The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  CHAPTER 43

  Sunday, September 6, 1942

  Vigeland Park

  Oslo, Norway

  A group of children were running in and out of the granite gate to Vigeland Park. One of them stumbled and dropped his cap on the gravel. Agnes Gerner bent down and picked it up. The boy was on his knees, staring at the palms of his hands, but he had nothing but a scrape on the left one.

  “Here’s your cap,” said Agnes, holding it out to the boy, who was maybe nine or ten. Though his eyes glistened with tears, he gritted his teeth. He reached for his cap, murmuring his thanks.

  An elderly man said hello as he slipped out the gate ahead of Agnes. She had to restrain herself from looking over her shoulder. The feeling that she was being followed had never been stronger. It was as if the entire boulevard were one long line of black Mercedes and the face of Peter Waldhorst were staring out of hundreds of car windows. He could have easily laid a trap for her the previous Thursday. What if he was just waiting until she made some irrevocable mistake to sink his claws into her? She had talked to the Pilgrim about it in Sten’s Park the following day. She asked him to take it up with Number 1, but he had seemed distracted. He didn’t seem to grasp how serious it was that Waldhorst had summoned her. Of course she hadn’t told him what actually happened, but surely he must have understood. Agnes would have preferred to speak to Kaj herself, but she didn’t know how to get hold of him. Her only means of contacting him was through Helge K. Moen. Otherwise everything went through the Pilgrim. Carl Oscar, she thought, feeling the warmth radiating from her heart into her whole body. But then it was gone and she once again felt only coldness inside. She remembered throwing up earlier in the day, but she didn’t feel sick now. A little weak, perhaps, but not sick.

  She had gone only a few steps into the park when she saw the boy again. He was standing there with his head bowed, clutching the cap in his hands. The other children had moved away.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Agnes, putting her hand gently on his shoulder. Almost reluctantly the boy turned around.

  “Papa is going to kill me,” he said as tears spilled down his face. Only then did Agnes notice the holes in his pant legs. “He says he doesn’t have any money.”

  She opened her purse and took out five one-krone coins. She wanted to give him more, but that would draw too much attention. Quickly she took his hand without the scrape and pressed the coins into his palm.

  “Go now,” she said. “The others are over there.” She nodded toward the children, who were making their way toward the bridge, which was crowded with people even though parts of the park were still under construction.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said the boy. Then he turned and ran to join the others. A German soldier with a Norwegian girl on his arm turned to look at the boy and then laughed, whispering something in the girl’s ear. Agnes avoided looking at him. Instead, she headed for the bridge, where she had already noticed the Pilgrim leaning on the railing, staring at the pond below.

  On her way there, she saw the boy run across the bridge, limping a bit, with his right hand still tightly clutching the coins. One day, she thought, one day this will all be over.

  Even as she went to stand next to the Pilgrim, she knew what was coming. He seemed distant and hesitant, as if he were mustering his courage so that he could place a big burden—perhaps too big—on her shoulders.

  “A lot of people here today,” she said quietly. “Far too many.”

  “It’s perfect,” said the Pilgrim without looking at her. He was merely staring into space.

  Agnes looked down at the sluice where the northern part of Frogner Pond ran down into the southern part. Though a couple stood not far from them, the shouts of the children from the other side of the bridge made it impossible for anyone else to hear what they said.

  “Have you met him?” asked the Pilgrim.

  Agnes turned and walked toward the fountain, which was under construction. When she reached it, she pretended to study the scaffolding set up around the huge bowl that formed the top of the fountain.

  “Who?” she asked, as if she didn’t know.

  “Rolborg,” said the Pilgrim between clenched teeth.

  “Carl Oscar . . . How many times are you going to ask me that?” she whispered. All of a sudden she knew what she’d done, what her irrevocable mistake was. She should never have mentioned Research Director Rolborg of Knaben Mines and his shocking discovery of molybdenum in Hurdal.

