My boss and I had been told that it would be a highly confidential briefing. Just how confidential it was became apparent when we entered the prime minister’s office and saw that Trond Bratten was there alone, sitting behind a large desk.
If Trond Bratten really had been looking forward to meeting me, it was not clear to see. He said a brisk ‘Good afternoon’ and shook our hands.
My boss took care to close the door behind us, and then we settled into two chairs that were on the other side of the desk. I noticed that the desk was larger than when I had been here before, and the chairs pulled slightly further back.
Trond Bratten stayed sitting behind the desk and looked at us expectantly.
My boss cleared his throat and said that the prime minster had requested a strictly confidential briefing on the part of the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen that might affect the oil agreement and the Soviet Union, as we had now been asked to a meeting at the embassy.
Bratten replied: ‘Yes, a short and confidential account.’ Then he looked me and said no more.
A short and confidential accounted suited me well. So I reported, without going into any details, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen was still unsolved, but that Fredriksen had been suspected of being a spy and was killed, apparently, only a matter of hours before he was due to be arrested. It was not clear whether he was guilty or not, and we had no grounds for claiming that he had been assassinated. The timing was, however, striking, and in the course of the investigation, I had been followed by a man, whom we had now identified as a Soviet agent, who probably had many deaths on his conscience, in a number of countries. He was officially linked to the Soviet Embassy in Oslo and had diplomatic immunity.
‘A challenging situation,’ was Trond Bratten’s succinct comment when I had finished. Then he sat and pondered, without saying any more.
My boss asked carefully if the prime minister had any advice for us with regard to our visit to the Soviet Embassy, in this challenging situation.
‘Say as little as possible, without offending them,’ Bratten said, in a monotone voice. Then once again, he sat there staring into space, deep in thought.
I noted down the advice and thought to myself that it might be easier said than done.
A few more minutes passed in breathless silence. Finally, I broke it by asking the prime minister what he thought about the situation and how we should go forward.
‘Democracy must as far as possible be allowed to take its course, and the agreement that the Storting is due to ratify tomorrow could be of the utmost importance to the nation’s future. But it would be both politically and morally impossible for a democratic country to enter into an agreement with a non-democratic country that had just violated the democratic country’s sovereignty by carrying out terrorist activities there.’
He spoke without hesitation and the formulation was so precise that I almost broke out into spontaneous applause. Fortunately, I managed to stop myself in time, and instead asked how he would deal with the matter from this point on.
‘The ratification procedure must be allowed to run its course, unless there are any dramatic developments in the case. The Government must be informed immediately if there are any such developments, in order to assess the ratification procedure.’
I took the hint and said that the prime minister’s office would be told immediately if there was any important news.
My boss and I had barely opened the door before Ragna Bratten slipped in past us. I wondered how much she would be told about this strictly confidential case – and how such different people could function together in a marriage. But then I had more than enough problems of my own to think about.
My boss and I left the prime minister’s office in silent thought at five to five. Fifteen minutes later we presented ourselves, still grave and thoughtful, at the reception of the Soviet Embassy in Drammen Road.
XI
The receptionist at the Soviet Embassy was a raven-haired man somewhere between thirty and fifty, who, with his stony face and grey suit, looked just as I had expected a receptionist at the Soviet Embassy to look. His expression did not change in the slightest when we introduced ourselves. He then picked up the internal telephone and relayed a short message in Russian.
We stood waiting for three minutes, until another member of staff, who looked like the first’s big brother, appeared. After a brief handshake, he said: ‘Please, follow me.’
The atmosphere was not conducive to small talk. We followed him along a dark hallway into a large meeting room with four chairs positioned around a big table set with cake, water and vodka. The member of staff pointed at the two chairs closest to the door, said ‘Wait here’, and then left the room. So there we sat under a five-foot portrait of the Soviet Union’s leader, Leonid Brezhnev. He looked condescendingly down at us, his chest covered in orders and medals.
‘Not a promising start,’ I said to my boss in a hushed voice, once we were alone in the room. He instantly raised a warning finger to his mouth. I realized my mistake and showed my palms in acknowledgement. There was no reason to believe that the room was not bugged.
Just then, there was a light knock on the door. This pre-empted a pleasant surprise. In walked a dark-haired, slim and attractive woman in her twenties.
She gave us a timid little smile, shook our hands with an unexpected firmness, and said in perfect Norwegian: ‘Welcome. My name is Tatiana Rodionova and I will be the interpreter for your meeting with the vice-ambassador, Igor Sokolov. The vice-ambassador is unfortunately currently caught up in another important meeting, but should be here shortly.’
I was instantly charmed and I remarked that she spoke impressively good Norwegian.
Her smile widened and she replied: ‘Thank you, it is a very interesting and beautiful language. I have a PhD from Moscow University. I have only been here for three months, but have given some guest lectures in Russian and been to a few lectures in Norwegian at the university here in Oslo.’
