The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  The older man cast a glance at Milo as he approached, as if for a second he wondered if he was responsible for checking this person who had followed him without entering the access code, but saw that Milo looked respectable enough. For that reason he concentrated on his daughter’s furniture and boxes on the trailer. A floor lamp, a couple of bookcases and an office chair. She might be in her late twenties, and Milo guessed that the load of furniture was the result of a break-up. She had sad eyes, and she and her father did not say much to each other. He silently helped her set the boxes on a cart, which he then pushed ahead of him toward the corridors with rows of small storage compartments a short distance away.

  Milo took out a key ring in an attempt to look like someone who was going to retrieve something in his storage unit, and went the opposite way. He did not know what he was looking for, but was driven by a gut instinct. The last words of a dead little troublemaker a couple of years earlier had been the name of this very building.

  The corridor he was in was barely a meter and a half wide with compartments on either side. Orange doors with bronze-colored padlocks. The corridor was like a path in a labyrinth. After a few meters he could choose to go left, right or straight ahead. Ahead of him he could see a freight elevator and a stairway. He went that way, and took the stairs one flight up. There were more corridors in another labyrinth pattern. More compartments in a row.

  From various directions he heard the sounds of compartment doors being opened, and furniture and cartons being moved. An iron pipe hit the concrete and clanked before it rolled into the corrugated iron wall. A man cursed.

  Then an iron door slammed, and the freight elevator was put into motion. Milo walked toward it, and through the grate he saw the father and daughter slowly sinking down to the main floor. From the railing in front of him he had an overview of the parking area and entry. He saw the man put the cart back and the daughter get into the passenger seat. The man went up to the door, entered the code, and while the large freight door slowly opened, he jogged back to the car. He started the engine, and the car rolled quietly out of the building.

  A minute passed before the door slowly glided down into place, and as it struck the concrete with a deep thud, Milo felt a sensation of claustrophobia. He did not have the code to open the door, and it was almost eleven o’clock. His hope was that someone in the parked Audi would also soon be going out.

  He was on his way toward the stairs when the door opened again. A van came rolling in and stopped right inside the door so that it partly blocked the exit. The engine rumbled deeply before it was turned off, and three men got out. Their upper bodies revealed that they had carried a lot of heavy objects; not boxes and furniture, however, but iron and metal. And probably helped by the intake of simple chemical substances. All three had gorilla arms that hung slightly bowed out from their bodies and with the knuckles pointing straight ahead instead of to the side.

  Three specimens of the missing link, thought Milo, waiting to go down the stairs. The way they parked and the way they now stood leaning against the car aroused his suspicions. As if they were waiting for someone.

  Could he be the one they were waiting for? In that case, how did they get on his trail, and what did they want from him?

  He went back to the place by the railing with a view of the cars, but stayed two steps from the edge so that he was not readily visible. In the corridor right below him he heard the sound of a cart and two men talking excitedly together. The language was not Norwegian.

  He cast a glance at the three men, who evidently also heard the sound from the corridor. Two of them moved calmly away from the vehicle, while the third made rotating movements with his head and neck to loosen up the muscles. He resembled a wrestler ready for combat.

  Not good at all, thought Milo, looking at his watch again. He did not have time to think further before the voices below were raised.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he heard one of them say.

  He looked quickly over the railing and saw two Pakistani men who had stopped between the parking area and the corridor they had come out of. Both were broad-shouldered like the three others by the van, but at least a head shorter.

  On a cart they had six large boxes.

  “What are we doing here?!” shouted one of the oversize men.

  Milo was unable to hear the rest of what was said, but made out words like “our area” and “Pakis.”

  He cast a glance over the railing again, in time to see one of the Pakistanis take out his cell phone. That was like a signal to the other three.

  Suddenly it was like there was an explosion on the level below, and Milo watched as several hundred kilos of muscle attacked the two who were standing by the cart. But in contrast to fight scenes you see in movies, which could almost be beautiful as the opponents danced around each other thrusting and parrying, this scene was only raw, brutal, and brief.

  The two Pakistanis tried to fight back as best they could, but the Norwegians went right at them. Milo could see how the one who, two minutes earlier, had loosened up his neck and prepared for battle, fended off the blow of one Pakistani before head-butting him. Blood spurted from his nose, and the man screamed while he tried to bring his knee up into the Norwegian and get out of his iron grip. But the other fired off another head-butt, and the Pakistani fell to the ground with a moan.

  The other Pakistani was also down for the count on the concrete, and the three Norwegians pounded the two prostrate men with blows and kicks.

  Milo could literally hear the blows breaking bones in their bodies every time they struck.

  He pulled back and took out his cell phone to summon help, but determined that there was no coverage where he was standing.

  Going downstairs would be pure suicide, so instead he tried to move the phone calmly around to see if he could capture a signal. He had to go all the way over to the railing again, and crouched down to text Sørensen.

  “R in Unitor building. Gang clash. No coverage. Call local police!” he wrote, and hoped the chief inspector had his cell phone nearby.

