Death in Oslo (7 page)

Oslo was his town.

‘
The police ask anyone who might have seen anything to. . . ’

Where the hell was the remote control?

There. At last. It was hidden away under the pizza box. He turned down the volume and sank back into the sofa.

‘Shit,’ he said in a flat voice.

They were showing a picture of some clothes. A pair of blue trousers. A bright red jacket. Some shoes that just looked like any old shoes.

‘
According to police information, this is the outfit that President Bentley was wearing when she disappeared. It is important that. . .’

It was at ten past four.

He had just looked at the clock on the tower outside the old Østbanen station when she went by. Her and two men. Her jacket was red, but she was far too old to be one of the Russ.

Fucking hell, his balls were burning.

Had someone disappeared?

It had been a good night. He wasn’t too bad, so he had managed to stagger home through the town, full and happy. The streets were decorated with colourful garlands and he had noticed how clean everywhere was.

The smell of sick was bothering him now. He had to do something. He had to tidy up a bit in here. Clean, so that he wouldn’t get kicked out.

He closed his eyes.

This bloody cancer. Well, everyone dies of something or other, he comforted himself. That’s life. He was only sixty-one, but that was old enough, really, when he thought about it.

Slowly he slipped sideways and into a deep sleep, with his ear in his own vomit once again.

‘…
and there you have it.’The Prime Minister sat back in his chair. There was silence in the large room. The air smelt dank. The place had been closed for a long time. Peter Salhus clasped his hands behind his neck and let his eyes wander round the room. There was a long, counter-like piece of furniture along one wall. Otherwise, the room was dominated by a huge meeting table with fourteen chairs around it. There was a plasma screen on one of the walls. The loudspeakers were on a glass shelf down by the floor. A faded map of the world hung on the wall opposite.

‘So we’re going to have these . . .’ the Chief of Oslo Police, Terje Bastesen, looked as if he actually wanted to say
gorillas
, but tactfully said something else, ‘these agents hanging over our shoulders. Sticking their noses into everything we find, everything we do, anything we might think or believe. OK.’

Before the Prime Minister had a chance to answer, Peter Salhus took a breath. He leant forward suddenly and propped his arms on the table. ‘First of all, I think one thing should be made absolutely clear,’ he said in a measured voice. ‘And that is that the Americans will certainly not let their president disappear into thin air without doing their utmost, one . . .’ he held a finger in the air, ‘to find her. Two . . .’ another finger pointed to the ceiling, ‘to catch whoever it is who has kidnapped her. And three . . .’ he broke into a smile, ‘to move heaven and earth – and hell if needs be – to ensure that that
person or those people are punished. And let’s just say that that the punishment won’t be meted out in this country.’

The Minister of Justice gave a dry cough. Everyone looked at him. It was the first time he had opened his mouth in the meeting.

‘The Americans are our friends and allies,’ he said. His voice had an edge of formal panic that made Peter Salhus close his eyes, so that he wouldn’t interrupt. ‘And we must of course do whatever we can to help them. But let me make clear . . .’ the minister hit the table hard with his fist, ‘that we are in Norway. Under Norwegian jurisdiction. The Norwegian police will lead the investigation. Let there be no doubt about that. And when the culprit has been caught, then a
Norwegian court
. . .’

He was shouting, and heard it himself. He broke off. Coughed again, and prepared to continue.

‘With all due respect . . .’ Peter Salhus’ voice sounded rough in comparison. He got up from his chair. The Minister of Justice remained seated with his mouth open. ‘Prime Minister,’ Salhus continued, without even looking at the most senior politician responsible for the Norwegian police, ‘I think we could do with a reality check.’

The Director of Police, a thin woman in full uniform who had largely sat and listened throughout the meeting, leaned back and crossed her arms. Her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere most of the time and on two occasions she had left the room to answer calls. Now she seemed to be more interested and looked straight at the Director General of the PST.

‘I would just like to draw your attention to the fact that—’ interjected the obviously angry Minister of Justice.

