The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  He proceeded to look at Baltic Services. Eastern Europe always triggered curiosity, but a quick search confirmed that it was a small company that supplied tradesman services. And judging by a couple of comments on the Web, these were services of mediocre quality. But cheap. In other words, right on target for the Norwegian market.

  Then he checked the third company, Alfonso AS.

  The numbers he found in the Brønnøysund registries showed higher activity than for the other two companies, and it looked like the company owned an apartment building in central Oslo. It was wholly owned by Alias AS, which immediately struck Milo as a familiar name. Where had he run across it before?

  He searched for it too in the Brønnøysund registries and immediately saw that he had hit the mark. One of the board members in the company was Omar Boqhat. Better known as Banno.

  Through Alias AS, he and his friends controlled several companies that dealt with property and stock investments. Alias was, in turn, owned by other companies, and Milo remembered how income from fast-food stands, hairstylists and car washes was plowed into the companies. And in the midst of this cash flow also came the money from criminal activity. Dope, ladies and torpedo activities. Then the money trickled further into the system, and was converted into assets such as apartments, land, cars and so on. Laundered and clean.

  Milo picked up the phone and called Sørensen to explain.

  “So, one of the companies that Banno and the gang control rents storage in the building Tormod Tollefsen said the name of right before he died, where you saw two Pakistanis get beat up?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll fix the papers. You talk with the landlord.”

  * * *

  It was two o’clock when they arrived at the Unitor building where Quick Storage was located. A patrol from the Follo police station was already waiting, having a chat with a skinny guy in a leather jacket that was too large. He introduced himself as the general manager of Quick Storage.

  “We’re going to number 1051,” he said as he entered the code to the big door.

  Milo noted that it was four digits, and simple. He had entered 1-2-3-4. Not exactly Fort Knox.

  The door glided up, and they entered the building.

  The parking area was empty, and Milo automatically glanced in the direction of the place where the Pakistanis and bull-neck Norwegians had fought.

  Some dark bloodstains on the concrete clearly showed that it had been intense. Milo could still hear the blows, the screams of pain, and the sound of bones breaking.

  He thought about the cart of cardboard boxes, and was convinced that it must be dope of one kind or another. He would soon find out, when they got the lock to the compartment cut off.

  They went toward the middle corridor, the same one Milo had seen the Pakistanis come out of, pushing the cart of boxes. His eyes swept up toward the ledge on the second floor, where he had stood in the darkness and looked down on the fight.

  The man from Quick Storage led the way, and as they passed a light switch, he pounded on it and the light fixtures over the corridor came on. Behind him Sørensen and the two from the Follo police followed, one with a sturdy bolt cutter. Trailing them was Milo.

  They passed the row of orange compartment doors in silence, and Milo thought about how the night before he had hidden while they searched for him. He wondered what awaited them now. Was it steroids for illegal sale to the bodybuilder community they were storing in the compartment? In that case it would explain what kind of company Tormod Tollefsen had gotten mixed up in. But what about Ingrid? Had she stumbled across this too, and in that way had to pay with her life?

  Even if they were to confiscate a large shipment of steroids, it was not a given that they would be able to find the link to her murder. Which, after all, had taken place over two thousand kilometers away.

  “Here it is,” said the general manager, stopping in front of a compartment marked 1051.

  The door looked like the others. The only difference was a much sturdier padlock.

  One of the Follo policemen went up to the lock and cut it off with the bolt cutters.

  “Be my guest,” he said with a serious expression to Sørensen and Milo.

  Sørensen went up and opened the compartment door. It let out a metallic screech, and Milo felt an expectant pressure in his chest.

  “Damn it!” the chief inspector said when he opened the door wide, and the light from his flashlight swept through the space.

  Milo took a step forward and saw that the compartment was empty, apart from two pallets in the middle of the floor. He went into the little room of about ten square meters, and let his eyes sweep across the floor and walls. Not so much as a scrap of paper was left behind.

  “Porca putana!” he shouted, but only got his own echo in response.

  * * *

  Milo stayed in the car after the others had left. He felt like driving far and fast, and had to force himself to sit calmly.

  Irritation that they had managed to empty the storage compartment made him eager for revenge. At the same time he felt like they were banging their heads against a wall. What did they really know about the connection between the murder of Ingrid Tollefsen in Rome, the killing of her little brother here at home, and the Downtown Gang? Tormod Tollefsen had evidently gotten mixed up in a gang of steroid users, most likely Banno and his friends. But they still lacked evidence that the Downtown Gang also pushed steroids.

  At the same time he was waiting for answers from the lawyers in Forum Healthcare concerning what projects Ingrid Tollefsen had worked on. The only connection between Forum and the killing of the little brother was the ampoule with the Forum-produced steroids. But that proved nothing. He also knew that if Ingrid had fallen out with her bosses, she had made powerful enemies.

