Sohlberg and the Gift

by Jens Amundsen

  They shot past Sundvollen. The hamlet sits at the mouth of the spectacular Steinsfjorden which empties into the larger and more spectacular Tyrifjorden. A right turn took them north along the lake on Asaveien or Fv156.

  “I’m curious,” said Atle. “What makes a police officer like you come up here on false pretenses?”

  “The truth.”

  Six miles after the little town of Sundvollen they turned right into Stubdalsveien. The narrow and winding road threaded itself higher and higher up and through the intimidating Krokskogen forest that engulfed the steep mountains surrounding Mt. Gyrihaugen. From time to time Sohlberg caught sweeping views of the lakes and valleys below.

  While speeding through a plateau Sohlberg pointed at the tall metal towers that mysteriously sprung from the mountaintops. He also pointed at the enormous white dish antennas that grew like mushrooms in shallow valleys. Squat concrete buildings clotted next to the towers on the ridges and the parabolic Cassegrain dishes in the valleys.

  “What’s all this? . . . What are all these antennas doing up here? . . . Are they for television or radio?”

  “Neither. They’re military. Our military and NATO and the Americans . . . their Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And they’re also foreign intelligence. By that I mean C.I.A. and N.S.A. The Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency . . . those American twins of so-called foreign intelligence . . . especially the N.S.A. Those boys are the great Omniscient Eye and Ear that see and hear everything. But one thing they’re not is All-Knowing . . . they don’t know everything since they’re distracted collecting too much noise . . . too much junk . . . to be able to sift through it all. They always miss the important stuff . . . like the fact that the old Soviet Union was about to collapse . . . or that Osama bin Laden was about to attack America on Nine-Eleven. I’m sure that they’re also very distracted looking through information from corporations that do business all over the world.”

  “What for?” said Sohlberg—his curiosity intensely evoked.

  “To steal secret business information . . . and then trade on stocks and bonds and options and commodities . . . you name it. Rumors are that several top analysts and deputy directors at the N.S.A. have made hundreds of millions of dollars and euros on insider information.”

  “When did all these electronic contraptions get put up here?”

  “The antennas were installed in the fifties and sixties to get first wind of any Soviet attack or invasion.”

  “Were those installations ours . . . or American . . . or NATO?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “No. Not really. But why are they still up there nowadays . . . why have them up there?”

  “The usual. Eavesdropping.”

  “Spying on Russia?”

  “Spying on everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yes . . . why not? . . . They spy on you and me and everyone else in the free and not-so-free world.”

  After a sharp curve Atle immediately turned off the road into an unmarked side road that sliced through the forest. The unremarkable road would be extremely easy to miss unless a person was carefully looking for it. A mile later they stopped where a chainlink fence jutted out of the forest. A simple sign declared:

  TREE RESEARCH CENTER

  U.M.B. DEPT OF PLANT SCIENCES

  AND THE NORWEGIAN MINISTRY OF

  AGRICULTURE AND FOOD.

  “How clever,” remarked Sohlberg. “It almost looks real.”

  “Oh . . . it is real. It’s a tree farm that’s run by the Center for Plant Research.”

  “A government front?”

  Atle smiled. “No. It’s real . . . part of U.M.B.”

  “What?”

  “The miljø- og biovitenskap . . . Norwegian University of Life Sciences. They’re just south of Oslo.”

  “Oh. I actually think I’ve heard of it.”

  “Anyway . . . the Temple Mount is deep inside the tree research property.”

  The gate required number and letter codes to be entered into a panel by the driver’s window. They followed an extremely narrow paved road for five miles until another but much taller chainlink fence stopped them. Unlike the first fence this 12-foot tall barrier was shrouded front and back by concertina wire and crowned with what appeared to be motion detectors. Every 40 feet along the fence signs sprouted and declared in red ink: DANGER: ELECTRIFIED FENCE! DO NOT TOUCH!

  The gate circled behind a manned hut with closed circuit cameras mounted on the walls. Two stone-faced white-camouflaged soldiers with machine-guns performed a visual inspection of the car interior including the trunk. The tallest of the army privates waved them through.

  The road ended a mile later at an amphitheater-like bowl between three mountains.

  “Here we are. The tunnel on the left is our entrance into the mountain.”

  Thirty-foot tall walls of snow surrounded the practically empty parking lot. Two steel tunnels bore straight into the snow-faced side of the right mountain. Each tunnel had a 50-foot tall entrance.

  “What’s the right tunnel for? . . . Where does it go?”

  “To the great vacuum cleaner. We call it the Electrolux Center. The Americans call it the Hoover Center. All nicknames for vacuum cleaners.”

  “What vacuum cleaners?”

  “Intelligence gathering. Signal collection. We have a deal with the Americans and British . . . it’s part of Echelon . . . we give them access to all of the fiber optic cables on the transatlantic communications cables.”

