The Oslo Conspiracy

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The Oslo Conspiracy Page 18

by Asle Skredderberget

“And you’re an investment banker?” he asked, emptying his wineglass.

  A flight attendant was quickly on the spot with a refill.

  “Is that obvious too?” she asked.

  He met her gaze.

  “If I were to guess, you work in mergers and acquisitions for one of the big investment banks, and with your background you probably have the Nordic countries as your area of responsibility. Now you’ve been in Norway to sell a project. You probably met with a potential buyer, and the industry where there is plenty of money in Norway is oil. And the dominant company there is of course Statoil. Now you’re on your way to New York to meet the potential acquisition candidate. Probably a medium-size gas company. Shale gas, maybe. And since you have access to the decision makers in Statoil, you either work for Silverman or USB.”

  Her eyes were now void of self-confidence, and her chin had fallen half a centimeter lower. He smiled at her, and continued.

  “But as a policeman’s daughter with both feet planted on the ground, you’re not a Silverman lady. You don’t let yourself be charmed by smooth-talking, greedy Americans. No, you’re probably from USB. Union Swiss Broker. If I’m not mistaken, you are one of the heads of their M and A department in London.”

  He sipped the wine, and suppressed a smile.

  “I manage Nordic M and A in USB,” she said flatly.

  She took a breath and was about to say more, but stopped herself.

  Milo sat quietly and relaxed.

  She sighed, confused.

  “Didn’t you say you were a policeman?”

  “Yes. But not quite an ordinary policeman.”

  “No, I’ll be damned if you are! What are you, then? Some kind of bloody Sherlock Holmes?”

  He could not help laughing.

  “Well, this is not a Sherlock Holmes thing. To be completely honest, I overheard you mention Hoffman.”

  “Yes, and so?”

  “They’re big in shale gas.”

  “Yes, but what the hell, there aren’t many policemen who know about such things and based on that can work out that I’ve been at Statoil and work for USB!”

  Her tone of voice revealed frustration and fascination.

  “I work in Financial Crimes,” Milo began, briefly explaining his background.

  About his studies at the Norwegian School of Economics in Bergen and Bocconi in Milan. And about his years as a stock analyst.

  She looked at him without blinking.

  “Milo, I can’t recall the last time I was knocked off my perch like that. I … I want to hit you,” she said.

  But her eyes were warm.

  “I understand that. But just so you’re warned. If you attack a Norwegian official, you have to be neutralized,” he replied.

  She looked at him, and her face broke into a smile.

  * * *

  They went their separate ways at immigration control at Newark, and he saw her stride off with her bag over her shoulder and a little black wheeled suitcase, while he stopped to give a digital fingerprint in front of a serious immigration officer.

  Two minutes later he was through and could check the e-mail on his phone as he passed baggage claim and continued through customs.

  In one e-mail the legal director at Forum Healthcare Norway confirmed that he had set up a meeting with their head of legal and several other managers “after they have rearranged their schedules to accommodate you on short notice.”

  Milo snorted as he read it; the aversion was obvious. But they were evidently afraid to provoke him in such a way that he would bring in American police authorities.

  The watch on his wrist showed nine o’clock in the evening Norwegian time, but his phone had reset itself to three o’clock local time. That worked out fine. Manhattan was about an hour’s taxi ride away, depending on traffic, and he could easily make the four o’clock meeting.

  He walked into the arrival hall and followed the sign to the taxis. On the way he had to go through a wall of private chauffeurs standing with small placards with the names of those they were picking up.

  Suddenly he caught sight of his own name in the crowd.

  An Asian man, a head shorter than Milo, was standing with a sheet of paper that said CAVALLI in big, bold letters. Behind him stood another Asian man, a head taller and twice as broad.

  They looked Chinese, and for a fraction of a second Milo automatically slowed down while he tried to recall whether the Forum director had mentioned anything about being picked up at the airport. He was sure that it was more likely he would have been asked to take a taxi to the main office, and for that reason he kept walking.

  Instinct told him it was best not to stop by the two Chinese.

  He passed them at a distance of a few meters and went straight toward the exit and the short taxi line. He avoided looking over his shoulder, but as he gave the address to the attendant taking orders at the head of the line, he saw the two come out.

  The short Chinese man barked curtly to the bigger man, and both scanned the area around the taxi line.

  Milo got the receipt from the taxi attendant with the agreed price into Manhattan, looked over his shoulder toward the two Chinese and met the eyes of the larger one. He exclaimed something, and pointed at Milo.

  Milo turned around and went quickly toward the available taxi. The driver opened the trunk, but Milo shook his head. He had only the little travel bag.

  Behind him he heard someone call.

  “Mister Cavalli!”

  Milo ignored them and opened the door of the taxi, and over the roof said the address to the driver, who was about to get back in.

  “The MetLife Building, please.”

  He tossed his bag into the backseat.

  “Mister Cavalli. Please wait!”

