The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  “No,” he said at last, holding on to the doorframe. The old man now looked even older, if that were possible. “Krogh was in a very difficult position . . . His father was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and he wanted to help him financially,” said Waldhorst. “But Krogh didn’t kill poor Kaj Holt.”

  For a moment none of them spoke.

  “It was the Swedes,” said Waldhorst, raising his hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair. “The Swedes killed Kaj Holt.”

  “He was killed because you told him something he wanted to know,” said Bergmann.

  “Only a fool runs off at the mouth,” said Waldhorst. He gasped for breath, as if talking from a distance of ten yards was nearly killing him. “If Holt had let the Swedes have their way with Krogh, he might still be alive today.”

  “Krogh was a traitor. A traitor who allowed the Swedes to get rid of Holt.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” said Waldhorst. “Much worse. And don’t condemn him because of what happened to Holt. Krogh had no idea. Holt was his boss but also his friend, a friend he really did betray.”

  “Was that why Krogh was so upset by Holt’s death?” asked Bergmann. “But his wife was sent to reinforce the idea that Holt was suicidal.”

  Waldhorst smiled wanly, as if he suddenly felt sad. He came back down the steps and walked toward the gate, waving his hand. When he reached them, his face was even paler than before, and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.

  “Karen Eline Fredriksen was the mistress of Håkan Nordenstam, a Swede in what was called the C-Bureau. He was one of Kaj Holt’s best Swedish contacts.” Waldhorst fixed his eyes steadily on Bergmann to show that he was speaking the truth.

  “So, was it this Nordenstam who killed Holt?” asked Bergmann.

  Waldhorst shook his head.

  “If there’s nothing else, I really need to rest,” he said. He leaned on the wrought-iron gate as he said something in German to Fritz. Bergmann understood only two or three words and didn’t even try to assemble them into something coherent.

  “I need you to tell me if you know who killed Kaj Holt.”

  “Why?” said Waldhorst. He was so pale now that Bergmann was afraid he might die right before their eyes.

  “Because I might have gotten it all wrong,” said Bergmann.

  “The man who killed Holt died a long time ago. There’s no point in trying to track him down. All of this is pointless, Mr. Bergmann. As for Krogh, he was like a fish you catch and then release. That’s what war is like. Everything is for sale—life, death, loyalty, truth, everything. It’s true what they say: money can buy anything. Except for doomed love.”

  Waldhorst turned on his heel and once again walked back to his house. It was obvious that the old man was making an effort not to look upset. The heavy door slowly closed behind him.

  “Who killed Agnes Gerner?” Bergmann shouted so loudly that it could be heard all the way down the street. He noticed the German policeman shift nervously from one foot to the other. “Who killed Agnes?” he shouted again, even louder this time. “Was it you, Mr. Waldhorst?”

  CHAPTER 70

  Sunday, September 27, 1942

  Villa Lande

  Tuengen Allé

  Oslo, Norway

  Agnes Gerner put her hand on the door handle but didn’t open the door. A shiver raced down her spine, but she shook it off. It was just her soaking wet clothes making her feel cold. Then the same thought occurred to her again. Why had she come back here to Villa Lande? Couldn’t she simply leave? Disappear?

  But where would she go?

  She heard a sound behind her and turned around. The cab had long since driven off, and the street was quiet, almost deserted.

  It’s nothing, she told herself. Just my imagination. There were no shadows behind the tree, no strange cars on the street. All she saw was the rain pouring down. She had no idea why not, but she had to accept the fact that Waldhorst hadn’t followed her.

  “But where?” she murmured to herself. “Where can I go?”

  She didn’t know where Number 1 was. Maybe he too had been taken to Victoria Terrasse. Could she go to the apartment on Kirkeveien, to seek refuge with the old couple who lived there? The man had put his hand on her shoulder and given her hope that all of this would someday be over.

