Death in Oslo (5 page)

The Americans? the PA thought and felt a hot flush surge through her body. The Americans. She couldn’t help looking over at the fat file containing the correspondence in connection with Helen Bentley’s visit.

The Director General of the PST, Peter Salhus, did not follow the other three. Instead he came over to where she was sitting and held out his hand.

‘It’s been a while, Beate. I only wish it were under better circumstances.’

She got up, brushed down her skirt and took his hand.

‘I’m not quite sure . . .’ Her voice broke and she coughed.

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

His hand was warm and dry. She held it for a moment too long, as if she needed the reassurance that his firm handshake could give. Then she nodded briefly.

‘Have you got the grey box?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

She handed it over to him. All communication to and from the minister’s office could be scrambled, coded and distorted with only a few extra tricks and no additional equipment. But it was seldom necessary. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been asked about it. Perhaps a conversation with the Minister of Defence – just in case. But the box was only to be used under extraordinary circumstances. It had never been necessary, other than during practices.

‘Just a couple of things . . .’

Salhus absent-mindedly weighed the box in his hand.

‘This is not a practice, Beate. And you must be prepared to be here for some time. But . . . Does anyone know that you’re here?’

‘My husband, of course. We—’

‘Don’t ring him yet. Wait as long as you can before saying anything. It will all get out pretty soon. But until then we have to use what time we have. We have called in the National Security Council, and we would like them to be in place before this . . .’ His smile did not reach his eyes.

‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘Shall I come in with drinks?’

‘We’ll sort that out ourselves. Over there, isn’t it?’

He grabbed the full pot of coffee.

‘There are cups, glasses and mineral water in there already,’ the PA told him.

The last thing she heard as the door closed behind the Director General of the PST was the minister’s hysterical voice: ‘We’ve got procedures for this! Has no one been able to get hold of the Prime Minister? What? Where in God’s name is the Prime Minister? We’ve got procedures!’

Then there was silence. There was soundproof glass in the windows, so she couldn’t even hear the convoy of student buses that had decided it was a good idea to park right in
the middle of Akersgate, outside the Ministry of Culture and Church Affairs.

All the windows were dark.

J
ohanne Vik had no idea how she was going to get through the day; she never knew how she would survive the 17th of May. She held the shirt of Kristiane’s national costume up in front of her. This year she had thought ahead and was going to take a change of clothes for her daughter with them. The first outfit was already dirty by half past seven. And now this one had jam on the arm and a piece of melted chocolate on the collar. The ten-year-old was dancing around the floor naked, thin and fragile, with eyes that seldom focused on anyone or anything. It was already nearly half past ten, and they didn’t have much time.

‘
Silent night
,’ the small girl sang, ‘
holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild
. . .’

‘You’re a bit out on the date.’ Adam Stubo laughed and ruffled his stepdaughter’s hair. ‘There are special songs for our national day too, you know. Do you know where my cufflinks are, Johanne?’

She didn’t answer. If she had washed the first shirt and popped it in the tumble dryer, Kristiane could at least have started the party with clean clothes.

‘Look at this,’ she complained and showed the shirt to Adam.

‘Doesn’t really matter,’ he said and carried on looking for his cufflinks. ‘Kristiane has more white shirts in the cupboard.’

‘More white shirts?’ Johanne rolled her eyes. ‘Do you know
what my parents paid for this damn national costume? And do you know how offended my mother will be if we turn up with Kristiane in an ordinary shirt from H&M?’

‘
A child is born in Bethlehem
,’ Kristiane chanted. ‘
Hip-hip-hurrah!
’

Adam took the shirt and examined the stains.

‘I’ll sort it out,’ he said. ‘In five minutes, with a bit of washing-up liquid and a hairdryer. And by the way, you underestimate your mother. There are few people who understand Kristiane better than her. Why don’t you get Ragnhild ready, so we can leave in quarter of an hour?’

The sixteen-month-old baby was sitting in deep concentration, playing with her building blocks in a corner of the sitting room. She was unperturbed by her sister’s dancing and singing. With astonishing precision, she placed one block on top of another, and smiled when the tower was as high as her face.

