about. And it is, of course, only a matter of time before journalists in the US get wind of the methods you are using.’

  Warren didn’t blink.

  ‘And that will be your problem,’ Salhus said and shrugged. ‘My interpretation of the data we’ve received, which I’ve compared with the information that cannot be kept out of the public domain . . .’

  He bent down and pulled a document from a file lying on the floor by the chair he had just got up from.

  ‘Very limited air traffic,’ he read. ‘Complete stop of air traffic from certain countries, most of them Muslim. Extensive reductions in staff in public offices. Schools have been closed until further notice.’ He waved the paper around before putting it back in the file. ‘And I could go on. The sum of it all is obvious. You expect further attacks. Attacks with far greater consequences than stealing the American president.’

  Warren Scifford opened his mouth and raised his hand.

  ‘Spare us your protests,’ the Norwegian director of intelligence said. His bass voice trembled with suppressed anger. ‘I will only repeat what Stubo here just said. Do not underestimate us.’

  His great index finger was only centimetres from the American’s nose.

  ‘What you have to remember, what you have to remember . . .’

  Warren wrinkled his brow and pulled his head back. Salhus just came closer. His finger was shaking.

  ‘. . . is that it is us, the Norwegian police, who have a chance of solving this case. The actual case. It is us, and us alone, who are able to map out the actual event, how the American president was taken from her hotel room in Oslo . . . how on earth that could even happen in the first place. D’you understand?’

  Warren sat completely still.

  ‘So you can carry on trying to place the event in a bigger context, without any interference from us. Do you understand?’

  The man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Salhus took a deep breath, lowered his hand and continued. ‘What I find incredible is that not only are you refusing to help us, but you are in fact sabotaging our investigation by not giving us information like, for example, the fact that a Secret Service agent has mysteriously disappeared.’

  He was standing right in front of the American.

  ‘If an old lady out for a walk in the forest had not wandered off the track into the ditch, and then collapse
d unconscious a few metres away, we would have had no idea that . . .’

  Peter Salhus coughed and paused, as if he really had to stop himself flying into a rage.

  ‘I have, together with the Chief of Police, Mr Bastesen here, the Minister of Justice and the Foreign Minister, sent a formal complaint to your government,’ he continued, without sitting down. ‘And it was copied to the Secret Service and the FBI.’

  ‘I’m afraid that my government, the FBI and the Secret Service have more serious things to worry about at the moment than a complaint,’ Warren said, without any expression. ‘But please . . . be my guest! I can’t stop you from corresponding with others if you have the time for that sort of thing.’

  He got up suddenly and grabbed the military-green sports jacket that was hanging over the arm of the chair.

  ‘I’m basically done here,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve got what I came for. And you’ve got something out of it too. A satisfactory meeting, in other words.’

  The three other men in the room were so astonished by this sudden closure that they couldn’t think of anything to say. Warren Scifford had to put his hand on Salhus’ arm to move him out of the way.

  ‘And by the way,’ the American said, turning around once he had crossed the room; the others still could think of nothing sensible to say. ‘You’re wrong about who’s going to solve this case. The actual case, as you called it. As if a kidnapping can be detached from the motives, planning, consequences and context.’

  He was smiling broadly with his mouth, but his eyes were anything but friendly.

  ‘The party that finds the President,’ he added, ‘is the one that will be able to solve the case. The whole case. And I unfortunately doubt that it will be you. That worries . . .’ he stared straight at Salhus, ‘my government, the FBI and the Secret Service. But good luck, to be sure. And good night.’

  The door slammed behind him, a bit too loudly.

  XXX

  ‘We’ve found the President,’ whispered Johanne Vik. ‘It’s in . . .’ She didn’t know what to say and felt the urge to giggle. But as that would be about as inappropriate as laughing at a funeral, she pulled herself together. And started to cry again instead. She felt totally exhausted, and the absurdity of the situation was in no way diminished by the fact that Hanne stood resolutely by her decision not to raise the alarm. Johanne had tried everything: reason and common sense, begging, threats. Nothing helped.

  ‘A woman like Helen Bentley knows best herself,’ Hanne said softly, and carefully laid a blanket over the President. ‘Can you give me a hand, please?’

  Helen Bentley’s breathing was heavy and even. Hanne held two fingers flat on her wrist and looked at her watch. She moved her mouth as she counted silently, until she gently put the President’s hand back on her hip.

  ‘Good steady pulse,’ she whispered. ‘In fact, I don’t think she’s unconscious. I think she’s just asleep. Conked out. Completely exhausted, mentally and physically.’

  She rolled her chair into the next room as quietly as possible. On the way out, she turned to the voice-operated light switch: ‘Dark!’

  The lights dimmed slowly until they switched off. Johanne followed Hanne out and closed the door behind them. This sitting room was smaller. A huge gas fire with brushed-steel surrounds was on full blaze and filled the room with flickering shadows. Johanne sat down on a deep chaise longue and leant her head back on the soft headrest.

  ‘Helen Bentley doesn’t have any immediate need for a doctor,’ Hanne said and positioned her chair by the chaise longue. ‘But we should give her a little shake once an hour, just in case. She might have a bit of concussion. I’ll take the first shift. When does Ragnhild start to stir normally?’

  ‘Around six,’ Johanne said and yawned.

  ‘I’ll definitely take the first shift then. That way you can get at least a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Good, thank you.’

