Death in Oslo (37 page)

President Bentley bared her teeth at the mirror.

‘You bastard!’ she whispered. ‘May you burn in hell, Warren Scifford! That’s the only place for people like you!’

W
arren Scifford felt awful.

In the half-dark he fumbled around for his mobile phone, which was playing a mechanical version of something that was supposed to sound like a cockerel. The noise would not stop. He sat up in bed, confused. He had forgotten to close the blackout curtains again before going to bed, and the grey light behind the thin curtains gave him no idea of what time it was.

The cockerel got louder and Warren swore passionately as he searched around on the bedside table. Finally he caught sight of the mobile phone. The display said it was 05:07. It must have fallen on the floor in the course of his three hours of restless sleep. He couldn’t imagine how he had managed to set the alarm so wrong. He had meant to set it for five past seven.

He missed a few times before he finally managed to turn the alarm off. He sank back into the bed. He closed his eyes, but knew immediately that there was no point. His thoughts were crashing and colliding and creating chaos, so it would be impossible to sleep. He stood up, resigned, padded into the shower and stood under the water for the next fifteen minutes. If he wasn’t rested, he could at least scrub himself into some sort of waking state.

He dried himself and pulled on his boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

It didn’t take him long to rig up the portable office. He left the ceiling lamp switched off and closed the blackout
curtains. The table lamps gave sufficient light to work. When everything was set up, he filled the kettle and stood leaning against the bookshelf, waiting for it to boil. For a moment he considered coffee. But the powder looked old and tasteless, so he took a tea bag and dropped it into the cup instead, then filled it with boiling water.

No new emails.

He tried to work his way back. It was around two in the morning when he went to bed. That would be around eight in the evening in Washington DC. So now it would eleven o’clock back home. Everyone was working flat out. No one had sent him anything for more than four hours.

He tried to reassure himself that it was because they thought he was asleep.

It didn’t work. The fact that he was being frozen out was becoming increasingly apparent. The more time that passed without the President being found, the more Warren Scifford’s role was diminishing. Even though he was still the contact person for the local police, it was obvious that operations at the embassy on Drammensveien had increased in scope and content without him being fully informed. The operative investigators the FBI had sent to Norway some hours after he had arrived were the kings of the castle. They stayed at the embassy. They were linked to communications technology that made his little office, with his selection of mobile phones and encrypted PC, look like a pathetic delivery to a technical museum.

They didn’t give a damn about the Norwegian police.

Some of them did still come to the meetings he tried to set up several times a day in an attempt to coordinate the American effort with anything that the Norwegian police might have discovered regarding clues, evidence and theories. When he informed them that the body of Jeffrey Hunter had been found, he was given something that might at least
resemble attention. As far as he could understand from the ambassador, a minor diplomatic tussle had ensued regarding the man’s earthly remains. The Norwegians wanted to keep him for further examination. But the US authorities simply refused.

‘I don’t give a damn,’ whispered Warren Scifford and gave his face a good rub.

He had warned Ambassador Wells.

‘They’re going to hit the roof when they realise what you’re up to,’ he’d said in exasperation when they met at the embassy the day before. ‘OK, they might have a US-friendly government, but I realise that this is a country where opposition can be strong. They might be stubborn, as you warned me, but they’re not stupid. We simply can’t —’

The ambassador had interrupted him with an ice-cold stare and a voice that made Warren hold his tongue. ‘
I
am the one who knows this country, Warren. I am the US ambassador to Norway. I have three meetings a day with the Norwegian foreign minister. The government of this country is constantly informed of what we are doing.
Everything that we are doing.
’

It was a complete lie and they both knew it.

Warren took a sip of the tea. It didn’t taste of much, but at least it was warm. The room was too. Far too warm. He went over to a box on the wall to see if he could turn down the temperature. He had never managed to get the hang of the whole Celsius system. The switch was turned to twenty-five degrees, and that was certainly too hot. Maybe fifteen would be better. He held his hand up to the vent in the wall. The air cooled immediately.

He hesitated for a moment, and then turned his computer off. There were two files on the desk. One was as thick as a book. The other contained no more than twenty pages. He took both of them and lay back down on the bed, bolstered by the pillows and cushions at the head of the bed.

He looked through the classified report on the intelligence situation first. It was more than two hundred pages long and he had not received it in a coded email, as he should have done according to various agreements and routines. He had discovered, by accident, that it existed when he overheard some snippets of conversation in the headquarters at the embassy, and had had to argue his way to a copy. Conrad Victory, the sixty-year-old special agent who was in charge of operations at the embassy, thought that Warren didn’t need the document. And in situations like this they operated with a strict ‘need-to-know’ policy, which Warren, given his experience, should understand. His role was to be the liaison between the Norwegian and American police. He had himself complained how difficult it was to resist the pressure the Norwegians put on him with regard to American information and intelligence. The less he knew, the less Oslo Police would interfere.

But Warren didn’t give in. When nothing else worked, he resorted to highlighting his close personal relationship with the President. Between the lines, of course. It worked. Finally.

He had fallen into bed at two in the morning and had not really had a chance to look at the document until now.

It was frightening reading.

In the intense search for the President’s kidnappers, it was becoming increasingly clear that her disappearance would be followed by a major terrorist attack. But neither the FBI nor the CIA, nor any of the other numerous organisations that fell under the umbrella of Homeland Security, was willing to use the name that Warren Scifford’s BSC Unit had given to such a potential attack:
The Trojan Horse
.

They didn’t dare to call it anything yet.

