Headhunters

by Jo Nesbo

  I counted how many men there were wearing ties. As a rule, they were the ones who bought. The current square-metre price for Nørum’s works lay at around fifty thousand. With fifty-five per cent commission to the gallery you didn’t need many sales before this would become a lucrative evening. To put it another way: it had better be; Nørums were few and far between.

  People were streaming in through the doors now, and I had to move out of the way to let them get to the tray of champagne glasses.

  I ambled towards my wife and Nørum to tell him what a grovelling admirer I was. An exaggeration, of course, but not a bare-faced lie; the guy was good, no doubt about that. But as I was going to stretch out my hand, the artist was collared by a sputum-spouting man he obviously knew and dragged off to a giggling woman in apparent dire need of the toilet.

  ‘Looks good,’ I said, standing next to Diana.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ She smiled down at me, then motioned to the twin girls that they should do another round with the finger food. Sushi was out, but I had suggested the new Algerian catering service, French-inspired North African, very hot. In all senses. But I could see that she had ordered the food from Bagatelle again. It was good, too, my goodness. And three times as expensive.

  ‘Good news, my love,’ she said, slipping a hand into mine. ‘Do you remember the job for that firm in Horten you told me about?’

  ‘Pathfinder. What about it?’

  ‘I’ve found the perfect candidate.’

  I observed her with mild surprise. As a headhunter, from time to time naturally I used Diana’s customer portfolio and circle of acquaintances, which counted many business honchos among its number, without any pangs of conscience; after all, it was me who was financing this drain on the budget. What was unusual was that Diana had herself come up with a specific candidate for a specific job.

  Diana took the underside of my arm, leaned closer and whispered: ‘His name is Clas Greve. Dutch father, Norwegian mother. Or the other way round. Whatever. He stopped working three months ago and has just moved to Norway to do up a house he’s inherited. He was the CEO of one of Europe’s biggest GPS technology companies in Rotterdam. He was a co-owner until they were bought up by the Americans this spring.’

  ‘Rotterdam,’ I said, sipping some champagne. ‘What’s the company’s name?’

  ‘HOTE.’

  I almost choked on the champagne. ‘HOTE? Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘Have you got the guy’s number?’

  ‘No.’

  I groaned. HOTE. Pathfinder had named HOTE their model company in Europe. Just as Pathfinder was now, HOTE had been a small high-tech business specialising in delivering GPS technology to the defence industry in Europe. An ex-CEO from there would be absolutely ideal. And it was urgent. All recruitment agencies say that they only take assignments where they have exclusive rights because it is a prerequisite for serious, systematic work. But if the carrot is big and orange enough, when the gross annual salary begins to approach seven figures, everyone modifies their principles. And the top job with Pathfinder was extremely big, extremely orange and extremely competitive. The assignment had been given to three agencies: Alfa, ISCO and Korn/Ferry International. Three of the best. That was why this was not solely about money. Whenever we work on a no win, no fee basis, we first get a one-off fee to cover costs and then a fee if the candidate we present fulfils the needs we have agreed with the client. For us to get the real payout, however, the client has to appoint the person we recommend. OK by me, but what this was really, really about was simple: winning. Being king of the heap. Platform shoes.

  I leaned over to Diana. ‘Listen, sweetie, this is important. Have you any idea at all how I can get hold of him?’

  She chuckled. ‘You’re so nice when something catches your interest, darling.’

  ‘Do you know where … ?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where, where?’

  ‘He’s standing over there.’ She pointed.

  In front of one of Nørum’s expressive paintings – a bleeding man in a bondage hood – stood a slim, erect figure in a suit. The spotlight reflected on his shiny, bronzed skull. He had hard, knotted blood vessels in his temples. The suit was tailor-made. Savile Row, I assumed. Shirt without a tie.

  ‘Shall I bring him over, darling?’

  I nodded and watched her. Prepared myself. Noted his gracious bow when Diana approached and pointed. They came towards me. I smiled, but not too broadly, stretched out my hand slightly before he arrived, but not too prematurely. My whole body turned to him, my eyes on his. Seventy-eight per cent.

  ‘Roger Brown, pleased to meet you.’ I pronounced both names in the English way.

  ‘Clas Greve. The pleasure is all mine.’

  Apart from the un-Norwegian formal greeting, his Norwegian was nigh on perfect. His hand was warm, dry, the handshake firm without overdoing it, the recommended duration of three seconds. His eyes were calm, curious, alert; the smile friendly without being forced. My only complaint was that he was not as tall as I had hoped. Just under one metre eighty, a bit disappointing considering that Dutch men are the anthropometric world champions with an average height of 183.4 centimetres.

  A guitar chord sounded. To be precise, a G11sus4, the opening chord of the Beatles ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ from the album of the same name, 1964. I knew that because it was me who had put it on the Prada phone and set it as the ringtone before giving it to Diana. She raised the attractively slim object to her ear, nodded to us in apology and distanced herself.

