by Anne Holt
‘The system is harsh.’ Tom nodded. ‘But it’s fair. I would in no way underestimate what you’ve done for me. As I said, I am deeply grateful. But with all due respect . . .’
He hesitated, and studied the chased-metal circles on the glass.
‘With all due respect, I would probably have managed to get by on my own. I had the ambition. I was willing to work hard. The system repays those who work hard.’
It was impossible to read in Abdallah’s face what he was thinking. He was obviously relaxed. His eyes were half closed, and a faint smile played on his mouth, as if he was thinking about something amusing that had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.
‘We’re both examples of that,’ he replied eventually. ‘The system repays those who work hard and who are focused. Those who set themselves long-term goals and don’t think only about short-term gain.’
Tom was reassured. He shrugged and smiled.
‘Exactly.’
‘And now I want you to do me a favour,’ Abdallah said, the distant expression still in his eyes, as if he was actually thinking about something else.
He gestured to a servant whom Tom had not noticed earlier. He was standing half hidden behind a gigantic pot with three palm trees in it over by the terrace entrance some twenty metres away. The servant approached on silent feet and handed an envelope to Abdallah. Then he withdrew, equally silently.
‘A favour,’ Tom muttered. ‘What is it?’
You’ve never asked me to do anything before. You’ve only asked about my life. About me and what I’m doing. That was the deal. I was to stay in touch. Meet you whenever you asked me to. That was the agreement. You said nothing about favours, Abdallah. I’ve kept my promise for nearly thirty years. I never promised to do any more than that – than to give of myself.
‘Something very simple.’ Abdallah smiled. ‘I just want you to take this back to the US and post it. And then we’re quits, Tom. Then you will have paid back what you owe me. And just so that you don’t think this is anything dangerous . . .’
Tom sat paralysed as Abdallah opened the envelope. Inside there was another, smaller envelope. It was not sealed. Abdallah stuck his nose down into it and took a deep breath. Then he smiled and held the envelope open for Tom.
‘Look, no poison. You are, and I think I’m justified in saying this, a bit hysterical about postal correspondence. This is quite simply a letter.’
Tom saw the folded paper. It looked like there might be several sheets. The letter was folded so the writing was on the inside. It was ordinary white paper. Abdallah licked the envelope and sealed it. Then he put it back into the bigger envelope and sealed that too.
‘All you have to do,’ he said calmly, ‘is to take it home with you. Then you need to find a postbox. It’s of no importance to me whatsoever where in the US that might be. Then you open the big envelope and pop the smaller one in the box and throw away the big one. That’s all.’
Tom O’Reilly didn’t answer. He felt his throat constrict, as if he was about to cry. He swallowed. Tried to cough.
‘Why?’ he stuttered.
‘Business,’ Abdallah replied indifferently. ‘I don’t trust the post here. And certainly not all this modern communications technology. Too many eyes and ears. It’s important that this reaches its destination. Simply business.’
How can you lie outright to me? Tom thought to himself and tried to keep his composure. How can you insult me like this? After thirty years? You have an entire fleet of planes and an army of employees at your disposal. But you’ve chosen me as a courier for that letter. What is this? What should I do?
‘You will do this,’ Abdallah added deliberately, ‘primarily because you owe it to me. And if that is not enough . . .’
He didn’t finish his sentence but looked the American straight in the eye.
You know everything about me, Tom thought and rubbed his sweaty palms together. More than anyone else. We have talked together for twenty-eight years, always about me, and seldom about you. You have been my confidant in everything. Everything. You know about my good and bad habits, my dreams and nightmares. You know my wife without ever having met her. You know how my children . . .
‘I understand,’ he said abruptly and took the letter. ‘I understand.’
‘Then we’re quits. The plane will be ready to take you back to Rome tomorrow morning. Is seven too early? No. Good, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat, Tom. It’s cool enough to eat now.’
He stood up and offered the American his hand to help him out of the low chair. Tom automatically took it. When he was on his feet, the Arab put his arm around his shoulder and kissed him.
‘It’s been a joy to have you as a friend,’ he said softly. ‘A real joy.’
And as the American stumbled, bewildered, over the flagstones behind him, through the glass doors into the beautiful palace, a thought struck him for the first time: How many Tom O’Reillys do you have, Abdallah? How many people are there like me?
XIII
Detective Chief Inspector Adam Stubo walked home from his parents-in-law after a far too long and rather unusual national-day celebration.
He could, of course, have gone in the car with Johanne when she was finally allowed by her mother to go home. Ragnhild had fallen asleep long before. Kristiane was absolutely exhausted and confused when Isak, her biological father, turned up to collect her around seven. Even though they were all affected by the day’s events, it was Kristiane who had taken it most to heart. They had managed to calm her down in the morning, and the girl had enjoyed being in the parade, though she hadn’t let go of Adam’s hand for a second. But things had got gradually worse throughout the day. She was obsessed with the lady who had disappeared and clung to her mother, terrified, until her father finally came and tempted her away by telling her about a new train set that only she could look after.
Adam could have gone in the car, but he chose to walk.
