The Oslo Conspiracy

by Asle Skredderberget

  And then he woke up.

  After forty-five minutes on the treadmill he showered, then indulged in a long breakfast while he read the thick Sunday edition of The New York Times before going to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for morning Mass.

  The cathedral towered in relation to Norwegian churches, but not compared with the largest in Italy. The rows of pews were filled with people of all types and ages, and he found a place on the dark wooden pew alongside a Latin American couple.

  The liturgy was exactly the same as during Mass in Italy and in St. Olav parish in Oslo, and gave him a strong feeling of belonging. The only difference was that the language was English.

  He wondered if it was also this church his grandfather had visited when he was in New York. If it was here that he and Brenda went to seek forgiveness for their unseemly behavior. To pray. To confess.

  After Mass he remained seated a few minutes in silence before he walked the few blocks back to the hotel.

  He was sitting on his bed with the iPad studying the Forum Healthcare Web site and what was written about their research when Corrado called.

  “Ciao cugino! Hi, cousin!”

  “Ciao, Corrado.”

  “Sorry I didn’t answer when you called yesterday, but it’s been a steady stream of preparations for a fashion festival, you understand. Did you see the lawyer about the will?”

  Milo told him about the meeting with Patmunster and about the apartment, and finally about what he had found, the correspondence between their grandfather and Brenda, the pictures, the shoes.

  “So that was what our grandfather Antonio’s secret was?”

  “What do you mean? Did you know he had a secret?”

  “All men carry a secret, Milo. One they don’t dare share with anyone. One they carry alone. That’s the way it is.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course it’s that way.”

  “So what are your secrets, Corrado?”

  He got a roar of laughter in response.

  “I tell you almost everything, Milo, but only almost. The last five percent is for me alone to carry.”

  “Maybe you’re right. That we are all harboring something.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Corrado answered sincerely.

  “It’s just that I’m starting to get a little tired of these family secrets.”

  Milo told about the encounter with Sunniva at home with his father.

  “There, you see! Even Uncle Endre has had his worries. So, Aunt Maria knew about that?” asked Corrado.

  “Yes.”

  “And what’s she like? Your sister, that is?”

  “She seems … quite all right.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t like being deceived.”

  “Listen, Milo. Listen to your wise cousin now. If your mother forgave him, and if this Sunniva is cool, then you don’t need to complicate things even more.”

  “Oh well. But speaking of family secrets, Corrado. What do you know about a shipwreck in Italy in 1977? A military vessel.”

  Corrado remained silent on the other end.

  “Why do you ask?” he asked at last.

  Milo told him about what Sunniva had said, and about the letter from their grandfather to Brenda. He omitted mentioning Benedetti, who had lost his brother in the shipwreck.

  “I’ve heard about it, but actually not that much,” said Corrado.

  “But what do you know?”

  “Milo, listen here. I think this is something you have to talk about with your father. I don’t know the difference between what I know and what I’m making up,” he answered cryptically.

  Milo paced back and forth in the hotel room and felt a rising frustration over the evasive answers.

  “Can’t you just tell me?”

  “Can’t you just talk with your father?”

  Milo realized that he was at the end of the road where Corrado and this topic were concerned, and Corrado used the chance to change the subject back to the apartment they had inherited.

  “That’s quite a location! Grandfather knew what he was doing.”

  “Yes, the apartment is really incredible. Prospective buyers have already come forward, and the lawyer estimated a price of around fifty million dollars.”

  “That’s not bad. But I don’t need money right now. Do you, Milo?”

  “No, I have enough to get by.”

  “Then let’s keep it, for the time being,” Corrado concluded.

  * * *

  He was lying on the bed, surfing between TV channels, but finally nodded off. An hour later he woke up. His head was heavy, and he only wanted to keep on sleeping, but forced himself up. He did not want to risk staying on Norwegian time, and wake up in the middle of the night.

  He took a refreshing shower, and came back to two text messages. One from Sørensen and one from Temoor. Both contained only two words: “Call me.” The only thing that set them apart was Sørensen’s exclamation point.

  He hoped Temoor had something good for him, so that he was not completely empty-handed when he called the chief inspector afterward.

  The computer specialist answered on the first ring.

  “How’s New York?”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I keep tabs on you. I can see your cell phone on the screen here.”

  “I ought to report you to the police.”

  “You don’t dare. Got too much on you, you know.”

  “Tell me, are you at work now? Thought you were at home with Grete, baking rolls.”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “Relax. It was nice to visit you. I mean it.”

  He heard Temoor exhale dejectedly into the receiver.

  “Do you know what she said the other day? ‘Shouldn’t we invite Milo and his girlfriend to dinner sometime?’”

  Milo had to smile.

  “That was nice.”

  “Do you know what I said? ‘I think we’ll let Milo and his girlfriend be. We don’t have room for his harem here in this little apartment.’ Ha!”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Bad? Damn it, you’re like a parody of James Bond!”