‘I think we should take a moment to clear this up,’ the Prime Minister interrupted, with a gesture that presumably was intended to reassure, but instead was more like one used when scolding a disobedient child. ‘So, Salhus, in what respect
do you think that we are not in touch with reality? What is it that you’ve seen that the rest of us haven’t?’

His eyes, which naturally already looked narrow in his round face, were now like two slashes of a scalpel.

‘Is it just me . . .’ Salhus threw open his hands, ‘is it just me to who finds this situation completely absurd?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued: ‘An entire small air force, in addition to Air Force One. Around fifty Secret Service agents. Two armoured cars. Sniffer dogs. A bunch of special advisers, which basically means FBI agents, if any of you were wondering . . .’

He tried not to look at the Minister of Justice, who was now sitting down and aggressively stirring his coffee with a pencil.

‘That is the President’s entourage on a state visit to Norway. And do you know what? That is surprisingly little!’ He leant forward over the table with both his hands placed firmly on the tabletop. ‘
Little!
’

He let the word hang in the air, as if measuring the shock effect.

‘I’m not quite sure that I understand what you’re getting at,’ the Director of Police said. ‘We all know perfectly well how many people the President has with her, and it’s not—’

‘It’s in fact very few,’ Peter Salhus repeated. ‘It’s not unusual for the President to be accompanied by an army of two to three hundred agents. Personal cooks, a fleet of cars. A huge van full of modern communications equipment. Military ambulances. Bulletproof screens for use during official appearances, other IT equipment, entire kennels of sniffer dogs . . .’ He pulled a face again as he straightened up. ‘But the lady comes to Norway with a really rather meagre entourage. Sorry . . .’

The apology was slipped in quickly and he lifted an acknowledging hand to the Prime Minister.

‘I mean the President, Madam President. And I’m sure you’re wondering why. Why? Why on earth should the
President embark on her first foreign visit with such limited protection from her own people?’

His audience did not appear to be pondering the question. Quite the opposite: the conversation up until that moment had focused on the overwhelming number of American agents, who were now knocking on doors, going into offices, confiscating equipment and generally making life difficult for the Norwegian police.

‘Because – it – is – safe – here.’ He said the words with an exaggerated delay. Then he repeated: ‘Because Norway is safe. We thought. Look at us.’ He hit himself gently on the chest. ‘The whole thing is absurd,’ he repeated quietly. His listeners were more attentive now. ‘Nothing more than an intestine on this map, this . . .’

He surveyed the map of the world. The corners were worn. The word
Yugoslavia
was written in bold letters across the Balkans; Peter Salhus shook his head.

‘Good old Norway,’ he said, and stroked his country with his finger, from north to south. ‘For many years now we’ve talked about what a colourful society we are and what a multicultural country we’ve become, and allowed ourselves to be lulled into a sense of security, peace, innocence – that we were somehow different. We’re always saying that the world is pressing in on us from all sides, yet at the same time we get extremely offended if that very same world doesn’t see us in exactly the same way that we have always perceived ourselves to be, as an idyllic place on earth. A peaceful corner of the world, rich and generous and kind to everyone.’

He bit a piece of dry skin on his lip.

‘Right now we’re caught up in a powerful and terrible head-on collision, I want you to realise that. This country is prepared for disasters to the extent that anyone can be prepared. We are prepared for epidemics and other catastrophes. Some people even believe that we are prepared for war . . .’ He
smiled vaguely at the Minister of Defence, who did not smile back. ‘But what we were not prepared for in any way was this. What’s happening now.’

‘Which is?’ asked the Director of Police, with a sharp edge to her voice.

‘That we have managed to lose the American president.’

The Minister of Justice made an inappropriate noise that sounded like a stifled giggle.

‘And they simply will not accept that,’ Salhus continued, unperturbed. He went back to his chair. ‘It’s true that the Americans have lost one or two presidents through assassinations, but they have never,
not even once
, lost a president on foreign soil. And you can be certain of one thing . . .’ He sat down heavily. ‘Every single one of those Secret Service agents who are now buzzing around making life difficult for our staff will take this personally. Very personally indeed. This happened on their watch, and they don’t want that pinned on them. For them, that would be worse than . . . For them this is . . .’

