Death in Oslo

by Anne Holt

  Their faces were, however, remarkably similar. But their mother had still never mistaken one for the other. She would never have done that, Al Muffet thought as he carefully turned the door handle.

  If she had really done that, because she was only minutes away from death and could neither see nor think clearly, it could be disastrous.

  The room was silent and dark. It took a few seconds for Al’s eyes to adjust.

  He could see the outline of the bed against the wall. Fayed was lying on his stomach with one leg hanging over the edge of the bed and his left hand under his head. He was snoring quietly and regularly.

  Al pulled a torch from his breast pocket. Before he turned it on, he checked that his brother’s suitcase was on the low chest of drawers by the door to the smallest bathroom in the house.

  He shaded the beam with his hands. A small stripe of light fell on the floor, which helped Al to get to the suitcase without stumbling over anything.

  It was locked.

  He tried again. The code lock would not open.

  Fayed gave a loud snort and turned in the bed. Al froze. He didn’t even dare to turn off the torch. He stood for several minutes listening to his brother’s breathing, which became slow and rhythmical again.

  It was on ordinary medium-sized black Samsonite suitcase.

  A normal code lock, Al reckoned, and rolled the numbers to his brother’s birthday. A normal lock might have the most normal code of all.

  Click.

  He did the same on the lock to the left. Now he could open the suitcase. He did it slowly and without a sound. It had clothes in it. Two sweaters on top, a pair of trousers, several pairs of underpants and three pairs of socks. Everything was carefully folded. Al put his hand down under the clothes and lifted them out.

  At the bottom of the suitcase lay eight mobile phones, a laptop and a diary.

  No one needs eight mobile phones, Al thought, unless they sell them for a living. He felt his pulse quicken. All the telephones were switched off. For a moment he was tempted to take the laptop away with him for closer investigation. He quickly dismissed that thought. It was probably full of codes that he wouldn’t be able to work out, and the risk that his brother might wake up before he managed to put the computer back was too great.

  It was a black leather diary, with a strap and press stud which doubled up as a pen loop for an exclusive ballpoint pen. Al held the torch in his mouth, with the beam on the diary, and opened it.

  It was an ordinary Filofax. The pages on the left-hand side were divided into the first three days of the week and the remaining four days were on the right-hand page. Sunday was given least room, and as far as Al could see, his brother never had any appointments on Sundays.

  He turned the pages back and forth. The appointments didn’t tell him anything other than that his brother was a busy man. He knew that already.

  In a moment of inspiration, he turned to the year planner, with only one line per day. Personally, he kept these at the back of his diary, but his brother obviously found it more useful to have them at the front. Fayed had kept the last five years’ planners. Special days and anniversaries were carefully marked. In 2003, Fayed’s family had spent the 4th of July on Sandy Hook. Labor Day 2004 was celebrated at Cape Cod with someone called the Collies.

  The 11th of September 2001 was marked with a black star.

  Al realised that he was sweating, even though the room was chilly. His brother was still sleeping heavily. His fingers shook as he turned to the date that his mother died. When he saw what his brother had written there, he was finally certain.

  His eyes rested on the writing for a few moments. Then he closed the diary and put it back in its place. His hands were steadier now and nimble. He closed the suitcase and the locks.

  Just as quietly as he’d come, he tiptoed back to the door. He stood there looking at the sleeping body, as he had so many times in his childhood, watching his sleeping brother from his bed at night, when he couldn’t sleep. The memories were so vivid. After long, exhausting days in the firing line between his parents and Fayed, Ali would sit up and watch his back as it rose and fell in the other corner of their room. Sometimes he was awake for hours. Sometimes he cried quietly. All he really wanted was to understand his defiant, wronged brother, the surly, wild teenager who always made their father so angry and their mother so desperate.

  Standing there by the door of the room where his brother was sleeping, Al Muffet felt as sad now as he had back then. Once upon a time he had liked Fayed. Now he realised there was nothing left between them. He didn’t know when it had happened – at what point everything had been lost.

