by Gard Sveen
“Coffee’s on me,” said Reuter, giving Bergmann a slap on the back.
I can’t believe it, thought Bergmann.
They stood there watching Abrahamsen trot across the parking lot with his flight case in his arms, as though it were his newborn child.
“This is going to be hell,” said Bergmann, tossing his smoldering cigarette butt into the stream of water gushing out of the downspout by his feet.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Reuter said, turning up the collar of his new Polo jacket, which his wife had undoubtedly bought for him to improve his appearance. “Today we’re going to savor this victory, Tommy. We’ll let the chief handle the bad stuff.”
They ran toward the closest building, but were nonetheless soaked through within seconds. Reuter laughed like a boy as they went inside.
Bergmann had a strange feeling as he looked at Reuter. A feeling that Reuter would stop laughing before this day was over. In a lucid moment, Vera Holt may have understood, or been told, that Krogh was the rotten apple in the basket, but where had she gotten that knife? And how had she been able to get away from Krogh’s villa without anyone noticing her? Someone who hardly seemed aware of what was going on inside her own head and who was barely able to take care of herself?
CHAPTER 62
Sunday, September 27, 1942
Villa Lande
Tuengen Allé
Oslo, Norway
She came to a door. Behind her stretched a nearly dark corridor. The light from the wall sconces was so faint that they might as well have been switched off. She’d been running and running along this corridor for hours, maybe even days, in some sort of pension or hotel. She turned around one last time and saw the outline of two faceless men who had emerged from the shadows. They were saying something incomprehensible to her. One of them leaned toward her, his breath as rotten as a dead man’s. The words that spilled out of his mouth were backward. She screamed but no sound came out. She turned toward a wooden door with a leaded glass window. A glaring light shone on the other side. She felt one of the men put his heavy hand on her shoulder. She reached for the door handle and tore open the door. She was momentarily blinded by an inexplicably bright light, but then she saw in the distance, beyond the light, a woman her own age walking toward her, holding out her hands. She felt a thick, viscous fluid rise over her ankles. That light, she thought. That light.
Agnes Gerner jolted up in bed.
For several seconds she thought it was only a dream. Then everything collapsed around her.
It was true. It was all true.
The blackout curtains were only partly drawn, fluttering at the open bedroom window. She felt the back of her neck, damp with sweat, turn cold. She shivered in the wind gusting through the window. She pulled the quilt around her and quickly crossed the room to fasten the hasps on the window. The trees in the yard below looked like they’d drop their leaves at any moment. The referee’s seat at the tennis court was drooping. Though it was still radiantly sunny, there was no longer any doubt that winter was at the door.
Death is at the door, she thought.
What day was it? Sunday. How long had she been at Lande’s villa? Since that day. Since Friday evening.
How could she . . .
Yesterday the house had been filled with Germans. Nothing but Sipo officers all day long, and she had been forced to sit among them, with their newspapers and documents spread out all over the tables. “So awful,” she’d said to Brigadeführer Seeholz, “so unbelievably awful.” He had assured her that they would find this monstrous female assassin. A dozen people had already been brought in to Gestapo HQ. Agnes had escaped to the guest bathroom in the hall. She had found a package of razor blades in the medicine cabinet and surrendered to a sudden impulse to hold one of blades to her wrist. For some reason, it seemed like a much better way to die than swallowing a cyanide capsule. She had gotten as far as filling the sink with warm water before she persuaded herself that there had to be a way out of all this.
She hadn’t gone to bed until one thirty in the morning. So as not to draw attention to herself, she had kept Seeholz company while he, his adjutant, and a Sipo man continued drinking even after Lande had retired for the night.
She was suddenly aware of sounds coming from the yard.
No one, she thought as she fixed her eyes on Cecilia running across the lawn after the maid, for some reason dressed in oilskins and boots in spite of the weather, limping and limping, no one understands what has happened. Except maybe you. Agnes looked at the maid.
