Death in Oslo (17 page)

The Director General of the PST sent him a look that he couldn’t interpret. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was nothing.

‘I’m fairly sure that Mr Scifford has—’

‘Warren. Please call me Warren.’

Scifford held out his hand as if he were honouring Peter Salhus with a gift. The glasses of mineral water stood untouched in front of him on the desk. It was so quiet in the office that you could hear the bubbles bursting.

‘I’m glad that you now have the liaison contact you wanted,’ Peter Salhus said finally. ‘Adam Stubo will definitely be of help to you. I’d also like you to know that I fully appreciate your . . . impatience regarding the investigation. The problem is, as I’m sure you’ll understand—’

‘The problem is the lack of results,’ Warren Scifford interrupted, with a smile. ‘Plus, it seems that the investigation has no real leadership, is totally unorganised and furthermore . . .’ His smile had vanished now. He imperceptibly pushed the chair back and straightened his small, thin glasses. ‘We have also experienced some animosity from the police, which is unacceptable.’

Again there was silence in the room. Peter Salhus picked up a polished egg-shaped stone from his desk. He let it rest in the palm of his hand and then ran his thumb over the smooth surface. Adam coughed and sat up straight in his chair. The Director General of the PST looked up and stared at the American.

‘The fact that you are in my office right now,’ he said in a friendly voice, ‘is proof that we are going out of our way, well out of our way, to keep you and your people happy. I am under no obligation to talk to you, and I don’t really have the time. But you requested it. And I chose to honour that request.
Now, I could of course give you a crash course in the structure of the Norwegian police and criminal investigation service . . .’

‘I don’t have—’

‘Just one moment!’ Peter Salhus raised his voice sufficiently to allow him to continue. ‘And perhaps that might not be so stupid. But to keep things simple, and in the hope of reassuring you . . .’ He looked quickly at his watch. His mouth moved very slightly, without a sound, as he calculated something. ‘It’s only twenty-seven hours since the disappearance of the President was discovered,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘Just over twenty-seven hours. And within that time we have set up an investigation organisation that is unparalleled in this country. Oslo Police have put in all their resources, and a bit more.’

He turned up his shirt sleeves before grabbing hold of his left index finger with his right hand.

‘They are working closely with us,’ he said and shook his finger as if it was the PST he was holding on to, ‘as there is reason to believe that this case may be connected to our daily work and field of responsibility. What’s more . . .’ he clasped two fingers with his right hand, ‘the NCIS is heavily involved, with their specialist knowledge. Not least in terms of technical work. In other words, every man and beast that creeps and walks has been put on the job. And the staff are
extremely
competent, though I say so myself. The government has also instigated full contingency operations, with all that that entails, even in organisations and directorates that are not directly linked to the police. Our governments are in constant contact at the highest level. The very highest level.’

‘But—’ Warren Scifford straightened his tie. He was smiling broadly now. Peter Salhus held up a hand in warning.

‘Jack Bauer will not be coming,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘His deadline passed . . .’ he looked at his watch again, ‘three hours ago. We will have to put our faith in good and modern,
if not quite so spectacular, police work. Norwegian police work.’

The silence lasted for several seconds. Then Warren Scifford started to laugh. His laugh was warm, deep and contagious. Adam chuckled and Peter Salhus grinned.

‘And what’s more, you’re mistaken,’ he added. ‘As you will be informed at the meeting with the Chief of Police in an hour’s time, there have absolutely been developments.’

‘I see.’

‘The question is whether . . .’

The Director General of the PST leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. He appeared to be studying a spot on the ceiling. This went on for so long that Adam looked up to see if there really was anything there. He felt dishearteningly superfluous.

No one had actually told him what he was supposed to do. The Chief of Police had seemed distracted when he’d quickly introduced them to each other about an hour ago. He had obviously forgotten that they already knew each other, and after a few minutes, had abandoned them without giving any further instructions. Adam had the feeling that he was to function as an alibi; a piece of meat thrown to the Americans to keep them happy.

And he hadn’t had time to phone home yet.

