Death in Oslo (32 page)

Warren Scifford opened his mouth and raised his hand.

‘Spare us your protests,’ the Norwegian director of intelligence said. His bass voice trembled with suppressed anger. ‘I will only repeat what Stubo here just said. Do not underestimate us.’

His great index finger was only centimetres from the American’s nose.

‘What you have to remember, what you
have to remember
. . .’

Warren wrinkled his brow and pulled his head back. Salhus just came closer. His finger was shaking.

‘. . . is that it is us, the Norwegian police, who have a chance of solving this case.
The actual case
. It is us, and us alone, who are able to map out the actual event, how the American president was taken from her hotel room in Oslo . . . how on earth that could even happen in the first place. D’you understand?’

Warren sat completely still.

‘So you can carry on trying to place the event in a bigger context, without any interference from us.
Do you understand?
’

The man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Salhus took a deep breath, lowered his hand and continued. ‘What I find incredible is that not only are you refusing to help us, but you are in fact sabotaging our investigation by not giving us information like, for example, the fact that a Secret Service agent has mysteriously disappeared.’

He was standing right in front of the American.

‘If an old lady out for a walk in the forest had not wandered off the track into the ditch, and then collapsed unconscious a few metres away, we would have had no idea that . . .’

Peter Salhus coughed and paused, as if he really had to stop himself flying into a rage.

‘I have, together with the Chief of Police, Mr Bastesen here, the Minister of Justice and the Foreign Minister, sent a formal complaint to your government,’ he continued, without sitting down. ‘And it was copied to the Secret Service and the FBI.’

‘I’m afraid that my government, the FBI and the Secret Service have more serious things to worry about at the moment than a complaint,’ Warren said, without any expression. ‘But please . . . be my guest! I can’t stop you from corresponding
with others if you have the time for that sort of thing.’

He got up suddenly and grabbed the military-green sports jacket that was hanging over the arm of the chair.

‘I’m basically done here,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve got what I came for. And you’ve got something out of it too. A satisfactory meeting, in other words.’

The three other men in the room were so astonished by this sudden closure that they couldn’t think of anything to say. Warren Scifford had to put his hand on Salhus’ arm to move him out of the way.

‘And by the way,’ the American said, turning around once he had crossed the room; the others still could think of nothing sensible to say. ‘You’re wrong about who’s going to solve this case.
The actual case
, as you called it. As if a kidnapping can be detached from the motives, planning, consequences and context.’

He was smiling broadly with his mouth, but his eyes were anything but friendly.

‘The party that finds the President,’ he added, ‘is the one that will be able to solve the case.
The whole case
. And I unfortunately doubt that it will be you.
That
worries . . .’ he stared straight at Salhus, ‘my government, the FBI and the Secret Service. But good luck, to be sure. And good night.’

The door slammed behind him, a bit too loudly.

‘W
e’ve found the President,’ whispered Johanne Vik. ‘It’s in . . .’ She didn’t know what to say and felt the urge to giggle. But as that would be about as inappropriate as laughing at a funeral, she pulled herself together. And started to cry again instead. She felt totally exhausted, and the absurdity of the situation was in no way diminished by the fact that Hanne stood resolutely by her decision not to raise the alarm. Johanne had tried everything: reason and common sense, begging, threats. Nothing helped.

‘A woman like Helen Bentley knows best herself,’ Hanne said softly, and carefully laid a blanket over the President. ‘Can you give me a hand, please?’

Helen Bentley’s breathing was heavy and even. Hanne held two fingers flat on her wrist and looked at her watch. She moved her mouth as she counted silently, until she gently put the President’s hand back on her hip.

‘Good steady pulse,’ she whispered. ‘In fact, I don’t think she’s unconscious. I think she’s just asleep. Conked out. Completely exhausted, mentally and physically.’

She rolled her chair into the next room as quietly as possible. On the way out, she turned to the voice-operated light switch: ‘Dark!’

The lights dimmed slowly until they switched off. Johanne followed Hanne out and closed the door behind them. This sitting room was smaller. A huge gas fire with brushed-steel surrounds was on full blaze and filled the room with flickering
shadows. Johanne sat down on a deep chaise longue and leant her head back on the soft headrest.