  The Pilgrim came over to stand beside her.

  “London has made a decision.”

  Agnes said nothing.

  “We need to get to him,” said the Pilgrim. “And quickly.”

  “I miss you,” she said. She couldn’t help herself.

  The Pilgrim didn’t answer; he merely straightened the wide brim of his hat and pulled it farther down his forehead.

  “Pull yourself together,” he said at last. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked away and took a step to the side. He touched his hat to greet an elderly couple who had come over to the scaffolding.

  “Waldhorst,” she whispered. “He scares me. Have you talked to Number 1?”

  The Pilgrim shook his head.

  “But . . .”

  “Lots of them do that. Say derogatory things about the Führer.”

  “What about the Venlo Incident?” she asked.

  “You haven’t blown your cover, have you?” said the Pilgrim tensely.

  She shook her head.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Agnes didn’t reply. The nausea refused to go away. It was because she’d thrown up earlier in the day. This was all too much for her. If Waldhorst wanted to take her, she would be sacrificed. The Pilgrim clearly wasn’t going to believe her. For several seconds she was sure she was about to pass out. The Pilgrim was saying something about the fountain to the elderly couple next to them. Agnes wasn’t listening. Instead, she opened her purse to make sure the cyanide pill was still there. She reached in and touched it. Then she removed her hand and instead touched the letter from her sister.

  Finally the elderly couple left.

  “He’s trying to draw you out,” said the Pilgrim. “He’s testing you. If he really thought you were red, he would have grabbed you immediately.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You know what I think?” said the Pilgrim. “This is a simple world we live in. Waldhorst is in love with you. Plain and simple. A damned simple world.” He tore off a match and lit a cigarette. His expression was blank and remote, and he looked as though he really didn’t know her. As though he couldn’t care less about Agnes Gerner.

  How can he know that? she wondered.

  “Number 1 wants to see you,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I think you know why.”

  Agnes didn’t reply. For a moment the whole park seemed to whirl around her.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Her heart sank. “I’ll be in touch?” Why would he say such a thing?

  Agnes walked around a bit by herself, then circled back to stand a few steps away from him. He fleetingly touched her hand, then moved past, his head turned away. But then he paused for a moment. She merely nodded, staring at his hand, wanting him to stroke her cheek, right there in public. She wanted to run away with him and take Cecilia with them. Run away from all this.

  Agnes stayed where she was, staring vacantly at the scaffolding around the fountain. The noisy group of children suddenly came running up behind her and ran rings around her. She caught the eye of the boy she had given money to. He was still clutching the coins in his hand, but the smile was back on his face. She caught him looking at her several more times. All right, she thought. This is what I have to do. For your sake, and for your friends.

  CHAPTER 44

  Tuesday, June 17, 2003

  Headquarters of the Swedish National Police

  Polhemsgatan

  Stockholm, Sweden />
  Tommy Bergmann paused to look across the waters of Riddarfjärden before heading up the street. He’d often heard that Stockholm was a beautiful city, and the view certainly was just that. But for some reason panoramas like this always made him feel lonely and melancholy, and that was not the sort of mood he wanted to succumb to just then. It was a good thing he traveled as little as he did. Yesterday morning he’d received a phone call from Claes Tossmann’s secretary, who told him that unfortunately the meeting had to be postponed a day. So he’d had more than enough time to look around. God built Stockholm, the king built Copenhagen, and City Hall built Oslo. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

  The police headquarters was not as easy to find as the map suggested, and he lost his way several times before finally reaching the labyrinthine building. It looked like an impregnable fortress with its shiny, rust-red exterior. Bergmann felt as if he’d been turned away even before the door under the glass canopy opened.

  Detective Inspector Claes Tossmann’s office was nothing to brag about. It was a narrow, cramped room whose only window faced an atrium between the two wings of the building.

  “I suppose Persson died decades ago,” said Bergmann.

