The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  Waldhorst placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  “Strange, I was just now reading the paper. And then you arrive . . .” His voice sounded hoarse, not the way she remembered it. His breath smelled of toothpaste and his cheeks of aftershave, but even that wasn’t enough to camouflage the smell of stale liquor on his breath.

  Somehow she managed to move one foot in front of the other.

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  On a low bureau to the left of the door lay a Hitler Youth knife that she’d never seen before. Agnes fixed her gaze on it. The blade looked newly polished, almost unused. She was sure it hadn’t been there the last time she was there. She didn’t even know why she was staring at it. Maybe because she couldn’t get herself to move. She tried to shift her right foot by twisting her heel a bit to the side.

  “It’s my brother’s,” Waldhorst said. “My only brother.”

  Agnes said nothing.

  “I don’t even know where he’s buried. They sent the knife to me. Did I mention that the last time you were here?”

  “Yes, you did . . . I’m sorry,” Agnes said quietly. Absurdly, the whole exchange made her pulse slow.

  “May I take your coat?” said Waldhorst.

  She shook her head. Her hands were gripping the handle of her purse.

  “The bathroom?” she whispered.

  “No,” said Waldhorst.

  He led her instead through the living room to the library. On the coffee table between two Chesterfield sofas stood a silver tray with a silver teapot and two porcelain cups. She recognized the Royal Ascot emblem. The same image from earlier in the day flitted across her mind’s eye. She saw herself on a slow-moving carousel, the horse bobbing up and down, her parents waving to her, on a summer day as warm as it could be in England.

  “Since you’re half English.” He held up a silver creamer.

  She could do nothing but nod.

  “Why are you holding on to your purse so tightly, Ms. Gerner?” Waldhorst got up and snatched it out of her hands.

  She had a sudden realization: there was nothing but the unbearable pain to worry about. Then everything would be fine again.

  “I spoke with some friends of yours last night,” Waldhorst said as he put the newspaper on the coffee table and opened her purse. The sound of a cortège driving up Bygdøy Allé could be heard through the windowpanes.

  Agnes managed to read the headline upside down on the coffee table. “English Fiasco.” Beneath it was a photo of Victoria Terrasse completely intact. And a single-column article on the right side of the front page had the headline “Assassination. Blonde woman sought.”

  She shut her eyes as she listened to Waldhorst taking one thing after another out of her purse and setting them on the coffee table between them.

  It dawned on her only slowly. She opened her eyes and looked at Waldhorst as he stared down into the empty purse, whose contents were now all spread out on the table. She had to restrain herself to keep the laughter in her throat from bubbling over. She had obviously been lucid enough to wrap the cyanide capsule in toilet paper and stuff it in her panties. But the sight of the SS sergeant had scared her into forgetting she’d done it. She felt utterly calm now as she felt the coarse toilet paper rubbing against her abdomen. She was overcome with a surge of joy the likes of which she hadn’t felt in years. I fooled you, I fooled you! she chanted to herself as she looked at Waldhorst and all the trivial things from her purse.

  Waldhorst’s expression didn’t change as he put everything back: makeup, matches, the keys to both the villa and Rødtangen, her ID papers, cigarettes, and a letter from her sister. Then he placed her purse back in her lap, as if nothing had happened, and went back to stirring his tea.

  “I am Gustav Lande’s fiancée,” said Agnes with feigned anger, “and I—”

  Waldhorst clapped his hand over her mouth. With his other hand he picked up the paper, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

  The quiet was intolerable. Waldhorst removed his hand and leafed through the newspaper, turning not to the many pages that covered the British attack on Victoria Terrasse, but to the page on which the National Police were interviewed about what they called the assassination of Research Director Torfinn Rolborg and his private secretary.

  The calm that Agnes had felt vanished just as rapidly as it had arrived.

  “Tomorrow Sipo will offer a reward of twenty-five thousand Norwegian kroner,” said Waldhorst. “That’s more than enough money to get someone to talk.”

  Agnes’s life flashed before her eyes. She sat on the carousel, waving and waving, but neither her mother nor father was waving back anymore. They weren’t there. No one was there.

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” she said calmly.

  Waldhorst didn’t reply. He stared at the shiny parquet floor, the Persian rugs, the oil painting of a dramatic fjord landscape, the heavy bookcases stuffed full of books that the Berkowitz family would never read again.

  “So,” he said suddenly, rising from his chair. “I will try to . . .” He appeared to be at a loss for words and instead began pacing on the Persian rug by the windows. Finally he stopped and leaned against the windowsill.

  “A magician is dependent on an audience that is willing to believe,” he said. “Who truly wants to believe. Don’t you agree, Ms. Gerner?”

  She made no sign of replying.

  “That’s what the Führer understands. And it’s going to lead us straight to perdition . . .”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You wanted to believe in him, didn’t you?”

  Agnes shook her head.

  “The Führer?” she whispered.

  “No, not the Führer. Don’t you understand what I’m talking about?” said Waldhorst, now almost on the verge of laughter.