  “Cables? I thought it was all done by satellite.”

  “No. Used to be. But no more since fiber optic. It’s really cheap and reliable and carries huge amounts of information that would bog down a satellite.”

  “Why did the Americans and British pick us? . . . Why here?”

  “Norway has all the fiber optic cables that come in and out of western Russia . . . which of course includes Moscow . . . and we have a big chunk of the fiber optic cables that come to and from Germany and East Europe. So we let the Americans plug into the cables . . . they literally suck everything out of the cables . . . every single solitary telephone call . . . fax . . . e-mail . . . Internet signal . . . computer signal . . . including every single solitary signal ever sent to or from any source in Norway. . . . They send all the signals back to Washington D.C. on their own dedicated lines.”

  Sohlberg was shaken by the revelation. “I just can’t believe this.” Although he kept it very quiet he was a Norway First patriot who thought that his country was far superior to all other countries. “Do the Americans literally hear and see everything that goes inside Norway?”

  “Yes. Everything. Your phone calls and e-mails to family and friends . . . all government communications . . . all business information . . . stock trading buy and sell orders. You name it. Our own government has sold out our country . . . the Americans and the British and NATO and the United Nations now own our politicians lock . . . stock . . . and barrel.”

  “That statement’s a bit extreme isn’t it? . . . Slightly exaggerated . . . no?”

  “Is it? . . . Then tell me what in the world are Norwegian troops doing in Afghanistan? . . . Why do we do whatever the United Nations tells us to do? . . . Take this refugee and that one.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Sohlberg.

  Atle clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles quivered. “You hear a lot of tripe about Quisling selling out Norway to Hitler. But Quisling was a benign amateur compared to our politicians on the left . . . the middle . . . and the right. They’re spineless castrati . . . they only ask how high when America or NATO or the United Nations say jump.”

  “It’s the way of the world . . . no?”

  Atle shrugged in disgust. They left the warmth and shelter of the car and braved the outdoor parking lot. Frigid mountain winds stung the men’s faces and lungs. About 100 yards inside the mountain tunnel Sohlberg felt mu
ch warmer air blow against his face. They entered a massive lobby that could have passed for an airport terminal at any well-off mid-sized city.

  “Hard for anyone to believe we’re inside a mountain,” said Atle with pride.

  Tasteful oak and steel panels covered the walls and ceilings. Enormous window frames with shades and fake daylight completed the charade. So did the variety of bright and muted paintings and sculptures which included giant mobiles hanging from ceilings. Sohlberg found it hard to believe he was deep inside a mountain.

  “A Calder?” whispered Sohlberg while he pointed at a huge red and green mobile up in the air.

  “Yes,” said Atle. A few yards later Atle nodded at a colorful mural that looked like a long comic strip from the 1950s. “This beauty is a Roy Lichtenstein painting commissioned by the government years before they started digging underground . . . it’s seventy-feet long . . . biggest one he ever painted. They say it’s now worth more than forty million dollars.”

  Atle stepped before a desk with three pistol-packing guards. He swiped his badge on a scanner and walked past the hatchet-faced guards. Sohlberg took a deep breath. He passed without any challenge after swiping his badge.

  “Get closer to me,” said the much taller Atle whose long steps propelled him far forward. “You’re too far away.”

  Sohlberg picked up the pace and caught up with his escort on the green-striped corridor. Fifteen minutes later they halted by a steel door that was marked DIGITAL PROJECT LIBRARY. The door slid open after Atle entered codes and swiped his card on a panel by the door. Once they were inside the room Sohlberg blinked and gaped at a brilliantly lit cavern that was the size of a football field. An upstairs mezzanine circled the lower level expanse of row after row of sturdy industrial metal shelves that held neat rows of cardboard boxes.

  “Nice. Quite a set-up you have here.”

  “You should see the rooms for scanning. We’ve got incredible equipment.”

  Atle grinned and ushered Sohlberg into his office where they took off their coats and gloves and hats and mufflers. From there they passed through a set of double doors that led to an enormous conference room. Atle paused before a wall safe. He spun the combination lock while Sohlberg sat down in front of the 40-foot conference table.

  “Here’s the Holy Grail,” said Atle as he pushed a stainless steel cart up to Sohlberg.

  The cart had a top and a bottom shelf and each shelf held two large cardboard boxes and each box sat on the middle of a tray and each side of the cart had a small built-in LED screen for each tray and each screen had a tiny red-light scanner immediately above.

  Atle pointed at the angry red eye. “You can only take one box at a time. Each box has its own scanner. You must wave your I.D. badge in front of the scanner every time that you pick up a box from the cart and every time that put a box back on the cart. Got it?”

  “Yes. But four boxes? . . . That’s it?”