  ‘I understand you have just moved here, herr Greve?’ I could hear myself sounding like an old radio play, using the Norwegian formal terms ‘De’ and ‘herr’, but during the introductory sales pitch it is important to adapt and assume low status. The metamorphosis would come soon enough.

  ‘I inherited my grandmother’s apartment in Oscars gate. It’s stood empty for a couple of years and needs redecorating.’

  ‘I see.’

  I raised both eyebrows with a smile, curious, but not insistent. Just enough. If he was able to follow the social code, he would now reply with a little more information.

  ‘Yes,’ said Greve. ‘It’s a pleasant break after so many years’ hard graft.’

  I saw no reason not to go straight to the point. ‘At HOTE, from what I understand.’

  He sent me a look of mild surprise. ‘Do you know the company?’

  ‘The recruitment agency I work for has its competitor, Pathfinder, on its books. Have you heard of them?’

  ‘Bits and pieces. Main office in Horten, if I’m not much mistaken. Small but competent, isn’t that right?’

  ‘They must have grown quite a lot in the months you’ve been out of circulation.’

  ‘Things move quickly in the GPS industry,’ Greve said, twirling the champagne glass in his hand. ‘Everyone thinks expansion. The motto is: Expand or die.’

  ‘So I understand. Perhaps that was why HOTE was bought up?’

  Greve’s smile produced a fine network of creases in the tanned skin around the pale blue eyes. ‘The fastest way to grow is, as you know, to be bought up. Experts reckon that those not among the top five GPS companies in two years’ time are finished.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you agree?’

  ‘I think that innovation and flexibility are the most important survival criteria. And that, as long as there is sufficient funding, a small unit that can adapt quickly is more important than size. So I have to confess that, even though I became a rich man through the sale of HOTE, I was against selling and resigned straight afterwards. I’m obviously not quite in sync with current thinking …’ Again this flashing smile that softened the hard but well-cared-for exterior. ‘But perhaps that is just the guerrilla warrior in me. What do you think?’

  He used the informal form of ‘you’. A good sign.

  ‘I only know that Pathfinder is looking for a new boss,’ I said, signalling to Nick that he should bri
ng us more champagne. ‘Someone who can resist the overtures from foreign companies.’

  ‘Uh-uh?’

  ‘And to me it sounds like you could be a very promising applicant for them. Interested?’

  Greve laughed. It was an engaging laugh. ‘My apologies, Roger. I have an apartment to do up.’

  Christian name.

  ‘I didn’t think you would be interested in the job, Clas. Just in talking about it.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the apartment, Roger. It’s old. And big. Yesterday I found a new room behind the kitchen.’

  I looked at him. It wasn’t only down to Savile Row that the suit fitted him so well; he was in good shape. No, not in good shape; excellent shape was the expression. There were no bulging muscles here, just the sinewy strength that reveals itself with discretion, in the blood vessels in the neck, in the posture, in the low resting heart rate, in the blue oxygen capillaries on the back of his hands. Nevertheless, you had a sense of the muscular strength that lay beneath the suit material. Stamina, I thought. Unrelenting stamina. I had already made up my mind; I wanted this head.

  ‘Do you like art, Clas?’ I asked, passing him one of the glasses Nick had brought.

  ‘Yes. And no. I like art that shows something. But most of what I see claims a beauty or a truth that isn’t there. It may have been in the artist’s mind, but the communicative talent is absent. If I don’t see beauty or truth, it isn’t there, simple as that. An artist who maintains that he has been misunderstood is almost always a bad artist who, I’m afraid to say, has been understood.’

  ‘We’re on the same wavelength there,’ I said, lifting my glass.

  ‘I forgive a lack of talent in most people, I suppose because I have been dealt so little myself,’ Greve said, barely moistening his thin lips with the champagne. ‘But not in artists. We, the untalented, make a living by the sweat of our brow and pay them to play on our behalf. Fair enough, that’s the way it is. But then they have to play bloody well.’

  I had already seen enough and knew that test results and in-depth interviews would only confirm what I knew. This was the man. Even if ISCO or Mercuri Urval had been given two years, they would not have found such a perfect candidate as this one.

  ‘Do you know what, Clas? We’re going to have to have a chat. You see, Diana has insisted on it.’ I passed him my business card. There were no addresses, fax numbers or websites, just my name, my mobile phone number and Alfa in tiny letters in one corner.

  ‘As I said—’ Greve began, examining my card.

  ‘Listen,’ I interrupted. ‘No one who values their health refuses Diana. I don’t know what we will talk about, probably about art. Or the future. Or decorating a house. I happen to know a couple of Oslo’s best and most reasonably priced craftsmen. But talk we will. What about three o’clock tomorrow?’

  Greve smiled at me for a while. Then he stroked his chin with a narrow hand. ‘I thought the original idea of a business card was that it should equip the receiver with enough information to pay a call?’

  I rummaged for my Conklin pen, wrote down the office address on the back of the card and watched it disappear into Greve’s jacket pocket.

