Chameleon People (23 page)

Asle Bryne blew out another little cloud of smoke. He did not look in the slightest bit glad about this or, indeed, anything else. To a certain extent I could understand him. If Fredriksen
really had been a spy, his death had denied the police security service a considerable and much-needed boost.

‘Was the arrest imminent at the time of his death?’ I asked, trying to be more friendly.

Bryne’s clean-shaven chin moved up and down inside the cloud of smoke. ‘Within less than twenty-four hours. How we knew that, I cannot say. We knew that Fredriksen was due to meet
one of his Soviet contacts on Sunday afternoon. We hoped and believed that he would have documents with him, and were of the view that we had enough on him to make him confess when caught in such a
compromising situation.’

I then asked how long they had had Fredriksen under surveillance, and what had made them start in the first place.

The question did not make Bryne any more communicative. He answered curtly it was a matter of two or three months, and he could not say what had triggered it.

I was not very satisfied with the answer. So I threw down my only trump card. ‘During my investigation of Fredriksen’s murder, I have on several occasions been followed by a man. And
I apologize, but I must ask if he is doing so on behalf of the police security service?’

My boss was completely still, whereas Bryne started in his chair. ‘That is absolute nonsense, young man. I practically never comment on who we have under surveillance, but will make an
exception to say that we do not have any of our highly esteemed colleagues in the Oslo police under surveillance. The incompetent fools at the military intelligence agency might decide to do that,
but I can assure you that the police security service never would.’

I felt I was on thin ice, but was still not convinced. ‘The man wears a suit and hat, is around five foot nine and has one distinguishing physical feature: the little finger on his right
hand is missing the top joint. Are you absolutely sure that you know nothing about him?’

I thought at first that it was a bull’s eye and that my theory that the man in the hat was working for the police security service was right after all. A twitch rippled across
Bryne’s otherwise stony face and with a sudden movement he put down his pipe. Then I realized that something was not right. Bryne knitted his thick brows and looked at me with something akin
to paternal sympathy. His voice was far softer and more considerate when he spoke.

‘The man you are talking about definitely has no connection whatsoever with the police security service, and is not someone I am acquainted with; I do, however, know who he is. And this
strengthens our theory regarding Fredriksen and the seriousness of the matter.’

Both my boss and I stared intently at Bryne, who appeared to have regained his composure. He lit his pipe again and took a couple of thoughtful puffs before opening a drawer in his desk. From it
he pulled a photograph and an index card, which he lay down on the desk between us.

‘I am guessing that this is him,’ Bryne said.

My boss looked at me. I looked at the photograph. And I replied that it was definitely him.

The man in the hat had been photographed, in his suit and hat, from the side, from a street corner. Judging by the signs in the background, the photograph had been taken in London. It was
indisputably the same man that I had seen behind me in Aker Street. And it appeared that he really was not good news.

According to the index card, the man in the hat was Alexander Svasnikov, who was also known by a number of aliases. He was forty-two years old, had a PhD in languages from the University of
Moscow, but had worked for the KGB since 1965, at least.

‘The man with the missing pinky joint normally changes both his first and second name whenever he is posted to a new country. Here in Norway he is called Sergey Klinkalski. Here at the
security service we simply call him Doctor Death, after the still-missing Nazi doctor. Svasnikov is, of course, not a medical doctor, but rather a polyglot genius who can learn most languages in no
time at all. He has been stationed at embassies in Madrid, London, Bonn and Amsterdam for short periods. And in all cases, these stays have coincided with the unsolved murders of Soviet defectors
living in that country. Svasnikov has always had diplomatic immunity and none of the murders can be linked to him in any way. And after a few days he moves on. As far as we know, he has never been
to any of the Nordic countries before, so since his arrival we have been wondering what brings such a shark to these cold waters. Svasnikov has never been in a country without someone dying there
in the most dramatic way within the space of a few weeks.’

Bryne blew out an unexpected amount of smoke after this tirade and looked even more pensive than usual. There was silence in the room. After a few seconds, I mustered my courage and shared my
thoughts.

‘If the Soviets are aware that Fredriksen was about to be exposed, it would obviously be in their interests that he die before being arrested. In which case, this Svasnikov might well be
Fredriksen’s murderer. He has killed before and he has just arrived in Oslo and has an obvious motive. It is almost too incredible to be a coincidence.’

My boss nodded. But Asle Bryne, on the other side of the desk, did not. ‘Nothing would make me and the police security service happier than to be able to prove that Fredriksen was a Soviet
spy and that he was killed by a Soviet agent. But there are a couple of things that do not add up. First of all, the victim. As far as we know, Svasnikov has only been used to execute Soviet
defectors – not to kill Western citizens. And second, the method. A couple of the earlier victims were shot and a couple died in apparent accidents. As far as we know, Svasnikov has never
used a knife as a murder weapon before, and it would be rather risky if Fredriksen were to be killed on an open street.’

I suddenly saw a new side of Asle Bryne as he talked. Behind the cloud of smoke and tight-lipped manner, he was clearly still a quick-thinking policeman. When he carried on, he even managed to
sound quite considerate.

‘As regards your own situation, I appreciate that it might feel rather unnerving. But the danger of an attack on you is probably very small. They have never harmed a policeman on this side
of the Iron Curtain, and what is more, you are well known, so killing you would entail a great risk. But you should be armed, and if you would like, we can have someone tail you.’

I was only partially mollified by the knowledge that killing me would entail a great risk because I was so well known. The fear sparked by the sighting of the man in the hat outside on the
street, now flared up again as I sat here inside, in an office, between my own boss and the head of the police security service.

