by Gard Sveen
When she was putting Cecilia to bed that evening—once again under the disapproving eye of the maid—the child asked the question she was hoping never to hear: “Can’t you stay here forever?”
She was lying next to Cecilia, the curtains fluttering by the open window. The horizon was turning pink, and the steady hum of voices on the terrace below merged with the sound of a fishing vessel returning to Holmsbu for the night. A flock of seagulls flew behind it, shrieking like a flock of fledgling cuckoos waiting for their mother. The moment Agnes cautiously pulled her arm away, the little girl opened her eyes.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” whispered Agnes.
“I wish you could stay here forever,” Cecilia said quietly.
Agnes felt her throat close up. All she could manage was a nod. Finally she said, “We’ll have to see . . . maybe.”
All I want is to get out, she thought as she stroked Cecilia’s forehead. With another man, not your father. Then she realized that there was probably no plan for getting her out. How many Resistance cells were there? If what she was now getting involved in turned out to be too dangerous, would they be able to get her across the border to Sweden or to the west coast and from there by boat to England? Agnes walked across the old pine floorboards to draw the curtains. Down below on the terrace she saw Peter Waldhorst conversing with another German in civvies she had not yet met.
When she went down the winding staircase, she saw that Lande and Brigadier Seeholz must have come inside from the terrace while she was putting Cecilia to bed. She paused on one of the last steps to listen. She could hear their voices coming from the kitchen or maybe from Gustav’s office in an adjoining room. When she continued down to the entryway, she saw that Seeholz’s young female companion was sitting on Waldhorst’s lap out on the terrace. Seeholz evidently didn’t care. In the entryway she could hear his rough voice, occasionally interrupted by Lande’s softer one. She made sure no one on the terrace had noticed her before she turned and briskly headed for the kitchen.
“Yes. Good. We need to post another squadron down there. You see that, don’t you, Gustav?” Seeholz’s voice could be clearly heard through the open door of the office.
One of them seemed to be leafing through some papers. A faint glow from the office fell like a fan across the darkened kitchen.
“Look at this,” said Seeholz. “We need to have antiaircraft positions . . . here and here.” Agnes heard the scratch of a pen on paper and wondered if he was drawing buildings surrounded by flak cannons. “It’s urgent.”
“It’ll be expensive,” said Lande.
“That’s not your concern,” said Seeholz. “And I also need an underground laundry. It’s much too exposed down there. The English could easily bomb the whole place to hell and back. It’s just a question of time. And what will we do then? It’ll set us back years.”
Gustav Lande didn’t reply.
Agnes held her breath. Her pulse was pounding so hard in her temples that she was afraid the men would hear it from inside the office. She couldn’t simply stand here. Get out! she thought. Do something!
“It’s the biggest molybdenum mine operating in all of Europe, Gustav. Do you realize that?”
“I hope that one day I’ll be able to accommodate your needs,” said Lande. “As you say, it’s the biggest mine in Europe right now, but the ore is of low grade. However, I may soon have some very good news for you, Ernst.” He had lowered his voice, clearly not wanting anyone to hear. Least of all her. But she’d already heard enough. If she could pull it off, this was an infinitely greater coup than anything she’d gleaned over the course of two years with Helge Schreiner.
As Agnes cautiously took a step back, she heard a sound on the threshold.
For a moment she stood frozen in place, staring out the window at the gleaming black cars parked in the yard. Although the two men in the office were now practically whispering, Agnes was still able to catch fragments of what they said. Something about a director of research.
The person behind her took a step forward into the kitchen, making the floorboards creak. What shall I say to him? she thought. Waldhorst. He’d caught her now. And her purse was upstairs in her room. How could she be so . . .
But no, it was a woman she heard clearing her throat. Agnes hoped against hope to turn and find one of the hired maids or serving girls from Holmsbu. Instead, she found herself gazing right into the birdlike face of Lande’s maid.
