He walked casually past the front of number 22. Three rental cars were parked outside it, two new Volvo S80s and a Saab GT Turbo. The building’s windows were blanked out with pale yellow Venetian blinds, and the only sign on the door was a weathered cardboard notice which obviously told callers that Kjell Bertinussen Silkscreen Printers had moved to Trondheim. He walked on to the next building, Arvid Sveen Foto, and climbed the wooden steps to the front door. As he went inside he glanced back to the entrance to the industrial park, where Eleanor and Magda were waiting in their own rental car, a dark green Opel.
Eleanor gave him a wave.
Inside the building, a middle-aged woman with elaborate braids and glass-brick eyeglasses greeted him in Norwegian. There was a strong smell of developing fluid around; and through a half-open door, Conor caught sight of a pretty blond girl in another room, working on a digital photo-scanner. In profile she reminded him so much of Lacey that he stopped; and for a moment he was disoriented and didn’t hear what the receptionist was saying to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You speak English?’
‘Yes, a little. Yes.’
‘I’ve been looking for Kjell Bertinussen, the printers.’
‘Before, they were here,’ the woman explained, pointing in the direction of the next building. ‘But no more. They have gone. Five, six months. I’m sorry I don’t know the telephone number.’
‘Maybe I should go next door and ask them.’
‘Next door they never open.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘They never open. They come, they go. But they never open.’ She made a knocking gesture; and then she shrugged.
‘I see. Do you know what they do? Do you know what they make?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ She pulled a face to indicate that she didn’t like them and she didn’t want anything to do with them.
It was then that the pretty blond girl appeared at the door. She had the same clear eyes as Lacey, the same strong Scandinavian face. She wore a pale blue skinny-ribbed sweater with a silver charm necklace hanging around her neck, and a very short navy blue skirt.
‘Excuse me, do you have a difficulty?’ she wanted to know.
‘Hey – nothing really. I was looking for the printers who used to work out of the building next door. Just a few brochures. Nothing special.’
‘Oh, yes?’ She looked as if she didn’t believe him.
‘I was wondering if the people next door might be able to tell me where they’ve gone.’
‘Not them. They won’t tell you anything.’
‘Oh, no?’
‘They won’t speak to anybody. We try to be friendly when they first come here. We take them cakes and coffee. They tell us, vuff! stay away. That’s a polite translation. They told us to mind our own business.’
‘That’s too bad. Maybe they’ll talk to me.’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know what they’re doing in there, but they don’t want anybody to know what it is.’
‘Any ideas?’
The girl came up to the counter. She had a small pattern of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose, and Conor could see that she had been biting her fingernails.
‘It’s some kind of research. I think biological. When they first start I can see inside their laboratory from my window at the back but now it’s all covered up. I see monkeys in cages. White rats, too. Even a dog once. Then one night when I am working late there is a big, big panic. I can see them run around and I can hear them shout. After a while comes a van and parks very close to the door but I see them carry out a man on a stretcher. Maybe he’s dead, maybe not. I can’t tell for sure and I think it’s more wisdom not to ask.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes … they are very busy this week. Cars and vans coming and going. Big boxes and cases and lights, too, like they make movies with. I try to make a joke about the noise to one of the men, but they don’t joke, those people. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s very serious.’
Conor produced his ID picture of Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘You seen anybody who looks like this?’
She frowned at it and shook her head. ‘No. But they’re all different people, and sometimes they hide their faces with the scarf or the ski-mask. There is also one person in a wheelchair. Always covered with a blanket. Not a big person, maybe a child or a woman.’
A woman? Conor thought about the woman in Dennis Evelyn Branch’s apartment in Oslo, who had never been seen, but who had been heard shouting. He put the photo back in his wallet. ‘Can I ask you something? Can I ask you when these people finish up at night?’
‘Very late, mostly. Once we have an urgent job here and we don’t finish till midnight. They are still there when we leave. And they start very early, too. They’re always here before I am. Always.’
‘Given a guess, what do you think they’re actually doing in there?’
‘You’re not looking for Kjell Bertinussen, are you?’ she challenged him. ‘You’re interested only in them.’
Conor didn’t say anything, but he gave her his reply with his eyes.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you can find out what they’re doing in there very easily.’
‘Oh, yes? And how would I do that?’
She went back to her desk and took out a small brown envelope. She dropped it into the palm of his hand. Inside was the key to a five-lever deadlock.
‘Ivar Bertinussen gives it to me, when he goes. You know, in case the pipes burst, or somebody wants to look at the building.’
‘And you’re prepared to give this to me? How do you know I’m not a thief?’
She smiled. ‘You’re not a thief. You have a good man’s face.’
‘Tell me your name,’ said Conor.
‘Ola Bergsmo.’
‘Well, Ola Bergsmo, I want to let you know that you may have done the whole world a very great service by giving me this key.’
‘I don’t like them, those men, that’s all. And I think that they are making experiments on animals. I hate people who make animals suffer. I believe in kindness to every living creature. I am a vegetarian, and I never wear a fur coat, only natural fiber.’