There was definitely something wrong with Johanne. The maid, who certainly didn’t look very intelligent, was probably much sharper than she appeared. How ironic, thought Agnes. Last night Seeholz, drunk out of his mind, had kissed her on both cheeks, clicked his heels together, and proclaimed, “Heil Hitler.” She had, of course, reciprocated. Only one floor of the house separated the SS officer from the Welrod she had used to kill the research director and his secretary. And only a few centimeters separated him from the woman he was so desperately seeking.
Agnes had done as the Pilgrim had said and hidden the gun in Gustav Lande’s own house. It was now hidden in Cecilia’s room, on the top shelf of a wardrobe that was never used, wrapped in an old towel. She didn’t know whether it was a brilliant idea or sheer madness to hide it here in this house. Nor could she understand why she had had to keep it. Yesterday she’d considered moving it back to her apartment, but she hadn’t dared to leave the house. If Waldhorst followed her, that would be the end of everything. She didn’t dare go back to her place on Hammerstads Gate at all right now. She needed to stay put, hide right here in plain sight, so close to the hunters that no one would ever even think she was their prey.
A sound interrupted her thoughts.
The shower in the bathroom had just been turned off. Was that what had startled her?
The bathroom door was closed, but judging by the sounds coming from under the door, it sounded as if Lande had started shaving.
When was his plane leaving for Berlin? Agnes didn’t remember. She went back to bed and pulled up the covers. Oddly enough she suddenly felt calmer and safer. Here in the eye of the storm, no one could touch her. Absolutely no one. At least not today, when both Lande and Seeholz were going to Berlin. That would give her a full twenty-four hours to think things through.
She rolled onto Lande’s side of the bed and stared at the small framed photograph of his first wife. I’ll take care of Cecilia for you, she thought. I don’t know how I’m going to manage it, but I will. I promise.
A few minutes later Gustav Lande came out of the bathroom, his bathrobe open. The scent of his aftershave overwhelmed her for a moment as he bent down and kissed her. Agnes closed her eyes. The private secretary was staring at her again, screaming soundlessly, dark blood pooling on the oak parquet floor. The glass dropping to the floor, her lifeless eyes.
“Come on,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Come and have breakfast with me before I have to leave.”
This will be the last time I ever see you, she thought.
The very last time.
CHAPTER 63
Friday, June 20, 2003
Ullevål Hospital
Oslo, Norway
Tommy Bergmann didn’t like the fact that they were so visible sitting there in the cafeteria. Reuter had insisted that they sit at one of the tables right next to the reception area, and Bergmann could do nothing but acquiesce. He would have preferred a more secluded table because he didn’t want to run into Hege, though he didn’t know whether she was still working or had left on maternity leave. All he knew was that he didn’t want to see her right now.
He tried to read a few articles in the copy of Dagbladet that someone had left on the table, but soon gave up.
Reuter tore the wrapper off the ice cream cone he’d bought and tried to find the sports pages in the newspaper. Bergmann couldn’t understand how Reuter could even think of eating ice cream when he was still s
oaking wet. Bergmann wriggled his toes inside his shoes, feeling the water squelching under his feet. Reuter took a cautious bite of ice cream as he pulled his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket. Bergmann studied his colleague sitting across from him. Considering his paunch, ice cream was the last thing Reuter needed, but that wasn’t what was bothering Bergmann. It was knowing that in a moment Reuter would start licking the ice cream. He would turn the cone around and around, sticking out his tongue to lick the ice cream like an old lady.
“What are you staring at?” said Reuter without looking up.
“Nothing. Inside we’re all the same,” said Bergmann, trying to find a cigarette that was dry enough that he’d have a reasonable chance of lighting it.
Reuter laughed and kept leafing through the newspaper.
As Bergmann got up with the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, Reuter’s cell phone began vibrating on the table.
That was quick, thought Bergmann, taking a deep breath. Had Abrahamsen really managed to check the fingerprints already?
