‘Thanks,’ Bugs Bunny whispered. ‘You guys are something else.’
‘Yes, but I can’t get rid of these,’ the police lawyer said with his hand on the documents. ‘I assume that you’ll be up in the magistrates’ court, as usual.’
‘Course, yeah. I stand for what I’ve done, you know. Always. Thank you, thanks.’ He stroked the banknote.
‘You can go then. And stop breaking into places. You’re not up to it any more, OK?’
Bugs Bunny got up as carefully as he had sat down. He stuffed the money in his pocket. Normally he would be out of the station as fast as his thin legs would carry him. But now he stood there, swaying slightly, apparently in his own world.
‘Ten past four, it was,’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s when the President got in the car.’
‘What?’
‘Was watching TV yesterday, and realised that the lady I’d seen in the morning was the one you’re all after.’
The police lawyer peered at him as if he hadn’t quite understood what he’d said. Then the uniformed policeman by the door took a step towards the arrestee.
‘Sit back down,’ the police lawyer said.
‘You said I could go.’
‘Sit down, Bugsy. Let’s go over this first.’
The old man sat down again, reluctantly.
‘I’ve just told you all there is to tell,’ he said sullenly.
‘I just want to get this completely clear. Where were you yesterday morning?’
‘I’d been at a party at Backyard Berit’s. Lives down in Skippergata. Was going home, you know. I looked at the clock as I passed Central Station. Ten past four. Then a woman and two blokes crossed the square. They got in a car. The woman was blonde in that way older women are. Bottle blonde. Was wearing a red jacket, just like the one on TV.’
The police lawyer said nothing. He got hold of his snus box and put a pillow under his lip. Then he held the box out to Bugsy, who packed half the contents over his destroyed gums. The man in uniform put a hand on his shoulder, as if to prevent him from running away.
‘And this was yesterday,’ the policeman said slowly. ‘The seventeenth of May?’
‘Yep,’ Bugsy replied, irritated, and spat out a black gob. ‘I might not be at my best, but I’m not so bloody gone that I can’t remember national day!’
‘And it was ten past four. In the morning. Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes, I just said. And now I want to go to the offy.’
He pulled out the five-hundred-kroner note and smoothed it over his knee. Then he neatly and carefully folded it again and put it back in the other pocket. The police lawyer exchanged looks with the policeman.
‘I’m afraid that may have to wait,’ he said. ‘But we’ll get you some painkillers in the meantime.’
He picked up the phone, but had problems hitting the right numbers.
VI
‘They’re starting to get really pissed off.’
‘Who?’‘The FBI. Or whoever all these Americans are.’ The Director General of the PST, Peter Salhus, wrinkled his nose.
‘What is it now?’ he asked in exasperation.
‘I get the impression it’s everything.’ Bastesen, the Chief of Oslo Police, shrugged and held out a cup of coffee. ‘Apparently there was an episode out at Gardermoen. First of all there was a misunderstanding about who was to collect the twenty or so agents who arrived this morning. And then…’ He chuckled, but as the corners of Salhus’ mouth didn’t even twitch, he covered his mouth with his hand, gave a discreet cough and then continued in a serious voice: ‘A rather zealous customs officer confiscated all their handguns, which, to be fair, is legally correct. What do they need weapons for in this country? These Secret Service guys are armed all the time, and see what difference that made! But apparently the customs officer was a bit… undiplomatic.’
The gym in the police HQ had no windows. The Chief of Police had already started to pull at his collar. Fifty people were sitting in deep concentration at desks placed in a horseshoe around a huge round table. Charts and maps were hanging from the stall bars. The technical equipment gave off a suffocating waft of dust that mixed with the remains of sweat and smelly trainers.
‘They’re not happy with their offices either.’ Bastesen emptied his coffee cup in one final gulp. ‘We’ve given them three offices on the second floor, the red zone, but they don’t appear to be using them. Which is no skin off my nose. And here we’ve got together your guys from PST, the best people from the NCIS and my men. It’s-’
‘And women,’ Salhus interrupted.
‘And women.’ Bastesen nodded. ‘It was more a figure of speech. My point is that we can’t let the Americans just do as they please and trample on everything. I don’t see how that will help the investigation. The language barrier alone would… And so far they have given us nothing. Tight as clams.’
‘The reports suggest that they’ve decided to set up shop at the embassy,’ Salhus said. ‘To be expected. The traffic in and out of Drammensveien has increased considerably, and all public services have been closed. They can do what they want in the embassy. I’m sure we would have done the same. And as for their lack of communication…’ He turned towards the Chief of Police. He wavered for a moment, then put his hand on Bastesen’s arm in an unexpected friendly gesture. ‘The Americans don’t give anything away unless it’s to their advantage,’ he continued. ‘And certainly not when they don’t trust the other party. Strictly speaking, I can understand why their trust and confidence in us is not optimal at the moment.’
Without waiting for a response, he stepped down from the raised platform in the far corner of the hall. He was still holding his cup of coffee when he stopped beside an overweight man in his forties, who was sitting with his chin cupped in his hands, staring at a computer screen.
‘Still nothing?’ Salhus asked in a quiet voice.
‘Nope.’
The officer rubbed his red eyes. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it before suppressing a burp and screwing the top back on.
‘I’ve watched all the videos three times. In slow motion, fast and real time. Nothing. No one comes and no one goes. The woman must have flown out the window.’
‘No,’ was Salhus’ measured response. ‘She didn’t do that. As you know, Secret Services had someone standing… here.’
An aerial photograph of the area around the Hotel Opera was hanging on the wall behind the monitor. Salhus pointed to the roof of the neighbouring building.
‘And all the equipment is in good working order? No one’s tampered with anything? No short circuits or loops?’
‘Well if there are, they’ve been bloody well perfectly done,’ sighed the policeman, scratching his neck. ‘Basically, we’ve found absolutely nothing. I don’t get it…’
He looked up, obviously distracted by the sharp clacking of heels across the floor. The atmosphere in the provisional incident room was subdued. Most people tiptoed around. Even the whir of the technical equipment was dampened by lined cases and rubber mats.
A red-haired woman hotfooted over the floor. She was waving a phone enthusiastically in her hand, as if she had won a prize.
‘Witnesses,’ she exclaimed when she reached the Chief of Police, who had followed Salhus and was watching the empty corridor on the ninth floor of the Hotel Opera. ‘People are finally starting to ring in with sightings, and lots of them!’
‘Witnesses?’ Bastesen repeated dubiously. ‘Witnesses to what?’
The woman took a deep breath, and tucked her red hair behind her ear. ‘The kidnapping,’ she panted.
The corpulent policeman stared at her, as if he was having difficulty understanding the language.
‘There are no witnesses,’ he said aggressively and pointed at the monitor. ‘There’s not a fucking person to be seen!’
‘Not there,’ the woman said. ‘Outside. Later, I mean. Outside the hotel.’