The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  She had no words for how awful the weekend had been. Only in the last few days had she fully grasped the situation. She must be pregnant, and the Pilgrim must be the father. Gustav always used protection. It was a small miracle that she’d managed to make it through the weekend at all. On Saturday she’d done little more than lean over the toilet bowl. Luckily Gustav had been in Berlin all week and hadn’t returned until just this afternoon. She didn’t know how she was going to continue hiding her nausea from him. It would be all right for a few days, but if she continued to vomit every morning, he would soon understand that something was wrong. And the maid, Johanne Caspersen, always seemed to be following her around. There was something odd about her. Johanne practically cross-examined her every time Agnes was about to leave the house. On the surface, she merely seemed to be showing a normal amount of interest, but beneath her polite façade, it was clear that she harbored a great distrust of Agnes, who could hardly even go back to her own apartment anymore without first coming up with some lie.

  She glanced at her watch. She was already late. She’d had her hair done at Moen’s salon on Wednesday, and Number 1 had left her a message asking her to come to an apartment on Kirkeveien today. She reminded herself of the tenant’s name and the password—“Looks like rain this evening”—for the umpteenth time.

  This awful nausea, she thought, giving Cecilia a hug before hurrying along the corridor and down the stairs.

  “May I ask where you’re going?”

  The voice behind her echoed in the empty hallway. Agnes had initially loved the modern architecture—it gave Gustav Lande a conciliatory trait, almost bordering on anti-Nazism, and the house’s pure lines and bright, open spaces were like a soothing balm during this terrible war—but now the white, transparent surfaces seemed cold and lifeless. These days, she felt as though she were trapped inside a white coffin with a glass lid.

  Agnes let go of the door handle. The cab was waiting at the gate, where the branches of the birch tree hung low. Above the tree was a wall of dark clouds, which at any moment would drown them all—Norwegians and Germans, Nazis and patriots alike—in what looked to be an epic rainstorm.

  “Do you ask Herr Lande why he is going into town?” said Agnes, turning to look at the maid, who stood in the kitchen doorway.

  The maid didn’t flinch. That ugly, birdlike face of hers hurt Agnes’s eyes. She was not a good person, and Agnes wanted to wipe that smile off her face once and for all.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” Agnes said quietly.

  “There is only one Mrs. Lande in this family, and unfortunately she is dead.”

  Agnes didn’t reply. She put her red hat back on the shelf and took the black one instead. A red hat was more likely to draw attention.

  “So who is he? The other man.” The maid took a few steps closer as she dusted the bureau that stood to her right.

  Agnes looked at herself in the mirror. Johanne was now standing right behind her. Agnes turned around and met her eye. Swiftly she raised her right arm. The sound of her palm striking the maid’s cheek rang through the large room, like the lash of a whip. Johanne hardly knew what had hit her as she doubled over, holding her cheek. Agnes’s hand stung. With a pounding heart she glanced over at the stairs. But Cecilia wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen what just happened.

  Johanne straightened up slowly, still holding her cheek. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “You’re finished in this house,” said Agnes in a low voice. “Do you understand? As soon as Gustav and I are married, you’re fired!”

  With trembling fingers she reached for the door handle. The cold metal soothed the stinging sensation, but only for a moment.

  “Poor you,” said Agnes as she stepped out the door. “Condemned to live the life of an old maid.” She felt as though every step she took might be her last. By the time she finally reached the gate and the driver got out of the cab, her legs were barely supporting her.

  On the way to Fagerborg Church, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. As if that weren’t bad enough, she experienced another wave of nausea. Instinctively she pressed her hand to her stomach. In a flash she came to a realization. Maybe this isn’t the worst possible thing, she thought as she made the long walk back to Kirkeveien. She’d been given orders to take all sorts of detours to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Maybe it’s not so bad to be sent on a suicide mission. Especially now that she’d brought this misfortune upon herself.

