The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Lena was at a loss to know what to say.

  Ingrid Kobro grabbed Lena’s arm. ‘Lena, is there anything else?’

  ‘What else could there be?’

  ‘For example, the real reason you visited the apartment in Gamlebyen.’

  Lena straightened up. ‘I wanted to know what he was after, and now I know: he wanted me dead.’

  Ingrid inhaled deeply. ‘Do you think for one tiny second you could try to consider something else apart from yourself?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you’re working on a case with Aud Helen Vestgård. Vestgård’s an MP. I want to know why you started ringing round after Stian Rømer. Has that rental car any connection with Vestgård? I’m bloody sick of you working against us. If Rømer’s spying on an elected member of the Norwegian Parliament you have a duty to inform me.’

  Lena’s brain raced.

  ‘Tell me right now!’ Ingrid said with force. ‘Do the car and Rømer have any connection with the case you’re working on?’

  ‘The first time,’ Lena said, resigned. ‘I saw the car the first time I drove from Vestgård’s house in Bærum. The car was parked down the street. I noticed because someone was sitting in the car. But he didn’t have the engine running. The weather was absolutely arctic. I thought it odd – that the guy should be in the car, freezing. I wrote down the registration number before leaving for home. When I turned down into our garage I saw the car for the second time. In the rear-view mirror as I was turning. It kept going. That was only two sightings though. I reacted the third time, which was at night. I’d gone to bed, then got up to eat some cold chicken and saw the Fiat in the car park. The engine was idling and it had been there for half an hour at least. It was the same registration number that I’d seen the first time. What else could I believe, other than that he was spying on me?’

  ‘Spying on you?’ Ingrid sighed loudly.

  Lena reacted. ‘What possible other explanation was there?’

  ‘Well, let me tell you a bit about Stian Rømer. He’s an ex-soldier and runs a company providing so-called international security. This company earns money on everything from protecting oil pipes in the Middle East to protecting ship-owners against pirates in the Gulf of Aden and protecting African leaders from attempts on their lives. Rømer has recruited people here in Norway – Afghanistan war veterans, for example – but the group also consists of misguided mercenaries, former child soldiers from the Congo, even former foreign legionnaires. This group is extreme, let me tell you. PST, that is, those of us in the section for anti-extremism and organised crime, have spent a lot of time and energy on Rømer because he and his henchmen, among many other activities, sell their services to pirates off the coast of Somalia. There’s some evidence to suggest that money from this is going to the Al-Shabaab organisation, which in turn finances and runs terrorist activities. And this is just a tiny fraction of Rømer’s story. And in comes Lena Stigersand from Oslo Police District, who happens to see the guy in a parked car outside the house belonging to a Norwegian MP. The same MP who has received a threatening letter. Can you now, Lena, tell me what the reason is for your short-circuit? Why would Rømer be after you, of all people; you, an officer in Oslo PD?’

  Lena tilted her head. If Rømer was primarily out to damage Vestgård, and not her, she really had dropped a terrible clanger. But could that be the case? She tried to concentrate. She went through what had happened step by step. She couldn’t make Ingrid’s version tally with her own experiences. There was more to it. Rømer had known who she was. When she was standing outside his door he had been the wolf opening to Little Red Riding Hood. But the most frustrating part was that talking to Ingrid about this was like banging her head against the wall. Ingrid was caught up in her own hush-hush arrogance: Keep out. I know best. This is secret.

  ‘Whatever conspiracies you and PST are cooking up,’ Lena said, ‘I’m still convinced the man was focused on me as a person. I wasn’t some random plain-clothes civil servant ringing at his door. I could read that in his eyes. He knew who I was. Me, Ingrid, he knew me. He wanted to get me in his flat. Why? When I retreated he tried to drag me in by force. Why? Hm? When I ran off he followed me. Why did he do that?’

  ‘If you took the number of his rental car when you first saw him, he might’ve taken yours too,’ Ingrid said. ‘Perhaps he wanted to find out who you were. That was perhaps why you saw him in the car last night.’

