by Dan Taylor
“You know…”
“Say it.”
“Of course I understand how you feel about this plan. And I’ll act accordingly.”
“Jake!”
I hang up.
When she phones back, I don’t answer. Nor do I read the five text messages she sends me. Besides, they probably all say the same thing: a thinly veiled thumbs-up for my foolproof plan.
As I drink the rest of my beer, I watch a few YouTube videos of Middle Eastern dudes, just to pass the time. I also google the phone number for Bertha’s workplace.
It’s time to rock and roll.
36.
THE CRITERIA FOR the bomb-threat phone booth are as follows: one, not on a busy street or thoroughfare—I’ve always wanted to use that word; two, close enough to Bertha’s workplace so that I can make it there before the bomb squad works out it was a prank and give them the all clear to go back inside; three, not smelling of urine from some Norwegian bum having stayed the night in there.
Turns out Oslo doesn’t have phone booths, per se. More public-use phone shelters. Which adds an extra element of risk and danger. This is getting exciting.
I find one a block away. I can’t see any CCTV cameras on the buildings surrounding it. And it’s down a back alley. This phone shelter is just asking for someone to make a bomb threat with it.
I take out a handful of coins from my pocket, take a second to try and identify a few, but give up and just put four or five of them in the coin slot. I dial the number.
Some guy answers. “Hallo.”
“There is a bomb in your building.”
He takes a second to switch to English. “What did you say?”
“There is a bomb in your building, and I put it there.”
“When?”
When?
“Sometime today. It doesn’t matter. You need to get everyone out.”
There’s silence a second. “Is this a prank?”
“Listen to my accent. Does it sound like I’m making a prank?”
Who would’ve thought in a post-9/11 world this would be so difficult?
“You’re accent sounds strange, I agree. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t make me spell it out.”
“Spell what out?”
I go psycho on his ass. “Listen, you fucking asshole! I’m going to blow up your building in five—no, ten minutes’ time.”
“I’m phoning the police.”
“Good. And the bomb squad.”
Damn these Norwegians and their logic. “Why would a sincere terrorist plant a bomb and then warn the targets before he blows it up?”
“I’m the type of terrorist who targets architecture and not people.”
“Okay, I’m going to evacuate because I have to. And phone the bomb disposal squad. But I know this is a prank.”
“This is not a prank. I repeat—”
But he’s already hung up.
37.
I SUPPOSE THAT was ideal. The building will be evacuated, meaning I can bump into Bertha, but there won’t be widespread panic across the city. It’s a win-win.
And I have newfound respect for terrorists, too. Turns out spreading fear and inciting panic for political gains is much more difficult than I initially thought.
I make my way from the phone shelter to the street that Bertha’s workplace is on. I feign being drawn by the noise of sirens, which I can hear in the distance.
When I arrive there, it’s packed full of police in funny uniforms and funny hats, like policemen from a Punch and Judy puppet show. There are also various workers from the surrounding businesses, including a crowd that could be Bertha’s. In fact, there she is, standing among colleagues, about a hundred yards away from the building.
My plan is to stand quite close by her, keeping my eyes locked on the second floor of the building, as though watching some overworked office worker think about jumping to his death, and have her notice me without my ostensibly having noticed her.
I watch and watch, but still nothing.
So I take a few steps to my right, in her direction, as though to get a better view of the maniac. Then bump into her.
She turns around, says, “Beklager…Kent! Is that you?”
I pretend to notice her with wide eyes. “Bertha! What the hell are you doing here? And what’s happening?”
“I work here. There’s a bomb in the building. We had to evacuate.”
She didn’t ask me what I’m doing here, but I explain anyway. “I was sightseeing over there.” I point vaguely up some street. “And I was drawn by the sirens. I thought someone was ready to jump.”
Some guy, a green bean of a man with a blond side parting, ten feet or so away, glances back at me.
I continue. “So, a bomb! This is exciting. But everyone knows it’s a prank, right?”
“There was panic and then we evacuated. When we calmed down, there was talk of it being a prank. But Lars, the guy who spoke to the person that phoned said that he had a funny accent. So now we’re taking it seriously. The bomb squad should be here soon.”
“That’s cool.” I look around at the crowd of Bertha’s colleagues. “Who’s Lars?”
But I get my answer before she can reply. Green Bean turns around upon hearing my voice for the second time and points at me, says, “That’s him. That’s the guy that phoned!” His colleagues must be an international group, because he’s speaking English. Either that or he wants to scare the shit out of me.
Everyone turns and looks at me.
I address the crowd. “Don’t be silly. I’m American.”
Lars continues, “That’s definitely him. That’s the guy who phoned and said there was a bomb in the building. Someone go and tell a police officer.”
No one does. They just talk among themselves.
Lars starts striding towards the police cars nearer the building.
I say to Bertha, “I didn’t do it. But I’m going to run like hell. Will you come with me?” I grab her hand, try to pull her away.