  Perhaps it was when their mother died.

  He closed the door carefully behind him. He had to think. He had to find out what his brother knew about the kidnapping of Helen Lardahl Bentley.

  IV

  ‘Anything new?’

  Johanne Vik turned towards Helen Lardahl Bentley and smiled at her as she lowered the sound on the TV. ‘I’ve just turned it on. Hanne had to go to bed. Good morning, by the way. You really do look very . . .’

  Johanne stopped and blushed, then got up. She brushed the front of her shirt with her hands. The crumbs from Ragnhild’s breakfast showered the floor.

  ‘Madam President,’ she said, and stopped herself from wanting to curtsy.

  ‘Forget the formalities,’ Helen Bentley said briskly. ‘This is what one might call an extreme situation. Call me Helen.’

  Her lips were no longer as swollen and she managed to smile. She still looked battered, but the shower and clean clothes had worked wonders.

  ‘Is there a bucket and some detergent anywhere?’ she asked, looking around. ‘I want to try to limit . . . the damage in there.’

  With a slim hand, she pointed to the sitting room with the red sofa.

  ‘Oh, that,’ Johanne said lightly. ‘You can forget that. Mary’s already done it. Some of it has to be dry-cleaned, but it’s—’

  ‘Mary?’ Helen Bentley repeated mechanically. ‘The housekeeper.’

  Johanne nodded. The President came closer.

  ‘And you are? I’m sorry, last night I wasn’t quite . . .’

  ‘Johanne. Vik. Johanne Vik.’

  ‘Johanne,’ Helen Bentley said, holding out her hand. ‘And the little one . . .’

  Ragnhild was sitting on the floor with a pan lid, a ladle and a box of Duplo bricks. She was making happy noises.

  ‘My daughter.’ Johanne smiled. ‘She’s called Ragnhild, but we generally call her Agni, because that’s what she calls herself.’

  The President’s hand was dry and warm and Johanne held it just a fraction too long.

  ‘Is this some kind of . . .’ Helen Bentley looked like she was afraid of offending someone and hesitated, ‘collective?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t live here. My daughter and I are just visiting. For a few days.’

  ‘Oh, so you don’t live in Oslo?’

  ‘Ye-es. I live . . . This is Hanne Wilhelmsen’s flat. And Nefis. Hanne’s partner. Life partner, that is. She’s Turkish, and has taken Ida, their daughter, with her to Turkey to visit the grandparents. But they’re the ones who actually live here. I’m just—’

  The President raised a hand and Johanne stopped talking immediately.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘I understand. Can I watch the news with you? Do you get CNN here?’

  ‘Would you . . . like any food? I know that Mary’s already . . .’

  ‘Are you American?’ the President asked, in surprise.

  There was something new in her eyes. Up until now she had had a wary, neutral expression, as if she was constantly keeping something back and that way was always on top of the situation. Even yesterday, when Mary had dragged her up from the cellar and she wasn’t able to stand upright, there was something strong and proud about her face.

  But now there was a glimmer of something that could be fear, and Johanne could not understand why.

&n
bsp; ‘No,’ Johanne assured her vigorously. ‘I’m Norwegian. Completely Norwegian!’

  ‘But you speak American.’

  ‘I studied in the US. Should I get something for you? Something to eat?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ the President said, and the wisp of fear had vanished again. ‘Boston.’

  She drawled the ‘o’ out so that it sounded more like an ‘a’.

  A fleeting smile crossed Johanne’s face.

  ‘Well, if there isn’t a party here,’ Mary muttered as she limped in from the hall with a loaded tray in her hands. ‘Not even seven o’clock yet and we’re in full swing. Doesn’t say anything in my papers about night shifts, you know.’

  The President stared at Mary with fascination as she put the tray down on the coffee table.

  ‘Coffee,’ said the housekeeper, pointing. ‘Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Milk. Orange juice. Help yourself.’

