‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘Come in. Shut the door.’
‘Just for a couple of days.’
‘You’re always welcome here.’
‘Thank you.’ Johanne felt something catch in her throat and she didn’t move. The woman in the wheelchair came even closer and held out her hand.
‘I take it no one’s died,’ she said calmly. ‘Because then you wouldn’t have come here.’
‘No one’s died,’ Johanne sobbed. ‘No one has died.’
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ the woman said. ‘But first you should come in and shut the door. I’m quite hungry, so I’d thought of getting something to eat.’
Hanne Wilhelmsen retracted her hand, turned the wheelchair round and steered slowly towards the kitchen, from where they could hear Ragnhild’s bubbling, happy laugh.
VIII
Warren Scifford’s eyes wandered from the ancient television set with its internal aerial over to the cork noticeboard with a broken frame. His roaming gaze stopped at the office chair. One of the armrests was missing. Then he almost imperceptibly sniffed the air. There were three brown apple cores in the rubbish bin.
‘I’m a bit superstitious,’ Peter Salhus admitted. ‘I’ve been in high-risk jobs since my early twenties and nothing has ever gone seriously wrong. So I keep my chair with me. And as for the rest of the office…’ He shrugged. ‘Well, the whole organisation is moving to new premises in June. No point putting much effort into the room. Please sit down.’
Warren Scifford hesitated, as if he was afraid of ruining his expensive suit. There was a kidney-shaped stain in the middle of the back of the chair. He carefully placed his hand over the dark patch before sitting down. Adam Stubo sat beside him, fiddling with a silver cigar case.
‘You still got that bad habit?’ Warren smiled.
Adam shook his head. ‘No, not really. One on Christmas Eve and perhaps a few puffs on my birthday. That’s all. But we all have our dreams. I can still sniff them and dream.’
He opened the case and wafted it under his nose. With an audible sigh, he then twisted it shut and popped it back in his inner pocket.
‘These witnesses,’ he said to Peter Salhus, who had poured three glasses of mineral water without asking whether they wanted any. ‘Have you heard any more about them from the police?’
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.