  Lena considered that possibility. Could the explanation be so simple? Her brain had doubts, but her gut didn’t.

  ‘I don’t buy that,’ she answered. ‘The only reason he didn’t shoot me then and there is chance. I’m sure of it. When he first came onto the street he didn’t see me. He tucked a gun under his belt before he saw me. If he hadn’t he would’ve fired it. I’m sure.’

  Silence hung in the air for a few seconds, as though Ingrid was examining what Lena had said to re-assess the content. In the end she shook her head in resignation. ‘Lena, what’s wrong with you actually? If the target was Vestgård, of course he would’ve known who you are.’

  They eyed each other for a few seconds. Lena wasn’t convinced by Ingrid’s argument and knew that Ingrid wasn’t sure herself.

  Nevertheless Ingrid continued in the same angry tone: ‘The fact is that Stian Rømer received a visit from you – a police officer – at his flat and has now taken the first plane out of the country. Our initiative against Rømer has probably been for nothing. But you aren’t even aware of the mistake you’ve made!’

  The door slammed after her.

  Lena stared at the door. What was Ingrid so pissed off about? Ingrid hadn’t had a crazy mercenary on her heels. Nor had she lost a winter coat costing four thousand kroner.

  Lena slumped onto a chair.

  Her reactions slowly percolated through and continued unabated. The sight of the elite, militarily trained gunman tucking his weapon behind his back. The panic that paralysed her brain when she was making her escape with a terminator on her heels. The taste of blood in her mouth and the feeling when the lactic acid kicked in.

  Lena knew one thing: she didn’t trust Ingrid.

  Saying Rømer had returned his rental car was the kind of soothing statement she herself had made to members of the public numerous times. Empty words to calm their nerves, an empty reassurance.

  5

  On her way home she first popped by Sultan to buy some fruit and vegetables. The cherries looked inviting and she bought a big bag. She reflected at the same time on the strange fact that while the frost was penetrating the ground in the country where she lived, people elsewhere on the globe were harvesting such treasures in the sunshine.

  On the radio Alicia Keys sang about New York while Lena cut up the cos lettuce and sliced tomatoes. She got to her feet and turned up the volume. The song made her think about New York.

  Immediately she knew what she was going to do in the summer: fly to New York, check in at one of the smaller hotels on Lower East Side, go to hip boutiques, buy a cool hat, sit on a bench in Washington Square, stroll over Brooklyn Bridge in the crowd of people on the boardwalk, stop and take photos of the Manhattan skyline.

  She sprinkled pine kernels into the frying pan.

  If I’m well.

  She stared vacantly into the air. And gave a start when the kernels crackled. Ugh! It didn’t matter whether they were done or not. She scattered them over the lettuce leaves, chopped up a cucumber and made a vinaigrette sauce from olive oil, white wine vinegar, pepper and salt. Treated herself to a bit of Dijon mustard and honey as a finish and mixed it all while adding tiny bits of feta cheese.

  After eating she found the Alicia Keys song online and downloaded it. Then searched for other tunes and was lost in this world until Steffen rang the doorbell.

  Now we are starting a relationship, she thought, when she saw how at home he felt in her flat. However, they weren’t completely at ease with each other yet.

  They were enacting a kind of rehearsed
play. They opened the conversation with empty, tentative phrases and sat down beside each other shyly on the sofa. She continued to talk about nothing, asked if he liked Alicia Keys and made sure not to mention Rihanna because she didn’t want to enter into any discussion of Sveinung Adeler. He asked her questions in turn – about music, books, films she had seen. They smiled at common references that were made, sat side by side and sought each other without daring to reveal to the other person what they actually wanted, not until his hand felt for hers. From that moment on they didn’t say another word. It was only seconds before he drew her into him.

  Later, when she jumped out of bed, it was to fetch the bag of cherries. She put one in her mouth and crawled back. He took her head between his hands and kissed her. She passed the cherry into his mouth. He chewed and was soon holding a stone between his fingers. ‘Where shall I put this?’

