by Anne Holt
Hanne lifted her head and stared at the President with a look of exaggerated disbelief. Then she started to laugh. She threw her head back and roared with laughter.
‘Good luck,’ she hiccuped. ‘I will not be budged. And as for Mary, she lives with a radius of about thirty metres. You will never, and I repeat never, get her to leave this flat. I occasionally manage to convince her to go down into the cellar, but you won’t be able to do that. And as for—’
‘Here you go,’ Johanne said, out of breath. ‘It’s full summer outside, by the way!’
She put her laptop down on the kitchen table. With practised hands, she plugged in the external mouse, laid down a mat, put the plug in a socket and turned on the machine.
‘Voilà!’ she said and logged on. ‘There you go, Madam President. A computer that it will take time to trace!’
She was so excited that she didn’t notice Hanne’s worried face as she reversed out from the table, turned round and rolled off into the flat. The rubber wheels squeaked on the parquet floor. The sound vanished when a door was shut, somewhere deep in the heart of the enormous flat.
XI
The young man who was sitting in front of a monitor in a tiny office close to the Situation Room in the White House noticed that the characters and numbers were starting to dance on the screen. He closed his eyes hard, shook his head and tried again. It was still difficult to focus on one row, one column. He gave his neck a massage. The stringent smell of old sweat rose up from his armpits and made him drop his arms in shame and hope that no one would come in.
This wasn’t what he had gone to university for. When he got a job at the White House, two years after qualifying as a computer engineer and having worked in the commercial sector, he couldn’t believe his luck. Now, five months on, he was already bored. He had demonstrated his abilities in the small computer company that had headhunted him after graduation, and had thought that it was his indisputable talents as a programmer that had made the Bentley administration poach him.
But now, nearly six months later, he felt he had been little more than a runner.
And he had been sitting in a stuffy room with no windows, sweating and stinking, for twenty-three hours, staring at codes that flickered on the screen. He had been asked to create some kind of order in the chaos. It was important that he kept focused.
He pressed his fingers against his eyes.
He was so exhausted that he was no longer sleepy. It was as if his brain had just stopped. It didn’t want to do any more. He felt like his own hard disk had logged out and left the rest of his body to fend for itself. His hands felt numb and a stabbing pain in his lower back had been bothering him for hours.
He breathed out slowly, and opened his eyes as wide as he could to try to get some moisture. He should really get something more to drink, but it was another quarter of an hour before he could take a break. He must try to have a shower.
There. There was something there.
Something.
He blinked and his fingers moved like lightning across the keyboard. The screen froze. He lifted a reluctant hand and ran his index finger along a row from left to right, before he started to hammer on the keyboard again.
Another screen came up.
It couldn’t be true.
It was true, and he was the one who had seen it. He had discovered before anyone else, and suddenly he didn’t regret switching jobs any more. Once again his fingers moved busily over the keyboard. Then he pressed Print, grabbed the phone and waited in suspense for the next screen.
‘She’s alive,’ he whispered, forgetting to breathe. ‘She’s fucking alive!’
XII
‘This is the most beautiful place in the whole of Oslo,’ Adam Stubo said, and pointed to a simple bench by the water. ‘I think we could both do with a bit of air.’Summer had ambushed the city. The temperature had risen by nearly ten degrees in the course of twenty-four hours. The sun blasted the sky in an explosion of white light. The leaves on the trees along the banks of the Aker River seemed to have turned a darker shade of green in that time alone, and there was so much pollen in the air that Adam’s eyes started to run as soon as they got out of the car.
‘Is this a park?’ Warren Scifford asked without any real interest. ‘A big park?’
‘No. This is the edge of the city. Or the start of the forest, whichever way you want to look at it. This is where the two meet, trees and houses. Lovely, isn’t it? Sit yourself down.’