Instead of cutting down to Kjelsåsveien and crossing Storo, then heading towards Tåsen and home, he took a detour over the hill at Grefsen. The air was cool and fresh and the May light was still hovering in the western sky. His feet crunched on the asphalt. The council hadn’t removed all the grit from the winter. It had rained earlier in the day, and the smell of last year’s rotten leaves wafted over from the gardens. The flowerbeds were full of tulips that were past their best. Behind every window a TV screen flickered.
He stopped by a white picket fence.
The house was also white, but the evening light made it look almost blue. The curtains were open. An elderly couple were watching the news. He saw the woman lift her coffee cup. When she put it down again, she clasped the man’s hand. They stayed sitting like that, frozen, hand in hand, as they watched the news that presumably told them nothing more than they had heard ten times already over the course of the day.
Adam stood there for a while.
He was cold, but it felt good. It cleared his brain. He couldn’t drag himself away. The old couple in the small white house with tulips outside the sitting room window and the news on the TV somehow epitomised what had happened in Norway on this strange day that had started with celebrations and was now about to end with a threat that no one fully understood yet.
An assassination would, paradoxically, have been easier to accept, he thought. Death might be a sudden end, but it was also the start of something else. Death was something that could be mourned. A disappearance was endless purgatory, impossible to bear.
The man in the house got up stiffly. He shuffled over to the window and for an embarrassing moment Adam thought he had been seen and took two quick steps back. The man pulled the curtains shut; heavy, flowery material that closed out the rest of the world for the night.
Adam decided to go all the way up to Stilla, and then follow the path along the river. The water was breaking the banks. The geese had returned after winter a while ago, and here and there a mallard struggled against the stream, ducking down at regu
lar intervals for some night food. Adam started to walk faster. He tried to keep up with the swollen spring river; he had to jog.
They chose not to assassinate her, he thought, out of breath. If there is such a thing as ‘they’. They chose not to kill her. Was that what they wanted? The purgatory? And if they wanted to create a confused vacuum, they . . .
He was running as fast as he could now, in his good shoes, a suit, and a coat that was a touch on the tight side. He stumbled here and there, but found his balance again and stormed on.
He wanted to get home. He ran and tried to think about something else. About summer, which was just around the corner; about the horse he was thinking about buying, though Johanne had refused to have any more pets other than the yellowy-brown slavering dog that Kristiane called Jack, King of America.
How were they going to use that vacuum?
XIV
It was nearly eleven o’clock. Johanne was too tired to get up from the sofa and too restless to sleep. She tried to relish the thought of not having the children tonight and tomorrow, but couldn’t do anything other than stare at the news, which was only serving up pointless repeats and regurgitated speculation. The only thing the authorities were clear about, nearly sixteen hours after the disappearance of the American president had been discovered, was that she had not reappeared. Representatives of official Norway were still reluctant to use the word ‘kidnapping’, but journalists showed no such restraint. One commentator after another expanded on the more-or-less ridiculous theories. The police just kept quiet. No one leading the investigation had been willing to give an interview since early afternoon.
‘I agree with them about that,’ Adam said and sat down beside her on the sofa. ‘There are limits as to how many times they can be forced to say exactly the same thing. Which generally has been nothing. Bastesen looked pretty sheepish the last couple of times.’
‘I hope they’re lying.’
‘Lying?’
She gave a faint smile and moved until she was more comfortable. ‘Yes, that they know more than they’re letting on. And I’m sure they do.’
‘I’m not so sure. I have seldom seen a grimmer-looking bunch of people than whose who were filmed on their way out from . . .’
Johanne zapped over to CNN.
Wolf Blitzer himself was in the studio, as he had been for the past fourteen hours. The programme, The Situation Room, had taken over the entire broadcasting network, and judging by the activity in the studio, they had no intention of ending soon. The anchorman was, as usual, immaculately dressed. Only his tie was a smidgen looser than earlier in the day. With expert ease, he switched from a correspondent in Washington DC over to New York, before politely interrupting the journalist to give the word to Christiane Amanpour. The world-famous journalist was on the slope in front of an illuminated Norwegian royal palace. She was wearing thin clothes, and she seemed to be shivering.
‘It’s impressive how quick they are,’ Adam mumbled. ‘They’re up and running within a few hours.’
‘I don’t see what the palace has got to do with the case.’ Johanne stifled a yawn. ‘But it’s a good report, I agree. Everything is getting slicker and quicker. Did you run? You’re sweating, my love.’
‘Picked up speed a bit towards the end. It was great. More like jogging.’
‘In a suit?’
He smiled disarmingly and kissed her. She plaited her fingers into his.
‘Strange, really . . .’ She stopped and stretched to get her wine glass. ‘Can you tell the difference?’
‘Between what?’
‘The Norwegian and the American programmes. The mood, I mean. The Americans seem to be efficient, quick, nearly . . . aggressive. Everything here is a bit more . . . restrained. People seem to be paralysed in a way. Almost passive. At least, the interviewees certainly do. It’s as if they’re frightened to say too much, and so what little they do say just sounds silly. It all feels a bit like a parody. Look at the Americans, they’re so much better at it.’
