He shouldn’t be feeling so bad after such a good night.
It wasn’t the alcohol, it was the bloody cancer in his balls.
The light on the fjord had been beautiful when he’d wandered through the town in the early morning – it must have been around four. The Russ was still being rowdy and carrying on, of course, but whenever there was a quiet moment he had taken time to sit down. On a bench or on that fence by the rubbish bin where he had found a full, unopened bottle of beer.
The light was so beautiful in spring. The trees somehow seemed friendlier, and even the hooting of car horns was less aggressive when he stumbled out on to the road a bit too suddenly and the drivers had to brake.
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.
VII
‘… 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…’