Conor thought of the reindeer he had eaten for last night’s supper. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he told her. ‘These days, most people don’t believe in anything.’
* * *
That night, Conor drove out to Breivika Havnegata shortly after 10 p.m. and parked in the shadow of the school bicycle shed. The lights at number 22 were still shining through the Venetian blinds, and the three cars were still parked outside.
The temperature was only 1 degree, and after half an hour most of the warmth inside the Opel had dissipated. Conor couldn’t run the engine in case somebody heard it, or saw the exhaust fumes billowing out.
At eight minutes to eleven, a man in a black hooded windbreaker came out of the building, hurried down the steps, climbed into the Saab Turbo and drove quickly away, its tires squealing, heading in the direction of Terminalveien. Conor wiped the condensation off the inside of the windshield. Maybe the rest of them would be leaving soon. He felt as if he would never be warm again.
A few minutes after 1 a.m., the front door of the building opened and a wide triangle of yellow light fell across the road. It was closed again; and then reopened. Two men came out carrying a large cardboard box, which they stored inside the back of one of the Volvos. They stood talking for a while, and then they went back inside.
By 2.30 a.m. it was clear that nobody else was going to leave the building, not tonight. He started the Opel’s engine and drove out of the industrial park as quietly as he could, although he was sure that he saw somebody parting the Venetian blinds and peering out into the darkness.
* * *
They met Birger in the Troll Bar at lunchtime. He was looking pleased with himself and he bought them all a drink.
‘My friend called me and we went together to the Radisson Hotel to meet the people who want to make the e
xcavation. Very strange, all of them. They were all wearing black and some of them had crosses around their necks, like priests. They asked me a lot of questions. Did I have a family? Did I have insurance? Where did I live? They even wanted to know my blood group.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Five, altogether. One looked as if he was the boss man but he sat in a comer and didn’t speak.’
Conor produced his picture of Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘Did he look anything like this?’
Birger held it close to the table lamp. ‘Yes. Very white face, very white hair. And little blue sunglasses. Where did you get this? Do you know these people?’
‘Did they give you the job?’
‘You bet. Why do you think I’m buying drinks? Ten thousand krone a day, for however long it takes. Plus everything found – food, someplace to stay. Plus the bonus at the end of it.’
‘That’s good money. Worth postponing your trip to Italy. Where are they going to be digging?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to tell you that. They said this was a very secret expedition, something to do with NATO. Nobody must know where we’re going.’
‘Can’t you give us a tiny little clue?’ asked Magda, leaning toward him and picking a loose thread from his brown checkered shirt.
Birger said, ‘Sorry. They said anybody who talked about the expedition would be fired, snap! just like that.’
Magda glanced at Conor and he knew what she had in mind. She ran her finger all the way down Birger’s sleeve and stroked his hand. ‘You must be so excited about going so far.’
‘Well, it’s not so far, really.’
‘Is it north or is it south?’
‘North.’
‘Oh, dear … even colder. Will there be polar bears?’
Magda kept stroking Birger’s hand and his trance was gradually deepening, but all the same she was waiting until he was well under her control before she asked him the critical question: what was the name of the place he was going to? Branch’s people had specifically asked him not to reveal it, and Conor knew that a dramatic conflict of instructions could easily awaken him.
‘When are you leaving, Birger? Is it very soon?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty sharp. As soon as it’s light.’
‘How will you go? By ship, perhaps? Or airplane? Or maybe by train?’
Birger was about to answer when a girl in a maroon suit marched into the bar and called out, ‘Mr Storvik! Mr Storvik! Telephone for Mr Storvik!’
Instantly, Birger’s eyes blinked into focus and he stared at Magda as if he had never seen her before in his life. ‘What?’ Birger said, in bewilderment.
‘Mr Storvik! Telephone!’
‘That’s me,’ he said, blundering to his feet.
‘You can take it at the bar,’ smiled the girl, and went marching off. Conor, Eleanor and Magda waited while he talked, his head nodding as he did so. Eventually he came back and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have to go now. They want to fit me for some protective clothing.’
Conor stood up and shook his hand. ‘Good luck, Birger. Let’s hope you don’t need it.’
‘Ah, but think of all that money!’ Birger retorted, rubbing his hands.
‘So they’re going tomorrow morning and it’s someplace further north but we don’t know where it is or why they’re going there.’
‘Yes,’ said Conor. ‘But if Birger and his pals are going to need protective clothing, then it must have something to do with this biohazard that Victor Labrea kept on talking about.’
‘You need protective clothing for all manner of things,’ said Eleanor. ‘Cold, heat, radioactivity, acids, soil pollution, water pollution—’
‘All right, I think we get the picture. If only I could get into that goddamned building and see what they’re doing there.’
Magda said, ‘If they never answer their door we can’t hypnotize them or use burundanga.’
‘You brought some burundanga with you?’
‘Only a little. We didn’t have very much left. But you never know … I thought it might be useful.’
‘Well, I suggest something theatrical,’ said Eleanor, lighting another cigarette. ‘A spectacular diversion, to keep our friends busy while Conor gets into the building.’