  She felt her stomach knot up. Without warning, in a flash of hope, she imagined the Pilgrim helping her get to Sweden. Then in a few weeks’ time, they would meet in Stockholm. Maybe they could even celebrate Christmas together. Just the two of them. They could run away together, away from this war, this . . . It couldn’t be . . . It was a lie. Waldhorst was nothing but a liar! He had faked those papers. He was trying to tighten the noose around her neck, but he wasn’t going to get away with it.

  The door opened before she pressed down on the handle. Shivering and confused like a fledgling bird, Agnes found herself staring into the face of Johanne Caspersen. She tugged a bit at her apron but didn’t say a word.

  Agnes brushed past her and took off her coat, tossing it on the floor behind her as she went into the living room. The maid followed close behind, merely stepping over the discarded wet coat. Agnes continued on to the library and went inside, slamming the door behind her.

  A pack of Turkish cigarettes that Brigadeführer Seeholz had left behind lay on the table. She shook one of the few remaining cigarettes out of the pack. It landed on the table, and she could barely manage to pick it up. She rummaged through her purse for a lighter, then sat down and stared straight ahead. What Waldhorst had said about the Pilgrim couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible. Things like that didn’t happen to her. She wasn’t easily fooled, or she never drew the shortest straw. She’d never been like that. And she refused to let that happen now. No, she thought as she went over to stand by the windows and took a deep drag on the strong cigarette. Last night not a soul in this room would have believed that she was working for the Brits, so she wasn’t about to let that little Hauptsturmführer believe it either. Feeling numbed, almost intoxicated by the strong tobacco, she suddenly felt sure that this whole nightmare would simply pass, that she’d find a way out at the last minute. She would talk to Gustav when he came back from Berlin, and Waldhorst would find himself on the Eastern Front before he could say “Pilgrim.”

  The door opened. Agnes ignored the maid.

  “Aren’t you supposed to go out to Rødtangen, Ms. Gerner?” said Johanne.

  “Do you think I’d go out there all alone?”

  Agnes walked back through the living room and into the kitchen, with the maid following her. She sat down at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the front gate, half expecting to see Waldhorst arrive at any moment.

  “No,” she told the maid. “There will be no trip to Rødtangen today.”

  “Mr. Lande will not be pleased. October starts next week, and Rødtangen is always closed up before October.”

  Agnes stared at the maid for what felt like several minutes.

  “I am Mr. Lande’s future wife,” she heard herself say, “and I alone know whether he will be displeased or not. And if he is displeased, there are ways to please him.” She touched the ring that Gustav had given her, turning it around and around on her finger, as if it would protect her from evil—from Peter Waldhorst, who was certain to come after her once he’d collected himself. An awful thought whirled through her mind: How could Waldhorst know that she was pregnant with the Pilgrim’s child? They could have found out his code name by torturing someone who’d been arrested. They could have even found out his real name. But not the fact that she was pregnant.

  She pushed the thought away.

  “I am Gustav Lande’s future wife,” she whispered to herself. She repeated those words five times in a row, as if speaking them out loud might make them true. “I am Mr. Lande’s future wife.”

  Johanne stared at her as if she were an animal that had strayed into the house.

  “Cecilia has been looking forward to g
oing to the woods,” she said.

  The woods, thought Agnes. It might clear her head to go out there.

  “We’ll take the car up to Nordmarka instead,” she said. “A walk in the woods would do us all good.”

  She went out to the front hall and picked her wet coat up off the floor. Bewildered and unable to think rationally, she stood there listlessly. How could Waldhorst know? She pictured the Pilgrim’s face, how it had grown hard over the past few months. The maid said something to her, but Agnes couldn’t make out the words. She turned to look at her. Had Johanne just said something about Waldhorst? Agnes couldn’t tell. She wasn’t hearing a single sound. She could have screamed and not even heard herself.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. The maid’s lips were moving, but Agnes heard nothing. But it looked as if the maid’s lips were forming that name.

  Waldhorst.

  Followed by a whole sentence: “Mr. Waldhorst has asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  No, thought Agnes. That can’t be what she said.