  By the time she entered the vestibule—which wasn’t as well maintained as her own building on Hammerstads Gate—she’d been wandering one street after another for nearly half an hour. In her view, that had been enough to ascertain that no one was following her. Least of all Peter Waldhorst. When she reached the fourth floor, it occurred to her for the first time that Carl Oscar might not have mentioned Waldhorst to Number 1 at all. How could he—who was precaution personified—take such a chance?

  No, she thought. No. She knocked twice, paused, then swiftly knocked twice again. She heard the slow, shuffling footsteps of an old person inside the apartment. An elderly man with big bags under his eyes opened the door. Impeccably attired in suit and tie, he looked as if he’d just gotten home from work. His expression was neutral as he waited for the password.

  Agnes felt exhausted as she whispered, “Looks like rain this evening.” She was also hungry. The man nodded silently. Agnes stepped inside, closed the door, and then leaned her back against it. The smell of stale cigar smoke coming from the living room made her press her hand to her mouth.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the man with a touch of warmth in his voice.

  Agnes shook her head and lowered her hand. She took off her gloves. Even the smell of the leather made what little was left in her stomach rise to her throat.

  “The bathroom?” she said. “I just need to . . .”

  Agnes walked through the living room without even greeting the man’s wife, who was sitting in an armchair knitting, apparently unfazed by the appearance of a visitor. She hardly noticed Kaj Holt, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing only an undershirt and trousers, his face white. He was holding a Sten gun.

  In the bathroom she turned on the cold water and knelt down with her cheek resting on the toilet seat, surrendering to the dry heaves. She just managed to take off her hat before it would have fallen into the toilet bowl.

  Holt was waiting for her in the kitchen. His eyes looked empty, as if the war had already been lost, as if they were all dead.

  “Are you sick?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. The blackout curtain had been drawn over the window facing the back courtyard, and only a single candle lit up his face. The Pilgrim appeared in the doorway to the maid’s room. Agnes tried to suppress the feeling, but she couldn’t help the girlish joy that filled her when she saw him. He gave her a brief smile, and she saw that old glint in his eyes, the look he’d had before the war came to Norway. A moment later, his face shut down and his expression turned hard. But it was enough for Agnes. She didn’t need anything more. It was enough to keep her alive for another week.

  “I think it’s just something I ate,” she said.

  Holt got up and nodded toward the maid’s room. The Pilgrim stepped aside to let them pass. Agnes had almost forgotten what he smelled like. It had been over a week since they’d last met. And they might never see each other again.

  Holt closed the door and motioned her toward the desk chair. He set the Sten gun on the bed. The room was so small that the Pilgrim had to sit on the bed to make room for all three of them. At the foot of the bed was another door, which probably led down a back stairway to the courtyard. So that’s why Holt chose this particular maid’s room, thought Agnes.

  “I like the maid they’ve hired,” she said, sitting down.

  Holt laughed quietly, pressing his finger to his lips. He perched on the edge of the desk next to Agnes. Even a child would have realized he was a hunted m
an. His face lacked all color in the dim light coming from the ceiling lamp, and the dark smudges under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in a while. He ran his hand over the blackout curtain and then looked at the dust on his fingers.

  “You don’t look well yourself,” whispered Agnes.

  “We’re losing too many,” he said, his voice as dry as sandpaper. “And I take that personally.”

  “It’s not your fault,” said the Pilgrim, sitting on the bed.

  Holt buried his face in his hands and kept them there for several minutes. His shoulders shook, indicating a sudden fit of sobbing.

  “Kaj . . .” said the Pilgrim softly.

  Holt wiped his hands on his undershirt. Then he got up and put on a shirt that was draped over a chair. Finally he seemed to regain his composure.

  Agnes stared at the Pilgrim, who was semireclining on the bed, looking more handsome than ever. How I’ve loved you, she thought. How I still love you. But you’d kill me if you knew what I know. How I’ve betrayed you. And Kaj, and all the others. How could I get pregnant? And I can’t tell a soul. Not now. Maybe later. Maybe never.