Warren looked at the dirty bench with suspicion. Adam produced a hanky and wiped away the remains of the national-day celebrations. A patch of hardened chocolate ice cream, a stripe of ketchup and something he’d rather not guess at.
‘There. Sit down.’
He took two enormous rolls and two cans of Diet Coke out of a plastic bag.
‘Have to think about my weight,’ he said, putting it all down on the bench between them. ‘I actually prefer regular Coke. The real thing. But you know . . .’
He patted his stomach. Warren said nothing. He didn’t touch the food. Instead he sat watching three Canada geese. A small dog, which was half the size of the largest bird, was being chased around on the grassy bank down by the water. It seemed to be enjoying itself. Every time the biggest goose chased it away with a snapping beak, the swift little beast spun round and zigzagged its way back.
‘Don’t you want any?’ Adam asked with his mouth full.
Warren still didn’t say anything.
‘Listen,’ Adam said and swallowed. ‘I’ve been given the job of following you around. It’s becoming more and more obvious that you’re not particularly keen on telling me anything at all. Or perhaps I should say us. Keeping us informed. So can’t we just . . .’ he took another big bite of his roll, ‘enjoy ourselves instead?’
The words disappeared in the food.
The dog had got bored, and no longer cared about the hissing geese. Instead it was scurrying around on the bank with its nose on the ground, heading towards Maridalsvannet.
Adam continued eating in silence. Warren turned his face to the sun, rested his left foot on his right knee and closed his eyes against the bright light.
‘What’s up?’ Adam asked when he’d finished his roll and eaten half of Warren’s.
He crumpled up the plastic wrappers and put them in the bag, then opened one of the cans and took a drink. ‘What’s up with you?’ he repeated and tried to swallow a burp.
Warren still didn’t move.
‘As you like,’ Adam said, taking out a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket.
‘There’s a monster out there,’ Warren said, without changing position.
‘There are lots of them.’ Adam nodded. ‘Far too many, if you ask me.’
‘There’s one that wants to break us.’
‘Uhum . . .’
‘He’s already started. The problem is that I don’t know how he intends to continue. And there’s no one who’ll listen to me.’
Adam tried to find a more comfortable position on the wooden bench. For a moment he put his foot on his knee, like Warren. But his stomach protested against being squashed, and he put his foot down again.
‘I’m sitting here,’ he said. ‘My ears are open.’
Finally, Warren smiled. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked around.
‘It really is beautiful here,’ he said quietly. ‘How’s Johanne?’
‘Well . . . she’s very well.’
Adam rummaged around in the plastic bag and produced a bar of chocolate. He opened it and offered it to Warren.
‘No thanks. With my hand on my heart, I can say that she was the best, brightest student I ever had.’
Adam looked at the chocolate. Then he wrapped the paper around it again and put it back in the bag.
‘Johanne’s very well,’ he repeated. ‘We had a daughter last winter. A healthy, lovely little girl. And other than that, I think we should change the subject, Warren.’
‘Is it that bad?
Is she still . . .?’
Adam took off his sunglasses.
‘Yes, it’s that bad. I don’t want to talk to you about Johanne. It would be fundamentally disloyal. And in any case, I just don’t want to. OK?’
‘Of course.’
The American bowed slightly and opened his hands.
‘My greatest weakness,’ he said with a tight-lipped smile. ‘Women.’
Adam didn’t know what to say to that. He started to wonder whether the outing had been a good idea. An hour earlier, when Warren had appeared at Peter Salhus’ office without warning and without really having anything to tell, Adam had thought that a break in their usual routine might help them to get talking again.
But he certainly did not want to talk about Johanne.
‘You know,’ Warren continued. ‘Sometimes when I lie awake at night and sweat, thinking about the mistakes I’ve made in my life, it strikes me that they are all related to women. And now I find myself in a situation where, if President Bentley is not found alive, my career is over. A woman holds my destiny in her hands.’
He gave a demonstrative sigh.