The two men continued talking in the office.
Neither Agnes nor the maid said a word. Looking annoyed, Johanne walked past her to the window to draw the blackout curtains. Then she began taking the plates out of the sink where they’d been left to soak.
Agnes hurried out to the terrace before Lande stuck his head out the office door. How am I going to get out of this? she thought.
She put her hand on the railing and tried to focus on the beautiful view instead of dwelling on the fact that the maid must have realized she was deliberately eavesdropping on Lande’s conversation with Seeholz. Surely she saw what was going on? Agnes had taken a chance and been caught in the act. Now she wondered how dearly this would cost her. If Johanne was a fool, nothing would happen. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case.
After Agnes had been standing on the terrace for a while, someone came up beside her. She heard the blackout curtains being drawn behind her. That was enough to subdue the mood out on the terrace, and the voices of the others became more muted, more serious in tone.
“What a lovely evening,” said Waldhorst quietly, setting a whisky glass on the railing. His face was like a black-and-white photograph in the growing darkness. “No one could blame you for turning your affections to Mr. Lande, since he owns such a beautiful summer place.” He tried to meet her eye, but she didn’t dare look at him. Instead she stared at the flowering lilac bushes next to the terrace.
“Lilacs,” said Waldhorst when he saw what she was looking at. “How can God make something so alluring and then allow the flowers to live only a few weeks?”
Late that night, she did the only safe thing. While the other guests snored softly a few doors away, she stepped out of her panties, unbuttoned her nightgown, and left her room, closing the door quietly behind her. Then she tiptoed along the corridor. Through a window at the end of the hall she could see that the sun was already appearing on the horizon. She pulled her nightgown over her head, opened the door to Gustav Lande’s bedroom, and sank down onto the bed next to his naked body.
CHAPTER 36
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Steinbu Lodge
Vågå, Norway
It had been a long time since Tommy Bergmann had driven over two hundred miles in one stretch. On his way up the slope where Highway 51 diverged from the 15 at Vågåvatnet, he had trouble staying awake. The long drive wasn’t helping the feeling that this was a complete waste of time. He’d spent all day trying to locate the five people in Krogh’s circle who were still alive. So far he’d found three of them, though his efforts had produced nothing more than a cup of coffee and a few cookies from an old man in the shipping business who lived in Ullernåsen.
He slowed down to maneuver the tight curves that were taking him higher up the mountain. It seemed as if the road wouldn’t stop until it reached the stars above. At last he came upon the exit to Steinbu Lodge and started bumping down the narrow gravel road.
Bergmann parked next to one of the smaller buildings. When he got out of the car, he was greeted by a gust of cold mountain air. It was 11:30 p.m., and the temperature had to be close to freezing. Goosebumps appeared on his skin. He paused to look at the glow from the moon on the shiny, dark surface of the lake at the foot of a slope right in front of the main building. There was not a sound to be heard. A half dozen cars were parked out front, but people who paid to come up here for “good food and relaxation”—as it said on the lodge’s website—apparently went to bed early. No lights were on in any of the windows. Aside from the two porch light
s and the illuminated sign welcoming guests to Steinbu Lodge, it was as dark as it ever got at Midsummer in Norway. The vast vault of the sky overhead suddenly made him feel sentimental.
Bergmann turned when he heard a sound near the main building. A large figure was leaning against one of the rough-hewn timbers that formed columns on either side of the front entrance.
“A city guy, I see,” said the man as he approached. Two English setters trotted over to Bergmann to say hello. Finn Nystrøm was of stocky build and half a head taller than Bergmann, and his handshake was strong and firm. In the dim light he looked much younger than sixty, though Moberg had said that was how old he was. Maybe it was just his long, thick hair pulled back into a ponytail that made him look younger.
“Long drive?” asked Nystrøm.
Bergmann nodded.
“You’d better write your name and phone number in the registration book, even though you’re the law here at the moment.”