“I don’t know, Kent. I have to go back to work.”
“They’ll be looking for the bomb all afternoon. And I have to go, Bertha.”
I grab her hand again, and after hesitating, she runs off with me.
We turn into the first back alley we come to, sprint through it, and then we find ourselves on a busy thoroughfare, maybe the main one in Oslo, which is packed with tourists. I think we’re safe, now, so I slow us to a walking pace.
After a minute’s walking, she stops, spins me around to look at her. Concern shows on her face. “You did do it, didn’t you, Kent?”
“No!”
“I think you did. I think you found me on Facebook, found out where I worked, and used this as a reason to get me outside.”
I don’t say anything.
“This is so…this is so…”
Creepy? Sick? Illogical?
“…romantic!”
With tourists bustling past us, Bertha kisses me. And this time her hands are all over me.
When we’re done, she looks into my eyes, says, “I feel the same way as you do, Kent. Deeply, passionately.”
Don’t say it.
“What way is that, Bertha?”
“Oh Kent!”
As she kisses me again, I think about what she thought I said.
Then she says, “I knew it last night that you did. It was the most magical evening of my life.”
I think about the boob grab. “It was?”
“You know it was. And it was for you, too.”
“Okay, I admit it. I phoned about the bomb. It was the most magical evening of my life, too. And I’m deeply, passionately, madly fond of you.”
“I want to spend the afternoon with you, making love.” She looks momentarily panicked. “When do you fly back to the States?”
“In a couple days. And the love making sounds great. Let’s go to your place.”
“No! We can’t go there.”
&nb
sp; “Why not?”
“We just can’t. Which hotel are you staying at?”
I think about searching her place as she’s sleeping after getting the fucking of her life. “Really? Can’t we just go to yours?”
“We can’t, no.”
By the way she’s looking at me, hopeful, desperate, I’m getting the impression that this is a deal breaker. I’m going to have to literally do what Andre said: bonk the secrets out of her.
“Okay, the hotel it is.”
38.
WE’VE MADE IT to the hotel without being apprehended by the police.
I gotta say, I like these Norwegian women. Upon entering my hotel room, Bertha stripped fully naked. No “can we turn the light off?” or turning so I didn’t see her ass or some other place she feels self-conscious about and then jumping under the covers as though her dad just walked in and caught her strutting around in her birthday suit. She let me look at everything as she raised an eyebrow. She even did a little pose for me.
Wowza!
We’re in bed now, having skipped the foreplay.
She’s groaning.
I whisper in her ear, “So, Bertha, tell me about where you work.”
“Why do you want to know about that, Kent?”
“I just thought I’d get to know you while we do it. You know, be time efficient.”
She thinks a second as I move inside her. “Oh, I get it. This is how you like it.”
“Yeah.”
“So do I. I work as a recruitment agent. And what do you do?”
I give it to her a bit harder. “I already told you. I’m a struggling jazz musician. And is that…mm…all you do?”
She moans. “Do you want some—mm—details?”
I steady my rhythm. “Yes please.”
“Okay, but you first.”
“No, you.”
“I specialize in headhunting for—mm—jobs in varying sectors for overseas work: ICT, banking—mm—accounting.”
“Mm, that’s sexy. What’s the weirdest job you’ve recruited for?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Mmm, do you like it kinky, Kent?”
“I do. What’s the kinkiest?”
“Recently—mm—I recruited for a position in Antarctica…mm.”
Bingo! I start giving it to her like I mean it.
“Wow, that’s kinky. What was weird about it?”
“It was very—mm—oh Kent!”
“It was very what, Bertha?”
In one swift move, she grabs a hold of me and then spins us, so that she’s on top. She starts riding me like a cowgirl riding a bronco at the rodeo, trying to impress her daddy.
I’m no longer in control of the pace, and not only has she stopped speaking, but I’m close to…close to…
“Oh Bertha!”
“Oh Kent!”
Fuck.
She rolls off me, and we lie side by side. After we’ve caught our breath, she says, “Wow, Kent baby. That was good.”
“Thanks.” I prop myself up on my elbow, start circling her naval with my index finger. “Tell me about this Antarctica job. It sounds exciting.”
“Oh, it was nothing really…wait, why are you so interested in it?”
“Like I said, I want to get to know you.”
“But there are many things we can talk about, Kent baby, family, hobbies, other stuff. Why my job?”
“I’m looking for work, actually. Maybe this Antarctica job would be perfect for me.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have liked it. It was a six-month stint in some sort of observation station.”
For a supposed triple agent, Bertha isn’t exactly tightlipped, in both meanings.
“Wow, sounds cool. What type of observation station?”
Skeptical, she looks at me. “The employer was very secretive. I barely knew anything about it.”
“But you must have known something, right?”
She pauses. “I thought you were trying to make it as a jazz musician, Kent?”
“I am. But I need something that will pay the bills.”
