The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  Lande paused and reached for his glass. No one said a word.

  “Rolborg says there’s enough molybdenum in the ore up there to armor two thousand combat vehicles this year, which would significantly reduce our losses resulting from the Russians’ tungsten. A divine blessing for all of us. And upon closer consideration, I’m willing to discuss the possibility of inviting my dear friend, Ernst Seeholz, to join the business.”

  A mischievous smile appeared on Lande’s face, the smile that made Agnes able to tolerate him and this assignment of hers. The smile that revealed the sort of man he might once have been.

  Stop it, she thought. Just stop it. She knew what he was about to say. And to top it all off, there was this news about the molybdenum. Two thousand vehicles to be armored with one of the earth’s rarest metals. Strong enough to help the German forces penetrate the Russian antitank defenses. The Russians would lose the Eastern Front.

  Agnes took no part in the conversation that arose around the table. Most people seemed to be discussing this magic metal and its endless potential for the cause, but she couldn’t really comprehend their words. Nothing was making any sense to her until she once again heard tapping on a crystal glass.

  “After Sonja died—your mother, Cecilia,” Lande began, his voice quavering. He looked at his little girl with those sad eyes of his, and Cecilia clutched Agnes’s hand even harder. Agnes pressed her face against the child’s curls, breathing in her scent and feeling a pang of guilt for wishing that Cecilia were her own child, that she had given birth to her, given her life, created her from her own self.

  “I never thought that life would smile upon me again.”

  Gustav Lande cleared his throat. Out of the corner of her eye, Agnes saw Seeholz’s Norwegian girlfriend wiping tears from her eyes with a linen napkin.

  “Until one evening when, out of the blue, I met this woman, this divine beauty, who will soon be my wife.”

  Lande walked over to Agnes. She wasn’t the sort to blush, but she couldn’t help it when he placed his hands on her shoulders.

  You don’t know who I am, she thought. You have no idea.

  The applause went on for a long time. As she stood up and kissed him, she thought, I love the Pilgrim. I’m going to run away with this child, run away with both of them.

  Agnes put her arms around Gustav. He pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

  Only now did she notice Johanne Caspersen standing in the doorway. That horrid creature who would remain forever unmarried. She was giving Agnes a look that could have killed. When Agnes sat back down, she studied the heavy gold engagement ring on her finger. Then she looked across the table at Peter Waldhorst, determined to show him that she was not afraid of him. But his expression surprised her. He looked as though he might die on the spot. His face looked pained, as if he were undergoing the worst kind of torture. A second later he whispered his apologies to the woman seated next to him and hurried out of the room.

  CHAPTER 40

  Saturday, June 14, 2003

  Hotel Gyldenlöwe

  Uddevalla, Sweden

  “Peter Waldhorst?” said Finn Nystrøm on the phone. Tommy Bergmann was standing at the window on the fourth floor of his hotel, looking down at the pedestrian street that led toward downtown. With his free hand he opened a can of strong Norrlands Guld beer that he’d bought at the state liquor store ten minutes before. His visit with Iver Faalund had made him thirsty and confused, and also a great deal wiser. Or at least he thought so.

  “Hauptsturmführer of the Gestapo and Kriminalinspektor Peter Waldhorst,” said Bergmann. The beer was warm, but he didn’t care. Before he knew it, he’d finished off half the can. That was the last thing Faalund had told him: Waldhorst’s double title.

  But that wasn’t the most important thing the old man had said.

  The idea that Carl Oscar Krogh had been harboring a big secret—a secret that would have destroyed all opportunities for him after the war—kept whirling through Bergmann’s mind. Why was there no file on Krogh in Lillehammer? Faalund was the only person who had mentioned that fact, but Bergmann couldn’t help thinking he was right. It all made sense if Faalund was right.