  “And right there I feel we’re through with the small talk. What do you have for me?”

  “Does ‘chief compliance officer’ say anything to you?”

  “Yes. It’s a title. A position in big companies. The person who ensures that the company complies with all regulations and conducts itself in an ethically responsible manner, you might say.”

  “Total bullshit, of course. But now it turns out that Ingrid Tollefsen contacted the man who is chief compliance officer at Forum Healthcare.”

  Bingo! Milo felt his pulse pounding.

  “When was this?” he asked.

  “A week before she was killed.”

  “Do you have the e-mail?”

  “Yes, I’m sending it over to you now. There are two e-mails. One was sent via a sort of ‘ethics hotline.’ Then this compliance officer replied, and they arranged a meeting.”

  “So he was the one she was going to meet in New York?” said Milo.

  “In New York, no. They were going to meet in Rome,” Temoor answered.

  “In Rome? She was going to meet the compliance director in Rome?”

  “It says so in the e-mails. But there was someone else she had contact with in New York, it appears,” said Temoor.

  “Yes, a Professor Salvatore. We’ve just spoken with her.”

  “Her? I have an e-mail that she sent to a dottore—not professor—Salvatore.”

  “Dottore Lucca Salvatore?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ten minutes later he had everything sent over from Temoor. The e-mail correspondence between Ingrid and the compliance director at Forum Healthcare was short and concise. She wanted to talk about what she called “irregularities in research,” but did not specify what. At the same time she asked that the inquiry be treated confidentially.

&n
bsp; From: Anderton, Greg

  Subject: Conversation

  To: Tollefsen, Ingrid

  Ingrid,

  Your inquiry will be treated confidentially, and as of today I am the only one who knows that you have made contact.

  I am going to Europe next week, both to Paris and Rome.

  Would one of those places work for a meeting?

  An alternative is that I come to Oslo, but perhaps it would be nice for you if we met someplace other than your workplace?

  Sincerely

  Greg

  Ingrid then replied briefly that Rome worked well because she was going to a conference there. She had suggested a meeting early on Tuesday morning.

  The day after she was killed, thought Milo.

  He proceeded to look at the other e-mail Temoor had found. The one to Lucca Salvatore, the husband of Chiara Salvatore.

  From: Tollefsen, Ingrid

  Subject:

  To: Dottore Salvatore, Lucca

  I need to tell your wife.

  My conscience does not allow me to remain silent any longer.

  Ingrid

  Now this is starting to resemble something, thought Milo.

  Chiara Salvatore had obviously been uncomfortable when they’d talked about Ingrid and her husband, and flatly denied that they’d had contact without her. But this e-mail confirmed the opposite, namely that there was something between them. And that Ingrid threatened to tell his wife about it.

  Then we’ve established a motive, in any event, thought Milo.

  It would not be the first time a man took the life of a mistress to protect himself. Or a scorned wife took the life of a mistress to get her husband back.

  He grabbed a beer from the minibar while he returned to the e-mail exchange with the ethics director in Forum.

  So Ingrid Tollefsen had sounded a warning internally about irregularities in the company through their ethics director, and thereby she must have been seen as a whistle-blower. But before she was able to tell what was going on, she was killed.

  With that we also have a motive that points toward the employer, in addition to the motive that points toward affect or jealousy, he summarized to himself.

  He sent a quick text message to Benedetti and asked him to find out all they could about Dottore Lucca Salvatore, and then forwarded the e-mail Ingrid had sent, where she’d threatened to inform his wife.

  With a healthy portion of self-confidence he finally called Sørensen. He briefly recounted the developments.

  “If you say so. Two more motives, that is. A few things have happened here at home too.”

  “What?”

  “I just had it confirmed that Farak and Mohammat Ambhalajad were in Rome at the same time as Ingrid Tollefsen. You know who they are?”

  “The twins. In the Downtown Gang.”

  “Exactly. They came from Islamabad a few days earlier, and stayed at a hotel only a kilometer or so from her hotel. That means we have established both motive and occasion,” said Sørensen.

  “And the motive is?”

  “Her private investigation of the killing of her little brother.”

  “So now we’re up to three motives, right? This is spreading in quite a few directions,” said Milo.

  He heard the sound of a lighter on the other end, inhalation and puffing out that could be heard like a sigh.

  “I can buy the jealousy motive. But the part with Forum I’m unsure about. Don’t misunderstand me, because I think the folks there are some smooth eels in buckets of slime. But a company doesn’t go and kill troublesome employees.”

  Milo agreed that it sounded farfetched, but did not say anything. Sørensen continued.

  “I think the killings of Tormod and Ingrid are connected, and I think the solution is in the steroid-smuggling Pakistanis in the Downtown Gang. We’ll wait for a court order and take action this week. So if you want to be part of that, you have to make it back by Wednesday afternoon. But at the same time you should check as much as you can on what you’re sitting on now. Especially that Salvatore couple.”