  “All right,” said Holt, almost whispering. “Agnes, London has chosen you. They say you have what it takes. And I trust London and your handler, who was once mine.” He stared at her with newly regained strength, as if he’d drawn energy from a source deep inside. A little smile tugged at his lips. She could see the boy he once had been, a devil-may-care lad, but above all, honest.

  Agnes nodded, cursing Christopher Bratchard. May you burn in hell, she thought.

  “London says that Research Director Torfinn Rolborg has to go. And there’s nobody else who can do that except you, Agnes.”

  “But how . . .”

  Holt placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll explain.”

  She nodded.

  “Now that you’ve been here, and you’ve met with me personally, there’s no going back. Understand?”

  He motioned toward the Pilgrim, who was kneeling on the floor, bending down to pull up two floorboards under the bed. He carefully removed two paper packages and handed them to Holt. Agnes shook her head when the Pilgrim offered her an English cigarette. Their eyes met. In my belly, she thought. I have you inside my belly.

  Holt set the packages on the desk and opened them. In the first was the strangest thing Agnes had ever seen. A completely black steel rod, maybe thirty centimeters long, with a short shaft and a trigger mechanism at the base. It looked like a big silencer, but she knew it had to be some sort of gun.

  “Show me how it works,” said Holt, handing the steel rod to Agnes.

  “What is it?” she asked as she took it. It felt oddly light, as if made of air.

  “They call it a Welrod,” said Holt close to her ear. “It’s the first and only one we have. So . . .” He squatted down next to her. “It has to work.”

  Agnes didn’t respond as she studied the gun for a whole minute, maybe more, pulling out the circular bolt in the end and pressing her finger on the heavy trigger.

  “Okay,” said Holt. “As you may realize, there’s no time to test-fire it. You’ll need to shoot Rolborg in the chest from a distance of two feet. Reload, then shoot him in the head. Reload, another shot to the head. Don’t get any blood on yourself. The only way out is through the main entrance. If there’s blood on you, you’re finished. There’ll be one round in the chamber. You’ll have to reload for each shot.”

  “Stop,” she said. “Stop . . .”

  Holt smiled faintly to himself and shook his head. Then he started over from the beginning, more calmly this time.

  “What about the noise?” asked Agnes.

  “I could have shot you right now, and the Pilgrim wouldn’t have heard a thing if he were sitting in the kitchen. We’ll get the gun inside the building. Security is tight down there. But don’t worry about that. We have a man on the inside. He’ll leave the Welrod in the toilet tank in the ladies’ room. First, you’ll be searched by the guard. Then you’ll need to ask to go to the bathroom before your interview. And put on a good act, for God’s sake. You must know that I’m placing a huge responsibility on your shoulders.”

  “But how . . . how will I get to Knaben?” She shook her head, totally confused. Was she going to Knaben’s headquarters? She had no idea what Holt was trying to tell her. What interview?

  “It’s just the opportunity we needed,” said Holt. He pulled out the desk drawer and showed her a newspaper clipping from Aftenposten. It was a short job announcement from Knaben Molybdenum Mines, Inc., Oslo Division: “The Research Department seeks a new assistant secretary. Bring your papers with you.” Then a few key words about qualifications and the like. The interview times were listed as Thursday or Friday of the following week.

  “Rolborg will be conducting the interviews personally, even though it doesn’t say that here. Our man says that the secretary will be working for him.”

  “Our man?” said Agnes. “Couldn’t he . . .”

  “Our man isn’t capable of killing anyone,” whispered Holt. “Even if I could convince him that Rolborg isn’t a human being—just a monstrous Nazi whose discoveries will take the lives of thousands of good men—even then he wouldn’t be able to do it. But London says that you, Agnes, have what it takes to remove this monster for good.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed hard. “And haven’t you said yourself that you wanted to make a difference in this war?”

  “You need to think this through. Improvise,” said the Pilgrim. “My suggestion is to have . . .” He stopped.