  “I really don’t have time for—”

  “The Pilgrim,” Waldhorst said quietly. He rubbed his face with his hands before running them through his hair. “Don’t you see? The man you want to have a baby with!”

  Agnes couldn’t stop herself from shaking her head. She had to get out of this madhouse—now!

  Waldhorst strode over to his desk.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait, I’ll show you.”

  “What have you done with him?” she heard herself say. She was gripping the armrest of the Chesterfield. She stood up, her legs almost buckling under her as she took a few steps toward the huge desk. Waldhorst stood with his back to her, leaning over the mahogany surface. He had opened a file folder and was studying the papers inside.

  He didn’t hear me, Agnes thought. He didn’t hear what I said.

  If only she’d brought the pistol, she would have shot this madman right then and there.

  “What does this tell you?” said Waldhorst in a low voice, without turning around.

  Agnes stopped in the middle of the room. With the curtains partly drawn, darkness had almost descended over the room. Only the lamp on the desk gave off any light, shining on the dark wallpaper and the paintings that gaped at her. She couldn’t understand what Waldhorst was driving at.

  As she took another step toward him, he turned around with a bunch of papers in his hands.

  “See for yourself,” he said, and dropped all the papers on the floor. “Take a look!”

  They stood there like that for a long moment, staring at each other with the papers strewn on the floor between them. Agnes instinctively backed away, even though her feet threatened not to obey.

  Waldhorst knelt down and picked up one of the sheets. Then he stood up and silently handed it to her. She merely stared at him. Waldhorst raised his hand to her cheek, gently caressing it. Agnes turned her head away. At last she looked down at the paper. The words swam before her eyes, and she couldn’t read what they said. She saw nothing but numbers and letters dancing across the page.

  “Why are you showing this to me?”

  “These are payments,” said Waldhorst. “Receipts. A lot
of money. More than you’ll ever see. Swiss francs. Swedish kronor. Reichsmarks.”

  “And?”

  “For Santiago,” said Waldhorst. Again he touched her cheek. She reached up to remove his hand.

  “Santiago?”

  “Santiago,” said Waldhorst. He turned and went back to the desk to sit down, then took his cigarette case out of his pocket.

  Agnes shook her head.

  Waldhorst’s expression was somber. He picked up a lighter from the desk and lit his cigarette.

  He smoked in silence for a moment, then shifted in his chair. Agnes again felt laughter bubbling up inside of her, as if she were about to go mad. What a strange man he was . . .

  All of a sudden Waldhorst got up, went over to the window, and drew open the heavy drapes. The boy in the photograph on the desk grimaced at her. Waldhorst’s own brother, just a boy.

  For a long time he stood at the window, smoking in silence. A light drizzle had moved in over the city. Raindrops ran down the windowpanes, forming an elegant pattern.

  “Who travels to Santiago de Compostela?” Waldhorst said as if to himself.

  He leaned his forehead against the windowpane. Agnes went over to him, unable to comprehend what his question might mean. His eyes were closed.

  Santiago de Compostela. The disciple Jacob . . . Oh God. Oh dear God, thought Agnes. Don’t let it be him.

  “Der Pilger. I think he’s going to reveal your name very soon, maybe even tomorrow,” Waldhorst whispered in her ear. Again he raised his hand to stroke her cheek. For a moment her panic receded, for just a fraction of a second she wished that he wouldn’t take his hand away, that he would save her.

  “I love him.” Agnes pushed his hand away. “What are you saying? You’re sick!” she shouted. “Sick!”

  Waldhorst stood there motionless, holding her arms in an iron grip.

  “I’m engaged to Gustav Lande. Don’t you know that?”

  “Why do you want to have the Pilgrim’s child?”

  A crushing silence filled the room. What had she done?

  Waldhorst’s face remained impassive, but he let go of her arms.

  “Tomorrow we’re going to announce a reward of twenty-five thousand kroner. Tomorrow the Pilgrim is also going to attend his regular meeting with his German handler.”

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face.

  “How do you know that?” Her voice was barely audible. Tears ran down her face.

  “Because I am his German handler,” whispered Waldhorst.

  He took her hand. She pulled it away and took a step back.

  Waldhorst made no move to stop her. He stood there listlessly, his arms at his sides, on top of all those receipts for money that had been paid to the Pilgrim. He didn’t react as Agnes backed away toward the door leading to the other room.

  She spun on her heel and strode briskly toward the front hall. She turned the lock, then cast a quick glance at the Hitler Youth knife on the bureau. In a flash of madness she reached out to pick it up, then changed her mind and left it there.

  The sound of her heels on the stairs filled the whole stairwell, making it impossible for her to hear whether he was following her. Out on the street the rain was pouring down. When she tilted her head back, her hat fell off and the drops ran down her face.

  She started walking toward Solli Plass. Slowly, as if nothing had happened.

  She turned around only once.

  No, she told herself. Or was that a shadow behind her? The shadow of someone following her?

  “No,” she whispered into the rain.

  CHAPTER 69

  Monday, June 23, 2003

  Gustav Freytag Strasse

  Berlin, Germany

  Peter Waldhorst sighed heavily into the intercom when Tommy Bergmann gave his name.