  “That’s fine. I have something I have to do tomorrow, but I’ll take a flight Tuesday evening and be back on Wednesday morning,” Milo answered.

  After they hung up, he googled Lucca Salvatore. He found a newspaper article where, in part, it said that he alternated between living in Rome and New York. Furthermore, the company he was co-owner of was mentioned. It was called Medical Research and based in New Jersey.

  It was time to talk with someone who could tell him more about Medical Research—and about the industry it was part of.

  MONDAY

  33

  It was Anja Nyhagen who had given him the name. After some introductory courtesies where they avoided any direct reference to the night they had spent together, he asked her for advice.

  “You have to talk with Alex Marcody. I met him at a conference in Boston, but he’s affiliated with New York University. Brilliant guy,” she had said.

  Marcody was a former doctor, but now he was a professor of medical ethics who had written several books about the pharmaceutical industry. She retrieved his business card, and a few minutes later Milo reached him on his cell phone.

  “Norwegian police?” he answered with a trace of skepticism.

  Milo explained that he had gotten the number from Anja, and then briefly what he was working on. With that, the skepticism disappeared.

  “I’ll be more than happy to speak with a policeman about what goes on in the pharmaceutical industry,” Marcody replied.

  They agreed to meet in his apartment in Tribeca at the lower end of Manhattan, after he was done with classes at the university.

  * * *

  Alex Marcody was a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties with an alert gaze and energetic handshake.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” said Milo as they sat down at the dining table. Marcody cleared away some papers.

  The apartment was small, and the table obviously served both as a place to eat and to work.

  “From what I understand, you need a kind of crash course in the pharmaceutical industry?”

  Milo nodded.

  “Quite specifically about research and development. And then I have some questions about a couple of companies, in case you’re familiar with them,” he said.

  “Before we start: coffee?”

  “Please,” Milo replied, and Marcody disappeared into the kitchen.

  A few minutes later he was back with two espressos, and got right to the point.

  “Are you investigating any specific companies in the industry?” he asked with curiosity.

  Milo set aside the coffee cup.

  “Let me put it this way: I’m extremely interested in understanding the mentality in the industry and how these companies operate,” he answered diplomatically.

  Marcody smiled.

  “Yes, I can tell you something about that. I’ve experienced the industry both as a doctor and a researcher. Okay, let‘s cover a few basics first. There are a great many myths about the pharmaceutical industry. And they’re hard to dispel,” he said, emptying his cup in one gulp.

  “What myths are you thinking about?”

  “Well, for example, that they spend so much money on research and development. Exactly the area you’re interested in. Next that the industry is so innovative and constantly comes out with new products.”

  “They don’t do that, you think?”

  “It’s not something I think. These are facts. I’ll get to that. First of all, just so we have a couple of things clear to us. This is one of the world’s most lucrative industries. We’re talking about a global market of eight hundred fifty billion dollars.”

  Milo calculated quickly in his head. About five trillion kroner.

  Marcody continued.

  “I don’t have such fresh numbers on the profitability right here, but if you go back a decade, the combined profits for the ten largest pharmaceutical companies on the For
tune 500 list were greater than the profits for the other four hundred ninety companies combined.”

  Alex Marcody spoke of an industry whose purpose in principle was curing and relieving people’s illnesses, but which to an ever-greater degree since the mid-1980s had focused on earning the most money possible. Maximization of shareholder value was the mantra, which Milo was quite familiar with from his time as a stock analyst.

  “And what is most profitable is not necessarily constantly developing new products, but rather making sure to sell as much as possible of what they already have.”

  Marcody spoke clearly and articulately and kept his eyes on Milo to be sure that his Norwegian guest took in everything he said.

  “Today’s pharmaceutical companies are run by marketing. Not innovation,” he said.

  “Well, it’s hardly a crime to earn money. If they didn’t, there would be zero innovation. And the companies themselves maintain that they spend billions on research, in particular,” said Milo.

  “Yes, they maintain that. But at the same time they aren’t showing all their numbers. Much of what they call research and training is pure marketing. Doctors are invited to conferences and presented with manipulated research results, and that’s called continuing education,” Marcody said scornfully.

  “What do you mean by ‘manipulated research results’?” Milo wanted to know. He quickly made a note in his book.

  “The most common is that when a new product is going to be tested for its efficacy, it is tested against a placebo, a sugar pill, that is. And not against a product that is already on the market. That way the new product looks better almost regardless, even if it is not necessarily better for patients than what is already on the market. There are many examples of new products that come on the market actually being worse than existing ones, but the companies hammer away with their doubtful research results, which show that the product has ‘documented good effect,’” said Marcody, making quotation marks in the air. “And the background for this manipulation is of course being able to market something as new and pioneering, so that the companies can jack the price up further in relation to the older products on the market. Another widespread trick is to test the products on persons younger than the patient group they are actually meant for.”