by Gard Sveen
In the supermarket later that afternoon, Bergmann filled his cart with too many items, in an unconscious attempt to hide how lonely he felt. As he approached the checkout stand, he wondered who he was trying to fool—himself or the young cashier. Maybe he wanted her to think that he had more waiting for him at home than the little notebook burning a hole in his pocket.
Back at his apartment, he emptied a can of stew into a saucepan, set it on the stove, and turned on his PC. He left the rest of the groceries in the front hall. He’d bought more than he’d ever be able to eat, so what did it matter whether he put the food in the fridge, since he’d be throwing most of it out anyway. He wondered fleetingly who would sit at his bedside when he found himself on his deathbed like Marius Kolstad, but quickly dismissed the thought.
He typed “Kaj Second World War” into the search field.
The screen filled with hits.
“Kaj Holt, 1913–1945.” That had to be him.
Holt died under mysterious circumstances in Stockholm in May 1945. When Carl Oscar Krogh had to flee for his life to Sweden in the fall of 1942, Holt was the only remaining link in Oslo between Milorg, the British intelligence service, the Osvald Group, and the Norwegian legation in Stockholm. Kaj Holt was Krogh’s superior in Oslo.
Bergmann’s interview with Kolstad hadn’t been a waste of time, after all. That first line smelled fishy—given that Kolstad had told him that he and Krogh had been prevented from investigating Holt’s death—but Kaj Holt might just be his ticket to finding Krogh’s killer. But what did they have to do with the three females in Nordmarka? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Bergmann didn’t believe in coincidences. The few times in his life he’d allowed himself to do so, everything had gone to hell.
He scrolled down. Then back up.
Something had stuck in his mind.
Kaj Holt was Krogh’s superior in Oslo.
Somewhere in his apartment a phone was ringing.
He tried to ignore it, but finally went to grab it in the hall. He held the phone in his hand as it continued to ring. The call was from Bent, and he didn’t feel like talking to him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody just then. Not even Hadja.
The ringing stopped. Bergmann went back to his computer, but he took the cell with him.
“Kaj Holt,” he read aloud in an attempt to forget about Bent’s call.
Could there be a connection between Krogh’s murder and Holt’s death? It was a long shot, but not impossible. Krogh had tried to investigate what happened to Holt, and . . .
His cell started ringing again.
Bergmann uttered a loud curse. Bent wasn’t the type to give up easily. If he switched off his phone, Bent would soon be knocking at the door.
He pressed the answer button, albeit reluctantly.
“How’s it going?” said Bent. “Still at work?”
He sounded friendly, as if he wanted to reestablish a good rapport. They’d hardly spoken since Hege had moved out.
“Sort of,” said Bergmann.
“Out in the field?”
“No,” said Bergmann with a sigh. “At home. Working on a case.”
He glanced around the living room. It looked as if nothing had been touched since Hege left. She hadn’t taken a single thing with her. Not so much as a book or any of the lithographs on the walls. It was like a museum, with objects from a bygone era, everything covered by a fine layer of dust.
“Hungry?” asked Bent.
“Hmm . . .” said Bergmann, only now noticing the smell of burnt stew coming from the kitchen.
“We’re going to eat in an hour,” said Bent. “Maiken is making tapas. Then we can have a few beers out on the terrace.”
Bergmann fixed his eyes on the computer screen. “Carl Oscar Krogh,” he read. But he couldn’t concentrate.
“It’d be nice to see you, Tommy. And you could finally meet Maiken.”
What should he say? Bergmann had very few friends left. In two years he’d be forty, and he’d been scraping bottom so long that he could hardly remember anything but loneliness. He rubbed his face. Images from the past flashed through his mind. They’d spent a lot of time together, he and Hege and Bent and his first wife, Marianne. Damn. He and Bent went back a long way, seventeen or eighteen years, since their police academy days. They shared a history. Maybe Bent didn’t judge him after all. Bergmann felt a pang of guilt because he’d never sought help, as Bent had urged him to do. Violence was part of their profession, of course, but not something you took home with you. Wasn’t that what Bent had once said?
