by Anne Holt
‘We’ve got to phone,’ Johanne said in desperation, squatting down beside the unconscious president. ‘We at least need to get a doctor.’
XXVII
The May night had fallen over Oslo.
The clouds were heavy and grey and so low that the top floors of the Hotel Plaza had vanished. It was as if the severe, slim tower had simply evaporated into the sky. The air was chilly, with gusts of warmer wind that promised a better day tomorrow.
Adam Stubo had never really liked spring. He didn’t like the changes in the weather, from baking summer sun to a bitter three degrees; from icy rain to swimming weather, turn and turn about and completely unpredictable. It was impossible to dress appropriately. When he went to the office, he wore a sweater against the morning chill, and then was drenched in sweat by lunch. An impulsive barbecue that seemed like a good idea in the morning could turn into a freezing nightmare by dinner.
He thought that spring smelt bad as well. Especially in the centre of town. The mild weather uncovered all the rubbish left from winter, the decay of autumn and turds from innumerable dogs that shouldn’t be living in town.
Adam was an autumn person. November was his favourite month. Rain from start to finish, with steadily falling temperatures, which with any luck would bring snow before Advent. November smelt wet and raw and was a predictable, melancholy month that always made him feel happy.
May, on the other hand, was another story.
He sat down on a bench and breathed in deeply. The surface of the water in Middelalderparken, a park with medieval ruins, rippled gently in the breeze. There wasn’t a soul around. Even the birds that carried on a volley of calls from dawn until dusk at this time of year had settled for the night. A small cluster of ducks was resting on the bank, with their beaks under their wings. Only the rotund drake waddled happily around, keeping watch over his family.
It was as if the events of the past couple of days had drained not only Oslo of its energy, but the whole of the Western world. Adam had managed to watch the news earlier on in the evening. The streets of New York had never been so deserted. The city that never slept had fallen into a stupor, a state of numb, unresolved waiting. In Washington and Lillesand, in metropolises and small towns, it seemed that everyone saw the disappearance of the President as an omen of something worse to come; something terrible was going to happen, so it was safest to withdraw and stay at home behind locked doors and closed curtains.
He shut his eyes. The constant sound of the city and the odd noisy trailer in the traffic flow on the other side of the water reminded him that he was sitting in the middle of a capital. Otherwise he could have been somewhere completely different. He felt utterly alone in the world.
He had been trying to get hold of Warren Scifford for over an hour. There was no point in going home before they’d spoken. He had left two messages, one on his mobile phone and one at the embassy. They hadn’t seen Mr Scifford at the hotel since the early afternoon.
The dead Secret Service agent, Jeffrey William Hunter, was found about an hour after a flustered taxi driver had turned up at a police station with a badge he had found in his dead mother’s jacket pocket. As the ambulance service could immediately tell them where the dying woman had been picked up, they just had to spread out and search the area.
The man was found twelve metres from the spot where the woman had collapsed. He was lying in a ditch near the track. A 9mm bullet from a SIG-Sauer P229, which he was holding in his hand, had made a path straight through his skull. The team examining the scene had been puzzled for a while by the fact that his right arm was partially hidden, wedged into a space between two big rocks, which they initially thought would be impossible for a dead man to do. However, a quick and informal reconstruction of the fall had convinced them that it was in fact a case of suicide. The pathologist was of the same opinion, though with the reservation that it would take several days to reach a definite conclusion.
It was nearly half past ten and Adam gave a long yawn. He was tired and yet at the same time awake. On the one hand, he longed to go to bed. His body was heavy and exhausted. On the other, he was overwhelmed by a disquiet that would make it impossible to sleep.
The police HQ had become unbearable. There was no longer any talk of overtime or when the seemingly endless shifts would be over. People hurried around like ants in a heap. More and more people arrived at the huge curved building, and no one seemed to leave. The corridors were crawling with people. All the offices were in use. Some cleaning cupboards were even being used as temporary accommodation for contracted office staff.
It felt like the building was besieged. The village on the grassy slope down towards Grønlandsleiret was expanding steadily. A couple of Swedish TV companies had chosen to set up camp on the other side of the HQ building. They had blocked Åkebergveien for a while with two buses. They had then been moved to Borggata, just by Grønland church, but the side road was so narrow that the police cars couldn’t get out of the car park if the buses stayed where they were. The Swedes had been arguing with the duty officers for three quarters of an hour when Adam suddenly decided he couldn’t take any more. He had to get some air.
He had been stuffing himself with food at every opportunity since the afternoon. Before he went out, he helped himself greedily to a barely warm pizza from Pepe’s. There were flat pizza boxes everywhere. In the course of two days, Oslo Police had become the fast-food chain’s largest customer ever.
He still felt hungry.