  The short Chinese was now standing right behind him, and his more muscular companion put his hand heavily on the car door and closed it again.

  “I think you’ve made a mistake,” said Milo, trying to open the door.

  It did not move, because now the burly, crew-cut Chinese man stood with his weight on the door and blocked it effectively.

  The short one took care of the talking.

  “Mister Cavalli, we must speak together. I represent Jianyu Wong-Dah, who would very much like to meet you.”

  “I don’t know Wong-Dah. And I’m late for a meeting.”

  But the short man did not listen.

  “Please. We have a car, we can drive you to your meeting. Then we can talk in the car,” he said.

  He smiled as he talked, and clenched a folder in his hands.

  His big companion did not smile.

  “You’re confusing me with someone else,” Milo responded, trying again to open the door.

  The two gave him a cold feeling, and he was prepared to use his physique to get away from them. At the same time he was not sure how smart it would be to start a fistfight right outside the airport. He imagined how security guards and police would throw themselves over them, and the next few days would be spent talking his way out of the situation.

  He looked at the hand that rested heavily on the door. If he were to do anything, the most effective would probably be to grab it, and bend one or two fingers backward.

  While he stood there assessing the situation, the driver came to his rescue.

  “What the fuck! Are we going or not?”

  “We’ll leave as soon as these two let me,” Milo replied.

  “Should I get a security guard?” the driver asked eagerly.

  Milo looked inquisitively at the pair.

  “Mister Cavalli. Please,” the shorter one said pleadingly, taking a step away from the car.

  Milo fixed his eyes on the big one, who now followed the short man’s example. Reluctantly he took a step back.

  “Thanks,” Milo said, jumping into the backseat.

  In the window he saw the two run off, probably to the car to follow him.

  “What the hell was that all about?” the driver asked.


  “No idea. Just get me to the MetLife Building, and don’t let those boys catch up with us.”

  “No problem,” the driver answered, stepping on the gas.

  A few minutes later they were swallowed up by the traffic. Milo looked out the back window, but saw no sign of the two.

  With that he turned around, took out his cell phone and googled Jianyu Wong-Dah.

  28

  He was met by a secretary in the oversize reception area and taken up to the thirty-seventh floor. The entire floor consisted of conference rooms, and Milo was shown into the largest one.

  There was an enormous table in the middle of the room, and around it were twenty leather chairs with high backs.

  “The others will be coming in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?” the secretary asked, bringing his attention to a counter along one wall with various beverages and coffeepots.

  “Black coffee and a glass of juice, please,” said Milo, going over to the window.

  Park Avenue stretched a kilometer or so down Manhattan, before it divided into Broadway and Fourth Avenue. To the right he saw the Empire State Building, and several kilometers away, almost at the tip of the peninsula, loomed the new tower at Ground Zero. They weren’t finished yet, but the buildings were already impressive, and left no doubt about the capacity of New York and the U.S. to rise up after having been brought to their knees.

  The secretary handed him the cup and glass and left the room, and Milo sat down at the table. He sat in the middle on one side, and took out the case folder and his notebook. Then he leaned back in the comfortable leather chair, feeling that his body was definitely on Norwegian time.

  The Google search on Wong-Dah had not given him any revelations, but instead a heap of new questions. Jianyu Wong-Dah appeared to be some kind of tech mogul who owned companies in China, the U.S. and India. He was on the list of the world’s five hundred wealthiest persons, and in the top three of the world’s richest under age forty.

  Milo had only vaguely heard of any of the companies he owned, and sat now wondering why two of his associates had tried to make contact with him. And not least, how they knew that he had come to New York on that flight.

  A peep from the phone distracted him. The text message was from Kathrin.

  CALL OR TEXT ME IF YOU HAVE TIME AND INTEREST IN A DRINK, COFFEE OR BITE TO EAT OVER THE WEEKEND. KATHRIN.

  He was considering how to respond when he heard voices out in the corridor, and then a small delegation entered the room.

  “Mr. Cavalli, sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  He turned around, and a gray-haired man in a dark suit came toward him with an outstretched hand and introduced himself as Bradley Finch, head of legal.

  After him they came one by one and bombarded Milo with name, title and business card before they all found their seats.

  Milo remained sitting alone on one side of the table, flanked by empty chairs. The Forum group filled up the other side. They did not appear to see the humor in that.

  He set all the business cards in a fan formation in front of him on the shiny tabletop, looking at them and then at the faces.

  “I’ll have to see if I can keep track of who you are,” he said, and the whole row in front of him showed their whitened teeth.

  Right across from him sat Finch, with two attorneys on either side from a law firm whose name took up the whole width of the business card. In addition there were two information directors, a marketing executive, a research director and in the far corner sat Oliver Trimonti. His title was no less than senior vice president business operations. A kind of vice managing director, in other words. Milo glanced at him and calculated that in reality Oliver was number two in the corporate group, the man after the CEO himself who had the most influence. But there was little to suggest that he desired active participation in this meeting.