My initial reaction was to say yes please to both a gun and a guard. But then I realized that the possibility of my visits to Patricia being logged in a security service archive would not be
particularly smart, either for me or her.

So I said that I was not worried about my personal safety and that I certainly did not want to waste the police security service’s resources, but that having a gun did seem like a good
idea if that could be arranged.

‘Of course it can,’ Bryne replied, and my boss hastily agreed.

We could have concluded the meeting there and then, in a congenial atmosphere of agreement. However, I could not help but ask one last question about what significance the imminent agreement
with the Soviet Union might have for the situation.

Bryne straightened up in his chair, lit his pipe again and gave me a piercing look. Even through the smoke I could see that his face had hardened and closed once more.

‘That depends on what you mean, my young man. The answer should be obvious anyway. As far as the Soviets are concerned, it was absolutely in their best interest to avoid any spy
allegations only days before such an important agreement, especially when they were so pleased with the agreement and worried that their counterparty might regret it later. And as far as the police
security service is concerned, it is of course inconceivable that we would allow political considerations to influence the timing of such a situation. The incompetent fools in the military
intelligence agency might take account of such short-term factors, but the police security service would never do that.’

I tried to ease the tension by saying that I of course meant how it would affect the situation in terms of the Soviets.

We ended the meeting there. I recognized the old Asle Bryne, but had also seen a better side of him this time. He shook my hand briefly and wished me luck with the investigation. It was an
unexpected gesture, but one that I was afraid I would need.

I was back in my office by half past eleven, where I filled in and submitted the necessary form for carrying a service gun.

Then I made the first of several urgent telephone calls. I had not been looking forward to it. It was to a woman who had lost her husband and then her daughter within the space of three
days.

The telephone rang and rang, but was eventually answered on the eighth ring. ‘Fredriksen’, said the voice, very quietly and quickly this time.

Once again I offered my condolences on her family’s great loss. Then I assured her that the investigation into the two murders had been given top priority and that there had been some new
developments. I did, however, need to ask her some more questions as soon as she felt able to answer them.

There was a few seconds’ silence before she answered.

‘I have been thinking a lot about something I once read by an American writer. When she lost her husband, she said: the life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still
walking. That is what I have to do now. I may be weeping, but I am alive. Otherwise, I am just rattling around in this home of mine and wondering what on earth has happened. So please come whenever
you can or like. I had actually thought of calling you about some documents left by my husband.’

I was impressed by the strength of this apparently delicate and slightly theatrical lady. I was also very curious as to what kind of documents she had found. So I said that it was admirable of
her and that I would be there as soon as I could.

I picked up my service pistol on the way out. My application had clearly been processed at record speed. I was not entirely sure how reassuring I found that. The situation felt unsafe and what
Bryne had said, about Svasnikov never going to a country without someone being killed within the week, was still echoing in my ears.

The sea of flowers on the drawing-room table in Bygdøy was even bigger today. But the woman on the sofa beside them was, to an impressive extent, the same, only a day
after she had been told of her younger daughter’s death.

‘The children were here all yesterday evening. We agreed to grieve alone today,’ she said slowly. It was as if she had read my thoughts and seen my surprise that the family was not
together.

‘It still feels unreal, that the priest came yesterday. And yet, it was not entirely unexpected that I would outlive my youngest child. Vera has always been too good for this world,
really. So small when she arrived, much smaller than the other two. So much more delicate and fragile as a child. Vera was a beautiful, fair little girl as long as the sun shone, but as soon as the
clouds gathered she cried or ran and hid. She was always more distant with me and her older brother and sister, but was very close to Per Johan. So, in an odd way, when he died I thought, well, now
I am sure to lose Vera as well.’

She did not look at me when she was talking, she gazed out of the window instead. It struck me that she was looking out at the big garden where no doubt Vera had played as a child and cried when
it rained.

The situation felt uncomfortable. But I understood her grief and gave her time. It helped. She turned back to me, an odd look in her dark brown eyes: at once focused and distant.

‘There were several periods when she was growing up that Vera simply refused to eat food. She tried to take her own life by swallowing a whole lot of pills when she was nineteen and
unhappily in love. That is possibly when we all accepted the idea that we might lose her one day. But my little Vera did not take her own life yesterday, did she?’

I shook my head and told her briefly what we knew about the cause of death. Her whole body trembled and she held her hands to her eyes as I spoke.

‘My sweet Vera, who was so frightened of water and was thirteen before she even dared to swim – and she drowned in the end. But you are not able to tell me who killed her yet, are
you?’

Her voice was weak, yet tense. I had to tell her that I could not at present, but that we were working as fast as we could on the case and that I had some questions to ask her concerning it.

‘Yes, of course. Ask away, and I will answer,’ she said, and once again she looked at me with oddly ambivalent eyes.

I started by asking when she had last seen or spoken to her daughter. Her face did not relax any for my question.

‘Sadly, the truth is that I did not even speak to my daughter on the day she died. I slept late yesterday. She had already gone out when I got up at half past ten. She had left a note on
the kitchen table to say that she had gone out and would probably not be home until the evening. I thought she had gone to see a friend or to the university. And I did not hear anything from her
until the priest came to tell me she was dead. The last time I saw my younger daughter was the evening before. We sat here in the drawing room, all four of us, talking about the future now that Per
Johan had died. Vera thought we should sell the businesses to Ramdal, and came out with a couple of confused sentences about how important art and her boyfriend were to her now. Otherwise she did
not say much.’

My next question for Oda Fredriksen was naturally whether she believed that her daughter’s boyfriend might have anything to do with the case. This provoked a scornful smile.