The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  ‘I know that Gerhard was in contact with the British secret service while he was in Stockholm.’

  His eyes lock onto hers. He is surprised, she thinks, and slightly put out to find out something he didn’t already know.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘No one in British intelligence circles informed us. Are you sure?’

  She shakes her head. ‘All I’m sure of is that we at the legation were told that the bones of one person had been found after the fire. You must’ve been told the same.’

  ‘The main point was to persuade the police and everyone else in Sweden that Gerhard’s death was the result of an accident. But at home we knew the police had found bones in the ash. It was war. Things were happening on the eastern front and we had a lot of work on our hands. My conclusion was that both were missing. They never appeared again, so we assumed they had killed each other and that was that. But we couldn’t go public with this conclusion. Torgersen was instructed to tell you and the others that the remains belonged to Gerhard. Then a story was fabricated about Gerhard’s death – to bring the case to an end in Norway. The same happened for Kolstad, but it was so that his family would have some peace. Where did you get this stuff about the British intelligence services?’

  ‘Forget I told you,’ she says. ‘It was probably just a rumour. There was a lot of speculation when he went missing.’

  Sverre pats his pockets. Unable to find what he is looking for. ‘You don’t have any matches by any chance, do you?’

  She fetches a box from a drawer and passes it to him.

  Sverre lights up and smokes in silence.

  His brandy glass is empty again. He helps himself to a refill. Puts the top on the bottle and has a sip. ‘Have you had any contact with people from the group since the war?’

  She shakes her head. ‘None.’

  ‘You went to Israel when it was still called Palestine, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have some contact with people there now.’

  For a long while only the ticking of the clock on the wall can be heard.

  ‘It’s late,’ Sverre says, putting down his glass.

  ‘Do you know where Gerhard’s father is buried?’

  He looks askance at her over his glass. ‘Why?’

  ‘Gerhard made a point of mentioning it when I met him. How he had to live in a different country with a different identity. What a loss it had been. He didn’t know when his father died or where he was buried.’

  Sverre ponders. ‘I’d guess it was Porsgrunn.’

  ‘Porsgrunn?’

  ‘That’s where Gerhard’s from. His father worked at the porcelain factory.’

  ‘I thought he might be buried at the Cemetery of Our Saviour here in Oslo.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  She changes the topic. ‘Just forget it. There’s another thing I’m wondering about. Alvilde Munthe – does that name ring a bell?’

  ‘No, should it?’

  ‘She died long before the war.’

  Sverre shrugs. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s just a wild-goose chase. But I’m wondering whether she had some kind of relationship with Gerhard. She’s buried in that cemetery too.’

  Sverre thinks. ‘She might’ve been a person of some significance at one time. There are a lot of fine folk resting there. But she definitely isn’t a name I know.’

  2

  Sverre Fenstad sits in the taxi on his way home. It is late and at first he has his eyes closed, pleasantly intoxicated on brandy. But as soon as the taxi branches off at Tåsen he feels anxious. You shouldn’t be afraid of going home.

  On the other hand, Gerhard will soon be back in America. It is merely a question of hanging on. His mind goes back to Ester’s claim that Gerhard was in contact with British intelligence. She must be right that it was only a rumour. Anything else is too crazy.

  The driver slows down as they approach Sverre’s street. He checks the house numbers. Sverre coughs. ‘Over there. The drive with the wrought-iron gate.’

  The car stops.

  Sverre pays the driver and stands outside the gate until the car has disappeared from view. The house is dark and quiet. He stands still, without moving, to calm himself down, to feel the knot in his stomach loosening, telling himself, this is my home. Gerhard broke in. He did it to intimidate me, to sow the seeds of fear, but I mustn’t allow these seeds to germinate and grow bigger. This is my home. I am in charge of what goes on here. And now my house is waiting for me as it is supposed to.

  The windows reflect the darkness of the autumn evening. The gate is closed and the door securely locked. He hears footsteps. Turns. It is the girl who lives two houses down. She is walking the little dog with ears that almost drag along the ground. She does a little curtsey. The dog sniffs the gatepost, lifts a rear leg, squirts and then pads on its way. An absolutely normal evening, thinks Sverre. He walks in through the gate, up the steps and unlocks the door.

  He closes the door and switches on the light. Tries to absorb the atmosphere of the house, as he wants it to be. He wants to be reassured by the smell of home and tranquillity.

  He goes upstairs to the bathroom. Has a pee, then goes into the corridor. Standing there, he senses something he has felt several times recently. Something that has bothered him ever since the break-in. The unease is connected with the bathroom, he realises. He opens the bathroom door, switches on the light and goes in. He lets his eyes wander from the door frame, past the toilet, the bathtub, past the washstand with the mirror and the cabinet and over the rail with the towels, the medicine cupboard and back to the door frame. He does the same the other way round – and now he sees it. The stick with the hook on. The pole hook he uses to open the loft hatch. It is hanging from the wrong hook. It always hangs on the second from right. Now it is hanging from the one on the extreme right. Now Sverre knows how Gerhard managed to do everything. He is disappointed with himself. He grasps the pole hook, leaves the bathroom and goes to the end of the narrow corridor. He pulls down the loft hatch. On the inside of the hatch is the ladder, which unfolds. He climbs up. He twists the light switch and scans the cramped loft. The cardboard boxes and the rubbish he has put up here. Sees the footprints in the dust between the boxes.