  “How do you happen to know his title?” Nystrøm asked. He was clearly trying to keep the agitation out of his voice, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. For a moment Bergmann regretted his decision to call Nystrøm. He could have called Torgeir Moberg instead, but he had a bad feeling about that man. Moberg wasn’t exactly eager to turn over every stone in this case. And there were clearly plenty of stones.

  “Faalund was apparently the last person to speak to Kaj Holt,” said Bergmann.

  He let this remark hover in the air.

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “And Holt said that he had unofficially interrogated a certain Peter Waldhorst.”

  “Anything else?” asked Nystrøm.

  “That’s all Holt said. He asked Faalund to requisition a car to take him to Stockholm at once, and that was the last Faalund saw of him.”

  “I see,” said Nystrøm. “So Holt interrogated Waldhorst on Monday, May 28, 1945. And two days later he was dead.”

  “It appears so,” said Bergmann.

  “Did Faalund tell Krogh about this?” Nystrøm asked in a low voice. “Did Krogh know about Waldhorst being questioned?”

  “No, apparently not. I don’t think Faalund and Krogh were exactly best friends.”

  “The hell . . .” said Nystrøm. Bergmann pictured him up there in the mountains in his Icelandic sweater, with his dogs and his fishing pole, the blazing sunset over the blue ridges. “So what did Holt find out? Faalund must know something more,” he said.

  “Due to the ongoing investigation—”

  “You can’t tell me,” said Nystrøm. Then he laughed. Bergmann took another swig of his beer and stifled a belch, thinking that he had nothing more to tell Nystrøm.

  “You have to help me,” he said. “You need to dig up some information on Waldhorst for me.”

  “I thought you were the policeman here,” said Nystrøm, laughing at his own joke. Bergmann ignored his delight and once again regretted that he hadn’t called Moberg instead.

  “So this drunkard kept his mouth shut for almost sixty years?” said Nystrøm, now sounding resigned.

  “This is between you and me,” replied Bergmann. And you haven’t even heard everything, he thought.

  “Waldhorst,” said Nystrøm, as if chewing on the name.

  “Faalund tried to track him down, but here’s the difficult part . . .”

  Bergmann paused.

  “Yes?” said Nystrøm.

  “Peter Waldhorst doesn’t exist,” said Bergmann.

  “So he’s dead,” said Nystrøm.

  “Maybe. The only thing Faalund could find out was that Waldhorst was in the Gestapo in Kirkenes beginning in early 1943. After the German withdrawal from northern Norway, he was the second-in-command of the Gestapo office in Lillehammer.”

  “So? As a Gestapo man, he must be listed in the war settlement. And then he should have been repatriated, because he wasn’t executed. I would know if he were.”

  “There’s no record of Holt’s interrogation of Waldhorst. But there must have been others. Faalund dated the last known trace of Waldhorst on Norwegian soil to May 28, 1945, and all the Gestapo documents about him seem to have disappeared.”

  Bergmann heard Nystrøm whistle, then murmur to himself, “Operation Paperclip.”

  “Operation what?” said Bergmann.

  “Paperclip. An American operation that started before the war ended. They wanted to get hold of the best Nazis before the Russians did. Keep in mind that it was the Germans who enabled the Americans to get to the moon. In Norway the Swedes managed to seize a bunch of former Abwehr and Gestapo prisoners after the war. Not the ones with the most blood on their hands, but relatively discreet officers and communications experts with deep knowledge of the Russians, counterespionage, and
interrogation techniques. The Swedes sold them to the Americans behind the backs of the Brits.”

  Bergmann didn’t comment.

  “I’ll find out for you whether he’s still alive,” said Nystrøm.

  Bergmann still said nothing. He was thinking that Kaj Holt must have stepped right into the middle of a wasp’s nest. And it had cost him his life.

  “There’s something else,” said Nystrøm. “Something you’re not telling me. And by the way, I’m sure you’re right. I believe you’re right.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bergmann at last.

  “That there’s a connection between the three skeletons found in Nordmarka and the murder of Kaj Holt.”