It all started so promisingly. But that all changed when the door opened again, this time without a warning knock. It then slammed closed behind a six-foot-five bald man in his fifties wearing a double-breasted black suit and patent leather shoes. He was the tallest man I had ever met, as far as I could remember, and possibly also one of the heaviest. His build and body language made me feel as though I was standing in front of the great Russian bear, a feeling that was in no way diminished by his unusually powerful handshake.
Vice-Ambassador Igor Sokolov’s arrival changed the atmosphere in the room completely. All of a sudden my boss and the interpreter were serious and focused. Sokolov spoke fast and in bursts like a machine gun. The interpreter’s voice was flat and serious as she translated.
‘The vice-ambassador would like to welcome you and he thanks you for coming at such short notice. The embassy is aware that the investigation into the tragic murder of a leading Norwegian politician, Mr Per Johan Fredriksen, is still ongoing. This is of course an internal, Norwegian case in which the embassy does not wish to become involved. The embassy is, however, concerned that one of the biggest Norwegian newspapers is planning to make public some unfounded rumours that Fredriksen had improper contact with the embassy here and that this may have been the reason why he was killed.’
This was unexpected. My boss and I exchanged a swift glance, without becoming any the wiser. It was unnerving that the Soviet Embassy had better knowledge than we did of what the Norwegian media planned to write about an ongoing criminal investigation. But more than anything, it would be very uncomfortable for us if such speculations were published in the newspapers.
The vice-ambassador did not give us long to think before unleashing a new volley of verbal gunfire.
‘Normally, the ambassador would have taken the matter very seriously, but given the timing, he now finds it particularly pressing. We cannot see any explanation other than that enemies of the Soviet state, by means of these evil rumours, are attemp
ting to block an agreement that is of great national importance to the Norwegian state as well.’
The vice-ambassador’s face was grim, the voice of the translator staccato, and I myself thoughtful. I looked over at my boss. He coughed and said: ‘We were not aware that some of the press were planning to publish such reports. We have a free press in Norway that cannot be overruled by the police or politicians. What does the embassy wish us to do?’
The response was rapid. ‘We want the Verdens Gang newspaper to be given the necessary instructions to stop that report being published tomorrow. Alternatively, as soon as the reports are published, the press and politicians could be informed immediately that the reports are completely unfounded. Unless, of course, the police are sitting on evidence that gives grounds for such suspicions. In which case, the embassy should have been contacted long ago in order to clear up any misunderstandings and to disprove such allegations.’
The situation felt more and more tense. We had no evidence to give the embassy, but equally could not rule out any contact. My boss looked at me questioningly. It felt like I was jumping into an ice-cold lake when I took the plunge and started to speak.
‘In an open democracy such as Norway, the police cannot instruct the free press on what they can and cannot write. We will of course follow all press coverage closely and assess the need to make a statement, should any of the reports tomorrow be misleading with regard to the situation. We do not believe that the murder of Fredriksen was in any way linked to the Soviet Union. The problem is that in a constitutional state such as Norway it is difficult for the police to make a categorical statement about who has not committed a crime as long as the investigation is ongoing and we have not arrested anyone for the murder.’
I felt my pulse rising as the interpreter translated my answer into Russian, in a slightly less staccato voice. Behind his iron mask, Igor Sokolov was clearly either very well prepared or a very intelligent man. He replied within seconds of the interpreter finishing her translation.
‘The vice-ambassador finds it surprising that it is difficult to make such a statement, unless the police themselves also doubt the Soviet state’s good intentions. He is also surprised that the investigation has not yet resulted in an arrest almost one week after the murder.’
I looked at my boss, and when he did not answer, did so myself.
‘The police do not, of course, doubt the Soviet state’s intentions in any way, but the investigation is complex and we are duty-bound to keep all possibilities open. As I said, we will assess the need for a statement as soon as we see what is in the papers tomorrow morning. There are a couple of things that we think may have contributed to these rumours, which, now that we are here, it seems natural to raise. The first is that, on several occasions, Fredriksen was seen having long conversations with representatives from the embassy.’
I looked at my boss as I spoke, and to my huge relief, he nodded in agreement. I hoped, while I waited for the interpreter to finish, that my boss would think the same about my second reason.
Again, we did not have to wait long for the vice-ambassador’s reply.
‘The vice-ambassador is adamant that there has been no improper contact. Various representatives from the embassy participate, as part of their work to build a friendly relationship between our countries, in a large number of arrangements and talk to various people in this connection. It is perfectly natural that Fredriksen may have spoken to a number of them. To be on the safe side, we have checked with all our employees and can assure you that none of them have had anything other than short, fortuitous meetings with Fredriksen. We are not frightened to call anyone who claims otherwise a liar.’