  ‘On the bedside table.’

  He put the stone down. There was a clatter as a few Kinder Egg models fell to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, bit into another cherry and held it between her teeth. Steffen’s mouth came closer to hers. He nibbled at the cherry. The juice began to run down her lip and chin. Steffen licked the juice. She ate the rest of the cherry, took the stone and placed it on the bedside table, knocking another model to the floor, and kissed him on the lips.

  It became a game. She bit into another cherry and held it. He bit off a side of the cherry. It tickled when he licked the juice.

  ‘Do you like mangoes?’ he asked

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have no idea what two people can do with a mango.’

  Lena giggled and bit into another cherry.

  His lips slowly approached hers. Now they both giggled as he bit into the cherry. She chewed the rest, the juice ran. She choked as she breathed in.

  The stone followed. And got stuck.

  She couldn’t breathe! Her lungs wanted air, but her airways were blocked!

  Lena rolled out of bed, crawled onto all fours, gasping for air, but none came, just gurgling sounds, and she held her throat.

  Steffen crawled alongside her, a concerned expression on his face. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She had to have some air now! And she needed his help. She got up and banged herself on the back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Steffen repeated, panicky now, and slapped her on the back. ‘Does this help?’

  It didn’t, couldn’t he see? Air. I need air.

  She staggered into the kitchen, smacked both her hands against her diaphragm, but to no effect. Now she could feel a blackout looming in the far recesses of her brain and had to concentrate to retain a focus on what she had to do. She pushed the table against the wall, wobbled back two paces and threw herself against the edge of the table. Nothing happened except that the table banged against the wall and she saw a naked, panic-stricken Steffen standing in the doorway waving his mobile, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She had to have air and she threw herself against the table again, her diaphragm hit the edge of the table, even harder than the first time.

  The stone pinged against the glass of the kitchen clock.

  Lena’s lungs sucked in oxygen like bellows. She supported herself on the table with her arms and breathed in, out, in and looked up.

  Steffen was still in the doorway, looking at her with the same worried eyes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The cherry stone got stuck in my throat,’ Lena panted, trying to breathe normally. ‘Before we start on the cherries again, I think we should do a little course on life-saving skills.’

  She told him to stand behind her and hold her around the waist. She showed him how to fold his hands and press in situations like this. They were close.

  It was so quiet in the flat that they could hear the radiator hissing.

  ‘Lena,’ Steffen whispered.

  ‘Yes?’ she whispered back.

  ‘I want you to drop the Adeler case.’

  She opened her eyes. What was that?

  ‘What you told me,’ Steffen went on. ‘About the guy going after you with the gun.’

  ‘Stian Rømer? Don’t worry. He’s left the country.’

  ‘Stian? Do you know his name?’

  ‘I’m a detective.’

  Steffen stepped back. ‘The guy chased after you with a gun!’

  ‘Steffen, walking on the pavements in town is dangerous. An icicle can fall on your head.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he said, perfectly serious. ‘He could’ve fired the gun. You could’ve been shot and killed.’

  ‘I almost snuffed it just now,’ Lena said dismissively. ‘Killed by a cherry stone.’

  He looked at her. ‘Are you annoyed?’

  She looked back. That was a question she didn’t want to be asked by men. It was a question she had taught herself never to answer.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you meant well.’

  He looked down. He seemed distant. The atmosphere was very different now, charged. ‘Are you going to stay over?’ she asked and could feel she wanted him to, genuinely.

  He shook his head and smiled weakly when he read the disappointment on her face. ‘Next time maybe. I have to work this evening.’

  Thursday, 17th December

  1

  She woke up before the alarm clock went off. It was ten minutes to six and she felt as fresh as water from a spring. Enough time to fit in an early-morning ski run on the illuminated piste.

  The lights on the track hadn’t been switched on yet, but the moon was high and white and the cover of snow shone a bluish grey. Together they gave a few metres’ visibility. When she had almost finished the round she sensed a movement between the trees by the car park. She didn’t have time to feel fear before she saw a figure leap out.