  “Actually it’s three boxes for the bank robbery case and one box for the murder case . . . that’s the one with the J.E. initials on the sides of the box.”

  “Wait—”

  “Sorry but I delivered what you wanted . . . what you asked for. Now . . . excuse me but I have work to do.”

  “What if I finish early?”

  “You’ll have to wait here. There’s a restroom down the hall and a café with pretty good food and beverages. There’s also a rec-room with sofas that you can sleep on. I’m going to be here for seven or eight hours because I have to prepare a presentation for my bosses on Monday.”

  “Eight hours? . . . Can’t you take me back—”

  “Into town? No. Absolutely not. I’m not taking you back to town . . . least of all during my lunch hour.”

  “Alright. What if I need to get hold of you?”

  “Dial seven-five-four on any phone and it’ll page me.”

  Sohlberg promptly went to get himself something hot to drink at the café. He was pleasantly surprised that they had free pastries and fruits and coffee and hot chocolate and all sorts of herbal teas. He grabbed a large mug and brewed himself a peppermint tea. After savoring the intense and refreshing flavor he headed back to the conference room.

  As instructed Sohlberg waved his badge in front of the Janne Eide box. A bell chimed as soon as Sohlberg lifted the box off the cart. He got an even bigger surprise when he heard a pleasant female voice come from a speaker on the cart’s handle and say:

  “Please return the material to this tray for weighing when you are finished.”

  “Well!” said Sohlberg who was amazed at the sensitive and complicated nature of the sensors in the cart.

  Sohlberg stood by the conference table when he opened the box. He stared at four anorexic files. Two files belonged to the lead detectives on the case: Bjørn Nygård and his successor Ivar Thorsen. The other two files belonged to the department head Magnus Ellingsen and his boss Ingeborg Myklebust.

  Nygård’s file insulted Sohlberg.

  Missing were Nygård’s notes on what had been done and ordered and discovered during the first 48 hours. The notes would also have contained critical information such as the first impressions of the lead detective as well as his or his assistant’s interviews with first responders on the crime scene.

  Missing were all the other important documents that should’ve been in the box. The crime scene forensic reports—missing. The autopsy report— gone. Interviews with witnesses—not there. Lists of things to do and people to interview—gone. Case Status Reports to Elligsen—none. Report to Prosecutors—absent.

  The only document in the file: a one-page memo.

  Sohlberg’s blood pressure rose quickly as he read the document.

  FROM: MAGNUS ELLINGSEN

  TO: BJØRN NYGÅRD

  Two weeks ago at our Tuesday status update meeting, I verbally ordered you to limit costs and expenses in the Janne Eide investigation. There is no need to incur further costs and expenses because there is only one obvious culprit. Her husband is clearly guilty, and he is the only suspect that any rational detective would investigate and focus on.

  Accordingly, I expressly sent you a memo last month instructing you to obtain my prior written authorization before you incurred any more expenses. And yet, you have intentionally and knowingly disobeyed my command.

  Pursuant to the on-going audit that I ordered from Accounting they found unauthorized use of your Autopass account for $ 30 in tollway fees with respect to the unmarked car that you requested for this investigation. Attached is a copy of the 98-page audit.

  Your written explanation that you needed to drive about to different sources to confirm “certain facts” about the husband is wholly unsatisfactory and irrelevant. Your offer to personally reimburse the department for the $ 30 is also unsatisfactory and irrelevant.

  Under Rule 35A.02.(C) which governs financial impropriety and irregularity, I am therefore putting you on an immediate three (3) day suspension, unpaid. As required by labor contract 12-34/A, I am informing you that your union can help you appeal my decision.

  Further disobedience will result in disciplinary action that includes dismissal/termination and a criminal referral if necessary for any financial impropriety and irregularity.

  cc: Ingeborg Myklebust; Kasper Berge; Ivar Thorsen

  The Ellingsen Memo churned Sohlberg’s stomach. The threatening tone of the memo was obscene enough. But including an insignificant flea of a junior detective like Ivar Thorsen in the “cc” list was a grotesque insult purposefully designed to humiliate a lead homicide detective—like Bjørn Nygård—who was thoroughly experienced and well-regarded.

  Thorsen’s file was another perverse joke: it only held a copy of the repulsive memo from Ellingsen.

  Sohlberg’s heart skipped a beat when he flipped through the two remaining files and saw to his horror that the files for Magnus Ellingsen and Ingeborg Myklebust also held the same notorious memo.

  “Well . . . well . . . look here,” shouted Sohlberg who rea
ched out with his left hand to catch a second page that slipped out of the Myklebust file when Sohlberg threw it on the table with the Ellingsen file.

  The second page in the Myklebust file was a CONFIDENTIAL MEMO on elegant stationary from the Ministry of Justice that made Sohlberg just as upset as the first memo: