The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  Finch cleared his throat at his end of the table.

  “Cavalli, I think that—”

  “Here are copies for you too,” said Milo, sending them down the table. The whole time he was speaking he kept his eyes on Trimonti.

  “She was drugged and killed. And she was your colleague. Should you really let your lawyers delay the investigation?” Milo said to him.

  “We’ve given you a list of the projects,” said Finch.

  Milo ignored him, and spoke directly to the man in front of him, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I want to see the reports she wrote, the e-mails, the research results, her travel receipts, meeting minutes and anything else that might tell something about what she was doing at work.”

  “Cavalli, I think—”

  “I want to know everything she was doing,” he said firmly, starting to pack up the papers and put them in his bag.

  “I didn’t fly for seven hours to sit and listen to bullshit from a lawyer.”

  Finch had also stood up by now, while the others remained seated.

  “Now I’m going to the hotel. You can think through how you want it. I must have access to the information I’m requesting. Whether that happens with or without help from the American police is not important to me.”

  “But there are certain regulations we all have to comply with,” said Finch.

  He was clearly irritated.

  “I’m not so occupied by legal niceties,” said Milo, feeling the vein in his neck pound against his shirt collar.

  “With all due respect, Cavalli, you’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “I’m more interested in results,” Milo concluded, leaving the room.

  On his way to a meeting with yet another attorney.

  29

  He found the entrance between the sushi restaurant Wild Fish and the pet accessories boutique Doggy Style.

  The low-rises and independent shops south of Union Square were a short taxi ride from the skyscrapers and brand-name stores in Midtown.

  The attorney he was going to meet had his office on the border to SoHo, and the narrow staircase was in sharp contrast to the monumental marble reception at Forum Healthcare.

  He tried to shake off his anger at the previous meeting, but the thought that now he had to go through the American police authorities irritated him. That would take time.

  The stairs led up to the second floor, where Milo had the option of going to the dentist or the lawyer.

  “Not a simple choice,” he mumbled.

  He opened the door to the law office of Leary Patmunster Joyce and entered a waiting room where the secretary had already left for the day, but an Asian man in a suit sat waiting with a briefcase in his lap.

  Milo immediately recognized him as the Chinese man who had tried to pick him up at the airport. His large companion was not in sight.

  “Mister Cavalli!”

  The Chinese man jumped up, and his face cracked a nicotine-stained smile.

  Milo remained standing in the doorway, ready to turn around, but did not have time to say anything before the door behind the empty desk opened. Out came a man in his mid-fifties dressed in a double-breasted suit that went out of style sometime in the early nineties.

  “You must be Emilio Cavalli,” he said.

  The voice was powerful and deep. Much like the greenish color of the suit.

  Milo nodded in confirmation.

  “I’m Oscar Patmunster. Please, come in.”

  He made a hand movement toward the open office door before he turned toward the Chinese man.

  “I thought I made it clear that I would contact you later, and that I don’t want you hanging around the office.”

  “But Mr. Wong-Dah—”

  “—will get an answer later.”

  The attorney went over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. Calmly he guided him to the exit.

  “Now I’m going to talk with Mr. Cavalli, and then we’ll all take off for the weekend and enjoy it before we talk next week,” he said.

  As if it was a child he was escorting out.

  “But—”

  “Next week!”

  Milo sat down in a vacant chair, while Oscar Patmunster came grumbling back.

  “Who was that, and what was that about?” asked Milo.

  “A somewhat aggressive buyer.”

  “Buyer?”

  “I’ll explain in a bit. Let’s take things in the right order first. So you are Emilio, son of Maria Cavalli, and the grandchild of Antonio Cavalli?”

  “That’s right. Your e-mail was forwarded to me by my cousin, Corrado Cavalli, and we decided that I could drop in on you since I was in town anyway.”

  “I understand. May I see an ID?”

  Milo gave him his passport, and Patmunster studied it carefully and made a notation on a sheet of paper in front of him. Then he took out a set of documents, which he handed to Milo.

  “This is the will of Brenda O’Quigly, and I will now read through it before I explain the contents,” said Patmunster in a businesslike manner before he looked up and added in a more personal tone, “And then I’ll try to answer all the questions you must have as a result of this.”

  Milo skimmed the document quickly while the attorney read. Five minutes later he set the document down on the desk.

  “I must ask you: Have you understood the contents, Cavalli?”

  “Well, I understand that this Brenda O’Quigly has left an apartment that we are now inheriting. Or rather, are getting back. Is that the understanding?”

  Patmunster nodded seriously.

  “In addition to some personal effects that are in the apartment.”

  “Yes, I see that. But … why? And who is, who was this woman?”

  “Your grandfather bought the apartment in 1962, but the ownership was placed in a trust and the usage rights transferred to O’Quigly. And she would have that right until her death.”

  “I see.”

  “Both the documents of the trust and her will dictate that ownership of the apartment goes to the Cavalli family after she’s deceased. The trust is now being liquidated.”