An hour later Bergmann was standing at the door of a newly remodeled old house on Steinliveien, a ten-minute walk from his own apartment, a bottle of wine in hand. One of the many that Hege had left behind.
A woman opened the door. She had long brown hair pinned up on top of her head. He was surprised by how young she looked, but quickly realized she must be Maiken. She had a limp handshake and didn’t say her name when he introduced himself. Bergmann felt like he could tell what she was thinking. She probably already knew what sort of man he was. She invited him in but seemed distant, and he wondered whether she and Bent might have argued about whether to have him over for dinner or not. Only when Bent came down the stairs did Bergmann feel welcome. Bent smiled as if he meant it, giving him a hug and a couple of pats on the back, and said it was good to see him again. Maiken seemed to thaw out a bit when she saw the warm reception Bent gave him. Bergmann noticed how the bulge of her stomach under her tight top didn’t really match the rest of her toned body and realized she must be pregnant.
“Nice place,” said Bergmann as he followed Bent into the living room. It was such a huge contrast to his own apartment that he didn’t feel like he could ask how they could afford it.
“Damn, it’s really good to see you, Tommy.” Bent put his strong, sinewy arm around his friend’s shoulder. Then he showed Bergmann the flagstone terrace, which looked like it was straight out of an interior design magazine. There was not a thing out of place; the matching flowers and coordinated furniture suggested that the owners knew what they were doing. Only Bent himself didn’t seem to fit in. Ever since joining the special-ops unit, he’d started looking like an ordinary thug, just like all his colleagues. He’d let his hair grow out, he was unshaven, and his arms were covered with tattoos—probably fake, but still. Only his smile and the devil-may-care look in his eye remained unchanged. Bergmann didn’t know how he could stand the life of a cop, but when he thought about it, maybe it was no worse than his own job as a detective.
They ate their tapas out on the shady terrace. Bent kept the conversation going. Maiken was pleasant enough, but maintained an almost formal distance from the whole situation. Although she was attractive, Bergmann couldn’t see what had made Bent leave Marianne and their son for her. He didn’t think she seemed especially bright, but he realized he’d underestimated her when she explained that she’d just taken a job as head nurse at Aker University Hospital, and it wasn’t the best of times to be pregnant.
“Nurses,” said Bent, taking her hand. “What would we do without them?”
You’re right, thought Bergmann. What would we do without them?
Bent told a few anecdotes from their days as patrol officers and with the SWAT team, and that put all of them at ease. Bergmann thought it was a good thing that Bent hadn’t told Maiken everything they’d been through together. Let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak. How Bergmann was actually doing was a topic they all carefully avoided.
An hour later, Maiken finished off her San Pellegrino and went inside to rest.
Once they’d cleared the table, Bent came back out with a couple of beers. For a while they talked about all the usual things—former colleagues, a recent case that Bent had worked on, and a little about Carl Oscar Krogh. It was a superficial and stilted exchange by two men who knew each other far too well to be chatting about work, but Bergmann didn’t mind that they were circling around what was actually important.
Then, just as Bergmann was about to light another cigarette, Bent said, “So, have you talked to Hege lately?”
Bergmann paused with his thumb on his lighter.
“No,” he said, and lit the cigarette.
Bent pulled his long hair back in a ponytail, then let it fall loose again. He nodded.
“Well, she’s been over here a few times, with that new guy of hers. Just so you know.”
“I see,” said Bergmann.
“She’s doing fine,” said Bent.
Bergmann didn’t reply. Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing? he wondered. Then he shook his head. Self-pity was seldom pretty, especially from someone who was solely to blame. He suddenly got the feeling that Bent had invited him over just so he could tell him that he was planning to remain friends with Hege.
“I guess I’d better be getting home,” he said, unable to bear this any longer. The next thing Bent would say was that he should see a therapist.
“You’ll have to accept that we’re friends,” said Bent. “Me and Hege.”
Bergmann sighed in resignation.
“That’s not how I meant it,” said Bent.
“It’s getting late,” said Bergmann. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“What exactly is waiting for you at home?” asked Bent.
Bergmann didn’t know what to say.
“You can’t keep living like this, Tommy.”