  “What sort of connection?” asked Bergmann.

  “Let’s assume that Krogh killed the two women and the child,” said Nystrøm. “Holt finds out about it, but he’s a mental wreck after the war and can’t manage to keep this information to himself. Krogh, for his part, has to make sure that it never gets out that he committed one of the most appalling liquidations in Norway during the war. He’s in line to play a major role in the rebuilding of the country. He also has such a good network in Sweden that the Swedes might be able to shut Holt up. Remember that Krogh was the Swedes’ man in Norway after the war. They couldn’t risk having him lose his position in the decision-making apparatus here at home.”

  Bergmann considered what Nystrøm just said. It seemed a reasonable argument, but he didn’t know what Bergmann knew. So he decided to tell Nystrøm before he changed his mind.

  “There’s just one complicating factor. And it’s much, much worse.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Apparently Agnes Gerner was not a Nazi. And Faalund thinks the liquidation was not a mistake.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Faalund claims that Agnes Gerner wasn’t a Nazi even though she was engaged to Gustav Lande. And Holt knew that. Faalund said that Agnes worked for Holt.”

  Nystrøm didn’t reply right away.

  Then he said, “So Krogh killed one of his own? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Bergmann closed his eyes. He had no choice. He would have to trust Nystrøm. Who else could help him find Waldhorst? Maybe Moberg, but after their recent conversation he didn’t really trust the man.

  “What I’m going to tell you,” said Bergmann, then stopped. “What I’m going to tell you has to remain between you and me. Or rather, everything we’re discussing has to be considered confidential.”

  “Confidential,” said Nystrøm. “Of course.”

  “We found two sixteen-digit numbers in Krogh’s home. Most likely numbered bank accounts. You know, anonymous accounts like the ones they use in Switzerland and Liechtenstein.”

  Nystrøm said nothing at first.

  “Well, that’s not an unknown phenomenon for people who live in that part of town,” he said. “Though it would surprise me if he’d stashed away money in that manner.”

  “I have a feeling that the money came from another source. Not from his company. And that the account was set up many years ago,” said Bergmann.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Faalund thinks . . . and I think he’s right. It’s too damned outrageous, but . . .”

  “But what?” said Nystrøm. “What does Faalund think?”

  “He thinks Agnes saw what Krogh was really up to.”

  “What he was up to?” murmured Nystrøm.

  “What do you think Holt found out from Waldhorst in Lillehammer?” said Bergmann. “Faalund told me that there’s no file on Krogh in Lillehammer. The Germans apparently had no file on him. What does that tell you?”

  At first Nystrøm didn’t reply. Then he almost whispered, “I knew the file on him was gone, but good Lord . . . That can’t be right.”

  “But what if it is right?” said Bergmann. “The worst thing about it is that it would make everything else fall into place. The liquidation of Agnes Gerner, the numbered bank accounts . . . Didn’t the Germans often set up accounts in Switzerland and Liechtenstein for their agents? I think I read about that somewhere.”

  “Good God,” said Nystrøm. “There’s only one . . . No, good God. I can’t believe that.” He gave a strange laugh.

  “So you don’t have any theory that would support Faalund’s claim?”

  “Theory?” said Nystrøm in a low voice.

  “Something in Krogh’s background that would make it plausible that he was a double agent during the war? Money problems, hidden Nazi sympathies? Could he have been caught working for the Resistance? Anything like that?”

  Nystrøm paused to consider this. “No,” he said. “I would have known about it. He came from a well-to-do family, so no . . .”

  “We need to find Waldhorst,” said Bergmann. “If he’s still alive, that is.”

  “I have good contacts in Germany.”

  “Find Waldhorst for me,” said Bergmann. “Just find him.”

  After hanging up, he lay down on the bed and felt the blood rush to his head.

  He wrote two words on the hotel notepad.

  Double agent.

  If that were true, who else besides Iver Faalund knew about it?