  An image of Johanne Caspersen inexplicably appeared in Agnes’s mind. How could I? she thought, and then cursed herself for having such thoughts.

  “But this is a suicide mission,” she said. “I might run into Gustav or the administrative director or . . .”

  None of them spoke for a long time.

  “You’ve never met Rolborg, have you?” Holt then asked.

  She shook her head.

  “And Gustav Lande is seldom at the office on Rosenkrantz Gate. He spends most of his time in his office in Majorstua, and when he’s not there, he’s traveling around the country. Isn’t that so? He has a large number of other business interests, some of which are even bigger than Knaben. So what’s the chance that you’d run into him there on that particular day?”

  She nodded.

  “And besides, you’ll be unrecognizable, Agnes. I promise you that. You won’t look anything like yourself. You’ll be blonde, with blue eyes . . .” He stopped himself, but smiled like a boy. As if this whole operation were a trivial affair.

  “I see,” said Agnes.

  Holt placed a stack of papers on her lap. Identification documents that lacked a photograph. That’s what the camera on the bookcase is for, she thought. She paged through the fictional life that had been created for her.

  “You’ll try out the disguise, we’ll take your picture, and voilà . . .” He pointed to the identification papers.

  So, that’s it, she thought. Everything seemed to have been decided. She needed to do this. She had to do it. She had no choice. She glanced at the Pilgrim, only two feet away. For your sake, she thought. This is for us, for our freedom, for our . . .

  She felt a sudden stabbing sensation in her chest. This was real, wasn’t it? Suddenly everything Kaj Holt had said seemed disconnected, randomly and hastily put together; it appeared that he wanted to have Rolborg removed, no matter what the cost.

  “With these papers, they’ll have to give you the job. You’ll change here, try out everything here first. Stay here all night if you have to, but get yourself completely ready here before the operation. We have the entire night ahead of us now, and by the time we’re done, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep. Do you understand?” Holt took out a blonde wig that had to have been made from real hair, along with two cans. She couldn’t see what they contained.

  “What about someone from England? Couldn’t they . . .” Agnes began
, but then stopped herself.

  “It’s a matter of time,” said Holt, now sounding a bit annoyed. Then he regained his composure and spoke more gently. “He’s already done too much damage. He’s been given a lot of leeway by Lande, who in turn has been granted the same by Seeholz. He enjoys the full trust of the Germans. You know that. And very few others in Norway—maybe nobody except Rolborg—know the exact location of the molybdenum deposit. They might have to spend years searching for it up there in Hurdal.”

  “They’ll figure it out,” said Agnes, stroking the Welrod. “Not many people know about him . . . about Rolborg . . . and I . . .”

  Holt touched her shoulder.

  “You’re the only one who can get to him without us losing everybody involved. Do you understand? He’s guarded at all times, except beyond the reception area in Knaben’s offices. And you’re a woman. No one is going to suspect a woman of shooting someone, Agnes.”

  “All right,” she said, hardly hearing her own words. Those seemed to be the only words she had left, an automatic reply: all right.

  Holt took her face in his hands, which smelled of tobacco and sweat and nervousness.

  “I’m counting on you. I know you were meant to do this, Agnes.”

  She nodded, then closed her eyes. Again she pictured the hideous face of the maid. The sound of her hand slapping her cheek rang in her head.

  CHAPTER 49

  Thursday, June 19, 2003

  Gustav Freytag Strasse

  Berlin, Germany

  Peter Waldhorst laid his knife and fork down on his plate to signal he was done eating. He took the sheet of paper that Tommy Bergmann was holding out to him. It was a scanned copy of the photograph that Finn Nystrøm had e-mailed to him. The photo from Midsummer Eve 1942. Waldhorst took his reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. Bergmann was seated across from the old man, who was now staring at the old photo.

  “You knew the woman sitting on the right. Agnes Gerner,” said Bergmann.

  Waldhorst didn’t say a word as he shifted the paper in his hand, gripping it so hard that his fingertips turned white.