‘The question is whether I decide to be straightforward or not,’ Peter Salhus concluded suddenly, looking the American straight in the eye and holding his gaze.

Warren did not back off.

Did not blink.

‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said at last. ‘I think I should.’

He pushed one of the glasses over to Warren Scifford. The American didn’t touch it.

‘First of all,’ Salhus said, ‘I want to stress that I have the utmost confidence in Oslo Police. Terje Bastesen has been in
the force for nearly forty years, and was an officer before he became a lawyer. He can seem a bit . . .’ He cocked his head and searched for a suitable phrase.

‘Very Norwegian,’ Warren suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ replied the Director General of the PST, without smiling. ‘But don’t underestimate him. I think that we have to pin our hopes on the police in this case. Here at the PST we’ve spent the past twenty-four hours going through all the intelligence we received prior to the President’s visit. We have combed through every report and analysis to see if there’s anything we might have missed, something we didn’t attach importance to but that might have told us something. Something that might have warned us. And we’ve gathered all relevant information about any known groups, vague constellations, individuals throughout Europe . . .’

He clasped his hands behind his head.

‘Nothing. At least not at the moment.’

Warren Scifford took off his glasses and pulled a cloth from his back pocket. Slowly, almost lovingly, he polished his lenses.

‘We had something,’ he said quietly. ‘Before nine/eleven, that is. The information was there. It existed and we had it. We just didn’t pay any attention to it. The intelligence that could have saved the lives of nearly three thousand people just drowned in the great sea of information. All the . . .’

He put his glasses on again, without finishing his sentence.

‘That’s the way it is,’ Salhus nodded, ‘in this business. I have to admit that yesterday morning I dreaded one thing more than anything else: the moment when one of my staff came to me with some information that we’d overlooked. The piece of the jigsaw puzzle we’d put to one side because we couldn’t get it to fit. I was absolutely positive that would happen. But, until now . . .’ He threw open his hands, and repeated: ‘Nothing.’

Then, after a short pause, he added, pushing: ‘And what about you? Have you found anything?’

His voice was light and the question friendly. Warren responded with an imperceptible arch of the eyebrow. Then he picked up the glass of mineral water, but didn’t take a drink.

‘You said something about witnesses,’ he said and looked at Adam Stubo.

‘So, you have got something,’ Salhus commented.

Warren emptied the glass in one go. He took his time. When he had finished, he dried his mouth with a handkerchief and put the glass down. When he looked up at the Director General of the PST, his face was blank.

‘Witnesses,’ he reminded him.

‘I was trying to gain your confidence.’

‘You have my confidence.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, absolutely. In our business there’s a big difference between confidence and being loose-tongued. And you know that. The moment I see that you and your people need any of the information that we have, then you’ll be given it. You. Personally. You have my word. And right now,
I
need to know what all this talk of witnesses is about.’

Salhus got up and went over to the window. It had been a lovely morning, with bright sunshine and only a few fluffy summer clouds. But they were getting darker now and were preparing to attack from the south. He could already see a bank of rain moving up the Oslo Fjord. He stood for a while, watching the weather.

The feeling of being superfluous was so strong now that Adam considered getting up to leave. He should have phoned home long ago. When he had made his decision early that morning, he had been convinced that the only right thing to do was to follow orders. He had been seized by an uncharacteristic rage when he woke up and crept out of bed. His stomach was knotted and he couldn’t eat. Adam couldn’t remember a time when he had ever voluntarily skipped a meal. And now there
were rumbles coming from under his shirt. He just wanted to leave. This case was so unlike anything he’d ever dealt with before that he had nothing to offer. If the intention was that he should shuttle Warren Scifford between various public offices in Norway, then the job was an insult.

The note he’d left for Johanne could perhaps have been friendlier.

He had to phone home as soon as possible.

‘Stubo,’ the Director General of the PST said suddenly, and turned round. ‘This is something for you.’

Adam looked up. Bewildered, he sat up straight in his chair, like a pupil who has been caught daydreaming.