‘Women. I don’t understand them. They are irresistible and incomprehensible.’
Adam realised he was grinding his teeth. He concentrated on not doing it. It was almost impossible, and he stroked his cheek with his hand to try to relax it.
‘You don’t agree,’ Warren laughed.
‘No.’ Adam sat up abruptly. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I find very, very few of them irresistible. Most of them are very easy to understand. Not always, not all the time, but generally. But . . .’ he threw open his arms and looked completely the other way, ‘that also means that you have to see them as equals.’
‘Touché,’ Warren said and gave the sun a broad smile. ‘Very politically correct. Very . . . Scandinavian.’
A ringtone interrupted the sound of birdsong and running water. Adam felt all his pockets to locate his phone.
‘Hello,’ he barked, when he finally found it.
‘Adam?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Peter.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Peter Salhus.’
‘Oh, right. Hello.’
Adam was about to get up and move away from the bench when he suddenly remembered that Warren didn’t speak Norwegian.
‘Anything new?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But between you and me, Adam. Can I have your word?’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘Without going into any details, I have to admit that we have . . . Well, we’ve got a fairly good idea about what’s going on at the American embassy. Let’s put it that way.’
Pause.
They’re tapping them, Adam thought to himself and grabbed the half-empty can of Coke. They’ve tapped an allied embassy on Norwegian soil. What the hell . . .
‘They think the President is alive, Adam.’
Adam’s pulse increased a hint. He coughed and tried to keep a straight face. Just to be on the safe side, he turned away from Warren.
‘And where is she?’
‘Well, that’s the whole point. They believe that the President has accessed websites that she needs a code to get into. Either it’s her, or someone else has managed to get her to give them the codes. And even if the latter is true, it would still mean that she’s alive.’
‘But . . . I don’t quite . . .’
‘They’ve traced her to your wife’s IP address. But luckily they don’t know that yet.’
‘Joh—’
He stopped. He didn’t want to say her name when Warren might hear.
‘They traced an IP address to a computer that belongs to the university. Now they’re arguing with the management up there to find out who uses the machine. We think we managed to delay them a bit, but not for that long. But I thought . . . I’ll get Bastesen to send a patrol car out to your house, just in case. If there’s any truth in these rumours that the FBI has taken the law into their own hands, you know. And if I was you, I’d go home.’
‘Yes . . . Of course. Thank you.’
He finished the conversation, without it crossing his mind that the patrol car should be sent somewhere else. Johanne wasn’t at home. She and Ragnhild were somewhere in Frogner. At an address he didn’t know.
He stood up in a rush.
‘I have to go,’ he said and started to walk.
He left the plastic bag and unopened can of Coke on the bench behind him. Warren stared at the rubbish in surprise before running after Adam.
‘What is it?’ he asked when he caught up with him.
‘I’ll drop you off in town, OK? There something I have to sort out.’
His heavy body quivered as he started to run towards the car. Just as he was getting in, Warren’s phone rang. His answers were brief: yes and no. After about a minute and a half, he hung up. When Adam took his eyes off the road for a second and looked at the American, he got a shock. Warren was ashen, his mouth was open and it looked like his eyes were about to disappear into his skull.
‘They think they’ve found the President,’ he said in a flat voice and put his mobile phone back in his breast pocket.
Adam changed gear and pulled out on to the main road.
‘Circumstances might indicate that she’s with Johanne,’ Warren continued in the same flat voice. ‘Are we on our way back to your house?’
Shit, Adam thought in desperation. How have they managed to do that already? Couldn’t you have delayed them any longer?
‘I’ll drop you off in town,’ he said. ‘You can make your own way from there.’
With one hand on the wheel, driving up Maridalsveien at full speed, he tried to call Salhus back. The phone just rang and rang until an answering machine came on.
‘Peter, it’s Adam,’ he barked. ‘Call me straight away. Immediately, d’you hear?’