  ‘Look forward to talking to you, Roger, but now I have to get off home and psych myself up to remonstrate with the carpenters in Polish. Say goodbye to your charming wife.’ Greve made a stiff, almost military bow, turned on his heel and went to the door.

  Diana sidled up to me as I watched him leave. ‘How did it go, darling?’

  ‘Fantastic specimen. Just look at how he walks. Feline. Perfect.’

  ‘Does that mean …?’

  ‘He even made out that he wasn’t interested in the job. My God, I want that head on my wall, stuffed and with bared teeth.’

  She clapped her hands with glee like a little girl. ‘So I was of some help? I was really of some help?’

  I stretched up and put my arms around her shoulders. The rooms were vulgarly, wonderfully packed. ‘You are hereby a certified headhunter, my little blossom. How are sales?’

  ‘We’re not selling this evening. Didn’t I say that?’

  I hoped for a second that I had misheard. ‘It’s just … an exhibition?’

  ‘Atle didn’t want to let go of any of his pictures.’ She smiled as though in apology. ‘I understand him. I suppose you wouldn’t want to lose something that was so beautiful?’

  I closed my eyes and swallowed. Thought those soft thoughts.

  ‘Do you think that was stupid, Roger?’ I heard Diana’s disconcerted voice say and myself answer: ‘Not at all.’

  Then I felt her lips against my cheek. ‘You’re so kind, my love. And we can do the selling later anyway. This projects our image and makes us exclusive. You said yourself how important that is.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Of course, darling. Exclusive is good.’

  She brightened up. ‘And do you know what? I’ve ordered a DJ for the reception! The guy in Blå who plays seventies soul you always said was the best in town …’ She clapped her hands and my smile felt as though it was detaching itself from my face, falling and smashing on the floor. But in the reflection on her raised champagne glass it was still in place. John Lennon’s G11sus4 chord rang out again and she fumbled for her phone in her trouser pocket. I studied her as she twittered away to someone enquiring about whether they could come.

  ‘Of course you can, Mia! Not at all, bring the baby with you. You can change her in my office. Of course we want children’s screams, it’ll liven things up! But you have to let me hold her, do you promise?’

  My God, how I loved the woman.

  My eyes scanned over the gathering once again. And stopped at a small pale face. It could have been her. Lotte. The same melancholy eyes that I had seen right here for the first time. It wasn’t her. All that was finished. But the image of Lotte pursued me like a stray dog for the rest of the evening.

  4

  EXPROPRIATION

  ‘YOU’RE LATE,’ FERDINAND said as I entered the office. ‘And hung-over.’

  ‘Feet off the table,’ I said, walking round the desk, switching on the computer and closing the blinds. The light was less invasive and I removed my sunglasses.

  ‘Does that mean that the private view was a success?’ Ferdinand nagged in that pitch that cuts straight to the brain’s pain centre.

  ‘There was dancing on the tables,’ I said, looking at my watch. Half past nine.

  ‘Why are the best parties always the ones you didn’t go to?’ Ferdinand sighed. ‘Anyone well known there?’

  ‘Anyone you know, you mean?’

  ‘Any celebs, you idiot.’ A flick through the air with a crack of the wrist. I had stopped getting annoyed at his insistence on looking like something off the stage.

  ‘Some,’ I said.

  ‘Ari Behn?’

  ‘No. You still have to meet Lander and the client here at twelve today, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Was Hank von Helvete there? Vendela Kirsebom?’

  ‘Come on, out, I have to work.’

  Ferdinand put on an offended expression, but did as I said. When the door slammed behind him, I was already googling Clas Greve. A few minutes later I knew that he had been the boss and co-owner of HOTE for six years until it was bought out, that he had a marriage with a Belgian model behind him and that he was the Dutch military pentathlon champion in 1985. In fact, I was surprised that there was not more there. Fine, by five we would have been through a soft version of Inbau, Reid and Buckley, and then I would know everything I needed.

  Before that I had a job to do. A tiny expropriation. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I loved the tension during the act, but I hated the waiting period. Even now my heart was beating faster than normal. The thought entered my mind that I wished it had been for something that made my heart beat even faster. Eighty thousand. It is less than it sounds. Worth less in my pockets than Ove Kjikerud’s share in his. Sometimes I envied him his simple life, a life on his own. That was the
first thing I had checked when I interviewed him for the head of security job, that he didn’t have too many ears around him. How had I known that he was my man? Firstly, there was this conspicuous defensive-aggressive attitude of his. Next, he had parried my questions in a way that suggested he knew the interview technique. Hence, when checking his background, I was almost amazed not to find his name on the state offender registry. So I had rung a female contact we have on our unofficial payroll. She has a job that allows her access to SANSAK, the restoration of rights archive which lists all those who have been held on remand and released and whose names – despite the name of the archive – are never deleted. And she was able to tell me that I had not made a mistake after all: Ove Kjikerud had been interviewed by the police so many times that he knew the nine-step model inside out. However, Kjikerud had never been charged with anything, which told me that the man was no idiot, just very dyslexic.