Chameleon People (34 page)

I was instantly charmed and I remarked that she spoke impressively good Norwegian.

Her smile widened and she replied: ‘Thank you, it is a very interesting and beautiful language. I have a PhD from Moscow University. I have only been here for three months, but have given
some guest lectures in Russian and been to a few lectures in Norwegian at the university here in Oslo.’

It all started so promisingly. But that all changed when the door opened again, this time without a warning knock. It then slammed closed behind a six-foot-five bald man in his fifties wearing a
double-breasted black suit and patent leather shoes. He was the tallest man I had ever met, as far as I could remember, and possibly also one of the heaviest. His build and body language made me
feel as though I was standing in front of the great Russian bear, a feeling that was in no way diminished by his unusually powerful handshake.

Vice-Ambassador Igor Sokolov’s arrival changed the atmosphere in the room completely. All of a sudden my boss and the interpreter were serious and focused. Sokolov spoke fast and in bursts
like a machine gun. The interpreter’s voice was flat and serious as she translated.

‘The vice-ambassador would like to welcome you and he thanks you for coming at such short notice. The embassy is aware that the investigation into the tragic murder of a leading Norwegian
politician, Mr Per Johan Fredriksen, is still ongoing. This is of course an internal, Norwegian case in which the embassy does not wish to become involved. The embassy is, however, concerned that
one of the biggest Norwegian newspapers is planning to make public some unfounded rumours that Fredriksen had improper contact with the embassy here and that this may have been the reason why he
was killed.’

This was unexpected. My boss and I exchanged a swift glance, without becoming any the wiser. It was unnerving that the Soviet Embassy had better knowledge than we did of what the Norwegian media
planned to write about an ongoing criminal investigation. But more than anything, it would be very uncomfortable for us if such speculations were published in the newspapers.

The vice-ambassador did not give us long to think before unleashing a new volley of verbal gunfire.

‘Normally, the ambassador would have taken the matter very seriously, but given the timing, he now finds it particularly pressing. We cannot see any explanation other than that enemies of
the Soviet state, by means of these evil rumours, are attempting to block an agreement that is of great national importance to the Norwegian state as well.’

The vice-ambassador’s face was grim, the voice of the translator staccato, and I myself thoughtful. I looked over at my boss. He coughed and said: ‘We were not aware that some of the
press were planning to publish such reports. We have a free press in Norway that cannot be overruled by the police or politicians. What does the embassy wish us to do?’

The response was rapid. ‘We want the
Verdens Gang
newspaper to be given the necessary instructions to stop that report being published tomorrow. Alternatively, as soon as the
reports are published, the press and politicians could be informed immediately that the reports are completely unfounded. Unless, of course, the police are sitting on evidence that gives grounds
for such suspicions. In which case, the embassy should have been contacted long ago in order to clear up any misunderstandings and to disprove such allegations.’

The situation felt more and more tense. We had no evidence to give the embassy, but equally could not rule out any contact. My boss looked at me questioningly. It felt like I was jumping into an
ice-cold lake when I took the plunge and started to speak.

‘In an open democracy such as Norway, the police cannot instruct the free press on what they can and cannot write. We will of course follow all press coverage closely and assess the need
to make a statement, should any of the reports tomorrow be misleading with regard to the situation. We do not believe that the murder of Fredriksen was in any way linked to the Soviet Union. The
problem is that in a constitutional state such as Norway it is difficult for the police to make a categorical statement about who has not committed a crime as long as the investigation is ongoing
and we have not arrested anyone for the murder.’

I felt my pulse rising as the interpreter translated my answer into Russian, in a slightly less staccato voice. Behind his iron mask, Igor Sokolov was clearly either very well prepared or a very
intelligent man. He replied within seconds of the interpreter finishing her translation.

‘The vice-ambassador finds it surprising that it is difficult to make such a statement, unless the police themselves also doubt the Soviet state’s good intentions. He is also
surprised that the investigation has not yet resulted in an arrest almost one week after the murder.’

I looked at my boss, and when he did not answer, did so myself.

‘The police do not, of course, doubt the Soviet state’s intentions in any way, but the investigation is complex and we are duty-bound to keep all possibilities open. As I said, we
will assess the need for a statement as soon as we see what is in the papers tomorrow morning. There are a couple of things that we think may have contributed to these rumours, which, now that we
are here, it seems natural to raise. The first is that, on several occasions, Fredriksen was seen having long conversations with representatives from the embassy.’

I looked at my boss as I spoke, and to my huge relief, he nodded in agreement. I hoped, while I waited for the interpreter to finish, that my boss would think the same about my second
reason.

Again, we did not have to wait long for the vice-ambassador’s reply.

‘The vice-ambassador is adamant that there has been no improper contact. Various representatives from the embassy participate, as part of their work to build a friendly relationship
between our countries, in a large number of arrangements and talk to various people in this connection. It is perfectly natural that Fredriksen may have spoken to a number of them. To be on the
safe side, we have checked with all our employees and can assure you that none of them have had anything other than short, fortuitous meetings with Fredriksen. We are not frightened to call anyone
who claims otherwise a liar.’

The vice-ambassador was playing high stakes and spoke even faster than before. I thought I saw a hint of fear in the interpreter’s eyes when she said the latter, and hoped that she did not
think the same about me. In the midst of it all, I was suddenly very impressed by the interpreter. It could not be easy to interpret such a fast-paced and intense conversation simultaneously
– and her Norwegian was almost perfect.

I looked at my boss for a last time, and then turned back to the vice-ambassador. I felt a little frightened, but also rather angry. So I threw caution to the wind and my only trump card down
onto the table.