  Lena screamed and threw herself down in the snow.

  She lay still listening. Nothing happened.

  Slowly she raised her head.

  It was a deer. It was standing a metre from the tips of her skis, watching her.

  The deer carried on, strutted past with light, creaking steps and was gone, in the darkness.

  Then came the next reaction.

  The silence that, hitherto, had felt wonderfully liberating suddenly felt threatening. The shimmer of the snow was no longer beautiful but grey and opaque. The snowdrifts and the dark tree trunks were possible hiding places for enemies.

  After struggling up onto her skis, she covered the final metres without sensing anything but a fear of the dark and her own heartbeat. She removed her skis and hurried to the car while glancing fearfully in all directions.

  When the car had started she forced herself to wait for a minute before moving off. She was back in Minnepark, running helterskelter for the exit, her long coat preventing her from lengthening her stride. She told herself: The man has left the country. It was one incident. You mustn’t let one incident at work destroy the pleasure of skiing.

  Once in her flat, she headed straight for the shower. Stood for ten minutes under the stream of hot water, reflecting, thinking that the water was not only cleaning her body, it was also purging her mind of unpleasant thoughts. All her imaginings and suspicions swirled down the drain with the soapy water.

  In the kitchen she felt like she had just woken up again. She prepared her favourite breakfast: yoghurt with walnuts, slices of mango, banana and apple. The mango was ripe to perfection and the juice went all over her fingers as she cut it up.

  Lena was eating her breakfast and reading the yoghurt pot when the telephone rang.

  It was Gunnarstranda: ‘Have you read today’s Dagens Næringsliv?’

  Lena, the phone held to her ear, was about to open her mouth over a spoonful of food. The spoon quivered in the air. ‘No,’ she said, prepared for the worst.

  ‘Listen,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I’ll read you the front page: “TERRORIST GROUP INFILTRATES OIL FUND”. The intro is as follows: “There are many who would like to influ
ence the decisions of the administrators of Norway’s biggest war chest. Some are open about it while others sneak through back doors. Today DN can reveal that an African terrorist group nurses close ties with members of the parliamentary Finance Committee and employees in the Government Pension Fund Global.”’

  Lena put down her spoon. Her head buzzed as she formulated the question that had destroyed her appetite.

  ‘What’s the journalist’s name?’

  ‘Someone called Gjerstad,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Steffen Gjerstad. But I haven’t got to the point yet.’

  For Lena every word had a resonance and an echo. She pushed the plate away.

  ‘This is photo reportage,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I’m looking at pictures of Sveinung Adeler and Aud Helen Vestgård on a street in Oslo. They’re standing and talking to an unknown third person who, the article maintains, lives in Stockholm and is affiliated to the political movement Polisario. They fight for Western Sahara’s independence and, according to the newspaper, are regarded as terrorists in some circles. There are pictures of the same three going into a restaurant in Grefsen. The article poses the question, why is a Storting MP – who, conveniently, is also on the Finance Committee – going into a restaurant with a civil servant from the Finance Department and a man with connections to the guerrillas in Western Sahara? And there’s an answer as well. Let me read aloud from page five. It’s subtitled: “Occupation”:

  ‘“The resistance movement Polisario has been agitating for international investors to withdraw their proprietary rights in companies working under the auspices of or in co-operation with Morocco, the occupying power. It is well known that the Government Pension Fund Global has acquired companies that work in this area. DN sources confirm that the Oil Fund’s Ethics Council is examining certain companies in this portfolio. These investigations were being carried out by Sveinung Adeler – on the right in the photo. Adeler participated on Wednesday, 9th December in a secret meeting with representatives from Polisario and the parliamentary Finance Committee. A few hours after the meeting this same Adeler was found floating in Oslo Harbour. The leader of the police investigation, Lena Stigersand, has made it clear to this newspaper that the police regard the death as suspicious.”’