The problem was that no one knew what or who would be the target of any such attack. The intelligence was extensive, in terms of the amount of reports, tips, and theories, and speculation was overwhelming. But the information was
fragmented, confusing and to a large extent contradictory.

It could be an Islamist conspiracy.

It
presumably
was an Islamist conspiracy.

It
had
to be the Muslims.

The reports indicated that the authorities had a full overview of all other potential criminals, attackers and relevant terrorist groups – to the extent that anyone could ever have a full overview. And as far as twisted, fanatical American citizens were concerned, they were always a latent threat, as the bomber Timothy McVeigh had shown when the Gulf veteran killed 168 people in Oklahoma City in 1995. The problem was that there were no indications of abnormal activity in any of the many ultra-reactionary groups in the US. They were still under comprehensive surveillance, even post-9/11, when most of the attention was now focused in another direction. There was nothing to indicate that extreme animal-rights or environmental activists had taken the step from illegal, bothersome protests to real terrorist attacks. There were fanatical religious groups all over the States, but as a rule they were really only a threat to themselves. And there was nothing extraordinary to report from their ranks either.

And kidnapping an American president from a hotel room in Norway was light years away from what any known American group would have the ability to orchestrate.

It had to be an Islamist conspiracy.

Warren straightened his glasses.

The tangible angst in the report was fascinating. In all his thirty years in the FBI, Warren Scifford had never read a professional analysis that was so permeated by impending catastrophe. It was as if the truth had finally dawned on the entire Homeland Security system: someone had managed the impossible. The unthinkable. Someone had stolen the American commander-in-chief, and it was hard to imagine that those responsible had any limits as to what they might do.

The fear was focused on an attack targeting various unidentified installations on American soil. It was based on a number of reports and events, but the reports were insubstantial and the events ambiguous.

The most worrying and confusing factor was all the tips.

The American authorities were constantly receiving such communications, and more often than not there was no substance to them. House-owners who wished unpleasant visits from uniformed police on their neighbours could come up with the most fantastic claims about what was going on on the other side of the fence. Suspicious visits, strange sounds at night, abnormal behaviour and something that could only be dynamite in the garage. Or maybe even a bomb. Property sharks found it both convenient and effective to get help from the FBI in evicting troublesome tenants. There were no limits to what people claimed they had seen. Arabs going in and out at all times of day and night, conversations in foreign languages and the transport of boxes that contained God only knows what. Even teenagers might decide to report a classmate as a terrorist, simply because the guy had shown disrespect in trying it on with a girl he should have kept his hands off.

This time the tips seemed more like warnings.

The FBI’s field offices had received an unusual number of anonymous messages in the past few days. Some were phoned in, others came in emails. But the content was exactly the same, and they all claimed basically that something was going to happen, something that would make 9/11 pale into insignificance. Most of them said that the US was a weak nation that couldn’t even look after its president. They only had themselves to blame for leaving their ranks open. This time the attack would not be targeted on a specific area. This time the whole of the US would suffer, in the same way the US had caused suffering throughout the world.

It was payback time.

The most alarming thing was that the phone calls could not be traced.

It was incomprehensible.

The many organisations associated with Homeland Security had a technological advantage that they thought was absolute, and that made it possible to trace any phone call to or from American soil. Generally it took no more than a minute to identify a sender’s PC. In the shadow of the wide-ranging powers of attorney that George W. Bush had passed since 2001, the National Security Agency had gained what they believed to be almost total control of telephonic and electronic communication. The organisation saw no problem in the fact that they exceeded these powers of attorney in their efforts to be effective. They had a job to do. They had to ensure national security. The few who had the opportunity to discover these transgressions and the possibility to do anything about them chose to turn a blind eye.

The enemy was powerful and dangerous.

The US had to be protected at all costs.

These sinister messages, however, could not be traced. Not to the right place, at all events. The cutting-edge technology found the sender’s IP address or telephone number almost instantly, but when they were then investigated, the information appeared to be wrong. One call, where a deep man’s voice accused the American authorities of being arrogant and warned them not to harass decent citizens who had done nothing wrong other than having a Palestinian father, had apparently been made from the telephone of a seventy-year-old lady in Lake Placid, New York. At the time that one of the FBI’s offices in Manhattan received the call, the frail old woman was having a tea party with four equally charming friends. None of them had touched the phone and a log from the local telephone company showed the widow was telling the truth: no one had used the phone at that time.

The tea had cooled. Warren took a sip. He glasses steamed up for a moment, as if someone had breathed on them.

He turned to the more technical section of the report. He couldn’t understand much of it, and wasn’t particularly interested in the details. He wanted to read the conclusion, which he found on page 173: it was entirely possible to manipulate addressees in the way that had been done.

Slightly unnecessary conclusion, Warren said to himself. They’ve already documented more than a hundred and thirty cases of the phenomenon.

He adjusted one of the pillows behind his head to make it more comfortable.

Manipulation of this sort required substantial resources.

Yeah, yeah, he thought. No one ever thought it was the work of a poor man.

And presumably a telecommunications satellite. Or access to capacity on one. Rented or stolen.

A satellite? A bloody spaceship?

Warren was starting to feel cold; fifteen degrees was obviously not warm enough. He got up again to reset the switch in the box on the wall. This time he turned it to twenty degrees and then climbed back into bed and continued reading.

Satellites of this type were located in stationary orbits about forty thousand kilometres from the surface of the earth. Since all the telephone calls and electronic messages were linked to phones and computers on the east coast of the States, the actions were compatible with the use of an Arabic satellite.