Johanne didn’t have the heart to disturb her. For a moment it struck her how different the two girls were. The older one thin and sensitive, the younger so very robust. Kristiane was difficult to understand; Ragnhild was healthy and direct. She lifted the block on top, saw her mother and grinned, revealing eight sparkling white teeth.

‘Cudduwl, Mummy. Agni cudduwl. Look!’

‘
On Christmas night all Christians sing
,’ Kristiane sang, clear as a bell.

Johanne picked her elder daughter up. She was happy to be held like a baby, lying in her mother’s arms with not a stitch on her body.

‘It’s not Christmas,’ Johanne said quietly, puckering her lips against the child’s warm, soft cheek. ‘It’s the seventeenth of May, national day.’

‘I know,’ Kristiane replied, looking straight at her mother for a second before continuing in a flat voice: ‘Constitution
day, when we celebrate independence and freedom. This year we can also celebrate the hundredth anniversary of our separation from Sweden. 1814 and 1905. That is what we’re celebrating.’

‘My little sweetheart,’ Johanne whispered and kissed her again. ‘You’re so clever. And now you’ve got to get dressed again. OK?’

‘Adam can do that.’

Kristiane wriggled out of her mother’s arms and dashed, barefooted, across the room to the bathroom. She paused by the television for a moment, and turned it on. The Norwegian national anthem blared out of the loudspeakers. She had turned the volume right up the night before. Johanne grabbed the remote control and turned the noise down. Just as she was moving away to find her younger daughter’s party frock, something caught her attention.

The scene was familiar enough. A sea of people dressed in all their finery in front of the royal palace. Large and small flags, rows of pensioners on the few seats that had been put out, just under the balcony. A close-up of a Pakistani girl in a Norwegian national costume; she smiled at the camera and waved her flag with great enthusiasm. As the picture swept over all the flags and then focused on the glamorous reporter, something happened. The woman put her hand to her ear. She smiled sheepishly, looked at something that was possibly a script and opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Instead she turned away, as if she didn’t want to be filmed. Two sudden, random and very short clips then followed. A sweep of the treetops just to the east of the palace, and a screaming child on its father’s shoulders. The images were out of focus.

Johanne turned the volume back up.

The camera finally focused on the reporter again, who now had her hand over her left ear, listening intently. A teenager
stuck his head up over her shoulder and shouted hurrah.

‘And now,’ the woman finally said, obviously flustered, ‘and now we will leave the celebrations on Karl Johan for a moment . . . We’ll return here shortly, but first . . .’

A young lad stuck his fingers up like rabbit ears behind the reporter’s head and then howled with laughter.

‘Back to the studio at Marienlyst for some breaking news,’ the reporter said in a rush, and the picture was cut immediately.

Johanne looked at her watch. Seven minutes past eleven.

‘Adam,’ she called quietly.

Ragnhild toppled her tower. The news jingle played.

‘Adam,’ Johanne shouted. ‘Adam, come quick.’

The man in the studio was in a dark suit. His normally wild curly hair looked greyer than usual and Johanne thought she saw him swallow a couple of times before opening his mouth.

‘Someone must have died,’ she said.

‘What?’ Adam came into the sitting room, carrying a fully dressed Kristiane. ‘Has someone died?’

‘Shhh.’ She pointed at the TV screen, then put her finger to her lips.

‘We repeat, the reports are still unconfirmed, but . . .’ The lines of communication to NRK and the broadcasting house were obviously red hot. Even the experienced anchorman kept his finger on his earpiece and listened intently for a few seconds before he looked into the camera and continued: ‘And now over to . . .’

He frowned, hesitated. Then he pulled out his earpiece, rested one hand on top of the other and went free-range: ‘We have several reporters out following this story, and as you perhaps understand, there are some technical problems. We will talk to our reporters shortly. In the meantime, I repeat: the American President, Helen Lardahl Bentley, did not arrive as planned for the seventeenth of May breakfast at the palace this morning. No official reason has been
given for her absence. Nor has a statement been given by the parliament, where the President was due to watch the parade with the President of the Storting, Jørgen Kosmo, and . . . One moment . . .’

