Death in Oslo (11 page)

‘That’s a shame,’ he murmured, and felt like an idiot.

Abdallah al-Rahman’s smile widened. His teeth were pearly white against his dark skin. He drank down the rest of his tea in one go and put the glass down carefully.

‘It has been a pleasure, Tom, a real pleasure.’

The affection in his voice surprised Tom; it was as if Abdallah was talking to a favoured child.

‘Likewise,’ he mumbled, clasping his hand round the glass so his fingers had something to do.

Again they were both silent. The only thing that broke the vast, warm silence of the palace was a dog barking in the
distance. The water in the pool was like a mirror. The gentle breeze at sunset that had made the air so pleasant earlier had now died down. Certainly in here behind the high old walls that surrounded the garden.

When Tom O’Reilly had accepted Abdallah’s generous offer in 1978, he had done so without any great reservations. He had swiftly managed to suppress the faint twinge of something that might be bad conscience. It was just stupid to question things that you didn’t quite know the answer to. The remainder of his studies would be paid for in return for no more than a small favour. The money would not only cover his school fees, but would also afford him a generous lifestyle. He could stop taking on extra jobs and concentrate on his studies. And as he was no longer training four hours a day, his academic work improved immensely. He qualified with a good grade, a valuable network of contacts from Stanford and the will to succeed that so often drives those who have found themselves on the edge.

But as he got older, doubts crept in.

Not overwhelming, but enough for him, in his thirties, to try to find out more about the foundation that had made it possible for a poor and not particularly promising student to finish his studies at one of the world’s most prestigious universities. As a student, the only thing that had concerned him was that a sizeable sum was paid into his account every summer and every Christmas, from the anonymous ‘Student Achievement Foundation’.

The foundation did not exist.

That worried him and gave him a couple of sleepless nights. However, he quelled his doubts after a while and assumed that it might well have been disbanded. Nothing strange about that, really, when he thought about it. No point in wasting valuable time investigating any closer.

Tom O’Reilly was an intelligent man. When Abdallah
al-Rahman started to contact him in Europe, he of course realised that it could be misconstrued by others. By those who couldn’t understand that they were, in fact, good friends from university. By those who didn’t realise that the conversations they had were completely innocent.

‘Has life turned out the way you hoped it would?’ Abdallah asked him now in a calm voice, almost uninterested.

‘Yes.’

Tom had everything. He was faithful to his wife, though there had been temptations along the way. Even as a student, he had sworn that his father’s legacy would not cast any shadows in his own life. He was blessed with four children and an income that meant he could afford to house his family in a twelve-bedroom villa in one of Chicago’s best suburbs. He worked hard, and long hours, but had worked his way high up enough in the system to safeguard his weekends and holidays. Tom O’Reilly was a respected man. In quiet moments, when the children were younger and he tucked them in before he went to bed, he felt that he epitomised the American dream. He was content.

‘Yes,’ he repeated and coughed. ‘I am extremely grateful.’

‘You have only yourself to thank. I just helped when the system turned its back on you. You did the rest yourself. You’ve done well, Tom.’

‘Thank you. But I am . . . grateful. Thank you.’

Abdallah’s choice of words made him feel uncomfortable.

The system
.

He had used a concept that Tom did not like. Not in the way that Abdallah had used it; to refer to the system in that way seemed . . .

Abdallah is not like them. He understands us. He operates within our system, our economy, and has never, not once, said anything that would indicate that he is like them. Quite the opposite. He respects me. He respects American values. He is practically . . . American.

‘The system is harsh.’ Tom nodded. ‘But it’s fair. I would in no way underestimate what you’ve done for me. As I said, I am deeply grateful. But with all due respect . . .’

He hesitated, and studied the chased-metal circles on the glass.

‘With all due respect, I would probably have managed to get by on my own. I had the ambition. I was willing to work hard. The system repays those who work hard.’