‘But then they’ve had more opportunities to practise,’ Adam said, trying to hide the irritation he always felt when confronted with Johanne’s ambiguous relationship with anything American.
On the one hand, she never wanted to talk about the period when she had studied in the US. The two of them had known each other for many years now. They were married; they had children and a mortgage together. They shared dreams and daily life. But there was still a substantial part of Johanne’s past that was secret, that she protected more vehemently than even the children. The night before their wedding, she had forced him to take an oath: that he would never, under any circumstances, ask her why she had suddenly broken off her psychology studies at the FBI’s academy in Quantico. He had sworn on his dead daughter’s grave. Both the formulation of the oath and the consequences of it made him feel unwell whenever the topic was raised, and Johanne was consumed by a rage that she never demonstrated otherwise.
But at the same time, Johanne’s fascination with everything American was bordering on manic. She read almost exclusively American literature and had a large collection of American low-budget films, which she bought over the Internet or got a friend of hers in Boston, whom he had never met and knew practically nothing about, to send. The shelves in her small office were full of reference books about American history, politics and society. He was never allowed to borrow any of them, and it really bothered him that she locked the door on the rare occasions that she went away on her own.
‘Not really,’ she said after a long silence.
‘What?’
‘You said that they’d had more opportunity to practise.’
‘I meant . . .’
‘They have never lost a president outside the country’s borders. American presidents have been killed by random madmen in their own country. Never abroad. And never as part of a conspiracy, for that matter. Did you know that?’
Something in her voice made him not answer. He knew her well enough to know that if he turned this into a dialogue, she would quickly change the subject. If she was left to carrying on talking without interruption, she did.
‘Four out of forty-four presidents have been assassinated,’ Johanne said thoughtfully, as if she was actually talking to herself. ‘Is that not nearly ten per cent?’
He tried to withstand the urge to interrupt.
‘Kennedy.’ She gave a faint smile and beat him to it. ‘Forget it. Lee Harvey Oswald was a strange man who may have planned it with another couple of weirdos. Possibly not. It was certainly no great conspiracy. Except for in the film.’
She reached out for the bottle of wine. It was too far away. Adam grabbed it and poured some into her glass. The TV was still on. Wolf Blitzer’s forehead now looked slightly damp, and when he handed over to a reporter in front of the White House, you could see the shadows under the anchorman’s eyes. No doubt they would be concealed with make-up after the adverts.
‘Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley,’ Johanne continued, without touching her glass. ‘They were all killed by lone fanatics. A confederate sympathiser, someone with mental-health problems and a mad anarchist, if I’m not wrong. Mad fellow countrymen. The same is true of all the many attempted assassinations. The guy who tried to kill Reagan wanted to make an impression on Jodie Foster, and the man who tried to bump off Theodore Roosevelt thought that he would get rid of the pain in his stomach if he killed the President. Only the two Puerto Ricans who . . .’
Christiane Amanpour was on the screen again. She had a warmer jacket on. The fur collar was perhaps intended to give a more Arctic mood. She was trying to keep it shut with one hand. This time she was standing outside the police headquarters in Grønland. Nothing new from there either. Johanne squinted at the screen. Adam turned down the volume with the remote control and asked: ‘What about the Puerto—’
‘Forget it,’ Johanne interrupted. ‘My point wasn’t to lecture you in elementary American history.’
‘What was the point the
n?’ he asked, and tried to keep a friendly tone in his voice.
‘You seemed to think the Americans were prepared. And they are, of course, in many ways. Certainly the television stations are.’
She nodded at Christiane Amanpour, who was having difficulties with her microphone. Behind her, a group of men in dark suits hurried down the slope to Grønlandsleiret. They turned their collars up at the TV cameras and were not to be stopped by the questions shouted by around thirty journalists who obviously had bunkered down for the night. Adam immediately recognised the Chief of Police. Terje Bastesen turned away from the press and pulled his uniform hat down lower than regulated as he strode towards the cars that waited by the road.
‘But the American people,’ Johanne said, focusing on a point far above the television. ‘They’re hardly prepared. Not completely, not for this. Their entire history tells them that when it comes to the assassination of presidents, they have to watch out for confused fellow Americans. I should imagine that the Secret Service has outlined a number of assassination scenarios, mostly involving anti-abortionists, women-haters and the most zealous supporters of the war in Iraq – groups that include Helen Bentley’s most ferocious opponents on the home front, and the sort of environment that fosters the kind of fanaticism that is empirically proven to be requisite. America’s more recent history . . .’
She paused for a moment. ‘More recent history has, of course, generated other scenarios. Post-nine eleven, I assume that the Secret Service would ultimately like to keep their president in a cement bunker. The US has never been so unpopular with the rest of the world at any time since the War of Independence. And as the concept of terrorism has been extended in recent years, certainly for the Americans, their fears of what might happen to the president have also changed. The fact that she would simply disappear into thin air on a state visit to a small, friendly country was probably a long way off what they anticipated. But . . .’ The wine glass nearly toppled over as she suddenly reached out for it. ‘. . . what do I know about that?’ She finished on a light note. ‘Cheers, my love. Let’s go to bed soon.’