The best thing would probably be to take the ring road to Smestad. Snaking down through town at this time of day would take for ever. He swung the car on to the roundabout over Ring 3 and accelerated westwards.
‘Listen,’ Warren said quietly. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’
‘About time you started to tell me something,’ Adam muttered, but he was barely listening.
‘I’m at loggerheads with my own people. And it’s about to blow.’
‘D’you know what, I’m sure you can talk to someone about that, just not me.’
He switched lanes to overtake a lorry and nearly collided with a small Fiat that got in the way. He swore angrily, swerved round the Fiat and accelerated again.
‘If you’re on your way to Johanne now,’ Warren tried, ‘then you should take me with you. It’s a very dangerous situation, to put it mildly, and I—’
‘You won’t be coming.’
‘Adam! Adam!’
Adam slammed on the brakes. Warren, who hadn’t put his seatbelt on, was thrown on to the dashboard. He just had time to put his arms out in front of him. Adam let the car roll on to the hard shoulder just by the toll booths below Rikshospitalet.
‘What?’ he roared at the American. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘You can’t go alone. I’m warning you. For your own sake.’
‘Get out. Get out of the car. Now.’
‘Now? Here? On the motorway?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t mean it, Adam. Now listen—’
‘Get out!’
‘Listen to me!’
There was a hint of desperation in his voice. Adam tried to breathe regularly. He gripped the wheel with both hands. All he wanted to do was punch the American.
‘Like I just said in the park. I’m an idiot when it comes to women. I’ve done so many . . .’ He held his breath for a long time. When he started to talk again, it all came out in a rush. ‘But do you doubt my abilities as an FBI agent? Do you think incompetence would have got me where I am today? Do you really believe that it’s wise for you to go alone into a situation about wh
ich you know nothing, rather than taking an agent with thirty years’ experience with you to back you up? And what’s more, I’ve got a gun.’
Adam bit his lip. He exchanged a brief look with Warren, put the car into first gear and pulled out into the road again. He rang Johanne’s number. She didn’t answer. The answerphone didn’t kick in.
‘Fuck,’ he said through clenched teeth and rang 1881. ‘Fucking bastard hell.’
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice on the other end. ‘What did you say?’
‘An address in Oslo, please. Hanne Wilhelmsen. Krusesgate, what number?’
The woman replied curtly after a few seconds.
As they took the exit from the ring road to Smestad, he called another number. This time it was the central switchboard.
He had no intention of going into a dangerous situation alone.
But nor did he have any intention of taking with him a foreign national, whom he now knew he disliked.
Intensely.
XIII
Helen Lardahl Bentley was more confused after she had read the secured pages than she had been before. There was so much that didn’t make sense. The BSC Unit had obviously been pushed to one side. That might, of course, be because they had realised what Warren was up to. The heads of the FBI might think that it was wise not to confront him with it, yet at the same time they wanted to marginalise his potential to manipulate the investigation. But she still couldn’t work out why the profile that Warren and his men had developed was being so discredited by the rest of the system. The document seemed to be incredibly thorough. It correlated with everything they had initially feared when the first vague suggestions about the Trojan Horse had reached the FBI only six weeks ago.
The profile frightened her more than anything else she found.
But there was something that wasn’t right.
On the one hand, it seemed that everyone agreed that an attack on the US was imminent. On the other hand, none of the powerful organisations under the Homeland Security umbrella had found anything that would indicate links to existing or known organisations. It was as if they were clutching at straws. Jeffrey Hunter’s money could be traced to the cousin of the Saudi Arabian oil minister and to a consultancy firm he owned in Iran, but that was that. She couldn’t see that anyone had got any further, and she turned hot and cold when it started to dawn on her just how hard the American government, led by her own vice president, had hit out at the two Arab countries. Without decoding equipment, she couldn’t get in to the pages where the actual correspondence was saved, but she had started to comprehend the scale of the catastrophe towards which her country was headed.