‘Is she . . . is she dead?’

‘Dead and red with brown bread,’ Kristiane chanted.

Adam lowered her gently to the floor.

‘They don’t know yet,’ Johanne replied quickly. ‘But it would seem that she—’

There was a sharp screech from the TV before the picture switched to a reporter who obviously had not had enough time to take off his national-day ribbon, for a more sombre effect.

‘I am standing outside Oslo Police Headquarters,’ he panted. His microphone was shaking. ‘And one thing is certain: something has happened. Terje Bastesen, the Chief of Police, who normally leads the seventeenth of May procession, has just hurried up the road behind me together with . . .’ he turned around and pointed up the gentle slope to the main entrance of the police HQ, ‘together with . . . several others. At the same time, a number of marked police cars left the parking place behind the building, some of them with sirens blaring.’

‘Harald,’ the man in the studio tried, tentatively. ‘Harald Hansen, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Christian, I can hear you.’

‘Has anyone explained what has happened?’

‘No, it’s not even possible to get up to the entrance. But rumours are rampant. There must be twelve or thirteen journalists here already, and one thing at least is clear: that is that something has happened to President Bentley. She has not appeared at any of her official engagements this morning and there was absolutely no one at the announced press conference in the lobby of the Storting, just before the children’s parade. The government press office appears to be non-functional and at the moment . . .’

‘What the hell . . .’ Adam whispered and sat down on the arm of the sofa.

‘Shhh . . .’

‘We have people at and near the main hospitals,’ the reporter continued, breathless, ‘where President Bentley would have been taken if her absence was due to . . . health reasons. However, there is nothing, and I repeat
nothing
, to indicate any form of extraordinary activity in the hospitals at this point. No obvious security measures, no unusual traffic, nothing. And—’

‘Harald! Harald Hansen!’

‘I can hear you, Christian!’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to interrupt you there, as we have just got . . .’

The picture switched back to the studio. Johanne couldn’t remember ever seeing a newsreader being physically handed a script in the studio. The courier’s arm was caught on camera as the picture came on, and the anchorman fumbled for his glasses, which he hadn’t needed until now.

‘We have just received a press release from the Prime Minister’s office.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I will now read . . .’

Ragnhild suddenly started to howl.

Johanne backed her way into the corner, where the toddler was screaming like one possessed, with her arms in the air.

‘She’s disappeared,’ Adam said, in a trance. ‘My God, the woman has just disappeared.’

‘Who’s disappeared?’ Kristiane asked and took his hand.

‘No one,’ he replied, almost inaudibly.

‘They have,’ Kristiane insisted. ‘You said a lady had disappeared.’

‘No one we know,’ he explained, then shushed her.

‘Not Mummy, anyway. Mummy’s here. And we’re going to Grandma and Grandad. Mummy will never disappear.’

Ragnhild calmed down the minute she was in her mother’s
arms. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and burrowed her head into the hollow of Johanne’s neck. Kristiane was still standing with her hand in Adam’s, swaying backwards and forwards.

‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ she whispered.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Adam said automatically. ‘Nothing dangerous, my sweet.’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram.’

She’s going to close us off, Johanne thought in desperation. Kristiane was shutting everyone out as she did whenever she felt even the slightest bit threatened, or something unexpected happened.

‘Everything’s fine, sweetheart.’ She stroked the girl’s hair. ‘And now we’re all going to get ready to go to Grandma and Grandad. We’re still going to see them, you know, just like we planned.’

But she couldn’t pull her eyes from the TV screen.

The scene was being filmed from the air now, from a helicopter slowly circling over the centre of Oslo. The camera moved up the main drag, Karl Johan, from the Storting to the palace, at a snail’s pace.

‘Over a hundred thousand people,’ Adam whispered, as he stood entranced. He didn’t even notice when Kristiane let go of his hand. ‘Maybe twice as many. How on earth are they going . . .?’