  “I didn’t know my grandfather had an apartment here in New York.”

  Patmunster cleared his throat cautiously.

  “No, I can imagine that not too many knew about the apartment … or Miss O’Quigly, for that matter.”

  “You mean the relationship between her and my grandfather?”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “And what kind of relationship are we talking about here?”

  Once again a cautious throat clearing.

  “In the apartment there are a number of personal effects that could probably explain a great deal.”

  “I see. And when can I see this apartment?”

  “Whenever you want. Here are two sets of keys,” said Patmunster, removing two key rings from a light-brown envelope.

  Milo took them and studied them. As if they could give him answers to all the questions he was burning with inside. What had his grandfather been up to in New York? And what was his relationship with the deceased woman? That his grandfather might have had mistresses throughout his long life was not an impossible thought. But buying an apartment in New York for her?

  “What about the children of this woman? Can’t they make any claims on the apartment?”

  “She had no children. No heirs. She had only … your grandfather.” Patmunster awkwardly looked down at the papers again. “I would recommend you see the apartment in daylight. Do it tomorrow. It’s late at night Norwegian time now, so I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Milo looked at his watch, which showed midnight at home in Norway.

  “I’m starting to feel it, and I need to check in at the hotel. But one more question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “The Chinese guy?”

  “Ah, I’d almost forgotten that. The man out in the waiting room represents a Chinese businessman who wa
nts to buy the apartment.”

  “Buy it? But how did he know about it?”

  “Well, have you looked more closely at the address?”

  Milo looked down and read, “Seventy Central Park West.”

  “Exactly. The penthouse apartment. Those only come up for sale once every ten years. If that.”

  “So it’s that much in demand,” said Milo.

  “It sure is. The record price in New York so far is an apartment a little farther down the street from this one. Sixteen Central Park West. The daughter of a Russian industrial magnate paid eighty-eight million dollars for an apartment of just over six hundred square meters.”

  “Eighty-eight million dollars?!”

  Milo quickly calculated in his head and arrived at a price of five hundred million Norwegian kroner. Half a billion.

  “Now, to be sure, your apartment is not as large. It’s only a little over three hundred square meters,” Patmunster explained.

  Milo was at a loss for words.

  His thoughts ran from his grandfather to his mother to the family in Italy and back to the question of who this Brenda O’Quigly was.

  Patmunster completed the line of reasoning.

  “So, on today’s market, it would probably have a value of around fifty million dollars. And that’s a lot of money too.”

  * * *

  The Waldorf Astoria, on Park Avenue between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, was the hotel where Milo stayed whenever he was in New York.

  As he passed through the swinging doors from Park Avenue, up the steps and into view of the enormous chandelier hanging above the mosaic-covered floor, and continued in toward the enormous reception area, it felt as if he was coming closer to a previous age of greatness.

  The carpets were soft, the elevator doors were engraved, and the atmosphere was marked by subdued talk.

  He noted that nothing had changed since the last time he was there, and found an available receptionist who checked him in and gave him a room on the twenty-sixth floor.

  “With a nice view of Park Avenue. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “It sounds fine.”

  “Do you need help with your luggage?”

  “No, thanks, I just have this bag,” said Milo.

  He went over to the elevators, and studied the custom-made silver doors while he waited. There was a muffled peep when one of them arrived, and he entered it and pressed twenty-six.

  The elevator was carpeted too, and the walls and ceiling were covered in dark mahogany that shone after one of the employees presumably polished the woodwork every night.

  The hotel room was about twenty square meters and dominated by an enormous double bed. Milo went over to the windows and checked the view. Right below, he saw the roof of a small church, and on Park Avenue yellow taxis glided from intersection to intersection like little toy cars.

  He glanced at his watch, which showed quarter past one Norwegian time. Quarter past seven local time. His body was worn-out, but his head was busy processing the last few hours. He was still irritated after the meeting at Forum Healthcare and the pompous head of legal, but at the same time not surprised that the meeting had gone so badly. And now the irritation had subsided and made room for increasing wonder about what his grandfather had done in New York since the early 1960s.

  It was too early to go to bed. He had to adjust to American time so that he did not wake up in the middle of the night. He needed a shower, but then remembered that he had not had time to answer the text from Kathrin.

  DONE WITH MEETINGS NOW. WILL HAPPILY HAVE A DRINK OR BITE TO EAT IF YOU HAVE TIME. MILO.

  The response came quickly.

  HAVE TO GO OUT WITH A COUPLE COLLEAGUES, MANDATORY DINNER, BUT COULD YOU JOIN US? THAT WOULD BE REALLY NICE. WE’RE GOING TO BALTHAZAR ON SPRING STREET. BE THERE AT 8:30. WILL YOU COME?

  He responded that he would, undressed and got into the shower. He stayed there a long time, feeling the hard shower stream hammer against his chest.

  * * *

  Balthazar in New York has only the name in common with Baltazar in Oslo. The Oslo restaurant serves innovative Italian dishes, while its namesake in New York is a classic French bistro.