The vice-ambassador was playing high stakes and spoke even faster than before. I thought I saw a hint of fear in the interpreter’s eyes when she said the latter, and hoped that she did not think the same about me. In the midst of it all, I was suddenly very impressed by the interpreter. It could not be easy to interpret such a fast-paced and intense conversation simultaneously – and her Norwegian was almost perfect.
I looked at my boss for a last time, and then turned back to the vice-ambassador. I felt a little frightened, but also rather angry. So I threw caution to the wind and my only trump card down onto the table.
‘The other thing that may have given rise to these unfounded suspicions is that a person with connections to the embassy has on several occasions appeared in my vicinity at various places linked to the investigation. This man is called Sergey Klinkalski, but we have reason to believe that his real name is Alexander Svasnikov.’
I quickly glanced sideways at my boss as I spoke. To my relief, he was calm. I did not dare take a breath while I waited for the answer. That was not the only reason the interpreter paused for a beat before she started to translate this time, I thought to myself.
As she spoke, the vice-ambassador’s face tightened. For the first time, he was quiet for a few seconds before answering. But his words were all the more rapid and hard as they broke the tense silence.
Then he jumped up and left the room – without shaking our hands or waiting for the translation. The interpreter held her mask, but there was a tremor in her voice when she relayed the translation after the door had slammed shut behind her.
‘The vice-ambassador has every reason to believe that it is purely a matter of unfortunate coincidence. He finds it hard to understand how this should give rise to unfounded suspicions, unless journalists have also been following the head of investigation, or unless the police themselves have informed the press. However, the vice-ambassador takes the matter very seriously and will immediately double-check this new information with Comrade Klinkalski. The vice-ambassador hopes that the investigation will soon have some results and urges the head of investigation to consider measures against the press if unfounded rumours are published in the papers tomorrow. Above all, it is hoped that this does not cause any problems for the pending agreement, and the embassy will do everything in its power to prevent this from happening.’
These final words almost sounded like a threat to me. The interpreter’s voice trembled a little as she said them. Then she stood up and closed the meeting by quickly shaking us both by the hand. Her hand was dry and trembled in mine. I smiled at her and got a fleeting smile in return. But before I could say any more than ‘goodbye’, she had turned and left the room.
My boss and I sat there and looked at each other, without wanting to say anything in the room under the eyes of Brezhnev. We did not have to wait long. Two minutes later the door was opened again.
The interpreter came back in, dressed in a thin red jacket, and said: ‘I will show you out.’
We followed her obediently through the corridors. She passed through reception with quick steps and carried on out onto Drammen Road and then a couple of blocks more before turning down a side street. I watched her go. She was dressed in thin clothes and wasn’t wearing anything on her head, and looked so small and wet in the early spring evening rain. The interpreter had certainly charmed me and I hoped that she was happy, despite what was obviously a demanding job.
XII
We did not say a word until we were in the car and the engine was running. My boss’s first sentence came as a relief: ‘The prime minister was right about this being a very difficult situation. You handled it extremely well.’
I exhaled carefully, but felt anything but relaxed.
‘Thank you. I don’t think there was much more we could do in there. But what do we do now?’
My boss thought for a few seconds, and his voice was just as steady and solid as usual when he replied.
‘I will write a strictly confidential memorandum to the prime minister’s office about the meeting. Then I will draft a press release that we can send out if the papers print the reports we expect them to. You carry on with the investigation as planned. And we can assess the need for more resources first thing tomorrow morning. The contents of the press release will say something to the effect
that while we do not suspect any foreigners to be involved or that the murder is connected to other countries, as the investigation is still ongoing, we have to keep all possibilities open.’
I replied just as we swung into the main police station: ‘I agree. But the whole thing does feel a bit like an iceberg: there is still an awful lot of it underwater and we can only guess the size of it.’
‘A good image. There is definitely something big and cold just under the surface. And I think it could be dangerous. I only hope that it is not dangerous for you.’
My boss had always shown me great trust in his taciturn and efficient way, and I had always appreciated it. Our drive back from the embassy was short and we only said a few sentences, but it felt somehow as though we were closer. At the same time, it felt as though we had never been faced with a more puzzling case – or a more demanding situation.
XIII
My boss quickly disappeared into his office after we got back. And I was unexpectedly stopped by DI Danielsen just as I was about to go into mine.
‘There you are at last, Kristiansen. I won’t stick my nose into the investigation by asking where you have been, but I received an urgent telephone call for you half an hour ago, and I promised to give you the message as soon as you were back.’
I was naturally curious to know who had called and for a moment glimpsed the possibility of a solution. However, the answer was more like a cold shower.
‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen – who is your fiancée, if I remember rightly. It was a short message: there is something that she has to talk to you about in person as soon as possible. She was clearly frustrated when I told her you were not here and I did not know where you were. She asked me to tell you that she will come to your flat at seven, and it is very important that you are there.’
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