by Gard Sveen
Agnes sat down in one of the chairs next to the windows facing the passageway and leafed through a copy of Aftenposten. Occasionally she looked up to study the hairdressers as they glided around the chairs. They wore white smocks that made them look more like doctors or nurses than people who curled and cut hair.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, have I, miss?” said the middle-aged man who now ushered her to a chair in the middle of the row.
“Gerner,” she said. “Agnes Gerner.”
The man nodded and shook her hand. “Helge K. Moen.”
His eyes radiated a calm that made her feel like she was just an ordinary customer.
“Gerner?” he said.
“My father emigrated to England ten years ago.”
Moen nodded but didn’t comment. He began cutting her hair without asking how she might like it. He was going a little shorter than she’d intended, although she actually hadn’t given it much thought.
Agnes studied the salon in the mirror, which covered the entire wall, though there wasn’t much to see aside from the empty chairs and people rushing past outside. A few minutes later, two ladies who appeared to be about her age came in, sat down, and crossed their legs to wait for their appointments. They seemed to have all the time in the world. And all the money they could ever want. After Moen had been working for ten minutes or so, Agnes took a magazine from the table in front of the mirror and began looking at photos of people from Paris. Parisians seemed to live in a completely different world, a world filled with joy and beauty, where no one wished to hurt anyone else.
When Moen was done, a young assistant appeared with a standing hair dryer and curlers in a cart on wheels. As he began setting her hair, Agnes studied a photo of the movie star Gary Cooper in the magazine she was holding on her lap, which was now scattered with snips of her hair.
She suddenly froze, fixing her gaze on Gary Cooper’s strained expression in the black-and-white photo. Her fingers gripped the magazine. The assistant paused with a curler in each hand, uncertain what was going on.
She raised her eyes and looked in the mirror. And there on her right she saw what had caused her to react. She must have let down her guard during the past few minutes, because she’d stopped paying attention to who came and went. As the assistant continued putting curlers in her hair, Agnes fixed her gaze on the man seated among the women. He was reading Aftenposten, his hat resting on one knee, ignoring Agnes and everyone else around him.
What on earth is he doing here? thought Agnes. This is a hair salon for women. As the man leafed through the newspaper, he ran his hand over his black hair, which was combed back from his face. He was slightly older than her, with a receding hairline. Agnes tried to assume a calm expression, though she knew she wasn’t successful.
“All right now,” said the assistant, positioning the standing hair dryer over her head. Abruptly it began droning so loudly in her ears that she could barely concentrate. The man reading the newspaper got up and looked right at Agnes in the mirror. She felt almost naked as she sat there with her hair in curlers and the big dryer over her head. The man’s expression didn’t change. He merely took his coat from the rack and nodded to Moen sitting behind the counter. As he opened the door, he put on his charcoal-gray hat.
Agnes felt the blood rise to her cheeks as she watched the man walk off down the passageway. Then he was gone. She slipped her hand out from under the black salon cape. How long was this going to take?
“Excuse me,” she said, grabbing the assistant’s arm. “I have to leave.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
Five minutes later she was finally out of the chair. Moen escorted her to the reception counter, wrote out a receipt, tore off her part, and placed it in an oblong white envelope made from good quality paper.
“Here you are, miss. We look forward to seeing you again soon.”
His broad face seemed hardly able to contain his delight. He gave her a wink, but managed not to smile.
Agnes found herself frowning. She didn’t like her hairdo, and the smell of hairspray was going to make her faint if she didn’t get some fresh air at once.
“See you next time,” she murmured, reluctantly accepting the envelope.
It was liberating to step outside. The air in the passageway still held a hint of summer. As she walked off in the same direction the man had gone, she felt Moen watching her. Where had he gone? A small crowd was bustling about the nearby square, and she stopped to survey the people, trams, and cabs at the intersection. There were lots of men wearing hats, and Agnes kept thinking she saw the man from the salon.
But he wasn’t there.
She pulled the brim of her hat lower to shade her face from the sun.
“Ms. Gerner,” a man’s voice said right behind her.
She turned around.
“I just wanted to see how you reacted,” the man from the salon said, holding a pack of Craven A cigarettes out to her.
She shook her head.
As they stood there, staring at each other, Agnes waited for him to say something more. The man wore a serious, closed expression, as if he would never in the world reveal even the smallest secret about himself or anyone close to him. He was not handsome, but there was a gentle, conciliatory look to his face.
“Holt,” he said. “Kaj Holt.” He raised his hat and then held out a powerful-looking hand with stubby fingers.
Agnes didn’t feel the need to introduce herself as they shook hands. He already knew her name.
“Christopher recommends you highly.” Holt lit a cigarette.
“Christopher?” she couldn’t help saying. An image of Bess’s head, half shot off, flashed through her mind, and she felt Bratchard’s aftershave stinging her cheek.
“Magdalen College, Oxford,” said Holt. “That’s where we met. But that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, Magdalen,” she said. “Half the service seems to have met each other there.”
“Are you hungry?”
Kaj Holt had already stepped out into the street to flag down a cab.