He patted his stomach. It was a long time since he had been able to call himself simply large. Without really knowing when it happened, in much the same way that his hair was now thinner, Adam had become fat. His stomach hung heavily over his belt, which he loosened as soon as he thought no one could see. He had pushed the reminder from the police doctor to one side with the excuse that he was too busy. He didn’t dare to go. In silence he thanked the fact that routines were so poor that he wouldn’t be sent another reminder until next year. Sometimes, when he woke up at night because he needed the toilet, he could feel the cholesterol sticking to his arteries like some horrible, life-threatening slime. He thought he noticed double beats and felt pains in his heart and left arm, and for the first time in his life he was kept awake at night worrying about his health.
When morning finally came, he realised with some relief that it was all imagination, and sat down to a hearty fried breakfast, as always. He was a large man and he needed real food. He would start exercising again. When he had more time.
His phone rang.
‘Johanne,’ he whispered, and dropped the phone.
The display fell face down, and he didn’t check it when he picked it up again as quickly as possible. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. It’s Warren.’
‘Oh, hi. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’
‘You were lying about the man on the CCTV tape.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes. You knew who he was. The man in the suit was a Secret Service agent. You lied. And we don’t like that.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘We’ve found him. Jeffrey Hunter.’
There wasn’t a sound on the other end of the phone. Adam kept his eyes on the drake. It waggled its tail feathers a few times before settling down on a big tuft of grass a couple of metres away from its flock, as if it was a watch tower. The light was reflected in its jet-black eyes. Adam tried to pull his coat tighter around him, but it was too small. He let Warren take the time he needed.
‘Shit,’ the American said, eventually.
‘You can say that. The man’s dead. Suicide, we assume. But I guess you knew that.’
Again there was silence.
The drake continued to keep an eye on Adam. It quacked quietly and repeatedly, as if it just wanted to let him know that it was still watching.
‘I think it would be best if we could have a meeting,’ Warren suggested, all of a sudden
.
‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
‘There’s no end to days like today.’
Now it was Adam’s turn not to say anything.
‘A meeting in ten minutes,’ Warren insisted. ‘Salhus, you and me. No one else.’
‘I don’t know how many times I have to explain to you that this is a police investigation,’ Adam said in exasperation. ‘The Chief of Police or one of his people has to be there too.’
‘If you say so,’ Warren said crisply. Adam could just imagine him shrugging his shoulders with indifferent arrogance.
‘Shall we say quarter past eleven, then?’
‘Come to Police HQ. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Then we can see if the Chief of Police is about, and whether Peter Salhus is available.’
‘They should be,’ Warren said and hung up.
Adam sat there and stared at the phone. The display panel went dark after a few seconds. He felt a peculiar rage. His stomach was acid and painful. He was ravenous and furious. For a start, it was he who had every reason to be angry with Warren, but the American had still managed in some way to manipulate the situation so that Adam was inferior. It seemed that Warren believed absolutely that he was not dependent on anyone, just like his country, and therefore had no reason to be ashamed of being caught lying outright.
Adam’s phone rang again.
He swallowed when he saw Johanne’s name flashing in blue on the display. He let it ring four times. His eardrums were ringing; he could feel his blood pressure rising. He tried to keep his breathing even and pushed the green icon.
‘Hi,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘You’re calling late.’
‘Hi,’ she said, equally softly. ‘How are you?’
‘OK, I guess. Exhausted, of course, but then we all are.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Adam,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I’m really sorry about this morning. I was just so hurt and sad and angry and—’
‘It’s all right. The most important thing is that I know where you are. And when you’re coming home. I can come and collect you in . . . an hour or so. Maybe two.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘I’ll—’
‘It’s eleven o’clock already, Adam. You know what happens when you wake Ragnhild in the middle of the night.’
Adam pressed his thumb against one eye and his index finger against the other. He said nothing. Red circles and spots danced around in the empty blackness behind his eyelids. He felt heavier than ever, as if the surplus fat in his body had turned to lead. The bench hurt his back and his right leg was about to fall asleep.
‘Please just let me know where you are,’ he said.
‘I simply can’t do that.’
‘Ragnhild is my daughter. It’s my right and my duty to know where she is. At all times.’
‘Adam—’
‘No! I might not be able to force you to come home, Johanne, and you’re right, it would be stupid to wake Ragnhild in the middle of the night, but . . . I want to know where you are!’
The drake woke up and flapped its wings. A couple of the other ducks joined in.
‘Something has happened,’ Johanne said. ‘Something that—’
‘Are you both OK?’
‘Yes,’ she answered swiftly and clearly. ‘We’re both fine. But I can’t tell you where I am, no matter how much I might want to. OK?’
‘No.’
‘Adam—’
‘It’s out of the question, Johanne. You and I are not like that. We don’t just disappear with the children and refuse to tell the other where we are. That’s just not us.’
She was silent on the other end.
‘If I say where I am,’ she said eventually, ‘can you promise to believe me and not try to come and find me before I say you can?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m getting a bit fed up with all these promises you keep asking me to make,’ he said, trying to keep his pulse slow. ‘Adult life is not like that! Shit happens and things change. You can’t just make a promise and . . .’
He stopped when he realised that Johanne was crying. Her quiet sniffs made scratching noises on the phone and he felt an icy finger run down his spine.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’ he asked, holding his breath.