  “Yes, that’s probably true,” said the Swede, turning to look out the window, as though hoping there might be something worth seeing. He couldn’t stop scratching a bare spot on top of his head.

  Bergmann leafed through the documents that Tossmann had somewhat reluctantly slid across his bare desk. He was eager to read the yellowed file of statements from witnesses. Several brief sentences had been typed on the top page. In one place the typewriter had punched right through the paper. The report had four attachments, and Bergmann had little hope that they’d be any more interesting than the report itself. The first was a so-called technical preliminary examination, which concluded in the very first line that Kaj Holt had chosen to fade into history by taking his own life. The powder burns on his head, the fingerprints on the gun, and the angle of the entry wound were all consistent with suicide. Next was a statement from a witness, Ms. Barbro Wilén, who’d apparently been quite involved with Holt. On the night before he was found dead, she was awakened when Holt rang her doorbell. Ms. Wilén had asked him to come back the following day because he sounded very drunk and always got so despondent when he was drinking.

  Bergmann turned to the third attachment, which was a statement given by another witness, Ms. Karen Eline Fredriksen, who was the secretary at the Norwegian legation in Stockholm, Military Office IV. Ms. Fredriksen confirmed that the apartment had been leased by the Norwegian legation. Bergmann stopped short when he read the last line. “Ms. Fredriksen knew the deceased well, and she confirms that he was periodically suicidal.” He placed that statement aside and looked for the fourth attachment, but apparently he’d come to the end. There were no other attachments in the folder. He looked up, but Tossmann’s chair was empty. He turned and saw the inspector standing next to the conference table with his back to him. He was pinching some withered leaves off a potted plant as he continued to scratch his head. A second later he returned to his desk and gave Bergmann an inquiring look of feigned friendliness. Bergmann went back to the report that had been compiled by Detective Inspector Gösta Persson. He considered asking Tossmann whether he knew that Persson had been killed, but decided against it. No doubt Tossmann would simply evade the issue.

  Where is the fourth attachment? Bergmann wondered. According to the list of numbered attachments, there should have been a piece of paper with the words “I’m sorry. Kaj.” But the note was missing. He picked up Holt’s ID, which had been fastened to the back of the report with a paper clip. For a moment he held the dry, yellowed document and studied Holt’s photograph. There was a sad look to his face, as if he harbored a great sorrow. Hadn’t Nystrøm told him that there wasn’t a single photo of Holt? Bergmann might have been one of the very few people to ever see this file.

  “Where’s the note?” he asked, looking up at Tossmann, who was now seated behind his desk again.

  The phone on the desk rang.

  “Excuse me,” said Tossmann.

  Bergmann got up and went over to the window. The sun was baking the glass roof of the atrium. It was all one big gleaming surface.

  “Yes. I see,” said Tossmann to whoever was on the phone. His side of the conversation was monosyllabic, interspersed by murmured grunts.

  “Give me five minutes,” Tossmann finally said before putting down the phone.

  Bergmann turned around to face him.

  “So, how is Fredrik?” asked Tossmann.

  “He’s fine,” said Bergmann.

  The clock on the wall behind Tossmann ticked toward three o’clock.

  “Do you know what happened to the note?” asked Bergmann. “The one from Holt?”

  Bergmann held up the report for Tossmann to see.

  The inspector sighed heavily. Then he spent several seconds rubbing his eyes. When he opened them again, they looked bloodshot, as if he’d been on a long drinking binge, trying to forget something he didn’t wish to recall.

  “According to rumors here at headquarters, the note was sent to Norway. But nobody knows that for sure.”

  “To Norway?” said Bergmann.

  Tossmann nodded.

  “Do you know where in Norway?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “To the police?”

  Tossmann threw up his hands. He got up from his chair again with some effort. “Bergmann, I’m sorry, but I have a meeting now.”