  CHAPTER 41

  Thursday, August 27, 1942

  Hammerstads Gate

  Oslo, Norway

  When she heard someone knocking on the door, Agnes Gerner’s first thought was that it didn’t sound like Gustav Lande’s personal driver. The knocking was lighter and more cautious. And besides, it was too early. It was only two o’clock, and they’d agreed that the driver would pick her up at three thirty.

  The feeling that she’d made some sort of mistake washed over her as she got out of bed. She’d been half-asleep, enjoying the smell that she and the Pilgrim had left in the sheets. Her intuition told her that they hadn’t gotten away with it this time. But it would be good to have a child with the Pilgrim, wouldn’t it? In any other situation but this one, she told herself a second later. But what could she do? The Pilgrim had been waiting in her apartment again, and of course it was madness, but surely it meant something too? She looked at the engagement ring Lande had given her and acknowledged to herself once more that whoever was knocking on the door couldn’t be his driver. If Lande found out about her relationship with the Pilgrim, she’d be dead before winter. But every time the Pilgrim, her own Carl Oscar, came inside her, she prayed he would give her a child like Cecilia.

  I must be going crazy, she thought as she walked through the living room. Maybe I’ve always been crazy. As she reached for the door handle, she felt untouchable, as though nothing could ever possibly go wrong. The sight of the German SS noncom quickly banished that thought.

  “Fräulein Gerner?” asked the sergeant. His voice was friendly enough that Agnes thought he must be making fun of her. Yet her pulse slowed instinctively. “Herr Waldhorst wishes to have a meeting with you.”

  He’s got me now, she thought.

  “A meeting?” she said. “We haven’t made an appointment, and I’m on my way to visit my fiancé at his country estate. You’ll have to ask him to phone me.”

  A surge of ill-disguised panic spread through her when the SS officer stopped her from shutting the door.

  “I’m on my way to Rødtangen. I . . .”

  “Bitte. If you will come with me, please.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Would you come with me, Fräulein?” The sergeant held out his hand and motioned toward the stairs.

  “One moment. I need to use the bathroom.”

  Agnes grabbed her purse, which was lying on the mahogany dresser. She looked at herself in the mirror, then set the purse down again.

  The sergeant stepped inside the apartment.

  “I need to change my clothes,” she said. He nodded but followed her into the living room. As she changed in the bedroom, she could think only of how she had to appear calm. She’d almost lost her head and headed into the bathroom with her purse containing the c
yanide pill.

  On her way downstairs she dismissed the idea of putting the capsule in her mouth as they drove. She would wait for a later opportunity. All she had to do was stick her hand inside her purse. The thought of how it would taste worried her as she leaned back against the leather seat. The car crossed the Majorstua intersection, driving between blockades and sandbags.

  She wasn’t even particularly nervous when the sergeant stopped, got out of the car, and rang the doorbell of a white building that looked like a fancy layer cake. A brass plate with the name “Berkowitz” engraved in big letters had been newly polished. Her reflection grimaced back at her.

  After climbing the stairs all the way to the top floor, her legs still managed to hold her up. That’s good, at least, she thought. The sergeant slowly pressed down on the handle of the massive door. A moment later, she was inhaling the strong scent of cleaning agents mixed with the perfume coming from a vase of fresh flowers on a side table next to the door. She could taste blood in her mouth.

  The sergeant clicked his heels.

  “Herr Kriminalinspektor Hauptsturmführer, Fräulein Gerner.”

  For a moment Agnes felt incapable of absorbing the shock. Had she simply suppressed all thought of how dangerous this man could be? Had she believed that her impending marriage to Gustav Lande would make her invulnerable? Had he really managed to trick her? Quickly she pondered whether she’d made any mistakes, any obvious blunders. Captain Waldhorst. Detective Inspector. He was too young to hold such a title. But no. She knew full well he wasn’t. But he wasn’t Gestapo. She would have known if he was. Number 1 would have mentioned him. Of course he would have, she thought.