‘Helen Bentley doesn’t have any immediate need for a doctor,’ Hanne said and positioned her chair by the chaise longue. ‘But we should give her a little shake once an hour, just in case. She might have a bit of concussion. I’ll take the first shift. When does Ragnhild start to stir normally?’

‘Around six,’ Johanne said and yawned.

‘I’ll definitely take the first shift then. That way you can get at least a couple of hours’ sleep.’

‘Good, thank you.’

But Johanne didn’t get up. She stared into the flames dancing on the artificial logs. They almost seemed to hypnotise her: a beautiful airy blue base that rose into a yellowy-orange flame.

‘You know what,’ she said and caught a whiff of Hanne’s perfume. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like this.’

‘Like me?’ Hanne smiled and looked at her.

‘Like you, yes, as well. But I was actually thinking about Helen Bentley. I remember the campaign so well. I mean, I normally manage to keep up with things pretty well . . .’

‘Pretty well!’ Hanne Wilhelmsen exclaimed with a laugh. ‘You’re obsessed with American politics! I thought my fascination with that country was bad, but you’re even worse. Do you . . .’

She cocked her head. She seemed to be evaluating whether her question would cross the important boundary between being friendly and friendship.

‘It would be nice, a glass of wine, wouldn’t it?’ she asked all the same, and then regretted it. ‘Sorry, that was stupid. It’s a bit late really. Forget it.’

‘It would be lovely,’ yawned Johanne. ‘Yes please!’

Hanne rolled her wheelchair over to a cupboard that was built into the wall. She opened it by pressing the door gently, and without hesitating took out a bottle of red wine with a label that made Johanne’s mouth fall open.

‘Don’t open that one,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re only going to have a glass!’

‘Wine is Nefis’ thing. I’m sure it would make her happy to know that I’d helped myself to something good.’

She opened the bottle, put it between her legs, grabbed two wine glasses, which she carefully placed in her lap, closed the door and then rolled back. She poured a generous glass for them both.

‘It was a miracle really that she was elected,’ Johanne said, and took a sip. ‘Fantastic! The wine, that is.’ She lifted her glass in a discreet salute and took another sip.

‘What was it that made her win?’ Hanne asked. ‘How did she manage it? When absolutely all the commentators felt that it was too early for a woman in the White House?’

Johanne smiled. ‘The X-factor, largely.’

‘The X-factor?’

‘The inexplicable. The sum of virtues that can’t actually be pointed out. She had everything. If anyone was going to have a chance as a woman, it was her. And only her.’

‘What about Hillary Clinton?’

Johanne licked her lips and swallowed the wine she had resting on her tongue.

‘I think this is the best wine I’ve ever tasted,’ she said and stared into the glass. ‘It was too early for Hillary. She realised that herself as well. But she can follow. Later. She’s in good health and I think the time might be ripe for her when she’s around seventy. But that’s not for a while yet. The advantage with Hillary is that everyone knows all her shit already. Her whole life was turned inside out on her way to becoming the First Lady. Not to mention her years in the White House. Her dirty laundry was hung out long ago. And we need a bit of distance from it now.’

‘But Helen Bentley’s life was also put under the microscope,’ Hanne said, trying to straighten herself up in her chair. ‘They were after her like bloodhounds.’

‘Of course. The point is that they didn’t find anything. Nothing of any importance. She had the sense to admit that she hadn’t exactly lived like a nun when she was at university. And she did that before anyone had the chance to ask. And she said it with a big smile. She even winked at Larry King, live. Knocked that one on the head. Genius.’

When she held the wine glass up to the fire, she saw a shifting range of colour in the wine, from an intense, deep red to a light brick red around the edges.

‘Helen Bentley even did one tour in Vietnam,’ Johanne said and had to smile again. ‘In 1972, when she was twenty-two. And she was smart enough not to say anything about it until some muttonhead, or perhaps I should say hawk, pointed out early on in the nomination process that the US was in fact at war with Iraq – and that the commander-in-chief had to have experience of war. Which is absolute nonsense! Look at Bush! Ran around for a while in an air force uniform when he was young, but never set foot nor wing out of the US. But you know . . .’