“Actually, I was planning to drive back tonight,” said Bergmann.
“Then we’d better go inside, though I was thinking of turning in pretty soon. So we can’t stay up talking all night.”
Bergmann moved like a sleepwalker as he followed Nystrøm, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the man’s Icelandic sweater so as not to get lost. The two dogs padded behind him.
They entered the main building, which looked to be well maintained judging by the tasteful, discreet prints on the log walls and the fact that half the room keys behind the reception desk had been handed out to guests. Bergmann stood there, swaying like a drunk.
“Here,” said Nystrøm, going behind the desk. He placed a key on its surface, which was made from a massive birch plank. “You look tired. I’ll put you in room 204. It’s in the small cabin near where you parked.”
Bergmann was beyond tired. He could hardly even hold on to the key properly. Yet he was still alert enough to sense that there was something oddly familiar about Finn Nystrøm. He turned around at the door.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Nystrøm asked without looking up from his paperwork. In the subdued lighting Bergmann felt sure that he’d seen him somewhere before.
He shook his head. Nystrøm looked up and gave him a brief but friendly smile, treating him like a fool, just as Moberg had done at first.
“You’ll sleep well in the mountain air,” he said, looking back down at his papers. “Leave your window open a crack and you’ll drop off like a reindeer in molting season and wake up a new man in the morning.”
“Have you ever been on TV?” asked Bergmann. “I mean, sometime in the past few years?”
Nystrøm laughed.
“On TV?” he said. “That TV channel doesn’t exist, Bergmann. But now that you mention it . . . maybe once in the late seventies, but that’s so long ago I hardly even remember it.”
Bergmann shook his head, but said nothing more.
As he pulled the covers over him in the cold room, he realized how little sleep he’d had recently. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d slept the whole night through. He placed one arm over his mouth and nose and breathed in what he imagined was the cool perfume from the hollow of Hadja’s throat.
He awoke to the sound of dogs barking out in the yard, and the sun was already shining on his face through a slit in the curtains. It was a plain room, verging on spartan. The walls were paper thin, and from the next room he could clearly hear a woman singing in the shower, accompanied by a man’s steady snoring. After lying in bed a little longer, he heard heavy footsteps on the gravel outside. The outer door of the cabin opened and the sound of boots grew louder, followed by two loud knocks on the room door.
Then Finn Nystrøm walked right in.
“Rise and shine,” he said. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“Give me a few minutes,” said Bergmann, looking at the man’s furrowed and weather-beaten face. He didn’t look as young as he had the night before. Bergmann suddenly recalled that he’d asked Nystrøm if he’d ever been on TV, and he blushed with embarrassment. In the light of day it was obvious that he’d never seen this man before, much less ever heard his name until he’d started investigating the murder of Carl Oscar Krogh. Nystrøm was wearing the same sweater and pants that he’d had on the night before, with a heavy Sami knife stuck in his belt and a pair of new hiking boots on his feet. He looked like a slightly vain outdoorsman with traces of gypsy blood. Not someone that Bergmann had remembered seeing on TV or in the newspapers.
“Do you like to fish?” asked Nystrøm, rubbing his newly shaven chin. The faint scent of shaving cream filled the room, reminding Bergmann of the times he’d spent the night at Erlend Dybdahl’s place as a boy and watched his friend’s father shave. He would dab his face with a brush that he’d dipped in foam from a red-and-white Gillette canister. Bergmann had always wondered what it would be like to have a father and smell that scent every day. “Okay,” said Nystrøm. “Breakfast is over at ten, but I’ll fix you something if you don’t get there in time.”
“Kaj Holt,” said Bergmann as he sat up, fumbling for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket, which lay on the ice-cold linoleum floor. “Tell me about Kaj Holt.” The brisk mountain air coming in through the open window made him shiver.
“Not before breakfast,” said Nystrøm. “You can borrow a fishing pole from me. I’ll loan you my best one.”