Reuter took the call, looking pensive.
“I’ll call you later,” he said into the phone.
“Nothing?” said Bergmann.
Reuter shook his head without replying.
“It’s going to be hell if it turns out that Vera Holt did it,” said Bergmann.
“With a conviction based on a confession and a good dose of insanity, it’s sure to be viewed as a real tragedy,” said Reuter, continuing to lick his ice cream cone.
Bergmann left to have a smoke, standing just outside the front entrance. An old man with almost yellow skin was leaning on a walker a few feet away, trying to stick a hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth.
He tore his eyes away from the old man and thought that maybe Reuter was right. Maybe it would be a blessing if Vera Holt was the perpetrator.
“Has Georg called?”
Reuter shook his head. He jumped when his phone began vibrating on the table a moment later.
“Speak of the devil,” he said. He glanced at Bergmann, his expression that of a five-year-old on Christmas Eve.
“So, what have you got for me?”
Abrahamsen’s voice was loud enough that Bergmann could hear the results of the fingerprint test, but the expression on Reuter’s face said it all. There’s no point in checking her DNA, he thought. Those were not her fingerprints on the Hitler Youth knife.
“Not a match?” said Reuter. “Are you sure?”
Bergmann stuck his cigarette pack in his breast pocket, then turned on his heel and headed for the door without saying a word. He jogged along the side of the building to the parking lot of the psychiatric ward.
The earlier downpour had given way to a light drizzle, but Bergmann nonetheless felt like he was freezing. Maybe it was his confusion that was making him feel cold. Complete and utter confusion that only Peter Waldhorst could clear up.
If he were willing to do so.
“Where are you going?” shouted Reuter behind him.
A woman walking by cast an alarmed look at Bergmann and the man chasing after him.
“Where do you think?” said Bergmann, stopping. Reuter was only a few steps away now, his face red, his eyes wild.
Reuter didn’t know what to say. He just stood there, then finally stated the obvious.
“It’s not her, Tommy. It’s not Vera Holt.”
“Get Linda to book me a hotel room,” said Bergmann as he started heading for the car again. “You’ll have to take a cab back.” He held out his hand to Reuter. “Toss me the keys.”
“The keys?” said Reuter.
“The car keys.” Bergmann patted his pockets. Then he pulled his passport out of his inside pocket. It was still there from his trip to Berlin.
At last Reuter seemed to understand that Bergmann was going back, and that he had no time to waste.
“But Waldhorst isn’t on any of the airline passenger lists!” shouted Reuter, catching up. “And he didn’t check into any hotels either . . .”
Bergmann ignored him.
“No Peter Waldhorst. No Peter Ward,” said Reuter as they reached the car. Bergmann tilted his head back and looked up at the brick facade of the psych ward. He no longer felt guilty about suspecting Vera Holt of a murder that she might have had every right to commit, at least according to the Book of Exodus. She might never get out of this hospital, but that might be for the best—both for her and everyone else.
Bergmann took the car keys from Reuter, who merely shook his head without saying a word.
“When was Kennedy in Berlin?” Bergmann asked as he pressed the remote. The silvery Ford Mondeo beeped and the car doors unlocked.
Reuter cocked his head to one side, looking as if he thought Bergmann might also need to spend some time in the nearby building.
“‘Ich bin ein Berliner,’” said Bergmann. “When did he say that?”
Reuter still didn’t reply, but it was easy to tell from his expression that he was seriously considering the question.
“When did Kennedy say that?”
“Just a minute,” said Reuter. “Let me think.”
Bergmann stuck a damp cigarette in his mouth and managed to light it.
“1963,” said Reuter, staring at Bergmann. “June 1963.”
Bergmann opened his notebook. Half the pages were wet from the rain, but the ink hadn’t smeared too badly, and he could still read what he’d written. He turned back a few pages, running his finger over the words.