  She put her hand over her mouth and whispered to Johanne: ‘I’ve seen the thing about pancakes on TV. They always eat pancakes for breakfast. Strange people.’

  She shook her head, stroked Ragnhild’s hair and pottered back out into the kitchen.

  ‘Is this for you or me?’ the President asked and sat down by the food. ‘Actually looks like there’s enough for three here.’

  ‘Please eat,’ Johanne said. ‘She’ll be offended if everything’s not gone when she comes back.’

  The President picked up a knife and fork. It seemed she was unsure about how to tackle the robust breakfast. She prodded a pancake that was rolled up with masses of jam and sour cream. Sugar had been sprinkled on the top.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked quietly. ‘Some kind of crêpe Suzette?’

  ‘They’re Norwegian pancakes,’ Johanne whispered. ‘Mary thinks it’s the same kind that Americans eat for breakfast.’

  ‘Mmm. It’s good. Really. But very sweet. Who’s that?’

  Helen Bentley nodded towards the TV screen, where a news programme from the day before was being repeated. NRK and TV2 were still broadcasting special news programmes round the clock. At around one in the morning, they turned the pile around and showed the evening’s newscasts in repeat until the first real news at half past seven.

  Wencke Bencke was in the studio again. She was having an animated discussion with a retired policeman. He had set himself up as an expert on criminal cases, following a not entirely successful career as a private detective. Both of them had been ferried between the major stations in recent days and they always produced the goods.

  They couldn’t stand one another.

  ‘She’s a . . . writer, in fact.’ Johanne grabbed the remote control. ‘I’ll find CNN,’ she mumbled.

  The President froze. ‘Wait! Wait!’

  Johanne stopped in surprise and sat there with the remote control in her hand. She looked from the President to the TV screen and back. Helen Bentley sat with her mouth open and her head cocked, deep in concentration.

  ‘Did that lady just say Warren Scifford?’ the President whispered.

  ‘What?’ Johanne turned up the volume and started to listen.

  ‘. . . and there is absolutely no reason to accuse the FBI of using illegal means,’ Wencke Bencke said. ‘As I said, I have personally met the man heading the FBI agents who are now working with the Norwegian police, Warren Scifford. He has . . .’

  ‘There,’ the President whispered. ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘Working with? Working with? If Miss Crime Writer here . . .’ the retired policeman spat this out as if it was sour milk, ‘had any idea of what’s happening in this country at the moment, where a foreign police force is just doing as it pleases . . .’

  ‘What are they saying?’ the President asked in a sharp tone. ‘What are they talking about?’

  ‘They’re arguing,’ Johanne whispered, trying to listen at the same time.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Johanne lifted a hand.

  ‘And I must . . .’

  The presenter had to fight to be heard. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, as we are, in fact, already on overtime. I’m sure that this discussion will continue over the coming days and weeks. Good night.’

  The titles rolled, the jingle played. The President was still holding her fork with a piece of pancake on it that was dripping jam on to the table. She didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘That woman was talking about Warren Scifford,’ she repeated, transfixed.

  Johanne took one of the serviettes and wiped the table in front of the President.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t catch much of the discussion, but they seemed to disagree about how much the FBI . . . They were arguing about . . . well, about whether the FBI is taking liberties on Norwegian soil, as far as I could make out. It has actually been . . . quite a topic in the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘But . . . is Warren here? In Norway?’

  Johanne’s hand stopped in mid-air. The President was no longer either controlled or majestic. She stared at her.

  ‘Yes . . .’

  Johanne didn’t know what to do, so she picked up Ragnhild and sat her on her knee. The little girl squirmed and wriggled, but her mother did not let go.

  ‘No,’ Ragnhild howled. ‘Mummy! Agni down!’

  ‘Do you know him?’ Johanne asked, largely because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Personally, I mean . . .’

  The President didn’t answer. She took a couple of deep breaths, before starting to eat again. Slowly and methodically, as if it hurt to chew, she finished off half a pancake and some bacon. Johanne couldn’t keep Ragnhild on her knee. She slipped back down to her toys again. Helen Bentley took a long drink of juice, and then poured some milk into her coffee.