  The place was packed when Milo arrived at quarter to nine and started looking for her. Waiters in white shirts and black vests scurried between the tables, where New Yorkers of all ages put the workweek behind them.

  The sound level was loud, as it should be in Manhattan, and the atmosphere was animated.

  She was sitting on a barstool, sipping a glass of white wine, and on either side of her was a suit-wearing American shorter than her.

  She caught his eye, smiled and waved him toward her.

  “So nice that you could make it.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, and greeted the other two. They introduced themselves as Eric and Tim, neither of whom was particularly happy to get a competitor.

  “We’re just on our way to the table now,” she said, taking hold of Milo’s arm and letting him accompany her over to the four-person table along the mirror-covered long wall.

  Tim saw his chance to slip down on the sofa beside her, while Eric and Milo were referred to the chairs across from them.

  They ordered, and Tim and Eric took turns talking. About work. About “done deals.” About bonuses. About who had done and said what. About who had exploded in meetings. About who had told off clients. And about who had screwed clients.

  The whole time Kathrin and Milo listened politely while they sent each other an occasional understanding smile across the tablecloth.

  As Tim ended a story with his own roar of laughter, Kathrin saw her chance to change the subject.

  “So, how did your meetings go?”

  Milo felt her knee next to his.

  “One went to hell. It’s too soon to conclude whether the other one was good or bad.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” asked Eric.

  “I’m a policeman.”

  “Police?”

  “Milo investigates financial crimes,” Kathrin explained.

  The two others glanced at each other, and Milo could actually see how they rewound in their heads to remember if they had said anything wrong.

  “That’s right. I’m a kind of financial policeman. So this entire conversation is being recorded,” he said.

  For a second Eric and Tim gaped at him before Kathrin burst into laughter.

  “My God, you should have seen your faces now!”

  Like most other financiers, Eric and Tim lacked self-irony, and the damage was irreparable. After this the conversation across the table was almost divided in two. The two Americans drank more and talked between themselves, while Milo and Kathrin were finally speaking Norwegian and Swedish across the table.

  “Tell me, Emil, Emilio, Milo. Half Italian, half Norwegian. Those are actually two quite different cultures. Is that right?”

  He looked at her.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “I’m thinking about behavior. Italians and Norwegians. Or Scandinavians, for that matter.”

  “The difference can probably be summed up with the word ‘full,’” he said.

  “How is that?”

  She looked inquisitively at him.

  “In Norwegian, or in Swedish, ‘full’ refers to too much drink.”

  “And in Italian?”

  “Then it refers to having eaten too much. To be stuffed.” He took a sip of wine. “And there really you have the whole difference. In Norway it’s about drinking. In Italy it’s about eating,” he concluded.

  She shook her head slightly.

  “And where do you fit in best?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “It depends, but I’m probably more of a food guy.”

  After dessert Eric impatiently drummed his fingers while he waited for Kathrin to finish telling a story about a Midsummer celebration a few years ago.

  “Tim and I were thinking maybe we should move on. Have a drink s
omewhere else. Do you want to come along?”

  “I would actually prefer a cup of coffee and a bit more wine,” said Milo, looking at Kathrin, who nodded.

  “I think I’d like that too, but we’ll see each other on Monday, boys. Thanks for everything today,” she said.

  The two men had just been summarily dismissed, and they understood it. Tim calmly took out his wallet and retrieved a few bills, but Milo stopped him.

  “Relax, I’ll get this.”

  Eric and Tim looked questioningly at him.

  “But—”

  “You’ll get a chance to pay when I fine you,” said Milo.

  The two snorted a kind of smile in return and mumbled something about getting the check next time, before they disappeared.

  Milo looked at Kathrin.

  “I got the definite impression that they didn’t really like me,” he said.

  “Definitely. You were impudent and rude.”

  She sent him a red-wine smile.

  “Too bad, because I really liked them. I’m sorry if I chased away your colleagues,” he said drily.

  “No, you’re not sorry.”

  Milo took the last drops of wine in his glass.

  “No, I guess I’m really not,” he said.

  “Me neither.”

  They ordered coffee and more wine, and after she had told him about her family, Milo told her about his mother. And she sat quietly and listened.

  “What about your father?” she asked when he was finished. “How has he coped with this?”

  He considered telling her for a moment. About the years they almost weren’t on speaking terms. About how he had just found out that he had a half sister. About how he felt that he really didn’t know his own father as well as he should.

  But suddenly his phone vibrated, and Lehman’s name lit up on the display. Milo looked quickly at his watch, which showed seven o’clock at home in Oslo. They had been sitting in the restaurant for almost three hours.

  “I just have to take this,” he said.

  It must have been important if the attorney was calling on Saturday morning.

  “Of course. I’ll visit the restroom in the meantime,” she said, getting up.

  “Hi, it’s Milo.”

  “Oh, hi, are you awake? I actually only meant to leave a message.”

  Lehman sounded confused.