The wine was making her feel light-headed.

‘Helen Bentley turned it around completely. Went on TV and said, with a serious face, that she had never made a point of her twelve months in ’Nam out of respect for the veterans who had suffered serious physical and mental injury, as all she had done was basically sit behind a typewriter. She had not been forced to go to war, but had volunteered because she felt it was her duty. She came back, she said, as a wiser, more mature woman, and with the firm belief that the war had been a fatal mistake. And the same was true of the war in Iraq, which she had initially supported, but which had now developed into a nightmare, so that the country had to make every effort to find an honourable and responsible way in which to withdraw. As quickly as possible.’

She quickly put her hand over her glass when Hanne wanted to pour her more wine.

‘No thank you. It’s delicious, but I have to go to bed soon.’

Hanne didn’t protest and put the cork back in the bottle.

‘Do you remember sitting here watching the swearing-in ceremony together?’ she said. ‘And that we talked about how incredibly good they must be at planning their lives. Do you remember?’

‘Yes,’ Johanne replied. ‘I was, well . . . more engrossed, shall we say, than you were.’

‘That’s only because you’re not as cynical as I am. You still allow yourself to be impressed.’

‘It’s impossible not to be,’ Johanne said. ‘Whereas Hillary Clinton struggles with her image of being hard, uncompromising and wilful, I would—’

‘I see she’s trying hard to change that.’

‘Yes, definitely. But it’ll take time. Helen Bentley has something . . .’ She cocked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. Only now did she notice that her glasses were dirty with Ragnhild’s sticky fingerprints. She took them off and cleaned them with her shirtsleeve.

‘. . . indefinable,’ she said after a while. ‘The X-factor. Warm, beautiful and feminine, and yet at the same time, strong, as she has shown in her career and the fact that she volunteered for Vietnam. I’m sure she’s hard as nails and has lots of enemies. But she treats them . . . differently.’

She popped her glasses back on her nose and looked at Hanne.

‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’ Hanne nodded. ‘She’s good at fooling people, in other words. She even gets bitter enemies to believe she’s treating them with real respect. But I wonder what it is about her.’

‘What it is about her? What do you mean?’

‘Oh come on.’ Hanne smiled. ‘You don’t think she’s as shiny and pure as she makes out.’

‘But she has . . . If there was anything, surely someone
would have discovered it. American journalists are the best at . . . they’re the meanest in the world.’

For the first time in their short nascent friendship, Hanne seemed to be strangely happy. It was as if having the kidnapped American president asleep on her couch had jolted her out of her impenetrable armour of friendly indifference. The whole world was holding its breath in growing fear of what might have happened to Helen Lardahl Bentley. Hanne Wilhelmsen obviously enjoyed keeping them in suspense. Johanne didn’t know how to interpret that. Or whether she liked it.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Hanne laughed and leant over to nudge her. ‘There isn’t a single person, not one person in the whole world, who doesn’t have something they’re ashamed of. Something they’re frightened that other people might find out. The higher up the ladder you are, the more dangerous even the most minor transgression in the past can be. I’m sure that our friend in there has something.’

‘I’m going to go to bed,’ Johanne said. ‘Are you going to stay up?’

‘Yes,’ Hanne said. ‘Until you wake up, that is. I’m sure I’ll doze a bit in the chair, but I’ve got plenty to read.’

‘Until Ragnhild wakes up,’ Johanne corrected her, and yawned again as she padded out in her borrowed slippers to get some water from the kitchen.

She turned in the doorway.

‘Hanne,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes?’

Hanne didn’t turn the chair. She stayed where she was, staring at the dancing flames. She had poured herself some more wine and lifted her glass.

‘Why are you so set against telling anyone that she’s here?’ Hanne put down her glass. She slowly turned the wheelchair to face Johanne. The room lay in darkness, except for the fire and what little light remained of the May night that stubbornly
pressed itself against the window. Her face looked even thinner in the dark shadows and her eyes had disappeared.