“1963,” he murmured to himself. That was the summer that Bente Bull-Krogh was in her senior year. A few months before Krogh’s wife thought a woman had called them, though the other person hadn’t said anything on the phone.
Bergmann looked at Reuter, who frowned.
“What is it?” Reuter asked.
Bergmann didn’t reply.
“Tommy?”
No response.
“Why are you asking about that? ‘Ich bin ein Berliner?’”
“It’s just something that Waldhorst said.”
“1963,” said Reuter.
“1963,” Bergmann repeated, getting in the car.
“What does that have to do with your going to Berlin?”
Bergmann leaned forward and started up the engine. He closed his eyes for a moment, and images of himself with Peter Waldhorst flitted through his mind. The two of them standing next to the taxi outside the hospital.
Chance is nothing but fate, and fate is nothing but chance.
Bergmann started backing up. For a second he was afraid he’d driven over Reuter’s feet as he stood there, throwing out his hands in a plea for him to wait and explain. Bergmann rolled down the window, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and pressed the button for the siren in the center of the dashboard.
Half an hour later he was standing at the SAS ticket counter at Oslo Airport. Afterward, two pints of beer at the bar lowered his pulse to an acceptable level. He laughed at the message he got from Arne Drabløs, who was wondering if he’d abdicated his position as head coach altogether. It occurred to him that maybe he ought to quit coaching after the tournament in Göteborg because of the whole thing with Hadja. He pushed aside any thoughts of her, stowing them away at the very back of his mind.
On the bar napkin he’d written three little words.
I loved her.
Quickly he folded up the napkin.
For several minutes he stared out the bar at the line of people about to board a Norwegian Air flight. He sat there smiling to himself without knowing exactly why.
He needed to start over, connect the dots in this investigation in a different way.
In the fall of 1963 Krogh gets a mysterious phone call.
Waldhorst meets his current wife at Tempelhof in June of the same year.
The maid was not killed after all.
Waldhorst loved Agnes Gerner.
And Carl Oscar Krogh was presumably working for the Germans during the war.
Finally: Agnes Gerner realized w
hat he was up to and was killed.
He stared into his empty beer glass, as though hoping to find the answer at the bottom. He rubbed his hands over his face several times. It seemed hopeless. He could hardly make heads or tails of anything anymore. Had Waldhorst met someone at Tempelhof in 1963 who reminded him of Agnes? Someone who reminded him that Krogh had killed her in 1942?
A wild thought occurred to him as he waited in line to board.
Could Johanne Caspersen be his wife? The woman he’d called Gretchen?
CHAPTER 64
Sunday, September 27, 1942
Villa Lande
Tuengen Allé
Oslo, Norway
As soon as Agnes Gerner entered the kitchen, everything became clear to her. Johanne Caspersen stood with her back turned, placing a couple of logs on the embers in the fireplace. Yet she seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, because she froze as Agnes came into the room. And Agnes knew, she knew, that she had been careless, so damned careless that an ugly maid had seen right through her. She just couldn’t figure out what it was she’d done. What little mistake had she made that had put the maid on her trail?
She heard a phone ringing through the closed door to the living room.
It’s all over now, thought Agnes. They’re calling Gustav to tell him who I really am.
A moment later she regained her composure. At least for the time being.
“I’ll get it,” Lande said. Something in his voice calmed her.
Cecilia was sitting at the table, lost in her own world. A sketch pad had captured all her attention, and she was moving a colored pencil over the paper. Agnes studied her. The child still hadn’t noticed her presence.
Paper, she thought suddenly.
Peter Waldhorst.
Paper.
Waldhorst.
Nausea rose in her throat. For a moment she was overwhelmed by the thought that he’d backed her into a corner. She knew she ought to be glad that she hadn’t heard from him in a while. But it was precisely that—his silence—that was so ominous. This certainty that at any moment he’d be standing behind her, tearing off his mask of feigned friendliness to reveal the monster he undoubtedly was.