‘Something has happened,’ she sobbed. ‘But I’ve promised not to say anything. It’s nothing to do with Ragnhild or me, so you can . . .’
She was overcome with tears. Adam tried to get up from the bench, but his right leg had now gone to sleep. He pulled a face, supported himself on the back of the bench and got up after a fashion so he could shake some life into his dead leg.
‘My love,’ he said gently. ‘I promise. I promise I won’t come to find you until you say I can, and I promise I won’t ask any more questions. But where are you?’
‘I’m at Hanne Wilhelmsen’s,’ she said and sobbed. ‘In Krusesgate. I don’t know the number, but I’m sure you can find out.’
‘What . . . what the hell are you doing with—’
‘You promised, Adam. You promised not to—’
‘OK, OK,’ he said quickly. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Night night, then.’
‘Good night.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Love you.’
‘Mmm.’
He stood with the phone against his ear for a long time once she had hung up. There was a light drizzle in the air. His leg was still buzzing with pins and needles. The duck family had set off for a swim; they didn’t dare to have him nearby any more.
Why do I always let myself be taken in? he asked himself, and started to hobble towards the ruins of Maria Church, over the wet, newly cut grass. Why is it always me who has to back down? Always! For everyone!
XXVIII
‘Here? This door here?
DI Silje Sørensen stared at the terrified thirty-year-old and tried to hide her irritation. ‘Are you certain that it was this door?’
He nodded frantically.
She could, of course, understand the man’s fear. He was originally from Pakistan, but was a Norwegian citizen now. All his papers were in order, as far as he was concerned. But that was not the case for the young Pakistani woman whom he had recently married. She had been deported from Norway as a teenager for having stayed illegally in the country. A year later she was arrested at Gardermoen, carrying false papers and a neat little consignment of heroin in her luggage. She had pleaded that she had been forced to do it by the dealers, who would now kill her, and unbelievably she got away with simply being deported again, this time for ever. However, it didn’t stop her father from getting her married to a second cousin with a Norwegian passport. She had been smuggled back into Norway via Svinesund early one morning a few weeks ago, in a trailer from Spain, hidden behind four pallets of tomato juice.
Ali Khurram must really love her, Silje Sørensen thought to herself as she examined the door that he had pointed out to her. On the other hand, his extreme fear regarding his wife’s fate might also be connected to what his father-law-might do. Even though he lived in Karachi, nearly six thousand kilometres from Oslo, he had already managed to push two lawyers on DI Sørensen. Surprisingly, they had both been very understanding. They could see why a man who had smuggled the American president out of a hotel room in a dirty laundry basket might be asked for an explanation. They had nodded gravely when they were given some insight into the investigation, having been strictly reminded of their duty of confidentiality. One of the lawyers, who himself was of Pakistani origin, had then had a brief and whispered conversation with Ali Khurram in Urdu. The chat was so effective that Khurram had dried his tears and said he was happy to show them where in the cellar he had left the cleaning trolley.
Silje Sørensen looked at the architect’s drawings again. The enormous sheets were difficult to handle. The constable she had with her tried to hold one end, but the stiff pape
r buckled rebelliously in between them.
‘It’s not shown here,’ the constable said, trying to fold away any parts of the drawings that were not relevant.
‘We are in the right corridor, aren’t we?’
Silje looked around. The neon light on the ceiling was bright and unpleasant. The long corridor ended at a door in the west wall, behind which were some stairs that led up to ground level, two storeys above.
‘There are two basement levels,’ said a middle-aged man, who was nervously biting his puny moustache. ‘This is the lower level. So . . . yes, we are in the right corridor.’
He was the technical operations manager for the hotel and looked like he was about to crap himself. His legs were trembling nonstop and he couldn’t leave his moustache alone.
‘But it’s not shown on the drawings,’ Silje said, looking at the door with suspicion, as if it had been installed there in contravention of all laws and regulations.
‘Which drawings do you actually have?’ the operations manager asked, and tried to find a date.
‘What do you mean?’ the policeman said, making another attempt to fold the big sheets.
‘He said he was from the Secret Service when he rang my mobile number,’ whimpered Ali Khurram. ‘I couldn’t know that . . . He showed me his ID and everything! Like the ones you see on TV, with a photo, and stars and . . . He told me earlier on in the day that I had to come up as soon as he called. Immediately, he said! He was from the Secret Service and all that! I wasn’t to know that—’
‘You should have let us know when you realised what had happened,’ Silje said frostily and turned away from him. ‘You should have raised the alarm immediately. Have you figured it out?’ she asked the operations manager.
‘Yes, but my wife . . .’ Ali Khurram continued. ‘I was terrified because of . . . What’s going to happen to my wife? Is she going to have to leave now? Can’t she . . .’
‘Let’s not go over this again now,’ Silje said and raised a hand. ‘You’ve been explaining yourself for several hours now. The situation won’t change, either for you or your wife, just because you keep going on about it. Stand over there. And keep quiet.’