  Bergmann nodded and quickly jotted down a few key words about the report. Without knowing why, he also wrote down the name of the secretary at the Norwegian legation. Karen Eline Fredriksen. Underneath he wrote, “I’m sorry. Kaj.”

  “Peter Waldhorst,” said Bergmann. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Are you sure?” he insisted.

  “My dear Bergmann,” said Tossmann. “Everything I know about this matter is in the papers you’re holding.”

  Bergmann nodded.

  “Do you think there’s anything in the Säpo archives?”

  “About this . . . Waldhorst? Was that his name?”

  Bergmann nodded.

  “Maybe, if he was in Sweden during the war.” Tossmann shrugged. “I really need to leave now,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “We appreciate your help,” said Bergmann.

  “It was nothing. Though I don’t know what use this will be to Fredrik.” Tossmann picked up the document folder and then dropped it in a drawer of the file cabinet under his desk.

  No, you wouldn’t understand, thought Bergmann.

  The drive home took longer than he’d anticipated. But it gave him plenty of time to think. Perhaps too much time.

  As he walked out of the Statoil gas station in Karlskoga, he stopped abruptly, his hand still grasping the door handle. He was staring at the front page of Aftonbladet in the newspaper box outside.

  Why would someone send the note to Norway? He’d been pondering this question for the past two and a half hours. There seemed to be only one possibility. And where would that person have sent it?

  Just before crossing the border into Norway, he phoned Halgeir Sørvaag.

  “Find out whether Kaj Holt had any children,” he said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Sørvaag.

  “Find out—”

  “Do you know what time it is? Do you really think I’m still at work? I’m not as hard up as you are, Tommy.”

  Bergmann could hear a TV in the background and was about to respond, but Sørvaag had already hung up.

  He looked at the time displayed on the car’s dashboard. Six thirty. How had it gotten so late? He moved into the left lane to pass a truck. Only when he reached a hundred miles per hour did he move back over to the right—just in time too, or he might have ended his days by colliding with an oncoming van.

&nbs
p; Right before he reached Ørje, a thought surfaced in his mind. Bergmann veered over to the exit and parked next to a red-painted café near the entrance to the locks. He got out and walked over to the small beach by the lake. Several kids were yelling as they shoved each other off a raft out on the lake. Bergmann watched them, feeling a hint of their joy deep inside him. Sun rays struck the surface of the water at almost ninety degrees. The only disruption was a motorboat cutting through the water at low speed over near the opposite shore.

  It all suddenly made sense.

  He leafed through his notebook. Page by page, watching the whole case like a film in slow motion, but in reverse. He’d written the name Marius Kolstad at the top of one page and scanned the four or five lines of notes he’d taken beneath it. Key words that he alone would understand: Krogh fell apart after his wife’s death. Karen.

  Then he skipped ahead until he came to the last page and the scribbled notes from his meeting with Tossmann: Witness from the Norwegian legation. Karen Eline Fredriksen. Hadn’t he read somewhere that Krogh’s wife had worked in the Norwegian legation in Stockholm during the war?

  He had to go back to his car to think this through. He set the notebook on the passenger seat and got back on the E18. He suddenly had a sense of urgency. After only a couple of minutes he came to a small rest stop and pulled off the highway. He had to stop to think clearly.

  Was that really what happened? Did Carl Oscar Krogh kill Kaj Holt in Stockholm and then send his future wife to his apartment to reassure the Stockholm police that Holt was suicidal? Bergmann paged through his notebook until he found what he’d written down about his interview with Bente Bull-Krogh. He’d jotted down her cell number in the margin on one of the pages. Bergmann stuck a cigarette in his mouth, got out of the car, and sat down on a bench in the rest area. A few raindrops landed on his forehead. He lit the cigarette and tapped in the phone number, tipping his head back to see where the raindrops were coming from. Above him the sky was as blue as it had been all day.

  The only thing that didn’t fit was why Krogh should have played such a big role in the investigation of Holt’s death. Had he really been such a coldhearted bastard?