  ‘I thought I knew him,’ she said and took a sip of coffee.

  Her voice was remarkably calm, given that she just seemed to have been in shock. Johanne thought she heard a slight tremor in her voice as Helen Bentley carefully patted down her hair and continued. ‘I seem to remember that I could use the Internet. I need a computer, of course. It’s time I started to tidy up this miserable affair.’

  Johanne swallowed. She swallowed again. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She noticed that the President was looking at her. Gently she put her hand on Johanne’s arm.

  ‘I knew him too, once,’ Johanne whispered. ‘I thought I knew Warren Scifford too.’

  Perhaps it was because Helen Bentley was a stranger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this woman did not belong here, in Johanne’s life, in Oslo or Norway, that made her speak. Madam President would be going home. Today, tomorrow or sometime soon at least. They would never meet again. In a year or two from now, the President would barely remember who Johanne Vik was. Perhaps it was the enormous social, physical and geographical distance between them that made Johanne, finally, after thirteen years of silence, tell the story of how Warren had betrayed her so spectacularly and she had lost the child they were expecting.

  When she had finished her story, Helen Bentley had resolved any doubts she might have had. Carefully she pulled Johanne to her. Held her and stroked her back. And when she finally stopped crying, she got up and quietly asked if she could use a computer.

  V

  It was Abdallah al-Rahman himself who had come up with the name The Trojan Horse.

  The thought had amused him enormously. Choosing a name was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but it had made it far easier to trick Madam President into leaving her hotel room. In the weeks after it had been announced that the President was to visit Norway in the middle of May, he had applied guerrilla tactics to American intelligence.

  Quick in. Quick out.

  He had planted information that was fragmentary and insignificant. But it did intimate that something was going to happen, and by carefully using phrases like ‘from within’, ‘unexpected internal attack’ and then the mention of a ‘horse’ in a memo that the CIA found on a corpse that
floated ashore in Italy, he had them exactly where he wanted them.

  When the information reached Warren Scifford and his men, they took the bait and it became the Trojan Horse, just as he wanted.

  Abdallah was back in the office after having gone for a ride. Morning in the desert was one of the most beautiful things he knew. The horse had really gone through its paces, and afterwards he and the mare had bathed in the pond under the palm trees, by the stable. The animal was old, one of the oldest he had, and it felt good to know that she was still fast, supple and lively.

  The day had started well. He had already finished his regular business. Answered all his emails, had a telephone conference. Read a board report that told him nothing of any interest. As early morning changed to mid-morning, he noticed his concentration flagging. He told reception that he was not to be disturbed and logged out of his computer.

  CNN news was playing, without sound, on a plasma screen on one of the walls.

  On the opposite wall was an enormous map of the US.

  A large number of coloured pinheads were spread out over the country. He sauntered over to the map and zigzagged between them with his finger. He stopped at Los Angeles.

  That was perhaps Eric Ariyoshi, Abdallah al-Rahman mused, and gave the pinhead a slight caress. Eric was a Sansei, third-generation American-Japanese. He was nearly forty-five and had no family. His wife left him four weeks after they married, when he lost his job in 1983, and since then he had lived with his parents. But Eric Ariyoshi had not let himself go under. He did odd jobs wherever he could until, at the age of thirty, he finished evening classes and became a qualified cable engineer.

  But the real change came when his father died.

  The old man had been detained on the west coast during the Second World War. He was only a boy at the time. Together with his parents and two younger sisters, he had spent three years in a prisoner-of-war camp. Only a handful of the detainees had actually done anything wrong. Most had been good Americans since they were born. His mother, Eric’s grandmother, died before they were released in 1945. Eric’s father never got over it. When he grew up, he settled on the outskirts of Los Angeles and ran a small flower shop that only just managed to keep him, his wife and their three children alive. And he filed a suit against the American state. It was a long case, which became very expensive.