Bergmann muttered, “All right,” and turned to face the window, where sunlight was playing over the curtains.
“You can’t wear these,” Nystrøm said, picking up his old sneakers in the big claw of his right hand. “What size do you wear?” he asked, dropping the shoes on the floor.
“Forty-three,” said Bergmann.
“Forty-three?” said Nystrøm, sounding resigned as he rolled his eyes. As if that were the shoe size of music-school applicants and not a big-city policeman. “Get dressed and grab some breakfast. We leave in half an hour,” he said.
Bergmann watched the broad back of his Icelandic sweater disappear as the door slammed shut. What sort of man is this Nystrøm? he wondered as he climbed out of bed. Associate professor of history, Torgeir Moberg’s protégé, who abruptly abandoned his career to marry a gourmet chef and take over this mountain lodge in the middle of nowhere.
He leaned out the window and studied the property. It looked to be a decent place. Nystrøm stopped before the sod-covered eaves, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. The two English setters came running around the corner of the cabin where Bergmann was staying, and he suddenly pictured himself on the terrace of Krogh’s villa, looking down at the man’s dead setter.
Only after they’d been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes did it occur to Bergmann that he really didn’t have time for this. Finn Nystrøm apparently planned to be out all day, but Bergmann knew that he represented Fredrik Reuter’s best hope of finding the person who had virtually decapitated Krogh and gouged out his eyes. With every day that passed, it was less likely that a murder would be solved. That was an irrefutable fact. On the other hand, he couldn’t risk dropping Nystrøm. Besides, Bergmann found he actually liked the guy. It was just the opposite of the way he’d felt about Moberg, who had initially made a favorable impression, which had subsequently diminished considerably.
“Great, huh?” said Nystrøm as they reached the top of a hill that Bergmann had thought would never end. They had turned off the gravel road a ways back and begun climbing up through the interminable heath. Far below he could see the lodge and the small lake nearby. “Rondane,” he said, using his snuff tin to point to the left.
It took all Bergmann’s effort to catch his breath. Luckily Nystrøm had found a pair of well-used hiking boots for him to wear. They were size 44 and belonged to his wife’s son, but they would do.
“What a country,” said Nystrøm, squinting at Bergmann. “There’s good fishing down there.” The two setters were already way down the slope, heading for the famed fishing spot.
Bergmann straightened up to survey the landscape for the first time. Even though there was a brisk wind and the sun had disappeared behind several ominous-looking clouds, he had to admit the view was incredibly beautiful. For a moment he was seized with a touch of melancholy at the sight of the green mountain pastures, the open sky, and the seemingly endless ridges all around.
“Are you coming?” shouted Nystrøm as he began to head down the slope.
“What do you know about Kaj Holt?” Bergmann called after him. They couldn’t keep on making small talk as they had been.
But Nystrøm didn’t turn around, so Bergmann had to jog through the heath. “Kaj Holt!” he shouted again. Nystrøm stopped twenty-five or so yards away. Bergmann slowed down. The knapsack that Nystrøm had loaned him was only filled with a few logs, but it still felt as though the straps were about to slice right through his skin.
“Why are you so damned obsessed with Kaj Holt?” Nystrøm asked when Bergmann had caught up with him. He took off his knapsack and dropped it to the ground. Then he shook his head, grinned, and took out a pack of tobacco from a side pocket of his green touring pants.
“Because it was the last thing Marius Kolstad asked me to do,” said Bergmann as Nystrøm finished rolling himself a cigarette. “He asked me to find out what happened to Holt. And because Carl Oscar Krogh phoned Torgeir Moberg right after the three skeletons were found in Nordmarka, wanting to talk about Kaj Holt. And because Moberg only reluctantly told me that you were researching the people who were liquidated by the Resistance when you suddenly decided to disappear in 1981. That’s why I’m so obsessed with Kaj Holt.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Nystrøm, clicking his Zippo lighter to light his smoke.