He hesitated, and the Prime Minister managed to cut in with a question. ‘Who . . . who can we actually compare them with?’

‘No one.’

‘No one? But it’s a police force and—’

‘Yes, but they have a number of other tasks as well. The bodyguards are, if you like, the identity of the service, and have been ever since President McKinley was assassinated in 1901. And that identity has been seriously threatened by what happened last night. Not least because it’s due to a big mistake. One that they themselves made.’

The Minister of Justice’s body was still shaking, but there was no sound. This time no one used the pause to ask questions.

‘They made an error of judgement,’ Peter Salhus said. ‘A gross error. We’re not the only ones who think of this country
as a peaceful corner in a big bad world. The Americans do too. And the most worrying thing about it, apart from the fact that the President has simply vanished, is that the Americans actually thought it was safe here. They are in a far better position to assess that sort of thing than we are. And they should have known better, as—’

‘As they have far more intelligence,’ the Director of Police chimed in.

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ said the Prime Minister.

‘Exactly.’ The Minister of Justice nodded.

‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said again.

Then there was silence. Even the Minister of Justice left his cup of coffee in peace. The plasma screen on the wall shone a uniform blue and told them nothing. The neon strip light on the ceiling had started to blink, off beat and without a sound. When a fly broke the silence with a lazy buzz, Peter Salhus followed it with his eyes until the silence started to feel uncomfortable.

‘The Americans have absolutely no idea what is happening,’ the Prime Minister concluded.

He gathered the papers in front of him into a pile, without indicating that the meeting was over.

‘I mean, they don’t either.’

‘I would perhaps say that they
had
no idea,’ Salhus corrected, with some hesitation. ‘Beforehand, I mean. The challenge for them now is to sift through all the material that they have at any given time. To lay their cards on the table in a different way and see what emerges.’

‘But the problem is,’ the Director of Police said, swatting at the fly, which had come a bit too close, ‘that they have too many cards.’

Salhus nodded. ‘You can’t even begin to imagine,’ he said. His eyes felt dry and he chewed at this thumb. ‘It’s hard for us
to comprehend all the information they have. And that they receive all the time, every minute, every hour, every day. The FBI has multiplied in both size and budget since nine/eleven. From being a relatively traditional police organisation with clear professional and largely internal American responsibilities, the greater part of its budget and staff are now earmarked for anti- terrorist activities. And this, ladies and gentlemen . . .’

He picked up an official portrait of Helen Lardahl Bentley from the table.

‘Kidnapping a president definitely falls under the category of terrorism in the US. They will come storming over here, be sure of it. As I said, a number of FBI people are probably already here with the President. But we ain’t seen nothing yet.’

He gave a feeble smile and ran his finger round his collar while absently staring at the photograph of the President.

‘According to my reports, a special flight is in fact due to land in three hours’ time,’ the Director of Police confirmed. ‘And there are more scheduled to arrive after that.’

The Prime Minister traced his finger over the top of the table. He stopped at a spot of coffee. Two deep furrows could be seen in the folds of skin on his face, and it was only the light reflecting on his glasses that indicated that there was a pair of eyes there too.

‘Yes, but we’re not talking about an invasion,’ he said, obviously irritated. ‘You make it sound as if we’re completely at the mercy of the Americans, Salhus. And let me reiterate . . .’ he raised his voice a notch or two, ‘that this has happened on Norwegian soil. We will of course spare no effort or money and the Americans will be treated with the utmost respect. But this is a
Norwegian
case, to be dealt with by the
Norwegian
police and legal system.’

‘Good luck,’ Peter Salhus muttered, and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.

‘I will let nothing of the sort . . .’ The Prime Minister paused
and raised his glass to his mouth. His hand was shaking and he put the glass down again without drinking any water. Before he had a chance to continue, the Director of Police leant over the table.