  “It wasn’t Vera Holt,” said Bergmann. He was leaning against the locked wrought-iron gate, trying to detect any movement inside the house.

  “Too bad for you,” said Waldhorst. “I’m afraid I have nothing to add.”

  Bergmann didn’t know what to say. He exchanged a quick glance with Udo Fritz, who stood beside him, frowning and with his arms crossed, as if he were actually trying to understand the Norwegian words.

  “Did you drive to Oslo yourself?” Bergmann asked, speaking into the intercom.

  A brief crackling sound was all the answer he received.

  He looked over at Fritz again, who looked as though he had too much respect for people living in this neighborhood to be of any help. The detective merely shrugged and frowned again.

  “I haven’t been back to Oslo since 1945,” said a voice some distance away.

  Bergmann raised his head and saw that Waldhorst had come out the front door and was now standing there, holding onto the railing, as he prepared to descend the stairs. Moving at a slow, halting pace, he walked toward them along the flagstone path. He was leaning on a cane made of polished hardwood and looked much older than the last time Bergmann had visited. He wore a baggy burgundy knitted jacket, and his light-colored slacks, which were slightly too short, were wrinkled and the wrong weight for the season.

  “Don’t let the cane fool you,” said Waldhorst. “I injured my foot when I slipped on the tennis court yesterday.”

  He shook his head when he saw that Bergmann was not alone. His face was pale. Not even the glow of the setting sun that had settled gently over the garden could lend a hint of life to Waldhorst’s pallid complexion. Bergmann could hardly believe this was the same man he’d seen only a few days before.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “Not much happens at my age, Mr. Bergmann. Except that you have come here unannounced to conduct an interrogation.”

  Bergmann was about to speak, but Waldhorst gestured dismissively. “I don’t want to have to call the police, Mr. Bergmann. May I remind you that you are a Norwegian police officer on German territory?”

  Bergmann pointed to Udo Fritz, who stuck his hand between the bars of the gate and introduced himself. He then had a brief conversation with Waldhorst in German. Bergmann understood enough to realize that Fritz was practically groveling before the old officer.

  “Your wife . . . Is she feeling better?” said Bergmann, stopping himself from saying anything more.

  “No,” Waldhorst said quietly as he shook his head, “Gretchen isn’t doing much better, Mr. Bergmann.”

  “Gretchen . . . Is she Johanne Caspersen?” he asked and then waited for a reaction. I’ve got you now, he thought, unconsciously rocking back on the balls of his feet, like a child who couldn’t contain his excitement.

  Waldhorst shook his head and frowned, as if he really didn’t understand what Bergmann meant.

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “Johanne Caspersen? Who’s that?”

  Bergmann tried for a conciliatory smile, but he could feel his cheeks burning. He’d intended to catch Waldhorst off guard, to expose him with this revelation. Instead, all he saw was an old man looking genuinely puzzled.

  “We can come back tomorrow,” Fritz told Waldhorst. “It’s getting late.”

  “All right, fine,” said Waldhorst. “I’m not in the mood to invite you in.” He turned his back to them. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

  “Vera Holt didn’t kill Krogh,” said Bergmann. “That’s why I came back here. I need your help.”

  “Yes?” said Waldhorst. He stopped but did not turn around.

  “Why did you say that you loved Agnes Gerner?”

  “That was just a foolish remark,” said Waldhorst. “Nothing but foolishness.”

  “So you didn’t mean it?”

  Waldhorst turned and came back over to them, leaning his hand on the gate.

  “I said what I said. I can’t very well take it back.” A brief smile appeared on his face before his expression again turned somber.

  “If you loved her,” said Bergmann, “and if it’s true that Carl Oscar Krogh killed her back in 1942 . . . Are
you sure that the newspaper reports about the discovery in Nordmarka didn’t have a strong effect on you?”

  Waldhorst’s hand trembled as he took his keys out of the pocket of his knitted jacket. For a moment he looked confused, as though wondering what to do with the keys, as if he were senile.

  “Were you in Oslo during Whitsunday, Mr. Waldhorst?” asked Bergmann.

  “As I told you, I haven’t been back to Oslo since 1945, Mr. Bergmann. And the last time I went abroad, it was only as far as Austria. So, if you’ll excuse me . . . But do come back tomorrow, after lunch, and I’ll try to help you.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Bergmann.

  “And I have no intention of letting you come in.”

  “You must have driven all the way to Oslo,” said Bergmann.

  Again Waldhorst turned around and headed back toward the house.

  Bergmann turned to face Udo Fritz, who threw out his hands again. That seemed to be the only thing he was capable of. He looked as if he wanted to go home as soon as possible.

  “In Lillehammer, you told Kaj Holt that Krogh was the German agent,” Bergmann said to Waldhorst. He had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. He was sick and tired of people being difficult.

  “The German agent!” Bergmann had to shout because Waldhorst had already reached the front steps. “Was it Krogh who killed Holt?”

  Waldhorst had by now climbed the stairs. He stuck his key in the lock and shook his head. The door wasn’t locked, but apparently he’d forgotten that.