They drank their beer in silence. Bergmann imagined they were both wishing the same thing—that everything would go back to the way it was before, that Bergmann had never beaten up Hege, that Bent had never met another woman.
Bent eventually went into the kitchen and began filling the dishwasher, but Bergmann couldn’t bring himself to leave. Bent was right. What was waiting for him at home?
“How about one for the road?” said Bent when he came back. The soft light of dusk had settled over the garden. The trees cast long shadows over the lawn, and the faint roar of traffic on the E6 mingled with the chirping of willow warblers in the birch trees. A rare evening calm had descended upon the city.
He took the can of Heineken Bent handed him and decided to forget about Hege for the moment.
“Have you ever heard of a guy from the war named Kaj Holt?” he asked as Bent sat down.
Bent shook his head.
Bergmann told him what little he knew about Holt. Bent listened in silence.
“Maybe I’m just imagining there’s a connection,” said Bergmann.
“I don’t know,” said Bent. “But I do know one thing that might help you. Fredrik Reuter is good pals with a guy in the National Police in Stockholm, real top brass as far as I can tell. A man who could definitely pull a few strings.”
They toasted this potential lead, no matter how slim it might be, and Bergmann stayed a while longer, until it was almost dark. A few times he thought to himself that maybe he would be happy again someday—or at least as happy as he’d ever be. And a few times over the course of the evening he had an urge to go to Maiken and say, “I’m not like that. I’m not the kind of man people have told you I am.”
When he got home, he stood in the entryway without switching on the light. Maybe if I just stand still long enough, she won’t have gone away, he thought.
After five minutes or so, he turned on the light and went to brush his teeth. When he turned off the water, he heard his cell phone ping out in the entryway.
For a moment he thought it might be Hege. Finally he shook his head and opened the text.
Hi, Tommy. Just wanted to say that you’re doing a great job with the girls. Sara is looking forward to Göteborg, hardly talks about anything else. ☺ Here’s a wild idea: Do you have plans for tomorrow evening? All this talk of dinner . . . If not, I get off work at 7. How about dinner after practice, between 8 and 8:30? So we could get to know each other a little better? Hadja
CHAPTER 28
Friday, May 7, 1942
The Rainbow Club
Klingenberggata
Oslo, Norway
The maître d’ navigated through a sea of Germans and Norwegian Nazis as he escorted Agnes Gerner to a table on the lowest tier of the club facing the dance floor. Although it was becoming increasingly difficult to find loyal Norwegians at the Rainbow Club, it was still one of the few places where both sides could gather and feel they were on relatively neutral ground. The damn Germans have been here for more than two years, Agnes thought, and what use have I been to anybody?
She smiled at the maître d’ as he pulled out a chair for her, addressing her as “my dear Ms. Gerner,” with emphasis on the word “miss.” Helge Schreiner, the Supreme Court Advocate—a title he’d acquired under Nazi rule—placed his hand on hers and assured her for the umpteenth time that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. His wedding band gleamed in the lights from the chandeliers and ought to have reminded him that he had a wife at home who knew full well what he was doing with his secretary.
“You are the most beautiful,” he repeated, speaking so loudly that the whole room would have heard if it hadn’t been for the band.