A short while later, Agnes found herself seated at the Grand Café, devouring two open-faced sandwiches. How many years had it been since she had last been here? She could hardly remember. Ten or eleven, maybe more. As Holt talked, she cast a glance at the nearby Parliament building and Eidsvolls Plass. I was a child the last time I was here, she thought. And my parents were still married. For a moment she felt once again like the carefree ten-year-old girl she had once been. She heard her father’s laughter echoing in the room. That was how he laughed when business was good. At such times, nothing in the world could sour his mood.
“But why there?” she asked, looking at Holt. He blew out a match and offered her the flat red packet of cigarettes. Although she declined again, she liked him much better now than when he’d offered her a cigarette an hour ago.
“Helge is a friend.”
“A hair salon?” she said, more sarcastically than she’d intended.
Holt gave her an almost imperceptible smile, as if she were a child.
“Give me the receipt,” he said, holding out his hand. Reluctantly she handed over the envelope.
Holt opened it and took out the receipt.
“Helge’s is going to be one of your dead drops,” he said in a low voice, holding the envelope between his thumb and index finger. “Once a week you’ll go there to have your hair curled or cut or whatever it is you women do. For now, your appointment will be every Wednesday. If I want to contact you, my message to you will be with the receipt. All the hairdressers escort their customers to the reception desk for payment. The receipt is always placed in an open envelope, like this one. Helge will always be your hairdresser. Do you understand? If you ever go to the salon and Helge isn’t there, cancel the appointment at once. Okay?”
Agnes nodded hesitantly.
“Helge is one of us, my dear,” Holt whispered, leaning forward. Agnes could barely hear him in the hu
bbub of the crowded room. He placed his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “Come on. We have an appointment at two o’clock.”
A few minutes later, Agnes sat down on a sofa in a third-floor office just around the corner from the Grand. As she stirred her tea without letting the spoon touch the china cup, she listened to the strange Englishman who sat behind the massive desk in front of her. He seemed to be repeating much of what Kaj Holt had just said—perhaps they had agreed beforehand what to tell her.
“Christopher Bratchard speaks very highly of you, Ms. Gerner.” Archibald Lafton gave her a suitably discreet smile and loosened his tie. His shiny pate gleamed with sweat as he bent over his desk. Agnes cast a quick glance at Holt, who was sitting in a chair near the window next to another Englishman. She’d been ushered briskly through the reception area, which looked as if it belonged to an ordinary import firm with its advertising posters for cotton products and spinning machines and a young secretary who didn’t look as if she’d harm a fly. More offices lined the corridor, indicating that Holt may have been telling the truth when he told her that Dominion Textile was a legitimate company. However, the boss, Archibald Lafton, was also head of the British intelligence service here in Oslo.
“The Germans are already here,” said Lafton. “They’ve been here since last autumn. Here in town, and in Bergen, Haugesund, and Narvik as well. They arrive as fish merchants. They run import firms and act as trade attachés at the embassy. A few of our own have also been recruited—and it happened on British soil.”
He picked up a cigar cutter from his desk and cut a slender cigar, studying it intently as he did so, as if it were something the Abwehr had smuggled into his office.
“Really?” said Agnes.
“One is a friend of Christopher’s, by the way. But that’s classified information, my dear. You didn’t hear it from me, at any rate. It’s too painful for the top brass to talk about. My point is that they’re a pack of sly devils, those Germans.”
Lafton stuck the unlit cigar in his mouth and leaned across the desk.
“They’re like foxes, Ms. Gerner,” he said, his voice subdued. “They don’t yet have a large presence here in Oslo, not enough to put the British firms in town under surveillance, hardly even enough to keep an eye on the embassy. No, right now they’re working on the Norwegian authorities. But in a few months’ time, there will be more of them. They’re like foxes, and the fox is a wily hunter. It can even play dead to lure its prey closer. And poor Christopher had the shock of his life when we sank our claws into his friend. But you never heard me say that. Never.”
A pause ensued. Holt was staring into space. Maybe he knew about Christopher’s friend. Maybe he didn’t. Was that why Christopher’s mood had gotten progressively worse? Was he about to be drawn into the trap himself? Regardless, Agnes had not come to Oslo to listen to Lafton’s animal analogies.
“What sort of assignment are you planning for me?”
Lafton lit a match and set the flame to the end of his cigar. He puffed on it a few times, his expression impassive, as if no one else were in the room. Agnes felt Holt looking at her and she turned to meet his gaze.
“You’ll be given your orders by Kaj and his subordinates. We like to use Norwegians who have a soft spot in their hearts for the British Empire. I’m sure you’ve realized that. But let me say this: given your appearance, there will be no lack of assignments for you, Ms. Gerner.”
“What did he mean by that?” Agnes asked Holt when they were back out on the street.
“You probably won’t see Lafton again. Only me and a few others. So don’t worry about it. It’s a sign of trust, you see. Lafton wanted to meet you personally. He invited you to his office because you come with the best references from London. If he says things you don’t like . . . well, you’ll just have to put up with it. In my opinion he takes too many risks and talks a little too much. He shouldn’t have invited us to his office at all. I’ve hardly ever been there myself. I don’t like it, but what can I do? He’s my boss.”