  But Johanne didn’t get up. She stared into the flames dancing on the artificial logs. They almost seemed to hypnotise her: a beautiful airy blue base that rose into a yellowy-orange flame.

  ‘You know what,’ she said and caught a whiff of Hanne’s perfume. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like this.’

  ‘Like me?’ Hanne smiled and looked at her.

  ‘Like you, yes, as well. But I was actually thinking about Helen Bentley. I remember the campaign so well. I mean, I normally manage to keep up with things pretty well . . .’

  ‘Pretty well!’ Hanne Wilhelmsen exclaimed with a laugh. ‘You’re obsessed with American politics! I thought my fascination with that country was bad, but you’re even worse. Do you . . .’

  She cocked her head. She seemed to be evaluating whether her question would cross the important boundary between being friendly and friendship.

  ‘It would be nice, a glass of wine, wouldn’t it?’ she asked all the same, and then regretted it. ‘Sorry, that was stupid. It’s a bit late really. Forget it.’

  ‘It would be lovely,’ yawned Johanne. ‘Yes please!’

  Hanne rolled her wheelchair over to a cupboard that was built into the wall. She opened it by pressing the door gently, and without hesitating took out a bottle of red wine with a label that made Johanne’s mouth fall open.

  ‘Don’t open that one,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re only going to have a glass!’

  ‘Wine is Nefis’ thing. I’m sure it would make her happy to know that I’d helped myself to something good.’

  She opened the bottle, put it between her legs, grabbed two wine glasses, which she carefully placed in her lap, closed the door and then rolled back. She poured a generous glass for them both.

  ‘It was a miracle really that she was elected,’ Johanne said, and took a sip. ‘Fantastic! The wine, that is.’ She lifted her glass in a discreet salute and took another sip.

  ‘What was it that made her win?’ Hanne asked. ‘How did she manage it? When absolutely all the commentators felt that it was too early for a woman in the White House?’

  Johanne smiled. ‘The X-factor, largely.’

  ‘The X-factor?’

  ‘The inexplicable. The sum of virtues that can’t actually be pointed out. She had everything. If anyone was going to have a chance as a woman, it was her. And only her.’

  ‘What about Hillary Clinton?’

  Johanne licked her lips and swallowed the wine she had resting on her tongue.

  ‘I think this is the best wine I’ve ever tasted,’ she said and stared into the glass. ‘It was too early for Hillary. She realised that herself as well. But she can follow. Later. She’s in good health and I think the time might be ripe for her when she’s around seventy. But that’s not for a while yet. The advantage with Hillary is that everyone knows all her shit already. Her whole life was turned inside out on her way to becoming the First Lady. Not to mention her years in the White House. Her dirty laundry was hung out long ago. And we need a bit of distance from it now.’

  ‘But Helen Bentley’s life was also put under the microscope,’ Hanne said, trying to straighten herself up in her chair. ‘They were after her like bloodhounds.’

  ‘Of course. The point is that they didn’t find anything. Nothing of any importance. She had the sense to admit that she hadn’t exactly lived like a nun when she was at university. And she did that before anyone had the chance to ask. And she said it with a big smile. She even winked at Larry King, live. Knocked that one on the head. Genius.’

  When she held the wine glass up to the fire, she saw a shifting range of colour in the wine, from an intense, deep red to a light brick red around the edges.

  ‘Helen Bentley even did one tour in Vietnam,’ Johanne said and had to smile again. ‘In 1972, when she was twenty-two. And she was smart enough not to say anything about it until some muttonhead, or perhaps I should say hawk, pointed out early on in the nomination process that the US was in fact at war with Iraq – and that the commander-in-chief had to have experience of war.
Which is absolute nonsense! Look at Bush! Ran around for a while in an air force uniform when he was young, but never set foot nor wing out of the US. But you know . . .’

  The wine was making her feel light-headed.

  ‘Helen Bentley turned it around completely. Went on TV and said, with a serious face, that she had never made a point of her twelve months in ’Nam out of respect for the veterans who had suffered serious physical and mental injury, as all she had done was basically sit behind a typewriter. She had not been forced to go to war, but had volunteered because she felt it was her duty. She came back, she said, as a wiser, more mature woman, and with the firm belief that the war had been a fatal mistake. And the same was true of the war in Iraq, which she had initially supported, but which had now developed into a nightmare, so that the country had to make every effort to find an honourable and responsible way in which to withdraw. As quickly as possible.’

  She quickly put her hand over her glass when Hanne wanted to pour her more wine.

  ‘No thank you. It’s delicious, but I have to go to bed soon.’

  Hanne didn’t protest and put the cork back in the bottle.

  ‘Do you remember sitting here watching the swearing-in ceremony together?’ she said. ‘And that we talked about how incredibly good they must be at planning their lives. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johanne replied. ‘I was, well . . . more engrossed, shall we say, than you were.’

  ‘That’s only because you’re not as cynical as I am. You still allow yourself to be impressed.’

  ‘It’s impossible not to be,’ Johanne said. ‘Whereas Hillary Clinton struggles with her image of being hard, uncompromising and wilful, I would—’

  ‘I see she’s trying hard to change that.’

  ‘Yes, definitely. But it’ll take time. Helen Bentley has something . . .’ She cocked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. Only now did she notice that her glasses were dirty with Ragnhild’s sticky fingerprints. She took them off and cleaned them with her shirtsleeve.