‘What exactly do you propose?’ asked Magda. ‘That I walk up and down Lofotgate with nothing on?’
‘That would work,’ said Conor.
They had lunch in the Domus Café overlooking the harbor. Across the sound they could see the snow-covered peak of Storsteinen, with its cable cars climbing up and down like tiny spiders. It was a weird, blue, half-lit day – not as blue as the time in the middle of the winter when the sun sinks below the horizon for two months on end – ‘morketia’ – with only the moon and the snow to see by – but unsettling all the same.
By the time they reached Breivika Havnegata it was growing dark, and a chilly southeasterly wind was blowing. The two Volvos and the Saab were parked outside, as well as two white panel vans.
They parked out of sight behind a red-painted boatshed. Magda gave Conor the small foil package of burundanga. ‘If you have to use it, make sure you blow it well away from you, hard, directly into the person’s face. Make sure you don’t breathe any of it yourself, or else you’ll be playing zombies, too.’
Conor climbed out of the car and walked toward number 22. He stood at the side of the building, out of sight of the windows and the front door. Magda shifted over to the driver’s seat, while Eleanor stuffed up the sleeve of her coat a long strip of candystriped cotton, torn from a hotel pillowcase. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to do this,’ she smiled. ‘They did it in the movie version of Scarface & Son. You couldn’t have done it on the stage, of course.’
‘Eleanor – be very careful, Eleanor,’ Magda warned her. ‘These people will kill you without even thinking twice.’
‘I’ll be careful, dear. I have a very special reason to be careful.’
She eased herself out of the car, buttoning up her thick black coat, and then reached back inside for the thin brass-capped walking-stick which they had bought that afternoon in a souvenir shop. She began to walk toward number 22 with an exaggerated hobble, using the stick to support herself. The Venetian blind was parted by two fingers and two eyes stared out, but Eleanor looked no more threatening than any other old biddy with arthritic knees, and after a moment’s hesitation the blind snapped shut.
Eleanor passed so close to Conor that he could have touched her arm, but she didn’t even glance at him. She stepped off the curb and made her way between the two parked Volvos. She paused beside the one on her left – her back turned to the building to hide what she was doing, in case anybody decided to take a second look at her. With a narrow penknife blade, she sprang the lock on the filler cap: she had practised on nine similar Volvos in the parking tunnel in the city center. Then she pulled the long strip of pillowcase out of her sleeve and pushed it into the fuel tank, using the walking-stick like a ramrod to push it well down. She left only two inches of cotton protruding. Then she closed the cover and hobbled off.
Her walk didn’t take her far. She circled behind the birch trees, and in three or four minutes – once the cotton was saturated in gas – she came hobbling back. She looked around to make sure that nobody was watching. Then she reopened the cover and forced her walking-stick into the tank to keep its protective flap wide open. She flipped her lighter and touched it against the cotton wick.
Her hobble suddenly became a very hurried walk. Her walk became a jog. A long tongue of orange flame streamed out of the Volvo’s gas tank. It grew higher and higher and it began to make a fierce roaring noise like a blowtorch. The parking lot became brightly illuminated and orange reflections danced on every window around.
From inside number 22 Conor heard a yelp like a trodden-on dog. The door was flung open and a man came jumping down the steps. He tried to approach the Volvo but the heat was already overwhelming and its rear
windows cracked and popped. ‘Shit!’ he kept shouting. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
Two more men burst out onto the steps. ‘Go get the goddamned fire extinguisher!’ one of them yelled. American, without a doubt, and a Southerner by the way he said ‘fah’. He turned in the lurid light of the burning car and Conor saw the deathly white face of Dennis Evelyn Branch.
‘My wallet’s in there!’ the first man screamed. ‘My passport, my traveler’s checks! Everything! My clothes!’
One of the men dragged out a fire extinguisher. He broke the seal and started to spray water all over the rear end of the blazing Volvo. The fire instantly spat and jumped, and the man on the steps screamed, ‘Not water! You can’t use water! Don’t you know shit?’
Another man emerged. ‘That car’s going to blow! Get that van out of here, pronto!’
The next second, the Volvo’s gas tank exploded. Although he was hidden around the side of the building, Conor could feel the huge hot blast of expanding air. A fiery plastic bumper was thrown high into the air, and landed in the parking lot more than thirty feet away. Fragments of metal and glass came showering down everywhere. A burning door landed in a tree, and continued to bum, shriveling the leaves. The man with the fire extinguisher was blown to the ground with his shirt on fire. He was kicking and screaming, ‘Put me out! Put me out!’ Another man thumped at his back with the doormat from the building’s front steps.
The second Volvo was burning now; and so was the van. ‘You’re going to have to call 110!’ shouted a voice that sounded Norwegian.
‘What, are you crazy? And have the whole place crawling with cops?’
‘You don’t think that somebody’s going to call the fire service anyhow? Look at this place, it’s like daylight!’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘I can see it with my own eyes, but I just don’t believe it. Marcus – how much equipment we got in that van?’
Holy Terror Page 31