They rounded the corner of the Grand and walked past the window table where they’d dined a short time ago. Agnes paused in the middle of the crowd moving along the sidewalk. Holt continued on a few paces before he noticed that she’d stopped.
He held out his arm to her.
“I’d like you to meet the person you’ll be reporting to directly.”
“I thought you were my boss,” Agnes said, unenthusiastic about the prospect of meeting anyone else that day. But she caught up to Holt anyway and continued walking.
Holt broke into a smile, making his eyes look like a child’s for a moment.
They stopped outside the Horn building, which had been built after she left Oslo and was now Norway’s tallest building. Holt excused himself and went inside the menswear shop while Agnes looked up at the imposing edifice. At the very top she saw a sign with the words Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. It’s too tall for this town, she thought.
The Floris café on the third floor was almost full. The steady buzz of voices filled the room, the ringing of a cash register competed with the laughter coming from a nearby table, and cigarette smoke hovered like a dim fog below the expensive hardwood ceiling. Holt gripped her shoulder as he led her toward a row of tables near the window.
In the far corner sat a young man with dark-blond hair who appeared to be close to her own age. A notebook lay open in front of him, filled with what looked like lecture notes. He was eating a piece of cake with a silver fork. Next to him on the table was a small stack of worn books.
Holt cleared his throat. The young man looked up at them in bewilderment. Then a disarming smile spread across his face. Agnes felt herself blush.
“Agnes, this is the Pilgrim,” whispered Holt, barely audible above the hum of voices.
At first glance, the Pilgrim looked more like a boy scout than an intelligence agent. His suit looked like something he might have worn for his confirmation. But the blue eyes beneath his finely etched brows left no doubt that he’d been around the block a few times. And when he smiled, all traces of boyish innocence vanished. As Agnes sat down across from him, she barely heard Holt ask her what she’d like to order.
“Just a cup of coffee,” she heard herself say.
The Pilgrim, she thought as the man packed up his books and notebook with an apologetic but confident smile. What sort of cover name is that? She cast a glance outside at the street, not because she was interested in the crowds or the cars driving past, but to restrain a strong urge to find a mirror. She felt that her hair was more wavy than she liked, even though her hat hid most of her hair. She silently cursed Moen and his salon, as well as Lafton’s yellowed horse teeth and his poorly disguised insinuation that she was going to spend her time in Oslo sleeping with men and not sitting across from them, as she was now. As an equal.
“So. What have they told you about the situation here in Oslo?” asked the Pilgrim. He surveyed the room and finally settled his gaze on Holt, who was now standing at the counter.
“Almost nothing,” she told him. What Lafton had said was hardly worth mentioning. Or even remembering.
“He’s a real strange guy, our friend down the street,” said the Pilgrim. He seemed like the sort of person who smiled as often as he could, and his teeth—unlike Lafton’s—were perfect. As perfect as only the teeth of a dentist’s child could be. She tried to find fault with his face, looking for something out of proportion or any tiny flaw, but she couldn’t find a thing.
Agnes merely nodded. She could think of nothing to say. For the umpteenth time, she cursed herself for having allowed herself to be recruited into the service. To be bowled over like this, by a boy like him!
“The Pilgrim studied in Germany,” said Holt when he returned. “An engineer. Wasn’t that what you wanted to be?”
The Pilgrim nodded and ran his hand through his hair.
“You wouldn’t believe what’s going on in that country,” he said. His expression remained neutral as he reach
ed across the table and took a cigarette from Holt’s pack. He stared distractedly out the window, seeming to disappear into himself, to thoughts he would never share with anyone else.
When Holt left half an hour later, Agnes was still none the wiser. Holt and the Pilgrim had mostly talked cryptically about people she didn’t know.
She and the Pilgrim remained seated at the table and watched Holt walk off down the street.
“Tell me one thing. I . . .” she began. But she didn’t know what she was trying to say.
The Pilgrim kept on staring out the window at the reversed letters of the café’s sign.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
They walked slowly up Akersgata until they finally came to Vår Frelsers cemetery, which was deserted. The trees surrounding feminist and politician Gina Krog’s tombstone swayed in the wind. “I think we’ll soon be ratcheting up to Operation Charlie level,” said the Pilgrim. “That means you’ll refer to Kaj only as Number 1, and to yourself as Number 13. We can keep on this way. Lafton may have already breached protocol.”
I don’t want to be Number 13, Agnes thought.
“Only my boss, Number 1, knows who belongs to which cells and how many of us there are,” said the Pilgrim. “In case the worst comes to pass. That’s all you need to know. For the time being, I’m your only contact.”
“How did you . . .” Agnes sat down on the nearest bench. She didn’t want to know.
They sat there for a while, looking at each other. As if they were both thinking, What are we doing here?
“You’re not the only one here,” said the Pilgrim at last. “But I’m sure you know that.”
She nodded as she studied the bust of Gina Krog. It was a relief to evade his eyes, even though all she really wanted to do was stare at him.