But Warren Scifford was still worried.
And so was Madam President.
And now Warren was lying in bed in a Norwegian hotel room with a gnawing feeling in his belly. He read the memo for the fourth time. Then he got up and went to the bathroom. He took a lighter out of his pocket, held the document over the toilet pan and set light to it.
The thing that made him most uneasy was the feeling that someone was taking him for a ride.
For a few weeks now, he had been dogged by a nagging suspicion that the information was planted. Having thoroughly studied the document, which included all the new information they had received in the past twenty-four hours relating to the complex he had chosen to call Trojan Horse – searching up and down, left to right, until nothing made any sense any more – he was still completely at a loss.
The flames licked the paper. Small flakes of soot drifted down towards the white porcelain.
If everything was planted, the whole thing was a red herring. And if that was the case, the President could be the actual target. And in that case, they were facing an enemy they knew nothing about. Not Osama bin Laden, not the many terrorist organisations based in…
‘It can’t be true,’ Warren said out loud to himself, to interrupt his own thoughts. ‘No one has the apparatus to plant something like this. It’s too good to be planted.’
He had to let go of the last tiny scrap of the paper. He flushed the toilet. Small black flakes still clung to the pan, and he had to use the toilet brush to get rid of it all.
He went back to the desk and picked up a copy of the note that had been left in the President’s hotel suite.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ muttered Warren Scifford. ‘But when?’
He dropped the note suddenly as if it had burnt him.
He had to eat.
The clock on the TV told him that breakfast was now being served. It took him three minutes to pack up his office and put the locked suitcase back in the cupboard. Only the pile of coloured paper was left on the desk, with the three pens lined up like tin soldiers on top.
He put one of the mobile phones in his pocket before he left. It hadn’t been necessary to call anyone after all. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure who he should ring anyway.
II
The customs officer at Oslo Airport Gardermoen could scarcely believe his own eyes. The gang of Americans had arrived on a charter flight, but their arrogance in relation to the security and laws of another country still beggared belief.
‘Excuse me!’ He held up his hand, then took a couple of steps out from behind the counter where he had been standing getting bored for the last hour and a half.
‘What is that?’ he asked in English, with an accent that made the American smile.
‘This?’ The man lifted his jacket, so that his government-issue firearm was visible.
The customs officer shook his head in disbelief. There were more of them coming through now, all with that characteristic bulge under their ribcage. They descended on him, wanting to get past, but he stood there with his arms held out and shouted: ‘Stop! Wait just a moment!’
An irritated mumble spread quickly among the new arrivals, who must have numbered some fifteen or sixteen men and a couple of women.
‘No guns,’ the customs officer said firmly and pointed at the wide, low counter. ‘Put all your weapons here. Then form a queue and you will get a receipt for each one.’
‘Now listen here,’ said the man who had come first. He was in his fifties and a good head taller than the small, rotund customs officer. ‘Our arrival has been cleared with the Norwegian authorities, as you no doubt know. According to the messages I’ve received, we were to be met by a police office as soon as we-’
‘Makes no difference,’ the customs officer persisted, and for safety’s sake pressed the button under the counter that closed the mechanised doors further down the corridor. ‘I’m the one in charge here. Do you have papers for these weapons?’
‘Papers? Now listen-’
‘No papers, no weapons. Please form a queue here, then I’ll-’
‘I think it would be best if I spoke to your boss,’ the American said.
‘He’s not here,’ the customs officer replied. He had big blue eyes and a friendly smile. ‘Now, let’s get this sorted as quickly as possible.’
The American turned towards his increasingly impatient colleagues and started a somewhat muted conversation. One of the women took out her mobile phone. She tapped in a number with nimble fingers.
‘There’s no reception in here,’ the customs officer said gleefully. ‘So you can just forget about that.’
The woman continued to listen for any sign of life at the other end. Then she shrugged and gave the man, who was obviously some kind of boss, a look of exasperation.
‘I really must protest,’ he said to the customs man, with a look that stopped the short duty officer from interrupting again. ‘There has obviously been a breakdown in communications on several fronts. To begin with, we were supposed to be met off the plane by our Norwegian colleagues. But instead we’ve been shown into this… labyrinth, without anyone to accompany us, and without knowing where to go.’
‘You have to go out through there,’ the customs officer said, pointing to the closed door.
‘Then I suggest that you open it. Now. This is an embarrassing error on your part, and I’m losing patience.’
‘I suggest…’ the customs officer said, with a slight pause that gave him enough time to jump up on to the counter, with an agility that no one would have expected of him, ‘that you do as I say. Out there…’ his voice rose to a shout as he pointed towards the arrivals hall, ‘other people decide. But in here, in this corridor, at this desk where you’re now standing, it’s me who knows the rules. And according to those rules, it is strictly forbidden to bring weapons into my country…’ he was nearly screaming now, ‘without the required papers. So please, start queuing, for God’s sake!’
He broke into Norwegian. His face was flushed and he was sweating. The Americans stared at each other. Someone muttered something. The woman with the mobile phone made another equally unsuccessful attempt to call for help. There was a pause of about thirty seconds. The customs officer hopped down from the counter and stood arms akimbo. Another thirty seconds passed.
‘Here,’ said the boss suddenly, and put his weapon on the counter. ‘But I can assure you, there will be consequences.’
‘Only doing my job, sir!’
The customs officer was grinning from ear to ear. It took him nearly half an hour to collect in all the guns and place them in the plastic containers that were stored on a shelf at the far end of the room. When he had finished, he gave a two-fingered salute and pressed the button to open the doors.
‘Have a nice stay,’ he said and laughed when nobody answered.
He was only doing his job. Surely they could understand that.
III
When Johanne woke up, work was the first thing she thought about. She lay there without moving and squinted at the morning light. She had just finished a research project before having Ragnhild and hadn’t really started on anything else since, so neither she nor the university would suffer too much if she took the two years’ unpaid maternity leave to which she was entitled. She and Adam had agreed on that, as they were afraid that they might not get a nursery place for Ragnhild. They had both been well established when they met, and could pay the mortgage with only one income. They lived a simple, quiet and good life. Kristiane was improving too. They were all in a better place.