‘Really?’

Peter Salhus took five minutes to tell them about the various witnesses. Around thirty people had contacted the police to report what they had seen and they all said the same thing. Two men and a woman who looked like Madam President in a blue car. Half of them thought it was a Ford. The others were only certain about the colour. But they all said that the driver of the car had made no obvious efforts to be discreet.

‘And there we have a problem,’ he concluded, and pointed at the map he had drawn.

The sketch of Norway looked like a well-worn mitten that had been hung up to dry. Peter Salhus put his pen down and crossed his arms. The two other men leant over the drawing.

‘That can’t be right,’ Adam said.

‘It is,’ Salhus replied. ‘It is completely correct.’

Then he too leant forwards and added: ‘These are the sightings we’ve received. But even if we take into account the usual reservations that some of them are wrong and others simply lies, it still doesn’t make sense. You’re absolutely right.’

Adam went slowly over the map again, moving from point to point. The Director General of the PST had scribbled down the times of all the observations beside the red dots.

‘This is the E6 heading towards Sweden,’ Adam said and ran his finger over Østfold county. ‘And here is the E18 to Kristiansand. And here . . .’ His finger traced the route to Trondheim.

‘It’s not my area of responsibility,’ Salhus said quietly, scratching his beard. ‘I’m sure the police will sort it out. For all I know, they may have already done so. It’s pretty obvious.’

‘The whole thing’s a wild goose chase,’ Adam exclaimed. ‘It’s all just nonsense!’

‘Yes.’

Warren Scifford hadn’t said a word while Salhus was drawing and explaining. Now he picked up the map in his right hand and stared at the pearl string of sightings across the whole of southern Norway. He then queried: ‘You know the distances. Have you worked out how many Fords and women dressed in red might be involved?’

‘At least two,’ Salhus replied. ‘Probably three. It’s physically possible to get from here . . .’ he took the map and pointed, ‘to here within the given time frame. You could also drive between these two towns . . .’ his finger moved from Larvik to Hamar, ‘in three and a half hours. But it would be tight. As everyone was celebrating Norway’s national day, there wouldn’t be much traffic, so it is possible.’

‘Two groups,’ Warren Scifford muttered. ‘Probably three.’

‘Driving around Norway, making sure that they were seen,’ Adam said. ‘Why would anyone go to all that trouble? They must know that it would only be a matter of time before they were exposed.’

The light was no longer as bright. The wind had picked up and suddenly a heavy shower battered the window. A seagull perched on the windowsill. Its beady black eyes stared intently at something in the room. Then it opened its beak to screech.

‘Time,’ Salhus said loudly. ‘They wanted to waste time and create confusion.’

The seagull took off and swooped down towards the ground. It had started to hail. The hailstones were as large as peppercorns and rattled on the glass panes.

‘But everything has its positive side,’ Salhus said suddenly and with forced cheer. ‘There are several excellent pictures of the driver. Or drivers. From at least two petrol stations, from what I’ve heard. And even if the whole manoeuvre is lookalikes out for a ride, it would be very interesting to know who sent them. Ask the Chief of Police about it, Warren. As I said, this is not my business. Talk to the police. But before you go . . .’ Peter Salhus bit his lip and hesitated before adding: ‘Why are you actually here?’

Warren Scifford looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

‘Why did they send you?’ Salhus asked. ‘As far as I understand, you head a kind of . . . behavioural psychology anti-terrorist group. Is that right?’

The American nodded indifferently.

‘So you’re not a head in the FBI. You’re not head of any operative group whatsoever. But still they send—’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. We are highly operative.’

‘But I still can’t understand,’ Peter Salhus insisted and leant forwards across the desk, ‘why they didn’t send a—’

‘Well observed,’ Warren Scifford interrupted. ‘Very well observed. You do, of course, have a point.’

For the first time, Adam thought he saw something helpless in the self-assured man. His eyes wavered for a second, a pull at his mouth aged him, even made him look old. But he said nothing. The hailstorm had stopped just as abruptly as it had started.