  Because it was the attorneys who took the lead.

  “First of all, Cavalli, it would be nice to establish a mutual understanding of what kind of meeting this really is,” Finch began while he took out pen and notepad.

  Milo nodded.

  “Absolutely, and thanks for being able to appear on such short notice. But as you understand, we are running a homicide investigation and the time aspect is extremely critical to us,” he answered.

  “We understand that. But this is an ordinary meeting, and not a hearing in the formal sense, in that you come alone and not in the company of American officials. Have I understood that correctly?”

  “You have. I want to know as much as possible about Ingrid Tollefsen’s work, and because this is not something the Oslo office can say anything about, I am coming to you.”

  “I understand. And obviously we want to help to as great an extent as possible. The loss of Ingrid … is terrible.”

  The use of her first name sounded odd. Milo was certain that Bradley Finch had never met Ingrid Tollefsen, but that did not prevent the head of legal from talking as if she had been a close acquaintance. At the same time he noticed his clear reservation: “help to as great an extent as possible.”

  Milo guessed that in the next hour he would be presented with a series of formulations and clauses that would make it difficult for the company to give him very much information.

  “It is important for us to get as clear a picture as possible of what Ingrid Tollefsen worked with. All information is of interest,” said Milo.

  Finch straightened up and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

  “We have no reason to believe that Ingrid’s death has anything to do with her job,” he said.

  “But it’s actually the case that we, and not you, are the ones investigating the killing.”

  “I’m aware of that, but we must also weigh this against other considerations. We are a company listed on the stock exchange, in razor-sharp competition with other large companies. And giving out anything that might resemble company secrets is not only difficult, but may even be illegal,” said Finch. He nonchalantly picked up a sheet of paper he had in front of him. “And I understand that your background means that you … have a certain understanding of this,” he continued.

  He’s playing the buddy card, thought Milo. He had encountered this many times before, the hints that “you’re really one of us, Cavalli.” The truth was that he did not belong to anyone. Not the police, not the financial industry.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I got the definite impression from your Norwegian colleagues that you wanted to cooperate. And a few minutes ago you repeated that here in this conference room.”

  “And we really want to. But you must be clear about what restrictions we are operating under.”

  There was silence.

  Milo met the gaze of Finch and at the same time registered that none of the others moved. Their gazes were directed at him.

  Slowly Finch picked up a sheet of paper and pushed it across the table.

  “I had hoped we could hold this meeting in a constructive tone,” he said.

  “That’s completely up to you,” said Milo.

  He felt the flight in his body. It was ten thirty at home in Oslo, and his fuse was getting shorter with each passing minute. In the back of his head was a nagging thought that this was a waste of time. Even if Ingrid Tollefsen had been unhappy in her job at Forum, that did not automatically have a connection with her murder. And at home in Oslo, Sørensen was chasing the steroid lead, which had become steadily stronger.

  He cast a glance at the paper.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It is a list of the projects Ingrid worked with. I ask you with the utmost seriousness to treat this information with the greatest care.”

  Milo took a quick glance at the contents.

  It was a plain sheet of paper, stripped of logo and anything else, which contained a list with a dozen bullet points.

  • Preparation of clinical testing of potential new product

  • Result
measurements of new version of product

  • Basic research

  And so it continued.

  The paper was completely worthless to Milo. He knew it. They knew it. They knew that he knew it.

  Nonetheless, this predictable legal farce was going on. Where the script said that Milo should sigh in discontent, ask a follow-up question, and then finish by saying that he would study the information carefully and get back with any new questions.

  But Milo was not good at sticking to the script.

  He stood up and the chair rolled back until it stopped at the table by the wall, so that the coffee cups and glasses rattled.

  “You’re right about one thing, Finch. Namely, that I understand your situation, given my background. And that means I understand something else too.”

  He made a short pause before he let his gaze glide from the communications director at the far right and over to the vice managing director at the far left.

  “I understand that you are doing what you are paid to do. Saying what you are paid to say. And that it’s someone else altogether who decides,” Milo continued.

  He picked up his papers and went all the way to the end of the table, where he sat down right across from Trimonti.

  “I think you misunderstand. It seems as if you think this is about you. About your company secrets. About your shareholders,” he said while maintaining eye contact with the vice managing director.

  Calmly he shoved a document folder across the table, turned it toward him and opened it.

  The Forum director automatically looked down at the pictures of Ingrid Tollefsen.

  Milo had deliberately placed the picture from the autopsy room on top, and the director raised his head quickly again and looked at him with an angry and confused expression. Then he looked over at his colleagues.

  “This is what this is really about,” said Milo, leaning across the table and spreading out the pictures.

  “This picture is from the hotel, and this was how she was found. Strangled and left on the bed. Here she is from another angle, while the three pictures here are from the autopsy room. I was the one who went to Rome to get the body released and made sure that her father could bring her casket home,” he continued.

  His index finger made a dull sound every time he pounded it on the table.

 

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