  He was about to crawl back and out of view when he heard one of the Norwegians say loudly, “I think I saw someone moving up there.”

  The answer was lower, but audible.

  “Their car is the only one here. No one else is here.”

  Milo lay completely still and hoped the railing and weak lighting camouflaged him. Through the mesh on the railing he saw the three shaved heads and tattooed bull necks.

  “Someone’s up there. Let’s check!”

  Two of them set off at the same time. Milo got to his feet and started moving as quickly and quietly as he could down the corridor as the two set a course toward the stairs. The third guarded the two battered Pakistanis. One of them was still moaning while the other was motionless.

  Milo felt his pulse pounding. He turned left down another corridor, then right, then left again. Farther and farther away from the stairs and the freight elevator.

  There must be an emergency exit, he thought.

  He could hear tramping somewhere behind him, as if a couple of elephants came thundering.

  The corridor abruptly ended in a wall, and he turned around sharply. Took a new route at the first crossing and continued all the way until that corridor ended too. The light was dimmer, and there was not a single emergency exit sign in sight.

  He began going back again while he tried to get control of his breathing. The voices and steps came closer. The two had divided up and were now obviously searching corridor by corridor.

  Milo was literally backed into a corner.

  The only way out was the way he had come in. And that might just as well have been walled up with concrete.

  “He must be around here,” he heard one of them call and was startled at how close the voice sounded.

  “There’s no one here!” came the answer a few corridors farther away.

  Milo looked desperately around again, glanced up and made a decision. He
ran over to the compartment door with the strongest padlock, put one foot on the lock and shoved himself up while his fingertips took hold around an edge. The compartments did not go all the way up to the ceiling, and with an exertion of strength he halfway pulled himself, halfway shoved himself up. With his foot on the padlock and his palms on the roof of the compartment, he raised his body farther up and rolled onto the compartment roof, away from the corridor.

  The roof was made of netting, the type used for garden fences, and swayed slightly under his weight. He spread his arms and legs to distribute his weight so that the net roof would not pull on any of the attachments, and peered down through the netting. The compartment below was three-fourths full of cardboard boxes, a sofa on edge, car tires and a bicycle.

  He heard the voices approaching, and concentrated on lying as quietly as he could. He realized that his phone was not set on mute, and he prayed a silent “Ave Maria.” He hoped there was no coverage in here either. One little peep on the phone and he was finished. Hopefully Sørensen and the local police would not call him first, but instead storm through the door.

  What is it with me and storage buildings? he thought.

  He remembered a warehouse in Milan and the hunt for a Norwegian arms dealer. That time he had bluffed his way out of it. But these were not the type you bluffed. These were not the type who stopped and listened to what you had to say. These were the type who hit first and asked afterward. Or who just hit.

  “Not here either,” he heard a voice say, less than two meters away.

  Then he heard them both.

  “He can’t just fucking disappear.”

  “I didn’t see a thing, and we haven’t heard anything either. Come on. Let’s go!”

  It was quiet, but he heard no steps. They were standing below him, listening.

  “Be quiet,” the one said.

  Milo breathed calmly through the net roof and tried to ignore that his thigh itched, and that a loose steel wire on the netting roof scraped against one cheek.

  He heard his own heart pounding and only waited for one of them to climb up and discover him.

  Suddenly the compartment door below him thundered.

  “Damn!”

  The force of the blow was transmitted all the way up to Milo, and his body swayed gently in the uncomfortable net roof. The steel wires scraped more skin off his cheek, making it sting painfully.

  “Got nerves, huh?” he heard the one ask.

  “Shut up!”

  Slowly they started moving again, and he heard their steps die away down the corridor.

  After five minutes he took the chance to roll over on his back. He heard the rumbling sound of the van starting up, but waited another five minutes before he stuck his head over the edge.

  Finally he rolled back to the edge of the roof, got a foothold on the padlock on the compartment door, and let himself quietly down on the concrete. He rubbed his cheek, which responded by stinging even more.

  Calmly he went through the dark corridor in the direction of the parking area, but stopped when he heard the sound of the door opening again and a car that stopped with screeching brakes. He crept cautiously to the end of the corridor and looked carefully around the corner, and saw three Pakistani men come jogging toward the two on the floor. One limped over to the car while leaning on his friend, while the other had to be carried away.

  Two minutes later the car turned quickly and left the building.

  Milo started to run toward the door as it was closing. He just had time to lie down and roll out before the door hit the concrete with a thud.

  He got up and ran over to his car while he looked around for the car with the Pakistanis or the van of Norwegians who had beaten the living shit out of them.

  But no one was visible.

  As he started the Fiat, there was a beep on his cell phone. The text message was from Sørensen.

  DAMN. FELL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. KEEP CALM! I’LL CONTACT THE LOCAL POLICE.

  THURSDAY

  20

  There are fitness centers. With a receptionist, exercise rooms, pastel colors, bowls of fruit, flat screens, modern apparatus and posters with promises of more vitality.