It was impossible to read in Abdallah’s face what he was thinking. He was obviously relaxed. His eyes were half closed, and a faint smile played on his mouth, as if he was thinking about something amusing that had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.

‘We’re both examples of that,’ he replied eventually. ‘The system repays those who work hard and who are focused. Those who set themselves long-term goals and don’t think only about short-term gain.’

Tom was reassured. He shrugged and smiled.

‘Exactly.’

‘And now I want you to do me a favour,’ Abdallah said, the distant expression still in his eyes, as if he was actually thinking about something else.

He gestured to a servant whom Tom had not noticed earlier. He was standing half hidden behind a gigantic pot with three palm trees in it over by the terrace entrance some twenty metres away. The servant approached on silent feet and handed an envelope to Abdallah. Then he withdrew, equally silently.

‘A favour,’ Tom muttered. ‘What is it?’

You’ve never asked me to do anything before. You’ve only asked about my life. About me and what I’m doing. That was the deal. I was to stay in touch. Meet you whenever you asked me to. That was the agreement. You said nothing about favours, Abdallah. I’ve kept my promise for nearly thirty years. I never promised to do any more than that – than to give of myself.

‘Something very simple.’ Abdallah smiled. ‘I just want you to take this back to the US and post it. And then we’re quits, Tom. Then you will have paid back what you owe me. And just so that you don’t think this is anything dangerous . . .’

Tom sat paralysed as Abdallah opened the envelope. Inside there was another, smaller envelope. It was not sealed. Abdallah stuck his nose down into it and took a deep breath. Then he smiled and held the envelope open for Tom.

‘Look, no poison. You are, and I think I’m justified in saying this, a bit hysterical about postal correspondence. This is quite simply a letter.’

Tom saw the folded paper. It looked like there might be several sheets. The letter was folded so the writing was on the inside. It was ordinary white paper. Abdallah licked the envelope and sealed it. Then he put it back into the bigger envelope and sealed that too.

‘All you have to do,’ he said calmly, ‘is to take it home with you. Then you need to find a postbox. It’s of no importance to me whatsoever where in the US that might be. Then you open the big envelope and pop the smaller one in the box and throw away the big one. That’s all.’

Tom O’Reilly didn’t answer. He felt his throat constrict, as if he was about to cry. He swallowed. Tried to cough.

‘Why?’ he stuttered.

‘Business,’ Abdallah replied indifferently. ‘I don’t trust the post here. And certainly not all this modern communications technology. Too many eyes and ears. It’s important that this reaches its destination. Simply business.’

How can you lie outright to me? Tom thought to himself and tried to keep his composure. How can you insult me like this? After thirty years? You have an entire fleet of planes and an army of employees at your disposal. But you’ve chosen me as a courier for that letter. What is this? What should I do?

‘You will do this,’ Abdallah added deliberately, ‘primarily
because you owe it to me. And if that is not enough . . .’

He didn’t finish his sentence but looked the American straight in the eye.

You know everything about me, Tom thought and rubbed his sweaty palms together. More than anyone else. We have talked together for twenty-eight years, always about me, and seldom about you. You have been my confidant in everything. Everything. You know about my good and bad habits, my dreams and nightmares. You know my wife without ever having met her. You know how my children . . .

‘I understand,’ he said abruptly and took the letter. ‘I understand.’

‘Then we’re quits. The plane will be ready to take you back to Rome tomorrow morning. Is seven too early? No. Good, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat, Tom. It’s cool enough to eat now.’

He stood up and offered the American his hand to help him out of the low chair. Tom automatically took it. When he was on his feet, the Arab put his arm around his shoulder and kissed him.

‘It’s been a joy to have you as a friend,’ he said softly. ‘A real joy.’

And as the American stumbled, bewildered, over the flagstones behind him, through the glass doors into the beautiful palace, a thought struck him for the first time:
How many Tom O’Reillys do you have, Abdallah? How many people are there like me?

D
etective Chief Inspector Adam Stubo walked home from his parents-in-law after a far too long and rather unusual national-day celebration.