  She turned on her heel and went up to Cecilia’s room, first stopping by her bedroom to put on a dry coat. The child was sitting by the window, leafing through a photo album full of old pictures of her mother.

  Agnes noticed that her hearing had now returned. She could hear the sound of the thin album pages turning. She went over to Cecilia and stroked her hair. She said they were going to drive up to Nordmarka and take a walk in the woods. They’ll go to Rødtangen some other day.

  “But it’s raining,” said Cecilia. She had stopped at one of the photographs of Gustav sitting next to his wife. It had been taken sometime in the early thirties.

  “Rain is nice,” said Agnes. Only now did she notice that Lande’s wife was very pregnant in the photograph. She and Lande were sitting on a big rock, smiling at the photographer. Cecilia ran her finger over her mother’s stomach. Then she touched her mother’s face.

  Cecilia must have gone downstairs, because when Agnes turned around, the little girl was no longer in the room. Agnes looked at the white walls, the bookcase, the countless porcelain dolls on the two dressers, the small canopy bed, the old teddy bear sitting on the wicker chair in the corner.

  Without thinking about what she was doing, Agnes picked up the footstool from in front of the desk and carried it over to the wardrobe. She opened the middle door.

  The Welrod was still there, untouched, just where she’d left it, behind the piles of old toys on the top shelf. Quickly she unwrapped it from the towel and stuck it in the left sleeve of her coat.

  At the door she paused and cast one last look around. In a few strides she crossed the room, picked up the photo album with pictures of Cecilia’s mother, and stuck it under her arm.

  In the doorway she paused once again. The album suddenly felt too heavy. What was she thinking? She opened it and turned the pages until she came to the photograph of the young Gustav Lande and his wife, smiling and pregnant, sitting on the rock. It felt like the world split apart when she tore the picture from the page and stuffed it in the inside pocket of her coat.

  CHAPTER 71

  Tuesday, June 24, 2003

  Hotel Berlin

  Lützowplatz

  Berlin, Germany

  Tommy Bergmann felt like he’d been through all this before. But this time he really did think that he’d been awakened by an air-raid siren. The remnants of a dream abruptly vanished from his mind. For a fleeting second he remembered everything, and then it was gone.

  It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t an air-raid siren after all. It was his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. Swearing under his breath, he fumbled for his watch.

  “How’s it going with that guy?” said Fredrik Reuter in his ear. “Did you oversleep?”

  “You know me too well,” said Bergmann. He sat up in bed and pulled up the covers. An image flashed through his mind of Hege coming out of the bathroom, dripping wet, to kiss him on the forehead and say she loved him. For a moment he imagined that he’d never done anything wrong.

  “Have you made any progress?” asked Reuter.

  “He admitted that Carl Oscar Krogh worked for him during the war, but that’s all. Maybe it was old Waldhorst himself who hacked him up,” said Bergmann, putting a cigarette to his lips. “If Krogh killed Agnes Gerner and Waldhorst loved her, he at least has a motive, even though the murder happened so long ago. I’m going back out there today to get his fingerprints.”

  “Maybe I can spare you the trouble,” said Reuter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got a guy sitting right here in front of me in the office.”

  Bergmann dropped some cigarette ash on the sheets. He swore and then brushed it onto the floor.

  “A guy?”

  “A suntanned roofer from Poland.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He was working on the roof of the house next door to Krogh’s place when Krogh was killed. He left for Poland the next day,” said Reuter. “Anyway, he saw a car drive away from Krogh’s house.”

  Bergmann stopped smoking and held the cigarette distractedly between his fingers.

  “Why hasn’t he mentioned this until now?”

  “I told you. He was in Poland. They don’t have Dagbladet over there, Tommy. They just have crucifixes above their beds and outhouses in the yard. So he hasn’t read any of the Norwegian newspapers. In fact, he doesn’t even speak Norwegian. But when he came back home, he saw the pictures from the case in the papers and recognized the neighboring house.”

  “Let me talk to him,” said Bergmann.