  And then there are gyms. With no schedules or spin classes, just free weights, a worn couch and posters with promises of muscles.

  This was definitely a gym. The reception area was an unstaffed desk, and the ventilation system was not adequate to take away the odor of muscle building.

  Sørensen and Milo passed a couple of rowing machines from the last century and tackled a spiral staircase that went down to the basement, where the ventilation system was even less functional, and the muscle building was even more intense.

  Tormod Tollefsen had spent his time here a few years ago. Along with several members of the Downtown Gang. The same people that Sørensen suspected of the killing at that time, but whom they had been unable to convict in court.

  The question both Sørensen and Milo now asked was whether this was where Ingrid had gone after Oriana told her about the steroid ampoule.

  The room they came down to was ten by fifteen meters in size, and one wall was covered with mirrors from floor to ceiling. In front of the mirrors and along the entire wall there was a rack of dumbbells. Along the short wall was the bench press and incline bench. A Pakistani was exhaling in short bursts and concentrating while he worked to find the optimal grip around the weight bar. His friend stood behind, ready to help.

  Milo looked at the weights and noted that there were fifty kilos on either side of the bar.

  At the incline bench alongside, a third man set the barbell back with a thud and jumped up. He immediately met his own gaze in the mirrored wall and took a gulp from his water bottle.

  In front of the mirror a Norwegian was lying on a small bench, doing chest exercises with heavy dumbbells, while two Pakistani men alternated doing deadlifts in the corner.

  Sørensen sauntered over to the bench press, where the lifting was now in progress. Milo stayed in the background.

  The Pakistani on the bench tensed his legs on the floor, and his back was like an arc as he lifted what had to be more than his own body weight. Behind him stood his buddy, encouraging him.

  “Come on! One more. You can do it.”

  Sørensen inserted a pinch of snuff while he waited. When the man on the bench was done and sitting up again, Milo recognized him from when they had done surveillance on the Downtown Gang. He went by the nickname Banno, but his real name was Omar Boqhat.

  “Hi, Sørensen. Gonna work out?” Banno smiled broadly, looking past Sørensen and over at Milo before looking back at Sørensen.

  “Sheesh, who’s the kid in the suit?”

  Milo stared hard at him, but did not say anything. He let Sørensen do the talking.

  “Don’t you recognize Milo? He was the one who neutralized Reeza and brought him in,” Sørensen answered.

  Banno stared at Milo and measured him from head to toe. His gaze was marked more by surprise than respect, as if he thought Sørensen was making fun of him. At last he sent a nod in the direction of Milo before turning to Sørensen again.

  “And what can I do for you today?”

  “Tollefsen,” Sørensen replied.

  Banno sighed audibly and took a gulp of water.

  “Aren’t you done with that case yet? It’s over. We were released.”

  “The case isn’t over, and you know as well as I do that it won’t go away on its own,” answered Sørensen.

  Banno shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m working out. Can this wait?”

  “No. But it will be quick,” answered Sørensen.

  “Okay, what do you want? I didn’t know the kid. He died. I—”

  “He was killed. Executed.”

  Another shrug.

  “But this is about his sister,” Sørensen continued.

  Banno´s face showed no reaction.

  “Okay, and so?”

  “I just want to know if
she ever came here and asked questions about her brother.”

  “Not that I remember.”

  The answer came quickly and without hesitation.

  Sørensen took a photograph out of his pocket and held it in front of Banno, who looked at it.

  “Sheesh, is she dead too?”

  “Killed. She was killed too, yes.”

  “Well, then I understand why you’re so edgy. Two killed. No one arrested.”

  Sørensen held his gaze and Milo could see the vein on his neck pounding.

  “A simple question, Banno. Did she come here and ask questions about her brother? You know I’ll find out, but I want to hear it from you.”

  “I’ve never seen her.”

  Neither of them said anything else.

  Neither of them blinked.

  Both kept staring.

  Around them everyone was sitting or standing calmly, with their eyes aimed at Sørensen, Banno and Milo. No one moved so much as a dumbbell. Only the defective ventilation system was heard. Banno seemed calm. His self-confidence threatened to burst his undershirt.

  Suddenly the door to the changing room opened, and everyone’s eyes automatically moved toward the sound. A cleaning cart was pushed out, and behind it stood Oriana.

  Milo’s eyes opened wide, but her gaze—which at first showed surprise—shone with fear and begged them not to talk to her. Sørensen must have seen the same thing, because he also managed to resist the temptation to say something.

  She stood as if frozen, staring at the men in front of her. The bald chief inspector in the slightly oversize suit, the challenging posture of Banno, the misplaced, well-dressed Milo a few steps away, and the passive bodybuilders who followed Banno and Sørensen with their eyes.

  Banno was still looking at her. Could he also see Oriana’s fear? Could he see Sørensen exert himself not to show that he knew her?

  “Don’tcha have work to do, or what?” the burly Pakistani shouted at her.