He could, of course, have gone in the car with Johanne when she was finally allowed by her mother to go home. Ragnhild had fallen asleep long before. Kristiane was absolutely exhausted and confused when Isak, her biological father, turned up to collect her around seven. Even though they were all affected by the day’s events, it was Kristiane who had taken it most to heart. They had managed to calm her down in the morning, and the girl had enjoyed being in the parade, though she hadn’t let go of Adam’s hand for a second. But things had got gradually worse throughout the day. She was obsessed with the lady who had disappeared and clung to her mother, terrified, until her father finally came and tempted her away by telling her about a new train set that only she could look after.

Adam could have gone in the car, but he chose to walk.

Instead of cutting down to Kjelsåsveien and crossing Storo, then heading towards Tåsen and home, he took a detour over the hill at Grefsen. The air was cool and fresh and the May light was still hovering in the western sky. His feet crunched on the asphalt. The council hadn’t removed all the grit from the winter. It had rained earlier in the day, and the smell of last year’s rotten leaves wafted over from the gardens. The flowerbeds were full of tulips that were past their best. Behind every window a TV screen flickered.

He stopped by a white picket fence.

The house was also white, but the evening light made it look almost blue. The curtains were open. An elderly couple were watching the news. He saw the woman lift her coffee cup. When she put it down again, she clasped the man’s hand. They stayed sitting like that, frozen, hand in hand, as they watched the news that presumably told them nothing more than they had heard ten times already over the course of the day.

Adam stood there for a while.

He was cold, but it felt good. It cleared his brain. He couldn’t drag himself away. The old couple in the small white house with tulips outside the sitting room window and the news on the TV somehow epitomised what had happened in Norway on this strange day that had started with celebrations and was now about to end with a threat that no one fully understood yet.

An assassination would, paradoxically, have been easier to accept, he thought. Death might be a sudden end, but it was also the start of something else. Death was something that could be mourned. A disappearance was endless purgatory, impossible to bear.

The man in the house got up stiffly. He shuffled over to the window and for an embarrassing moment Adam thought he had been seen and took two quick steps back. The man pulled the curtains shut; heavy, flowery material that closed out the rest of the world for the night.

Adam decided to go all the way up to Stilla, and then follow the path along the river. The water was breaking the banks. The geese had returned after winter a while ago, and here and there a mallard struggled against the stream, ducking down at regular intervals for some night food. Adam started to walk faster. He tried to keep up with the swollen spring river; he had to jog.

They chose not to assassinate her, he thought, out of breath. If there is such a thing as ‘they’. They chose not to kill her. Was
that what they wanted? The purgatory? And if they wanted to create a confused vacuum, they . . .

He was running as fast as he could now, in his good shoes, a suit, and a coat that was a touch on the tight side. He stumbled here and there, but found his balance again and stormed on.

He wanted to get home. He ran and tried to think about something else. About summer, which was just around the corner; about the horse he was thinking about buying, though Johanne had refused to have any more pets other than the yellowy-brown slavering dog that Kristiane called Jack, King of America.

How were they going to use that vacuum?

I
t was nearly eleven o’clock. Johanne was too tired to get up from the sofa and too restless to sleep. She tried to relish the thought of not having the children tonight and tomorrow, but couldn’t do anything other than stare at the news, which was only serving up pointless repeats and regurgitated speculation. The only thing the authorities were clear about, nearly sixteen hours after the disappearance of the American president had been discovered, was that she had not reappeared. Representatives of official Norway were still reluctant to use the word ‘kidnapping’, but journalists showed no such restraint. One commentator after another expanded on the more-or-less ridiculous theories. The police just kept quiet. No one leading the investigation had been willing to give an interview since early afternoon.

‘I agree with them about that,’ Adam said and sat down beside her on the sofa. ‘There are limits as to how many times they can be forced to say exactly the same thing. Which generally has been nothing. Bastesen looked pretty sheepish the last couple of times.’