  If you mess with the pharmaceutical industry—just like the oil, tobacco and arms industry—you had to be prepared to take one on the chin, he thought.

  And in the middle of his stream of thought was Oriana. Milo had to get her to talk, but nothing more would come out until her situation was secured.

  He had her folder with him in the car, and he took it out and skimmed through the letters from the lawyer. Milo was struck by how brief and weakly worded they were, as if Oriana was one of many clients, where he simply replaced name, country and dates, but basically used the same argumentation for residence as in all other cases. Arguments that the authorities didn’t buy.

  He needed someone to look at her case with fresh eyes. Put some effort into it.

  A name suddenly came to mind, and he tried to push it away.

  A name that made his blood pressure rise.

  He tried to keep reading, but the name had bitten firmly into his brain.

  Damn it all! he thought and started the engine.

  Necessity makes the devil eat flies.

  22

  Twenty minutes later he parked at Aker Brygge.

  On his way out of the parking garage and across the open plaza among others dressed in suits he happened to think of a comment from Sørensen.

  “A hundred years ago this area was full of prostitutes,” the chief inspector had said once when they were walking across Vika on their way to Aker Brygge, before he made a little stage pause and continued. “And it’s still only lawyers and stockbrokers around here. There’s something poetic about that.”

  The statement had been followed by hoarse laughter.

  And now Milo was on his way to buy a service.

  The reception area was worthy of a prominent law firm. Neutral but exclusive, with a well-dressed receptionist who smiled just as sweetly whether it was a corporate executive or an embezzler who arrived. Or a Financial Crimes investigator.

  “Hello, how can I help you?”

  The voice was as sweet as the smile.

  “I’m here to see Philip Lehman,” Milo replied.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but he’ll see me,” he answered, giving her his car
d.

  “One moment,” she said, picking up the phone and dialing a number.

  “There’s a visitor for you … a Milo Cavalli … yes … from Financial Crimes, yes … no, just him … okay, fine.”

  She turned to Milo again.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Would you like some coffee in the meantime?”

  “No, thanks, but I wouldn’t mind a little water from the dispenser over there,” he answered.

  “Go right ahead.”

  He drank a plastic cup of water while he thought about the times Lehman had grilled him in the courtroom. It had been absolutely unpleasant. The nasal know-it-all voice. The meticulous adjustment of the cuff links. The overbearing smiles to the judge at Milo’s answers. The accusatory tone.

  Philip Lehman was extremely well paid for defending wealthy individuals and corporations, and he almost always delivered the goods.

  And after these encounters in the courtroom he and Milo had developed a mutual distrust. Which bordered on contempt. But which, nonetheless, was based on recognition of the other as a worthy opponent.

  “Milo Cavalli! To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?” said Lehman with outstretched hand and pasted-on smile.

  Milo knew that only moments earlier the attorney most likely had minutely scrutinized the list of clients and wondered who in the hell “that fucking dago” had come to talk about.

  But Milo had decided to be honest, so he got right to the point.

  “I need your help,” he answered, taking the outstretched hand.

  “Help? What?” Lehman answered with a facial expression that said, “Why the hell should I help you?”

  “You’ll have to come into my office,” he said.

  They each sat down on an elegant leather couch in the large office, Lehman leaned back with his legs crossed and Milo leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

  He began by telling him about Oriana and her situation. About her incompetent attorney, about the Immigration Appeals Board (UNE) and Norwegian Labor and Welfare Administration, about the family and how he wanted Lehman to take her case and put UNE in its place so that she got a residency permit.

  But he avoided going into details about her role in the investigation of the murder of Ingrid Tollefsen.

  “Why me?” asked Lehman.

  “Because I can’t think of anyone worse to be rear-ended by.”

  Lehman smiled broadly.

  “Thanks. That was well put. And why this interest in this woman?”

  “Because she doesn’t have anyone else. The one she had is no longer around.”

  “I see.”

  Lehman was not someone who fell for emotional appeals.

  “It’s not important why I want this. What’s important is why you will do it,” said Milo.

  The attorney let one hand adjust the already perfect knot of his tie.

  “And why in the world should I take on such a case? You know very well this is not my area. I’m a business and defense attorney. I don’t deal with social insurance law.”

  The words “social insurance law” were pronounced with such a large dose of contempt in his voice that you might think he was talking about something indecent.

  “For three reasons. First, because it would make me extremely grateful. I would see it as a big favor.”

  Lehman snorted.

  “Second, because it would involve extremely valuable publicity for you. Instead of an overpaid attorney with doubtful financial investments in the Cayman Islands and the tax authorities breathing down your neck, society would see an attorney who cares because he takes the time to help a poor, talented immigrant. Completely pro bono,” Milo continued.