‘The other thing that may have given rise to these unfounded suspicions is that a person with connections to the embassy has on several occasions appeared in my vicinity at various places
linked to the investigation. This man is called Sergey Klinkalski, but we have reason to believe that his real name is Alexander Svasnikov.’

I quickly glanced sideways at my boss as I spoke. To my relief, he was calm. I did not dare take a breath while I waited for the answer. That was not the only reason the interpreter paused for a
beat before she started to translate this time, I thought to myself.

As she spoke, the vice-ambassador’s face tightened. For the first time, he was quiet for a few seconds before answering. But his words were all the more rapid and hard as they broke the
tense silence.

Then he jumped up and left the room – without shaking our hands or waiting for the translation. The interpreter held her mask, but there was a tremor in her voice when she relayed the
translation after the door had slammed shut behind her.

‘The vice-ambassador has every reason to believe that it is purely a matter of unfortunate coincidence. He finds it hard to understand how this should give rise to unfounded suspicions,
unless journalists have also been following the head of investigation, or unless the police themselves have informed the press. However, the vice-ambassador takes the matter very seriously and will
immediately double-check this new information with Comrade Klinkalski. The vice-ambassador hopes that the investigation will soon have some results and urges the head of investigation to consider
measures against the press if unfounded rumours are published in the papers tomorrow. Above all, it is hoped that this does not cause any problems for the pending agreement, and the embassy will do
everything in its power to prevent this from happening.’

These final words almost sounded like a threat to me. The interpreter’s voice trembled a little as she said them. Then she stood up and closed the meeting by quickly shaking us both by the
hand. Her hand was dry and trembled in mine. I smiled at her and got a fleeting smile in return. But before I could say any more than ‘goodbye’, she had turned and left the room.

My boss and I sat there and looked at each other, without wanting to say anything in the room under the eyes of Brezhnev. We did not have to wait long. Two minutes later the door was opened
again.

The interpreter came back in, dressed in a thin red jacket, and said: ‘I will show you out.’

We followed her obediently through the corridors. She passed through reception with quick steps and carried on out onto Drammen Road and then a couple of blocks more before turning down a side
street. I watched her go. She was dressed in thin clothes and wasn’t wearing anything on her head, and looked so small and wet in the early spring evening rain. The interpreter had certainly
charmed me and I hoped that she was happy, despite what was obviously a demanding job.

We did not say a word until we were in the car and the engine was running. My boss’s first sentence came as a relief: ‘The prime minister was right about this being
a very difficult situation. You handled it extremely well.’

I exhaled carefully, but felt anything but relaxed.

‘Thank you. I don’t think there was much more we could do in there. But what do we do now?’

My boss thought for a few seconds, and his voice was just as steady and solid as usual when he replied.

‘I will write a strictly confidential memorandum to the prime minister’s office about the meeting. Then I will draft a press release that we can send out if the papers print the
reports we expect them to. You carry on with the investigation as planned. And we can assess the need for more resources first thing tomorrow morning. The contents of the press release will say
something to the effect that while we do not suspect any foreigners to be involved or that the murder is connected to other countries, as the investigation is still ongoing, we have to keep all
possibilities open.’

I replied just as we swung into the main police station: ‘I agree. But the whole thing does feel a bit like an iceberg: there is still an awful lot of it underwater and we can only guess
the size of it.’

‘A good image. There is definitely something big and cold just under the surface. And I think it could be dangerous. I only hope that it is not dangerous for you.’

My boss had always shown me great trust in his taciturn and efficient way, and I had always appreciated it. Our drive back from the embassy was short and we only said a few sentences, but it
felt somehow as though we were closer. At the same time, it felt as though we had never been faced with a more puzzling case – or a more demanding situation.

My boss quickly disappeared into his office after we got back. And I was unexpectedly stopped by DI Danielsen just as I was about to go into mine.

‘There you are at last, Kristiansen. I won’t stick my nose into the investigation by asking where you have been, but I received an urgent telephone call for you half an hour ago, and
I promised to give you the message as soon as you were back.’

I was naturally curious to know who had called and for a moment glimpsed the possibility of a solution. However, the answer was more like a cold shower.

‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen – who is your fiancée, if I remember rightly. It was a short message: there is something that she has to talk to you about in person as soon as
possible. She was clearly frustrated when I told her you were not here and I did not know where you were. She asked me to tell you that she will come to your flat at seven, and it is very important
that you are there.’

It was another punch in what was already a difficult situation.

Miriam was very concerned about keeping as low a profile at my workplace as possible and had never left a telephone message before. She was also well aware that I did not particularly like
Danielsen and had herself not formed a very good opinion of him when they had met briefly during a previous investigation. So the fact that she had left a message with him was surprising enough in
itself. The content of the message made it even more unsettling. The ominous possibility that she might have heard that I had been in contact with Patricia again crossed my mind.

For a few moments, I forgot the murder mysteries, the suspicions of espionage and worry about tomorrow’s headlines. My mind and body froze.

Far off in the distance I heard Danielsen’s voice say: ‘She sounded very agitated. But of course I did not ask what it was about, as I presumed it was of a personal
nature.’

The words were friendly, as was the voice, but I detected a forced kindness that left a bad taste in my mouth – which was only made worse by the pat he gave me on the shoulder. Danielsen
worked hard, and as far as anyone in the station knew, had not had a girlfriend since the mid-sixties. He was well known for his quiet schadenfreude when things were not going well in his
colleagues’ relationships.

I said that it was probably personal, but there was no need to worry. I could tell by Danielsen’s smile that he did not believe me, which I could understand, as I did not entirely believe
it myself. But whatever the case, I could not bear to see or hear any more of Danielsen right now. So I thanked him for the message, and with a stiff smile, wished him a pleasant evening shift
before slipping quickly into my office.