Agnes would have almost been tempted to agree if the compliment had come from another man, in another time and another world. She was well aware that she looked good in the new black dress that he’d obtained from Paris via one of his contacts, presumably a close associate on German Reichskommissar Josef Terboven’s staff. But she had another reason for wanting to look her best, and it was one that Schreiner must never know. As she fidgeted with the diamond ring he’d bought her, she couldn’t help but find the whole situation disgraceful. She was here to do a job, not to go to bed with indifferent Nazis like Schreiner, and Attorney Wilhelmsen before him. Wilhelmsen had been even more hopeless when it came to supplying her with useful intelligence information. At least Schreiner had contacts in the higher circles. But Agnes was nonetheless beginning to suspect that all her attempts to accomplish anything in Oslo had been futile. Both Number 1 and the Pilgrim were apparently satisfied with her work, but she couldn’t see how the information she’d obtained from this Nazi attorney would be of any use to the Allied forces. Schreiner did socialize with the county administrator in Oslo and a few high-ranking German officers, but most of what she had been able to glean was common gossip that anybody could pick up by agreeing to sex. If she was very unlucky, she might end up pregnant. And who would come to her rescue then? Would the service take responsibility after using her as a prostitute? Agnes was beginning to doubt that she could rely on them. As it was, she felt completely out of touch with the service and occasionally wondered whether it even existed anymore, except as a very thin thread between Oslo and London. Archibald Lafton and all the others had been forced to flee for their lives two years ago. Those who remained had probably been thrown out after the disastrous campaign in Gudbrandsdalen. Only an ignoramus like Christopher Bratchard and his colleagues would try to launch a campaign down a narrow valley. Even a child would have known it would fail. Chamberlain had sent over nothing more than a ragtag bunch of family men with pipes in their mouths and rifles slung over their shoulders. Was it all that surprising then to think that the whole world would soon be kowtowing to Hitler? They’d be speaking German in London any moment now. And all that Agnes had accomplished was to play errand girl, running between safe houses and empty offices, as well as serving Schreiner in every disgusting way. Sometimes she cursed both Number 1 and the Pilgrim, not to mention Bratchard. Did they think this was all a woman was capable of? Bratchard, that drunkard, had demeaned her for months, tearing her apart, making her kill Bess, her only real friend, and then he’d dumped her here in Oslo. If she ever saw him again, she planned to give him a good slap on the face.
Agnes opened the menu as she distractedly ordered a glass of champagne. “A bottle!” she heard Schreiner exclaim. He had that look in his eye this evening. He almost always had that look in his eye. Soon the rest of their dinner party—a bunch of naïve and gullible Norwegian Nazis—would arrive . . . God
help her, she was really in a quandary now. The Pilgrim had mentioned traveling to England via Stockholm. Maybe I could do that too, she thought, giving Schreiner one of her phoniest and most convincing smiles as he offered her one of his Turkish cigarettes.
The band started playing a jazz number that Schreiner described as “Negro music.” Yet it still seemed to have an energizing effect on him. He grabbed his glass by the stem and downed the contents, then refilled both their glasses, an unambiguous leer on his face. As she listened to the jazzy riffs, Agnes thought it was a miracle that the Germans hadn’t yet shut this place down, though it might be only a matter of time before they threw out all the Norwegian patriots. That’s it! she thought grimly. That was the sort of intelligence she could offer the Pilgrim and Number 1. The Rainbow would soon be closed. There would be only military marches and creamed cabbage at the Rainbow from now on! Tell Churchill and Trygve Lie at once. Agnes almost giggled at the thought, but she restrained herself as the rest of the guests were arriving.
Schreiner stood up abruptly and began effusively greeting his colleague, Rolf Jordal, and his dim-witted girlfriend, Bjørg, showering them with compliments. It was enough to make Agnes sick, but she had to make the best of things. She thought how similar she must appear to Bjørg as she played the role of an empty-headed young woman who gladly accepted the money and worldly ways of middle-aged Nazis.
Agnes surveyed the room, which was now nearly full. The tables were positioned on several tiers, with the band taking center stage along one wall. The crowd consisted of a mixture of Norwegian Nazis, a few decent Norwegians who had scraped together enough money to spend a Friday evening in the city’s best dance club, and a small group of German officers with girls like herself in tow.
Lately she’d occasionally had to resist an intense and irrational urge to stand up and scream to the non-Nazis that she wasn’t who they thought she was and she was here to help them. But of course she always managed to suppress the shame she couldn’t help feeling, and it no longer really mattered anyway. The few old friends she had in Oslo no longer spoke to her, and the only family she had was her sister, who was crazy enough to admire Agnes’s decision to become an ardent Nazi. Although a man who claimed to be her cousin had spat on her in this very place a year ago, she hadn’t seen any other relatives since she’d arrived in town. Her father had become estranged from his family when she was a child. Although she wasn’t sure why, it made her current situation somewhat easier. So many years had passed since she lived in Oslo that only a handful of people even knew who she was. Besides, almost no true Norwegian patriots could afford to go out on the town anymore.