  Sverre can imagine it all now: Gerhard pulled down the loft hatch and the ladder with it. Then he hung the pole back on the hook. Climbed into the loft, pulled the ladder up and closed the hatch door after him. Then he waited. Sitting in the darkness and listening to Sverre’s movements downstairs. He heard Sverre go to bed. When he was sure Sverre had fallen asleep, Gerhard climbed down and pottered around in the house. Boiled some coffee. Switched on the TV. Went into his bedroom and opened the window wide. Then he left. Perhaps he waited outside. Or he went back to his hotel. He rang to make sure Sverre woke up and could see what he had done. It was a demonstration of power.

  Sverre climbs back down the ladder, lifts it into position and closes the hatch.

  Why hadn’t he checked the loft before he went to bed?

  It had never occurred to him.

  What if it had? What would Gerhard have done if he had been caught red-handed?

  Sverre goes numb thinking about the weapon in the cistern in the hotel room. His fingertips rasping over the sharp blade. The police hadn’t found it. They had searched the room while Gerhard was being interviewed. He must have removed it, being the alert, careful person he was.

  Sverre limps down to the ground floor. His hip is really giving him some pain. He looks outside. It has started to rain. Perhaps this pain is a kind of arthritis, he thinks, holding his hip.

  At that moment the telephone rings. He limps over to it. ‘Fenstad.’

  It is Vera asking him to guess what she is holding in her hand.

  ‘A red carnation,’ he says for lack of a better suggestion.

  ‘I have the Åse Lajord file. It isn’t very fat. So I thought I
’d better ring.’

  ‘Have you been through the papers?’

  ‘The few there are, yes.’

  Sverre listens with half an ear while Vera talks. He has discovered something else that is different since Gerhard’s visit. The key cupboard on the wall beside the front door. It is not unusual for the little door to be open. What is unusual is that a key is missing.

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ he says, noticing only after he has spoken that he has interrupted her in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘Sverre?’

  ‘Thank you, Vera. I’ll call you later.’

  He sinks down onto the bench beside the telephone. The seeds Gerhard sowed are germinating. He raises his hand. It is trembling. First the lighter, he thinks, and now the key. But what does Gerhard want with an old lighter? No, he must have dropped the lighter when he wasn’t concentrating. The key, however, is a different matter. Gerhard’s theft of the key means he will have to get new locks for the house. He opens the telephone directory and looks up locksmiths. But then he realises how late it is. No point ringing. He can’t order new locks until tomorrow.

  He closes the telephone directory. Shoots a glance upstairs. He doesn’t want to go to bed up there, alone in this big house. Not now that he knows Gerhard has a key.

  Oslo, November 1967

  1

  Ester catches a glimpse of Markus Rebowitz’s back as he swings into Bygdøy allé. He is almost at the bottom of the hill. So he is a bit late. Markus is always punctual. He disappears through the door of Møllhausen’s patisserie. She drives into Niels Juels gate to park.

  When, a little later, Ester goes through the same door, Markus is in the queue at the counter. He points towards the window. He has laid his coat over a chair at one of the tables there.

  ‘What do you want, Ester?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ she says.

  On her way to the table, as usual she chooses to step only on the dark squares on the chessboard tiles.

  Markus knows her obsessive quirks and smiles. ‘A bite to eat?’ he calls.

  ‘A custard tart.’

  She sits down at the window table and gazes out at the traffic in Bygdøy allé.

  Markus comes over with the tray. She tears the top off the envelope and dips a tea bag into the cup of hot water. Breaks off a bit of the tart. ‘You should try this,’ she says. ‘Puff pastry and custard. This is the best in town.’

  Markus bites into his bread roll with brown cheese, chews and mumbles that this is a speciality as well. He takes his coat and searches the pockets. He pulls out a small, oblong case.

  He places the roll on his plate and holds out the case to her. It’s a mezuzah. It is made of brass and decorated with elegant engravings. Old patina.

  ‘It’s uncommonly beautiful,’ she says, examining it; she means it.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  He takes it back from her and shows her how to open it. Passes the two parts back.

  ‘I can’t accept this, Markus.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘But I’m never going to hang it up.’

  He looks at her with arched eyebrows.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten that they painted a star on our doors. Or that my father slept in the shop to prevent vandalism.’

  ‘We were also harassed. But we’re living in different times now. It’s no shame to be a Jew in Norway.’

  She puts the mezuzah on the table between them. ‘I don’t believe it has anything to do with shame. It’s associated with something I’d rather forget.’

  They are interrupted by a young girl with an apron and a coffee pot. ‘Refill, Markus?’

  He nods, holds out his cup and smiles as she swivels round to the customers at the neighbouring table.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Let’s say I know what the custard tarts taste like at Møllhausen’s.’