“And all of a sudden you started talking about my job while we made love?”
She takes my hand off her abdomen, starts getting out of bed.
I pull her back by her arm, kiss her. “Stay in bed, Bertha. I’m almost ready for round two.”
“Why? So we can talk about accounting jobs in the Philippines while you do me missionary style?”
She gets out of bed and starts getting dressed.
I say, “Where are you going? I thought we were going to make love all afternoon?”
“I have to get back to work.”
She’s pissed. How can I tell? She’s gone all red, and she’s flustered and is trying to put her bra on upside down. She notices and then curses in Norwegian.
She’s dressing in a hurry now that her bra’s on the right way. I have to act fast, before she makes it out of the room.
I jump out of bed, stand between her and the door. I’ve fucked up this “bonk the secrets out of her” thing, so there’s only one course of action.
She asks, “Why are you blocking the doorway with your penis?”
I glance down. “Ignore my erection, Bertha. That’s just an involuntary response. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What are you doing, Kent?”
“You and I need to talk. I’m not a jazz musician.”
She laughs scornfully. “Well, I think everyone in the jazz club found that out last night, Chris.”
“Chris?”
“De Burgh.”
I shake my head dismissively. “Not because I’m a poor jazz musician, but because I have no intention of ever becoming a jazz musician, nor have I ever had.”
“What do you mean, Kent?”
“And my name’s not Kent.”
“I know. We discussed that last night. It was your grandfather’s stage name.”
“No, it wasn’t. My name’s Jake.”
“What do you mean, Kent?”
“And I know everything about you. I know your favorite food is something called a donut burger. I knew before I came to Oslo that you’d be at that club that night, and that you have a soft spot for jazz musicians.”
“Kent, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying, Bertha, that I’m here to find out what happened to a colleague of mine. Cole Baxter.”
What she says next blows my mind. “How do you know about Cole and me?”
My erection wilts like sautéing baby spinach. “What do you mean by ‘Cole and me’?”
She’s confused. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
She resumes getting dressed.
Clearly she’s hiding something. It’s time to turn up the heat. “How’s this? Cole Baxter’s bones were found in a septic tank in said observation station, and I know that you put him there. In the observation station, at least. Who are you working for?”
She thinks a second. And what she says next blows my already blown mind. “Well that’s funny, because the last time I checked, Cole’s bones were in Oslo. Inside his body, you know, providing skeletal support for his soft tissues.”
“Cole’s alive?”
“Well duh!”
I turn away from her, confused. I turn back to her, and it seems appropriate to say, “Oh fuck off!”
39.
BERTHA DIDN’T TAKE my outburst well. So bad, in fact, that I’m lying on the floor, after being knocked semi-unconscious by a Bertha Handvinkle right hook…no, left. Let me just check which side it’s on. It’s the right cheek that’s throbbing like cystic acne on the butt of a three-hundred-pound man. Which means she hit me with the right?
Anyway, back to the action.
I say, “What did you do that for?”
“I didn’t take your outburst well.”
“Well, I can tell that.” I get up and shake my head, as though putting sections of brain back into place. The
n I sit on the bed. “I didn’t tell you to fuck off. It’s just something I’ve been saying recently.”
“Well, I didn’t care for it.”
“Your punch kind of stated that already, Bertha, but thanks for reiterating it. Pass me one of those small bottles of gin from the minibar fridge, will you?”
“Those things cost like fifty crowns each.”
I look up at Bertha and raise an eyebrow. “You think I care about that right now?”
“I guess you don’t.”
She passes it to me and joins me on the bed. I down it and have to struggle to stop myself from painting the carpet with my stomach contents. “Nasty. So that’s what gin tastes like.” I wipe the saliva from my mouth.
We start doing that thing people do in movies after a heated argument that involved many important plot points and revelations they feel compelled to repeat for the benefit of the audience before they cover new ground.
“So, how long has been Cole been in Oslo?”
“Quite awhile.”
“I take it by your ‘Cole and Me’ comment that you two are lovers?”
“Yes. And even before he went to Antarctica.”
“So Cole isn’t dead? It’s definitely Cole?”
“Are there many people called Cole Baxter at your organization?”
“Fair point.”
“And I take it from your ‘donut burger’ revelation that I was some sort of target of espionage, and that you were the spy. The guy assigned the case of finding out what happened to Cole?”
“You got it in one. And I take it from your multiple references and allusions that you know all about the Agency and Cole’s involvement in it?”
“You got it in one.”
“Let’s stop saying that.”
Bertha takes my hand in hers. “You said your name is Jake, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It suits you much more than Kent Smoothwaters.”
“You don’t know my surname, yet.”
“What is it?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of kick-ass, too.”
She thinks a second. “So where do we go from here?”
I turn to her. “I have a confession to make. I made up that ‘most amazing night of my life’ stuff to get you into bed.”
“I too have a confession, Jake. I said that stuff to get you into bed.”