  After a short pause he heard the man say on the phone in heavily accented English, “A car.”

  “A car?”

  “A car, for rent.”

  “A rental car,” Bergmann murmured to himself. There might be bloodstains in the car. “What sort of car?”

  “Red.”

  “Red?”

  The man on the phone fell silent. Bergmann felt his pulse pounding in his temples and noticed that he was more tense than he wanted to be.

  “Newspaper,” said the Pole, using the Norwegian word, avis.

  “Newspaper? What newspaper?”

  “Avis . . . car.”

  It took Bergmann a few seconds to realize the Pole meant the Avis rental-car company.

  “What type of car?”

  “A small Ford or Opel.”

  “Why that car? There must have been other cars on the street.”

  “Not many cars,” said the man on the phone. “Not many. This one drove very slow, almost not moving. Like the driver not paying attention. I don’t know . . .”

  “An old man?” said Bergmann. “Was the driver an old man?”

  Silence for a moment.

  “I don’t know. I was up on roof. I couldn’t see, but I think two people.”

  “Two?” said Bergman. “Two people?”

  “Yes, two people.”

  Bergmann closed his eyes for a moment. “Shit,” he murmured between clenched teeth. “Great. That’s all I need,” he said to the man. “Please give the phone back to Inspector Reuter.”

  Reuter came back on the line.

  “Call all the Avis rental-car offices,” said Bergmann, “and get copies of the driver contracts issued for all cars that were turned in on Sunday, June 8. Start with the office at the train station, then Oslo Airport and Lillestrøm.”

  Reuter paused, as if for effect, before he said, “Do you think we’re complete idiots up here?”

  Bergmann considered replying in the affirmative but decided not to.

  “And fax everything to me here in Berlin.”

  “Tommy, now that . . .”

  But Bergmann had already picked up the information booklet on the nightstand and was rattling off the hotel’s fax number. Reuter reluctantly wrote it down. Bergmann could picture him: his face flushed, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his shirttail untucked, writing down the number o
n an old scrap of paper at his desk.

  “And you’re not to do anything at all without Fritz,” said Reuter.

  In the end, Bergmann grudgingly had to agree.

  He was sitting in a shady sidewalk café on a side street off Kurfürstendamm when Reuter called again. Without making a move to pick up his phone, Bergmann downed the rest of his schnapps and studied the light shining through the golden beer in the other glass. After Reuter gave up, he lit another cigarette, thinking that the case was over. One way or another, it would be over in less than an hour. Then his phone rang again.

  “Are you at the hotel?” asked Reuter.

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s a big stack of papers waiting for you when you get back, since you insisted on having copies.” Reuter’s voice sounded so resigned that Bergmann felt a growing disappointment replace the tension of the past few hours. It seemed that instead of wrapping this case up, the only thing he had to look forward to was more weeks of groping in the dark. Maybe it was too good to be true for a Polish roofer to provide the ultimate breakthrough in the case. An old drunkard, a crazy woman, and now a Polish roofer were all they had so far.

  “So,” said Bergmann. “No Waldhorst? No Peter Ward?”

  “No.”

  “He may have used another ID, or taken the car back to another Avis office.”

  “Possibly,” said Reuter. “Or taken it back the next day. I’ll do a hotel search too.” It didn’t sound like he thought that would prove fruitful. If someone committed a murder in a foreign country, there was only one important rule: to get across the border as quickly as possible. “Take a look yourself,” Reuter said. “But I can’t see anyone in those papers who bears any resemblance to an almost ninety-year-old German.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Sunday, September 27, 1942

  Nordmarka

  Oslo, Norway

  After they’d been walking in Nordmarka for ten or fifteen minutes, the sky overhead turned almost black.

  Cecilia was leading the way, a few steps ahead of Johanne Caspersen. Agnes Gerner walked a few paces behind the maid. She had her eyes fixed on the back of Johanne’s anorak. Then she turned around to see if anyone was following them. Had Johanne really said that about Waldhorst back at the house? She must have imagined it.