  Lehman stood up and buttoned his suit coat.

  “No, you know what, Cavalli, I don’t deal with pro bono cases, and—”

  “Third, because it will give you the opportunity to tap into my bank account,” Milo interrupted.

  The attorney raised one eyebrow.

  Milo continued.

  “You take this as a pro bono case outwardly. I pick up the tab. No one has to know anything. If it leaks out that I’ve paid you, I’ll come after you with everything I have.”

  He leaned back and met the eyes of the attorney he disliked more than anyone, but whom he knew was the country’s most exorbitant. Lehman went over to the desk and picked up the phone.

  “Halvor, it’s me. We have a new case. Can you come in? Great! And bring along the phone number for the TV2 journalist we talked about in connection with the Grefsen case,” he said and hung up.

  * * *

  Milo went back to the parking garage, and on his way looked up the number for Einar Gade-Broch. His father’s golf buddy and best friend. Surgeon at University Hospital. There was a favor he needed.

  Gade-Broch did not answer until after ten or twelve rings.

  “Sheesh, Emil, hi! I just had to finish another call first. So, how are things with you?”

  “Just fine.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, I know. But Einar, I need a little help from you. Or a tip.”

  “Okay, what can I do for you, Emil?”

  “Steroids and growth hormones. What do you know about them?” asked Milo.

  “Well, not exactly my specialty. Why are you asking?”

  “Work. I need to know more about both the legal and illegal uses.”

  “As I said, not exactly my field. But I think I know who you should talk with, an acquaintance of mine at the Norwegian School of Sport Sciences.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Her. Anja Nyhagen.”

  23

  He parked at Sognsvann and zigzagged between puddles in the direction of Toppidrettssenteret, the Elite Sports Center. He stood out in the tights-clad crowd on their way into the forest, and reminded himself that he should never do his runs up here. There was something jittery about the men with the big pulse counters and focused gazes rushing past.

  They had agreed to meet by the main entrance, and he stood and checked his e-mail while he waited. A long-distance runner he recognized from sports broadcasts came rushing into the place, gasping for breath. He did a few stretches before he put his index finger against one nostril and sent a glob of snot to the pavement.

  Charming, thought Milo, moving a few meters away.

  A few minutes later a woman in her late thirties came out of the building. She walked toward him, smiling.

  She had workout clothes on. Black tights that sat as if molded around her thighs and a black workout jacket. Her hair was oak-brown and shoulder-length, but gathered in a ponytail. Her face was narrow, with clear features. She had the cheekbones of a model, but at the same time a dozen freckles, typical of people who spend a lot of time in the open air and sunshine. She was one of the most beautiful women he could recall having met.

  “Anja. A pleasure,” she said.

  The handshake was warm, and along with her ruddy cheeks this told him that she had just finished a workout.

  “Milo.”

  “So you’re Milo. I’ve heard about you,” she said.

  “I see. And what have you heard?”

  “This and that.”

  There was something teasing about her smile.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Milo replied.

  She hummed in response and scrutinized him, and Milo immediately felt like he was being assessed.

  “Thanks for being able to meet with me so soon,” he said.

  “No problem. Or rather, yes, there is a little problem. Since we talked on the phone, something has come up. I have to fill in for someone who’s sick. Have to talk with some students about diet”—she looked at her watch—”in five minutes, actually.”

  “Okay. But can we talk afterwards?”

  “That was just what I was going to suggest. I’ll be happy to contribute information, but I’m going to meet a girlfriend afterwards for a bite to eat. My husband is out of town,
and I can’t bear any more meals of crackers. What if we met over a glass of wine after that?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. Where?”

  “I’ll text you a little later. Now I have to run,” she said.

  He watched her leave with long, quick strides toward the main entrance while she loosened the ponytail and let her hair fall down over her shoulders.

  * * *

  There was not a man in the bar who did not follow her with his eyes as she came in the door.

  She had the self-confidence her sisters ten years older lacked—and the experience her sisters ten years younger lacked. Something that gave her an attractive force she was well aware of.

  He noticed how the conversations at the tables around almost stopped, and how the gazes of both men and women sought her out where she stood at the entrance, looking around.

  Her gaze scanned the bar and tables and stopped at last at Milo, who was sitting at a table for two in a quiet corner.

  She sent him a smile that struck home, and maneuvered between the table with the six businessmen having a drink before dinner and the table of students covered with beer glasses.

  He got up and took her hand, and responded to the cold squeeze she gave him.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a glass of white wine for you,” he said, pulling out the chair for her.

  “That’s nice,” she said, sitting down while he pushed her chair in.

  She had on a pair of jeans that fit tightly and elegantly over her thighs and behind, and a tailored jacket that meant she could waltz into any boardroom or nightclub whatsoever and only get approving looks.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  “Cheers.”