  Ester brushes the crumbs from her fingers. They both gaze out at the traffic, lost in their own memories, and jump when the bell over the door jingles. A crowd of children flock around the counter. They all want a ‘school bun’: a custard bun covered with grated coconut.

  She looks at Markus. He looks at her, and she decides they have chitchatted enough. ‘Have you got anything to tell me?’

  He closes his eyes just long enough for her impatience to intensify. ‘Why did you ask me to do this?’ he says.

  ‘I told you. What’s up?’

  ‘Red lights started flashing.’

  Ester regards him without saying a word.

  ‘First and foremost: Gary Larson doesn’t run a petrol station. He never has done. And definitely not in Minneapolis.’

  So Gerhard is lying, Ester thinks. That is not so surprising, in fact. Someone who has lied before will do it again.

  Markus collects crumbs on the tip of his forefinger and licks it clean.

  ‘What about the red lights?’

  ‘Gary Larson turns out to be in the same branch as you.’

  She raises both eyebrows.

  ‘And he goes back a long way. Right to ANCIB, the Army Navy Communication Intelligence Board. The forerunner of the NSA.’

  She hadn’t expected that. ‘Seriously?’

  Markus nods. ‘At any rate Gary Larson’s been working for the American National Security Agency ever since 1945. But now he’s no longer in such good company.’

  Ester concludes that she isn’t actually that surprised. There has been something measured and professional about Gerhard’s conduct this whole time. All the tricks to check if he was being followed when he went to the cemetery. Gerhard’s physique in relation to his age, but also the composure, the cool, watchful posture.

  ‘Apparently Gary Larson has two weaknesses,’ Markus says, collecting the rest of the crumbs in his palm and tossing them into his mouth. ‘Larson is what some call a dipso. In addition, he’s addicted to gambling. What are your thoughts on that?’

  She doesn’t quite know how to express them. ‘No longer in such good company? How do you stop intelligence work in America?’

  ‘You can’t make that tally?’

  ‘It’s just that all the evidence suggests he’s on a specific mission,’ she says. ‘He does stuff.’

  ‘My source mentioned one Brian Pankhurst.’

  Ester beams.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’ve confirmed what I myself suspected. Brian Pankhurst – in Stockholm,’ she says.

  Markus nods. ‘The Englishman who trained us in close-combat fighting back then was Brian Pankhurst. The man my source links with Gary Larson is Brian Pankhurst. The age suggests it’s the same man.’

  Ester finishes her tea. Pankhurst represented the British intelligence services in those days. In fact, that was all she knew about him. Apart from one other thing: he and Gerhard knew each other. She had known that, but no one else in the legation had. And Pankhurst must have been involved from the start, she thinks. Gerhard would never have walked into an ambush without ensuring he had a way out. And in Pankhurst he had the world’s best-qualified henchman. She can see it now. She was the one who had given him the address. Gerhard had seen the risks it presented and was uneasy. He had left her in the lurch that night, presumably to check with Pankhurst. Who represented British interests. He was the one who would have known whether the meeting was genuine or not. Gerhard had decided to go into hiding. The two of them: him and Pankhurst. Kolstad didn’t have a chance. What Markus says is logical and means that there is only one element she still can’t quite grasp: why was it better for Gerhard to be declared dead than to return to Norway and fight?

  Markus coughs.

  She looks up.

  ‘You say Larson does stuff. What does he do?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. But I have to find out exactly what he’s up to.’ She slips back into thought.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Ester?’

  ‘Larson and Pankhurst were in contact in Stockholm. They knew eac
h other. I saw them together.’

  ‘Oh? How did they establish that contact? I seem to remember Larson was in hiding all of the time.’

  ‘They must’ve known each other well. So they must’ve had dealings long before Stockholm.’ She glances up at him. ‘Can you try and find out how they first met?’

  Markus doesn’t answer.

  She looks through the window and can feel his eyes on her.

  ‘Will you?’

  He is still silent.

  She interprets this as a no and packs up her things.

  ‘There’s one tiny detail,’ he says. ‘It’s tiny and I don’t know if it means anything.

  Letting the cat out of the bag at the last minute is typical of Markus, but she isn’t in the mood to smile.

  ‘As I remember it, Larson had been in the International Brigade. I think you told me that once.’

  ‘He had, yes.’

  ‘Pankhurst too. He went to Spain to volunteer,’ Markus says. ‘Among other things he led a section at Brunete.’

  ‘Larson was injured there,’ Ester says. ‘At the battle of Brunete.’

  Markus grins wryly. ‘There’s your explanation. That’s how they knew each other.’

  2

  It is midnight by the time Grete plucks up the courage to check the sitting room. It is dark inside. Erik is standing at the window and looking out. He doesn’t turn. She catches a whiff of alcohol, but she can’t see a bottle. The smell could have been her imagination, she thinks.

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘She’s twenty-five. She does what she wants.’

  ‘Then she can live in her own flat. If she can do as she wants.’

  Grete doesn’t respond. She stares at her husband’s stubborn back. ‘It’s another long day for us tomorrow. And you have to start work early.’